The Art of Submission
By Helotage
Chapter 1: The Purchase
Mollie was browsing in a newish neighborhood antique store she had been meaning to visit for a while. It had an eclectic inventory—old curiosities, flea market junk, and some decent modernist art. Mollie liked the art and lingered over some pieces. They were too dear for her salary, but it was fun to fantasize about hanging some good art on her apartment wall.
One piece grabbed her with inexplicable power. It was a sculpture of white marble, an abstract shape with smooth curves and soft lines. The sculpture was about the size and shape of a toaster, a decidedly prosaic comparison for such a striking object, and was displayed on an old, ugly table that was also for sale. Mollie walked around the store but kept returning to the sculpture. The third time, she dared to look at the small, discrete sticker with the price. She audibly gasped. It was as much as a month of her salary! She laughed to herself. Still, there was something about it. Her hand stretched to test the cool marble unbidden, and she watched with curiosity as the pale of her white hand blended with the white of the marble. Her fingertips barely brushed the hard surface that appeared so soft and pliable.
All at once, images entered her mind—nothing specific or even fully resolved, just flashes of color, visions of flesh and iron. Physically she felt a mixture of anxiety, a vague ache, and general arousal. She gasped again at the sensation and withdrew her hand. The sensations instantly ceased.
Just then a woman said close behind her, “It’s something, isn’t it?” This time, though startled, Mollie managed not to gasp. She composed herself, turned to the woman, and agreed. The woman was the clerk who stood behind the counter at the entrance. Mollie had noted the woman following her closely with her eyes, causing Mollie to wonder if she looked like a shoplifter. What could she hide in her jeans pockets?
The woman was certainly striking, dressed all in black, tight-fitting pants and a tight turtleneck. She was a tall, thin African-American with medium skin, and her short black natural hair and that outfit and dark makeup made her look naturally goth. She was gorgeous and sexy in ways Mollie was not. Mollie was pretty, even beautiful, but she was tiny, with thin wrists and small but shapely breasts. Guys loved her prominent nipples, which stood out bright red against her white skin. This woman, though, was in a different class and was maybe ten or even fifteen years older than Mollie, which would place her in her mid thirties to early forties. Mollie had no sexual attraction to women to speak of and certainly no experience, but this woman stirred something in her. Now they were standing an uncomfortable foot apart in front of the sculpture.
The woman reached past Mollie, lightly brushing her shoulder, and caressed the sculpture. Mollie looked from her face to her hand, which offered a beautiful contrast to the marble surface. “This piece has an almost mystical effect on select individuals,” the woman said. Mollie wondered if she was supposed to be one of those “select individuals.” It sounded like a sales pitch. Nonetheless, the flash of images and sensations, as inchoate as they were, still resonated in her mind, and she realized, with a little embarrassment, that she was slightly aroused.
The woman said, “For you, I can knock ten percent off the price.” Mollie looked down and said she just could not afford it. “That’s too bad,” said the woman staring hard at Mollie, “It somehow suits you, I think. I really want it to have you.” Mollie could not imagine what she meant. She turned toward the sculpture again, and the woman stopped caressing it and reached for Mollie’s hand. “May I,” she asked. “You really need the full experience.” Mollie nodded almost involuntarily, and the woman placed Mollie’s hand on the sculpture.
This time it was not just a brush of her fingertips. They now rested lightly on the surface. For just an instant, she noted the coolness and the unexpected but completely predictable hardness of the stone, and then her eyes fluttered shut. The flash of perceptions returned with near lucidity. She observed dark spaces lit by candles and torches, women in flimsy gowns and heavy makeup, and men in ancient costumes, one with a whip on his belt. Another had his penis out and was idly stroking it to erection. One woman knelt down in front of him and began bobbing her head. The images kept swirling by, nothing steady enough to focus on, but they were decidedly erotic and very perverted. In one, a woman hung by her wrists naked while men circled her and laughed. In another, a young man was bent naked over a table or wooden horse, she was not sure. Another man stood behind him preparing to penetrate him with a wooden rod.
The woman lifted Mollie’s hand, and she opened her eyes. The woman was staring intently at Mollie’s face from just a few inches away with a knowing grin on her face. Mollie instinctively stepped back a little, but the woman gripped her hand firmly. Mollie looked at their hands in surprise. The woman said, “I can knock it down twenty percent, but that’s it.” Unfortunately, it was still way too much, and so she told the woman, who responded, “look, you clearly have a thing for this sculpture, and it seems to have a thing for you. You were meant to be together. I would hate to see you leave here without it.”
The woman in black walked back to the counter, consulted the computer, and strolled back to where Mollie stood by the sculpture. “Twenty-five percent off,” the woman said. “I still need to make some profit.” Mollie knew that she couldn’t afford it even at half price, though. The woman added helpfully, “just charge it to a card and pay it off over time.” She was standing even closer to Mollie than before, beyond uncomfortably close, almost touching her body to Mollie’s, but Mollie felt held in place unable to back away, which every instinct told her to do. The tall woman’s dark brown eyes stared down deeply into Mollie’s light blue. She took Mollie’s hand again and softly brushed her fingertips back and forth across the marble. Mollie’s eyes closed. Images of color, flesh, and iron flashed again. A hot poker glowed near her face, and she could smell its terrifying heat. She felt a rough hand caress, no, maul her right breast. She felt a soft hand run between her legs from front to back. She had no idea what was happening to her, but she was immensely aroused now. The sculpture, the images, this woman, and now the phantom sensations had flatly turned her on. She wondered if she reeked of sex the way the images had.
The woman lifted Mollie’s fingers from the sculpture, and the images and sensations instantly ceased, like when the needle lifted from one of her father’s old vinyl albums. Mollie gasped again, more softly, her breath was a little ragged, her mouth and eyes moist. She could not hide her arousal. The woman gave her that sardonic smile again, and for an instant Mollie thought she might bend down and kiss her. Instead, she released Mollie’s hand, which was trembling a bit, and brushed a wisp of curly brown hair from Mollie’s face. The gesture was affectionate, gentle, and frankly sensual. Mollie felt lightheaded.
“OK. I’ll take it!”
The woman spun dramatically on her high heel (how had Mollie missed those intimidating patent leather, stiletto-heeled boots?), flung her hand in the air, and said, “Wonderful! We have a deal.” She called to a thirtyish white man on the other side of the store: “Roger, could you box up this piece for this lovely young woman?” Mollie had not noticed him before. Had he been watching this entire interaction? Roger swiftly came over. His affect was full of drama.
“Well, I am glad we could find this gorgeous sculpture a worthy companion!”
Mollie did not think much about his words. She did ask, “what’s the piece called, and who is it by?”
Roger pulled on a pair of gloves from his rear pocket, leaned the piece back, and peaked underneath. “The tag on the bottom says that its name is, um, ‘Call for Submission,’ and it is by someone named ‘S. Marquis.’ I am afraid I don’t know if that is a man or a woman. It’s probably a pseudonym. It has a year, too: 1924. The Roaring Twenties!” He wrapped a cloth around the piece before hugging it to his chest and hauling it to the front of the store. He and the woman conferred, and he went to the back, presumably to get a suitable container. Mollie began to wonder how she could get it home. She would have to call a Lyft for the short ride.
Suddenly, the mysterious woman was back standing right next to Mollie. Had Mollie drifted off again, or was this woman just as stealthy as a cat? “Dear,” the woman said affectionately and with a touch of condescension in her tone, “I want to show you a special collection you will appreciate.” She emphasized the word “will” as though it were a command. Before Mollie could react, the woman took her hand and led her to a concealed wooden door, which she opened. She guided Mollie inside a dark room, and Mollie wondered for the first time if she was in danger. At the same time, her arousal had not entirely dissipated, not even close, and she realized she was up for almost anything—not her typical mood. The woman pulled a cord overhead, and the florescent lights came on. They stood in a large closet or small room surrounded by an array of, of, what?
As Mollie’s eyes resolved, she saw that hanging on the walls and on low tables on two sides of the room was an array of bizarre implements: shackles, collars, chains of various lengths and widths, small cages, hoods, masks, and, over there, whips and crops and canes and paddles. There were things on display that she did not recognize. They were made of leather and metal and wood and rubber. One table had a variety of dildos some of which made Mollie shudder because of their unnatural shapes and sizes.
The woman reached to a wall and pulled down a hefty metal hoop, a collar, Mollie guessed. The woman placed it in Mollie’s hands. It was cold and heavy and dark. The band of metal was about an inch wide and pretty thick. “It’s iron,” the woman said. “Quite old and fully functional.” Mollie must have looked stupid standing there with the thing, mouth agape. The woman took it from her again and opened it up. It was hinged in the middle. She closed it, and then flipped a little hasp over a metal loop that jutted out from one of the ends. It squeaked. “You can put a small lock in there if you want. Then it’s inescapable.” She handed it back to Mollie who could not figure out what was going on. “It’s yours. My little present to you to celebrate your new investment.”
Mollie thought, “What on earth is happening? Where am I? Who is this woman, and what is she doing?”
As if the woman could read her thoughts, she took the collar again, flipped back the hasp with a slight squeak, and opened the device. In short order, she put it around Mollie’s neck, closed it, and snapped the hasp shut. She held the collar by the loop of metal and gave a firm tug, bending Mollie’s neck forward and her head back. “See. Quite inescapable.” The look on the woman’s face had changed. It was more serious, more intent, less friendly. She casually pulled Mollie’s long curly brown hair from inside the collar where it was trapped. Mollie was unnerved. The woman fixed Mollie’s eyes with hers again, and Mollie felt vulnerable, a bit bullied, dominated . . . owned. Her head was light. Maybe she was hungry. The woman laughed, a cruel and mocking laugh. She brushed Mollie’s face with her hand again, this time less gently, almost like Mollie was a mere possession or a pet to be tolerated. Mollie’s hunger must be getting the better of her. Her vision blurred.
The next thing she was fully aware of was completing the transaction at the counter. As the woman ran Mollie’s card, she said with an insincere grin, “All transactions are final, by the way.” Mollie nodded and collected her card, stuffing it in in her rear jean pocket with her phone. Roger picked up the cardboard crate from the counter and handed it to Mollie with a grunt. Mollie almost pitched over at the surprise of the weight but managed to regain her balance. As she turned toward the door, the woman said in a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t worry. I didn’t forget. My little gift is in the box.” Roger smiled knowingly. What the hell was going on? Mollie’s Lyft was already by the curb, so at least getting this thing home would not be too bad. When did she use the app to call the car? Man, she was hungry. Or was that something else she was feeling?