Jay Lawrence is an exiled Scot who currently hangs her hat on the rain-swept coast of western Canada. Her first novel, The Love Slave, hit the virtual bookshelves in 2001 and has since gone on to become a digital best-seller, swiftly followed by a second title, A Magnificent Pair. Discovering that one was fun but two even better, Jay recently co-authored So Spank Me! a collection of stories on a corporal punishment theme, with an old friend, E. Edmund deBarquet. She is currently almost finished her third solo project, a darkly erotic thriller called Breath Control.
The following story is an excerpt from So Spank Me!
Recalling a recent incarnation as a slave, ten degrees north of the equatorÖ
I wake up to the vast, dazzling orb of the tropical sun, which seems to burn through my eyelids as I slowly surface to another day. I know youíre already up and about, as I heard you splashing in the shower, then clattering the kettle in the kitchen as you made your tea and toast. A chair scrapes across the tiled floor of the balcony as you settle yourself with mug and plate. The birds are calling to each other. I gradually focus on the wide, glittering bay. Iím awake and think of getting up to join you, then I decide to give you some peace to read the paper. The yellow sheet clings to my body here and there in the mid-eighties heat. I know that the minutes will pass and soon youíll come through to kiss me gently and bid me adieu. Sometimes I wrap my nakedness in a shawl and sit out with you but I fear imposing on your quiet mood. I want to please you.
I miss you when youíve left for the office, suitably dressed in pleated pants and Oxford shirt. As soon as I hear you turn the key in the wrought metal door Iím up, padding across the cool floor to greet the weekday morn. I love the early morning sun, before it gets too high, too hot for comfort. I burn easily but I sit for a short time, bathing, drenching myself in glorious rays. I came from a cold country. I donít miss the fog. But I miss you, when youíre not there, as you so often arenít.
ďGood morning,Ē I call to the heavy set black woman who passes the kitchen window every day. I feel like a doll in a doll house but thatís OK. I wonder what youíd say if you knew how I smell your discarded clothes before I toss them in the washer, to catch a faint hint of your scent, the smell of your skin which imprints itself upon my mind and captures my body like a fish in a net. Iím not sure how much you do understand but I want you to try. PleaseÖ
Itís not so very long since I realized my need to be a slave. Iím still learning, adapting, so forgive me if Iím not always ďpicture perfectĒ. But I try. Your apartment reminds me of a cage, with its white, wrought iron door. Sometimes I stand in the little hallway, clutching the bars for dramatic effect, looking out at the view of arid hillside and bright blue sky. I know this is but a temporary state of affairs, a holiday, three weeks of dress up and pretend, then back to the fog, the cold, the everyday routines of my northern life. But while Iím here, it seems as if I could be here forever, existing just for you, bringing you a cold beer at the end of the day when the sun sinks swiftly beneath the red horizon and the tree frogs set up their insect-like vibration. The night is alive, as I sit on my cushion by your feet. I feel one with nature, one with the warm tropical night.
The night I arrived, you whipped me quite severely, staining my buttocks and the backs of my thighs with a mass of dark bruising. I crouched on your bed like an animal, cowering beneath the lash of your belt, seeing in my mindís eye the fire in your eyes as you delivered what I so greatly deserved. Your whippings arenít titillating stingy foreplay, but all-out assaults upon my tender white skin. My soft, yielding body writhes, fish-like beneath the incisive strokes. I whimper. I moan. I am released.
In the afternoons, the wind comes gusting in from the bay, billowing the heavy curtains until they are full, like the sails of a yacht. I sit at your dining table and write, compose my fifteen hundred words of the day, the passages Iíll show you when you come home from work. The sail curtains drift and lift and fall in a rhythmic way and the birds call, and Iím happy, perfectly captured, an insect in amber, immaculately preserved for time immemorial in my slavish bliss. It canít last, master, but Iím here, now, living my dream, knowing that I can fix these images within my mind forever.
Youíre not perfect. Neither, I suppose, am I. But something in you reacts with something in me and kindles a fire. Itís not always easy to handle the blaze. I know that one day soon weíll go our separate ways. The demands we make on one another are too heavy, too severe. Love is strange. I will remember the rustling of the coconut palms, the soft, warm sand between my toes. Iíll imagine the pelicans diving, plummeting stone-like, into the glittering bay. Iíll remember you, so aloof at times, so intent on your plans and schemes, unwilling just to pause and be. Iíll recall the evening you kissed my mouth and told me that youíd take your rights, your droits de seigneur, and the way my heart filled and my body was yours, my mind, my soul, all turning to you, gravitating, as natural as the sun, the moon and tide. I took you in my mouth and I knelt between your open thighs, in the darkness of your balcony, suckling my master, the potent night brimming with visceral vibration. Soon, you overflowed upon my tongue, endowing me with your essence, and I felt quite blessed. I was possessed.
This is a dark place. I can feel this in my bones, although you seem to be immune. You see the sun and beaches, while I can feel the bloody past, the history of piracy and slaves who never had a chance, nor choice. The darkness haunts me, the underlying malevolent tinge of hate. I choose to play slave in a land where real slaves bled and wept. Do their ghosts deride me? Food for thought.
But now I am here, with the sail-like curtains billowing in another little squall and the birds calling to one another beyond the sun drenched balcony. There are big ships in the bay and I think of your love of the sea, of your pirate ancestry. I know I am just passing through, my love, as youíll always be shifting with the tides. But here I am, now, your slave. Remember me.
Copyright © 2003 Jay Lawrence. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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