I hear a trace of sympathy in his voice. I wonder if he’s speaking of himself also. Several times, in the middle of the night, I’ve woken up to the sounds of his piano. Once I snuck into the den and found him bent over the keyboard, a painful look of agony on his face as he played a beautiful, sad composition. It was a dirge, I believe. A shock of his fine, dark hair tumbled down over his forehead; his long, elegant fingers moved fluidly over the keys—and I thought I had never seen such an exquisite sight. It was so intensely personal, so private, so passionate, that I backed out of the room, feeling very much like an interloper. After that, whenever I heard his midnight melodies I remained in bed. M. is very well known, but even I—who understand little of the music world—know he’s not one of the great contemporary musicians. I thought he was content being a professor, but now, as he speaks of his student’s lack of genius, I begin to wonder.
I also begin to wonder about the psychology of his sadomasochism, and if his desire to dominate has a direct correlation to his inability to truly excel as a musician. He once told me he accepted his limitations as a pianist, and perhaps his sadomasochism is part of an elaborate Jungian balancing act—his lack of control over his innate talent, his lack of genius, forces him to demand complete control over me. I, of course, am not exempt from this analysis. My balancing act moves in the opposite direction. I’ve always had a great deal of control—calling the shots in my personal relationships, excelling in my professional career—and perhaps that allows me to willingly surrender to M. and to the bliss of noncontrol.
“Will you tell your student this?” I ask. “That he lacks genius?”
M. smiles slowly, sadly, and his voice softens. “No,” he says. “Destroying dreams is not my job. I’m there to teach him all I can. He’ll have to come to that recognition himself.” He pauses, then adds, “I suppose if he came out and asked me directly, I would owe him the truth. But he won’t ask—they never do.”
I go into the kitchen to look for Parmesan cheese. The doorbell rings and, unthinking, I answer it. Two small boys, thin and blue-lipped, wearing yellow raincoats over their costumes, give me a weary “Trick-or-treat” and hold out two damp pillowcases they’re using as bags. M. doesn’t have any candy, so I look in my purse for coins, then drop quarters in each boy’s bag. They trudge down the walkway in their rain boots, leaving muddy imprints on the porch. Down the driveway, in the street, their parents are huddled under an umbrella, reminding me of all those Halloweens when I’d been a small child myself—before Franny was born—going from door to door collecting sweets while my father crouched down, watched over me from the curb, his presence nothing but a dark, shadowy mass with a red-tipped glow from his burning cigarette.
I return to the dining room and eat my lasagna, thinking again of M. and his late-night rendezvous with the piano. He looks over at me and smiles, slyly this time.
“Take off your blouse and bra,” he tells me. “I want to look at you while I eat.”
As soon as he says this, I feel a flutter in my stomach and a tingle in my groin. That’s all he has to say—“Take off your blouse”—to get me aroused. I hesitate, my fork in midair. For some people, the thought of sex has a galvanizing effect, spurring them to action. For me, the reverse holds true. I become transfixed with anticipation; a paralysis of sorts, albeit lasting only seconds, sets in. And in the silence of those seconds, my heart beats faster and my breathing becomes deep and heavy.
M. locks his eyes on mine, and I surrender, willingly, under his gaze. I put down my fork and pull my blouse out from my skirt. The blouse is white with a high-necked collar, and it has tiny pearl buttons all down the front. I begin to undo them, one by one. My fingers feel suddenly awkward, and it takes me longer than it normally would. The buttonholes seem unusually small, my fingers large and clumsy. I push each pearl button through the small opening. M. still watches me, eating his dinner. When I finish with the last button, I slip the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Thinking of Franny—how she must have sat in this chair, doing the same for M.—I reach around and unhook my bra and let it slide to the floor also.
He nods his approval. “Good,” he says, “you can finish eating now.”
I pick up my fork and begin again on the lasagna. M. has ordered me to do this for him many times before—sometimes he’ll just want my breasts exposed, sometimes he’ll want to see me only from the waist down—yet it never fails to excite me. His command over me is thrilling; my forced exposure arouses me completely. I want him to fuck me, but I know he won’t, not yet, not until he’s ready, and this delay makes me desire him even more.
He reaches over and brushes each nipple lightly, making them erect. I arch my back just a little, pushing my breasts out to him.
“Nice,” he says, and goes back to his dinner.
I want to tell him to squeeze and fondle them, but I know he won’t. He never does as I ask, only as he pleases. I eat also, my nipples stiff and ready for his touch.
The doorbell rings and, with a smirk, M. says, “Did you want to answer it?”
I shake my head. We hear shuffling feet, whispers, then the sounds of retreat.
“Would you like me to tell you another story about Franny?” he asks. He reaches for the wine bottle and refills both our glasses.
“Yes,” I say, wondering what he will tell me now. I know we won’t have sex for a while, so I begin to relax.
He leans back in his chair, finished with his dinner. “Soon after I took Franny to the hog barn, I told her of my other interests in animals. In fact, it was after dinner, much as we’re speaking now, her breasts exposed to me as yours are.” He lifts his wineglass and takes a sip. “Of course, hers were much larger. Yours are very nice, but I admit I am a breast man. They can’t be large enough for me.”
I blush—something I don’t do very often—because my breasts are rather small and, in front of M., knowing he prefers big-breasted women, I feel self-conscious about their size.
He reaches over and rubs his wineglass across my nipples, getting them hard again, getting me excited. “Oh, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. “Yours are very nice, even if they’re small. And you love to display them for me, don’t you? Franny was always uncomfortable doing this, but not you. I’ll bet your pussy’s wet right now, isn’t it? My sweet pet needs a good fucking. Would you like me to take care of you, baby?”
I’m flushed and feel as though I can’t talk. I want him so much, but I hate it when he makes me say it. Sometimes, he purposely arouses me, gets me on the edge of an orgasm, then won’t continue until I beg him to fuck me. He likes to see me this way, begging, promising him I’ll do anything if he’ll just finish. I demean myself by complying, but I fall for it every time. My passion for him has no limits, and before him my presence is diminished. If he wants me to beg, I shall do so. He reduces me so easily. “Yes,” I whisper hoarsely, “I want you to take care of me.”
He leans back in his chair and smiles. “I know you do, Nora. But you’re going to have to wait. I want to tell you my story first.” He takes another sip of wine, and once again I feel I have been manipulated.
“After dinner, I took Franny into the den and removed the rest of her clothes.” He gives me a wink and says, “You know how I love to see my women naked.” Again, I try to imagine Franny prancing around his house, naked. The image doesn’t come. I have difficulty seeing her as a sexual being, and even more difficulty seeing her as M.’s sexual being, as an object to satisfy his cravings. When I imagine her, she’s always dressed primly in a nurse’s uniform and white thick-soled shoes. I realize this is not an accurate image of her—if nothing else, M. has taught me this—but it is the image with which I am comfortable.
“I had her sit on the couch and I told her how much I enjoyed her in the hog barn with the little piglets sucking on her breasts. I also told her that I was pleased she got along so well with my dog. Franny liked Rameau very much. She’d feed him and go out in the backyard and play with him. And at nights, sometimes she and I would take Rameau for a long walk around the neighborhood. I explained to her that I was an animal lover, and that I wanted to see her with an animal. She was confused; she had no idea what I was talking about. I told her I wanted to watch her get fucked by an animal. Poor Franny. She was so agitated. She knew I would make her do it, and she didn’t know what to say. She just sat there, biting her lip, shaking her head, her poor naked body shivering on the couch. I told her she was going to have to do this for me. She started to cry—she did a lot of that—and I held her close to me and comforted her, but I was still firm with her and explained that it was something I needed to see. I told her she was going to have to do it, but I would let her choose what kind of animal she wanted, either a pig or dog. She just shook her head, held on to me tightly, as if her distress, her tears, would change my mind. Well, the opposite always happened. Her fear always brought out the worst in me. ‘Choose,’ I told her. She said no, she couldn’t. ‘Let me tell you the difference,’ I said. ‘That will help you decide. If you want a dog, we’ll put you down on all fours and let Rameau mount you from behind. He ejaculates almost immediately, soon after he begins thrusting inside you—all dogs do—but as soon as he shoots his cum into you, the base of his cock will swell up into a big knot so he’s stuck inside your cunt. He’ll lift his leg over you and turn around one hundred and eighty degrees so you’re ass to ass, still joined together with his cock in your cunt until the knot goes down. With Rameau, the swelling takes about a half hour to subside, so I could watch you while you were joined like this, take a few pictures, leisurely jerk off.
“‘Now, a pig is much different,’ I told her. ‘A pig’s cock is a long, stiff coil, like a corkscrew, and when he comes it’ll take him about ten minutes to shoot it all into you. He ejaculates almost two cups of pig cum. You’d like that,’ I said to her, ‘a nice long cock, and he’d be shooting and shooting inside you, filling your cunt with a pint of sperm.’ This frightened poor Franny. Actually, I’ve never seen a pig with a woman. I’m not sure about the logistics of it, how I would get the boar to mount her, but I wanted to take her down to the pig barn and give it a try. ‘If you don’t choose, I’ll choose for you,’ I said, but still she shook her head and cried. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll choose. I want to see you with—’ And she cried out, ‘A dog! Not a pig! A dog! A dog!’ Poor Franny. She panicked. She was desperate; she didn’t want either, but a dog, for her, was by far the lesser of the degrading. I held her until she stopped crying, then I made her get down on the den floor, on all fours, and I brought Rameau into the room.” M. lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “You can imagine the rest,” he says.
I am mesmerized by his story. I do not believe it, though, not a word. It’s like some of his other stories about Franny—they’re too outlandish to be true. Not with Franny.
“You’re lying,” I tell him. “She wouldn’t do that, not even for you. You shouldn’t make your stories so bizarre—that just renders them unbelievable.”
He makes a little clucking noise with his tongue. “You’re a difficult audience,” he says, then he smiles nicely. “But enough of this. Storytime is through.” He takes me by the hand and leads me into the den. Kneeling down in front of me, he unlaces my shoes. He slips them off my feet and kisses the insides of both ankles. Then he unzips my skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Hooking his fingers under the elastic of the waistband, he slides my panties down, smoothly, and I lift up one foot at a time to step out of them. He puts his face in my hairless crotch and kisses my vaginal lips, almost reverently. I part my legs for him, slightly, and feel the tip of his tongue on my clitoris. My hands clutch his dark hair, holding him to me, but, gently, he breaks away.
“Come,” he says, “sit on the couch for a minute.” He seats me there, then goes to the sliding glass door, opens it, and whistles. Rameau comes bounding into the room. He’s a big dog, almost three feet tall, probably close to 150 pounds, and he’s beautiful. Most of the Great Danes I’ve seen have golden, brownish fur, but Rameau’s coat is short and black and shiny. He comes up to me and nuzzles his nose and square jaw on the side of my leg. I pet him, and he rests his massive head on my thigh.
M. comes back to me on the couch. “Don’t get any ideas,” I say. “I’m not going to fuck Rameau.” The doorbell rings again, but both of us ignore it.
He sits down and reaches over to scratch the dog behind his ear. “I know,” he tells me. “Rameau is going to fuck you. First, you’ll get on the floor and let him fuck you from behind. Then, after that, after he relaxes and is ready to fuck you again, you’ll sit on the couch, leaning back with your legs spread, and he’ll mount you while you’re facing him. I want you to watch while Rameau fucks you, I want you to know you’re being fucked by a dog, and that you’re doing it for me.”
I cross my legs and shake my head. “Forget it,” I say.
But M. just smiles. He says, “Rameau is well trained, and he hasn’t had human pussy for a long time, not since Franny. I’ll have him lick you really well before I allow him to mount you.”
When I wake up this morning, M. has already left for work. I lie in bed, thinking of last night. It astounds me that I protested so little, that my objections were so shallow. Having sex with the dog was different than I thought it would be. As M. said, dogs ejaculate almost immediately. Once Rameau entered me and began thrusting, he came really fast, within seconds, twenty at the most. Still, it was fascinating to feel his warm tongue on my sex, to have him penetrate me, to feel his short fur between my legs, rubbing against my body. Before M. let Rameau mount me, he used his fingers on me, playing with my clitoris and nipples while the dog lapped at me with his tongue. The taboo nature of the act aroused me immensely, and when Rameau put his paws on my back he as prepared to mount, then leaned forward and clutched me around the waist with his legs, I did not protest. M. guided the dog’s penis inside me, while he still fingered my clit, and I came the same time Rameau did. And I came strongly, getting a perverse pleasure out of doing something so bizarre, so far beyond the pale. It’s difficult to describe my response. The dog’s penis was smaller than a man’s, and the actual fucking was over almost before it began, but the sensation was unimaginably erotic—no, not erotic, pornographic. The instant I felt the tip of Rameau’s penis between my legs, probing for an entrance, my body quaked with such carnal, ruttish lust that I momentarily lost cognizance of the den and my presence in it. I was transported, but to where I do not know-someplace primitive and dissolute and purely sexual. The sex was depraved, and it was enjoyable beyond belief. The dog fucked me twice last night, from behind and while I was facing him, and then M. had his turn with me. “You’ll learn to take him in your mouth,” he said as he fucked me. “No,” I told him. “I don’t want to do that,” but M. just grasped my hips firmly and pumped inside me harder and said, “Yes. You will.”