He follows me to the storage unit while I lock up the watercolors, and then to the car, not hurrying after me but keeping reasonably close. I can feel his questioning eyes boring into my back, and I remember his words when I first told him about this idea. Your heart is in the right place, Adrienne, but no one will thank you for speaking out about Masters after everything that’s happened.
So, Dieter knew this was going to happen all along and he’s just been humoring me these last two weeks. My nails dig vicious crescents into my palm. How dare he? I’m not a child, and just because I like to be babied and petted and spanked doesn’t make me stupid. Suddenly the white-hot spotlight of my fury is directed squarely at him.
I’m silent on the drive home, and taut with rage. Every now and then I feel his eyes flicking toward me. Ask me what’s wrong. I fucking dare you.
But he doesn’t say anything, and neither of us have spoken by the time we get into the house. I stomp through to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I’m wearing black platform lace-ups which happen to be my favorite stomping shoes. How fortuitous.
Dieter comes in and leans against the sink, his arms folded. He’s unruffled as he says, “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”
“You’re bothering me. Stop looking at me like that.”
He regards me for a long moment, his eyes growing chillier and chillier with each passing second. “Adrienne, what’s rule number seven?”
I roll my eyes, and it feels good, defying him. “How am I supposed to know?”
Another minute ticks past.
“Is this all you’ve got? You’re just going to look at me? Aren’t you going to say I told you so and remind me that people hate me?” I can feel myself revving myself up into a really good tantrum, and it feels so good I can’t remember why I thought I’d never do this again. Incandescent is the right adjective for a rage. I feel lit from within.
“You’ve spent the last week humoring me and telling me I’m so brave for organizing this exhibition when all the time you were really thinking how stupid it all is and how stupid I am. How could you just let me carry on like that, making an idiot of myself in front of everyone? You patronizing bastard. You fucking toad.”
Throughout this tirade his face hasn’t changed. “Adrienne,” he says quietly. “You’ve crossed very far over a line and you know I’m going to have to punish you. But it’s up to you how much. If you explain why you’re upset and you apologize right now, I won’t be too hard on you. If you continue like this you will be very, very sorry. So, which is it to be?”
There’s a flicker of apprehension at the back of my mind but it’s like a drop of cooling water on a bonfire and it sizzles away in a second. “Piss off.”
Dieter nods slowly, looking at the floor as if he’s thinking.
I continue with my tirade. “It would be nice if you bothered to ask me what’s wrong. I have feelings, you know. This has been hard for me.”
He doesn’t look up.
“You’re not listening to me.”
His eyes flick up, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I assure you, Adrienne, I am listening to every word. Now, are you going to go upstairs with me like a good girl?”
The droplet of apprehension suddenly becomes a trickle. Sensations are warring inside me. I’m still so angry that I’ve made a fool of myself, and Dieter has let me, even though distantly I know that it’s not fair to blame him. I could be reasonable, but you know what? Screw being reasonable. I’m done with reasonable.
I cross my arms over my chest. “No.”
Something flares in his eyes, something primal, and I realize he likes that I’ve said no. He approaches me and I feel very small when confronted with the wall of his chest, and a pang of arousal becomes mixed with my unease. I remember that we haven’t made love since yesterday morning. I crept into his bed at dawn and he pinned me facedown on the mattress, biting the nape of my neck and growling as we came.
“Little girls who don’t do as they’re told have their privileges taken away. You like to come, don’t you, babygirl? I thought you liked being good for me as well, but it seems I was mistaken.”
I do. I do like being good for him. I’ve been practically angelic this last week and it’s given me more satisfaction than I thought possible. In the evenings I sit on his lap and practically purr while he strokes my hair. But now I’m upset and the last thing I want is to be good and pliant. I want to scream and cry and let all this anger out the best way I know how.
“If you don’t want to do as you’re told, I’ll make you. You can fight me if you like. Do you want to fight me, Adrienne?” He reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. I struggle, yanking to free my arm and pushing at his chest with my other arm. I do want to fight him. It feels good, lashing out at him. I grab the collar of his shirt and pull. Several buttons fly off and there’s a tearing sound, and the shirt hangs open, revealing his chest. He looks down, then back up at me.
Oh, yes? his eyes seem to say. Is that how we’re playing it?
“I knew,” he says, trying to pin my wrists together in one of his hands, “I should have stashed some rope down here.” But I’m too fast for him, hitting and scratching and biting anything that I can. My teeth sink into the fleshy part of his biceps and he hisses with pain.
“The little kitten has teeth and claws. You
can’t get away from daddy, though.” He finally gets both of my wrists into one of his hands and he backs me against the wall. I’m pinned like a butterfly to a board. I aim a kick at his shins and land a satisfying one before he stands on both my feet.
There’s a dangerous light in his eyes now. He takes off his belt with his free hand, whips me around so my front is pressed against the wall and starts to strap it round my wrists. I struggle hard against him, but he’s winning, binding me fast.
Good. I want to feel him overpower me, contain my fury. I want him to prove to me he can take anything I dish out to him.