Chapter 2: Discipline... and cats
On the road, the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of tires against the pavement are my only company. I've always found it strange, the effect driving has on me. It doesn't matter how well-rested I am, a short stint behind the wheel, or even just a bus ride, and I feel a fatigue settle in my bones. An exhaustion not just of the body, but of the mind and spirit, that takes the vibrancy out of life. Oddly enough, airplanes or subways don't have the same impact. It's as though only the stretch of road, the vast expanse of earth that moves under me, drains the energy from my very core.
Now, behind the wheel of our car, the road ahead seems to stretch endlessly. Beside me, Vicky is silent, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield, as though she's trying to perceive what's invisible to the naked eye. I yearn to break the silence, to engage her in conversation, but the fear of her indifference holds me back. There's nothing worse than the anxious pause after an unanswered question, the weight of a one-sided conversation. So, I let the silence be, let it fill the space between us. It's a safe, if not comfortable, haven.
My eyes drift over to a group of girls in school uniforms waiting for a bus. The sight of them triggers a memory, a playful echo from our shared past. It takes me back to a time when our power dynamics had a different flavor, a mix of innocent mischief and deep exploration. It was during a time of great personal pain for me, a time when the world was a grey and lifeless place, and the light of my life, my mother, had been taken away. I was only 21 then, an age when life should have been a riot of colors, but for me, it was a period of mourning.
***
As we start our drive towards my childhood home, the cab of Vicky's truck feels comfortably warm and familiar. The scent of worn leather and Vicky's signature earthy perfume linger in the air, their potent familiarity reassuring amidst the apprehension bubbling within me.
"I need you to talk to me, Lisa," Vicky says, her gaze fixed on the road. The early evening sunlight paints her face in an orange hue, the soft light casting a glow around her, like a halo. At 37, she looks incredibly vibrant, her eyes, as bewitching as ever, glimmer with calm assertiveness.
"How are you feeling, darling?" she asks, her voice gentle but commanding, the Mistress in her coming forth. She reaches out, her hand finding mine resting on the middle console, and gives it a comforting squeeze. The contact is grounding, a solid reminder of our shared history and the bond that has deepened over the past two years.
"I..." I begin, my throat feeling dry. I want to tell her everything, to pour out the sadness that is seeping into every corner of my being. But I hold back, biting my lower lip to distract myself from the emotional whirlpool. "I'm okay, Vicky," I say eventually, the words sounding more to convince myself than her.
A small smile dances on Vicky's lips. She squeezes my hand again, her thumb tracing comforting circles over the back of my hand. "My little star, you know there's no need to put up a brave face for me," she says, her voice tender yet firm. "Remember, honesty is not optional for my baby girl. It's a requirement."
Her words, tinged with dominance, resonate within me, the familiar command triggering an automatic response of obedience, something that has been ingrained in me over the course of our relationship. And yet, I stay silent, the reason for my hesitation to move in with her buried deep within me, too raw and fresh to voice out.
The drive continues in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. The road ahead is clear, the street lights starting to flicker on as the dusk settles, their warm glow a stark contrast to the icy knot of unease in my stomach. The looming task of sorting through my belongings, a stark reminder of my mother's absence, feels like a weight pressing down on my chest. But I know I have to face it, and with Vicky by my side, it feels marginally bearable.
The moment Vicky pulls up to the curb, a dull, heavy feeling settles over me. My childhood home stands there, quiet and imposing, a too-loud reminder of the life I'm leaving behind. For a moment, I hesitate, almost reluctant to step out of the car.
Vicky must sense my unease, because she turns to me, her gaze softening. "Do you want me to come with you, sweetheart?"
I nod, needing her steadying presence more than ever. I can feel the questions lingering on the edge of Vicky's lips, the curiosity about why I'm so keen on avoiding my father, but she holds back, respecting my need for privacy. Her understanding only makes me feel more grateful for her.
Hand in hand, we approach the front door. I feel a pang of sorrow as I glance at the once-familiar facade, the peeling paint, and the slightly overgrown garden a reflection of the home's neglect after my mother's passing. As we step inside, we tiptoe around the house, careful not to alert my father of our presence.
It isn't until we reach my old room that the emotions start to well up. My fingers trace the posters on the wall, remnants of a childhood long past. But this room is no longer a refuge, it has become a memory vault, each corner, each object a trigger for a painful memory.
While I gather clothes, I can feel Vicky's watchful eyes on me. She picks up an old photo from my bedside table, studying it for a moment before placing it back down gently.
"Do you still have any of your old school uniforms?" She asks out of the blue, her attempt at lightening the mood, a soothing balm on my raw nerves.
I feel a small smile tug at the corner of my lips. Leave it to Vicky to shift the focus from something as morose as collecting memories to something as fun as role-playing. "I think I still have a few pieces lying around," I tell her, my voice a little steadier than before.
We spend the next few minutes digging out the remnants of my school years, laughing softly at the sight of the dated pleated skirts and ribboned blouses. Once we have a satisfactory collection, we pack them along with some of my clothes, leaving the room as quietly as we have entered.
As we leave the house, the fading evening light casts long, eerie shadows on the path, making the house look even more ghostly than before. But with Vicky by my side, the darkness seems a little less daunting. After all, I'm returning to a home that is filled with warmth, love, and a chubby, demanding cat. The thought alone is enough to ease some of the heaviness in my heart.
We barely close the door behind us when Vicky turns to me, her eyes flashing with a mischievous glint that immediately has my heart pounding against my chest. "Off you go, love," she commands, a devilish grin tugging at her lips as she gestures towards the bathroom. "Go change into that little school uniform of yours. And remember, you need to knock when you're ready."
With that, she spins around, heading towards the living room where she probably sprawls herself across the plush couch, waiting for me. Her presence fills the apartment, and I can almost taste the anticipation in the air.
In the solitude of the bathroom, I strip off my casual clothes, the soft fabric slipping off my skin to reveal the vulnerable flesh underneath. I pull the school uniform from the bag, running my fingers over the familiar fabric, worn thin with years of use. The pleated skirt is short, much shorter than I remember, and the blouse is thin, almost see-through. I hesitate for a moment, then slip into the outfit, the soft fabric clinging to my skin in a way that has heat pooling in my lower belly.
In front of the mirror, the sight of my barely covered body in the girlish uniform sparks a thrill in me. My hair, longer now than it was during my school years, cascades down my back, adding to the innocent yet seductive image reflected back at me. Vicky is an artist, and I am her canvas, painted in shades of submission and desire.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom, the cool air of the apartment causing goosebumps to prick at my skin. I can hear the soft hum of the TV from the living room, and Bilbo's rhythmic purring as he curls up next to Vicky. But the cat is the least of my concerns. What matters is Vicky, and the game we are about to play.
