una historia de sub

I didn’t say anything. He turned and walked into the house. He didn’t even look back to make sure I followed. I did, of course.

“We will have dinner tonight at the kitchen table,” he said as we entered the house. I spent most of my time watching his back. “You will consider the kitchen table as yours. You will take the majority of your meals there and when I join you, you may take it as an invitation to speak freely. Most of the time, you will serve me in the dining room, but I thought we should start the evening out on a…friendlier basis. I hope all this is clear.”

“Yes, Master.”

He turned and an angry ire was visible in his eyes. “No,” he said. “You have not yet earned the right to call me such. Until you do, you will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Mr.’.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry, sir.”

He resumed walking.

I made it into the kitchen, calling myself all kinds of stupid as we went. But forms of address were a gray area, I hadn’t known what to expect. At least he hadn’t seemed too upset.

“I need to take Jake outside. My room is upstairs, first door on the left. I will be there in fifteen minutes. You will be waiting for me.” His green eyes gazed steadily at me. “Page five, first paragraph.”

I’m not sure how I made it up the stairs, every step felt like ten. 

I pushed the door open to his room and gasped. Candles were everywhere. And in the middle of the room was a large bed, made of the same wrought iron of the kitchen table.

But according to page five, first paragraph, the bed wasn’t my concern. I looked down. The pillow between the bed and me was.

Beside the pillow was a sheer nightgown. My hands trembled as I changed. The gown hit right at my upper thighs and would show every part of my body. I folded my clothes and put them in a neat pile beside the door.

This is what you wanted. This is what you wanted.

I repeated that about twenty times and I finally calmed down. I went to the pillow, placed my knees on it, and sat with my butt resting on my heels. I stared down at the floor and waited.

He entered minutes later. 

“Very nice,” he said when he’d closed the bedroom door. “You may stand.”

I stood with my head down as he walked around me. I was glad of the dimmed light, certain a telltale flush colored my entire body.

“Strip the gown off and place it on the floor.”

I fumbled with the gown until I was finally able to pull it over my head. It fluttered to the ground.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

He waited until my eyes met his and then he slowly removed his belt. He gathered it in one hand and walked around me again. “What do you think? Shall I chastise you for your ‘Master’ remark?” He snapped the belt and it struck me. I jumped.

“Whatever you wish, sir,” I managed to choke out.

“Whatever I wish?” He continued walking until he stood before me. He unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down, along with his boxer briefs. “On your knees.”

La realidad me ha obligado a volver. 

Llevo -dos meses? tres meses?- encerrada en este cuarto. La rutina es agobiante a diferencia de lo que la mayoria piensa. Llegar al ultimo renglón y ver el ultimo punto y girar una y otra vez la misma última pagina buscando alguna palabra suelta que admita la nueva apertura. Así ha pasado ya tanto tiempo. Claramente he entrado a un circulo vicioso, donde arranco un libro para llenar el vacío que me ha dejado terminar otro. Así, el túnel, así la invención de morel, así la doble y unica mujer. Ha caído incluso en la cruel repetición de los favoritos, que solo agravia el proceso. He releído tortuosamente jane eyre, y cumbres borrascosas y crepúsculo (porque no me voy a andar haciendo la Borges que al fin y al cabo tampoco nadie me creería). Y ahora estaba a punto de terminar wide awake. El ultimo capitulo. Y de hecho me da miedo girar la pagina. Me pasé todo el día de ayer, y el día de hoy leyendo. Patiando responsabilidades y compromisos porque si empiezo tampoco me es comprensible demorar el cruel final. No se hasta que punto no será enfermedad, pero tampoco para ser melodramática. Debe de ser la falta de sueño. Mi hermana es la única que está preocupada. No entiende por qué no estoy comiendo, y le explicaría algo como que tengo un dolor en el pecho que no me deja, pero no me entendería porque ni yo misma me entiendo. Le deje pensar que conocí a alguien y no dije mas nada. 

Y entonces hoy salí al mundo, tan enajenada, buscando ayuda, y parecería que nadie ha notado mi ausencia. Me ofendería, pero supongo que yo tampoco necesité a nadie por tanto tiempo. Y ni siquiera ahora, que el libro me llama, y que conscientemente sé, con toda seguridad, que apenas apriete -publicar entrada- habré sucumbido, y que ante el quiebre y dolor, me aferraré a Bolaño, y después a estrella distante, y después a lorenza, y después-, ni siquiera ahora, llamo a la ayuda. Porque es un ciclo, y porque es vicioso.