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Acquiring the Taste Ch. 01

By: Steven_Jewell



Chapter the First, in which a ten-year friendship is jeopardized by discussing past unpleasantness, and a newly-acquired submissive gets to know her Mistress a little better.

*

Steve sat at Miriam's dining room table. Miriam had gotten up from the table to tend to the kettle on the stove, which had just started boiling. The interruption of their game had given Steve the chance to survey the wreckage. His red pegs stood well behind Miriam's blue ones on the Cribbage board. Even with mediocre cards, Miriam was likely to peg out on the next hand.

Steve had plenty of time to contemplate the board while Miriam brewed the tea. In an effort to break the soda habit, Steve had been trying to acquire a taste for tea, and Miriam had been serving him different varieties every game night. Steve returned the favor by bringing a CD from his large and wide-ranging collection. Tonight, they were listening to Van Morrison's Inarticulate Speech of the Heart. She was familiar with his earlier work, but this record was new to her. Her CD player had already cycled through the disc twice, and she wasn't getting tired of it yet. Now, the third time through, she found herself humming along with the third track, "River of Time," as she brought two steaming mugs back to the table.

"Ready to concede?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. She sat down, her hand brushing her long, ash-blonde hair back, first over her left shoulder, one lonely strand remaining tangled in the silver chain that hung from her left earlobe to her left nostril, then over her right shoulder, jangling the pendant, a circular disk with a black and blue bull's-eye pattern, that hung from her right ear.

"No, I'll see this one through to the end," Steve said, adding with a smile, "I like fighting for lost causes." He caught a whiff of the unfamiliar smoky aroma from the mugs. She had started the evening by serving him a spiced chai, which he enjoyed. By contrast, the Darjeeling that she served next tasted like plain hot water – he tried to think of it as "subtle" rather than "weak" – and now she was offering up another strong brew. "What kind of tea is that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Lapsang Souchong," she replied. "You'll want to add milk."

"No, I'll try it straight." He always refused to add anything to his tea. No sugar, no lemon, no milk. He wanted to taste the tea itself and nothing else, and if he couldn't drink it straight, he didn't want it.

"Suit yourself," she said, adding milk to her own mug. Steve brought his mug to his lips, grimacing slightly at the first taste. "How is it?" she asked.

"Like drinking charcoal," he replied with a chuckle. She offered him the little pitcher of milk, and he shook his head, taking another, longer sip before shuffling the cards and dealing the next hand.

She laughed as her six cards were dealt to her. "I'll be sure to cross this one off your list," she said, as she started to examine her hand. Eight of hearts. Queen of spades. A pair of nines, the diamond and the spade. Jack of hearts. Two of diamonds. Not much to work with, she mused. It hardly mattered. From her position on the board, she could coast to victory, and turning up a seven or a ten would all but seal the deal. She tossed the Queen and the two into Steve's crib.

Steve, on the other hand, had put aside any thoughts about merely salvaging his dignity. A pair of sevens, the heart and the diamond. A pair of fives, the club and the spade. A four of clubs. A six of diamonds. This was an easy decision. He put the pair of sevens into his crib. If a six or a four were turned up, he could well win, and wins against Miriam were becoming scarce.

Miriam cut the deck and turned up the four of hearts. Now he really had to curb his enthusiasm. He put on the best glum expression he could muster, trying not to exaggerate, and shook his head, pretending to be upset about the disparity in the score. "It's times like this I wonder why I ever taught you how to play Cribbage," he said.

Miriam chuckled. Cribbage was their game of choice, when it was just the two of them. If Chris and Yukiko showed up, they could all play Hearts. "Funny you should mention that. I've often regretted teaching you how to play Hearts. Ten," she said, laying down the Jack of hearts.

Steve countered quickly with the five of clubs. "Fifteen for two," he said, advancing his peg two spaces. He knew the outcome would be more favorable to him if they were playing Hearts. "What's the matter? Did I shoot the moon too many times?" he taunted gently, continuing, "I've suspected for a long time now that you've gone out of your way to make sure that we never have enough players for Hearts." 

"My friends have been keeping themselves busy. They don't like to lose any more than I do." She laid down the nine of diamonds. "Twenty four," she said.

"Are you suggesting that I like to lose? Thirty," he said, playing his six of diamonds.

"Go," she said, giving Steve one more point. "Liking to lose is not quite the way I'd put it. I think that what you really like is for me to take the upper hand," she said, aware that among other company, those words could be construed differently.

Steve had no retort. "Four," he announced, playing the four of clubs.

Miriam continued. "Then again, maybe you do like losing. After all, you keep coming back for more," she said in a gentle voice, but clearly trying to maintain her edge. She laid down the nine of spades. "Thirteen."

He played his last card, the five of spades. "Eighteen." Miriam was reflexively laying down her last card as he continued. "I have very few people to play with. And besides, what else are you and I going to do together? Go on a date?"

The last question rattled Miriam. She had wanted a serious relationship with him throughout their college years, and in the absence of any initiative on his part, she had had to learn to settle for the strong friendship the two had developed since then. Neither had ever spoken with the other about what might have been. She blinked, trying to concentrate on the math as she played her eight of hearts. "Twenty six." She sat there momentarily, then suddenly remembered to advance her peg one point for playing the last card. She couldn't believe what he had just said – not only that, but that he had said it seemingly in jest, not rudely, not with regret, nor with any sense of irony. She wondered now whether he really believed that he had never had a chance with her. She steeled herself. She didn't want to show her distress, but couldn't let his remark go. "You know that ship has sailed, right?" she said, trying to match the tone he had used.

"Yes, I know. It left the harbor years ago. And far be it from me to spoil this friendship with dinner and a movie."

She was growing more flustered moment by moment. She quickly looked over her cards. "One pair for two," she said, advancing her pegs. Steve noted that she missed the fact that her Jack matched the suit of the four that was turned up. He started looking over his own hand while she searched for words. Finally she asked him, "Do you remember the last movie that you and I saw together?"

He laughed. "Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes. How could I forget? You and I never went on a 'date' movie. We were always doing something studious, or trying to impress each other with our esoteric knowledge. Quadruple run of three for twelve, four sets of fifteen make twenty, and two pair make twenty four." He advanced his pegs twenty four slots, overtaking Miriam's and leaving him three points short of a win, and he had yet to count the crib.

"So, then, just because we were watching a German art film, you couldn't have held my hand?" she wondered out loud.

He took another sip of tea, not wincing so much this time. "One pair for two," he said, quickly scoring his crib. One point short. "I guess I was too captivated by Klaus Kinski's performance," he answered her.

"Be serious," she said, raising her tone to get his full attention. "We spent our college years as the best of friends. We've been the best of friends ever since. Was that all you ever wanted from me?" She was trying to put him on the spot, but as she spoke these last words, she knew that she was revealing that she had wanted more than friendship, and was angry at herself for appearing weak and desperate. She had forgotten all about the game now. She wanted to put Steve back on the defensive. If he was going to dredge up the past like this, there was no way she was going to be the only one to suffer for it. She softened her voice as he took his attention away from the cards and gave it to her. "I remember watching Aguirre with you in the lecture hall. I had told myself ahead of time that it was your last chance to show me you wanted to be more than a friend. And you blew it." Now she was cursing herself. This wasn't going to put Steve on the defensive. It was only going to make him pity her.

Steve rested his chin on his fist, thoughtfully. "Are you saying that all these years it's been exclusively up to me to come out and say what I wanted? You and I dated a lot of other people while we were in college, and we had a lot of good times together too. If we never connected on a romantic level, why is that any more my fault than yours? It takes two people to communicate."

Miriam countered quickly. "Yes, but not all communication is done in words. And sometimes – the words only scratch the surface of what we really want to say. The reason I was always dragging you to this art film or that lecture or museum exhibit wasn't all about sharing an intellectual experience with someone. There were a lot of people I could have done those things with, and I kept choosing you. What did that tell you?" She threw in the question almost as an afterthought, hoping it would keep her on offense.

Steve answered simply. "It told me that you were intelligent, and that you respected my intelligence. And I didn't feel like you were dragging me along, by the way."

She grinned humorlessly. "Oh, no. Certainly not. Because in order for me to drag you, there would have had to be some physical contact. How many times did we walk across campus and you never once held my hand? How many movies did we sit through while I leaned toward you, hoping you'd put your arm around me? And how could I forget the time I went to your dorm room the afternoon before my big term paper was due, and I spent four hours pounding out the final draft on your computer? Did you ever wonder why I'd go upstairs to use your Commodore 64 when my roommate had a brand new Macintosh? And do you remember that I took a break about halfway through and collapsed on your bed?"

He laughed at that memory. "I remember you drooled on my pillow."

"No. I told you it was drool, because I didn't want to admit that I had cried, waiting for you to join me. But apparently the only way I could have gotten my message across was to throw you in the bed first, and then climb on top of you. Did you think I got into your bed just because I was tired?"

It was just now dawning on Steve that the "date" remark had touched a very raw nerve. He started to reminisce, trying now to recall all of the signals that he may have missed, or deliberately ignored. "You were studying hard. Of course you were tired."

"A person who's tired doesn't always want sleep. Do you remember what I said when I got up from your bed?"

He took another, deeper draught of the tea, searching his memory. "No."

"I remember like it was yesterday." She smiled as she recollected, and she recreated the scene for him, straightening up in her chair and stretching as if just waking up. "Wow, Steve, how long have I been out? I can't believe I fell asleep. Was I snoring? I'm sorry, I think I drooled on your pillow. I don't usually fall asleep in other people's beds. I guess I really trust you, really feel safe around you." She paused, losing her smile. "Does that ring a bell?"

Steve nodded, smiling wistfully, the scene gradually coming back to him.

Miriam continued. "There's a question I've wanted to know the answer to for a long time." She leaned forward. "How come you never took advantage of how much I trusted you?"

His answer came quickly and naturally. "You've just answered your own question. Because I would have been taking advantage of you, and I would have lost your trust."

Her counter was just as swift. "Even though that's so obviously what I wanted? Taking advantage of someone doesn't always violate trust. Not if that someone is voluntarily giving up the advantage." And I haven't given it up since then, she thought to herself. The gaze from her half-closed eyes pierced him, and her voice softened. "I was lying in your bed, waiting to be taken. I trusted you to take me. I trusted you to do what any other man with a woman in his bed would have done. That's the trust you lost by not taking advantage of me when you had the chance."

Steve shifted in his chair, leaning back and settling his fingers on the edge of the table. He wanted to tell her to lighten up and learn how to take a joke, but couldn't think of anything more wrong to say under the circumstances. Choosing a romance with Miriam over a friendship was a line he long ago decided not to cross, and as time wore on, that line had transformed into a wall. Miriam seemed to be putting a ladder against that wall and daring him to climb. He took a few seconds to think, and chose his next words with extreme care. "I doubt we would be friends now if we had been lovers then. I do have regrets about the past. But that doesn't mean I would change anything."

Miriam forced the corners of her mouth to turn upward. "Liar," she said in barely more than a whisper. "You and I went on friendly outings with each other, and went on serious dates with other people. All the while, I found myself wishing the serious dates had been with you. And now, I know you were feeling the same way."

Steve couldn't deny it. But he sure wasn't going to confirm it by talking about how, so many times, he had gone home after ending one of those serious dates early and masturbated while thinking of Miriam, whom he had regarded as too perfect a combination of brains and beauty to show a reciprocal interest in him. Instead, he mused, "It's funny. Some of my most successful dates were with you, and they weren't even real dates."

Miriam shifted her rhetorical steamroller into a higher gear. "Successful by what criteria? It's not as if you were trying to get into my panties."

"I connected with you intellectually."

"God forbid you would have connected with me in other ways."

They both fell silent – she, thinking that she had just delivered the argument-winning line, and he, thinking that she was overplaying her advantage. Now it was his turn to become angry and distressed. He leaned forward in his chair again, straightening up as his lungs filled with air, before exhaling the reply that his gut instinct was putting in his mouth. "Aren't you the one who told me just a few minutes ago that that ship had sailed? You talk like you've been waiting for that ship to return to harbor."

She didn't know what to make of that reply. She had been all but daring him to ask her out, and not only had he called that bluff, but she imagined that he might also turn her down one more time. Maybe she should have laughed off his remark about going on a date. Now, it seemed, either they were going on a date, or this friendship was blowing up in their faces. She swallowed hard, then spoke again. "I don't care anymore what stopped us from dating back then. I only want to know, what's stopping us now?"

"This decision would have been a no-brainer ten years ago. But I don't think there's any going back. You and I have changed a lot since then."

I've changed a whole lot more than you know, she silently mused before making her spoken reply. "First of all, if this decision was a no-brainer ten years ago, you certainly no-brained it. And second of all, there are some things that haven't changed. Like your haircut."

Steve leaned back as Miriam landed her two rhetorical low-blows, and he reflexively reached up to run his hand through the flowing black mane that he had grown his freshman year, much to the consternation of his parents, and sported ever since then. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Steve, over the last ten years, I've watched that part slowly creep further down the left side of your head. You're coming dangerously close to combining a mullet with a comb-over."

He smiled, and his posture relaxed. At least now, he could joke back. "Do you mean to suggest that my carefully laid plan to make Patrick Swayze jealous is doomed to failure?"

The phone rang. Miriam looked up at the clock and saw that it was nine. She knew who would be calling, and would have been prepared if Steve's visit hadn't been prolonged by this discussion. She rose and rushed to the living room to turn down the volume on the answering machine. Her nightly talk with her sub was going to have to wait. She took the newspaper from the coffee table on her way back to the dining room.

"I'm going to have to return that call," she announced, as she pulled out the entertainment section. "This is the deal, Steve. I'm not available for dinner tomorrow night. But I would like to see a movie. And the art house is off limits. People don't go on dates in order to read subtitles. Choose one that's showing at the multiplex. And for the love of all that's good, when you come to pick me up, show up with a new do."

Steve took the paper and rose from the table, feeling himself being urged out the door. But there was unfinished business. He took one last sip of the tea, the odd flavor starting to grow on him, and said, "Muggins."

"What?" she replied, having completely forgotten the game.

"Muggins," he repeated, and he reached down toward her cards, picking up the Jack. "Nobs for one." He tossed the card aside, reached toward his peg, and claimed his victory. He left her standing at the dining table, dumbstruck with her mouth agape, as he went to her CD player, sitting on the top shelf of her baker's rack, ejected his CD and returned it to its jewel case. "I'll see myself out. Be ready at nine tomorrow night. Good night, Miriam," he said, on his way to the front door.

The sound of the front door opening and closing brought her out of her reverie. She walked to the front window. She parted the curtain and watched him, his hair being whipped by the wind on the blustery early October evening, as he passed under the street lamp to his car, parked in the street. She watched him drive off, then retreated to her bedroom, taking the phone with her. She was still stewing over the weakness she had shown Steve, a quality that she thought was inconsistent with the persona that she was coming to think of as her true self. She tossed the phone on the bed and shed her clothes, draping her jeans and black sleeveless blouse over the back of the chair in front of her vanity. She unfastened her black satin bra and shrugged it off her shoulders, slinging it over the doorknob of her closet, and her black panties went into the laundry hamper next to the closet. Picking up the phone again, she slipped between the sheets of her bed, reclining on a stack of pillows, and she dialed her sub's number.

Veronica was one of several people who had answered the personal ad that Miriam had placed in the local alternative tabloid two months ago. The others – men and women – had proven unsuitable and gradually been eliminated from consideration, until only Veronica remained in regular phone contact. Then, just the previous Friday, Miriam had taken the next step and met her in person, and was very satisfied. Veronica had dropped her gaze the very moment she saw Miriam approach the table at the coffee shop, the loose auburn ringlets of her hair falling forward a bit, partially obscuring the alabaster skin of her face as she made a charming show of deference. It was a brief encounter that started with simple, ordinary conversation, and ended with Miriam giving her a list of rules of conduct for her to sign, and a token for her to wear – a tight-fitting necklace of heavy, square, interlocking gold-plated links, with a pendant hanging from it, a black and blue bull's-eye pattern to match the one Miriam wore from her right ear.


Acquiring the Taste Ch. 01



Veronica hadn't quite known what to do with herself upon hearing Miriam's answering machine message. She had mumbled a vague greeting and suggested she might call back later, and after hanging up, she rather mechanically prepared for bed, wondering why her Mistress hadn't picked up the phone. Now she sat on the edge of her bed in an oversized nightshirt, rotating her right ankle and flexing her right knee, sore from another day spent working on her feet. The ringing of the phone at her bedside made her jump, and she picked it up eagerly. "Hello?"

Miriam sank into her pillows and answered in a sultry voice. "Hello, veronica."

Veronica all but melted at the sound of her Mistress's voice. Miriam pronounced her name like no one else; she could almost hear the lower-case letters. The words of her nervous reply spilled out of her mouth like water from an overturned glass. "Madame Mim? Hello, um, I'm sorry, I thought, um, well you didn't answer when I called, and I thought I had done something to upset you, and you didn't want to talk to me, and –"

Miriam had to put a stop to this. "First of all, I am not under any obligation to answer the phone when you call. It is definitely not your place to question my momentary indisposition. Second of all, your language is deplorable, and if you were speaking in that manner in my presence, you'd be feeling the consequences right now. Have you already forgotten the proper way to greet your Mistress, veronica?"

"Begging Your pardon, Madame," Veronica replied. "veronica greets You, Madame Mim."

"Much better, girl. Now, are you available tomorrow evening to come to My home and serve Me personally? I have a date tomorrow night, and I want you to prepare your Mistress for a wonderful night out."

Veronica had mixed feelings about this. The first feeling was an unexpected pang of jealousy that Miriam was spending her time with someone else. The next was a creeping sense of dread that she might have to spend the evening with Miriam and her date, doing who knows what. "Will this girl be attending You on Your date, Madame?" she queried falteringly.

"No, girl. He's a stranger to this lifestyle and knows nothing about you. I wouldn't count on him to understand what it is that we do. He's barely able to swim in the mainstream."

Veronica paused, confused at this remark. "Begging Your pardon, Madame, but he doesn't sound very promising."

If you only knew, Miriam thought, chuckling at Veronica's comment. "Perhaps so. But he's proven himself capable of surprising Me before," she said, the card game and conversation still fresh on her mind.

"What would You have this girl do for You, Madame?" Veronica asked.

"I want you here at 5:30 tomorrow. You will prepare Me a light meal. You will help select My attire, laundering it if necessary. And you will assist Me in my preparations. If you do well and finish before 8:00, I may have time to give you a proper reward."

"What preparations are you making for the evening, Madame?"

Miriam examined her fingers, then ran them over her thighs. "I want to bathe. My nails need to be done, and I need to shave."

Veronica realized now that she would be seeing her Mistress unclothed for the first time, and she bit her lower lip in anticipation. She started to puzzle a moment, thinking about shaving Miriam's legs and armpits, wondering whether Miriam would want her mound of Venus shaven as well, and hoping she would be able to keep her hand steady. "Shaving? Forgive this girl for prying, but – does Madame intend to be intimate with her date tomorrow?"

Miriam smiled. "I will be very disappointed if nothing happens."

Veronica was eager to please, and wanted to show it. "Madame, may this girl suggest a facial, and an exfoliating salt and sugar scrub?"

Miriam raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a very good suggestion, if you think you have the time to do that."

Veronica smiled. "This girl is glad to have pleased you, Madame."

"You haven't pleased Me yet, girl. I'll wait until you've performed your duties tomorrow evening to make that judgment."

Veronica sobered herself. "Of course, Madame."

"I believe that concludes our business, except for some questions for you. Have you started your journal, girl?"

Veronica didn't want to say no, even though that was the truth. She made up an honest-seeming fib. "It's not very good, Madame."

"Bring it with you tomorrow, and I'll judge that for Myself."

"Yes, Madame." Veronica knew immediately it was going to be a long night. She was going to have to write five nights' worth of journal entries before bed. She wouldn't have time at work tomorrow.

"Now, about the necklace I gave you. Is it comfortable? Do you wear it constantly, as I instructed you?"

"This girl never removes it, Madame." That much was true.

"Have you received any comments or compliments?"

"Some have been curious, Madame. This girl has had to tell them it was from a friend, but – some suspect more than just a friend, Madame." Veronica was all but certain that it was the subject of gossip, judging by the hushed conversation among the other stylists and estheticians that suddenly stopped when she returned to the salon after her lunch break.

"I doubt any of them suspect the truth," Miriam said with a smile.

"Probably not, Madame," Veronica replied. Her main concern was making up elaborate but convincing lies in order to satisfy too-curious acquaintances.

"Today I purchased a luggage padlock, veronica."

Veronica felt a sudden chill, and swallowed a lump in her throat. "Yes, Madame," she said simply.

"I'm going to put it on the clasp of your necklace tomorrow, girl. It should fit perfectly. And your lovely hair will hide it well."

Veronica grew more nervous, and discovered, somewhat to her dismay, that the thought of the necklace becoming a more permanent fixture was causing a moist ball of heat to form in her groin. She clasped her thighs together, trying to wish it away. "Yes, Madame," she said, notes of vulnerability quavering in her voice.

"I hope you've been keeping your hands off that pussy, girl."

"Of course, Madame," she whined, hoping that her Mistress wouldn't be able to perceive that she was lying. She hadn't been able to resist touching herself. And the thought of the padlock all but assured that, once she could put down the phone, her hands would be busy with something else.

Miriam suspected the truth, and was curious how Veronica would react to this suggestion. "Good girl. I'm glad you've been able to show some discipline. Perhaps I won't have to put a chastity belt on you after all."

Veronica's whine became a moan. "No Madame, no, I'll be a good girl –"

Miriam pounced gleefully. "You'll be a good girl? Do you mean to tell Me you haven't been a good girl yet?"

"No, Madame, I – I mean yes, I've been good, please Madame –"

"My goodness, so flustered. Listen to all those first-person pronouns. Looks like I'm going to have to buy more padlocks."

"No Madame, please –"

"Locking up that necklace isn't good enough for you, is it girl? I suppose I'm going to have to lock that cunt away for safekeeping."

"Please, Madame, I'm sorry, I – this girl begs Your pardon, Madame, please." The thought lingered in the back of Veronica's mind that all she would really have to do was to take the necklace off, return it to Miriam, and tell her to take a hike. This was all a game. One could always stop playing if it was no longer enjoyable. But she wasn't quite sure that she wasn't enjoying it. And this early in the game, she didn't want to appear to be a poor sport. Once she got the hang of things, this might be very fulfilling. At least she hoped so.

"There there, girl, I'm not heartless. I'll show you some mercy, if you can pass a little test. Get your vibrator, girl."

Veronica practically leaped out of her bed to get it, but didn't really need to. It was in the top drawer of her nightstand. "Thank You for Your mercy, Madame. This girl has her vibrator now, Madame."

"Good girl. Lube it up."

"Yes, Madame." She reached again into the drawer for the lube, and nervously drizzled out a generous amount, some of which actually landed on the vibrator.

"Turn it on, maximum speed. Hold it up to the phone so I can hear it."

"Yes, Madame." The loud buzzing in Miriam's ear moments later confirmed that Veronica had complied.

Miriam's voice now took on a steely tone. "Shove it in deep, right now, and don't you dare cum, girl."

Veronica could only manage a whimpering moan in reply as she pulled up her nightshirt and did as she was told.

"Hold the phone up to that vibrator. Move the vibe in and out of your cunt a few times so I know it's there."

Veronica's "Yes, Madame" was barely audible over the buzzing and the slick, squishing sound of her obedience.

"Now bring the phone back to your ear, girl." Miriam had to repeat this a few times, shouting to get Veronica's attention over the noise.

"Sorry, Madame," Veronica eventually replied with heavy breath.

"Now girl, fuck yourself good and hard with that vibrator, and if you can keep yourself from cumming for the next five minutes, I promise not to put a chastity belt on you tomorrow." Miriam glanced at her alarm clock to take note of the time, and waited for the three in 9:23 to become a four. "Your five minutes starts …. now."

Veronica let out a moan of despair as she struggled to comply. She wished she had a free hand to dig her nails into the mattress, and frustratedly had to use her toes instead. Gradually the pitch of her moans changed until they were more like growls, as she gritted her teeth and shook her head vigorously, trying to ignore the pleasure she was giving herself.

Miriam cooed into Veronica's ear. "Oh, such a good girl. I'm so proud of you, you're trying so hard. Now tell Me, girl, whose cunt is that?"

Veronica struggled to steady her voice and make her reply coherent. "Madame – Yours – this girl's cunt – is Yours, Madame."

"Say it again."

"This girl's cunt is – Yours, Madame."

"Keep on saying it, girl. Repeat it and learn."

"This is – oh – this cunt is Yours, Madame. This …" And so it went, as Veronica wondered just how long five minutes could feel. She realized to her dismay that the more she repeated the words, the harder it was to fight off her climax. Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes as she endured her Mistress's test, trying to make Miriam proud. "… Yours, Madame. This girl's oh god cunt is Yours oh Madame oh, this girl's cunt is –"

"Time," Miriam announced. "Take out that vibrator, girl."

Veronica pulled it out of her so quickly that she threw it on the floor. She curled up into the fetal position, rocking and trembling as she struggled to contain herself and slow her ragged breathing.

Miriam continued. "Good girl. Now, I know you've been struggling to be honest with Me. Be honest now. Did you cum during that five minutes? It sounded like you were very close a few times."

Veronica, duly chastened, didn't want to be caught in another lie. "This girl begs Your pardon, Madame. This girl – this girl came very hard, Madame. Thank You, Madame," she added as a hurried afterthought.

"Good girl. And so sweet of you to thank Madame for the orgasm. See how quickly you're learning, and how easy it is to tell Madame the truth? I'll let you go now, girl. Be here promptly at 5:30. I'll have your new chastity belt. Oh, and bring your vibrator. It's Mine now. I'll decide when you can be trusted with that kind of a toy in your possession again. Good night, girl."

"Thank You, Madame. Good night," Veronica replied in a shaky, exhausted voice as she hung up the phone. Catching up on her journal was long forgotten. She cried herself to sleep.



Acquiring the Taste Ch. 02



Chapter the Second, in which Steve and Miriam go on their first date, and a very special item is added to Veronica's wardrobe.

*

The letter was handwritten on stationery, the heading of which read, "From the desk of Carlton Gardiner, Jr." It was framed, and it hung on the wall at the end of the hallway, underneath a picture of the man himself. It was the first thing Steve saw every morning as he came out of his bedroom, and the last thing he saw before retiring in the evening. Seven years had passed since he first read it. He could have recited it from memory now.

April 3, 1992

Dear Son,

I'm writing this letter eight days after the death of your mother. If you're reading this, I've joined her.

Your mother used to talk a lot about how quiet the house was after you went away to college. I noticed the difference too, and now that she has gone, I notice it all the more. I laugh now to think of all the times she told me that working so hard was going to put me in an early grave. I was going to retire early. Not early enough, it turns out, but no man expects his wife to die so young. There was always one more thing to do, one more goal to achieve, and then we could spend our twilight years enjoying one another's company. These past few days, I've found myself feeling like God has cheated me out of my life. You being the unrepentant heathen would undoubtedly have the good sense to place the blame where it really belongs.

I'm still holding out hope that you'll come back to church. You have an open invitation from me. I'll welcome the prodigal son, whatever the rest of the congregation might have to say. As for me, I apologize for calling your gay friend an abomination, but of course you realize that my apology doesn't change the way I feel. Your mother and I were distraught when you abandoned God and stuck up for your debauched friend, but I suppose there's something to be said for your loyalty.

I've tried to make up for not having your company by acquainting myself with all the books you left behind. I never understood why a man would need any books other than the Bible, but on closer inspection, I was surprised to find that you have six of them, which is five more than I have. I'm glad you found room in your collection for six versions of God's word, and I've tried to meet you halfway, as it were, by reading stuff that, just a few months ago, I would have considered an impious waste of my time. (I can hear your mother's voice now, saying, "Carlton, you're a fine one to be talking about wasting time.") Yesterday, at random, I pulled down that little volume of Dylan Thomas. As you might well imagine, I was drawn to that poem about not going gentle into that good night. With all due respect to an otherwise fine poet, if there's anything I've learned these past few days, it's that the right time to rage against the dying of the light is when it burns most brightly.

Workaholic that I've been, I never was able to understand how you could approach life as if nothing at all was worth doing, and yet remain such an optimist. Maybe you were on to something after all. Certainly you're better equipped to learn from Dylan Thomas.

I know – have known for years, really – that you have no interest in running the family business. I accept that. I think you'll make a fine attorney. But if you insist on helping the downtrodden, rooting for the underdog, and fighting losing battles on behalf of lost causes, you're going to need a safety cushion. So I'm selling the business. I'm drafting a new will. Whatever is left over after I'm gone is yours.

But there's a part of me that wants to tell you not to make the same mistakes I made. I waited for the day when I would be able to sit back and enjoy my life, and never was wise enough to perceive that the time to enjoy life is when you're living it. I lived in order to work, when I should have worked in order to live. The value of my estate will most likely spare you from having to make that kind of choice, and allow you simply to live.

Do your mother and me a favor. Enjoy my retirement. Rage against the dying of the light.

Whatever you do, and whatever you believe, I am proud of you, and I love you.

--Dad

Steve's mother had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday that winter, and her sudden and untimely death was a serious blow that almost kept him from graduating on time. At the end of summer, he went on to law school. In October, on receiving the news of his father's disappearance, he took a hiatus and returned home. In the middle of that month, Carlton Gardiner's body was found, washed up on the banks of Lethe Creek a few hundred yards downstream from where he had left his fishing gear. Steve's hiatus from law school became permanent when he read the letter.

He still resided in the apartment that he had moved into while he was grieving seven years ago. Miriam had assumed that the apartment near the University campus was just a temporary residence while he looked for something more appropriate to his wealth, perhaps one of the condominiums on the riverfront, or a house in the expensive west suburbs, but Steve had stayed here, occupying the three-bedroom apartment alone – one bedroom for him, one for his books, and one for his music collection – and seeing no need to move.

He sat at the dining room table reading the paper that Miriam had given him last night, occasionally glancing up and looking through the window at the gray skies, watching the wind whip the oak tree just outside. The tree had still been green and lively just a few weeks ago, and now a few brown leaves were left clinging to the branches. He used to like watching the seasons change, observing how summer's last gasps tried to disperse the encroaching chill and darkness. After his father died, October became death writ large, and whatever the weather brought, he was always glad to turn the page of the calendar on the morning after the thirty-first.

A CD spun in his stereo. A song from his college days – "Getting Away with It," by Electronic. He had discovered during his high school days the therapeutic value of listening to depressing music, cleansing oneself of negative emotions by hearing someone else express them, but during this month it didn't seem to help anymore. This song in particular now seemed less meaningful than it ever had before. He had listened to it several times to help him come to grips with the idea that he and Miriam would never connect romantically, but last night's conversation with Miriam had undone the song's significance for him.

He still had trouble believing what he had heard last night. Somehow, during all the time they had spent together in college, he had managed to fail to see that she had wanted the same thing he had wanted. He thought he had understood her fairly well, but it seemed he hadn't after all. A consequence of being introverted was that he had never put much energy in getting to know and understand people generally, but he had always thought that he knew and understood his friends well. Miriam's revelation last night made that a lie.

He had always reserved the energy required to understand things for whatever captured his interest at the moment. He had been interested in music from an early age, buying vinyl records long before his tenth birthday, and over the years he had broadened his interests. As a child, he had received as a Christmas gift a portable radio, and he had educated himself about music by starting at the left end of the dial, tuning in the first station he could find, listening to it for a week or so, and moving on to the next station, learning music genre by genre. His interest in books had taken a similarly meandering course, starting out with general fiction, then reading non-fiction books, acquiring a stack of books on whatever subject he found fascinating, reading them, and moving on to a stack on a different subject. After last night, he couldn't help wondering how much different his life would be if he had taken as great an interest in people as he had in music and books, and he resolved to channel that energy in a new direction.

Getting to know his best friend better seemed an appropriate place to start, and now he looked forward to breaking the morose monotony of the autumn days by visiting the cinema with Miriam. Three Kings sounded good, at least as far as the plot was concerned, and a politically relevant film would probably score bonus points with Miriam. Mumford sounded offbeat and quirky, and was a tempting choice. But he had seen the trailer for American Beauty, and had made up his mind beforehand that that would be the film he took Miriam to see tonight, unless something more interesting caught his attention, and nothing did.

The choice of the movie was settled, but there was still the matter of the haircut. He called the salon. He usually made his appointments with Veronica, but doubted he could see her on such short notice. It turned out, however, that her one o'clock appointment had cancelled. So, late in the morning, he went out for an early lunch, planning to pick up advance movie tickets and stop at the salon afterwards.

Over the course of the day, Veronica had discovered that there was an advantage to the prospect of her Mistress putting her in a chastity belt. She had just returned from lunch, and usually by this time every day, her surgically-repaired ankle was very tender. Preoccupied with the threat that hung over her head, she hadn't paid much attention to the pain – nor, in fact, to much else. She had worked through her morning appointments in a mental fugue, and her more talkative and vivacious clients had noticed the difference. More than once, a client had paused expectantly as if waiting for a response, and she had had to fake interest with a nod, or a falsely knowing "Mm-hmm," and she knew when her response was inappropriate, seeing the confused and vaguely offended expressions on their faces.

She stopped at the front counter to read the name in the appointment book that had been penciled in after her cancellation. Steve Gardiner. Short top and sides, no sideburns, she recalled. Leave the back long, but trim the ends. Doesn't talk much, but has a nice voice when he bothers to use it. Apparently has a lot of money, but dresses like his wardrobe was purchased at K-Mart. Tips extremely well.

No sooner did she see the name than the man himself, dressed in his typical polo shirt and blue jeans, walked in the front door with all the punctuality of a man with absolutely nothing else to do. She put on the friendliest face she could and greeted him. "Hello Mr. Gardiner. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." A blatant lie, but she wasn't about to tell him how she really felt, and certainly not why. "Please have a seat." This was about all the conversation she could normally expect from him. Often, on previous appointments, she had been able to coax him into a little bit of conversation and managed to learn a few things about him – his interests in books, music and film, and his being wealthy enough not to have to work for a living. He had never asked any questions about her – not that he was impolite; he simply didn't give any indication that he was curious about her.

She wouldn't be prodding him for information today. She just wanted to get through the rest of her appointments and prepare to face Miriam. She took his glasses and sat them on the counter at her workstation, then took a comb and shears and prepared for his usual trim, and then he spoke.

"Take it all off."

No, she couldn't have heard that right. Or else it was a joke. That's it, he's joking with me, she thought and laughed. "What, bad hair day?"

"I'm serious. I want my head shaved."

She smiled cautiously. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

He smiled back. "Are you afraid of making a mistake?"

Apparently he wasn't joking. He really did want this. "All right then." She stepped behind him with the shears and gathered his mullet into a tail, combing through it several times, then brought the shears into place.

"Last chance to change your mind," she warned.

"Do it," he said with a smile.

She cut through it, and held the clump in her hand. "Um – did you want to save this?"

He didn't even turn to look. "If I ever want to see it again, I'll grow it back."

She let it fall to the floor.

She worked carefully, shortening his hair in stages as if to give him the chance to decide against such a drastic change – maybe off the collar would be good enough? Off the ear? But he didn't stop her.

"What brought this on?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"A friend has brought it to my attention that I'm going bald, and that I'm in denial about it."

That doesn't sound like much of a friend, she thought, but she was too tactful to say it out loud.

As she worked, he thought ahead to the date – and back to his decision that morning to take a greater interest in people. He had been seeing Veronica at the salon for a few years now, and didn't really know much about her. He knew that was his own fault. It wasn't for lack of interest, but for lack of a talent for small talk. He was going to have to develop that talent now. Why not start with Veronica? If nothing else, it might be a good dress rehearsal for the date tonight.

But where to start? He had already asked her how she was – a question that people seem to ask more out of politeness than genuine interest. Perhaps he could rephrase it, make it open-ended.

"So, how's life treating you?"

Veronica almost dropped the shears mid-snip. Five years she had been cutting the man's hair and initiating all of the conversation, such as it was – and now this? He really seemed to want to know. But there was simply no way she could discuss this under the present circumstances. Well, my new Mistress wants to slap a chastity belt on me because I haven't kept my journal up to date and because I've been playing with myself without her permission, but other than that, I really can't complain, she imagined herself saying. But as interesting as the reaction might be, she just couldn't say that.

She paused and sighed, "I think the less said about that, the better."

Well, that went over like a lead balloon, he thought, and fell silent again, as she brought the clippers to his scalp and trimmed what was left down to stubble.

She felt bad about not wanting to answer his question, and wondered if he'd ever venture to ask her again in the future, or start any conversation at all. She liked the sound of his baritone voice, and wondered if he sang. She remembered once bringing up the subject of music with him, to her surprise and amusement starting him on a monologue about his record collection, and how he had worked for the campus radio station when he was a student at State U. She remembered how she and the women at the adjacent workstations had exchanged glances and smiles – and later, gossip. Veronica said she wished he still worked for the radio station, just so she could hear that voice more often. Mandy went even further than that, suggesting that she was going to play back that voice in her head that night when she made love with her husband.

As she started to lather up his scalp, preparing to scrape away the stubble, she turned toward the washbasin and stumbled. He had seen her limp before. Some days were worse than others. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks, it's all right."

"What happened to your ankle?"

She cleared her throat. This was another subject she didn't like to discuss. "An accident. A long time ago."

She didn't seem to want to talk about this, and he decided not to press the issue. He didn't think it wise to antagonize or distract someone who was holding a razor blade up to his head.

She worked quickly and expertly once he fell silent again, and she wiped his scalp clean and returned his glasses so that he could judge her work. From the adjacent work stations, Mandy and Bridgette had sneaked glances as she worked, at first stunned at his request, but now stunned at the results. He didn't speak for a few seconds – add sideburns and a fringe of hair, and the man staring back at him from the mirror would have born a surprising resemblance to his father. But as he reached up to feel his smooth scalp with his hand – a new experience for him – he nodded and slowly smiled. Veronica didn't let out her sigh of relief until she saw that smile.

Afterwards, at the register, something else caught his eye. Her necklace. And the pendant that hung from it – that black and blue bull's-eye pattern looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

He decided to make one last attempt at conversation. "That's a nice necklace."

Her response baffled him. Her eyes went wide and her hand went to her throat. The token of Miriam's ownership was going to become permanent tonight, with the addition of the padlock, and she started to panic at the thought. "Thank you, have a nice day," she breathed out as she hastily retreated to the safety of the ladies' room.

He shook his head as he left. Trying to understand Veronica had taken a lot of energy, and he hoped he had enough time to recharge before the date.

Veronica worked through the last of her appointments distractedly, and stopped at her apartment on the way to Miriam's house in order to take the Ace bandage off her ankle and to pick up the supplies she needed – then remembered at the last minute to grab her vibrator and her journal, gathering everything into a canvas grocery bag. It no longer bothered her that the journal was blank. She didn't imagine that her situation could get any worse.

The jittery, nervous anticipation she had felt all day finally subsided when she knocked on Miriam's front door. Like a doctor's appointment, she mused. The waiting is the hardest part. Miriam answered the door wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe, having shed her work clothes as soon as she got home. She smiled to see Veronica blush and drop her gaze, and she stepped aside to let her in.

Veronica knew what to do, having already refreshed her memory from Miriam's list of rules. Miriam closed and locked the front door as Veronica went to the kitchen to set her grocery bag on the counter, taking out her vibrator and journal. She returned to the living room where Miriam waited patiently, and she sat the journal and vibrator at her feet, not making any eye contact, and she began to disrobe – first stepping out of her high-top walking shoes, then taking off her slacks, blouse, bra, panties and socks, putting her socks over her shoes and folding the other items carefully, laying it all at Miriam's feet next to the journal and vibrator. Finally, she presented herself naked before her Mistress, easing herself to her knees with her thighs spread wide, lacing her fingers behind her head, thrusting her heavy breasts forward, and dropping her gaze to Miriam's feet.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, "veronica greets You, Madame Mim."

Miriam didn't reply. She bent forward and picked up the journal. She chuckled when she opened it and found it blank, confirming her suspicions. She took the vibrator and gathered up her clothes and shoes, and without a word she carried them to her bedroom.

Veronica almost stood up and followed, but made herself stay put, realizing that she hadn't been permitted or commanded to follow. She stayed still, not turning to look when she heard Miriam's footsteps returning.

Miriam stood in front of her, and she bit her lip and took a deep breath when she saw what Miriam was holding.