In the Stacks Ch. 07

On Tuesday morning, Penny backed out of the driveway carefully, under Marilyn's watchful gaze, her beat up old Honda trailing smoke. She waved at Marilyn, and she waved back, nearly hitting a parked car on the side of the roadway and pulled into traffic.

With two interviews on her plate today, she had surprisingly little on her mind. She was feeling very calm. With that calmness, she allowed her mind to play back to the meeting last night, with all of the bondage aficionados, and then later, being strung up by Marilyn.

That memory was so blissful, so utterly peaceful, she played it over, and over in her mind. The dull, long ache of the arms being stretched, and then hung up, the uncertainty, the wait, and then the tickling from Marilyn's long, strong fingers, their knurled bones playing her body like a fine musical instrument. Penny sighed and hoped somewhere deep inside that she was giving Marilyn some sort of pleasure, but because of the old woman's naturally taciturn nature, she was unsure, and at times very unconfident.

Her first stop was at her old flat.

It was only a few scant months ago that she felt adult, and independent. She was a big girl, a woman who stood on her own two feet. She paid her own bills, and was aspiring to be a writer.

While Marilyn always encouraged her to write, and had even suggested that she tried to peck out at least two thousand words a day, she hadn't been able to come close to it, much less being able to do some of the research she had wanted to do. She'd been caught up in the whirlwind of her romance with the older woman.

Yet, was this really a romance? Marilyn had yet to tell her that she loved her, and Penny, despite herself, knew she was smitten, but was it really love? She'd had many instances of puppy love in high school, and then a couple in college, but she was an adult now, a big person. Was being tied up and held by your wrists then coming down and sucking some old woman's toes love or not?

Penny looked at the clock on the microwave and realized she had a good hour to putter around. On a wild whim, she headed back to her bedroom to see if there were any additional clothing she might need over the next week or so, and made a mental note to grab her microwave popcorn. After all, at a certain point, they would probably need to eat in.

When she opened the closet door, her thin wardrobe greeted her, and she looked carefully amongst the clothing. Mostly tattered old jeans, a few flimsy skirts, but nothing good. Nothing worthy of Marilyn certainly. Then again, if she did wear something amiss, she was more likely to get a decent spanking, and certainly, that was a heart warming thought.

She pulled up the beanbag chair in her room and sat on the floor after spying a couple of boxes she could take a few minutes and go through. One of these boxes was of great interest; it was a stack of old stories, and even a few fledgling manuscripts. She thumbed through them, and found a lot of the work was very poor.

She bit her lips.

This was discouraging, she never could be able to show these to Marilyn. She sighed and felt the cold draft of the closet airplay on her, giving her a chill.

'I'll never make it as a writer,' she thought. Her mind washed itself in waves of cold cruel doubt, and she felt very small. By living at Marilyn's, even for these few days, she still put herself in someone else's house. She wasn't on her own, she had no independence.

Was that entirely true though? Marilyn had asked her to stay.

This was all very confusing, and layers of conflict, layers of doubt, and shame started to mount in her mind. There was no way that she felt the same blissful feeling that she did before, and yet, when she thought about being strung up, when she thought about a spanking, the shame faded.

'What was the deal,' she wondered. What was it about this bondage that was so powerful? Where was it written that someone could take away all of her personal shame, all of her discouraging feelings in one easy whap. Is this what Marilyn could do to her?

She rubbed at her eyes for a moment, eyeing the box of personally rejected manuscripts. She took the top two or three, the more recent works, and decided to take them to Marilyn, and maybe just caution her about them. That would do it. She remembered that Marilyn had never been mean when it came to her reviewing. Maybe a little heavy handed with the red pencil, but not vicious.

She grabbed the teddy bear at the head of the bed as she stood, and looked at him. "Morty, old boy, I just don't know what to do some days."

Morty looked back at her with his plastic fixed eyes and she stroked his fur softly. She lay back on the bed, her legs stretched out toward each corner of it, and then her mind went back to last night. What if, she could talk Marilyn into hanging her by her feet next time? Stretching her out from both ends, yes. Now wouldn't that be incredible? Bet it would hurt like hell though, being stretched out by your own weight and all that, still, Marilyn could figure out how to do it, in a safe way.

The thought of this brought back the peacefulness of yesterday's hanging and put her back in her proper mood, and then, behind Morty she spied something else, her diary.

She snapped it open and pulled out the flat rectangular pen stuck into the spine and started to write longhand. This time, the journal was different. It wasn't about what story she was writing, or how many words she had to put down, but it was about Marilyn, and her feelings.

The last few days she poured out into the journal, scribbling madly, in her distinct copperplate. Page after page she filled, telling about Marilyn, spankings, the fire, Henry and even a short blurb about Will. These words she paid no attention to, as far as grammar and spelling were concerned, this was simply a purging of her mind, a cathartic mechanism that she had developed as a child in rural Tacoma. Her writing was peppered with passive voices, adverbs, and half-remembered quotes.

She then started to write about her base feelings, her sensations, and the helplessness. She wrote about the shame she felt when Marilyn didn't find a slip under her skirt, and then the conundrum, as she had no intention to ever buy or wear any. She took deep breaths and realized that she wanted punishment, that there was some self-loathing, and a lot of self-shame. From where though? Could this be about the low self-esteem she'd been thinking about before, or was this a reflection of her leaving college. It wasn't like she really wanted to drop out, but also she felt she was wasting her time. All school would teach her was how to be something somebody wanted her to be.

She blinked for just a moment, seeing Morty and then swallowed the saliva in her throat. That was it, pure and simple. Oh, there were tons of English classes that would help with her spelling and grammar, a few creative writing classes where she and her classmates could swap stories, but the fact of that matter was that there were no classes specifically geared to the profession that she felt called to, writing. It was a fascinating thought, really.

She knew Marilyn had once been a proper English teacher and all that, but that wasn't the life for her, no. She could find plenty of people to feed stories back and forth with, including Marilyn. She also noted that Marilyn didn't push her to go back to school, which she found interesting.

As she put the diary down, and then set Morty on top of it, she caught view of the clock radio on her bed and realized her little writing session had cost her dearly in the way of time. She grabbed the handful of manuscripts and headed off to her ten o'clock interview at the bank.

* * *

Marilyn chose her wardrobe with care today, wanting to look particularly eloquent, but paying attention to the volume of metal in it. She went against her traditional long skirt with its wide, thick buckled belt for another sundress and hat combination. Marilyn had owned perhaps three pairs of pants in her entire life. She considered herself as progressive and as liberal as they came but still liked skirts and felt that was the sort of things that a proper lady should wear.

Her shoes were slip on, and the camisole had no metal supports or anything like that. After much debating, she decided to forgo stockings and garters, fearing the metal garters would set off the detector. Once dressed she headed into the kitchen and started rooting around in an upper cupboard.

In this cupboard, Marilyn kept her candles and flashlights; she found an old box of wooden strike matches. She took one of them, and tucked it into the hem of her skirt. Quickly she touched up her makeup and grabbed her clear acrylic cane. Being transparent, she reasoned that it was more likely that they would allow her to have it. She didn't use it very much, not liking that it had a lack of flexibility in comparison with her rattan canes. Still, if she was going to be a little old lady, she must look the part.

In the bathroom, she carefully brushed her teeth, and then blotted out the extra moisture in her mouth, this lack of moisture would cause her to cough quite a bit, and make her voice sound raspy. She experimented with facial expressions, and came up with a very nice pleading look, in case the deputies gave her any trouble.

With all that in mind, she quickly sped to the Clark County Jail, missing Penny's driving already. She never really admitted to herself how much she hated driving until she got someone else to do it. Traffic was a pain, and despite her skill, and experience, driving was tiring for her. It forced her concentration.

The maze of one way streets that consisted of the downtown of Vancouver, Washington were maddening even for the experienced driver, and as she passed the Holland, she had to force herself to relax and remember the little shortcut she used last time. With calmness returning to her mind, she then took a few moments to wonder what she should say to Henry.

"Ah, you're back." The guard said.

"Yes, Officer," Marilyn said formally. "Were you able to get me on the list?"

"Actually he didn't want to do it," the officer said. "I sort of had to talk him into it; I told him said it was important that you see him, if you know what I mean."

Marilyn smiled when he winked at her, and she did her best to give him the soft tingle of a blush, "well perhaps not that important, but there is life in these old bones yet."

"You'll still need to go through the metal detector, however, and I'm not sure that we'll be allowed to let you keep the cane."

"Oh," Marilyn said, lowering her voice to little more than a bleat, "I have such a hard time walking you know, I can barely drive anymore. I should have taken the bus, but I had to see how my Henry was doing."

He ushered her through the stand up metal detector, but it still went off. She looked at her hands, and then realized what an idiot she had been; there was a large metal bangle off the one wrist. All this pretending to be a fool must have turned her into one, she surmised.

The guard took it in stride, took a small hand wand, and waved it around her hands, feet, and arms, with no difficulty, just the bangle. Marilyn held her breath the entire time, and hoped there wasn't a sniffer dog. Her only other metallic objects consisted of a couple of ballpoint pens in her purse, a metal business card holder, and her car keys, all of which they allowed through after a quick hand search.

She tottered down the hall with the guard, walking carefully with the can, deliberately laboring each step. Officer Metzger spoke, "Now you won't be able to a touch him, it's just through the telephone in a plastic booth. Not much privacy, but you can have a short chat. Twenty minutes."

"Well any time will do, I suppose," Marilyn said. She hoped there was a clock, she would have to play this just right.

Officer Metzger got her seated and she watched Henry as he was ushered through a door on the other side of the wired window. He looked beaten, and broken, and was not able to look Marilyn in the eyes as he walked toward the booth.

They handcuffed one of his hands to a ring on his side of the bench, and helped him sit down. He picked up the phone.

"Hello Marilyn," He said.

"Hello Henry," She responded. "How are you faring?"

"Um, well, it's not the pizza place, that's for sure," he tried feebly to joke.

"I'd have brought you a book, but, well you know how all that went," she said.

He couldn't help but crack a smile, and then asked, "Marilyn, is it all...gone?"

"Yes, everything. You've really done it this time," Marilyn said, goading him.

"The bad part, Marilyn, you've got to believe me. I didn't do it." He said. This was the first time his eyes met her, his doe brown, boyish grin trying to shine through, clashing horribly with the orange prison uniform.

"They found gasoline on your clothing," Marilyn said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but, I..."

"They found a gas can near where you were found, in the field."

He got quiet.

"Tell me something, Henry, when did you become such a firebug?" Marilyn said.

"Marilyn, I, I never, no..." He said.

"I really should have beaten you that night, you know. You would have liked it, wouldn't you?"

Henry licked his lips, and she watched a slight tinge of a blush creep across his face.

"You're a little subbie boy, aren't you Henry. Boffing your little mistress and then going home to the wife, letting her catch you just so that you could be yelled at. I imagine it was quite the little thrill, wasn't it Henry?"

"Marilyn, no, nothing like that," he tried to correct her.

"I know you've been wanting into my knickers for quite a while now. I imagine it was quite a slam to your ego to know I was licking out little Penny's sweet bush, now wasn't it? Let me tell you something, Henry, she's twice the person you'll ever be."

Henry swallowed, and she knew she had him in her grasp. Now to break him. She removed the match from her skirt and palmed it, showing it to him. His eyes dilated, and she saw the face of his fear and watched his breathing quicken.

"Tell me something Henry, I do need to know..." She said.

Between the fear, and the submissive state she had put him in, Henry would have sang like Diana Ross if he thought that it would help his standing with her.

"Who were you boffing all these years?"

"Ann," he said. "We started going out in high school. I never stopped loving her."

Marilyn turned it over in her mind.

"Her daughter," Marilyn said, "is yours. You helped her buy the bar. She was happy when Teresa kicked you out."

His eyes dilated, affixed on the match, and she could see the fever in them.

"Yes. I helped her build the business, and kept Lisa in enough money to go to college."

"But Theresa got jealous, didn't she? Torched the whole place. I bet she hoped to catch you in there."

"She couldn't have," Henry said. "She was at the coast. She had the travel trailer, she was gone, Marilyn. She said that I had to choose between Ann and her, and if I was back at the house when she got back, I could never see Ann again."

Marilyn nodded.

"I don't even know if she's back, I don't care. All I wanted was to go home," He said. "I made my choice, Marilyn, my wife was willing to take me back."

The corner of Marilyn's mouth rose only slightly in a smile.

"You really are a son-of-a-bitch, aren't you Henry?"

"Yes," he gasped. "I am. I know it Marilyn, you don't need to tell me."

"What will you do when you get out?"

"I don't think I will," Henry said. "I think they are going to prove me guilty, and Marilyn, I deserve it. I deserve to go to jail."

"Spineless man," Marilyn spat. She waved the match in her hand slowly. "You have no balls, you know that Henry? Men like you make women like me lesbians. You will be free whether you like it or not, and when you do, Henry, you will be forced to deal with both of the families you have made and broken. Do you understand me?"

His eyes affixed to the match, between it and the cold calculating tone of her voice caused him to sweat almost uncontrollably.

"Yes, Marilyn." He said.

She administered the coupe' de grace.

"Yes, what?" She hissed.

He looked at her with the small sense of hope in his eyes. "Yes ma'am."

"That's better, little man. I'll be keeping my eyes on you." She said. Marilyn stood, and left, leaving the match for him to stare at as she walked quietly away.

* * *

Marilyn sat on the couch with Penny, reading her stories. Penny, filled with dread, watched as Marilyn swished through the copies of them with her red pen without a care. Marilyn worked quickly and carefully, in her ruthless, hacking manner. She destroyed adverbs without a single thought, separated run-on sentences with mighty blows, and added grammar comments in the margins, scribbling in her quick, perfect, cursive script. She couldn't bear it anymore and slipped off the couch and into the kitchen.

While waiting for Marilyn's scathing report, she made popcorn, not able to watch. She sat on a stool in the breakfast bar, and waited for the popping to stop, trying to catch it at that perfect moment just prior to scorching. She sipped on the glass of wine she'd poured for herself. Marilyn had had supper waiting when she came home, Penny was very happy to tell her about her interviews, and Marilyn had nearly demanded to see her work when she made mention of the box.

"Finished," Marilyn called out setting the pen down.

Penny dropped the only mildly scorched popcorn into a large plastic bowl and set it between them on the coffee table. Marilyn was in the corner of the sectional, and the stack of red covered papers on the sofa next to her. She bit her lips and looked at the stack, then at Marilyn.

"Looks worse than it is. You always have to remember the draft rule, to loose ten percent between drafts. These just need a bit of tightening up. Ever read, 'Elements of Style?'" She asked.

"Yeah, in school. Didn't get a lot out of it," Penny said, picking up the stack.

"It's kind of a bible. Might be worth thumbing through again. Your work is solid, it really is, Penny. I think you should be submitting stories to some of the shorter romantic magazines as soon as you clean them up some."

Penny looked at her, "you mean it?"

"Oh yes. You might even Google for some information about the independent press. There is a lot of good independent press out there. Lot of people making their own magazines and that sort of thing. Lots of good epublishers looking for romantic shorts." Marilyn said.

Penny's bright eyes shone happily, "so you think I have a chance?" She asked.

"Certainly," Marilyn replied, smiling. She stretched out on the couch some, and softly beckoned Penny closer.

Penny leaned over and gently let the older woman stroke her face. Her withered hands were tender, and soft, and Penny quivered as a finger softly traced her lips. "One thing I have a question about, though," Marilyn said.

"What?" Penny said.

"All of these stories, they have men in them. I would have assumed, at some point, that would you have written some lesbian erotica." Marilyn said.

"Um, well, a lot, well almost all of this was when I was in college. I mean I thought about other women, but well, you know. You're my first." Penny said.

"Perhaps this is what makes this relationship so special for both of us," Marilyn said, petting her chest. Softly Penny lay back into Marilyn's lap, and Marilyn lowered her voice to nothing above a whisper, speaking softly into Penny's ear. "You have brought life to my old bones, girl. Life greater that I have thought possible. I had my routine, you know. Bookstore, six days a week, Thomas on Saturday mornings, and Friday nights, Chinese, Whisky, and Haiku."