The English Cellar

That was precisely how he did it. I felt two light taps, which would have been almost pleasant if I had not been so afraid. Yet they gave me the time to prepare myself. Indeed, I mustered up all the courage that this hard life demands of us, bit down on the pillow and waited. The stroke ripped through the air and landed forcefully on my buttocks. For a moment I felt nothing. Absence of any kind of sensation, a void. A brief waiting time, on the threshold between surprise and disappointment. Then the pain came, like a knife. I groaned into the pillow and started my dance. I squirmed around like a baby snake whose tail had been crushed. I could not stop it, the move was an act of reflex and animal instinct. I turned and turned and the fire would not go away.

The Elder hurried downstairs as soon as he caned me, without indulging in an observation of the vulgar dance of my body, leaving me on my own to deal with the thing I had consented to, the thing that I had asked for, in effect. He went down to the cellar, put the cane back in its place and then came back upstairs.

He found me rubbing my buttocks with the palms of my hands. I had already recovered, it does not take longer than a minute after all. I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. A clearly formed black line adorned my buttocks, spreading at the edges like black and red paint on white paper. In the center of that rainbow that had appeared on my body, a few drops of blood had emerged. I immediately applied some of the antiseptic cream I had bought that morning and I felt relieved at once because I had elected to buy a cream containing a little pain killer. I am a very funny masochist..

"Thank you," I said, being the trained girl that I am and the Elder simply nodded, as if he were saying, "I just did what I had to do," which was true, to some extent.

"Strokes which are token show contempt for the slave," he said, "they are patronizing. A light stroke would have been condescending. The stroke must be truly painful, if we really respect the slave."

I understood only too well. I had already stopped paying attention to details and started focusing on the dynamics of this relationship, which had miraculously started working. There was respect and approval, care and acceptance, understanding and knowledge, even the beginning of a kind tenderness.

At night, despite the fact that I was stiff, I slept on the floor again, in the attic. This time I slept much better. I had found my position and I was just fine there, protected.

Thus my stay there continued. I quickly got used to the clutter of things, the musty smell, the Elder's silence, the indifferent programs on TV, the pies with sausage or pork, the warm beer, the daily theft of ketchup, the rides on double-decker buses, the offer of thanks to the bus driver. I spent my mornings in the attic, either in the slave quarters, reading the Elder's books, or in the adjacent room, the computer room, working on the BDSM novel the Elder had written, which was a sadistic masterpiece. He wanted me to add the female touch to his book, as well as some sex scenes, which the publisher had requested, so that we would publish it together. I told him I could not accept such a big gift, the book was his and only his, but he insisted, saying we could write a whole series of books of this type and that I could write the greatest part for the next one. So I accepted, thanking him.

One day, we went to Knaresborough, a beautiful city built in the 11th century on the river Nidd. We followed the same route by train that had taken us to York, called Harrogate Line. It was a sunny day. I really liked the little shops in the city square, from which I bought some gifts for my children and for my friends and a lovely black velvet vest for me. Then we went down to the river and rented a boat with oars. The Elder would not let me hold the oars even for a second, though I really like rowing. He let me nevertheless take care of the steering. He would not look at the progress of the boat, keeping his back turned to our route and rowing with great confidence that I would not crash the boat on the river banks or on other boats. He was wearing the white Panama hat with the yellow patches and a pair of sunglasses that were really old and very mysterious, with the lettering "made in USA" in the front. The river Nidd was not cold at all; a bit further down the river, some kids were playing in the shallow water with the mud. Ducks were swimming here and there, looking beautiful. I relaxed back, taking photos.

"You are like the old man and the sea by Hemingway," I said to the Elder and he laughed. Well, I will be damned, he laughs too, I thought. He had also relaxed, that much was obvious, he was finally having a good time. I don't know why. Everything was as it should be. We went under the bridge looking idly at the numerous cafes and pubs and restaurants on the left bank of the river.

When we left the boat, we walked on foot up to the Castle; the view was breathtaking. But we were tired and both very hungry. I suggested we have fish and chips. We went downhill to the center of the town and found a quiet restaurant and had the best fish and chips of our lives, we both said as much. The Elder managed to steal some ketchup and he was very content indeed.

That same night we tried for two strokes of the cane. I lay down on the bed again, naked, as I usually went about naked in the house. I had gotten used to my nudity and the Elder did not stare at all, nor did he avoid looking at me, it was just natural to be naked in front of him. First I asked him to warm up my buttocks a little bit, which I soon regretted. This was no warm-up, this was a proper whipping, with the full force of his two hands. Afterwards, however, I was grateful he had given me the whipping, because it had really prepared me. The two strokes of the cane that followed were two extremely forceful strokes that made my heart stop as well as my breath. It was awful. I simply wanted to die. As soon as the squirming stopped, to which I surrendered with the usual desperation of the baby snake, I got up and looked in the mirror. Two perfectly straight black lines had appeared on my buttocks, combined with the first one that had been imprinted on then a few days before. I applied some antiseptic cream and went to sleep.

The day of my departure was approaching. I had to take my decisions. Would I return to Greece without doing what I had come to do? Was that possible?

Three days before I left, I told him I would like to go down to the cellar with him and that I would try to receive the usual amount of strokes, which was six. He said that we would do it the following day, but it would have to be carried out at lunchtime, while there was still daylight.

My heart kept beating a bit too fast for the rest of that day and for the following half, until lunchtime. I am ready to bet that this waiting period of one day and a half was intended to cause precisely that slightly fast heartbeat. The next day, which was Sunday, we had our breakfast a bit late, at about 12 o' clock. It was a brunch, the large Sunday breakfast. The Elder said I had to eat beforehand because I would need my strength, since I would not be able to eat afterwards. He also said that by the time we went down to the cellar I should have already digested, so as not to throw up.

I went up to the slave quarters, lay down for a couple of hours and meditated. I thought about who I was, what I was, how I had started on that journey, how I had got there, who had handled me up until then, how much strength some people had given me, how much I had been hurt by others, how some people had wasted my time. I thought of those whom I had hurt inadvertently and those to whom I did not manage to give enough. I though of some who got rid of me after taking what they wanted and some others who still stand by me. I thought of my kids and all the hardship we went through and how we managed to get by. I wondered if I was a good example to them, with all those obsessions of mine and with all my persistence and stubbornness. I decided that yes. I did all my calculations one more time, my accounts came out fine, I smiled and got up. I was ready. I was stronger than my fear. I would do what I could not do.

I went downstairs. The Elder was watching a stupid program on TV, as he did at that time every day. He got up as soon as he saw me and started looking through the drawers in the wardrobe in the hallway for the stretch pants that I had mailed to him. He could not find them. He said that probably Timothy had taken them. Who the fuck is Timothy, I asked. Timothy, he said, was the ghost of a little boy who lived in the house. He had brought a psychic once to look through the house and she had told him about the little boy, there could be no doubt. Indeed. Stay calm, I thought, keep cool.

I could put on my black overalls, I said. This was accepted. I went back upstairs, to my old room, where I kept my suitcase and put on the black overalls. I took my blindfold out of the red case, as I did not the Elder to use a filthy piece of cloth, which he was capable of doing. I was already wearing the leather wristbands.

I went downstairs and saw he had unlocked the cellar door. Let's go.

He blindfolded me, tied the wristbands between them with a metal ring and holding me by my tied hands, he led me down the stairs of the cellar. I was afraid I might fall down, the stairs were really steep. I descended awfully slowly, as I could see very little below the blindfold, because I was not wearing my contact lenses. I tried to spot any nasty smells, decomposing bodies and such, but I could smell nothing. It was a very clean cellar and if I judge by the fragments of the floor, which I could see under the blindfold, it was much cleaner than the rest of the house.

We descended the staircase and reached a plateau. There we stopped and he pulled me by my hands to the left, leading me to a smaller basement room, where he had placed the ladder for the caning. He had me go up the first three steps, out of a total of five, lean forward, placing my belly on the top of the ladder, which was flat, and for which he provided a cushion to prevent me from getting hurt. The rest of my body was hanging forward. He tied my legs onto the back part of the ladder and my hands to the front part.

I could feel in me the waves of fear secreting their adrenaline in floods. Adrenaline is not a bad deal at all, in similar situations. The substate was a certainty, had been a certainty since the previous day, when the waiting period had begun. However, these relationships are much more enjoyable when total trust has already been established. Otherwise, it is like sawing on the branch you are sitting on. With one eye you supervise the sawing and with the other way you look at the ground, where you will shortly land. Total surrender in a state of total trust is completely different. You just float in the pleasure of absolute loss of control. There is no branch, no saw, no tree, nothing. Free fall...the best sensation ever.

But I was scared and I was being cautious. I had chosen "red" as a safeword, since I did not yet possess the total trust of a slave and "yellow" as the word which would buy me some time in order to regain my composure, if I lost it.

The Elder took a jug of water and spilled it on my bottom, soaking the overalls. I was just hanging there, as if I had pissed in my pants. "Oh, no," I mumbled. Since I was going to hurt anyway, why did he want me to hurt more?

I felt him position himself; his hands level with my buttocks. I felt the cane caress me two times, then heard it rising behind his shoulder and ripping the air. It hit me right on the base of the buttocks and the beginning of the hips. The pain came a few seconds later, as always. I did not shriek much. I was taking little breaths, just as I did when I gave birth, many years ago. This was a birth too. I was giving birth to my own pain, I was giving birth to my endurance, to my future, to the relationship. I was giving birth to my new self. Would I be the same afterwards? Certainly not. We are never the same afterwards, not when we have faced our fears, not when we have witnessed our darkest desire in all of its grandeur. There is no going back in these journeys. That is the price we have to pay. We can never go back.

He hit me a second time and I continued to be born in unbearable pain. I thought I would stop breathing. Fear was mingling with pain now, the secretion of endorphins had probably begun. Together with the adrenaline, they were forming a strong cocktail in my mind, which paralyzed me.

"I can't, I can't," I mumbled.

"Yellow?" asked the Elder, who was much more experienced than me in such matters.

"Yes, yellow", I said, "yellow. Please, yellow."

"I will be back in a minute," he said and he left. I heard him go upstairs and then nothing. I was all alone, tied up on the ladder.

I waited until my breathing had found its rhythm. I knew I had calmed down when I stopped listening to that awful panting in the cellar and the perfect stillness had been restored. But the Elder was taking his time. So I had all the time in the world to ponder on my predicament. I was a Greek girl who had traveled 2000 kilometers in order to be tied up on a wooden ladder, in the cellar of a strange Englishman, who was offering her, with spectacular equanimity and ritualistic detail, extremely large quantities of pain. I had done my part, I had come here, I had overcome my hesitation, my doubts, my fear and I had allowed myself to accept his gift of violence. Now he was doing his part. And he was doing it well, he knew how to do it. Nothing else mattered.

I heard his steps descending the stairs. I felt him standing next to me.

"Are you alright?"

I nodded.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir," I whimpered and braced myself.

The third stroke landed on my buttocks and it was the hardest of them all. I could not hold back the scream.

My brain stopped. What was the safeword? What was the fucking safeword? We had just said it, a moment ago. I lost my mind for a second. I was going to die. I was surely going to die. I had forgotten the safeword.

Then..."Red, red, red", I blurted. Yes, I said the word. I was done. Three strokes was my limit.

"Poor girl," whispered the Elder as he bent over to untie me.

I was crushed by the weight of those two words, uttered by a man who had probably never felt pity for any woman. I wanted to turn back time and undo my moment of weakness, take back that pathetic "red". But I could not. The words we had said still echoed in the silence of the cellar; they would remain there, suspended in time, in that moment of human defeat. They would be part of my past for ever.

Is your name D? Yes, I am D. And I am so inadequate...

He led me upstairs blindfolded, just like before, pulling me by the wristbands. When we got out of the cellar, he removed the blindfold. My hands were shaking and I showed them to him.

"See how my hands...," I started.

"Sshhh...don't talk," he said. "Go upstairs and lie down in your quarters. Rest as long as you want and come down when it is over."

I obeyed and went upstairs. I lay down in my place in the attic and was lost. It was very nice there, very quiet. I wanted to sleep but I could not, my eyes were wide open. I looked around me without seeing anything, I looked at my hands and at the bricks and at the bookshelves and saw nothing. I was looking without seeing, I just lay there. I felt my body burning and I lay on my side to stop it burning so much.

When I felt that what had happened to me had nothing more to offer me, I went downstairs. I found the Elder in front of the TV, watching a silly program, with his usual equanimity.

"Thank you Sir," I said.

He nodded, accepting my expression of gratitude. He had done his part and that was that. He did not need to say anything. We could at last talk without having to talk.

Two days later I returned to Greece. On the return flight, as the air-hostesses tried to peddle their merchandise, I thought about everything that had happened in those two weeks. I had made contact with a good man and I had collected some beautiful memories. I had found a place, even if it were so far away, where I would be able to return any time I wanted and recover from the disappointment and bitterness served to me by life. Most importantly, I had found the courage to descend a few more steps into the heart of darkness, the darkness that dwells within. Even if I had not managed to experience British discipline in its entirety.

Perhaps next time.

Perhaps soon I will manage to stop sawing the branch I am sitting on. Perhaps soon I will find myself in free fall, perhaps soon I will be free. Whether this should happen with the Elder or with someone else, I don't know. I only know I will get there.

Why not? Who is going to stop me?