Of Chloe, Bondage and Booksellers (Closed, but please read and enjoy!)

[mgetzhoff]

Chloe stood in front of the little bookstore. It was a quiet place, sunk nearly four feet below the street level with a little flight of stairs leading to the dark wood door. The building, just like all the others crowded into this city block, was of faded red brick.

Inside, lit by the morning sun and the old-fashioned lightshades, Chloe could make out the back of a long, spare man. He was stacking books on the counter, seeming to put them in some sort of order. This must be Sherman. He turned to stack books on the counter under the window and looked out the window. Chloe watched him for a moment, and then he seemed to focus on her, looking at her through his glasses.

She remembered how Estelle had gotten her to come here.

* * * * *

"Chloe! Are you even listening to me?!"

Chloe looked over the edge of the wineglass that she held, took one last, lingering sniff of the rich red wine, then lowered the glass and looked up at her friend.

"Estelle, I'm sorry."

"Why the faraway the eyes? You've been withdrawn for weeks now, but tonight is terrible!" Estelle paused, seemed to try to deicde what to say, then asked, "Is it that man you've been seeing, what's his name?"

"No, it's not him. Not anymore, and I'm not sure that it ever was him. I mean, there was nothing wrong with him. He was just, well . . . not doing it for me."

"Let me guess," Estelle said, rolling her eyes, "Dancing, romance, then the fights! I know how you like your men, Chloe. Intense, passionate, but then they always make these ridiculous scenes that you hate."

"I know, I know. I really tried to stop that. This last man, I tried so hard to choose someone calm and stable. And he was. And I was bored. I didn't feel that he wanted me, desired me. I know that he did. He bought lingerie for me, nice lingerie that he had clearly thought seeing me in and taking me out of, but I never actually FELT desired. It was me. Not him. I hate this, that I can't seem to feel anything."

Chloe paused, and took another sip of wine. Her brown eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Estelle wateched her with sympathy and waited. Chloe was like that. She would hide her feelings under chatter and anecdotes, but if you waited long enough, quietly enough, sooner or later she would talk about what was really happening inside her.

Chloe looked off into the distance fingers winding through her short, dark curls. "I look for the passionate men because I want them to make passionate love to me. I don't seem to feel anything when I have sex. I keep choosing the men with those really strong emotions hoping that I will feel some passion in myself. And then I want them to do more to me, but I'm afraid of what they might do to me if I actually got what I want. Am I making any sense?"

"Are you telling me that you want a man to rape you?"

"No," Chloe said, shaking her head, "I think that I want to be held down, tied down, and made love to. Then, maybe I can let go and feel. But there are all kinds of freaks out there. I don't feel like I could trust anyone to do what I think I want. Besides, what if I find out I don't like it?"

Estelle thought for a moment, then went searching through a desk that stood nearby. After a minute or so of searching, she brought a receipt to the table where the two women had been sitting.

"This," Estelle said, "is the information about an odd little bookstore. They have a simply amazing selection of, how shall I say, esoteric books. The owner is a man named Sherman, and he knows precisely what is in each of the books that he sells. He has excellent judgement and taste. I want you to see him and ask him about some books that explain what bondage is about. Maybe then you'll have some understanding of what you're feeling or not feeling."

That conversation was four days old. Now, Chloe stood in front of the bookstore looking at the phantom reflection of her milky skin in the window, the man looking back at her and tried to gather the courage to go inside.

 

[patrick1]

sherman

'I don't bite you know.'

She jumps. Didn't she see him emerging from the basement shop? Was she hypnotised by her own reflection? Or perhaps it's his English accent that's startled her.

'Chloe, isn't it?'

Her mouth curls up to the right. How strange that the slight distortion of a woman's features can make her more handsome. 'Estelle told you about me.'

'A secret,' he says wryly, 'is something you only tell one other person. Come inside. Have some mint tea. Take a look around.'

She follows him inside and he leaves her to mooch among the erotica. When the mint tea's ready, a few minutes later, she's amongst the paperback stories. HAREM SLAVE. PRISONER OF CASTLE SAUVAGE. Those tales with lurid covers that never quite take themselves seriously, where impossibly beautiful women learn their supposedly true natures at the hands of dangerous, but oddly sympathetic men. He offers her sugar, and leaves her again when she declines, to sip her tea, and leaf through his volumes.

She sorties into harsher words: de Sade, and his descendants. He watches her as, open-mouthed, she's entrapped - enraptured? horrified? - by a section of Justine.

Hurrying on, she lingers, then, in self-help, The Loving Dominant and its ilk, but that's on her way to the bookseller's desk.

'Do sit down. Tell me a little of what brings you here.'

Her brown eyes seem uneasy at looking into his. She keeps running her hands through her short dark hair as she tells him, circumspectly, a little of what has brought her here; things he's mostly surmised from Estelle. He finds himself surprised by more than a wish to help her; he feels desire. She's at the beginning of a journey. Perhaps he can accompany her some of the way. Or perhaps he's the perennial male, drawn to the virgin in her.

'Let me make you an offer, Chloe. Here, may I?' Her right hand seems small in the clutch of his long, thin hands across the old desk. She looks him in the eyes now and doesn't turn away. He goes on: 'My books are plentiful. I advise you to read one novel, and one non-fiction guide to the matters you are interested in. But I also offer you this. Myself, and my experience. I have the gift of words. My own, and others'. I should like you to write to me.'

She opens her mouth to speak but he puts his right forefinger to his lips before taking hold of her hands again. 'Write to me of yourself. Of your dreams. Of,' and he lowers his voice, 'of binding, and desire. And when I receive that, I shall send you, at the same time, an invitation to my room.'

He gestures to the back of the shop, to the PRIVATE sign. His voice has become little more than a whisper. 'Let us make an appointment now. Give me two hours of your time. Honour me with your trust. Estelle will, I hope, vouch for me. I shall only do things you explicitly say you wish to happen. You will be bound, and given pleasure. There is no question of money: you will satisfy my fantasies, and I will attempt to satisfy yours. And if we please each other, we shall write again, and then I shall invite you again, and...who knows? Well: do you accept my offer?'

He sighs, and smiles, and squeezes her hand before letting go. Her eyes look down. He waits. The cheap little alarm clock perched on his pile of receipts seems to tick more loudly, as she clears her throat, and begins to speak:

 

[mgetzhoff]

Chloe

"I'm not sure, I mean, I don't even know you." Chloe runs her hands through her hair again, more nervous than when she had first entered the bookstore. This Sherman seems nice, no that's too shallow a description of this man, perhaps kind, maybe even trustworthy. Unfortunately, her judgement about what kind of man would be good for her has been nothing to write home about for the last several years. But she doesn't want to leave, she has found someone willing to talk to frankly about the things that she can barely think about without embarassment. She temporizes, "I will write to you, if I may? I can't quite think about the rest of your offer, but I would like to write to you."

Sherman smiles kindly at Chloe, a kind of paternal smile, or perhaps one of a teacher to a new student, and hands her a card with his e-mail address on it.

"Write to me soon. I would very much like to know your thoughts."

* * * * * *

Chloe sits in front of her computer monitor and tries to write. She can't quite sit still. She jumps up and closes the curtains, as though someone could actually read her monitor at this angle from across the street! Then she gets up for a glass of water. Then another trip to the bathroom.

Finally she writes:



Dear Sherman,

I am frightened to write this, but I will do my best to express my feelings about the desires that I feel. I am embarassed of my desires. So much of society seems to be dead set against any attempts to leave the world of plain sex with our only choice being which of two positions to use.

I long to be held down, tied down, and teased to the point of climax, again and again, without actually having release. I wish to be required to perform tasks, such as undressing the man tormenting me, and be rewarded with more teasing. I wish to be made to beg for my release.

I am a strong woman, forthright, even brilliant. I have power and position in my work, and a salary that allows me a wonderfully comfortable lifestyle. Allowing myself to be tied up seems the anti-thesis of my professional life. Do you understand why this duality exists? Could you explain it to me?

In confusion,

Chloe

Hesitantly, Chloe clicks the send button, and wonders what will happen now.

 

[patrick1]

sherman

Chloe

I do not claim to understand the duality for which you seek an explanation. I only know it is more usual than is generally supposed. I myself am known, to those who are well-acquainted with me, as one of the gentlest men on earth. Yet I have the greatest desire to take power over a woman, to torment, to bind, to make her suffer. Sometimes, perhaps, our profoundest urges take us in one direction, and urges almost equally profound take us in the opposite, as some sort of compensation. Or something patterns us in childhood or adolescence and casts a shadow across the adult self. We can only try to keep these contradictory pushes and pulls in some kind of tenuous balance.

We do want to be 'rational' beings much of the time, though, and I for one am greatly for the application of logic in seeking knowledge of the world. But we can't impose rationality on our teeming emotions. We can only take care that, when we want to express our feelings in such a way that we expose ourselves to danger, there is an extent to which we remain rational. I mean, in this connection, Chloe, that you should always seek a partner who undertakes to be safe, sane and consensual in what they do. And you should always think twice before you leap. But once you leap, don't apologise for it, or try suddenly to cling to a passing tree as you dive into the unknown.

I'm not sure if there's anything else I know that might help you. If there is, I believe it would be in my actions, my words to you in person, the touch of my fingers. Would you like to place yourself in my hands for two hours, on a safe, sane and consensual basis, in my PRIVATE room? If so, phone or e-mail me. I would recommend that if you do that, or have any other encounter with a stranger, then you tell Estelle - or someone else you trust - what you're doing, and make clear to the person you're meeting that someone else knows you're there, and who you're with.

If for now you would simply like a further conversation in the bookshop over a cup of mint tea, why, I love visitors, especially strong and brilliant women like you who want to talk about a subject close to my heart!

With affection,

Sherman

 

[mgetzhoff]

Dear Sherman,

Thank you so much for your reply. To hear from you makes me feel less alone in the world.

I am not yet ready to meet you in your private room, but perhaps for tea. In a little while. I would like to send letters to you for a time, first. To find my courage.

I read the books that I bought at your bookstore and I feel like I have developed a new pair of eyes. I have colleagues, older, male colleagues, who have had female personal assistants with them from a time when such women were called secretaries. Some of these pairs have been together for decades and now I see these people differently. I had in the past seen them as relects of an older, more unfair, era. Now I see them as Dominant and Submissive, with a delicate balance of power always flowing between them.

All the relationships that I see now, seem to have some element of alpha and beta between them. Three days ago, I saw them as simply people with their own quirks and ways of being. Now, I see that there is some sense of the way that they organize themselves.

The duality which I wrote of before is truly coming home to me as well as an understanding of why I have never found a man who satisfies me. I have spent today watching my own body language and seen a cooly dominant woman placidly reigning over her domain. This is necessary to my job and position, but will never attract the kind of man who will satisfy my hidden need to be . . . well, I'm not sure what. Or I won't admit it to myself.

I think that I will try to write the only portion of the only bondage fantasy that I can seem to have before I stop myself in fear and shame.

I am alone with my lover, sitting on his couch, leaning back against him. We are idly caressing when my bracelet gets caught in the fabric behind me. He doesn't try to free me, just continues to run his hand along the arm that is trapped. When I ask for help releasing myself, he gently shushes me. Then he take my other hand and traps it under him. Continuing his shushing, he begins to run his hands over my breasts, cupping and caressing. Then, as I calm, he begins running his thumbs in slow circles around my nipples, occassionally flicking one of them. As I grow excited, he becomes more agressive, pinching my nipples, over and over, each time with more strength, until I moan and begin to plead for yet more. Somehow, my hands have become fastened behind me, and he orders me to unfasten his belt. As I do, he pulls my nipples up and away from my body, and all I can do is moan. He taunts me, telling me that I MUST unfasten his pants, now.

This is the point where I usually am too embarassed to continue. Does this tell you anything about what and who I am? And what I need?

In confusion,

Chloe

 

[patrick1]

I didn't quite know how to reply to the letter Chloe sent. Power is a subtle quality; she is unaware that it gathers around her, like an aura. Now she is discovering this, and discovering too, that there is a profound sense in which a desire for powerlessness has seized her, and won't let go.

Writing in the first person? Yes, yes, I pretended that I wasn't Sherman, when this began. It's a thing I often do, to place events at a distance from me. I should like to watch myself, watching her. But something about her shy frankness has brought me out of my shell.

I just began a letter to her, today, this very sun-slant afternoon, when I thought I saw her pass by. She hesitated, then walked on. I went out, without particular speed - there was a young man over in Bondage about whom I had my suspicions - and she seemed to be walking back towards the shop, until she saw me. Then she turned back, and went on her way. What am I to say?

Dear Chloe

If you do not make the existential leap through your embarrassment, you won't suffer a sense of failure, or shame, or horror, or whatever it is you fear - and you can guarantee that you will never enjoy the sense of self-surrender, adventure and joy that might attend the experience.

So here is my first recommendation: decide whether you truly want to do this. If you do decide that you do, remind yourself, when the feelings of embarrassment or shame threaten to overcome you, of your resolution.

In the same way, if you don't talk about your feelings, then silence will hang like a cloud over your days. But it may be that you prefer such a cloud, to the dangers of the storm that might greet the truth about your feelings. Only you can decide.

While I am someone who has made the leap, I know it isn't for everyone. Come and chat to me, if you like. Experiment with me, if you think a willing partner will help.

If you want, for the present, to remain simply a correspondent, then write me this. Write me a story in which you aren't too embarrassed, with your lover, to continue. Write what happens if your dreams all came true. Imagine the narrative. That will be one more incremental step towards making it real.

Yours sincerely

Sherman

 

[mgetzhoff]

Chloes reads Sherman's letter sitting alone in her office at home. She has locked her door and chained it, too. She has pulled her curtains and rammed them tight with books to keep them from opening. She is curled up in the chair in front of her computer with her legs tucked up, wrapped in the largest, warmest robe that she owns and she is still frightened and shivering.

She had walked past Sherman's store the other day, not quite realizing where her steps were taking her. She has looked in and thought about another lovely cup of tea with him. But there was someone in the store. A man that she did not know. And she was somehow afraid that this complete stranger would somehow divine all her shameful desires . . . and do . . . what?

Chloe cannot believe how her fears have shaped her thoughts and actions! She has never been ruled by fear before and she will certainly not give in now!

With a decisiveness that is more bravado than anything else, she begins to type.

Dear Sherman,

I think that you are so right about living my life in a cloud if I do not face the truth about myself and my needs. I will ask you to guide me, in small steps, through my discovery of my secret needs. Please be understanding of my fears! They have secretly ruled me for too many years.

I will try to continue with the fantasy that I began before. I will write until the embarassment grows too much, and then I will send it before I grow too frightened.

My lover has fastened my hands behind me, perhaps with my shirt. He has demanded that I release his belt and then, as I try to obey, has pulled my nipples up and away from my body.

I am helpless to the sensations of my nipples. All I can do is gasp while he whispers demands in my ears. Over and over to release his belt, all while making it nearly impossible for me to obey by pulling my nipples up and up.

Finally, I manage to get his belt undone and he tells me that he will reward me. He begins to run his hands along my thighs, telling me how lovely and smooth they are. His fingers begin tracing circles on my legs, each circle growing closer to my labia. I am moaning with each cicle. My labia are aching for his touch. The last circle brings his fingers to the sensitive lips under my panties and I nearly scream with longing. He runs his fingers along either side of vagina and doesn't quite touch my clit.

Then he demands that I undo his pants. I am so frustrated! But I must obey. I bring my bound hands up to the fastening of his pants when my nipples are pinched, hard, then released. I have lost my grip on the pants and have to find my way back when I am pinched again. And again.

Sherman, I have reached my limit again.

Please, write to me again, soon!

Your Frightened Chloe

 

[patrick1]

Dear Chloe

How remiss of me, to delay writing back to you for so long. I am sorry.

How remiss of you, to deprive yourself of pleasure for so long by holding yourself back.

I think you are making a mistake, in believing there will be some incremental solution to your dilemma. That, inch by inch, you will be able to surrender to your dreams, to your desires, to your imagined lover who wields the rope and the whip. I know I have written of increments before, but I think now it's time for you to abandon them.

I do advise caution, though not of the incremental kind. I recommend finding out as much as you can about a potential partner, especially if you are risking bondage and more with them, even to the extent of asking them about previous partners and their experiences, and contacting those previous partners, or at least, people who know them. I recommend the known precautions on early meetings: having a friend to telephone, and letting it be clearly known that you have a friend to telephone, at more than one moment, if you are concerned.

I believe, too, that it's worth taking the time to find a friend, or friends, with whom you share more than these dark desires. Believe me, they are out there. And a common chord on more than one instrument is a fine beginning to an accord, a veritable band or at least, a duet.

But I do also recommend, as you know, the existential leap. There's an abyss of danger, of longing, of fear and lust. After all the sensible things have been done, if you want something, you have to jump. You want this. Take a thousand precautions. Then close your eyes, and hurl yourself into the unknown. It's time for you now, Chloe. C'mon: measure out the run-up: then, run run run run run run....leap!

My bookshop, my private room, my own dreams - they are still available to you if you need them. Take good care of yourself.

Sherman.

 

[mgetzhoff]

Chloe is hiding her tears behind a glass of red wine as Estelle makes phone calls. She hears laughter and hushed talk, then a decisive click of the phone before Estelle walks into the room.

"Chloe," she says in a voice warm with affection, "The things that I do for you! OK, I have been able to contact a friend at the police department, and he did a very illegal thing. Sherman has no record of criminal activity. I have talked to one of Sherman's old flames and she said that he always respected her limits." She looks at the tears silently running down Chloe's face and asks,"Is there anyone else I can call? Is there anything else that I can do? Will you stop crying for a moment and talk to me? Please?"

Taking a big sip of Dutch courage, Chloes tries to form her thoughts into coherent words. She opens her mouth and stops. Finally, she manages to get out, "I can't stop thinking! It's like those thoughts and feelings and images that I have tried to keep locked down for years have all burst out and won't stop. I fantasize endlessly about being tied up, helpless and now the man in my mind is this Sherman!"

Estelle thinks for a moment, then asks, "Why Sherman? I mean, I've known this man for years and always thought well of him, but you have dated men who could and who have been models. Why Sherman? And how does this need of yours bring you to need him so badly?"

"I don't know, I don't know! I just want some peace in my head! I want some peace from my body! Ever since I started reading about this stuff, I can't help but want more and more! I tried just getting vicarious thrills by reading stuff on the internet, but that only made it worse."

Chloe is silent for a time, trying to get hold of her breathing. Estelle watches her and senses the moment when Chloes comes to a decision. Chloe stands and looks at Estelle, "May I use your computer for a moment?"

Estelle nods and watches Chloe go through the routine of signing into her e-mail service and then typing for a few moments. Then Chloes asks her to read what she had written.

Dear Sherman,

You are right. It is time for me to jump in. I would like to avail myself of your private room for an hour. Perhaps tomorrow? At 1pm?

I will check my e-mail later tonight for your reply.

Sincerely,

Chloe


"Are you sure about this?" Estelle asks.

"No, but how can I be? I will try this and I will see if it is what I need."

 

[patrick1]

Dear Chloe

What a lovely word you use: 'avail'. To be strong, to be of worth. These are its original meanings. Hold them to yourself if any doubts assail you. You are strong, and of worth. I shall await you.

Sherman

12:56. I re-read the email I sent her for the fifteenth time while: 'Yes, yes. I shall. I promise. No, really.'

12:57. At last I replace the receiver and hang up on Estelle. I've seen Chloe already, I know she's early and walking round the block. Well, and I am early, to have been looking out for her. The bookshop is CLOSED. A nervous man who often pops in in his lunch hour rattles the door. Then sees the sign.

12:58. I breathe through my nose, taking in long, steady doses of air.

12:59. Chloe is pretty, and clever. It will be a privilege even to touch her. To avail myself of her body and her dreams.

13:00. A banging at the door. Yes. Yes.

 

[mgetzhoff]

(OOC: go ahead and take the lead here, I'll follow)


Chloe nervously paces around the block, wondering why she decided to do this. She is not sure who she is anymore. She knows that she did not feel in charge of herself as she chose her clothing today. Lingerie, she never wore lingerie under her work clothes, but today she had. A black lace bra, so low that it barely supported, with the matching panties. Under a thin, simple white silk blouse, all carefully covered by the female "power suit" that was nearly a uniform amoing career women. With the blazer off, she was shockingly sexy, with the blazer on, just another woman going to work.

She checked her watch again, 1:00. Time to find out what she really is under the "power suit." Chloe knocks at the door to Sherman's shop.

 

[patrick1]

sherman

Chloe is even more attractive than I remember. And I remember her as being attractive. I take her right hand in my left. There's something about her demeanour that demands politeness of me. 'How lovely that you decided to visit.'

I lock the outer door. The keys seem absurdly noisy. I feel ugly, old, foolish next to her. I lead her past the shelves. I see an image on the front of a bondage novel as we pass: a nude woman, on all fours, being led by a leash to her collar.

I unlock the door marked PRIVATE. I smile, and kiss her softly on the forehead. 'You're sure about this? Once we're inside, I'll expect you to do everything I say.'

'Sure. Do I...?'

'You have a safeword. It's Patrick. My name.'

I squeeze her hand. We enter. The smell of lavender, and candle-wax. I close the door behind her. The vestibule, lit by a single bulb overhead, is cramped. 'Here,' I reach behind her to the blindfold hanging from the back of the door, 'you need this.'

In a moment she can't see. The blindfold is padded with fur, soft, and I buckle it tight. Her lips part. She reaches out.

'Here.' I slip off her suit jacket. 'When I don't tell you otherwise, put your hands together on your head. The fingers interlaced.'

She's quick to obey. I feel the need to caress her, through her clothes. I begin at her feet; my hand move up her legs; over her buttocks, and hips, and belly, not especially lingering at her breasts; over her neck, her face, her hair; up her arms to her fingers.

'You're very sexy. Thank you for entrusting yourself to me, Chloe. Just step out of these, would you?'

Her shoes. 'I want you to experiment with a word. Two words, but one is unfamiliar to you.' I unbutton her blouse. The bra startles me for a moment: I didn't somehow expect it of her. 'Arms to your sides for a moment.' I take off her blouse. Her skin: my desire for her surprises me with its sudden force. 'Hands back on your head. The word is Cunt.' I unzip the skirt. Her thighs; her hips; her anxious mouth. My fingertips keep finding places on her to touch.

Her stockings I pull off quickly: 'Foot up,' and she obeys, and I stroke each calf. How vulnerable she looks, in only her underwear. I unclip the bra. Ah: her breasts. I don't touch them, because I want to touch them too much. 'Cunt Chloe,' I say, taking her panties and tugging them down her legs. 'Part your legs just a little for me, Cunt Chloe.'

There's a tremor in her body. Her nakedness thrills me beyond expectation. I stroke her hips. 'What...?' she begins to ask, when I strap the first cuff at the top of her left thigh, and buckle it there. But she doesn't go on with her question. I strap a second cuff, at the top of her right thigh. I take her left wrist, and put a cuff around it, and clip the cuff to the thigh-cuff. I take her right wrist, and put a cuff around it, and clip the cuff to the other thigh-cuff. 'Cunt Chloe,' I say again, buckling the thin collar around her neck, attaching the leash to it. 'Follow me. Don't worry, you'll be safe. Touch your cunt.'

I lead her. Her steps are tentative, over the soft carpet. 'Here, it's a bed.' I help her sit. My hands at her shoulders, I make her lie on her back. To touch her is a simple delight. I lay the leash between her breasts. 'Cunt Chloe,' I say, rolling up my sleeves. 'I want you to experiment with the words, out loud. Cunt Chloe. That's who you are with me. Make love to yourself, and say Cunt Chloe. I'm going to rub lotion into every inch of your body. When you're ready for me to hurt you, just ask me to hurt you, and I will. Come on now: touch your cunt.'

And I press her fingers into the folds of her sex, then open the jar of lavender oil. I begin at her feet. 'Go on,' I say, 'speak to me, Cunt Chloe.' And my hands begin to massage her, softly, softly, I turn her half on to her left side to massage her ankles, and calves...