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The idea of fixing his breakfast, his clothes, his coffee and arranging her personal; schedule probably rattled me more than any of his sexual demands. I didn’t clean the apartment or cook—he had a real maid for that. But I did the things a wife would do and that scared me. More than scared me—terrified me. They brought me closer to his side, closer into his private space, and to vulnerability, his weaknesses, his fears. My panic grew.
I woke up one morning in a cold sweat. Reality was biting my ass—welts from a confrontation with his leather belt laid on my behind the night before, when Preston decided to abuse it; I suppose because he hadn’t in some time and we were both due. It was more than my ass that hurt, however; my eyes and body ached seeing my things around me in my single room, realizing what my life had been reduced to.
I put on my bathrobe; it was Saturday and Preston should be at home. I expected he’d still be sleeping at eight o’clock, but I found him in his study, dressed for the day as impeccably as he was when he came to work—just a little more casually in tan slacks and a lightweight black sweater.
“What is it?” he asked looking up at me.
“I need to talk with you.”
“Yes?” He stared at me as coldly as he had the first time I met him. My legs were trembling, and my hands so sweaty that I couldn’t even rub them dry on my robe. Worse yet, everything I wanted to tell him suddenly vanished from my mind as if someone, or some thing, had tiptoed in and tiptoed out, taking my thoughts with them.
“I… uh…” I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“No?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then you can get started helping me get ready for the party tonight.”
“What party?”
“Oh, I suppose I didn’t mention it to you.”
This was surprising, since I thought I knew about everything going on his life.
“Just a small intimate gathering… a few friends I’m sure you haven’t met.”
I had no idea what I faced, but I was sure I wouldn’t like it.
The very worst thing about his little soirée was that I never did remember what I failed to tell him—what had been vanished by that little mind thief. My disquiet got shuffled aside and after a time left me in peace, while I busied myself making his apartment perfect and his canapés delicious.
By the time his soiree started, I had completely forgotten that I’d awakened in a panic. I suppose that mortal terror had been too nebulous and difficult to comprehend. It was soon destined to be replaced by real panic based on things I had a right to fear.
“Thank you for getting this done.” It was ten to eight. I was disheveled and sweaty from cleaning, because the housemaid hadn’t shown that day. “You can take the evening off and rest.”
“Rest?” I’d expected him to order me into the shower so that I’d be presentable to his guests.
“Yes, rest.”
“I thought…”
“Thought what? That you’d be attending?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
He smiled like a condescending parent.
“But the party isn’t for you, Skye. It’s private.”
Oh, hadn’t he punctuated that nicely?
“You have the evening off, which you surely need. Besides, you look like a wreck. I’m not sure there would be enough time to make you presentable for my guests. Now run along.”
At this point I’d been there almost two months. Most of the time, it had been just the two of us, but I knew there were a few nights when he entertained other women. I heard them come in late, the giggling girlfriend muffling her presence in the bedroom, while Preston spent two minutes taking care of me—sort of like putting the pet to bed for the night. I stuffed away my concerns, hid my internal protests—he’d made himself perfectly clear on the issue of other women that day at the housing development; I wouldn’t make a fool of myself again. But this time the fact of my submission hit me in the face like a giant 2x4, right between the eyes. It then moved on to hit me squarely in the gut.
I managed to keep my poise long enough to say, “Thanks.”
I went to my room like the dutiful slave girl I was, but I didn’t close the door. I couldn’t. Green with envy for everyone who walked into the sparkling clean room, into that warmly glowing atmosphere of sexual seduction, into the music, incense, lighting, the smell of wine and rich hors d’oeuvres. I couldn’t shut myself off. I forced myself to listen, and allowed my gut to wrench as I heard the sounds of laughter and levity, and later, the sighs and groans of intimate foreplay. I heard the sharp snap of leather on skin and wished it were my flesh taking the beating. I craned my neck, listening for Preston specifically, although I never quite identified him in particular. Minutes ticked by, and then an hour or two, I listened with a longing that finally led me to disobey, and I crept from of my room and down the hallway, where I watched from an alcove in the kitchen, hopefully undetected.
