Marion’s silent a moment, looking out across the sunlit garden. “I love Frederic very much and I always will. But he’s a difficult man. He keeps his work to himself. He can’t share that with a woman, though he’s very generous with everything else. When I think of him, I feel sorry for him and I feel tired.”
And with that I think I’ve invaded their privacy enough. Thanking her for her time, I allow her to show me out.
Out on the narrow street I walk quickly along the cobbles, taking deep breaths. I could take a cab back to the apartment but it’s early afternoon and I feel like I need to walk that interview off. Frederic didn’t share his work with her? In what way? I don’t understand and she chose her words so carefully that I wonder if I wasn’t meant to. If it wasn’t for the engagement ring on her finger I’d consider going to Frederic and saying, What the hell is wrong with you? She still loves you. Go and make up whatever you did to her, for heaven’s sake. But then, I’ve been given the super-expurgated version of their relationship. Anything might have happened between them, which is their business, not mine.
I go by the market and buy pork chops, rocket and peaches for our dinner. Frederic has protested that I’m being too much of a housekeeper, but I like to cook. Well, I like to cook in his kitchen and at home, at least, not at university. In Frederic’s flat I have sharp steel knives, granite counters, stainless-steel pots and pans and a beautiful gas cooker to work with, and everything at the market is so fresh and cheap that it feels criminal to eat out or have food delivered all the time.
Frederic appears at six thirty while I’m washing the peaches and greets me brightly. There’s a catch in his voice, though, and he clears his throat. Giselle, his voice coach, was at the flat the other night. I couldn’t understand what she was saying as it was all in very rapid, irate French, but she seemed to be scolding him about something. Frederic looked mutinous. I remember what Marion said about him refusing to slow down and I wonder if he’s singing even when he’s got a throat infection or voice strain.
I’m preparing a salad to go with the chops and he rubs a hand through his short black curls and asks me about my day. I am just starting to tell him about the interviews when his eyes land on my dress. Something sharpens in his expression, and I trail off. He comes forward and touches a fold of the skirt, rubbing the fabric between a forefinger and thumb as if it were the finest silk. “What do you call this?”
“The material? It’s gingham. Nothing special.”
Frederic raises his eyebrows as if to say, Not special? “How pretty you would look in this black-and-white gingham, lying on the floor, bound and gagged.” He runs a finger lightly down the buttons on the front of the dress. “These buttons, you see, could be undone one by one and the bodice pulled back beneath the rope, exposing your breasts.”
My breathing has become shallow. I’ve never thought of such a thing, of being undressed while tied up, but now I am and of Frederic doing it. The light brush of his finger down the front of my dress was electric and I want to
ask him to go on touching me. But he’s already turned me down once and I won’t be able to bear it if he does again. Can I hint at what I want instead? Settling on a question that will give him no doubt about the direction my mind has gone, I say, huskily, “I told you the other day about something that turns me on. What turns you on?”
He folds his arms and leans against the counter, contemplating me. His eyes are a vivid green. “What turns me on. Well, I like to be in control. I like to be obeyed. I like sweet and clever women who submit to me and let me take care of them. That turns me on.”
My breath catches in my throat. I thought he’d tell me he likes red high heels or brunettes or the thrill of getting caught; a fantasy like I told him. I don’t know what to make of being told he likes to be in control. What does that even mean?
“What do you think about that?” he asks.
“I, um...” I remember the spanking, the way he says good girl, and I feel a hot, pulsing sensation between my thighs. I don’t know if I’m aroused or freaked out. I turn my attention back to the peaches I was slicing up but I can feel him watching me closely.
“Or rather, what do you think about submitting to me?”
A peach stone shoots out of my fingers and goes skittering across the counter. Frederic watches it go, and then looks back at me. I don’t know what I think. I just liked the idea of having sex with him but this seems so complicated. My hands are shaking slightly, and Frederic takes the sharp knife out of them and puts it down on the counter.
“What would that women’s studies lecturer of yours say about submission and obedience?”
This was his technique the other night when he asked me about my fantasies and I clammed up: search for something easier for me to answer. I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the technique or frightened of it. Look what I confessed to him then—my adolescent infatuation with him. But even as I curse him for his clever tactics I can feel myself wanting to speak. “To a man?”
“To me.”
To him. Something tightens low in my belly and I want to twine my arms around his neck and whisper, Yes, Frederic, whatever you want. Call me your good girl, please. But I don’t really understand what submitting to him means and I can’t reconcile this desire I feel with my idea of myself as a modern, progressive person. I don’t want to sit unthinking at someone’s feet like a bimbo.
Wiping my fingers on a dishcloth, I say, “She would say that you want to infantilize someone in order to take away their sense of agency. That female submission to a man is romanticizing the patriarchy. And there’d probably be something in there about propping up a fragile ego by denying someone else’s.”
I expect him to laugh or say something dismissive, but he doesn’t. “So you don’t think you could submit to me and still be my equal?”
Me submit to him. Give myself over to Frederic. I open the bag of rocket and start sorting through it for yellow leaves but my hands are still shaking. “I thought we were speaking generally.”
“We were. Now I want to know what you think about submitting to me.”
The pulsing between my legs intensifies. To give myself time to think I ask, “Is it like a dom/sub thing?”
“It’s exactly like a dom/sub thing.”
Jessica Christ. The thought of Frederic taking charge in bed is very arousing. Since he talked me through my fantasy the other night while I masturbated in front of him my idle moments have been consumed by thoughts of him. Frederic holding me down while he fucks me. Marking me with his teeth. Even slapping me across the face, which in my lucid moments seems awful but makes me come so hard. I think Frederic could touch me in ways that meant crying would be the last thing I wanted to do after sex.
I like sweet and clever women who let me take care of them. That turns me on.
Just now he took the knife out of my hand when I seemed distracted, and he often puts his hand lightly on my shoulder or touches my arm when I go to cross the street in case I look the wrong way. He’s been showing me that whenever he’s with me, he’s looking out for me. I like the things he does but it troubles me how much. Putting everything I do into his hands, that’s not healthy, is it? “Look, it’s like that fantasy I told you about. It feels good, but it’s best left as something imaginary.”
Frederic shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that at all. Being submissive is about being yourself, if you enjoy that sort of thing.”