The Submission of Mary (by Michael)

2009-08-29T23:08:00.000-07:00

The Submission of Mary is an erotic novel about the travels and discoveries of a sophisticated, sensual, complex, and courageous woman. She is a business owner, married to a man she loves but does not want. She is politcal and adventurous but also has hidden herself from herself for many years.

The loss of her father and the secrets she finds out about him shock and trouble her, and yet she soon faces some of the same choices and perhaps the same demons he did. This is a story of seduction and a woman's journey into submission and domination - with all the inner turmoil and excitement that goes along with transformation.

If all you are looking for smut scene after smut scene, this story is not for you. You will find, I believe, some very erotic and sexual narrative of course, but I have also attempted to write literary erotica. There is actually a story and a purpose beyond just sexual thrills.

I have many many more chapters to post and am still working on the ending. I will post a new chapter every week or so.

Your comments are welcome.

Begin here with Chapter One!

Michael

PS. This story is my original work. Please do not repost without my written permission.

The Submission of Mary
copyright 2007-2008 Michael

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Erotica99 features some very hot stories that are 99 words or less, and most stories are accompanied by original fetish/kink art. Here is a sample:

Juxtaposition

She shifted in her seat and wondered if God liked her to be uncomfortable while listening to the preacher go on about how glorious He was.

That morning, her husband tried to fuck her ass.

She pushed him away.

It's Sunday, she said.

So what? Her husband kissed her neck.
He knew that might work.

Eventually it did.

She shifted again.

She looked at her husband just as he turned and whispered in her ear.

She smiled, then yelped as the preacher pounded his fist on the pulpit and screamed,
When he comes will you be open to him?

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Kink for Yourself currently features some of the Submission of Mary work, but there are other stories and articles there too... like these..

Fitting Punishment
When he arrived home, only one dim light was on. He opened the door, but she was not in her position. He called her name. No response. He hung up his coat, irritated at having to do such a mundane task. Then he gazed over at the dining room table. It was not set. The lack of aroma told him nothing was being prepared on the stove. <more>

Cuckolded at Last
I always knew that my wife was disappointed the first time she saw me naked. I don’t have a tiny penis but it is smaller than average and, as I found out later, the smallest penis she ever had. What made it even worse I guess is to know she was also disappointed in how I fucked her. I came quickly. It was not what she was used to. Her previous man had a big thick cock and could fuck her for a long time and often cum more than once. She told me how he fucked her at least twice per day, how he stretched her, and I knew that while she did not miss him, she did miss the feeling of a real man fucking her, filling her up. <more>

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10. Mary Lies to Peter

2008-08-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

It was rare that Mary closed the shop for anything during business hours, but she had no choice in the matter or at least it felt like she had no choice. She had to show up this time. It would be wrong not to do that. Not wrong for Michael, but for Mary. There was something about this man she had to experience. Some inner voice was urging her on, telling her that she had to play this out. This was her last chance. Not just with Michael. Mary knew he was her once in a life time opportunity.

After a little begging, the old woman who ran the cleaners agreed to have the dress ready by five. Mary rushed back to the store and heard the phone ringing as she unlocked the door. Grabbing the phone on the fifth ring, she dropped it, picked it up and said, “Hello, Womyn’s Books.”

“Mary?”

“Hi Peter.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“I am. I ran out for a sandwich and then ran back.”

“I see. You never do that”

“Yes, I know.” Mary took a deep breath. “What is it?”

“What?”

“You’re phoning me for a reason, I am guessing.”

“Oh,” Peter laughed. “Yes. You were fast asleep when I came home. And I left for work before you were awake. Just wanted to say hi, I guess.”

“That’s sweet of you, Peter.” Guilt washed over her.

“Would you like to do something tonight? A movie or eat out?”

“Oh, sorry,” Mary paused, not having had time to engineer her deception for the evening. “I just made plans with Janice.”

“Ahh, what are the two of you up to?”

“Not sure yet. We just agreed to go out.”

Oh, okay. No problem. Maybe I’ll call a few friends myself.”

“I hope you find something to do.”

“Yeh, me too. I guess I’ll work late and then…well, who knows?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?

“Going out tomorrow?”

“Sure, that would be good. We’ll figure something out.”

“Great.” Mary wondered if her enthusiasm sounded forced. Then she wondered if her enthusiasm was forced. “See you later, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“It was sweet of you, you know, calling me.”

“I love you, Mary.”

Mary’s eyes welled up. “I love you, too, Peter.”

It was a busy day at the store after that, which kept Mary from thinking too much about the evening. Her guilt remained constant, however. For lying to Peter and earlier for doing the same to Michael. What was going on? It was like she was a different person. “How could I be so deceitful?” It surprised her that she said that out loud.

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9. Michael Is Persistent

2008-08-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

The call was unavoidable. Mary knew that. She hoped Michael would just write her off as a flake, but she knew he wouldn’t give up that easily. In her heart, she prayed he wouldn’t. Men like the pursuit, she thought, and he is pursuing me, which is probably what scared me off the night before.

When Mary heard his voice, guilt washed over her, not only for not meeting him but for what she ended up doing with the other man. At some point during the evening, the man had told her his name – Stuart – which was not what she wanted to happen. But once he confessed his identity, she felt obliged to reveal hers. It was bad enough to fuck a complete stranger but somehow it seemed even more sordid to tell the stranger your name in the heat of passion. What was that about?

“You stood me up.” Michael’s voice was flat.

“Yes,” Mary said with her softest voice. “I am truly sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I panicked.”

“Why?”

“You seem so intense. It scared me.”

“When did you decide not to come?”

“I decided a million times not to come and then a million times to see you, but once I got to the door of the restaurant I just couldn’t. I am sorry. Really I am.”

Michael lighted a cigarette and exhaled. “What did you do then?”

“I went for a coffee. You know, to think.” Mary felt her body begin to tremble. What if he actually had seen her with Stuart?

“I see.”

Would you like to SEE her diary?

Mary shook her head at herself, Damn, she thought, here I am lying to a stranger and feeling guilty about it. “Um, what did you do?”

“I ate my dinner, went for a walk, and then to bed. Nothing exciting. I was hoping for a more enjoyable evening.”

Mary nodded and then realizes he couldn’t see her. “Yes, I imagine you did.”

“So…” He paused. “So, let’s try it again.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Oh God, I am not sure I can.”

“I guess we will see, won’t we. This will be my last attempt. I am only asking you to try one more time, okay?”

Mary swallowed hard. “Yes, okay. Err…when?”

“Tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Why wait?”

“No reason. I just have to find a reason to tell Peter.”

“I imagine you will be able to do that.”

“Yes, no doubt I will.”

“Wear what you wore last night. Is it still clean?

“Yes,” I lied, knowing that after we hung up I would be rushing home to grab the dress and take it to the cleaners.

8. Mary Takes A Side Trip

2008-08-30T08:33:00.000-07:00

Mary didn’t go to Sorrentinos to meet Michael. Actually, she made it to the restaurant but couldn’t persuade herself to walk through the front door. It had taken her nearly two hours to get ready. She questioned herself throughout her preparation. Stepping out of the shower, she caught her reflection in the steamy mirror. Mary studied her face, clearing off the glass for a good look. “You can’t do this,” she whispered. But fifteen minutes later she was drying her hair and wondering what shoes to wear.

When Mary finally found the black dress, she laid it out on the bed and stared at it. Would the person wearing that dress really be her? How could she go meet a stranger dressed like that? Worse, how could she go meet a stranger with these thoughts inside her head? No, she told herself, I can’t go. Mary walked briskly to her closet and hung the dress back up, shoving it in the back corner of the closet. By the time she made it to the bathroom, her resolve has vanished. She put on her make-up, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.

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The underwear Mary chose was black silk, the bra low cut. She resisted smiling but failed eventually. She looked good tanding there half dressed. It had been ages since Mary felt sexy and desired. She had forgotten how exhilarating it was to feel that way. Slowly, she slipped the dress on savoring the chill of the fabric as it slid down my body.

It dawned on her then that he might want to take the dress off. This made Mary blush and it got worse when she wondered if it would be easy enough for him to get at her in this dress. Would it slip off nicely or would it be an awkward experience for both of them? Her head spinning, Mary slipped on the stay-ups she had purchased on her way home.

The drive to the restaurant was automatic; once there, she couldn’t even recall the route she had taken. She parked two blocks away, hoping the walk would straighten her out. It did and it didn’t. Mary stood at the window peering in, hoping to see him, but only part of the restaurant was visible from her vantage point. She must have stood there too long because people began to notice her. One couple chuckled at this strange woman in the window and whispered to each other while sneaking glances at Mary. She smiled at them and immediately felt foolish for doing so.

Mary walked to the door, wrapped her hand around the handle, pressed the lever with her thumb, but that was all. She turned and scurried away, ashamed and relieved at the same time. Without thinking she strolled into a little bistro that she hadn’t noticed when she parked the car. She sat down at the corner table and ordered a latte from a freckle-faced girl who was, Mary imagined, the daughter of the owner. The girl looked too innocent to be there for any other reason.

Mary sipped her latte, lost in her thoughts when she felt a presence standing near by. She looked up to find an older man standing to her right. He had silver hair and was dressed in a black suit. The word, lawyer, entered her mind.

“Miss, are you okay?” He smiled.

“Yes… no… Yes,” Mary muttered. Who was this man?

He laughed. “Well, now that I know the answer, I can stop worrying about you.”

Mary laughed too. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It has been a very strange day.”

“Man trouble?”

Mary scrunched her face. Why was he standing there? She followed his eyes to the empty chair alongside of her. “Would you like to sit?”

He nodded. “Thank you. I would be happy to join you.”

Mary had never had a thing for older men, but this one had a certain appeal. It had to be her vulnerability affecting her judgment, but then again a good looking man is a good looking man, no matter his age. He was polite and well spoken and easy at conversation. They talked about normal things: unpredictable weather, the upcoming civic election and how pointless elections were these days, and at one point he mentioned being divorced. Mary figured it was his way of indicating his availability. Mary thought to confess her own marriage to him. Instead she ran her hand along the scoop neck of her dress and released a smile she had deployed since her university days. That shocked her, teasing him that way. And it felt good to see the desire in his eyes.

The confusion raging inside her head was demanding some kind of intervention, some thing or some one that would save her, rescue her from what she was about to do, but nothing came forward. Mary’s eyes rose to meet his. He seemed to sense it would be prudent to wait for her to say something

“I was on my way to meet a man,” Mary said matter of factly.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” His voice trailed off.

Mary held up my hand. “Please. Let me say this.” She took another sip of the latte and then a deep breath. “I was on my way to meet a man I hardly know. He told me what to wear and amazingly enough I did, but when I got to the restaurant, I couldn’t get myself to walk through the doors. I knew what would happen if I did.” She smiled at the man, thankful he was still there. “I need something,” I whispered. “But I am terrified.” Then after a brief but painful silence, she added, “Jesus, why on earth am I telling you this?”

“Don’t we all,” he said ignoring Mary’s final comment. Then, with a quick pat on her hand, he added, “Perhaps me being here is not a good idea for you.”

Mary watched his hand float through space, descend to touch hers and then retreat to his side of the table. “Or perhaps this is exactly where you should be.” Mary lowered her eyes. There was something powerful in doing that.

“Why would you stand up your friend and want to be here with me?”

It was a good question. Mary scrutinized the fine hairs on her arm. She could feel them rooted in my skin. “It’s a matter of intensity I think.”

“Oh,” he said. “You want something simple?”

“Yes.”

“Unencumbered?”

Mary nodded and smiled. “Yes. You are an intelligent man.”

Her companion looked around the room as if he, too, were hoping for rescue. “This is new for me,” he said. “ I am rather old fashioned, I guess.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not really sure what to say… or do.”

“Well I don’t suppose I am making it easy on you, am I?”

“Being single again after so many years is far from easy for me anyway,” he said, his face relaxing a bit.

“Can I be perfectly blunt then?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I can handle that.” He looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be standing there. “Blunt but gentle, okay?”

Mary let go a nervous laugh. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

The man said nothing.

“I would like … Oh, I fear you will think poorly of me.”

“I promise I won’t.” He leaned toward Mary. “Please. You can’t stop now. It wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

Mary shook her head. “No, I suppose not.” She shifted, tugged a little on her skirt and then, without looking at the man, she said, “I want you to fuck me.”

The man sat back in his chair. “You don’t mix words, do you?”

“If you knew me, you wouldn’t say that. I actually have a hard time admitting what I want. Anyway, I have probably embarrassed myself and perhaps you as well.”

“Shall I tell you my name?”

“I would prefer not knowing.”

“Very well.” It took him a moment to understand that the next move was his and his alone. Standing up, he threw some money on the table. He extended his hand. Mary took it and held onto it until they were out on the street.

“I live a few blocks from here.”

“Yes,” Mary whispered.

When they walked past Sorrentinos, she couldn’t help but peek inside. Half of her hoped that Michael would see them. The other half was terrified that he would.

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7. Discovering More About Father

2008-08-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

When the police were done with their investigation, they returned Frank’s computer to Mary as well as papers and other effects they had taken into evidence. Three months had passed. The police determined that his heart attack was likely brought on by sniffing poppers. Apparently an empty brown bottle was found under the sofa. As well the forensic report, Mary was told, bore out the probability of their conclusion. Still, it was unsettling that they were giving up on finding the person who had been there. They thought it was a woman, but they couldn't be sure.

Mary found out they had checked on the photograph of the woman on his bedroom wall. It was a fetish photograph from a series sold at a local sex shop. The clerk there remembered selling it to Mary’s father; so the police concluded that the photograph had no importance to the case. Mary wasn’t so sure. Why that photograph? Of all the kinky photographs to buy, why this woman? If he was into fetish photography, why weren't there other pictures, either on walls or hidden away in boxes? He had no photographs saved on his computer and none of the bookmarks in his browser showed an interest in such imagery. Mary figured the woman meant something to him. She was sure he knew her. The police thought otherwise, unfortunately.

Her father’s computer did reveal quite a bit about his life. At first, Mary only went through his files a few minutes at a time. She would stop as soon as she came across something that she could not accept as being associated with my father. While he was not a collector of pornography, there were articles and stories about men like him scattered throughout his hard drive. Typically Mary turned the computer off when she found them and did something else, trying to clear her mind. It got easier over time, though, and eventually she went through everything.

Frank’s fetish for women’s clothing, especially lingerie, may have been his secret, but computers offer no discretion. The data they contain is there for the taking. It was one thing for Mary to have found him dressed like that, but quite another to understand his enjoyment of it and to know he was dressed that way on his own volition. Mary had tried to convince herself that this other person had forced her father into red panties, but it was just wishful thinking. There was enough evidence on his computer to keep her head spinning for weeks.

One particular file contained a listing of websites with names like “Sissy Boys,” “Domina the Goddess,” and “Spank Me Mistress.” Mary visited every site, reading everything she could and viewing shameful pictures of men dressed like her father was. He apparently enjoyed being spanked and embarrassed. There were numerous she found archived in a folder -- email exchanges with a variety of women, all of them about the spankings and other things he wished these woman would give him. He wrote one that he would be willing to service her and her husband. Mary’s father was bi-sexual? How could that be? Then again, she thought, I slept with Janice. I liked being with a woman.

This was a time of head spinning discoveries for Mary. She was shocked and forlorn but such reactions wore off rather quickly. When she realized that this life seemed to make her father happy, she stopped despairing about it. Who was she to judge him? Besides, when Mary read over the emails from the women, she sensed something that she could not explain. It had something to do with living on the edge of things, something to do with letting go. She just couldn't place what it was.

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Mary contemplated writing these women. Perhaps they could tell her something about her father that she should know. Then again, they might not even remember him and Mary was not sure she could face that. The police said they had contacted them anyway; Mary tried to convince herself that they knew what they were doing; there was no reason for her to write them, too.

Truth be told, she did write one person. The day before she cancelled her father's ISP account, an email arrived from a woman. It was a brief note asking how he was doing and if she should expect to see him again. Shaking, Mary wrote her and informed her of what happened. She asked the woman who she was and how she knew my father. Her reply arrived an hour later. She sent her condolences but was not forthcoming with any real information. She was an old friend and hadn't heard from my father for a while. Mary showed the exchange to the police. They never really told her what they found out or if they ever contacted the woman.

___

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6. Michael's Seduction Begins

2008-08-29T12:58:00.000-07:00

Mary didn’t give much thought to her initial encounter with Michael. She didn’t even know his name at the time. In fact, she never even thought to inquire. It’s not that he didn’t cross her mind here or there, but whenever he did, it was a fleeting recollection typically punctuated by her strong reaction to the way he held himself and perhaps more so the manner in which he ogled her.

Each day rolled into the next. Life maintained its normal pace. The bookstore kept her busy, too much so for the money it generated, but the newness and excitement of being her own boss hadn’t rubbed off yet. Mary believed that the store could succeed, despite the influx of big box bookstores with their coffeehouse crannies and little gift shops. They were hard to compete with, price-wise and otherwise.

Life with Peter was pretty much the same as well. That evening of the day she first met Michael resulted in a big fight with her husband. He wanted to have sex. Mary didn’t. This led to accusations about her never wanting to have sex when he wanted. She said a few mean things about his prowess or lack of it. He stormed out of the house, no doubt to Hogan’s to drink beer with all of the other undersexed men in the neighborhood. Mary sat at the kitchen table sipping on lemon tea trying to figure out why Mary did or didn’t do the things she did or didn’t do.

I made up for it the following day. Being hard nosed is one thing, but being cruel was contrary to the picture I held of herself, especially when it came Peter. After all was said and done, he was good to her. And Mary was savvy enough about relationships to know that sometimes it makes sense to have sex even when you don’t want to. It’s the giving part of the relationship, she told herself. Sometimes you’ve just got to put out.

She did just that in the morning in the bathroom. Peter had just stepped out of the shower. Instead of handing him a towel, Mary began wiping him off. She bent down to dry his legs and brushed her hair against his penis. Once done with his feet, she looked up and there it was right by her mouth. Mary took him in and smiled to herself when he moaned with surprise.

When he came she held his penis over her hand and watched him empty himself. Mary knew Peter wished she would let him release in her mouth, but she had a block about that. Mary had let him a couple of times early on in their relationship, and she didn’t mind it really, but things just changed. Somehow a man ejaculating in a woman’s mouth seemed political to her. His sperm didn’t really belong there. It was meant for another place and another purpose.

Peter didn’t seem to mind this time, however. On this particular day, his sperm flowing into his wife’s hand was just fine with him. He thanked her more than once. It pleased Mary to know how good it made him feel, though she never did actually apologize for the night before. He would have liked that, too, but Mary was too stubborn to be that vulnerable. Eventually, he became overbearing with his gratitude and Mary had to push him away. Saying thanks is one thing, she thought, but his over embellishments of praise became pitiful. He told her he would be happy to reciprocate.

“Why can’t you just be a normal man about it?”

Peter just shrugged – another pitiful gesture. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just take your blow job and…well…be happy with it being enough.”

“Oh,” he said. “Now it’s a bad thing for a man to want to please his woman.”

Mary could feel words floating up into her throat that she knew, if liberated, would hurt him. She was skilled at crafting deflating commentaries about Peter’s manliness but this time she didn’t want to go there. So, she smiled and said, “You have a point, Peter.” Then she kissed his cheek and walked out of the room.

It was a week or so before Michael resurfaced. He wandered into the store one sunny afternoon, still wearing his leather coat. Mary was with a customer at the time. He nodded at her and she returned the signal and then went back to her business. He waited by the window, apparently watching the traffic. At least this time he didn’t pretend to be interested in the books.

He kept his vigil at the window even after my customer left. “Was it a big sale?” He didn’t bother turning around.

“I sell one book at a time.” Mary took the five dollar bills out of the register and counted them.

He turned around. “You don’t seem to like me much.”

Mary raised her head and looked at him, truly looked, for the first time. God, he was handsome. Not classically so, but in his own peculiar way. It was hard to pinpoint. “Well, “ she said. “You are a bit full of yourself.”

“And aggressive.”

“That, too.”

“And sexist and arrogant.” His face was deadpan.

Mary couldn’t help but smile. “Right again. At least you are acutely self-aware.”

He let out a husky laugh. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am just acutely aware of you.” He walked toward the register, his eyes roaming like the last time. He did that so shamelessly. It didn’t bother Mary quite as much as before. It did give her pause, though. What exactly did he see when he looked at her that way? Mary was curious about that.

A shiver was born that moment somewhere deep inside Mary’s gut. She poured herself a coffee. Doing so allowed her a moment to collect myself. To say that this man made her uncomfortable was akin to a man saying he read Playboy for the articles. He made Mary’s head spin although not in a bad way. It was almost as if the discomfort he caused was enticing somehow – almost like foreplay, but different.

“Any coffee available for an arrogant lout?”

Against her better judgement, Mary poured another cup. “Do you take anything?”

"You mean in my coffee?" His eyes twinkled when he said that.

Mary’s eyes turned stern. "Yes," she hissed.

“Sugar, please.”

Mary set the cup and the box of sugar cubes on the counter. “There,” she said.

Michael looked at the coffee and then at the sugar cubes. His eyes moved to Mary’s.

“What now?”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?” Mary couldn’t hide her frustration.

“Put the sugar in for me. Two cubes, please.” He arched his eyebrows when he said that. It was almost surreal.

Mary could feel the hairs on her neck tug at their roots. “Did you take a course on how to infuriate women?”

Nonplussed by her obvious irritation, he took two cubes and dropped them in his coffee. He stirred longer than necessary – surely, Mary imagined, to irritate her further.

“I have trained for a long time in the art of seduction.” He made a tiny sound, sort of like the beginning part of a chuckle. It was the strangest thing. While not what one would expect out of his mouth, it added to his mystique, his charm. Lifting the cup to his lips, he blew three times across the liquid before taking his first sip. “My mentor taught me that you have to ask for what you want.”

“Did he mention you don’t always get what you ask for?”

Michael set his coffee down and slipped out of his coat and threw it over the stool next to him.

“Settling in are we?”

“You are very observant. Would you like me to leave?”

Mary’s answer was not immediate. There was that old demon in her wanting to articulate a clear and resounding yes to his question, but when she got past the urge to get rid of him she was confronted with her attraction to him. It felt dangerous and that felt refreshing. “No, you can stay and finish your coffee.”

“By the way, my mentor was a woman.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all. I am surprised you would assume otherwise. Doesn’t making those kind of gender assumptions go against the grain of the feminist spirit?”

Now he was mocking her. Mary looked down and watched her hands tighten into a fist.

“Gee,” he said. “If looks could kill.” He seemed incredibly calm, though there was a trace of a beguiling sneer peeking through his otherwise expressionless face.

Inexplicably Mary began to laugh. “You are too much.”

He chuckled. “Your buttons are easy to push, dear.”

Her laughter was short-lived. “Call me dear again and…and…” She didn’t know how to finish her sentence. She just left herself there suspended in rage, conscious how incredibly vulnerable she felt.

“It just happens,” he said, holding his hands out as if to suggest he was the innocent victim of some uncontrollable inner force.

“Yeh, right.” Mary watched him take another drink. At this pace he would be here forever. “So…”

His eyes perked up. “Yes?”

“Umm...” Mary grimaced. She hated not knowing what to say.

He waited. Mary stuttered some more. Finally he bailed her out.

“You want to know why I am here, I imagine.”

“Bingo,” Mary said, not believing she said the word bingo.

“Promise not to laugh or go berserk on me?

Mary waved her hand at him. “I’ll make no promises about the latter,” she said, trying to hide the playfulness in her voice. “I can probably control the laughter, though.”

He stood up and walked around in a small circle, finally stopping at the greeting card display. One card seemed to strike his fancy. He plucked it out of its holder and opened it. “I am very interested in you,” he said, his eyes still inside the card.

Mary hadn’t expected that. Maybe she should have. Why else would he be hanging around? “You’re not…” He looked up at me. “Jesus, “ Mary said. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

He sat down in front of Mary as she stood up. She prayed for a customer to walk in, but there was no saving her from this. She sat down. “I’m married,” she said. There, she thought. That should clear things up.

“Yes,” he said. He put his hand on top of hers.

Mary looked down at his hand. She began pulling hers away, slowly.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t .”

“You’re driving me crazy,” Mary whispered. His hand felt good on hers. She didn’t want it to, but it did. “Why on earth would I…I mean how…you know, what could ever…” Mary sighed. “Gee, I sound like a babbling idiot.”

Michael grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you do.”

Mary glared at him. “You’re such a shit.”

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“No, it’s…it’s gas.” God, Mary thought, another piece of great oration.

“You like me.” Michael squeezed her hand.

“Do I?” Mary could smell his cologne. It reminded her of the ocean.

“Absolutely.”

“You piss me off”

“I stir things up. You infuriate yourself, dear.”

Mary watched him take his hand away, rub it through his thick brown hair and then place it back on hers. His eyes were magical, clear blue pools that flashed when he moved. This time, when he said that word, Mary just flinched a little. She figured she could argue that point another time.

“I am very flattered. Really I am, but I don’t think this… I don’t think you and I would be…Shit, there I go again.”

He mouthed the words bumbling idiot and ducked.

“Did I mention you are a shit?”

“I believe you did. I love it when you talk dirty to me.” His eyes fell to Mary’s breasts. “Your breathing has changed.”

Mary looked down. “I don’t think so.”

“And your nipples are hard.”

Her nipples were hard. “It just happens sometimes. Don’t let it go to your head.”

He traced a finger along the veins in her hand. "I imagine you are getting wet as well, aren't you dear?

Mary pulled her hand away. “Okay, enough.” She was clearly and firmly flustered. The effect this man had on her was uncanny. “This would be a good time for you to leave.”

She expected an argument or some smart remark, but he was not that predictable. He stood up and buttoned his coat. “Sure,” he said. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, he began his exit. Everything seemed to slow down. The ceiling fan. The traffic outside. The background music softened. Mary could have sworn that the lights dimmed as well. The door was only 20 feet from the counter, but it seemed like it took him forever to get there.

She felt like she should say something. He was nearly there now, his hand arcing toward the door handle, his long coat swaying in slow motion to the rhythm of his body’s glide across the room. Then it came out of her – two words separated by a pause.

“Wait.” Where did that come from? And then, “Please.” Unbelievable, she thought. Her entire body was hot.

He stopped. The only noise in the room seemed to be Mary’s beating heart. Still facing the door, he said, “Do you know where Sorrentinos is?”

“Yes.” Her voice squeaked.

“Did you say something?”

Mary cleared my throat. “Yes, I know where it is.”

“Meet me there at eight o’clock.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Not exactly.” He half turned around. “Wear a dress, something that buttons down the front.”

He didn’t wait for a response. When the door clicked shut, Mary finally said, “In your dreams, buster.” Never in her life had she allowed a man to tell her what to wear. And what did he mean by “not exactly” a date? If it wasn’t a date, what was it then? An interview? “You’ll be dining alone tonight, Mister,” she muttered. “And I bet it won’t be the first time.”

Mary dumped the remainder of his coffee in the sink. She dropped the cup and watched it break and scatter across the wooden floor. All of this was just posturing. Who was she kidding? her mind was already sifting through her closet, wondering if she would still fit in the black dress she had bought last summer.

It was then that Mary thought of Peter. How would she get out of the house? She sighed when she remembered he was off to a hockey game that evening. It was the first time she had ever been grateful for professional sports and the men who love them.

5. Michael - A Rare Exception

2008-08-29T12:57:00.000-07:00

Mary met Michael nearly ten years after her father's death. The passage of time had allowed her to think back about her father without always recalling how she found him wearing what he was. The police determined that her father died of a heart attack. They also knew he had not been alone that day, but they were never able to identify who her father's guest had been.

They had some suspicions of foul play, but Mary was disappointed in their efforts to find her father’s companion. She had nearly forgotten the dark, hidden aspects of her father's life when Michael came along.

Michael was not the kind of man one imagines entering Womyn’s Books. Tall and rugged looking, he had an air about him that seemed primal, dangerous, and intoxicating. His blue eyes seared through my defenses but were also soft and tinted with whimsy.

Mary sighed when she saw his large hands. She envisioned them running over her flesh with a deliberation as steady as his gait. Water dripped from his dark hair. He was wearing a long leather coat. He smiled and commented on the weather. Mary assumed he came inside purely to escape the showers that had already drenched him.

Looking around, he said, “I don’t imagine too many men venture in here.”

“No,” Mary said. “You’re a rare exception.”

“Pity. Men should be more interested in the affairs of women.”

“Why is that?” Mary’s voice was cold.

“Women tend to have a perspective that men are incapable of feeling. It’s from here.” He placed his hand on his chest.

“Oh brother.”

If he heard Mary, he didn't let on. “Men either limit themselves to the smallest regions of their minds or succumb to the penis as their driving force.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smirked but said nothing.

Mary glared at him. That was either the corniest come-on ever or the words of a man with a provocative albeit eclectic charm. She warded off another sarcastic jibe and decided to test him a little. “I think men should be more interested in what women need.”

His lips curled slightly as he stepped toward the counter. Mary watched his eyes scan her body as he walked. He was subtle but unashamed of what he was doing. A chill jabbed Mary’s spine which caused her to shift noticeably on her stool. “I am especially curious about that,” he said.

“That?” Mary’s voice quivered a little. She flinched at her reaction.

His chuckle made it out of his mouth. “About what women need.”

A voice inside of Mary was saying “Uh oh.” This man was more attractive than any man had a right to be. Her automatic response was to protect myself. “Men have no clue,” she said, curtly, careful to avoid his eyes.

He laughed. “That is often true, dear. But there are always exceptions to every rule.”

Mary couldn’t believe what just happened. Did she hear correctly? Did he just call her, “dear?” She squinted at him. “Did you just call me, ‘dear?’”

He wiped his brow. “Yes. I believe I did.”

Mary’s face grew red and hot. She opened her mouth and then closed it.

“You find that offensive, don’t you?” He said this matter-of-factly, his voice calm.

“It’s condescending,” Mary snorted.

“I see.” His eyes resumed their journey across her body. “My apologies for making you so… uncomfortable.” His gaze met Mary’s for a moment. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

Mary watched him turn to leave. He stopped once to look at a book display, rubbing his chin as if considering a purchase. This is where things got strange. Normally when a man pissed Mary off, which was a regular occurrence, she either went on a unrelenting tirade or quietly but firmly told him to leave.

But this man, while acknowledging her anger, seemed ultimately unaffected by it. His apology was genuine, she felt, but Mary doubted he regretted his choice of words. They had just rolled off his tongue as if he had used them a thousand times before. His apology was for the upset it caused, not for saying the words.

He turned and looked at Mary with what she interpreted to be a puzzled expression. For the second time she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing emerged. It made sense that he should leave. It made perfect sense. Apparently he felt that way, too.

____

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4. The Struggles with Peter

2008-08-29T12:56:00.000-07:00

Mary married Peter shortly after her father's death. Many of her friends challenged her judgment. Getting married so soon after a death in the family seemed suspect or at least represented a sublimation of some sort – or so Mary’s friends would have her believe. Janice was the only one who stood by her.

“For a man,” she said. “Well, he is a good man.” Janice laughed. “You know I am teasing you, right?”

Mary chuckled. “Yes, I know.”

Mary knew Peter was a good man. He was respectful and supportive, but like so many good men, he lacked the power to liberate her inhibitions. Mary always felt that Peter, in his own peculiar way, wanted to let go of himself, but he didn’t know how. Once in a while a hint of something raw would sneak through his staid demeanor. One evening he slinked across the bedroom and knelt at Mary’s feet. He unfastened his wife’s jeans and pulled down her panties with wild eyes. Mary enjoyed that, but it seemed to her more like a bedroom game than an expression of something he believed in, much less craved. Once, he tried to spank Mary, which made her laugh out loud for some reason.

She had an intense urge to flip things around and show him how a real spanking should be delivered. He surprised Mary, however, when he shrugged off her chuckle, turned around and bent over and gave Mary a wanton look. She stopped laughing, placed her hands on her hips, and stared at him, speechless. Then, there was the time he grabbed Mary’s hair and began pushing her down to the floor between his legs. He still has the scar on his thigh from Mary’s teeth. That little rebellion was about place – his and hers. It was a drama between two lost souls confused about power and love.

For Peter, these were episodes of kink gone awry. Mary’s reaction was something else altogether. She couldn’t bring herself to surrender to a man who could not sustain her surrender. There were feeble attempts at talking about their love-making, about their respective needs for more than brief journeys beyond conventional sex. For years, Mary thought they didn’t trust each other enough, but she kept that to herself. As frustrated as she was, hurting Peter with such a comment was unnecessary.

Instead, Mary did her utmost to make him feel guilty for having any feelings that offered even the slightest allusion of a power play. Anything that insinuated subservience to him was rebuffed by her, often with physical consequences – a slap across the face, a shove with both hands, and once a solid kick in the shin. Sometimes he tried the opposite tactic, acquiescing to her will, focusing solely on her pleasure, making dinner, cleaning the bathroom – he tried so many different ways to reach Mary and failed at them all. Mary was adamant about not letting him into her space, her world, her inner sanctum.

Loving Peter was never in question, but Mary created an environment that disallowed much opportunity to express such emotion. Unable to talk about her power, she became obsessed with preserving it, too much so to accept being vulnerable to his. Even worse she failed to realize that obsession with power was ultimately debilitating. The harder she held on to it, the more slippery it became.

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Janice was the only person Mary could confide in about her struggles. They had coffee at least once per week and it was then that the two women shared their secrets, offered their confessions, and exposed their fears.

“It’s sad to admit, Janice, but I’ve resigned myself to never experiencing fully what I could be with a man, the right man.”

“The right man?” Janice blew the steam from her coffee. “How would you define that?”

“I don’t know – that’s the thing. My imagination’s been overpowered by my harsh view of the world, my struggles with sexuality and power, and, to be completely forthright, by the fear of creating an image in my mind – and heart – that would accomplish little more than to torment me with its improbability.”

“You’re afraid of hoping for something that will never exist?”

Mary nodded. “Yes, never exist with Peter at least. Sometimes I think I was wrong…to…”

Janice interrupted. “I know, Mary. I know.”

“I don’t want to imply that my life is empty or somehow a drudgery. Our life – Peter’s and mine – is rich with good friends, decent work, and enough money to be comfortable.”

“Yes,” Janice sighed. “The story of millions.”

Mary frowned. “You’re not being helpful.”

“Sorry. But you know I have my own shit, too. Try to keep that in mind.”

While Peter was not an activist by any stretch of the imagination, he was supportive of Mary and never – well, almost never -- complained about her late night meetings or weekend marches, not to mention Mary’s capricious tirades against men.

“You know, Janice. Sometimes I admire Peter's ability to yield and bend to the forces around him. I am sure he tires of my blatherings and my affinity for the underbelly of life, but he seems able to shrug them off and go on his way, unaware that his lack of reaction drives me wild. I resent his tranquility. I told him that once in a fit of rage about something I can't recall now. What I got in return was a small but warm smile. You know what he said to me?”

Janice lighted a cigarette.

“He said, ‘What I resent sometimes is your capacity for resentment.’ That made me cry.”

“That was cruel.”

“I thought so. Peter's response to my tears is typically to hold me and whisper kind things into my ear. This time he just said his piece and left the room. It was a mean thing. It hurt. But when I thought about how I treated him sometimes, I imagined most men would have been meaner to me a lot sooner.”

“He must get frustrated too. It’s not like him to be hurtful”

“No doubt. Our sex life is the sex life of millions of couples, relegated to weekends and the occasional hotel romp while on vacation. We talked about having children once or twice but never decided either way, which meant I stayed on the pill. I was torn about it, but in the long run I figured I was better off forgoing motherhood.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Yes and no. Some women are cut out for it. Others, like me, would have to force the issue, and I didn’t want to do that. Actually I harbored fears that I would create a monster child who, while soundly principled and consistently politically correct, would end up living a sad and despairing life.”

The two women sat quietly for a time. The waiter brought them more coffee and Janice smoked another cigarette. Mary knew Janice was unhappy, too, but neither of them had the energy to talk about it now.

Janice was better at changing direction. She tilted her head toward the waiter. He was grinding more coffee. “Cute, don’t you agree?”

Mary smiled. “You’re such a slut.”

Janice laughed. “Why thank you. Thank you very much.”

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3. Janice

2008-08-29T12:54:00.000-07:00

Janice was a writer for the local alternative paper. She wrote a column on local politics and did the occasional theatre review. The money wasn’t great – in fact she always complained about her inadequate remuneration – but she enjoyed the job and the profile it gave her in the community.

A bright, attractive woman, she also had occasional bouts of moodiness. Sometimes Mary worried about her – she seemed so sad when she was in one of her blue periods. Not really listless but difficult to be around. Then she would just change on a dime and return to her natural state of gregariousness.

She enjoyed long conversations about just about anything that was out of the mainstream -- always with a story to tell about the latest political screw-up at city council or a point of view to share about alternative life. She had always showed a strong interest in Mary’s background, her feminist leanings.

Janice and Mary grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and lusted after the same boys in high school. They were inseparable. For as long as Mary could recall, Janice was her confidant, the only person alive who knew her fully, understood things about Mary before she did, and never hurt her with as much as an unkind word. They lost track of each other for a short time after Mary married Peter. Janice moved to Vancouver around then, thinking she could get a writing job there. Two years later, tired from the pursuit of her dream job, she came home and, without knowing it, took an apartment in Mary’s neighborhood.

Their reunion as at the grocery store. Janice was leaning over a display of peaches. Janice always had a nice body, and the sight of her buttocks in tight jeans bent over caused a stir in Mary. It surprised her to feel that way about Janice. Perhaps it was the time spent apart that allowed Mary to catch a glimpse of janice as a woman, not confine her perceptions to those of friendship. Uncharacteristically, Mary gave her friend a slap on the ass.

"That's quite a peach you got there, girl." Mary laughed and hugged Janice as she turned around. "It is so good to see you."

Janice laughed, too. "Hey! I don't let just anyone spank my ass, you know." Her embrace was warm and enthusiastic.

That was the beginning of a renewed and more intimate relationship. About a month later, they had sex -- the second time either had been with a woman. They were tender and affectionate in bed, careful to ensure equity in pleasure. Their bodies fit so well together and they seemed to have a natural ability to find those special spots that give rise to trembling, panting, and deep orgasms.

Even so, later as they lay exhausted in bed, both of them felt confused and wondered if this had all been a mistake. Being friends and being lovers were two very different choices. They talked about it, snuggling sometimes or sitting face to face, propped up on pillows. It was the kind of conversation intimate people should have: honest, provocative, safe, and uplifting. The conversation eventually led to more kissing and touching. At one point, Janice dug a strap on harness out of her bottom drawer. Mary watched her put it on, fascinated by the image of a woman made man by leather and plastic. Mary actually chuckled out loud.

She stopped when Janice rolled her over and fucked her with the strap-on. The dildo was quite large and Mary had never felt so full and spent. She must have orgasmed four or five times before they both collapsed on the bed. But that was it. They talked things over some more and agreed they would return to the friendship. Being lovers could risk that, they felt. Janice said one thing that has stayed with Mary all these years. She said they weren't ready for being lovers, that something was missing from the equation and that maybe when they were older and wiser they might wish to reconsider.

Janice ran into the lobby and took Mary in her arms. She brought Mary home and waited with her until Peter got home. There was little talk. Mary rested on Janice’s lap while her friend stroked her hair. She was the perfect person to call. Peter would be full of questions.

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2. Her Father's Secret

2008-08-29T12:53:00.000-07:00

It was a couple days after Mary’s 25th birthday that her father died. He had been separated from my mother for several years and living in a small condo that over looked the North Saskatchewan River. Mary spent a fair amount of time at his place; she found solace there, not having to worry about talking.

The view from his living room window was incredible. They enjoyed many evenings sitting together just looking out over the winding blue path of the river, saying little except for the occasional comment about the chaotic beauty of nature, the tranquil power of water, the graceful movement of clouds. Mary’s father, Frank, was not one for physical contact, but during these times he would seem to forget himself and put his arm around his daughter. Mary was fond of resting her head on his shoulder and listening to his heartbeat keep time with the rush of the water below. There was such peace there with him, such safety.

Of course, their time together was not always a time of silence. They had their conversations, especially when they ate together. Over a meal, Frank was a different person: talkative, full of stories, inquisitive. The act of eating seemed to give him the strength to be expressive, engaging, and charming. He enjoyed talking politics with Mary. Her feminism never seemed to rankle him, though Mary could tell he felt she was too extreme, too narrow in her view of the world. Not everything in your life should be in reaction to men, he remarked once. He often said things like that to Mary, but not to confront her politics. Frank knew his daughter was unhappy and it seemed unfair to let her politics cause such sadness and disappointment. His challenges were his way of encouraging Mary to find joy in life.

While Mary sensed that her father was a different kind of man than most she really had no idea about why she felt that way. There were things about him that had no rationale. His distance seemed bound in secrets he kept from his daughter and no doubt everyone else, but Mary had no inkling of what these secrets were. She asked him once to tell her about himself, about things she didn't know about him. Frank just smiled and touched his daughter’s cheek and said, "Every man has his secrets. The same with women. What good would they be if we confessed them to others?"

"I just want to know as much about you as I can," Mary protested.

He thought about that for a moment, his brow lifting into a furl. "Well," he whispered. "It is quite the thing to know your father has secrets he will not tell his daughter, don’t you think?"

"You like being a mystery to me?"

"Oh, no. Not at all." He kissed Mary’s cheek. “I just feel I have no choice in the matter.”

Mary was going to say something but the look in his eyes stopped her. Uncovering what he kept hidden was not worth the harm it might cause him or their relationship.

Mary found her father on a Sunday afternoon. It was a surprise visit. She knocked but entered with her own key when he did not answer. She figured he was out but knew he wouldn't mind her sitting for a while at the window. Mary felt immediately that something was wrong when she stepped into the foyer. There was no logical explanation for feeling that way. She just knew something dark had happened, something terrible. Everything was in its place, neat and tidy. Mary stood there for a while afraid to move, not wanting to find out if her intuition was on target.
She walked cautiously down the corridor toward the living room and jumped when the grandfather's clock began chiming: Bong, bong, bong. Three o'clock. The sounds still resonating, Mary turned the corner and saw him slouched sideways on the couch, eyes wide yet lifeless like a sculpture. The force of that image threw her backwards around the corner. It seemed like a dream to Mary – as if this time when she turned the corner he would be sitting straight up reading the paper and greet her with the small wave he usually gave.

It was not a dream. There was no wave. Just him bent over, his flesh a cool blue like the river below. Mary didn’t know what other people do in such situations, but she felt compelled to touch him. It made no sense. Even though she had never seen a dead person before, it was clear he had passed away. Mary walked over -- it seemed to take forever -- and sat down next to her father.

"Father," she whispered. Mary touched him and was surprised that she did not recoil from the cold flesh. "Father," she whispered.

Mary called the police. It was then, the moment after hanging up, that she noticed what her father was wearing. No doubt her eyes had taken this all in before but it had not registered right away. The police were in transit and here her father was sitting there nearly naked wearing red panties and black nylon stockings. Actually one of the stockings was around his ankle. The other was still pulled up snug around his thigh.

Mary wasn't shocked for some reason, but the thought of the police discovering him that way was more than she could fathom. Mary walked in circles in front of him debating a course of action with herself. Everyone knows not to mess with a dead body, she thought, but he’s my father. I don’t want him discovered in red panties.

Biting her lip Mary knelt down and removed the nylons. Then, closing her eyes she slid his panties off as well. At one point, his body rolled up against her shoulder and Mary had to push him back. Mary held the undergarments out in front of her. She was sweating. Then the buzzer rang, and she yelped. She rose quickly from the floor and nearly fainted from the blood rush. Anxious that the police would arrive at any moment, Mary stuffed the nylons and panties in her purse and set it on the side table. When the buzzer rang again, she took a deep breath and pressed the button on the intercom.

"Yes?" she said.

A voice said, "Police."

By the time the officers entered the suite, Mary was weeping, shaking violently.

The only thing Mary knew about the police was what she had seen on television. Mary understood that police dramas were so much glitz, but she couldn’t help comparing the two officers to the cop shows she had watched in the past: Law and Order, NYPD Blue, shows like that. It was a man and a woman who came to her father's condo. The man was short and stocky and had a Greek name and the woman was tall with dark curly hair and tiny eyes. She looked annoyed and Mary imagined there had been an argument of some sort between them on the way over.

The man's name was Alex. He left the female officer with Mary while he walked into the living room. The female, Susan something or other, asked Mary if she was okay. It was something anyone might say in such a circumstance but it seemed so unreal to ask that. Of course she wasn't okay. My father is dead, she thought. I discovered him dead. And then there were the panties and the stockings. But Mary said nothing. She just nodded that she was okay and they just stood there and waited, not really sure why or for what.

Alex returned a minute or two later and looked past Mary to his partner. "I think we should phone homicide," he said.

The next thing Mary knew was that she waking up on the floor with Susan looming over her. "It's okay," she said. "You fainted is all."

It was then that more officers arrived. They were dressed in suits and Mary figured they were detectives. They looked down at her as they followed Alex into the living room. One of them stopped for a moment and smiled.

"Hi," Mary said. "I fainted." Mary’s face reddened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess that’s pretty obvious.”

"It's okay," he said. "I would, too, if I were you."

Eventually, Susan helped Mary to the kitchen and made some tea. The two women sat together while the men did whatever they were doing in the living room. Mary could hear the click and whirl of a camera and muffled voices. Susan said the right things but she seemed bored. Mary wondered if she resented having to be her caretaker, if she wished she could do the investigative work like the men were doing.

"You know," Mary said. "I am fine now. If you need to be in there with them, you can do that."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "We don't want you alone right now. It's procedure."

Procedure. It sounded so cold and yet Mary understood it. There were certain ways to behave in such times. Mary didn't know what they were but Susan did. For all she knew Mary was a murderer or feeling suicidal. In reality Mary was heartbroken. Her father was gone. All she had wanted was a quiet afternoon at his side. Mary took a deep breath when she realized she was angry about that. She began crying again.

One of the detectives came into the kitchen and sat down. He nodded at Susan who nodded back and left the room. He told Mary his name and said he had a few questions. "Are you in shape to answer them?"

Mary nodded, wiping her eyes. "Yes… I think so."

Once he got past the mundane questions about identity and residence, he asked Mary to tell him exactly what happened. Mary flinched a little at the way he said exactly. It was like he knew she was going to leave something out. He listened intently while she spoke, writing things down in his notebook. Once in a while he would interrupt Mary and ask for more detail or for a clarification. Mary noted how smooth he was. This was something he had done many times before.

Then the oddest thing happened. Mary’s eyes began to focus on his lips, how they moved when he talked or flattened when he was listening intently. They were your average every day lips, but she became mesmerized by them. The more she looked at them, the larger they became, until they seemed to take up half his face. Mary wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered if the crimes he experienced were something she could taste if their lips met and how she would react to that. Mary felt guilty about that little digression for years. How could she consider such a thing with her father in the other room? Just a few short hours ago he was alive. Now he was a case file, a mystery to solve, and the reason why the detective's Sunday afternoon had been interrupted.

Finally, he asked the question she dreaded. "Did you touch or move the body?"

"No… I mean, yes." Mary sighed.

He waited.

"I felt him to see if he was…you know."

He nodded. "Yes, I know." He handed Mary a tissue.

Mary took the tissue, studied it, and then turned to the detective.

"Did you do anything else with your father's body?"

The tears returned. When he said your father's body chills scattered across Mary’s flesh. No one talks that way about someone who is alive. Mary looked at the detective. "Well, his body…his body moved when I touched it but that's all."

"Nothing else?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you didn't do anything else to the body?"

"No, Sir. Nothing else."

"Okay." He wrote a few more things in his notebook and then handed Mary his card. Call me if you think of anything else I should know. Anything."

Mary read his card. His name was Thomas McGuinn. "Thank you, Thomas."

He stood up.

"Wait, please."

"What is it?"

"What happened here? How did he die?"

Thomas sat back down. "I am not sure about a lot of things yet, but it does appear your father was not alone last night."

Mary blinked in slow motion. "Who…I mean…do you think someone…"

"I am not saying his death was anything other than natural, but until I get some tests back from the lab, I won't know for sure. I'll let you know as soon as I know more. Okay?"

"Yes, thank you."

When Susan returned she said Mary could leave now. "We would like a key if you don’t mind."

"There's a spare hanging up in the hallway by the telephone." Then Mary realized that she would be leaving them there with her father. "It doesn't seem right to go."

Susan smiled for the first time. "I know, but there is really nothing you can do here. Do you have someone you can call?"

“My husband is out.” Then, Mary added. “He’s playing pool with his friends somewhere. Can you imagine that? Of all days.”

Susan smiled.
“May I use the phone?"

Susan handed Mary her cell phone. "Use this. We need to fingerprint the telephones here."

“Fingerprint?”

“It’s procedure,” Susan said.

Mary dialed wrong the first time and apologized to the person who answered the phone. The second time she did it right. "Janice," she said.

"What's wrong? Are you crying?"

"My father's dead." The words fell out like sludge. "I'm at his place with the police. Please come and get me."

They talked for a few moments more and then Mary handed Susan the phone. Mary looked down the hallway and saw Detective McGuinn come out of her father's bedroom. He called his partner over. She could see them talking but their words dissipated into noise by the time they reached the kitchen.

"What is it? Did you find something?"

Detective McGuinn took a few steps toward the kitchen. "Nothing for you to worry about right now."

Mary turned to Susan. "What does he mean, right now?"

"It's best to wait until we are clear on everything," she said.

"Would you want to wait?"

"No, I guess not, but …"

"But nothing.” Before she knew what she was doing Mary was out of the kitchen and in her father's bedroom. As soon as she entered she realized she had never seen his bedroom before. He had always kept the door closed.

The room was overpowered by a four-poster bed made of heavy oak. Each of the posts had chains attached to them and on the wall above the bed was a photograph of a woman dressed in a black velvet corset carrying a braided whip coiled in her manicured hand. On the bed was a leather bag that Detective McGuinn closed when he saw Mary enter. He was frowning.

"You shouldn't be in here."

Mary just stood there.

He pointed to the photograph. "Do you know this woman?"

"No, of course not."

Detective McGuinn's partner said, "Could be something he bought, not someone he knows."

"Could be," Detective McGuinn said. "Could be."

“What…what exactly is going on?” Mary was trembling.

Susan took Mary by the hand and accompanied her to the lobby where they waited for Janice. A few people came and went while they waited but no one seemed perplexed by a policewoman and crying woman standing in the lobby on a Sunday afternoon.

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1. Introducing Mary

2008-08-29T12:48:00.000-07:00

Mary’s father traveled frequently when she was growing up. He was a sales manager for a chain of home improvement centres. A thin, unassuming man, he tended to keep to himself. He was well read and liked to talk politics, a passion Mary learned from him. Unfortunately, their politics were as different as their genders. Still, he was a good father, a fair man, who despite his subdued nature had a force about him. Those who knew him well might call his strength a quiet one. He was never one to him complain about anything although occasionally his eyes failed to hide his emotions. Mary knew he felt pain and sorrow, but he was not inclined to share them with her, perhaps with anyone.

Mary hated him being away so often, and she sensed he disliked it too. He spoke philosophically about travel. He said a traveler learns things about life through being a stranger in a place others call home. You feel less restricted by convention, he told Mary once, because as a stranger you don’t know the norms of where you are and consequently exist on the edge of things.

She was 13 at the time and didn’t really understand, but Mary figured her father was offering some insight into why he and her mother separated – she being quite straight-laced, in need of predictability, and impatient with solitude. There were other reasons, of course, but Mary did not figure them out until later in life. Despite their difficulties, Mary came to understand the challenges her mother faced living with her father. His death some years later could not hide the secrets he held on to so tightly while alive.

There was a constant power struggle between Mary’s parents but rarely a clear victor. Mary swore to herself that her relationships would be free of battles for control. She was naïve of course. At that young age Mary had no idea what liberty from power struggles would actually look like; she could not fathom the travels I would undertake.

As Mary grew into a woman, she quickly learned the disadvantages of her gender. While never one to bore another with the typical banter about a female’s travails, Mary invested many years seeking justice for women, especially those abused and otherwise mistreated by men. Her interest in justice was accompanied by a deep distrust of the male gender and eventually like many feminists – or at least those who call themselves feminists – she painted all men with the same dark brush stroke.

Given her disposition toward men, her transformation -- which is the best word to describe it – was unexpected to say the least. A friend told her once that the best discoveries are those that are not sought. In Mary’s case, this was the absolute truth. If you asked her, Mary might say that her journey was rooted in her need to understand her father's death or, more accurately, understand his life, but if you pressed her, she would admit that would be too simple an explanation and far from true. Mary’s venture into the shadowy world she came to love and crave was, she believed, little more than serendipity. But it was in that happy accident that Mary came to understand her father and eventually herself.

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Her transformation never meant that Mary’s life as a feminist was wrong or even misguided. Her biggest mistake was losing balance and not listening to the yearnings inside of her. She had convinced herself that the last thing she wanted was a man to have any power or control over her. Mary ended up living the irony of that statement for some time and did so gladly. Throughout the course of events she came to a whole new understanding of power, of gender, and most importantly how to live in the world truly herself.

Mary was one of the few heterosexual women in her community of friends, much to their chagrin. Many of her feminist counterparts were attracted to her on many levels, and it irked them to no end that she went home each day to a man. It made no difference that it was a man they liked and respected. The thought of this strong woman opening her legs for a man seemed pornographic to them.

Even though Mary fully understood the politics of sex and how risky it was to give in to a man, she could not imagine foregoing sex with the opposite gender. She needed and often craved the force of a man inside of her, filling her, dripping sweat on her face as he released himself and then fell, his weight delicious against her flesh. Mary enjoyed – with short-lived bouts of guilt -- being held down and taken hard while digging her nails into her lover’s legs, side, or back. The best sex for her was about being fucked. Its appeal was highest when it was raw, messy, and noisy enough to spawn gossip in the neighborhood.

One of Mary’s favorite fantasies was to be used for a man’s gratification and then, when he was spent, being left to watch him roll over and leave her wanting more. Of course, she kept that to herself. Fantasies are fantasies, she told herself, but for years she could not admit that her desires lived only a short distance from her fantasies.

Mary wanted more than wet dreams and dark secrets. Such fantasies always had their counterpoint, however. She often dreamt of being in control, but differently from what she was accustomed. She sought a release from the power she had because much of it was expressed as resistance to the power of men. Her complicated mind was visited by images of men cooking for her, cleaning her house, kneeling down and putting on her shoes. Sexually, they existed solely for her pleasure -- their own needs being unimportant, inconsequential.

In these fantasies Mary was dressed like royalty, although not in the stifled fashions of the Queen Mother. She was decked out in a long, slinky black dress whose hem stopped just short of spiked boots. Hair tied tightly back, Mary had the poise of the consummate gambler: an unreadable yet compelling face and a demeanor that was magnetic and dangerous.

This fantasy world was habitated by strong, intelligent men who yielded to her whims and desires. Sometimes there were dozens of them -- her minions whose existence was solely to appease and amuse. There were jesters and musicians, poets and philosophers, tailors and hairdressers – all of them courtside just waiting for a word or gesture of instruction from Mary.

There was sex of course in this revelry, but it took place on the edge of morality or so she thought. Men would crawl to her and then service her libido with their mouths. Others would be tied to beds and posts and be made to thank her for each stroke of the whip that she wielded so adeptly.

This fantasy was more infrequent than others; Mary wanted it that way. All she was doing was acting like a man except that she had the parts of a woman. At least that is how Mary figured things back then. She found herself vehemently resisting her fantasies because all of them conflicted with who she was -- who she thought she was -- as a woman, as a feminist.

Most of Mary’s male partners were only interested in their own gratification. Self-centeredness would one day be discovered to be a genetic trait of the male species – that was Mary’s theory. The men she bedded always left her wanting, but they didn’t seem to do so in the right way. The men she had sex with lost their appeal as soon as they orgasmed. They lacked something magical that Mary craved but could not fully articulate, something that was simultaneously frightening and joyful.

Such desires tormented Mary. Her politics and libido were locked in a battle that spun her head on a regular basis. As things evolved, Mary’s politics were easier to practice than finding that special man who could deliver on what she wanted. What was the point, she asked herself, of seeking something that was little more than a fantasy, perhaps a sick fantasy (according to others)? Mary knew intuitively that her resignation fed her dislike of men; it fueled her politics. Even so, Mary couldn’t give up men altogether as many of her sisters had. Despite her frustrations, having one in the bedroom remained more attractive than sleeping alone or with a woman.