The Rules

I woke early, at the sound of Jon dressing for work. I blinked to clear my bleary eyes, and risked a glance at him, his back to me, buttoning up his clean white shirt. He stood straight with characteristic poise. Although his shirt fell below his underwear, I could trace the toned muscles of his bare thighs and the lines of his calves. Even half dressed, his posture and the careful movements of his hands spoke volumes about the personality that transfixed me; precision, intention, control.

His eyes found mine in the mirror and I looked away, with a familiar touch of shame and uncertainty. My eyes fell on the bedroom chair, where he had laid out clothes for me: a cotton blouse, skirt, a matching brassiere and panties, hold-up stockings, neatly folded and arranged like a shop display. I felt a brief quirk of interest. Jon only chose my clothes when he had something special planned for me.

"Good morning," he said. His voice was soft, but never lacked his authority.

Permitted by his greeting, I met his eyes again, smiled, and murmured in reply.

"Do you have plans today?" he asked. "There's something I need you to do for me."

My smile broadened, I blinked a few more times, rousing my attention out of warm drowsiness. "I was going to meet Katje for lunch," I said. Suddenly wondering whether this was wrong, I added "but I can always reschedule if you need me to."

He knew that already, of course. He could re-order my social life as he wanted, with or without my permission. Sometimes he did, just to show that he could.

He considered this for a moment, stepping into his trousers in a series of fluid movements, swift and accurate, but never rushed. "No," he said eventually. "It will be in the morning, and it shouldn't take long."

"What would you like me to do?" I asked with a smile. That was a question with connotations, that seemed to ripple out across my waking body. Some of Jon's requests were innocuous enough, but some of them involved pushing boundaries. My boundaries.

He turned to look straight at me, fixing me which those eyes, sharp and alive and filled with fire. It was his eyes that had made me fall in love with him. "I have a colleague I owe a favour to." He said "I need you to help him out."

I sat up, studying him. His voice was casual; he might have asked me to pick up some milk on the way home. But there was something about the vagueness of the request that seemed out of place.

"What sort of help?" I asked, and regretted it immediately. Perhaps my tone had been wrong; I had intended it as a request for clarification, but hanging in the air it felt dangerously close to questioning his instruction. Questioning instruction was against The Rules.

Jon went very still, and while I knew his eyes were on me, I couldn't bear to look him in the face. I bit my lip and focussed pointedly on the bulge of my knees under the duvet.

"Just help." he said eventually. To my relief there was no sharpness in his voice, and even a touch of humour; he was apparently satisfied that I had not intended defiance. But for some reason, I couldn't control the sensation that I had been misunderstood.

"I just—" I stammered. "I just didn't want to get anything... any wrong for your..."

In a single swift movement he was beside me. He lifted my face to look him, his finger and thumb gently gripping my chin. It was the simplest of gestures, but my heart skipped a beat. The faintest scent of his handcream filled my lungs and made my head spin as if intoxicated. His smile was warm and loving, but his eyes burned with possession. "Just stick to The Rules," he said softly, "and you'll be fine."

And with that, he was gone. As I heard the catch on the door snap shut behind him, I slid down beneath the covers, letting out a long breath. Almost by instinct my hand slipped beneath my chemise. I was very wet.

The Rules had been a guiding principle from the start of our relationship. He had found me lost and purposeless, working at a café while I tried desperately to figure out what to do with an upper second class degree in Mathematics. He stood out as a customer almost without doing anything at all. Most of the patrons either treated me like an automaton, barely making eye contact, or tried to flatter me with cheap innuendos and pickup lines. I knew from the first time I served him that Jon was different, aloof and polite, but his eyes always seemed to fix on me, as if he was reading me like a book. Never derisive, never objectifying, but he somehow seemed to perceive some deep truths about me just by looking. Apart from those eyes, there was nothing to set him apart from the dozens of other customers I saw every day, but gradually he became the centre of my banal workday, which was divided between the growing anticipation of his early afternoon visit, and the grey slump to the end of my shift when he was gone. I found myself daydreaming about him when I wasn't at work. I can't even remember how I pictured his life then, I knew so little about him. But when we happened to bump into each other after a shift one day, he smiled, said hello, and asked if I'd like to join him for dinner. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, as if we were old friends. Knowing him as I do know, he almost certainly engineered that encounter, down to the last detail.

Our meal passed in a surreal haze. It was an excellent Italian a few streets away from his flat. They didn't even bring us a menu, he ordered for both of us as soon as we arrived. Perhaps I was taken aback at the time, but he was charming and warm, and somehow his choice was just right. When he invited me back to his place, I allowed myself to be led happily.

I remember vividly that first evening, standing in his living room, the decor sparse and eclectic but precisely laid out; everything specifically chosen for it's particular virtues. He sank into a comfortable leather armchair while I stood in the centre of the room. "Take off your top," he said softly. "Fold it, and place it on the coffee table." I think I paused for a moment, but the instruction seemed so natural and charming that I found I had done so without thinking. "And your skirt." I obeyed, my heart pounding at the thrill of his eyes on my bare skin. "And your underwear," he said in the same, warm tone. "Top first."

There was a long moment as I stood naked before him. I was acutely aware of every part of my body. His eyes seemed to caress my uncovered breasts, and my nipples tightened under his gaze; the curves of my belly and thighs tingled at the touch of his eyes, probing the tuft of fair hair that curled below and between. If I had envisioned this ritual, I think I would have expected myself to be acutely conscious of all of my flaws: my breasts slightly too small, my belly slighty too round, my hips slightly too fat — but in the moment I felt nothing but acceptance of his survey, content to accept his evaluation.

He hesitated a moment, perhaps the only time I have seen him do so. "If you want to be with me," he said slowly, as if breaking grave news to me. "It will be all or nothing. I am a very intense person, and there will be Rules. You are free to leave at any time, but the conditions of our relationship, as long as it lasts, will be non-negotiable."

It sounds absurd when I try to think back on it, as I found out when I tried to explain it to Katje. Almost as if we were discussing a service contract, while I stood, completely bared to him in his living room; the words a stark contrast to the pulsing, animal desire that was spreading out from the hungry, damp core at the floor of my abdomen. But somehow it felt natural, a solemn commitment made between two people who desired each other fiercely in distinct but complementary ways.

I don't remember how I responded. The next few minutes smeared into hours, and then into days and weeks of passion; fucking like dirty animals, tenderly embracing like shy teenage lovers, breaking me in to the things he liked, breaking me in to things I never knew I could like.

It must have been early on that he introduced me to The Rules. In total they formed a complex network of regulations, a strict code which governed my life. They were recorded in a small moleskine notebook, written in blue ink by Jon's neat, clear hand. I never knew whether I was the first to be given The Rules, or if he had been master to some other before me. Asking about Jon's lovelife before me is against The Rules, page seventeen. Perhaps he had developed his code on many previous women, or just a few; but at the same time it would be exactly like Jon to have written it just for me, having worked every detail of our future relationship ahead of time.

But like any good set of laws, The Rules can be boiled down to some simple guidelines. Love Jon unquestioningly. Obey Jon unquestioningly. Put no one, friend or family, before Jon. Your weekends belong to Jon. Allow no one else inside you unless Jon is there. Always wear the blue locket, as a symbol that you belong to Jon. Those six commandments are printed in block capitals on the first page of The Rules.

It was an unsettling start for the day. I worried a little bit about whether I had broken The Rules by feeling myself after Jon had left — solo masturbation is forbidden on weekdays except between 4pm and 5pm — but I decided that the quick touch had been acceptable. As it was a Tuesday, I was permitted to shower and wear underwear, so I cleaned myself carefully under the running water and put on the clothes Jon had left out for me.

The skirt was the shortest that Jon would allow me outdoors in, and I would not have chosen it for myself that day. I still had bright welts on my buttocks and thighs from the weekend's activities, and I was concerned that they would be visible through the stockings if I didn't keep the skirt perfectly straight. Perhaps that had been his intention in choosing it. He had on occasion sent me to the supermarket on a Friday — no shower, no underwear — with his cum fresh inside me, threatening with every step to trickle down my thighs. I took a deep breath and tried to put that out of my mind. The last thing I needed was to get all wet again. Roll on four o'clock.

Jon had left a note in his usual terse but precise style, indicating that I should meet his colleague at the café at the university library. It was summer, so campus was largely deserted except for the occasional cluster of international students. Jon's specification had been as precise as to note which table my mysterious contact would be sitting at; furthest from the counter, nearest the door. Perhaps it should not have disturbed me that there was only occupant in the whole library foyer when I arrived — a man, engrossed in a book, in the centre of the huddle of flimsy plastic-topped tables — but I couldn't stop an involuntary twinge of discomfort. In my head I knew that obeying each of Jons arbitrary prescriptions in detail was my own special burden and didn't extend to any of his other acquaintances, but the knowledge that Jon must surely have given this man explicit instructions which he had clearly disregarded gave me an unsettled feeling about sitting down with him; it made him seem somehow untrustworthy. For the briefest of moments I entertained the idea of turning and walking away, but at that instant he looked up, and flashed me a friendly smile. With what happened after, I might be inclined to think of it as forshadowing, but at the time I put it down to simple nerves. I felt my face flush a little with guilt at even considering such a flagrant disobedience, but I took a breath, lifted my chin, and forced my most accomodating smile, and airily picked my way to his table and slid into an uncomfortable wipe-clean seat opposite him.

He introduced himself as Phil, and engaged me in a brief exchange of pleasantries. The weather, how nice it was that the library was free of students at this time of year, a passing compliment on my appearance. I gathered he was an academic of some flavour, although I didn't pick up any specifics. I had a vague sensation of recognition, as if he had been a face around campus while I was a student. He was handsome enough, in a slightly tousled way; his smile seemed to fit comfortably in his face and he had the slightly deferential composure of an alpha geek in his element. His clothes had a kind of constructed scruffiness to them, a calico shirt and chinos. He was, I reflected, exactly the kind of person I would have naturally formed a crush on before Jon. If anything, that made me more uncomfortable.

"I've heard that you are very good," he said casually.

I wasn't sure how to respond. Good in what way? Heard from whom? I blinked for a moment, trying to form an appropriate answer. He saved me the trouble by continuing.

"So you're going to help me out today, is that right?" he said warmly.

All of me wanted to ask, as pointedly as I could, "help you with what?", but perhaps the years of following The Rules had made me reluctant to challenge. "Yes." I said simply. With my thoughts in turmoil, it came out sounding slightly feeble.

I very almost had the courage to ask about my mysterious task when he stood up with a smile, slipping his book into a battered leather satchel, and said "Come on then, let's get to it."

As a student my experience of the library extended about as far as the computer rooms, with the shelves of books little more than a backdrop to modern study methods. I rapidly gathered that the library was a lot larger than I had realised. Passing the last computer lab was like venturing into a dark forest; perhaps during term there was more activity in this area, but as we turned to walk between the shelves and were hidden from view from the communal areas, I had the abrupt sense of being completely alone with Phil.

Unexpectedly, we came to an enclosed staircase among the shelves, built into a large structural pillar. It was built flush with the bookcases, several rows from the walls, and almost seemed like it had been deliberately hidden amongst the books. A painted sign read "JOURNAL STACKS" at the top of the door. Phil pushed it open, and I flinched at the creak. The noise would probably be barely noticable back in the foyer, but amongst the crowded shelves of sound-deadening books it sounded like an explosion.

Ironically, there was some relief from the oppressive silence of the shelves in the claustrophobic stairwell, the close walls echoed our clattering footsteps as we descended.

"Have you ever been down to the stacks before?" Phil asked.

I murmured that I hadn't.

"It's amazing," he said, grinning over his shoulder. "They go four stories down, but the bottom three are closed to the public."

After the door had crashed shut behind us, we were enveloped again by the silence. The air was warm and still, rich with the scent of old paper and leather binding. I could hear the sound of my heart beating in my chest.

"Wait here a moment," he said, slipping me into a row about halfway from the stairs to what I guessed was a reading area further along.

He padded off, and I was aware of the details of his soft footfalls on the parquet flooting as they faded. I idly looked at the titles of the books, no longer the scattered mix of textbooks ordered irregularly by topic then author, but uniform rows of identically bound tomes, the collected issues of almost a century of academic journals. Annales de la société française des ingénieurs électriques et électroniques, September to November 1968. I wondered how long it had been since someone had wanted the insights of a French electrical engineer from the sixties. The thought made me suddenly feel terribly alone and forgotten.

Phil's quiet footsteps footsteps shook my from my thoughts and I looked up. He was looking down the rows as he walked, and I realised with a thrill that he had been checking that we were alone. He slipped down the row next to me, beckoning me to follow, and halfway down he turned to me. He smiled warmly. I forced a shy smile back.

"Kneel down," he said.

My eyes rose in alarm and sudden fear, not of what he might do to me — after the weekend when Jon tied me down and had four men fuck my mouth one after another, there was very little I wasn't ready for physically — but because of the words that rang in my head as if Jon were screaming them in my ears: Allow no one else inside you unless Jon is there. That included my mouth. Clarification on page 5.

"Or sit," he continued with an amiable smile, apparently oblivious to my alarm and discomfort. "If you find that more comfortable. Up to you."

"I..." I stammered, fighting the fear and the urge to submit. "I'm not... allowed to..."

His smile broadened, as if I had said something amusing. "Don't worry," he said, with a gesture of dismissal. "I know all about your rules."

He leant in very close to my ear. I could smell the musky scent of his body, the sweat of a summer day starting to overcome a morning spray of deodorant, and the faint, sour memory of his last cup of coffee on his breath. When he spoke, his voice barely more than a murmur, I could feel that breath against my cheek. "What did Jon ask you to do for me?" He asked. I couldn't do anything except stare. I had started trembling, pinned against the bookshelf by his closeness, although he wasn't quite touching me. "Did he ask you to help me out?"

I nodded, my wide eyes fixed on him.

"Did he say anything else?"

I shook my head.

"Did he say you could say no?"

He hadn't, but his vagueness on that point had unsettled me at the time, and unsettled me still. If Jon trusted this man, then I trusted him as if he were Jon himself. But did Jon trust him? I shook my head slowly, and Phil gave a satisfied smile.

"What you need to do to help me out," he explained slowly, his voice dropping even lower, and his lips so close they were almost brushing my quivering ear. "Is to kneel down, and undo the top four buttons of your blouse.

He leaned back to look at me face on. He still smiled that warm, friendly smile, but his eyes now had a hard edge of dominance to them. He expected obedience, and he was confident he would get it. He didn't have Jon's ability to see directly into me, but he certainly knew me well enough to know how and where to apply pressure, and exactly when I would break.

His smile broadened as I sank to my knees, our eyes locked together as he savoured the triumph. It might have been the change in perspective as I now looked up at him, but his smile did not seem so friendly, or so warm. It seemed hungry. Predatory. Without breaking our gaze, my hands felt instinctively for my shirt buttons, his for his button fly.

I only broke his gaze when he freed his manhood from it's constraint. He was already fully erect; as if he had drunk in my fear and reluctance, and it had aroused him. His domination over me had translated into primal, carnal, sexual excitement. His cock was level with my lips, but he held it back, as if presenting it to me in it's glory. Having worshipped at the altar of Jon, I couldn't help but compare this false idol to his, and by habit found it lacking in every way. The shaft a little to short and a little to wide, the head a little too round, the colour a little too dark, the foreskin a little too loose as he began to move his fingers, which now seemed venal and fat, in the rhythm of simulated sex.

My face twisted involuntarily in disgust and revulsion, mingled with the fear that he might lose control and force his deformed cock into my mouth. He made a noise above me, half a chuckle, half a grunt of satisfaction; my reaction had pleased him.

I was transfixed. In the oppressive stillness of the stacks, watched only by the solemn rows of leather-clad archives, it seemed like every sense was heightened. His breathing, though heavy with exertion, seemed muffled and subdued. Instead my ears were filled with the action in front of me, the gentle whisper of his hands against the skin of his shaft, the dull bump-bump-bump beating out a pulse with every stroke, and the undulating rustle of skin against the cloth of his clothes. I stared down his cock like the barrel of a gun, aimed as if by a hidden assassin through the curtains of his cotton boxer shorts. I could see only a glimpse of the curls of hair within, a hint that his genitals had the same managed scruffiness as the rest of him. And I could smell him; over everything I could smell him. How would I not, with his hard cock so close to my face? It's unique: clearly distinct from normal body odour, that wholesome manly smell that spoke of a hard day's work in the sunshine, even if it was an academics pretense of work. The smell of a man's crotch was something earthier, dirtier. However thoroughly he cleaned, there would always be that subtle scent, rotten and sweet at the same time. The smell of fucking.