Embracing Surrender

Pauline couldn't believe she was actually keeping the appointment--her first ever illicit assignation. She had booked off work, but had told her fiancé, Martin, she was going to an off-site seminar, explaining why she was dressed in a smart silk business suit. Driving furtively, feeling guilty, her mind was a tumult of mixed emotions. Although, really, she told herself--again--she was only following directions. She had been told where to go and when she was expected, not asked--not asked when she might be expected and where.

What she was doing was, if not actually morally, then ethically wrong; there was no doubt about that; still, she felt compelled to try it--at least once--regardless of the consequences. It was not just the thrill of the illicit, she realized, but the delight of submission, that drew her; a strange, novel brew of desire that tempted and beckoned her.

Pauline felt bad for Martin, but assuaged her guilt by convincing herself--deluding herself--that it was really his fault. It was his friend who started it. "Anyway," she rationalized, "things have been cooling off between us--Martin and I--Martin and me, lately." After a pause, she went on with her self-talk. "Granted," she had to admit, "it is a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation."

Glancing at her face in the rear-view-mirror, pleased with her look, she initially thought, "Yes, well made up;" but then, succumbing to a moment of doubt, she wondered if it was, perhaps, too much--too provocative. And, speaking of provocative, what about her lingerie? Black lace--too skimpy? "Of course, no one's going to actually see my underwear, are they?"

As all those thoughts flitted about her head, straining her self-confidence, she suddenly became aware that her GPS was guiding her into an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Once again, her nervous agitation flared, but not so much because of the strangeness of the neighbourhood; more due to the nearness of her destination. All of a sudden, she felt the intense need to remove her engagement ring. Pauline focused hard, while sitting at a stop light, deliberately not looking around; she didn't want to confirm that everyone was watching her; for she felt it must be absolutely obvious that she was a cheater. So, she concentrated on her ring to shut out any and all other feelings. She kept pulling at the ring, but it wouldn't budge. She started to get flustered. The damn ring hadn't, she realized, been off in a couple of months. Almost panicking, she licked, once more, twisting and turning the recalcitrant ring just above her knuckle. Her spit, eventually, spread over her knuckle, lubricating her finger, and worked its way beneath the gold band; which finally slipping off. The light changed; someone honked. She plopped the ring into her pocket as she started rolling. Suddenly apprehensive about losing it, she fished it out, and, driving with one hand, looking with one eye and half a mind, she managed to put it into a zippered purse compartment at the next light.

At twenty-six years of age, Pauline was an independent, 21st century millennial. An accounts officer at a large Credit Union, she lived alone in a plush condo, which, although mortgaged to the hilt, she owned. She had recently accepted a marriage proposal, and was engaged to Martin, a twenty-nine-year-old junior bank manager. He was sensible and sensitive, and lovingly considered his fiancé to be strong and confident. Their relationship was very egalitarian; their decision-making always collegiate. They were, in Martin's view, very well-suited. They're problem--though they barely acknowledged it, let alone confronted it--was, however, Maurice, Martin's rather odd, forty-year-old friend, and apparent mentor. Pauline and Martin had, at times, debated Maurice's sexual orientation, but had come to no firm conclusion--"Not that it matters," they agreed. In fact, Maurice was totally and completely heterosexual, though, he always played his cards close to his chest.

Thinking back to what led up to all this--what led up to her driving surreptitiously across town, to a secret rendezvous at the apartment of her fiancé's odd friend, Pauline marveled. She, also, shuddered at the contemplation of a looming unknown, and for the millionth time, questioned her own judgement, indeed, her own sanity. Of course, the truth was that she could hardly see past the very veneer of the dynamic situation into which she was so naïvely inserting herself.

Now, for his part, Maurice had a much better understanding, a much clearer view of the dynamics of the developing situation. He had recognized a latent submissiveness in Pauline--or, as he often called her, much to her annoyance, Polly--right from the start. And that was a character trait which he could and would, if at all possible, exploit--subtly encouraging, peeling its layers back slowly, like an onion skin, revealing her sub-conscious desires to her very own self, slowly one sheet at a time. It certainly helped his efforts that, despite her proclaimed dislike of him, Maurice, as Martin's good friend, was very often over at Martin's for evenings and dinners. And it was there that Maurice began his gentle molding of Pauline--his shaping of her--her unnoticeable indoctrination; brainwashing--mental re-programming that was so subtle, at first, as to be imperceptible.

Maurice had moved very, very slowly; extremely patiently, looking forward at the bigger picture--success being a long way away, he saw the whole thing as a game--a challenge. Over the course of more than a year, he had consistently progressed--incrementally, making infinitesimal gains, until one evening, after yet another dinner at Martin's, as Martin, busied himself in the kitchen, as he always did, Maurice moved a chair before him, facing him directly, and beckoned Pauline to sit and chat.

As she warily sat, the skirt she was wearing rode up slightly. As she made a futile attempt to pull it down, Maurice smiled indulgently, and patted her on her bare knees. "Well, then Pauline--Polly; you don't mind if I call you Polly, do you?"

"Yes, I do," Pauline thought; but how could she say that without seeming rude and petty, so she simply shrugged.

Maurice went on--softly, conspiratorially, without giving her a chance to reply. "How are you doing? How's it going? Have you two set a date, yet? How's work?" Here he paused, looking enquiringly at her for a moment, before continuing. "Yes, tell me about work. Where do you work? What about your colleagues; who, among them, is interesting--and why?"

"I work in the accounts department of City Savings Credit Union, at their main office, downtown. But you surely know all that. I spend most of my time in the chaos of the customer service phone floor."

"Tell me about who you work with--and why they're worth mentioning."

For some reason Pauline felt compelled to engage. "Well, my colleagues on the floor are mostly women; a few gays--male and female; and, of course, a couple of guys who think they're the cock-of-the-walk, overseeing their harem."

"In what way?"

"Undercurrents. Soft hits--gotta be careful, in this day and age--sexual harassment and all."

"Are they ever successful?"

"I don't know for sure but I expect they score from time to time."

"Ever scored with you?"

"No! Not a chance!" Maurice just smiled at Pauline's vehement denial.

"But really, the place is pretty well the standard mix: a few Nazis, a few shepherds, and a bunch of sheep."

"Who sleeps with whom?"

"Not sure. Pretty careful. There are a few couples--singles and otherwise, whom I expect are doing the dirty deed." Pauline blushed and chuckled at her own description.

"Tell me about these Nazis and shepherds, and their hierarchies there at work--the power struggles and power games: the administrators who believe they're in charge. Who thinks they're running the show? And who, in your opinion, actually is?" He paused to look at her piercingly, before proceeding. "What about the overall office hierarchy--the pecking order?" He added, very matter-of-factly, "Office politics--therein, I believe, lies the real hierarchy." Pauline answered as best she could, unsure of the intended direction of the conversation.

"Your bosses?" Maurice leaned forward, getting confidential, once again. "Where do they fit in?" Confused, Pauline was busy trying to keep up--trying to figure out what his point was going to be, when, inevitably, their knees touched. Their interaction suddenly paused. Their discussion went, abruptly, quiet; until Maurice casually leaned in and gently pulled Pauline's legs apart, subtly separating her inner thighs. Then, just as casually, he reached forward to pull her chair in--closer, so that his knees slotted between hers. Once again, in that soft hypnotic voice that was somewhere between a purr and a growl, he said something that, as far as Pauline could tell, came completely out of the blue. "I would ask, Polly, that, in my presence, you never sit with your knees together or your legs crossed. S'that okay, my dear?"

Gobsmacked, Pauline was speechless, motionless--tacitly, or so it seemed, accepting the odd request; furthermore, she felt--indeed, she knew, that it was not so much a request as some sort of order. Whatever.... It gave her a funny chill inside; still, she made no comment, as Maurice resumed their conversation, as if nothing had happened.

"What were we saying--about your bosses?" Pauline's head was reeling. "Tell me, how do you feel about them? Honestly."

She took a moment to get her mouth working. "I like them... or, at least, I respect them. They're good people."

"Do you like taking orders from them?"

Now, that's an odd question. She looked at him, puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Do you feel good doing as you're told, regardless of how you feel about it? Do you feel to comply is to do your job?"

Pauline was becoming increasingly confused. "Hey, I don't make the rules," she mused, silently, "I simply follow them." With a shrug, she replied, "I guess so."

Once again, Maurice seemed to change gears. "Have you experienced any--to employ a common euphemism here--inappropriate behaviour from your bosses? Threatened or potential?"

"No-o-o?" It was unclear whether the question mark in her response indicated that she was unsure of what 'inappropriate behaviour' might entail, or if it meant she was not sure if something she had experienced might have, indeed, been considered inappropriate.

Martin came bustling out of the kitchen with after-dinner drinks, and Maurice backed away from Pauline, leaving her wondering; her heart, inexplicably, racing. That was when, if it didn't exactly all come together, it became apparent that something was going on; and that that something involved her. Finally, out in the open, she realized that she was part of something bigger--something that still remained just beyond her comprehension. And, suddenly more than just curious, she took an active interest in the what and why of Maurice's continued what? Interrogation? Tutoring? Seduction of her?

Over the next short while, dinners at Martin's seemed to become more confusing; more filled with inuendo, insinuation. The stolen conversations between Maurice and Pauline changed directions likes flags in a capricious wind, yet, never failing to be cryptically suggestive. Pauline, so often, felt bemused, felt a strange sense of disquiet, after an evening in the company of Maurice. More and more, Martin's presence didn't even register.

Meanwhile, Maurice had noted, really, over the months, Pauline's consistently compliant responses to demands and commands; so, increasingly, over the next few weeks, when they met, he would find an opportunity to give her tactile praise or encouragement or notice: a playful smack on the bottom, eliciting a blush or a hint of a gasp--but no reprimand. Instead, he noted, a rather appreciative pause.

At last, at yet another dinner at Martin's, Maurice whispered, "I'd like to come and see you at your place, this coming week."

Raising her eyebrows, Pauline could only manage to squeak out, "When?"

"Wednesday. After work. Say six."

"Do you...?"

Maurice chuckled, indulgently, "Don't worry, Polly. I know exactly where you live. See you Wednesday at six." Then he turned and went into the kitchen, talking to Martin, as he went.

That Wednesday, after work, Pauline raced home, arriving just a few minutes before six. She barely had time to drop her purse in the hall and fling her jacket over a chair when the doorbell chimed. She felt her cheeks flush and her heart flutter; a school-girl giddiness washed over her as she pulled open the door. In the moment it took to catch her breath and welcome him, she thought she'd detected a slight disappointment in Maurice's eyes. "Welcome. Come on in."

"Thank you, Polly. Don't mind if I do," Maurice replied, sweeping past her. "I brought wine." He headed straight for the kitchen, and made himself right at home--locating a corkscrew and opening the wine.

Passing Pauline a glass--rich red and aromatic--then sitting down and sipping his own, he looked her up and down with such intensity that she became extremely self-conscious, and held her glass at her lips, stopping mid-sip. She looked down, at the front of her smart pant-suit, expecting maybe to see an ugly stain marring the vivid blue.

"Oh, no, my dear," Maurice chortled, apparently reading her mind. "Sit yourself down. Relax." He paused to take a sip. "Probably my fault, anyway. But...." He leaned forward, setting his glass down. "I would prefer, Polly, that you never wear trousers when we're together, or even when we might get together." Straightening up, he steepled his fingers, and concluded, "Skirts or dresses, only. Never pants or slacks."

"Really?" Then Pauline silently rationalized, "but no stranger, I suppose, than the knees-apart edict." So, she just let it go.

Over the following few weeks, Maurice more or less, organized--insisted on--further secret meetings at Pauline's. Always, "Just tea and talk."

"Innocent enough," Pauline would convince herself, although the talks always seemed to veer towards topics of control--dominance and submission--S&M. And while they mostly stayed light, they were, for a neophyte like herself, generally instructive.

"Did you know, that your skin is not only your biggest sensory organ, it is your biggest organ--period. Whereas, your most important erogenous zone lies, unseen, between your ears."

Pauline often felt those discussions with Maurice, those chats, were like the teachings of a wise mentor, passing down his wisdom in measured quanta--elucidative and illuminating. While she often struggled to understand the point of his riddles and parables, she felt flattered to be his acolyte.

"You know," Maurice began, one evening, "I'd like to take you on a journey of sorts; introduce you to a new world. A world you will, no doubt, find a little weird to start with, nonetheless, a world in which I believe you'd flourish."

"But, wha--?"

"No. I can't--I won't say any more. That might spoil it.

"While I lead you, you'll discover the name of the place--or, at least a name--for the name revealed to you will not necessarily be the same as what might be revealed to me or anyone else."

As he concluded the session, Maurice announced, "Polly, I'm assigning you some homework. I'll bet you haven't heard that phrase in a while. Nonetheless, I'm assigning some reading." Here he pulled a paperback book out of somewhere, and slid it across the table to Pauline, reciting the details as he did. "Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan. Tell me what you think, when we meet next--say, Thursday."

Maurice didn't waste any time the following Thursday. The first words out of his mouth, as she opened her door to invite him in, were, "Well? What did you think?"

Pauline blushed as she closed the door behind him and met his penetrating stare. "Fascinating," she whispered, lowering her eyes before adding, "I couldn't put it down!"

"Did you masturbate while you read it?"

Looking up at him through her lashes, she nodded, muttering, "Yesss!"

"Oh, good," he chirped. "Nothing to be ashamed of!" He, then, wandered into her kitchen in search of glasses. Calling back over his shoulder, he continued. "I'm not quite sure how much is autobiographical and how much is pure fantasy--or, more likely, it's all somewhere in-between; but, with some degree of guidance it seems, she waded inexorably into a new world, or, at least, a different world--a different lifestyle, anyway." Handing Pauline a glass of wine, he raised his and, clinking hers softly, said, "To new worlds!"

After some low-keyed discussion of the assigned reading, and another measure of cryptic tutoring, Maurice went quiet. He watched, with interest, Pauline muddle through her own thoughts and questions. As the end of the evening approached, he spoke softly to her. "Let me be your guide, Polly." Sitting up suddenly straight, Pauline looked at him, silently, with intense, enquiring eyes. Giving her a benign smile, he continued. "You'd have to trust me for the first few sessions. And that trust may be sorely stressed; but, if, after you've been fully introduced, you wished to withdraw from our adventure, you would be entirely free to do so." They contemplated one another through the long, pregnant pause that followed, until Maurice added, in a sort of stage-whisper, "I only ask that you give me a fair chance. Will you join me?" Pauline found herself slowly nodding. "Good." He clapped his hands like a self-satisfied child. "Then we'll begin in the next week or so, at my home. Just the two of us. No need to tell Martin.

"In that regard, we--you--have some 'housekeeping' to attend to first: such as postponing your wedding plans, and taking a step back from Martin--for the time being, at least. Tell him you need some time and space on your own; need to work out some personal things, before getting back to planning a wedding. Don't mention me or my involvement. Poor old Marty. This'd really hurt him if he found out, and I really am quite fond of him. Let him down gently." Then, abruptly business-like, Maurice announced, "I'll phone you the day after tomorrow with details," and he got up to leave.

And he did--he called her just after work, and arranged for her to come to his place, the following afternoon, like it was nothing special--just an opportunity to further her education. Still, Pauline recognized it was a summons more than an invitation.

And that was what led up to Pauline driving furtively into an unfamiliar neighbourhood, and fretting about her engagement ring.

Arriving before she was actually ready, she mounted the steps, tentatively, and paused at the door. At her first tap, the door was flung open and Maurice, dressed in lounging clothes and an exotic-looking silk robe, expressed no trace of surprise--even as he exuberantly welcomed her; for, of course, he'd fully expected that she would show. He had, correctly, intuited that she would be too curious not to. "Polly! So nice to see you. Glad you've decided to join me. Come on in." While she still thought of herself as Pauline, she realized that Maurice always--until much further on--addressed her and referred to her as Polly. And, for some reason, that was, now, all right.

Sitting in the parlour, sharing a glass of wine, Maurice chatted on about acceptance and paradigm shifts and the like. Pauline understood all the talk about her edification and personal development, but she, somehow, suspected that it would all end up with sex. In this, she was disappointed. In fact, earlier than she expected, she was hustled out the door, with a pleasant 'good-bye' and a date--appointment--to meet again in two days.

Pauline had trouble getting away from work, that afternoon, two days later, hence, was rushing from home, fearing she'd be late for their next meeting. In her haste, her mind a-whirl, her tummy a-flutter, Pauline simply forgot; and, so, was more or less accidentally, dressed in loose short pants, instead of a skirt. Maurice's greeting was, momentarily, cold as his eyes dropped to the offending garment. Then, before even inviting her in, in a rather falsely jocular tone, he reprimanded her for breaking the no-trousers rule: Though unvoiced, he said, unequivocally, "Isn't it rather obvious that shorts are, indeed, trousers." Pauline blushed, nodding, contrite about her foolish mistake. Apparently satisfied, Maurice stepped aside and invited her in. As she passed him, he suggested, facetiously or not, that she deserved to be spanked. That suggestion reverberated deep within Pauline's gut, unexplainably making her both warm and wet. Once settled for her 'tutorial', she sat there, distracted by her own self-consciousness--and her suddenly sodden underwear--meanwhile, her mentor continued his esoteric lecturing on the perception of reality and arbitrary definitions of right and wrong. Just as he'd wrapped up 'tonight's lecture', he abruptly changed tracks, giving voice to what sounded like a truly novel idea: "Next time we meet you might as well dispense with the undergarments--forget about underwear; bra and panties'll just get in the way."