Chapter 8

The big adjustments were easy. It was the little things that took getting used to.

I had arranged a summer job on campus, working as a "research assistant" (i.e., gofer) for one of my English Lit professors. Arlene was also working on campus that summer, and the two of us had planned to share an apartment. I wasn't sure how she'd react when I tried to back out of it. It was late in the year to find another roommate.

As it happened, I needn't have worried. When I went back to the dorm the next day, Arlene didn't ask me where I'd spent the night. Nor did she turn a hair when I told her that Richard and I were now an item, except to comment "Took you long enough."

"Yeah." I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "The thing is, Richard wants me to move in with him..."

"So you don't want to move in with me," Arlene finished. "I thought that might happen. Not a problem. Jack's been wanting to move in with me for a while; I'll tell him he can go ahead."

I had been so prepared for argument and recrimination that this ready acceptance took me by surprise. Arlene could tell; her eyes were twinkling. I shook my head and laughed ruefully.

"Do you always know what I'm going to do before I do?" I asked her.

"Pretty much, sweetie," Arlene said cheerfully. "But then, I know you really well."

Not as well as you think, I thought, and felt a sudden urge to tell her everything. But I was too afraid that she might withdraw from me in disgust. She was my best friend. I didn't want to lose her.

I handled my parents by the simple tactic of not telling them anything. As far as I could tell, my mother was under the impression that I was still a virgin, even though I'd had two boyfriends before leaving high school. I could just imagine the conversation: "Hi, mom. Just wanted to let you know, I'm moving in with some guy you've never met. Oh, and by the way, I'm actually his sex slave. Yeah. Go figure." No way. Without actually lying to them, I left them with the impression that I was still rooming with Arlene. I knew she and Jack wouldn't give me away. As long as I checked in every few weeks, I doubted they'd ever notice the difference.

Among Jack's many virtues as Arlene's boyfriend was the fact that he owned a car, a very old station wagon which he kept in perfect condition. He and Richard and Arlene helped me pack and load my stuff, and he drove it over to Richard's apartment, where we all unloaded it. It only took three trips to move everything. Richard had made room in his closet and drawers, and cleared off two shelves of his bookcase. It took me a couple of hours to put everything away, except for my excess books, which ended up in a neat, three-foot stack by the door in the bedroom. Richard took down a couple of his prints, and I replaced them with two Maxfield Parrish posters. One day, and I might have lived there forever.

As far as anyone outside knew, Richard was my boyfriend and I had moved in with him, just like any number of college couples. When we were in public, or when anyone was around, I called him 'Richard' and he called me 'Susan.' When we were alone, he called me 'Susie' and I called him 'Master.' I might have expected it to feel strange, but it didn't. It came to my lips completely naturally, even more than his name did. After all, I was his. He was my master. It was a fact.

Rather, it was ordinary life that often seemed strange. I started my job; I continued to see Arlene and Jack and my other friends, just as before. No one seemed to find anything different in my behavior, or if they did it was attributed to my having a new boyfriend. When I was apart from Richard, my life was almost exactly the same as it had been before. And in the middle of work, or chatting with friends, the realization would come to me with the force of a thunderclap: I am Richard's slave. Against the rock of that certainty, 'normal life' seemed to break and flow, becoming unreal, and I felt like an impostor, impersonating myself. The feeling only lasted a moment, but it was powerful. Arlene teased me occasionally about being distracted, and I laughed; but it really wasn't funny.

If I wasn't quite used to being a slave, Richard wasn't used to having one. At first he treated me pretty much like a girlfriend, except a little more considerately than average. (A lot more considerately, compared to my average ex.) For the first week, I drove him crazy, coming to him every ten minutes and asking for something to do. I knew he didn't like it, but I couldn't stop myself. Eventually he got the idea: when we were apart I could manage on my own, but when we were together I wanted him to take charge of me. Bowing to the inevitable, he set me to work cleaning and straightening the apartment, organizing our CD collection and books, doing the laundry, and anything else he could think of. It bothered him a bit, I could tell; he felt like he was exploiting me, which given the nature of our relationship struck me as more than mildly amusing. It didn't bother me. I like order, and straightening things up can be very satisfying. Every time he told me to do something I felt a strange, sensual thrill, even though I could never get him to stop saying "please." And the apartment really gleamed.

One project, unfortunately, didn't turn out quite so well. The night after I moved in, I offered to cook dinner for us. I spent three hours working on it, after spending an hour leafing through cookbooks and making a special trip to the grocery store. After tasting the meal I had prepared, Richard's expression changed and he gasped.

"Is it... not all right, Master?" I asked him anxiously.

"Did you taste this?" he asked me, reaching for his water glass.

"No. Should I have?"

"Yes. How much salt did you put in, Susie?"

"Um... a tablespoon?"

"A tablespoon?"

Obviously this was very, very wrong. "That's what the recipe said, Master," I mumbled defensively.

"The recipe called for a tablespoon of salt?"

"It said one t-s-p. That's a tablespoon, right?"

Richard winced, and so did I, reflexively. "Was it a capital 'T' or a lowercase 't'?"

Maybe, if I was lucky, the floor would open up and swallow me. "I think... lowercase... Master."

"Right. That would be a teaspoon." He gestured at my plate. "Try it."

I took a small taste, then reached for my own water glass. It was inedible.

"I'm sorry, Master," I said, near tears.

Richard sighed and got up. "No problem, Susie. But I think I'll do the cooking from now on. Come on, babe; I'll take you out to dinner. Get your jacket."

I slunk off to get my jacket, while Richard disposed of the meal I'd worked so hard on. Usually, I like going out to eat, but not that night. Richard saw how upset I was, and soothed me by promising to teach me how to cook. That cheered me up a bit; but disappointing him still rattled me. That was the part that I hadn't expected. I was absolutely open to him in every way, vulnerable to any unguarded comment he might make. I was his, and pleasing him was what I was for. Displeasing him... was too painful to think about, even though he almost never got angry.

I don't mean to give the impression, though, that I spent a lot of time being upset or unhappy. The fact was, I was very happy; almost deliriously happy. The same openness that made me vulnerable was the source of a great and deeply satisfying joy. When I was close to him my skin tingled. If I heard his voice unexpectedly my heart leapt. I loved him in a way that made me realize how weak my feelings had been for Brad or any of the others.

And then, of course, there was the sex.

It wouldn't be quite accurate to say that Richard and I had sex day and night. We had sex day, night, morning and mid-afternoon. While I've always liked sex as much as the next girl, or maybe more, I'd never experienced anything like the emotions I felt with Richard. I was on, all the time. My libido rarely dropped below a steady simmer, and it didn't take much to bring me to a rolling boil. Our first couple of weeks passed like a long, sweaty exercise in combinatorics: we tried out every location (bed, couch, chair, rug, bath, shower, up against the wall), position (him on top, me on top, side by side, back to front, sitting, standing, and two or three et ceteras) and variation we could think of, which turned out to be quite a few. I'd never realized what a kinky imagination I had until I started giving my fantasies free reign. Not that Richard was complaining. Or, at least, not seriously.

"You know," he said at one point, trying to squeeze the last drops out of a little plastic bear, "I never even used to like honey..."

"Well, I could put it on you, Master," I said, wriggling a little -- honey is damned sticky stuff -- "but I'm trying to watch my figure... oooo..."