“And now I awaken, for I am both yours and mine.”
– Novalis
It had taken months, but Lacey Tucker finally confronted her fantasy and made a decision. Her fantasy — it had become an obsession lately — involved kinky sex. Though it was embarrassing if she analyzed it too closely, she wanted (or at least was pretty sure she wanted) to be restrained and penetrated. Specifically, she fantasized about being stripped, either before or after being bound, spread open and taken roughly, preferably from behind. Her mental images of the scene were vivid and detailed, stimulated not primarily by porn, though she had seen some, but rather by Lacey’s more-than-adequate imagination and some recent experience. Indeed, she understood what she wanted well enough to have labeled it, with characteristic bluntness, Tied Down and Fucked; or, as she mentally abbreviated it, TD&F.
The seed of her obsession was planted when she and a lesbian friend, Olivia, began fooling around about 18 months earlier. Liv was more adventurous than Lacey and also liked to drink. Loopy kissing and petting were followed by dares, tipsy strip games, and steamy mutual masturbation. All in good fun. Olivia called it gooning, a term Lacey had not heard, and Olivia was very good at it. Eventually Olivia brought out her collection of bondage paraphernalia, which included cuffs and blindfolds, nipple clamps and paddles, vibrators and harnesses — really, Lacey couldn’t believe how much kinky stuff she had. Together they (mostly Olivia) dreamed up BDSM scenes and then roleplayed tamer versions of them. Tamer, except that Liv insisted on cameras.
It was the headiest sex Lacey had ever experienced, and loads of fun, but it soon became complicated. First, Lacey discovered that Olivia was secretly blogging about it. Her blog featured explicit photos and gifs along with jaunty text describing the scene and teasers about upcoming adventures. Olivia was an experienced blogger and had cultivated a loyal, almost entirely female following. Upon inspecting the blog, Lacey discovered that some of the scenes they had ‘invented’ were in fact based on followers’ requests. She was shocked to realize she had become a porn actress of sorts, and furious, initially, that Olivia had hidden it from her. Her initial fury dissipated with time and, it must be said, with her enjoyment of the attention and escalation that the blog represented. In truth, Lacey was flattered when followers in various parts of the world found her ‘hot’ or ‘geil’ or ‘canon.’ She blushed but relished the digital wolf whistles.
The second problem was that Olivia was the only one being tied up. When they fooled around spontaneously, they were equals and Lacey got her share of attention. But when the ropes and restraints came out and the cameras rolled, it was Olivia who was bound and the center of sexual attention. Lacey got to tease her, tickle her, and diddle her, which was fun, but it was Olivia who got teased, tickled and diddled. Pangs of jealousy made Lacey wish they could swap places. They talked about it, but in the end Olivia was unmoved; it was, in effect, her blog.
Third, Liv was a committed lesbian and Lacey simply wasn’t. Perhaps she was bi, though she’d never thought so before Olivia came along. Lacey enjoyed sex with men and, though she’d had none lately, wasn’t prepared to give it up. Several followers had suggested scenes involving men, but Olivia found this heretical — practically nauseating. “Sex has nothing to do with men!” she spat. “They don’t know a goddamn thing about it.” When Lacey objected, Liv would rant about danger. “Are you nuts?! Trust me Lace, if you’re tied up naked, the last thing you want is a dick in the room. You won’t get laid, you’ll get raped! Or fucking killed. No way.”
So the blog, ‘Tying Up Tammy,’ was euthanized. Olivia had enough material for another month or so, which would give her time to find a new gig and, she expected, a new partner. Lacey was done. They agreed to split up. Lacey obtained a verbal agreement that images of her from Tying Up Tammy would never appear anywhere else. She knew this was laughably inadequate but shrugged and let it go.
Though she was relieved to cut ties with Olivia, she missed the BDSM drug she had accidentally discovered. Over the ensuing three months, Lacey’s desire for TD&F grew, but Olivia’s safety warning haunted her. How could she experiment without getting ‘fucking killed’? It was mortifying to approach someone she knew and terrifying to approach someone she didn’t. Ultimately, she decided to get back in touch with Ketch.
Years earlier, when Lacey came out of school, she’d intended to become a journalist. She lacked a journalism degree, but at least she’d had an internship, and figured she would freelance as a reporter. That proved difficult for someone with no experience and in less than two years Lacey gave up and joined a university-owned publishing company that at least paid a salary and modest benefits. At the Press, Lacey re-aimed herself professionally, intending to become an editor or agent someday rather than a reporter. That was where she met Ernest E. Ketchum, a taciturn divorcé who had just turned 40 and whom everyone called ‘Ern’ or ‘Ketch’ (he cheekily initialed office memos ‘EEK!’). Lacey was assigned to a project aimed at repurposing ageing works from the backlist into fresher digital content. When her original boss was promoted, Ketch took over. He was advised by the departing manager that Lacey’s project was likely to fail and that he’d probably have to let half the team go within six months. Lacey in particular was regarded as expendable. The Press prized creativity and while Lacey was a competent project manager, she was green and clearly not the creative engine of the team.
Sure enough, the project was suspended and its budget zeroed out. In truth, it had not failed, but after some debate, the results were judged so-so and not worth continuing. By then, however, Ketchum viewed Lacey as the indispensable player. Despite having no formal authority, she had quietly, invisibly, miraculously ensured that the budget held and deadlines were met. Ketchum informed his boss that he planned to keep Lacey but was overruled. A hot argument ensued, which Ketchum lost, but not before snapping at his boss, “Yeah, well, without Tucker, we’d have lost our fucking shirt on that half-assed idea!” She left with Ketchum’s respect, apologies, and a valuable reference. Soon she was making more money working for a competing house.
Three years later, Ketchum was still at the Press and Lacey had changed jobs twice; she was a rising editing talent. Both were single and a mutual friend fixed them up, not realizing they already knew each other. Each accepted the blind date, amused and slyly supposing the other had not yet put two and two together. When they met, they had a laugh at their friend’s expense but enjoyed reconnecting. A few casual dates followed, including an awkward attempt at intimacy, before professional obligations sundered them again. Lacey accepted a three-month assignment in Ireland (home of her ancestors) and suddenly, so it seemed, was gone. Ern retreated into his divorced-single-guy routines.
Lacey returned to Boston from Dublin refreshed and jaded at the same time. She was happy and confident in her professional life, but at loose ends and uncertain in her personal life. To her chagrin, she’d met no one romantically interesting in Ireland. Hooking up with Olivia for a lesbian fling, only to leave it abruptly, left her as untethered as ever but now with TD&F as an added gnawing distraction. These circumstances led to her decision: she contacted Ketchum via text, not knowing what to expect — he wasn’t even an ex, really — nor even knowing if he was still in the area.
Ketchum received Lacey’s text with surprise and no small amount of skepticism. She’d tried to be casual but pointed. In effect: Hey-how-are-you…Sorry-to-be-out-of-touch…Maybe-we-should-get-together. Ketchum sat on the text grumpily for a day — he had moved past Lacey — but eventually allowed that yes, he was around. He told her he still ate at Scotty’s most nights (Ketchum did not cook, whereas Scotty did). And most nights included (hint) this Friday. But he didn’t greatly care whether she dropped in or not.
Scotty’s was in Brighton and looked like a Boston Irish pub, except that its real name was Maclean’s and it was Scottish. Scotty Maclean cooked and his large aunt Aileen tended bar. Her stepdaughter Zoe hosted and waited tables. On weeknights Zoe held a table for Ketch and he either ate there or texted to say he wouldn’t. Weekends were busier, so he had to show up early or take his chances. By the time Lacey appeared that Friday, Ketch had finished half a dozen oysters and a plate of hash. He rose to greet her with a pat on the back but not a hug or kiss.
Lacey did not know what she expected. It cannot be simple to convey to an old acquaintance that you’d like to be tied up and stripped, please. Lacy did her best. She wore a short green dress, fairly low-cut, with heels (which she rarely tolerated), and light makeup. She’d had a fortifying drink before arriving. Ketchum was having his dessert — Scotch, neat — and ordered another for Lacey. They chatted to catch up and Lacey tried to keep the small talk flirtatious.
Lacey’s dress aided the cause by reminding Ketchum that her tits were a wonder — the finest he’d ever seen. He had met them uncovered once, briefly, as the two of them groped each other at her apartment one night. They were both topless when a fire alarm exploded in the hallway outside her door and they were forced to evacuate. In her haste, Lacey covered herself with Ern’s shirt; he made do, sans shirt, with his jacket. The date was a bust. Though the alarm was false, they were embarrassed to be seen thus by her neighbors and never resumed the foreplay. Lacey departed for Ireland soon after. Ketchum moved on but never forgot her chest. Full silky breasts on a slight, slender frame. Nipples that strained up, as though to lift impossibly graceful tits. Large yet seemingly weightless, they jutted from her chest and gapped her bra straps. Exquisite, as the green dress reminded him.
Ketchum had had enough Scotch to become blunt. “You’re trying to seduce me, Lace. What’s it about?”
“You think I’m trying to seduce you?”
Ketch nodded. “What’s it about?”
“Why do you think…” She stopped and started over, offering honesty. “We were pretty good together, Ketch. I thought maybe we could try again…try some things.”
“You mean things in bed,” he clarified. A pointed glance at her cleavage said he knew she was showing off.
Lacey blushed and her reply was tinged with mild defiance. “Yeah, okay, things in bed. What’s wrong with that?”
“What things?” Ketchum had never expected to be asking Lacey Tucker such a question.
“I don’t know. New things,” she said, flustered. “You know, like one of us could be in charge.”
“Which one of us?”
Lacey blushed again. “Well, you, for instance. If you want.”
As Ketchum continued to stare at her Lacey showed some exasperation. “Maybe I want to see what it feels like to not be in control, okay?”
“See what it feels like?” said Ketchum. “Shit.”
“What if I do. So what?” Then she added, defensively, “I might write about it.”
Now Ketchum frowned. “You want to write about giving up control? Bullshit. You’ll write some crap about abusive men… about me, what I don’t get about women … like I’m a troglodyte. No thanks.”
Lacey grasped his concern and offered a weak, but friendly smile, hoping to convey reasonableness. “No, of course not…that’s not it.”
Ketchum wasn’t having it. He mocked her, “You want to know what it feels like to give up control.” Then, firmly, “Lace, you don’t know even what it means. You know what you want? You want to control how you pretend to not be in control. Sorry, not interested.”
Lacey felt misunderstood and unfairly accused. She fell silent. Did he really not get it? Did he not like her anymore? Could she reason with him? No. Fuck it. She downed the remainder of her Scotch and slapped the empty tumbler on the table. “Well, thanks for the drink, Ketch.” And sauntered out.
Too annoyed to call a ride, Lacey stormed to the subway — in fucking heels — stewing the while about what Ketch had said and what she ought to have said by way of angry retort or witty riposte. Back at her apartment, still fuming, she scarfed some leftover Thai and drew a bath. Now he thinks I’m a shallow pervert. Shit!! Later, she poured a measure of gin. Near midnight she sent him an accusing text:
– You didn’t give me a chance.
Ketchum didn’t see the text until Saturday morning. He, too, was still pondering their exchange. Lace was no bimbo. What the hell was she about? He re-read her text, and scoffed, as he stirred his morning oatmeal (about the only thing he cooked anymore). He hadn’t given her a chance? Please. He texted sarcastically:
– This is a job interview?
She repeated: – You didn’t give me a chance.
– For which position? Perverted Nympho or Slutty Writer?
Two hours later, Lacey texted back. – Fine. Both. Either.
Whoa. It was not the reply he expected. After mulling its meaning, he decided to play along, cautiously, and see what happened — to ‘give her a chance.’ He would not have invited her to his house, except she had already been there years before.
The job interview took place Saturday afternoon. Lacey wore her only other slinky dress, again with heels. At thirty-two years old, she knew exactly what men thought of her tits, and though she didn’t have many outfits that flaunted them, she knew which ones they were. Ketchum greeted her at 3 pm. At his door, they gazed at one another silently until Ketchum, with a flourish, motioned her into his spartan living room. She entered, shedding her coat on the way. She was fully prepared to wind up pissed off but she, too, wanted to see what happened.
They sat, he in an easy chair and she on the sofa, and Ketchum opened the interview. “So, Tucker. You want to give up control.”
She nodded with a straight face.
“Do you have any experience?”
“Sort of.” Again, not what Ketchum expected. He raised his eyebrows, as though to say ‘Really. Please continue.’ She did, which surprised both of them. Haltingly at first, she found herself describing — and defending — what she had done with Olivia. Here and there Ketchum asked a question, to keep the unlikely narrative going. At length, he observed, “So now you want to be her.” Lacey shrugged but nodded. “And you’re serious.” After a beat, she nodded again.
Ketchum considered what she’d just told him. He liked her. He believed her — it was too crazy to not believe — but shit, there were a million ways this could end badly. “I’m afraid we’ve no opening for a Slutty Writer at present,” he told her. “However, there may be something else. Do you know what an orderly is, Tucker?”
“You mean in a hospital?”
“No. In the army. A batman. A man Friday.”
“Like a girl Friday…?”
Ketchum laced his fingers. “Sort of. It was a man until Audrey Hepburn came along. A junior officer who is the personal servant of a commissioned officer.” Lacey listened and Ketchum explained, “My grandfather served in Vietnam. He was a colonel and he used to say a good orderly was worth a platoon of riflemen. At Long Binh he had the best.” He couldn’t tell what she thought, but went on, “A batman’s job is to make his officer a better officer. Whatever helps the superior officer be alert, happy, organized, informed, on-time, efficient…”
Lacey interrupted with an eye roll and said, “I don’t do windows.”
Ketchum shook his head. “You don’t understand, Tucker. If clean windows help the cause, then you do. Absolutely. You wash the goddamn windows. Giving up control means being obedient. Being loyal. Prioritizing someone else’s problems over your own.” He concluded with an offer, “Anyway… make yourself useful and obedient, and you can be any kind of nympho you want on the side. I think I can oblige you on that score.”
“You’re the superior officer,” Lacey said skeptically. Ketchum nodded. She asked, “And just what is it I’m supposed to make you better at?”
“My job. I’m trying to finish a project of my own. On the side. Writing, as it happens. I have some vacation days plus a month of leave to get it done, but I can’t let the fools at the Press screw everything up while I’m gone. So, for now, I’m doing both.”
Lacey wondered if she understood he was proposing. A job? For that matter, had he understood what she was proposing? She just wanted some experimental sex. She replied evenly, “I already have a job.”
“I understand. Maybe this gig isn’t for you.” He rose and crossed his arms. “But like I said, you’ve no idea what it means to give up control. To do someone else’s bidding.” Lacey remained seated but did not reply. “Stand up, Tucker.” She stood. “Eyes forward. Hands at your side. Feet apart.” She obeyed each instruction. Ketchum left the room briefly. He returned with a small pair of scissors and regarded her from behind, a slim figure in a short black dress with a dark ponytail. He asked, “Are we trying this Tucker?”
After a pause, she said, “Okay.”
“You meant ‘yes, sir.'”
She played along. “Yes, sir.”
She continued to look straight ahead as he moved in front of her. “Very well.” He hooked a finger in the top of her dress and pulled. “You’re an Orderly. With benefits.” He reached into her dress and with a snick of the scissors, parted the cups of her bra. She felt her breasts let down and butterflies in her belly. Then he snipped both straps. “I like your tits, Tucker. Is that okay?”
She gulped but nodded.
“Answer the question, Tucker.”
“Yes, sir, it’s okay that you like…um…my tits.” She thought of Olivia’s warning.
He stepped behind her and lowered her zipper. With help from Ketchum, the ruined bra fell through the dress to the floor. He glanced at it. “That looks like a quality apparatus, Tucker. Was it expensive?”
“Sort of, yes sir.”
“We’ll see that you get another. Lift your dress.” She complied, fighting a tremble, barely breathing. Ketchum smiled and patted the vee of her white panties. “What’s this, Tucker?”
“M-my pussy…um, vagina, sir.” It grew moist as she said it.
“Yes, either will do. On special occasions it’s a ‘cunt.'” He pulled the panties open to inspect her. “That’s how others may refer to it. Very pretty, by the way. But what’s her name, Tucker?”
“Her name?”
“I see. No name. In that case, we’ll call her Lacey. You’ll want to arrange some grooming for Lacey. Now, sit. Not on the dress.” She cast her eyes at the sofa, but Ketchum pointed to the coffee table. “There.” She sat awkwardly, her bare legs sticking to the wooden tabletop. “Where’s your phone?” he asked. Lacey pointed at her coat, and he fished it out of the pocket. “Passcode?” She recited it and he tapped it in.
“Legs apart.” Ketchum picked up the discarded bra and handed it to her. “Make yourself come, Tucker. Should be easy for a nympho.” He instructed her, glancing now at her, now at the phone. “Use the apparatus. Hand in your underpants. ‘Atta girl. Give Lacey a nice rub with that fancy brassiere.” She massaged her humid pussy through a cup of the bra, tentatively at first, and heard her phone taking a picture. And another. A tantalizing wisp of dread settled on her. “Close your eyes, Tucker.” He stepped behind her and pulled the zipper lower. Opening the back of her dress, he tugged it down her arms and off her chest, baring her breasts. She pulled her idle arm out of the garment, which pooled about her waist. She got goosebumps as the air hit her chest and her nipples stiffened. She carried on masturbating; now she wanted it.