George didn't want a slave.
That's not to say that a small part of him -- a small pinkish part, say -- wouldn't rise admirably to a slave who responded with sexual verve to his every perverse beck and call. Someone, for example, forever clad in a sheer, flowing garment that left little to the imagination, someone who lived for the pleasure of giving pleasure and launched into mind-blowing, erotic gymnastics on command. No, he didn't want that. The problem was that Abby, all recent evidence of submissiveness aside, wasn't that woman, nor did he want her to be. Not really. Besides, he wasn't the type of man who'd be long satisfied with mindless acquiescence to every carnal whim.
George sighed and allowed the fantasy to dissolve.
So, no, George didn't want a slave.
The alternative was infinitely trickier. Abby had, over the last several weeks, demonstrated a grudging acceptance of submissiveness, just as he had reluctantly accepted the mantle of authority over her. They were at a delicate stage, he realized. He hadn't wanted to leave home so soon after what was, by all accounts, the last session with Britt and Damian. He'd wanted some time with Abby to build upon the foundation that Britt and Damian had helped lay for them. He wondered whether the old patterns had re-established themselves during his absence, or whether he'd return home to a fundamentally different relationship with Abby.
As he waited to board the plane, he pulled out his Blackberry and texted Abby. Two words. Perhaps it was a command, but it was one that granted room for interpretation. "Surprise me," he typed.
After boarding, he settled into his seat for the flight home. He'd presented a paper at an academic conference, disentangling his thoughts from Abby and the last few weeks just long enough to deliver a talk that had been, by all accounts, well-received.
Yes, they were at a delicate stage. He and Abby were on their own now. Britt and Damian had helped them adjust the course of their marriage and had finally nudged them into the current; it was now up to them to navigate their way by themselves.
Damn, it would be a lot easier with a slave...
The plane's engines spooled up and George let his thoughts drift back in time to the strange brand of marriage counselling that Abby had introduced them to. He still didn't know how she'd stumbled upon Britt and Damian and didn't much care. Perhaps the truth would come out at some point. He still couldn't quite believe how much had changed in those few weeks -- how he'd gone from cuckold to master and Abby from ice queen to submissive. Even now, as he allowed himself to think back, he could scarcely believe what he and Abby had gone through. As the plane taxied to the runway, the recollections passed like photographs in his mind's eye.
Of him, on that first session, with his face buried between Britt's legs, having been issued a challenge to make her come in fifteen minutes.
Of Abby, emerging from behind Damian, looking unusually vulnerable and beautiful, clad in little more than a breast binder and sporting a pony tail from a part of the human anatomy that had evolved to be tailless.
Of him again, being taught the possibilities of discipline, the moon of Britt's exposed ass growing redder with each blow.
And of Abby again, willingly subjecting herself to the pillory while he claimed her from behind, her body stretched out before him like an extension of himself.
This could have been someone else's mental photo album, but it was his.
With a start, he realized that his small pinkish part was no longer quite so small. Damn. In public, no less.
He turned his mind instead to a more recent memory. Before this trip, George and Damian had met for lunch at a pub close the campus.
"You should feel blessed," said Damian.
"I do."
Damian sipped his beer thoughtfully. "Both Britt and I had our doubts about Abby. About you too, but perhaps less so. Abby had a longer, harder journey. Most women would never have agreed to our contract. A lot of those would have told us to go to hell when they realized what it entailed. But Abby is incredibly strong and determined."
"So now?" asked George.
"Now you dedicate your life to reinforcing the trust she has placed in you. You have the responsibility of guiding your relationship through the next chapters. If the relationship fails, it's because you haven't listened, haven't placed Abby's well-being and happiness above all else. You have to be more attentive and more creative than you've ever been. In return, Abby will bestow those same gifts on you. She's now capable of doing so."
The plane lifted off, pressing George more deeply into the seat.
* * *
Abby received his text message an hour ago at work. His plane would have taken off by now. "Surprise me" was all it said. Those two words encapsulated a world of possibility. She smiled as packed her things and left the office early.
She hadn't wanted him to take the trip, but it had been planned long ago, before Britt and Damian had entered their lives. When the trip had been planned months ago, she'd considered his week-long absence with indifference. At the time, he was little more than a fixture in her life, a reminder of her failure. For the last week, however, she'd mentally checked off each day, growing excited as his return grew closer.
Absence not only made the heart grow fonder, it made it hungry.
Once home, Abby placed her heavy briefcase in the hall closet and vowed to forget that it existed until Monday. She kicked off her pumps and gratefully wiggled her toes. She walked upstairs, shrugging out of her dress jacket as she went, and hung it carelessly from the baluster. Feeling lighter already, she quickly shed her blouse and skirt, letting them fall to the floor like discarded skin. She shimmied out of her underwear, a thong, and flicked it with her foot, caught it in mid-flight, and tossed it into the hamper for three points.
Naked, having left the outer trappings of authority and responsibility scattered through the house, she sighed and felt liberated. She stretched and caught her reflection in the mirror. She liked what she saw.
Abby took an unhurried shower; it would take George more than two hours to clear customs, collect his luggage and return home. She washed with leisurely care, stoking herself where, she hoped, George's hands would soon linger.
After drying, she anointed herself with a hint of perfume in the cleft between her full breasts and lit some candles on the bedside tables and antique dresser. It was too early for candles, but lighting them seemed oddly appropriate.
She knelt before an old steamer trunk that sat at the foot of the four-poster bed, lifted the lid, and examined the contents with a sense of wonder and anticipation.
Britt had called out of the blue yesterday, perhaps knowing that Abby was alone, to suggest a shopping excursion.
There had been a mischievous tone to her voice, of challenge and playfulness. "We're going shopping for your graduation frock," Britt had added.
"Graduation?"
"You and George don't need us anymore. You're ready now to go it alone."
It was true. Abby felt a momentary sense of loss, knowing that the architects of their recent adventures were now exiting stage-left. She and George would have to find their own way now, and in a flash she realized that they were both now capable of doing so.
Britt had driven Abby to a shop called Her Mistress's Closet. The mannequins in the window sported all manner of leather and latex. It was the kind of establishment from which Abby would have averted her eyes in the past, recoiling at the depravity of those maladjusted souls who frequented it. Now her heart skipped a beat. Britt ushered her in and Abby stopped at the threshold. The shop was tastefully decorated, completely devoid of the seediness Abby would have imagined.
"Hi, Britt," greeted the saleswoman, a remarkably beautiful Asian woman.
"Go browse," suggested Britt, propelling her into the shop with a little push on the small of her back.
Abby strolled past the lingerie. She had, she realized sadly, plenty of that; gifts from George that she'd ignored and relegated to the dark corners of her closet. She'd have to see about those, she decided. No, she wasn't here for lingerie, but something more emphatic. She continued to the back of the store where she spied more provocative items -- leatherwear, corsets, bustiers. There was a world of possibility here, each item unleashing visions of potential. As Abby strolled through the store, she found herself surprisingly engaged where a few months before she would have been mortified, shuddering at the symbolism of such items -- submission, degradation, objectification. Now she now considered the impact that such outfits would have on George. Would they please him? Would they arouse him?
