The Whip Hand

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Author's Note: This one made it onto my ideas page and I actually tried to write some of it, shown here. It was actually inspired by a bit in a John D. MacDonald novel. Dennis has been emotionally abused, he's been in an abusive marriage and then abandoned. Amy likes certain kinds of pain, in a loving relationship. The story was going to take them through Dennis' rehabilitation over the summer, climaxing with her allowing him to whip her (probably during a violent thunderstorm, just for the imager) in part to exorcise his demons, and hoping that he would learn about a healthy top/bottom relationship.

I don't know enough about the subculture, however. Lack of nerve got me until the juices fueling this one had dried up.

JS

The Whip Hand

Taffy was barking but Amy didn't think anything of it; Taffy was a barking dog. Amy kept trying to lift the compressor, trying different positions for leverage. A woman said Amy's name, and Amy squinted into the doorway bright with sunlight, then wiped her arm across her eyes to get rid of the sweat. There was a woman there, her silhouette short and dumpy. "Muriel?" asked Amy.

The woman stepped inside. "How you doin'?"

Amy nodded. "Okay."

"Have you found anybody yet?"

Amy shook her head, then stood up. She was easily a foot taller than the other woman. "Been too busy to look."

"If you don't get help, you can't get the hay in."

"I know that, Muriel." Amy sounded tired.

"I found someone." Muriel leaned forward. "And he's good looking."

Amy made a disgusted sound. "I don't need matchmaking. I need a farmhand." She started for the door but Muriel placed a hand on her arm.

"He needs a place to stay. He's, uh, he's not well."

Amy looked at her suspiciously. "Not well how?"

"I don't know. Come look at him." Amy grabbed a rag off a nail and wiped grease off her hands as she walked into the yard. Muriel's dusty green Reliant was parked on the roundabout by the woodshed. She could see someone in the car, sitting quietly. Taffy was planted five feet from the car, barking her fool head off.

Muriel fussed on ahead and opened the car door. "Come on out."

"Shut up, Taffy," said Amy, and the dog circled off. Amy watched the man unfold himself from the car. He was big, over six feet, and his suit flapped on him like a scarecrow's. Muriel was partly correct: he had been handsome once. His face had the drawn look of long hardship. But like a fine horse, he had good lines. He stood there, watching them both warily.

"Dennis," said Muriel, "this's Amy Wharton. She owns this farm."

Amy stuck out her hand. "Hi." He nodded hello and, after a slight hesitation, put his hand out. His grip was weak and tentative. She tried to look him in the eyes, but he turned away, head bowed. "Do you have a name?"

"Yes'm," he murmured. "Dennis March." She looked at him, and he hastily added, "Ma'am." He seemed so fragile that Amy reached out to touch him, and discovered that he was trembling, like a frightened horse. Then she understood why Muriel had taken him up, and she knew she would take him in.

"Get your things," she said.

He spread his big hands, palms up, and Muriel said, "He doesn't have anything."

Amy sighed. "You can pick'em, Muriel. Well, you can't work in that, Dennis. There's some old coveralls by the woodshed, they'll be at least four inches too short but they're better than nothing. Muriel, do you want to make coffee while I set Dennis up? We'll get you in proper clothes and then I have to fix that compressor before milking time. There's a pair of, uh"--six months and she still didn't want to say Cory's name--"old boots there that might fit you."

In the woodshed, she handed him the coveralls and boots. He took them and stood there, looking at her. "Well," she said, "the bathroom's just inside the door there, just past the woodstove. Go put'em on."

He gave one convulsive start when Taffy circled around to yap at him, then looked back at her. Then, under Amy's gaze, he slunk forward.

What is wrong with him? He's like a whipped dog, she thought.

He looked comical in the coveralls, pale shins exposed to the summer sun, but she kept her face straight, and led him into the shed. "You know anything about compressors?" she asked; he shook his head. "Okay," she said. "Then you get to lift and I get to look."

Together they hoisted it up onto the edge of the metal box it sat in, and he held it steady while she looked. "It's a broken retainer clip. Can you hold it while I get the new one on, Dennis? They're fussy sometimes." He nodded, sweat already rolling down his face.

His muscles were starting to jump and twitch by the time she got the clip on, and she kept talking softly to him, the way she'd gentle a horse. When they finally put the compressor back down, she said, "There, you did fine now!" in a too-jolly fashion.

Muriel poured coffee for him first but Amy noticed that he didn't touch his cup until after both women had taken sips.

---And it ended here---

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