The difficult part was not to be too comforting in those first days. It was with great effort of will that I kept my tongue still. She wept frequently and asked a great many questions. No. That is not entirely true. She asked a few questions over and over again. During this time I said nothing. I fed her and cleaned her in a perfunctory manner, imitating as accurately as I could, the behavior of a trained nurse. I brushed her hair in the mornings and when she cried I held Kleenex to her nose and sometimes – only sometimes – touched her cheek with the back of my hand to offer just a bit of comfort.
At times she asked, “what happened?” hoping I supposed for some tragic explanation involving an accident or an illness. At other times, “why did you do this to me?” perhaps glimpsing the truth of the circumstance, perhaps merely enraged in the natural phases of trauma. When I watched through the one-way mirror she would look at the ceiling, worry and fear furrowing her eyebrows and occasionally look down at the bandages that covered the tiny stumps of her arms and move them about in confused and distant fascination. I fortified her pain-killers with sedatives to mitigate the tendency toward hysteria.
On the fifth day that she was awake I spoke for the first time. I was performing her daily sponge bath and, as I reached her legs I said, offhandedly but in the sort of voice one uses when speaking to small child, “hmmm. Maybe it’s time to give you a shave and a pedicure. Huh? Would you like that?”
She looked shocked. “I wasn’t sure you spoke English!” she said.
I disregarded that and took on a disciplinarian tone, firm but gentle. “I asked you a question, Honey. Would you like a shave and a pedicure today?”
“um… okay.”
I shook my head. “No. Not good. I don’t like that.”
“what?”
“Let’s try again. Would you like me to clean you up today?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, please?”
“Good,” I said, making intent eye contact and drawing her into the guessing game. “Yes, Please, what?”
Her bafflement showed on her face. She was relieved that I was speaking to her at least, but she didn’t understand what it was that I wanted. A light sheen forming at her forehead told me I had timed the exercise perfectly. A muscle spasm twitched her right stump sharply and she yelped and looked at it for a moment in dazed confusion. She turned her focus back to me but I put all of my attention on completing the sponge bath, silent once more. I did not shave her or do her nails.
When I finished the bath I neglected to give her the shot that usually came after her bath and each of her two meals. I headed for the door.
“Wait!” She called.
I stopped and turned around.
“What about…?”
I cocked my head to one side, waiting. I was not certain whether it was the beautification or the medication she was asking about.
“What about my shot? What about the pain?”
I knew that the pain was not so great. I’d carefully treated the nerve ends during the surgery. No. The pain she felt was phantom sensation fabricated by her addiction, creating the need to match a craving. I maintained a placid, thoughtful demeanor.
“Please. Can I have a shot?”
“Please can I have a shot, what?”
She stared at me for a long time and then, tentatively, uncertain she had found the right answer but afraid that she had, she said, “please, may I have a shot, sir?”
As though it was the first time I understood the question I answered brightly, cheerfully, “Of course, Honey. You only have to ask.” And I moved to her bedside to provide the requested injection.
Once the syringe had emptied into her vein she relaxed. “Thank you,” she said and moved her stumps experimentally just as if she was stretching, testing for pain.
I let my voice go hard again. “Thank you, what? Don’t make me regret giving you the shot you asked for.”
“Thank you, Sir.” She said, meekly.
“That’s a good girl,” I told her and put the back of my hand gently to her cheek. She nuzzled against it and I knew the conditioning was working perfectly. “Now,” I went on, “How would you like a shave and a pedicure?”
Drugged and docile now, she nodded. “Yes, please, Sir.” She said the words without hesitation, a bit of sedated slurring perhaps, but no hesitation.
“Good. Okay. Come along.” I put a hand behind her head and helped her just a bit as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Stand up.” She stood. Her balance was off. I do not know whether it was caused by the narcotics or the change in her center of gravity since she had last stood on her own. But she tilted a bit, recovered and took tentative steps. The nubs of her arms waved around as she moved as though she was reaching her imagined arms out for balance. The tiny stumps just flapped outward and down and then outward again, useless flippers providing little change if any in her ability to stand.
I led her to the bathroom with the sunken tub and I ran water, very warm. I gestured for her to get in and watched her take the steps downward with mincing care. She didn’t want to fall. She’d clearly figured out how it would hurt, how little she could do to stop herself from hitting the hard tile floor. She sat down awkwardly into the water. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my slacks and sat at the foot of the tub with my feet in the water. “Give me your right leg,” I said. When she did so, I put her foot in my lap and lathered the leg with shaving cream. ‘Much too hairy,” I said gruffly. “Disgusting.”
And without thinking about it, without even realizing that it was in no way at all her fault, she said, “I’m sorry.” And I only had to glance at her sharply for her to add, “Sir.”
Bathing her, shaving her, feeding her all became quite ritualized. I always made certain that she used words of respect in addressing me. I often used terms of endearment toward her, “darling”, “sweetheart” and most frequently, “pet.” Sometimes I called her Susan. Sometimes I called her Sarah. Sometimes I called her Linda or Stephanie or Mary. The first time, she tried to correct me and I told her that if she did not behave herself I’d cut off her supply of painkillers before the wounds were fully healed. She immediately accepted the name I had used. From then on she never argued again about what I called her. It was a ruse, of course. The wounds were already fully healed. The painkiller was pure addiction now and she’d begun to understand that, although she’d not yet admitted it to herself.
When the bandages came off, I cupped each beautiful stump in my hands and admired it. “The work here is excellent,” I told her. “The narrowest of scars and even those will fade further until they are nearly invisible. Look at the ends of them.” Having recently been fixed up with a shot, she wiggled the stubs about as though she though she might actually be able to point the ends of them at herself to see and then, realizing the futility, she giggled. “Good girl,” I said. “Thank you for trying. Now get dressed. You’ve been naked for a month. Enough is enough. Don’t you think?”
In truth she had been in my care for more than six weeks, but I didn’t want her to know that. I wanted to distort her sense of time as I was distorting her sense of dependence and her sense of self worth. I tossed a short-sleeved silk blouse onto the bed, along with a midi-skirt with a zipper and a hook-and-eye clasp at the side, a pair of panties, knee socks. I pulled a pair of saddle shoes with laces from the closet and tossed them out onto the floor. I turned to go.
“But, Sir…!” she said, confused.
“Yes, honey?”
“What am I–? How am I supposed to –?”
I cut her off before she could stammer any more out. “I told you. Get dressed. I’ll be back in a few minutes to get you. I think we might be going out tonight.” And I left and closed the door before she spoke another word.
I watched from behind the mirror. She stared at the clothes, shocked and in a drugged haze for a minute before she even started to try. She managed to step into the panties and then, by lying on her back, managed to get them up above her knees. That was as far as they’d fall. She wriggled. She kept trying to reach for them with her pathetically short stumps. Finally she gave up on them, let them fall to the ground and kicked them off. She repeated the exercise with the skirt and because it was not elasticized things went better. She managed to get it up over her thighs and then, by scooting forward on the edge of the bed, pulled it up around her waist. She could not fasten the hook or pull the zipper, though, so it hung open and loose. She managed to lie back into the blouse and get her stubs into the sleeve holes so it stayed with her when she sat up, but buttoning it was well beyond her ability. She fumbled for a good two minutes with a sock, trying to use the toes of one foot to pull it on over the other foot before she started weeping in frustration. Still she kept trying, sniffling and fumbling and crying.
I reentered the room. “You’re not ready to go?” I asked, feigning shock.
“I can’t..” She said. ”Please, sir. I need help.”
I shook my head as though I was immensely displeased and muttered, “pathetic,” as I buttoned her blouse and fastened her skirt. I pulled the socks onto her feet and put her shoes on for her. I laced them tightly and double knotted them so that even if she could get them to her mouth she’d be unable to untie them without help. I pretended not to notice the panties on the floor.
Even the short sleeves of her blouse were too long for her little arm stumps to show at the end. When she moved them the bottom edges of the sleeves flapped emptily. “A grown woman who can’t dress herself,” I scoffed.
“I’m sorry sir,” she said.
“You really are,” I said.
Her eyes dropped to the floor and she muttered something.
“What did you say?” I asked. “Speak up.”
“I’m sorry. I’m pathetic. Please don’t hate me.”
I snorted derisively. “I don’t hate you,” I said. “But I don’t know if you ought to be showing your tear stained face in public tonight. Come on downstairs. I’ll make dinner.”
She looked disappointed and relieved at the same time. She followed me dutifully downstairs. I made spaghetti with thick sauce. I did not feed her. I put the food on the plate in front of her and a straw in her glass. The glass I had filled with scotch and soda. When I started eating and made no move to give her bites in between she noticed that I had not put a fork out for her. She said, “sir? Am I… Do you want me to eat on my own?”
“Unless you want to go hungry,” I said.
She leaned forward and began eating from her plate, sucking in the long strands of pasta, tomato sauce splattering onto her beautiful silk shirt.
“You’re making a mess, my pet,” I laughed.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Just do your best.”
She struggled to eat more daintily as she lapped the food directly from the china. When a bit of hot pepper reached her tongue, I saw her go red. She wagged her arms as if she could fan her mouth. She leaned forward and gulped booze through the straw. It took her a few huge sips to realize what she was drinking. She looked at me, surprised.
“Is that good, Daisy?” I asked.
There was a moment’s pause and then she said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir.”
There was a moment’s pause and then she said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir.”
When she’d finished eating she had sauce all over her face and splattered over her blouse. “Go clean yourself up,” I instructed her. ” I’ll come help you undress and tuck you into bed.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Then she stood up. “Oh, god,” She said. “I think I’m drunk.” She giggled and waved her sleeves around.
She’d emptied two glasses on top of the medication I’d given her and she looked none too steady on her feet. “Hey!” I scolded. “Eyes down. Did I give you permission to get drunk this evening?”
“You gave me the—”
“Did I give you permission?”
“No, sir.” She dropped her head in absolute submission.
“That’s right. I did not. Just for that, you’ll clean up, undress and get into bed without any help from me. Now go.”
She paused, considering asking a question and then went. She weaved to the stairway and on the way up she stumbled and fell with a yelp. She refound her footing and went on upstairs. When I heard her door slam I hurried up to the watching post behind her mirror.
Drunk, she stumbled to the glass to look at herself, her sauce stained blouse, and her messy face. She tried to move a sleeve up to wipe her face but barely managed to make contact with her own cheek. She flapped about trying to unbutton the blouse. “God,” she said, just loudly enough for the hidden mic to pick up her voice. “look at me! No wonder he hates me. I’m pathetic and gross.” She sniffled and struggled trying to get the blouse off, twisting her body and pushing with her nubs. In what she believed was the privacy of her own room she said, “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. I’ll try harder, Sir. I love you. I’m sorry.”
I knew the Stockholm Syndrome had taken hold and I owned her.
She managed to get free of the blouse by wriggling it up over her head. The skirt and shoes were well beyond her abilities. She went into the bathroom and somehow managed to clean her face. Drunk, she fell asleep half-dressed across her bed.
I watched through the same mirror as she awoke. It took her a moment to spot the aspirin and the water glass. She took the pills up with her tongue and then sipped through the straw. She had the good sense to drink most of the water. She sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, naked from the waist up, skirt wrinkled from having been slept in. She stood up, wavered for a moment, unsteady in her balance, and went into her bathroom. I was suddenly a bit disappointed
that I’d never helped her put on her panties. I wanted her to have to ask my help or wet herself. Ah, well, I thought. There would be other times. Plenty of other times.
After a minute or two she emerged again. She tried to get her shoelaces into position to untie them with her teeth but the double knots were too tight and too convoluted for her to manage without being able to see what she was biting.
She tried to open the exit door. She might have been able to manage the latch with her toes but not with the saddle shoes on. A few tries proved it to her and she went back to the bed. She sat down. She looked around as though she felt there was something she ought to be doing and then, after a moment more, she drew her knees up to her chin and sat there, sullen.
I stopped by the watch post every few minutes to check her progress. When I saw that she had begun to sweat and pace, I entered the room brightly.
“Good morning, Honey. How’re you doing?”
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t pause. “I need my shot, Sir. Please. I need my shot. It hurts.”
I smiled. “Of course, honey.” I brought out the syringe and began filling it in a slow, leisurely fashion. No rush. I watched her stare, fixating on the needle, twitching with need. Once the syringe was filled, I set it aside and looked at her. “Look at you,” I said. “You’re still half dressed from last night.”
She looked down then, ashamed perhaps. Embarassed. “I’m sorry, Sir. I couldn’t– I tried. I couldn’t get my shoes off. And my skirt.” Even with her eyes downcast and the change of subject, she kept glancing toward the needle.
I knelt down and untied her little-girl saddle shoes. I pulled them off for her and then her socks. I unfastened her skirt and let her step out of it. Once she was naked, I picked up the syringe once more. Then I sat in a chair across the room from her. “Here’s the thing,” I said.
She looked only at the needle. She licked her lips unconsciously.
“Look at me, honey.” She did for a moment then went back to looking at the needle. “Cynthia!” I said sharply and she forced herself to look at my face. “Here’s the thing. Your wounds are all healed up. You don’t need this shot because of pain from the surgery. I treated the nerves so you probably won’t even have much phantom pain. Do you understand? You don’t want this shot because of real pain. You want this shot because you’re addicted to the medication.”
She shook her head very slightly and looked quite worried. Her toes worked against the floor and her shoulders twitched a bit. I could see the panic setting in. The fear that I would withhold the shot entirely.
“You need to make a decision,” I told her. “Do you want to kick, or do you want this shot?” It was perhaps the cruelest thing I’d done yet, possibly even worse than taking her arms from her. I was asking her whether she wanted to beat her addiction when the cravings were greatest and relief was right in front of her. It was a choice her body was making for her. She could not make any other decision. But she did not know that.
Meekly, softly, she said, “the shot, please. Sir. Please. May I have the shot?”
“Of course you can, my darling,” I said. “Of course you can.”
I injected her with the pain killer and watched her bunched muscles relax. I ran my fingers through her hair gently and kept an arm around her until the twitching and nervousness stopped. “Does that feel better, sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Do you know that I love you?”
She turned sharply to look at me, eagerly. I saw joy in her eyes. Joy and relief. “You do, Sir? Really? Because… because…”
“Say it, pet.”
“I love you too.”
I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her for a long time. She pressed against me. She wriggled and I knew she was trying to turn in my embrace, to make sexual contact even though I was fully dressed. I could feel her excitement; her breathing shallowed and her heart rate sped.
I released her and moved away, pretending not to notice the fractional lurch forward she performed trying to hold me, to bring me back. “Now, yesterday you ruined my plans to take you out to dinner. Do you think I might be allowed to take you out and show you off today?”
Remembering, she dropped her eyes to the floor and nodded. “Yes, sir. But I’m going to need help dressing.”
“Good girl. Let’s get you dressed, then, shall we?”
The chosen outfit was quite different this time. Rather than the young, schoolgirl look, I brought out a skirt suit… not quite elegant, but expensive and nicely cut. The blouse had long sleeves and I included dark stockings and pumps with six inch heels. They had straps that fastened around her ankles and each of the straps was kept shut with a tiny little padlock. Shed docile and good-natured as I dressed her. When she stood up I could see that the shoes made her nervous. She walked tentatively in tiny steps and her nubs twitched and reached inside floppy sleeves.
In the car, I fastened her seatbelt for her. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m good. Thanks. I’m good.” She gazed at me adoringly.
She crossed her legs and I could see the topmost edge of her stockings. I reached over and stroked her thigh. “Do you mind?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, letting just an edge of stern come into my voice.
“I don’t mind. I like it. Sir.” She replied.
“Good,” I said. “You have marvelous legs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I want to enjoy them while you’ve got them,” I said off handedly.
She tensed a bit and stared out through the windshield as I drove for a moment. Then she said, “What do you mean, ‘while I’ve got them?’”
“Just that they’re very beautiful. And in a few months you’re going to beg me to take them off the way I did your arms.”
She turned to stare at me in shock.
“I promise I won’t take them from you until you ask me to.”
“I’m not going to do that, sir.”
The honorific had already become automatic, the only way she addressed me. I smiled patronizingly and patted her lovely thigh. “Of course you will, honey. Would I lie to you?”
She furrowed her eyebrows staring at me, trying to puzzle out how I could predict such a thing, why on earth she would ever ask me to take her legs. Then, casually, I said, “fancy or sleazy?”
“What?” She asked?
“We can go to a fancy place where people will stare at you with disgust and disdain, or to a sleazy place where people will stare at you with disgust and desire. It’s up to you.”
I kept my eyes on the road while she made her decision and then she said, “fancy, please, sir.”
“Fancy it is, Amanda,” I replied and took the turn that led up the hill to Le Petit Chateau.
“Fancy it is, Amanda,” I replied and took the turn that led up the hill to Le Petit Chateau.
Everybody from the maitre d’ to the busboys tried to behave with obsequious care as they stared and pretended not to do so. Other diners stared and whispered as I fed her a bite at a time and wiped her mouth carefully for her after each one. I gave her permission to drink as much as she liked and she went through two and a half vodka tonics over the course of the meal, failing to remember that her reduced body weight made her less able to process alcohol than she’d been before. I fed her dessert.
She put a high-heeled shoe in my lap and pressed the sole against my groin. She leaned forward to speak softly to me, sloppily allowing one of her empty sleeves to slide into her pie. “Take off my shoe,” she said.
“Left the key at home,” I replied and set her foot down on the floor.
She became a bit pouty. “Don’t you find me attractive at all, sir?” She asked.
“Enormously,” I told her. “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous!”
“Then how come you’ve never tried anything?”
I smiled and touched her drunken cheek with my hand. “Wouldn’t be right, baby. You’re so helpless. I wouldn’t want to do anything that might feel to you like I was forcing myself on you. If you want something, you’re going to have to ask for it.”
“Take me home, sir. Please. Take me home and make love to me.”
I smiled at her. “It would be my pleasure.”
In the car she wriggled in her seat. “I think about you at night,” she confessed. “I can’t touch myself. But I think about you and I want to.”
I let my hand drift to her crotch. “That must be very frustrating.”
She shifted in her seat, trying to make firmer contact with my hand. I pulled away slightly, to keep the contact light, unsatisfying. She moaned softly. She used a floppy-sleeved stump to push at a stray strand of hair. I could see that she was sweating.
“You’re warm,” I stated. “It’s the reduced body surface. You need to watch out for overheating.”
She nearly bounced in her seat, trying to press her clit to my hand. “Overheating,” she muttered. “Oh, god, Sir. Please. Overheating. Help me. Please help me.”
I downshifted as a pretense for taking my hand away and kept it on the wheel the rest of the way home. In my peripheral vision I could see her trying to draw a heel-shod foot up to her own groin. The effort was futile given the dimensions of the car seat, pathetic. I knew I had one more hold on her than I had at the start of the night.
“It’s okay, Darling,” I assured her. “When we get home I’ll make love to you. I’ll bring you to orgasm and I’ll hold you tight. Okay? Will that be alright?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. Please. Please, hold me.”
“I will, darling,” I promised. “I will.”
END PART ONE
