"Marshmallows," she said.
"Now you're talking. I'll let you know," he said, ducking out.
"We'll put you on the mailing list."
"Great," he called over his shoulder.
He went shopping for hardware. He found brass strap hinges and a hasp and a lock that were well-matched. He would inlay the hinges—a pain in the neck—but the brass would be fine with the walnut.
Oliver made progress on the box. He was pleased that evening as he described it to Jacky. She listened quietly and waited for him to finish. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. She was wearing a black silk blouse that fell loosely over white jeans. She stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in leather huaraches, and looked at him closely.
Oliver felt the moment approach. He had been in a different world all week; it was time to return. Jacky's face was firm and concentrated, her eyebrows raised slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt again the thrill of surrendering. He was hers. He wanted to be hers. He gave himself to her utterly.
That evening and the ones that followed, once or twice a week, continued the pattern. She beat him and humiliated him, bound him to her pleasure, taught him how to massage her after a hot shower and how she wanted oral sex. It was an alternate universe that existed only in her house and only for a few intense hours at a time. His reward was to be allowed to come at her command as she counted slowly to twenty or twenty-five. If he came too soon or not at her number, she whipped him with a riding quirt. "You are not thinking of me. You are doing this for ME! " He learned to think only of her as he masturbated, or, less often, as she worked him with her hand. When he dedicated himself completely, she counted him to orgasm at the perfect moment; she was pleased; there was no whipping.
They went out to dinner several times, a normal experience—at least externally. Beneath the conversation, Oliver was well aware of what was coming after dessert. She would encourage him to be assertive and then she would pull him back, reminding him of his place with a glance or a small smile, a good natured cat and mouse game.
She told him about the two older brothers who had bullied her on the basketball court. She was a power forward in high school but too small for the team at the University of New Hampshire. "Same game, different scale," she said. "I should have been a guard." Oliver was impressed. She had trained to be a referee and still reffed high school games.