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Message-ID: <33162asstr$1004415003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Angeline" <angeline_dc@yahoo.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 29 Oct 2001 17:13:30 PST
Subject: {ASSM} Chains of Command
Date: Mon, 29 Oct 2001 23:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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If you have something to add, I can be contacted at Angeline_dc@yahoo.com.
My username on Yahoo Messenger is Angeline_DC.





Chains of Command: Part One





            I am having second thoughts about my glasses.  A clear
indication that today's rendezvous is bordering on obsession for me.  It isn
't as if I didn't spend hours last night trying on clothes, jewelry and
experimenting with my hair.  It isn't as if I haven't planned this down to
the last detail.  Still maybe I am wrong about the glasses.  I never wear
them out, and my vanity can be a capricious companion.  I twist the rearview
mirror my way and try them on and off a dozen times.  I don't like them, but
I was right the first time; they complete the effect.  They make me bookish
and stern.  They lend me an aspect of composure.  I'm going to need it.

            There is a coffee shop a few blocks away; since I'm early and
have time to kill, I walk back up the road and buy a latte.  It's been
unseasonably warm for October, but a cold snap is due any day, and I can
feel it in the air.  The coffee takes the edge off.  On the way back I pause
to look at an antique desk in a shop window and catch my reflection.  Except
for my hair, which is now cut shorter than it's been since grade school, I
look like the same girl in the photograph on my bookcase - the one of me in
cap and gown, sandwiched awkwardly between my mother and father.  It had
been ten years since we had all been in a photograph together, and it will
take a wedding for it to happen again.

            I've been out of college for two years, which isn't terribly
long, but has been terribly hard, and I expect my face to show the scars.
Instead I see the same incongruously innocent face that for years has caused
people to assume I am younger than I am.  Is it forgivable that at
twenty-three I still expect people to reveal their lives in their faces?  I'
ve read too much Oscar Wilde, I suppose.

            A man passes behind me, and in the shop window I watch his eyes
run up the slit in my ankle length skirt.  Watch him follow the slit up over
my knee, up my thigh, up to the lace at top of my stockings.  He falters in
his stride, the impulse to stop and stare tripping up his feet.  I feel
glad.  I bought the skirt especially for today, and up until just now had my
doubts about it.  Saleswomen are notoriously unreliable.  But I know his
look, and there is no more honest critic than a man who doesn't know he is
being watched.  What I see in his eyes calms me, settles the butterflies in
my stomach, and for the first time today I am excited about what is to come,
not apprehensive.

            The cemetery is one of the oldest in Washington.  It sits in the
center of Georgetown next to Dumbarton Oaks, and while the southern end is
heavily trafficked, it quickly becomes remote and deserted the further in
you go.  There are cemeteries that are creepy and forbidding, but this one
is more like a tranquil park.  It's easy to get lost among the mausoleums
and tombs, and sometimes if the sun is shining, I will wander aimlessly with
my thoughts.  Not today.  Today I make a beeline for an isolated corner of
the cemetery.  It is my secret sanctuary where I go sometimes to read; three
tall crypts form a box, and at the opening there is a wooden bench.  It
makes a private grassy theater; I've often daydreamed about what trouble
could be got up to here without anyone knowing.  I guess I'm going to find
out.

Will this work, I wonder?  Will you go for it?  I sit down to wait for you.
It's hard to judge someone I've never met.  We have corresponded by email
and instant message for six months, but that has its limits.  You said I
should plan something for today, something unusual, but I wonder if this is
what you meant.  Early on you made a remark that by nature you were a top,
but had fantasies about the roles being reversed.  You never mentioned it
again, but I remembered.  In my own life, I have always erred to the side of
submissive, but for you I can make an exception.  To a point.

The hard clap of footsteps, I turn my head and you are standing beside the
bench.  The photographs didn't do you justice.  You look every bit the
university professor in your blazer and open necked shirt.  You have the
poise and self-assurance of someone well educated and accustomed to being
listened to professionally.  You remind me of the professors I had crushes
on in college.  The older men who carried the knowledge of the world with
them.  I begin to doubt I can carry this off.  My eyes fall to your hands
and the worn, leather briefcase; I swear they must hand them out to
professors at their tenure parties.

I stand, and you give me a hug; you smell warmly of aftershave, and you
murmur in my ear how good it is to meet me.  We exchange pleasantries and
compliments; it's all part of the ritual letting the other know that we don'
t regret being there.  You admire my skirt; I point out that it is just like
the one you described It's odd meeting someone that you already know
intimately.  Mutely, we stand putting a face to all the stories and
confessions that we've traded for six months.  You're nervous.  I can see it
in your face and suddenly my nervousness is gone.  Emboldened, I ask if you
brought them.

A smile crosses your face.  From your briefcase you take a brown paper bag.
Inside is a pair of metallic handcuffs and the keys.  Watching you handle
them, it occurs to me that you think they are intended for me. I take them
from you.

"I'd like to handcuff you to the bench."  I say taking the plunge.

"Me?  I don't understand."

"You said I should think of something.  Well..."

You weigh the request, wondering how well you actually know me, and if I can
be trusted.

"It that a good idea?"

"It's the only idea.  Otherwise I'm going home."

"Really?"

"You said to think of something."

"Yes, but I thought.  Well I guess I don't know what I thought."

"Trust me.  I'm not going to hurt you.  Much." I say it archly, not to
intimidate but as a coy joke.

That makes you laugh and relax.

"Well."  You chuckle to yourself like I'm a one of your students trying to
talk you into an extension.  "Well okay, Angie, I guess you're the boss."

You sit in the middle of the bench.  I ask you to slide to over a little bit
and you do it with a humoring, patronizing shrug of your shoulders.  The
same is true when I ask you to put your hands behind you, and I run the
chain through the slats in the back of the bench.  I snap them over your
wrists.  It's the first time I wasn't on the receiving end.  I run my
fingers through your silver hair.  You are bursting with anticipation.  I
kiss you lightly on the lips.

"So what is on the agenda?"  You ask.

"Patience."

I fish my cell phone from my bag and sit down beside you.  Idly I stroke
your thigh while I make my call.  I can feel you burning lasers into the
side of my head.

"Who are you calling?"  You demand.

"Shhh, don't speak."  It's from a movie, but you either don't get it or you
don't think I'm funny.

The phone rings, and for a second my heart sinks thinking that he's backed
out, but then he answers.

"Bobby?  Hi.  Angeline.  Are you nearby?  Good.  Why don't you join us?
Okay."

"Who is Bobby, Angeline?"

You use my full name, so I assume like my father, you are mad.

"Bobby is a friend."

"Why is he joining us, exactly?"

"I need him."

"Well I don't need him."

"Are you sure about that?"

That flusters you.

"I am a straight man.  I'm not interested in that.  I'm a little surprised
by this.  I want you to uncuff me."

I get the keys and move around behind you.  I put the key in the lock and
pause.

"I'll uncuff you, but I wish you would reconsider.  I give you my word that
Bobby will not touch you.  That is not part of it."

"Then what?"

"You'll have to trust me."

"Angeline you are asking a lot."

"Welcome to my world," I laugh. "Do you know what a safe word is?"

"Yes, of course."  Sounding irritated.

"Well your safe word is bourbon."

"My safe word?"

"Yes.  If you say it, everything stops; I uncuff you, and we go home.  No
harm, no foul."

You begin laughing.  "This is not at all what I expected, I'll be honest
with you."

"Am I that much of a disappointment?"

"God, Angeline, not you.  You are gorgeous.  You look stunning.  I just didn
't expect this."

"Thank you, and I aim to keep it that way too.  You said to think of
something.  Something different.  Well be careful of what you wish for."

"So what now?"

"Now, we wait for Bobby."

Bobby isn't long, thank god, because it's a little tense sitting on that
park bench waiting.  Bobby is even bigger than I remember.  We've been
talking for a year by instant messaging, and I met him for coffee a few
times, but he looks enormous.  He is about six foot three and must run two
hundred and thirty pounds.  He was a college football player, maybe not good
enough to go pro, but on the bubble.  His junior year he hit, and killed, a
woman with his car.  It was ruled an accident, but the court's ruling didn't
do much to ease his conscience.  He dropped out of school and just kept
dropping.  I didn't know him then, but he said that he couldn't even imagine
the person he used to be.  He is impotent around women except if he is being
dominated and controlled.  My guess is that he is only able to function if
he feels no responsibility for his actions.  His username is puppet, and I'd
say that pretty much describes the man.

I take him by the hand and lead him around in front of you.  Bobby knows the
drill, I briefed him beforehand, and he's willing to try it.  It's you that
I am worried about.  You're fidgeting in your seat, but to your credit you
aren't trying to break free of the handcuffs.  For some reason everyone
feels it necessary to try that at least once, but you just sit there and
fidget irritably.  Bobby's eyes are on the ground, but you are staring him
down anyway - how very alpha male of you.

"So, here is my proposal.  My rules."

Your eyes slide over to me venomously.

"Rule one.  You and I will not touch.  Rule two.  Bobby may touch me.  Rule
three.  Bobby will only do what you tell him, nothing more, nothing less.
Rule four.  Bobby will not uncuff you so you can stop plotting it.  Rule
five.  There are no other rules."

You reaction is somewhat less than ecstatic.

"That's it?" you say.  "I have to watch this guy fuck you?  That's your
clever idea?"

"Be nice.  It is if that's your only instruction to him."

"This is bullshit.  Let me out of here."

You rattle the handcuffs importantly.

"The way I see it is I control you, but you control the one that controls
me.  Power and powerlessness all rolled into one, just like you said.
Interlocking chains of command."

"I never said anything of the kind.  Let me out of here."

"No."

"No?"  You sound incredulous.  "No?"  Testing the word to see if it means
what you think it means.

"You want out, use your safe word.  Otherwise, no."

"You are out of your mind, little girl."

I shrug my shoulders, and make an, 'I'm terrified' face at you.  It does
nothing to improve your mood.  Bobby stands a few feet away, impassively.
He has yet to speak.

"So anything to say?"  I make an exaggerated study of your face, but you
only stare stonily back at me.  "How disappointing you are.  I had such high
hopes, and you're nothing but a little boy playing at being a professor.  So
easily thrown off his game.  Go on, say your safe word, and then you can go
home and grade some term papers, or whatever you do since your wife left you
and your mistress went back to her husband."

You pale visibly.  Truth is, I'm more than a little nervous pushing your
buttons this way.  I know Bobby will abide by the rules, but I'm also
nervous that he will abide by them to the letter.  It's a tightrope, and I'
ve never been very good at keeping my balance.  I can't help but keep
goading you.

"Where's all that imagination you display online?  Maybe you aren't any good
in the real world.  Isn't that what they say about teachers?  If you can't
do, teach?  Is that why you can't keep a woman?  I've wondered, but."

You interrupt me.

"Bobby, shut her up."

Bobby comes alive like someone just plugged in his power cord.  In two huge
strides he closes the difference between us.  I see his huge hand come up,
and I expect it to clamp down over my mouth, looking forward to it,
actually.  Instead it goes for my throat.  His grip stuns me, and with only
a hint of effort he closes my windpipe.  I gasp and my lungs fight insipidly
for air.  He swats my hands away like they are flies.

"Gently Bobby, I said shut her up, not throttle her."  You say.

Instantly, Bobby's hand loosens enough for me to be able to breath again.  I
take a deep breath and look up at Bobby who is staring down at me intently.

"Thank you Bobby.  Are you quite through?"  There is a new tone in your
voice - interest.

"Me?  Afraid not, I'm a talker, you know?"  I can't leave well enough alone.

"Bobby."

The hand closes again and for the second time I am underwater and drowning
in the open air.  This time I don't fight it, but as my air begins to run
out I crane an eyes towards you.

"Are you quite through?"

I nod as best I can.

"Bobby, let her go."

The hand lets go of me, and as I gasp for air, I dissolve into giggles.  It'
s a sign that I am nervous and excited.  It's a way of coping with pain, but
you don't know that.

"Bobby, slap her.  Gently."

The hand catches me perfectly so my head snaps around on a pivot.  My
glasses that I debated wearing for so long fly off my face and land in the
grass.  Bobby doesn't do gently I'm learning.  I work my jaw around
gingerly.  I am through giggling.

"Bobby, would you do something to Angeline for me?"

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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