“You’re perfectly happy to submit to my desires but you can’t admit to your own. What are you ashamed of, Beth?”
“I…” I stammer, lost. “It’s…you know…nice girls aren’t supposed to…”
“And you consider yourself to be a nice girl, do you? Well, I hate to break it to you, Beth, but you’re as nice as you need to be. Any nicer and I wouldn’t be with you.”
I am silent. I am nice! Is he saying I’m not nice?
“Accept the truth, Beth. You have erotic desires which do not make you a bad person. They have no bearing on your moral character, so don’t bury or suppress them. And happily enough, they coincide with mine. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right. So you don’t think I should feel…ashamed?”
“No more than I should. And I don’t. Though I must admit, I do quite enjoy seeing you blush. The struggle between what you want and what you think you should want is rather beguiling to watch.”
“For a sadist!” I exclaim.
“Absolutely. Now I think you should get your vibrator out. And while you are using it, you should tell me exactly what you are thinking about.”
*
Some days I wear knickers, some days I don’t. Some days I wear full make-up, some none at all. Some days I have to work on academic texts, some days on the erotic variety. Every day I ask his permission to leave the house, and he always grants it. But because of these rules and regulations, he is never off my mind. It is as if he is here, even though I reach out for his body each time I wake during the night and find only empty space.
But we have our late night cyber sex to look forward to every day. I spread my legs, finger my nipples, wiggle my bum for him while he tells me what he would like to do with them when we are together again in his low, low midnight voice. It sustains me, centres me, keeps me focused and secure. Until Thursday.
Maybe it’s just the distance and the time we’ve been apart, but on Thursday I feel scratchy, paranoid, vulnerable. All I can think about is how I told him I loved him in the restaurant and he wouldn’t say it back. I know, I know, we’ve been together an absurdly short time – still not even a fortnight – but the trajectory of our relationship has been an almost vertical shot up into the sky, so intense has it all been so far. Does he care about me as a person or as an object on which to satisfy his perverse desires? Why does he want so much control? Doesn’t he ever just want to spoon on the sofa watching crappy DVDs? Can I live life as intensely as he seems to demand, or will I burn out and fall by the wayside? Always these questions, and his answers never come.
That night I am pensive when he Skypes me, wanting reassurances. I refuse to slip straight into the kinky stuff.
I say, “I miss you so much. Do you miss me?”
“Of course. The bed feels empty without you.”
“Just the bed?”
“No, not just the bed.” There is a trace of impatience in his tone, then he switches to the honeyed menace I know so well. “Have you been a good girl today, Beth?”
“I’m not a girl. I’m legally a woman.”
Silence.
Fear. “But yes, I’ve been good,” I contribute lamely.
“I’m not sure I believe you. There’s a hint of something that could be construed as rebellion about you tonight. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I miss you and I’m worried that you don’t miss me.”
“I’ve just told you I do. I’m concerned at this attitude, Beth. I think a test of your obedience may be required.”
My stomach lurches. “What sort of test?”
“Get the lubricant and the smaller of the two anal plugs I gave you.”
Ugh, no, I’ve been dreading this. I hesitate and he says, “Now,” in a final-warning kind of way.
I retrieve them from my bedside drawer, wrinkling my nose with distaste at the pale pink silicone bulb before kneeling back on the bed in front of my computer.
“Strip,” he says peremptorily, and I lose the ov
ersized T-shirt I am wearing. “Now I want you to get yourself into a position that is comfortable, but that also allows me an unhindered view of your rear entrance.” I am feeling queasy. How bad is this going to be? I decide on an arse-to-camera angle, so he cannot see my face, but this is evidently not good enough. “No, Beth, I think perhaps sideways on…I’d like to be able to see your reaction.”