On the way to his office, Faranger savored the thought that whenever he was near Pederson or Stephanie he could expect a frisson of recollection of his night at Twelve Maxbridge Street.
At five o’clock he got out the business card that Sandra had given him and dialed her work number. “I can’t wait till six. Can you get away now?”
“Yes, I can. I’ll see you at the restaurant in 10 minutes?”
“See you then.”
When they saw each other they embraced eagerly. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Me too!”
They took a small table in the bar, ordered drinks and started nibbling peanuts.
“So, we know what I was doing there last night, said Faranger. “How did you come to be there?”
“Once or twice a year I sign up to be a sex slave for a weekend. This time they gave me to The Association for the night. Yes, I guess I know why you were there. But how did you find out about it?”
“I called a phone number I found in a cryptic ad in a magazine. I asked them to send me information. This is what they sent me.” He leaned over and picked up his briefcase. He set it on his lap and opened it just a little way. He drew out an envelope and pulled out a stiff card bordered in black. It was about three inches by eight inches. In elegant printing it said:
The Association
We can provide a night of
pain and sexual humiliation
$3000
Confidentiality is guaranteed.
There will be no permanent injury, photography or film.
Call 1-617-555-5555 for an appointment.
He smiled at her. “So I signed up.”
She said, “Do you think you’ll ever do anything like this again?”
“I don’t know. It’s too soon. Right now I have no inclination, and I have a hard time imagining that anything wouldn’t be an anti-climax. Sic,” he added, with a nod to the double meaning. “Certainly I don’t have any other people in my life like Pederson and Stephanie.” His smile turned wry.
“And you? Will you continue your weekends?”
“Probably. But maybe not. We’ll see.” She smiled back.
He put his hand over hers. “Did you see everything?”
Softly, “Yes. I saw everything.” She placed her other hand over his.
He picked it up and kissed the back of it. “I think I’m glad.”
Dinner was delicious. It fit with the deliciousness of the whole evening. They dived into getting to know each other. “Well, I’m relieved that we agree on politics,” she said. “I can’t imagine how couples like James Carville and Mary Matalin do it. Do you think they debate every evening over supper? Or d’you think that they long ago agreed just not to talk politics? What DO they talk about? Politics are their lives.”
“Dunno. It’s a mystery.”
When they’d eaten most of their dinner Sandra said, “Why don’t you come and spend the night at my house? The stores are still open. We can get you a fresh shirt and tie and run your underwear through the wash.”
Faranger laughed a little bit. “I don’t think I’ll be up for anything for a while.”
“Of course not, silly. Who knows better than I do that you need to recover. But wouldn’t it be nice just to hold each other for a long time?”
“Yes, it would be very, very nice. Let’s go get me a shirt and tie.”
*****
“I can get good seats to the Celtics tonight,” said John. “Do you like basketball?”
“Well, sure. I can’t say I’m educated about it, but it goes fast. And I really do prefer those uniforms to football and hockey,” she said grinning.
“It’s my main sport. I like football on TV,” but that’s about it.
“I like the food and company around football. But I only really watch when there’s about to be a touchdown.”
“Well, good. I’ll get the tickets.
*****
“I found a Cape Verdean restaurant. Want to try it tonight?” he asked one morning over breakfast.
“Sure! I like trying out new kinds of restaurants. I’ve always wanted to try Ethiopian, for instance.”
“I know of one. If you like that sort of thing we could make it a kind of ritual to try a different ethnic restaurant every week or so until we’ve exhausted what Boston has to offer. Wanna?”
“Yeah! That’s a great idea. Where is Cape Verde anyway?”
“I used to think it was in the Caribbean, but it’s in Africa.”
*****
“No!,” he snorted. “No way am I taking a walk in the rain when it’s 45 degrees out. I wouldn’t take a walk in the rain if it were 75 degrees out. Don’t you have a girlfriend who likes that kind of idiocy?”
“Yeah, I do. I’ll call her. I guess I ought to stoke my friendships. I’ve been neglecting people.”
*****
They had established that they had different tastes in pop music, but they had already mutually enjoyed the symphony and a chamber music concert when she asked “Do you like jazz?”
“Well, I don’t really know much about it. But one of my fondest memories, is when I was in college and heard a jazz trio at the Carlyle in Manhattan. I don’t know if the music made it so special or just the ambience.”
“Well, let’s see if you do like it. There’s a great, small jazz club I’d like us to go to.”
“You’re on.”
*****
“So how about we don’t do anything special tonight?” she said. “We can have soup and a sandwich at my place and read and then watch some movie in bed.”
“Do you have tomato soup? And cheese for grilled cheese?”
“I do. But you don’t have a book.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve got one book at my place and a different one at yours. I read them concurrently.”
“Then we have a plan. We’ll walk, OK?”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
THE END
AFTERWARD
I hope you liked Twelve Maxbridge Street, but whether you did or not, I’m very interested in readers’ reactions. Please leave a comment or contact me via the CONTACT tab on my profile.
I’m sure this book is a one-off. I won’t be writing any more. I’d like to tell you the story of how it came about and ask you some questions.
I’m a 76 year old happily married heterosexual woman with two grown children and four incredible grandchildren. My fantasy life has always centered around masochism, but I had never taken the male point of view with the exception of a short period in elementary school when I was on a Robin Hood kick. I’ve never attempted, nor felt the desire to act out my fantasies with other real human beings.
At my age my fantasies had gotten less frequent, understandably. But in the week before Christmas of 2020 and into the first week of 2021 my consciousness, day and night was suddenly flooded with the story you’ve just read. I would experience strong erotic spasms like John Faranger does. This was a dramatic first for me in regards to the intensity, the constancy and the duration of the fantasy. I refined the details until I began to entertain the idea of writing it down. I took a lot of pleasure in the pure writing aspect of it. And I still do. I tweak it from time to time and am preparing to issue a new revision as soon as I get this Afterward tidied up. So if you are inclined to re-read it, please download a new copy.
It took some time to get over the hump of writing and publishing it with absolutely no chance of being discovered, even if I suddenly died. But I did get over the hump. Learning that I could publish an ebook very easily and “sell” it for free was a big deal. (I can’t afford to receive 1099s, no matter how small.)
One question I have for you, my readers, is has anything like this ever happened to you? Both the suddenness and the male perspective? Please answer in a review or e-mail.