Marcus

The clock is pointing to nine, and that means that I have been on the stool for three hours. The thin crack of light underneath the garage door is beginning to fade, but it's still mild and the humidity is building. It seems long ago that Marcus had burst angrily into the kitchen.

"Go down to the garage and wait for me there," he growled ominously.

"Should I finish the cooking?" my voice comes out as a whimper.

"Leave it!" he shot back immediately.

I was already in trouble and it would be foolish to antagonize my master any further. I have belonged to Marcus for just over three years and I both love and fear him. Intelligent, articulate, polished - he is effortlessly superior. Always poised, always ahead of the game. Marcus is in the right place at the right time, and he does not need or seek my opinion. I learned not to question him. As our relationship developed into ownership it became clear that I am only expected to follow instructions. In return, although I am far from an equal, I am part of Marcus's life. I am his cook, his cleaner, his personal shopper and gopher, his driver, his friend, his fuck buddy, his whore, and his lover. We are young and independent; we have potential. We are in an adventure in which Marcus can achieve anything. In return, well, as you know, I'm his slave. A conventional relationship would not meet Marcus's needs. A partner could not be controlled or shaped and might be unreliable with ideas of their own. I'm much more suitable, a part of his system. Marcus is not old guard, we are on first name terms as long as I do what I'm told. I must have slipped up; I'm desperately thinking back for some forgotten chore or unintended misstep.

It took about ten minutes for Marcus to join me. Visibly calmer, but his temper was still simmering.

"Strip," he commanded, "then get on the stool."

I took off my clothes as quickly as humanly possible. It would not be smart to show anything but absolute obedience at this point. Marcus pulled off the cover from the punishment stool. It had been three weeks since I had last seen it. Made of beaten and welded metal it looks industrial and, while not beautiful, it does have a utilitarian elegance. It is vaguely blue green in color, with dull rainbow bands on the strong welds. The stool has four steel legs, square tube struts. The struts are disproportionately short, making the stool seem to squat above the heavy base plate. Below the plate are wheels for repositioning.

I sit on the round seat. The cold metal on my ass produces a shiver that mixes in with my apprehension. Despite the warm air, the shiver continues. I know that nothing will happen immediately. Marcus has never punished me when he is still angry. Punishment is about learning and improvement, not revenge. But I have little doubt that there will be ample opportunity for regret. The stool is a holding position, and an uncomfortable one from my perspective. But I am glad that it gives Marcus the opportunity to think while I stew. He drops the leather restraints onto the concrete floor in front of me.

"Put them on," he said, calmly but coldly.

"Please can I ask-", I start.

"Shut up," he interrupts harshly.

I strap the restraints first to my ankles and then my wrists, snapping the padlocks shut on the locks. The task helps my nerves. Marcus checks the tightness. He pulls my ankles back, locking them to rings at the bottom of the struts. I mirror the squat of the stool with bent knees. I feel small. I look up at Marcus as he locks my wrists to the top of the struts below the seat. Then he leaves me to watch the clock.

Over the next few hours, I listen to the sounds coming from outside. At first there are cars passing with people returning home from work, then they become less frequent. An ambulance passes somewhere nearby, the siren starting and stopping for traffic. Occasionally there is some human noise, too far away to hear exactly. Life continues normally outside the garage. I try to think systematically through the day. Marcus was working in his office until mid-afternoon, everything was fine. Something must have happened during his late meeting. I can't understand what. I had crisply ironed his shirt. His shoes were polished not quite to a mirror finish, just as he liked. When he was out, I began to clean the office. I changed the flowers and scrubbed the wooden floor until it glowed in the afternoon sunshine.

The automatic garage door howls abruptly into action. I am glad for the distraction. The punishment stool is part of the punishment. After three hours my body aches with pain. The slight movement in my ankles allows me to at least change the pressure in my knees. Only my thumbs can reach the seat. By pushing up with my thumbs I can relieve a little of the numbing torture on my ass, at least until the agony in my thumbs became unbearable. I try to straighten the posture of my hunched back. This is how I pass the time. Clever ideas have become impossible, I fixate on repetitive thoughts and the temporary relocation of pain. Each second, I wish that my crime would be named so that my sentence could properly begin.

The doors are open, letting in the evening air. Outside I see the dazzling headlights of Marcus's car. In a moment of surreal confusion, I imagine that I am on a road. I suddenly feel my nakedness. I realize that the car had been missing from the garage. Engine running, the car glides inside. The headlights stop a few feet from my now blinded eyes and then extinguish. I hear the driver's door slam shut. I fight to make sense of the shapes as we plunge back into darkness for a few seconds before the jarring tick of the fluorescent lights.

I stare at the car, knowing that it must be at the heart of my trouble. I valeted the car this morning. An expensive, glossy, lustrous piece of luxury black machinery. It gleams under the hard lights as if it is taunting me. Its sleek reflections seemingly malevolent. I cared for it and it has betrayed me. I know every inch intimately and, as a professional might, I survey it in a single instant. I am drawn to the windshield. A smear has been incompletely removed by the wipers.

Marcus starts to speak.

"Bird shit," he pronounces slowly.

I know what has happened even before he said the words. I cleaned the car, but then I left it outside on the driveway all day. Marcus has a 'results matter' philosophy. Having the right intention is never an excuse. Exquisite attention to detail and meticulous execution are his way of life. Ninety percent is not enough.

"I had to drive to my meeting in a literally shitty car," he said. "Why wasn't it in the garage?"

My mind fills with something like relief, this couldn't be too serious. After all, cars have to go outside sometime. Maybe I can get away with a warning again.

"I'm sorry... I, I must have been distracted," I blurt, "I don't know why. I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"You know that you will be forgiven," Marcus replies. Something dangerous in his tone tells me that I am going to pay for my carelessness.

"Please, it won't happen again. I can make sure-", I start to ramble.

"Quiet!" Marcus halts me, "You will stay here until you have a proper answer to my question. Why wasn't the car put back in the garage?"

I quickly start to speak again but then I feel Marcus's fingers pressing into my jawline. My mouth is forced into a fish shape. The gag rams its way in, the soft leathery ball reduces my words to grunts. A black canvas bag is pulled over my head. I hear the garage door closing and then the sound of the light switch. The light filtering through the fabric of the bag is suddenly replaced by complete blackness. I hear Marcus walk into the house, leaving me alone again. I feel as if I am falling through space, the pain in my body is distorting gravity.

I start to sob. What am I supposed to say? The prospect of rehabilitation has been unfairly snatched away. I said sorry, I apologized. How could I answer through the gag? Marcus wasn't even there to listen. This is so trivial, it doesn't make any sense. I start to cry, the wails stifle through the gag alongside my rhythmic nasal snorts. I hope that someone would hear me and take pity, I am no longer afraid of the humiliation. Nobody comes.

The bag deprives me even of the clock, it is impossible to measure time. After, I guess, thirty minutes, I start to calm down. Sorrow replaces my anger. I sob a little for my predicament, but no longer out of defiance. Much later still, I hear Marcus return. The light snaps on again through the dark fabric. I move my head upwards. I can make out glints from the fluorescent tubes and the shadow of Marcus. I feel his hand rest firmly on top of my head. It is amazingly good to be touched again, linked back to humanity from my half-world.

"Do you have an answer for me?" he asks.

"Yes Sir", I am unmistakeably positive, even with the gag, and nod vigorously.

"Good boy," he replies.

The hand is taken away. I can hear footsteps. Marcus is leaving again!

"Please..." I try to stammer.

"Please?" I grunt.

The footsteps return. A whistle grows into a whine, the cattle prod. I jump with recognition. The fear of a shock courses through my body. My ears strain, the sound is placed low and to my left. The shadow is back in place. I know that Marcus is standing in front of me holding the prod leisurely in his right hand. I am instinctively quiet, all thoughts cut off by the primitive effort of calculating the threat.

"You know what that is?" Marcus asks lightly.

"Yes. Yes, Sir!" I repeat in a panic. I make sure that Marcus can understand me through the gag, nodding again more furiously without even thinking about how ridiculous I must seem. I try to catch my breath. I want Marcus to know that he doesn't have to shock me.

"Don't speak again unless I ask you a question."

I am sure that Marcus is enjoying my terror at the sound of the cattle prod. It has been conditioned into my brain, deeply trained by pain. Sometimes he appears to take a sadistic pleasure in the effect, but his delight is more in the pattern that he has implanted rather than any potential suffering. That is not to say that Marcus flinches from inflicting pain, far from it. In fact, the arrival of the prod must mean that there will soon be a demonstration. The prod itself, however, is a tool for control and not for punishment.

Marcus has not left. He is still in the garage. I hear weight plates lifting and then smashing back home in their stacks. He is using the gym equipment. Marcus grunts with effort at the end of the sets, breathing heavily. The pads of the machine creak under his weight and force. We often train together so I know this routine. Another few minutes and he will finish. I know that is when it will happen. He is going hard, burning off his brutality so that he can operate with greater precision.

I hear the last cable being pulled and returned. It is time now, I know what will happen next. The noise of the weights stops. I am afraid but also thankful. Some of the pain has gone. I can think clearly again, I understand the lesson that I am being taught. I sense the motion as Marcus drags the stool across the concrete into the middle of the garage. The hood is pulled away, light floods back into my blinking eyes. As intended, I see our forms in the gym mirror. Marcus is bare chested and magnificent. The glistening sheen of his fresh sweat sparkles like diamond. He towers expansively behind me. The innocent purity of the white gym leggings hugging Marcus's thighs contradicts his demonic appearance. In front, I am as low as his knee. I wonder if I'm hallucinating.

The gag is unbuckled. A torrent of spit plunges down my naked body. The sensation somehow confirms the reality of the situation. I am shocked by my appearance, buckled over and broken by the stool. I'm slimy with drool and stinking after hours of sweating. I can smell my piss. My face is stained with tear tracks. Snot streams from my nose. Remembering the instruction, I stay silent.

Marcus selects a whip from the wall mount. Black and thin, it slithers in his hand, a single tail snake about five feet long. He perfects his aim. The whip arcs toward whichever imaginary spot in the air he targets with familiar technique. This will be the first time that Marcus has whipped me, but I have occasionally been allowed to watch him practice after our workouts. A warning, perhaps; also, a hobby. The whip will be excruciating, but it is not a blunt instrument for Marcus. He is an expert, and it is his fine art. I watch as the whip whistles and then leaps, curls or slides back. Sometimes it seems to hang in the air momentarily before striking forward. Sometimes it seems almost out of control, its movement comprehensible to me only with hindsight. It is a part of Marcus's own physics. His body twists with the grace of a ballet dancer and the whip patters to the ground at the end of each stage of the performance. Soon, Marcus will make me dance too.

The ankle restraints are released first, and then the wrist restraints. Marcus supports me as I fall forward, enough blood flow not yet returned to my numb legs. The clock is showing midnight, I have been bent on the stool for six hours. Marcus gently helps me crawl as I collapse onto the gym mat. The hoist waits to collect my wrist restraints. The motor pulls my arms towards the ceiling and then lifts my body weight, permitting me to stand again. After a few minutes I regain some composure.

Marcus is close to my ear.

"Tell me honestly why you didn't put the car back into the garage?" he is nearly whispering.

"Because I made a mistake and let you down. I didn't pay attention to what I was doing." My words come quietly matching his lowered tone, "I am sorry that my carelessness has reflected badly on you. I am grateful for the lesson and for your patience."

"And what is the lesson?" he asks.

There is no game to play now. All ego is gone. There is no need for futile ideas of pride or embarrassment. My answer comes straight from the heart.

"That although I am your slave, we are also a team. My actions have consequences too and I need to take responsibility even if my duties are small," I reply.

"Good boy," I hear the pleasure in Marcus's voice, and my heart leaps. My tears slowly trickle again.

"You know you are going to be punished," he says.

I am not certain if this is meant as a question, but I risk a reply.

"Yes Sir," I say with commitment.

It feels like the start of a new life, I promise myself that I will never again miss a single detail. I realize that my actions are part of a larger world that I do not understand, but it is vital that I perform my role. The lesson is harsh, but it is not being given because Marcus is harsh. It is because he needs me. I feel like a speck of dust suspended in a sunray. Marcus touches my neck lightly sending a sensation of pleasure along my spine as if it had been communicated from his body. The connection is intense, I am part of Marcus now. He picks up a battered gray mask, the leather is weathered and stained by tears and sweat. It could be centuries old. Marcus carefully fits the mask over my head aligning the open beaked nose and pin prick eye holes. As he pulls the strings tighter, the leather clamps down to protect my face.

"We will begin in five minutes."

I listen to my steady breathing inside the warmth of the mask. I am calm and peaceful. The hoist pulls me up to tiptoes, I feel as if I am floating. Euphoric, happy.