Melissa and I were fighting again. Something that I was finding depressingly
common. This time it was about Halloween. Sheila Wood, one of the women from
her study group, had invited Melissa to a party on Halloween night and
Melissa wanted me to come with her.
Now I had nothing against Sheila, or any of the others from her study group.
Well, OK, I didn’t like Carl. But the rest were alright. There were eight in
the group, three other women besides Melissa and Sheila, and two other men
besides Carl. They met once a week to work on the newest assignment for
their adult education classes. You know, the ones that working adults take
to complete their MBA’s. The group met once a month at my condo.
But I wasn’t much of a socializer, and I hadn’t had fun at a Halloween party
since junior high. And I really didn’t want to go to a party and fight with
Melissa all night. Actually, I almost wondered if we’d still be together in
the week till Halloween. But tonight, we were taking a walk downtown after
dinner.
The walk was frustrating me as well. Not so long ago, we’d walk
hand-in-hand, or with our arms entwined. Now I had my hands at my sides and
she had hers stuffed in the back pockets of her jeans.
“You know, Jeff, I really do want to go to Sheila’s party. I know a lot of
people from school are going, and it sounds like it could be a blast.”
“Melissa, you know I don’t do parties very well. Shit, even having your
study-buddies over gets to me a little.”
“Oh come on, Jeff! You can wear a costume and pretend to have a good time
for a change, can’t you?”
“Yeah, a costume. Sure. I’m supposed to find a costume a week before
Halloween? Right,” I said sarcastically. “I suppose she has a theme for the
costumes too. Care to tell me about what I’m supposed to be trying to find?”
“Actually, you’re supposed to dress up like a character from a book or
series of books. Of course, with some of these people, I expect to see a lot
of comic book characters.”
“Melissa, I really don’t think I’ll go. If your heart is set on going, ask
one of the guys from your group. Or go stag.” I couldn’t see the look on her
face at my words, but I expected it to be furious, and we walked on for a
bit. The next time she spoke, she was leaning against the display window of
a used paperback store, and I was looking at the books without seeing them.
“Jeff, if you’ll do this, you can use any book you want, and I’ll be
whatever character you decide.”
I was going to refuse again when my eyes focused on the display, and an idea
occurred to me that I thought was guaranteed to end the discussion. If it
ended our relationship, maybe that was for the better, too.
“Any book?” I asked.
“Any book you’ve read, I’ll go along with.”
I pointed to a book in the window. It had a ridiculously muscled man with a
big sword and a cowering female in not much of anything. “Have you ever read
any of those books?”
She turned around to see what I was pointing at. “Gor? Yeah, back in
college. Why, you want to dress up like Conan?”
Yeah, right, the fat Conan, I thought. “Well, not quite. But how about
characters from that milieu?”
“Sure, I can use some of your armor for an Amazon costume.” We were both
active members of the SCA, or Society for Creative Anachronism, a group that
would dress in medieval costume for jousts, “wars” and just fun weekends. I
had a pretty good selection of armor and weapons I’d collected over the
years.
“You said you’d be whatever I chose?”
“Yeah, I did. What did you have in mind?” I think she was still thinking
Amazon, or maybe a Freewoman.
“I’ll go. If you go as my slave.”
She looked at me, then at the book again. I fully expected her to slap me,
or at least tell me to Fuck Off. She didn’t. Instead she said; “All right.
But you have to get my costume together. I’ll come to your house a half hour
early to pick you up and dress.” Then she turned around and hailed a cab,
and I didn’t hear from her again for the rest of the week.
That night, I dug out my collection of Gor books, and surfed the web for
reference. The next day, I went to a fabric store and bought a length of
translucent red silk. That night, I pinned together a pleasure slaves tunic,
and went through my armor pieces for my own costume. I decided on a heavy
leather kilt and a broadsword. Monday morning, I had a friend who worked
with metals make a steel collar for me, with a hasp and slot in the back. He
engraved it with a veritable garden of blossoms, with my name across the
throat. Monday night, I admitted I was wasting my time. No way in hell was
Melissa going to show up Friday night. I was better off using my time to
pack her stuff for when she demanded it all back.
Friday after work. Sheila’s party was supposed to start in about an hour. I
felt like a fool in my leather kilt and fur lined vest. Want to know what a
Scotsman wears under his leather? Not a thing. I opened a beer and flopped
on the couch, thinking “God, Jeff, you are such a fuck-up.”
I had just taken a second gulp when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my candy
bowl and opened the door. My heart nearly stopped at seeing Melissa.
“Hello Jeff. May I come in?”
I opened the door wide and motioned her in. She looked me over with a smile.
“I like your costume. Is mine ready?” I pointed to a chair, and the red
material draped over it. She sauntered over and picked up the tunic I’d made
and chuckled. “Red silk. How appropriate. So tell me Jeff, when does my
servitude begin?”
I swallowed. “When you decide.” She nodded and carried the tunic into the
bedroom and shut the door behind her. The door opened a few moments later.
She stepped out and leaned with her back against the side of the door, the
palms of her hands on the jamb, her head up, lips slightly parted, eyes
smoldering as she looked at me. The tunic clung to her, and I realized that
unless she was wearing a very tiny red thong I couldn’t see, she was nude
under it.
Then I remembered the collar. I opened the drawer of my desk, and took it
out. I approached her, and held it out for her to admire it. She smiled then
lifted her hair up and let me place it around her throat. I slipped the hasp
through the slot. She handed me a tiny padlock she’d had concealed in her
hand, and I locked the collar on her.
Suddenly, she was kneeling before me. She sat on her heels, her back
straight and her head held high. Her knees were spread widely, and her palms
were up in supplication to me.
“Speak, slave.”
“Melissa greets her Master. May Melissa please her Master?”
“Not yet. Perhaps later. Now, stand. We travel.” When she stood, I held her
long leather coat for her, then slipped my raincoat on. No sense getting
arrested for indecency on the way. In the car, Melissa had a present for me.
A leather whip with a single long, wide strap.
Sheila told us later we missed quite a party. The way she looks at me
sometimes, I think Melissa told her about our own party.