C is for C-word

 

Nothing was crystal clear about my relationship with Aldous, and yet, I heard or uttered the words every so often.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Crystal.”

Never crystal clear and blurry from day one. Never discussed or defined: rules implied that I never agreed to, punishments meted with no rhyme or reason. The more I think of it, nothing good could grow from it. No wonder my body refused to conceive. Aldous dragged me into his darkness too fast and too hard.

He despised labels, and to this day I’m having trouble defining in words what it was or what he was, but one word stands out: cage. When I learned more about lifestyle, I saw pictures of the cages where the slaves slept. Like dog cages, but bigger. Aldous didn’t go that far, although he liked to put the leash on me and the chains, and everything else that goes with it. To each their own, I do not intend to yak on anyone’s yum, but I never agreed to any of it.

The entire house became my cage: the heavy curtains always drawn shut, crystal chandeliers dimmed, double ceilings echoing his steps while chasing me upstairs, plush pillows absorbing my screams. The metal canopy bed, like a torture chamber, already had all the rings to hook up the constraints or tie the silk scarves to.

Aldous cut all the ways out when he put the ring on that finger. He slipped the word obey into the vows and gave me a knowing wink. He claimed me, the twenty-one-year-old with a thin teenager’s body, in a sheer bridal nightgown, shaking from a fear of unknown. It hurt like hell, but I was afraid to make a sound and disappoint him. Thus, the education of ER began, driven by a fear to disappoint.

A month passed from that day till the first spanking, which I already wrote about in my first notebook. I have a weird feeling that Stanley found my notebooks and read them. Ugh, the occasional stern glances this man gives me. I don’t care what he has on me, so long as Nick doesn’t know.

But Aldous knew; I blurted it out to him when he spoke first about my misdemeanors and punishments they would entail. How I wasn’t a punishment virgin, as I’ve already got the taste of the cane from my teacher’s hands and what it did to me. How he listened in silence and nodded with that signature smirk, making mental notes, watching me blush and squirm and press my legs together. He took me from behind right after, driving it in one deep hurting thrust, while slapping my ass fast and with vigor, whispering in my ear about his vast cane collection. How my body betrayed me with a telltale squeeze, milking him dry. From that moment on, he knew. Whether I agreed to it or not, my fate was sealed. My obedient, disciplined self didn’t realize until years later, what other C-word was missing.

Consent.