The Spur Ch. 01

CHAPTER 1

You think it horrible that lust and rage

Should dance attendance upon my old age;

They were not such a plague when I was young;

What else have I to spur me into song?

W.B. Yeats. "The Spur"

JILL

"If you're trying to impress the girl," I said, "it's working." He had just ordered dinner for both of us, in Turkish.

"Oh, good," he answered. "I'd hate to waste my considerable charm on someone who wasn't paying attention."

The restaurant was spacious, with an open area in the middle without any tables, like a courtyard. There were gorgeous rugs on the walls and colorful floral-patterned tiles inlaid in the floor. Little blue-and-white evil eye amulets were everywhere.

"What are we having?" I asked. "I've never had Turkish food before."

"Patience, Grasshopper," he said. "I hope you're hungry."

"I'm starving! Lunch seems like forever ago!"

"You've been with me since lunch. How time drags."

"I didn't mean it that way!" I knew he was joking, and I could have agreed with him in a bratty way, but I wasn't ready to let my brat flag fly yet. "I'm just hungry."

Looking amused, he seemed be trying to reach a decision. He stared directly into my eyes, steadily and intently, until I began to blush with self-consciousness.

"What are you doing?" I asked, with a nervous laugh.

"I want to try a little thought experiment," he said slowly. "Are you game?"

"Maybe," I said, somewhere between coy and non-committal. "What does it involve?"

"Close your eyes," he said. I closed them.

"Good. Put your wrists together, with the palms of your hands facing each other."

Apprehensive but interested, I did as he said.

"Good again. Now, I am going to tie your wrists--first to each other, then to your waist. You will then be able neither to separate your hands, nor move them from your lap." I'd been with him all day without noticing any signs that he was carrying a length of rope, but I still felt a moment of delicious panic wash over me, my face going hot and my stomach cold.

"I'm holding a twelve-foot coil of nylon rope in my hands, and I'm folding it in half." He'd described this as a 'thought experiment,' and I didn't see how he could have been hiding twelve feet of rope on him, but with my eyes closed, I still couldn't be one hundred per cent certain yet what he was up to. But having spent four days with him in a group, and all day today just the two of us, I thought I trusted him. Besides, we were in a public place, right?

"I'm threading the ends of the rope through the loop in the middle, making a kind of lasso, which I am now sliding around your wrists. I'm wrapping it twice around your wrists so they are close together, then wrapping between your wrists to cinch off the tie. Can you feel that?"

What is he doing? I asked myself. What am I doing? As far as I could tell, he hadn't left his chair. I swallowed hard and answered,

"Mm hm."

"Don't grunt."

"Yes, I can feel it," I corrected myself, blushing and feeling as though I had misbehaved.

"You will find that you can't separate your wrists now, no matter how hard you try. Is that true?"

I tugged at the ropes I was sure he didn't have, and my wrists stayed together. "Yes, that's true," I said, smiling involuntarily. I can't believe I'm doing this in public.

"Very good." His voice was reassuring, his words slow and deliberate. "Now, there is just enough rope left over to pass it around your waist and tie it in back. You OK?" I nodded, unsure how steady my voice would be if I spoke aloud.

"Excellent. Lean forward a little, so I can reach behind you." He still didn't seem to have left his seat. "I'm afraid this knot is going to sit right up against the bare skin in the small of your back. I hope that isn't too scratchy?"

"No, it's fine.

"Can you feel my cheek against yours?"

"Yes, I can."

"Which cheek?"

"My right, your left," I said, without hesitation, certain he was still sitting in his chair.

"Excellent!" he purred, like a patient panther playing with its dinner. Of course, dinner still thinks it has a chance to escape. "You're good at this," he added.

"Are you hypnotizing me?"

"Not exactly. I'm just telling you what to do, and you're doing it."

"Why am I doing it?"

"Because you want to." I thought about that, and realized he was right. I was aching to do as he told me, wanting him to give me orders, and half-dreading it at the same time--acutely aware, suddenly, that I would do whatever he said.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No!"

"All right, then. Put your hands on the table."

"What? I can't!"

"Outstanding! One more thing, now. You ready?"

"What is it?"

"I'm going to pass a single length of rope around your arms, pinning them to your sides."

"OK," I answered, leaning forward again.

"Aren't you accommodating! OK--I'm passing the rope behind you again; can you feel my cheek against yours?"

"Yes--on the other side this time."

"That's exactly right!" His voice was warm with pride-- both, I assumed, in me for following him so closely, and in himself for leading me so masterfully. "I'm tying the two ends of the rope just below your breasts. I won't bother tightening it, because this rope isn't meant to hold you in place."

"What is it for?" I asked, intrigued.

"As long as you wear it, you must answer truthfully every question I ask you."

"What, like Wonder Woman's lasso?"

"Precisely like that. You should feel a faint crackle of energy coming from the rope, like static electricity. Feel that?"

"You're going to pump me for information again?" I asked, my voice rising a little in pitch. "Did you catch some cross-examination bug this week?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I can feel it! What are you going to ask me?"

"Here comes our food; stay as you are," he ordered. I suddenly realized that all the sounds and smells of the restaurant had completely faded from my awareness, and their sudden return made me feel vulnerable and exposed--as if everyone could see me bound and blindfolded.

"Relax; you're doing great!" he whispered to me, then said something in Turkish to the server. I forced my eyes to stay closed, listening to the sounds of our meal being arranged on the table.

"This smells amazing!" I said.

"Open your mouth." I obeyed, and a piece of bread popped in; I felt the sharp tartness of thick yogurt, and tasted a lot of fresh mint. I hadn't opened my mouth quite wide enough, and some of the yogurt clung to my upper lip. I felt his finger wipe it away, then touch my lips. I opened my mouth, and his finger slid in; closing my mouth over it, I licked the yogurt off, pulling on it a little more than was necessary. Hearing his quick intake of breath, I smiled and released his finger. Take that, smarty-pants!, I thought.

"Now," he said, "Are you ready? Remember that you must answer truthfully." I nodded decidedly. "OK."

This was the second time that day he had had me on the virtual witness stand.

We had met on Monday, in a jury deliberation room. It was a murder trial, and when an official told us we needed to pick a foreman, an older woman pointed at a tall, trim man in his mid-thirties, or so I guessed. His auburn hair was a little longer than you might have expected, and his short, well-trimmed red beard set off penetrating hazel eyes. "I nominate him," she said, and everyone in the room agreed. I don't know if anyone else knew any more than I did why we had done it; it just seemed to all of us that he ought to be in charge.

On the way out of the courthouse after the trial that morning, (we'd found the defendant guilty,) he caught up to me and asked if I'd like to step across the street to Reading Terminal Market for a cup of coffee. Startled--I hadn't been sure the whole time that he'd even noticed me--I said yes, and ten minutes later we were settled down at a table across from an Amish cheese stand with our coffees.

"So I'll bet you were in student government in high school, right?" he asked. "Decoration committees for dances? Spirit to burn?"

"Why do you ask?" I replied, caught completely off guard.

"You have a--what?--an effervescence about you," he said, leaning forward in his chair.

"An eagerness to please. It's obviously important to you that everybody has a good time."

"Is it?" I said, stalling for time. "And when did you first notice this about me?"

"Oh, right away. But I became sure when you took everybody's orders for lunch the first day. The way you smiled as you wrote on the dry-erase board, looking back over your shoulder at us, radiating that charming enthusiasm of yours. I knew for sure then that you were a gym-decorator."

"Is there anything wrong with that?" I asked, unsure how to feel, wondering if he was making fun of me.

"Heck, no! I think it's super attractive. I really do." Damn it, damn it, damn it, why must I blush? I hate that about myself!

"I was an above-it-all jerk in high school," he continued, pretending not to notice, "with the inevitable result that I didn't have much fun outside of my geeky circle. If I had it to do over again, I would have followed someone like you around."

"I find it hard to picture you being geeky."

"Really?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Well...maybe not." Feeling clumsy, I changed the subject. "So I got your attention with my effervescence?"

"That, and how incredible your legs and ass looked in those rust-colored leggings."

I laughed at that; it was cheeky of him to say it, of course, but it made me feel less under-the-microscope. A man doesn't need any unnerving insight to notice your ass.

My name is Jill; I'm five-three, with long, straight chestnut hair and light brown eyes. I smile a lot, and people tell me it's a pretty smile. I'm slender, and smaller-chested than I'd like, and that, along with the smile and my effervescence, has cute-zoned me ever since adolescence. And yes, I do have great legs. And a nice ass. Also, I was on student government, I did organize dances and pep rallies, and I am a people-pleaser.

I spent the next hour talking about myself, which is something I almost never do, but Steve had a way of just drawing it all out of me without making me feel cross-examined at all (despite what I may have claimed later.) I felt safe telling him my life story, under his gentle prompting that never crossed the line into probing or prodding. He must be a really good therapist, I thought.

When I finally ran out of things to say about myself, he suddenly leaned forward and, laying his right hand on top of my left, asked what my plans were for the rest of the day.

"Not a thing," I answered, acutely aware of his hand on mine. I worked in a university events office, and had taken this whole Friday off for jury duty, which had finished shortly after lunch.

"Good!" he said. "You can hang out with me!"

"OK!" By this time, I was completely at this man's disposal, and he knew it. "What do you want to do?"

"My favorite shop in Chinatown is two blocks from here--let's look around!"

So we walked to one of those foreign-bazaar type stores where you have to turn sideways to navigate the aisles, and every inch of space is full of incense, herbs, little clay "mudmen" to add to bonsai or miniature gardens, kites, tea supplies, and racks and racks of clothing. I tried some things on, and one in particular--a short white silk robe with a black bamboo print--looked really good on me. Steve chatted with the owner; he apparently spent a lot of time in there.

As we walked down the sidewalk, he placed his right hand on the small of my back. No one had ever done that before, and I loved it; it felt old-fashioned and protective, and just proprietary enough to make me feel desirable.

When I learned he had never seen Lost in Translation, I insisted that we take the trolley to my place in West Philly to watch it. Once inside my apartment, I poured us each a glass of chardonnay, silently thanking the wine gods that I had put it in the fridge, and excused myself to the bathroom. When I returned, I found him on one end of the couch, with his body angled toward the center and his arm stretched across the back, plainly making me a nest to curl up in. How he managed to be so forward without coming off as cocky was a mystery to me, but I was happy to accept his implied invitation to snuggle up to him, leaning back against his side as his arm came protectively around me. He stroked my forehead and ran his fingers gently up and down my arm, and, when the movie ended, planted a chaste kiss on the top of my head.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying that thick and complicated pre-intimacy that happens the first time you become physical with someone, when it feels like you're breathing ozone and time seems to have run out of gas. Suddenly, he said,

"Do you own a Little Black Dress?"

"I own two, in fact. Why do you ask?"

"Put on the one that makes you feel most sexy."

"Why?" I asked, my pussy beginning to tingle.

"Because I'm taking you to dinner, and I want to look at you in a little black dress."

"I suppose I can do that," I said, getting up off the couch and heading toward the bedroom.

"Put your hair up, too," he added.

"Yes, sir!", I answered. "Anything else?"

"I wouldn't object to a pair of strappy sandals if you have them." By this time I was in my bedroom.

"Why do all guys love strappy sandals?" I called out to the living room.

"You know perfectly well why!" he called back. (I did, too, but I wanted to hear him say it.)

"Tell me!"

"Because they make you look like slave-girls! Sexy little naked feet, all strapped down and helpless--totally erotic."

Like someone who leaps from a cliff into the ocean before they have a chance to think better of it, I asked, "Are you going to strap me down?"

"It's a matter of when, not if." he replied matter-of-factly.

Who is this strange woman, who looks like me, rummaging through my closet? I thought. I was never this brazen, ever.

I chose the halter-top LBD, because small boobs--but also because it had a diamond-shaped cut-out in the small of my back, right where he had put his hand before. I relished the idea of his warm hand on my bare skin.

After removing my bra, putting on a cute pair of black boyshorts and slipping into the dress, I put my hair up, strapped on my slave-girl sandals, checked myself in the mirror, put on a little mascara and lip gloss, and returned to the living room. Steve hastily pocketed his phone, then looked at me. To my delight, his mouth went slack, and I'm pretty sure I saw his pupils dilate.

"Wow!" he breathed, making a twirling motion in the air with his finger. Flattered, I gratified his sexist demand.

"Holy smoke, lady," he said at last. "You are seriously pretty; I can't be seen with you!"

"What? Why not?"

"People will assume I kidnapped you. 'Blink twice if you are being held against your will'."

"Yes, please!", I chirped, standing inches from him and looking almost straight up into his face with all the cute I could muster. Put your arms around me, doofus; you know I want you to! I know you know!

But instead, he said, "Shall we?", smiling and gesturing toward the door. I grabbed my clutch, locked up, and we stepped out into the warm evening.

"I hope you don't mind a bit of a walk," he said, putting his hand on the small of my back. "Not at all!" I answered.

"Open," he said again, and there I was, blind and bound in a restaurant full of strangers who couldn't see the rope around my wrists, feasting on food I also couldn't see, fed to me by a man I hardly knew, but was beginning to seriously want.

I felt him slide in a forkful of buttery rice, almonds and--currants? raisins? I tasted cinnamon, saffron and parsley. My blindness made the subtle flavors vivid and the aromas penetrating. Something gave off a strong, licoricey smell, and I caught the scents of lemon and garlic. I heard him put down the fork.

"I'm going to give you a drink now. Be sure to breathe out through your nose while you sip this."

Apprehensive, I waited until I felt the glass touch my lip, then opened my mouth while exhaling through my nose. The precaution wasn't enough. A tsunami of anise spirit seemed to engulf my whole head. Fighting the urge to open my eyes, I gulped down the botanical chemical weapon.

"What is that?" I asked, when I had caught my breath.

"Truth serum" he said, laughing. "To supplement the lasso."

"OK, but what else is it?"

"Raki," he said. "Like ouzo, but it plays rougher."

"Holy shit! I think it pulled my hair!" With my eyes closed, I was less self-conscious about just saying whatever popped into my head.

"You OK?" he asked, still laughing.

I nodded. "I'm ready now," I said, composing myself. "Ask me your questions, I am not afraid!"

"A Python reference! You're testing to see if I really was a geek once, aren't you?"

"Is that your first question?" The brat is strong with this one.

"No, smart-ass. Are you going to keep being dilatory?"

"No, Sir," I replied. "I'm all business. Promise." This is fun, I couldn't help thinking. Even if it is a little weird. Points for creativity.

"First question, then: when did you first realize you were submissive?"

My brain lurched sideways. Stop blushing, damn it! Stop! I took a deep breath, gathering my courage and my thoughts.

"I think I knew when I was still a child. We had a set of Walt Disney picture books, and there was a picture of some villain who had kidnapped two kids and tied them up, and I stared at it until the spine cracked right at that page. When I played pretend games with other kids, I'd always find a way to be caught or captured. I'd watch reruns of Charlie's Angel's, and imagine I was whichever one got tied up or handcuffed or held hostage."

"Interesting," he answered. "When I was in college--a Catholic college--a surprising number of girls liked to be tied up or enact force fantasies; I assumed it was so they could have sex without feeling guilty. Open." I obeyed and got a mouthful of artichokes in lemon-and-olive-oil dressing.

"I never felt guilty about sex," I said eventually, "but I always liked being dominated."

"Why's that?"

I'd never had to put it into words before, so I had to think about it. At last I said,

"I love the feeling of putting myself completely into someone else's hands. I love trusting someone with my safety while still being a little apprehensive about what he might do to me."

"But you can always stop if things get too intense, right?"

"Well, yes, of course. But I like to set it and forget it as much as I can."

"How do you mean?" Again, I needed to think about my answer.

"A safeword," I said at last, "is like the carabiner that a bungee cord is anchored to; it allows me to plunge in with more abandon than I could if I didn't know it was there, keeping me safe. But still, I love turning over my power to someone as completely as possible, making myself his responsibility. It's incredibly exciting when it goes well."

"Which it doesn't, always?"

"No!" I laughed. "Definitely not! Once I was having sex with this guy in a clearing in a wooded area that we thought was public property. We found out it wasn't when a cop showed up and caught us in the act, completely naked, me riding the guy with my wrists tied behind my neck, the rope anchored around my ribcage under my tits and my elbows pointing straight up in the air. I don't think I could possibly have been more helplessly exposed. I thought I would die!"

"Well," he said, laughing again, "If you're going to be completely on display, it might as well be in a flattering position!"

"Are you saying I have small breasts?"

"I'm asking the questions! You keep forgetting."

"Sorry!" I said, with exaggerated humility.

"And I like your breasts. But what happened with the cop?"