Fortitude

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she submits in order to face her own fears.
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"He's expecting you," she whispers, as though the walls are listening. "Downstairs. The first door on the left. The black one."

A black door? Well, aren't we the melodramatic one! I try to sneer, desperately grasping for something, anything to bolster my confidence, but it's in vain. His eyes had said there was a price to be paid. The color of the door was merely a reflection of what it held at bay, the price of my liberation. My bladder threatens. I need to pee, desperately. But, bracing myself I turn the knob and enter his lair.

I pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the variance in light, and the details began to separate themselves from the gloom. The room is sparsely furnished, I notice at last. There is merely an odd-shaped bench, alone near the far wall, and a large, leather chair, turned from me now in which I surmise the "Master" awaits. But the walls...oh the walls!

There, in stark relief hangs some sort of a wooden cross...no not a cross...an "X" to be exact. It is comprised of heavy timbers, secured forever to the concrete surface behind, its sturdy facade adorned with a multitude of steel rings and leather restraints. All along the walls I see hooks, each bearing things that make my flesh cringe. I should run, I think, my panic overcoming me. I should, but still I hold my ground.

"I know what you need," He'd written, and somewhere deep inside I fear he was right. As though on cue, the chair swivels in my direction and He comes into view.

He is different now, stronger, more ominous. The grey of His hair frames the deep blue of His eyes, and the cut of His leather vest makes His obvious strength a presence in itself. "You came," He says, a statement, no surprise. "You're frightened, I can smell it, and yet you're here. You've taken the first step."

There is no curl to His lips, not a smile, not a sneer. He just "IS". My bladder threatens to release and shame me even further. "Do you know what this is?" He asks, His hand gesturing at the room about Him, "...what it's for?"

I nod slowly, the details vague, but the import all too clear. I'm to be tested. My fear is on trial. This is a battle I must win...for the prize is life itself.

"Shall we continue?" He questions. "Your choice, Anna.

Silently He nods his approval, then dictates the rules of our encounter. "You will address me as 'Sir' at all times. I will be obeyed without hesitation or reservation. You will submit, immediately, or leave in failure. Is that clear?"

Again I nod, my voice a betrayal. I paste my bravest façade before me, but He waits until it fades and is replaced with the quivering mass it attempted to hide. We must begin at the beginning, visceral, without pretense.

"Undress," He orders simply.

* * * * *

Chapter One: That Morning

"Is that the best you can do, Mr. Johnson?" I reply acerbically.

He sneers. That awful, insolent look of his cuts me to the core.

"Yes Ma'am." He drawls confidently. But there is no deference, not in his tone, not in his eyes.

He knows.

"Then reread the chapter tonight, Mr. Johnson. I'll expect you to be prepared tomorrow."

He smiles, as though I've said something amusing.

"Oh, I will be Ma'am. Prepared, that is." The mask slips, and he allows the carnivore behind to peek beneath my prim and proper visage to the frightened child I hide inside.

"Class dismissed." I choke, my carefully bound persona coming unraveled before him. "Read p-p-pages..."

They pause, their pencils poised, but I can't continue. Instead, I wave my hand in the direction of the doorway in silent dismissal, and my charges scramble for the exit, eager to take advantage of their reprieve. All except one...

He's bolder now, here, alone in the dusty silence. His hand grazes the taut fabric of his jeans.

He knows.

"You didn't give an assignment," he whispers, his voice cutting into my discomposure. "They'll all be talking about that, you know."

"Well, YOU have one, Mr. Johnson," I reply, my voice cracking under the strain. "You know what I want you to do."

He laughs, an ugly sound that gnaws at the final vestiges of my dignity. A tear threatens, and I desperately hold it at bay.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replies once more, but this time he reaches for my hand. Then, brazenly, his eyes brooking no resistance, he presses it against the bulge of his zipper. "I know what you need."

I stand in shocked silence, terror warring behind my eyelids. He knows. Even at the tender age of eighteen, he knows. I'm an open book, and my pages are ragged and worn, dog-eared from perpetual rereading of the same taunting passage.

Finally, he squeezes my hand around his hardened flesh, then drops it discarded to the desk. The disrespect glowers in his eyes, and he turns to leave.

"Later, 'Teach'..." he throws over his shoulder, as though I've been dismissed. And I have.

My knees buckle and I drop heavily into my chair. The dam bursts, and a flood of tears ensue, ruining my mascara, dripping shamelessly from my chin.

Fear.

Even someone as untried as Ted Johnson can see it. I wear my competence like a coat of mail, something to hide behind, something that buffers me from the world beyond, but it's a sham. Underneath there is nothing but terror. The Mr. Johnson's of the world are everywhere, and they always know. They always see through me, and come to prey.

Quivering, I cross and latch the door, secure at last, then unlock the drawer that holds my purse. Reaching shakily inside, I open my tiny make-up mirror and examine the ruins of my face. I look terrible! Large wells of black mascara pool beneath my eyes, and dark trails run at will down my cheeks. I dab at them, my linen handkerchief bearing the blackened mess from my face. But, it's not enough.

Desperately, I spit upon the cloth, then apply it once more to the damage. Pink, abraded flesh now replaces black, and I feel my tentative composure returning. I can cover that with concealer, I think to myself. But how can I cover the conquered look in my eyes?

Finally, my façade is repaired, and I reach for my thermal lunch bag beneath the desk. Perhaps I've packed something to settle the overwhelming turmoil that now runs rampant in my stomach, I hope. What was it? I can't remember anymore. The only thing that fills my mind is the memory of what has just taken place, the scene of my undoing.

A ragged piece of aluminum foil plops sullenly atop the scarred surface of my desk. A pork chop, cold and greasy. The remnants of last night's dinner, not great then, and a disaster now. My stomach revolts, and I drop it into the wastebasket. Only yogurt remains, warm and runny. My thermal carrier needs help, as do I.

This too falls prey to my circular file. Is there room in there for me?

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since last night. My "stage fright" has kept me from it, stolen the breakfast I should have enjoyed, and now I pay the price.

I'll have to go through the cafeteria line now. Just punishment for a life half lived. My fear rises once more, but the desperate pangs in my stomach call me forward. Four more classes to go. Can I wait? A cramp, hard and sharp lances through my belly. I need food. I need it now. I need...

"I know what you need," he'd said. Once more I begin to shake. He'd be out there now, in the cafeteria, laughing with his friends. Am I the butt of his jokes already, an appetizer for what is to come, or am I something he keeps to himself, all to himself, like a lion hovering over a fresh kill?

I stifle the tears once more. I can't cry now. I don't have the time to repair the evidence of my frailty before my next curtain call.

And so, donning my professional persona one more time, I regretfully unlock the classroom door and make my way into the milling throng beyond. All about me rise the happy, sad, and disconnected voices of teen angst, but I pass by unnoticed. I'm invisible...a teacher, not worth their notice. I like it that way.

Finally my goal is in sight, the cafeteria where the veterans of this institutional establishment serve up daily portions of mystery meat and starch. The same place where, as a concession to those of us who want to live for a few more years, the school district has placed a salad bar of minimal quality and questionable taste.

Looking neither left nor right, I grasp the salad tongs and attempt to fill my plastic container with limp lettuce and tired tomato. A few chunks of the ever-present U.S. surplus cheese, and something I can only hope came in a can labeled Spam, and I'm through. I could escape back to my classroom, I think eagerly, yearning for even a momentary reprieve, but no. He's here. He'll know he's won.

And so, I take an innocuous spot at the "teacher's table" among the classified and certified staff, and try to maintain a façade of scholarly decorum as I desperately attempt to digest the indigestible among my peers. The salad needs something, I think, and then I realize what it is. I've failed, in my condition, to gather one of the small packets of ranch dressing from the bins beside the cash register.

I check around me. Will anyone notice if I pass by. Will he notice? Will he snicker, or merely give me one of his bold, unnerving stares? I don't care, I decide, but just in case I hurry before I have to face the consequences of my decision.

I am gone perhaps 10 seconds, a few heartbeats at most, but when I return something has changed. Something is now lodged beneath my tray. I stop and stare, as though a viper were preparing to strike at my vulnerable fingers. Then, shifting my gaze uneasily about the table, I grasp it between my thumb and index finger and give a feeble tug.

Immediately it fills my shaking hand, threatening to unmask my state of mind. It's a note, very carefully folded and tucked precisely midway along the right-hand edge of the pink, plastic cafeteria tray. I'm impressed...such control. Such precision. Only a trained mind would be so exact. Is there more to Mr. Johnson than I suspected?

Quickly I tuck the folded paper into my pocket and dump my uneaten roughage into the trash bin. Then, slipping as innocuously as possible from the room, I hurry back to my bastion of chalk dust and solitude.

My heart is pounding by the time I reach the door, and I nervously finger the folded paper in the pocket of my tired, beige skirt. What is it? Must I leave this position much as I have the last two, the victim of my own shortcomings? Must I continue to search for my place among the viable?

The lock clicks behind me and I sink into my chair just as my knees fail. I lay my head atop the desk, like a schoolchild who's been disciplined, and sigh heavily. Then, reaching into my pocket once more, I lay the folded mystery before me.

The edges are evenly aligned, I notice, crisply creased and under control. The paper appears to be something unusual, perhaps a customized desktop notepad, but where would Mr. Johnson get such a thing on such short notice?

Carefully I unfold it and press the creases neatly atop my blotter...then I see it. My heart skips a beat, and my intestinal fortitude threatens to give way.

"I know what you need." It reads in bold, precise script.

I gasp, the blood rushing from my brain in mind-numbing torrents. I bend over and lower my head between my knees. I am conquered, stripped! My mind reels. I can't go on!

But wait, I know Ted Johnson's scrawling pencil scratches. His attempts at literacy resemble nothing even similar to this! Mr. Johnson has not penned this erstwhile correspondence. Someone else has entered the forum, and he knows how to win.

Once more I smooth the paper before me. I know this writing! I've seen it before, but where? And then it comes to me.

Hurriedly I shuffle through my daily memos, and there it is, the exact same hand on a note from John Sheridan, the school principal!

"I know what you need," it taunts.

I swallow nervously, my throat dry and uncooperative. What does this mean? What should I do? What CAN I do?

Then, in desperation I remove my Bic from the desk drawer and hold it poised over the message. I reply with one word...

"What?"

* * * * *

Chapter two

The final bell rings, and the last of my students scurry from the room. I've been distant today, preoccupied, and it's been noticed. My underbelly has been exposed, and my young wolf-cubs have enjoyed it. They leave for the afternoon, assignment-free, but frankly, I couldn't care less.

Quickly I make my way through the crowded corridor to my messagebox in the office down the hall. Will there be a response? Does he indeed know what I need?

Desperately, I scan the contents. A form letter from the teacher's association, a catalog for school supplies addressed simply to "Remedial Reading Teacher, Central High School"

Then I see it, folded precisely as I remember it. The same note, or is it? Again I am undone. Is it rejection or salvation I hope for? Perhaps I wish to remain faceless, ignored and invisible, struggling alone with my own inner demons.

I begin to tuck it into my pocket until I can secure my privacy once more, but then I stop. The weight of it overcomes me, and I can't hold off. And so, with trembling fingers I part the folds once more, and find that this is not the same memo, but a new one.

"I can teach you. Come to My home at 463 University Drive tonight, precisely at 6PM. Don't be late. Come prepared."

Come prepared? What does that mean?

I raise my eyes, and then I see Him. He's been watching my response. John Sheridan stands in His office doorway, His eyes probing the dark, secret recesses of my mind. His look is stern and competent. The hardened set of His jaw compliments the disciplined intelligence of His gaze. "I know what you need" it whispers to me once more. "Be prepared to pay for it."

I lower my eyes, attempting to eclipse Him from view, but still He's there. Finally, as though He has me already under His thumb, I again meet His gaze. Then, nodding slowly, I scurry like the frightened mouse that I am and rush headlong into the crush of bodies beyond. Tonight...tonight...tonight...

By the time I reach home, I am undone. The very walls taunt me. Should I eat? I should, but I can't. Should I shower and change? Yes, I think, I must. At least a quick one, and fresh underwear. Where did that come from? Did I need fresh underwear? Isn't that what you're supposed to wear in case of an accident? "Suppose you have an accident and they have to take you to the hospital," my Mother used to say.

I check my watch, and remember his admonition. "Don't be late," it had read. Ninety minutes. Yes, a quick shower and fresh panties, that would do. Then, I have to leave.

My ablutions take less time than anticipated, for my haste comes from my own insecurities. At precisely 5:45 I find myself sitting at the curb of 463 University Drive, my car idling nervously as I await the appointed time. I should turn the key and shut it off, but what if I change my mind? What if I need to escape?

Finally, the dashboard clock reads 5:57, and I reluctantly kill the engine and make my way toward the heavy oak door that cushions me from my fate.

It is a competent building, sturdy and in keeping with its surroundings. The hedges are trimmed, and the façade is well maintained, as is mine. The lines are precise and severe...a reflection of its owner?

Trembling, I curl my nails into my palm and rap once, twice, then wait. Immediately, a woman of unknown consequence opens the gaping jaws of the portal, and I enter.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

"He's expecting you," she whispers, as though the walls are listening. "Downstairs. The first door on the left. The black one."

A black door? Well, aren't we the melodramatic one! I try to sneer, desperately grasping for something, anything to bolster my confidence, but it's in vain. His eyes had said there was a price to be paid. The color of the door was merely a reflection of what it held at bay, the price of my liberation.

I descend the stairs, and again I knock.

"Come," a voice replies in steady monotone.

My bladder threatens. I need to pee, desperately. But, bracing myself I turn the knob and enter His lair.

I had thought that I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for this. The room is cloaked in darkness, shuttered from the light by heavy, black, velvet curtains which shroud the high windows of this chamber from the world above. The walls are an institutional grey, with sandalwood candles flickering along their perimeter. It is a room with a purpose. It waits for me.

I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the variance in light, and the details began to separate themselves from the gloom. The room is sparsely furnished, I notice at last. There is merely an odd-shaped bench, alone near the far wall, and a large, leather chair, turned from me now, in which I surmise the "Master" awaits. But the walls...oh the walls!

There, in stark relief hangs some sort of a wooden cross...no not a cross...an "X" to be exact. It is comprised of heavy timbers, secured forever to the concrete surface behind, its sturdy facade adorned with a multitude of steel rings and leather restraints. All along the walls I see hooks, each bearing things that make my flesh cringe. Various whips, handcuffs, a crop and a variety of items whose purposes I can only surmise.

I should run, I think, my panic overcoming me. I should, but still I hold my ground.

"I know what you need," He'd written, and somewhere deep inside I fear He was right. Finally, the door swings shut, aided by unseen hands, and I hear it click terminally behind me. As though on cue, the chair swivels in my direction and He comes into view.

He is different now, stronger, more ominous. The grey of His hair frames the deep blue of His eyes, and the cut of His leather vest makes His obvious strength a presence in itself. "You came," He says, a statement, no surprise. "You're frightened, I can smell it, and yet you're here. You've taken the first step."

I smile. He doesn't.

"Yes," [choking], "I'm here," I reply, thinking how inane I must sound, even to my own ears.

There is no curl to His lips, not a smile, not a sneer. He just "IS". My bladder threatens to release and shame me even further.

"Do you know what this is?" He asks, His hand gesturing at the room about Him, "...what it's for?"

I nod slowly, the details vague, but the import all too clear. I'm to be tested. My fear is on trial. This is a battle I must win...for the prize is life itself.

"Shall we continue?" He questions. "Your choice, Anna."

God, I need to pee!

But, nodding my head I accept the challenge. I will succeed. I must!

Silently He nods his approval, then dictates the rules of our encounter. "You will address Me as 'Sir' at all times. I will be obeyed without hesitation or reservation. You will submit, immediately, or leave in failure. Is that clear?"

Again I nod, my voice betraying me. The deal is signed. My fate is sealed. I paste my bravest façade before me, but He waits until it fades and is replaced with the quivering mass it attempted to hide. We must begin at the beginning, visceral, without pretense.

"Undress," He orders simply.

* * * * *

Chapter Four

My hands shake at first, but I am finally able to control them enough to undo the top button of my blouse. I pause.

"One penalty stroke, Anna. I didn't tell you to stop."

Quickly my hands resume their task, avoiding the ominous sounding repercussions. Now, my blouse is open and I can feel His eyes evaluating my full breasts and trim frame. Does He approve?

I fold my blouse, and He gestures toward the leather bench to my right. Then, unzipping my skirt I hurriedly place it also upon the bench. What next, I wonder in panic, what next?

Then, timorously I slip my fingers beneath my half-slip and lower it to the floor. Now I have only my bra, pantyhose and the pretty panties I chose to wear this evening. I want to stop, but my resolve saves me and I lean forward, reaching behind to release my breasts of their encumbrance.