Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

Kyle admitted that maybe he hadn't paid her the attention she deserved, and she must have felt terribly lonely to have to seek attention from another man. He promised that would change.

He still emphatically didn't understand, or forgive, her submissive urges and needs, even when she tried to get him to read the articles that argued it was just a sexual orientation, like being gay. "Don't feed me that shit, Tracy. That's just rationalization, pure and simple, for people to indulge in whatever perversions they want to. And I'm sorry, but to think you have those sick little fantasies, it just grosses me out. How can you be like that?"

His underlying message was that she better cut it out, if things were going to work out between them, but she couldn't do that – not any more. It would be like cutting off a piece of herself. She could no longer deny such a significant part of who and what she was.

Her first reaction to his 'disgust' of her was embarrassment. She was embarrassed and ashamed that he had 'caught her out' as it were, with her dirty little secrets. Until just a few months ago, she had agreed with him, at least on some level.

Instinctively, she had never shared those 'dirty little secrets' with him, no doubt expecting just such a reaction. Through her recent months of reading and talking with so many people, not the least of whom was Paul, she came to accept that she wasn't sick, wasn't perverted, and had nothing to be ashamed of.

The only shame here, she thought, was that she had never been allowed to experience who she really was. She married at the age of 21 to a boy, the same age, who was as sexually repressed as she was. They had never dared explore anything other than standard intercourse and oral sex.

Her second reaction was anger. How dare he judge her like that? She actually voiced this anger, something she wouldn't have dared to do before counseling, but the counselor had encouraged her to express herself, without fear of repercussion. He assured them both, over and over, that they should feel safe, while in these sessions, to express themselves honestly and openly.

"If the two of you are serious about this, absolute honesty is the only way."

Kyle had nodded to the therapist as if they two were the consulting physicians on this difficult case of patient Tracy. She had literally squirmed with discomfort and annoyance in her chair as Kyle started to lecture in his calm 'psychiatrist' voice. He explained in a gentle tone that Tracy was going through a difficult time, developmentally. He admitted that he, Kyle, had been so busy in his studies for his medical matriculations, he hadn't had the time to devote to his wife, who was immature, sexually speaking. She had found the need to go outside the marriage, first with little emails, then actually meeting on the sly with some slimy colleague to experiment in their shared perversion. She hadn't felt herself able to come to him for counseling and support. He had, he admitted magnanimously, failed her in that way. He was willing to forgive her and try to start again. He loved her that much, he explained.

Dr. Pearson listened impassively, and Tracy found herself wildly irritated that he seemed to buy this bullshit. No longer able to keep silent, she burst out, "You said you wanted total honesty. Then let me just lay it out there. Let meelucidate whatDr. Becker is skirting around." Both the counselor's and Kyle's eyes turned toward her, the former curious, the latter's, sliding over her nervously.

"We've never really been open with you about the nature of my little emails, as Kyle calls them, or myperversions."

"Oh, Tracy, that isn't necessary," Kyle interjected, "We don't have to share every sordid detail with Dr. Pearson. That isn't what he meant by being honest."

"Don't interrupt, Kyle," Tracy shot back at him, maybe for the first time in her life. He shut up and she went on, "I want to tell him. I want him to know what so horrified and astounded you. Why you think I'm such a sick bitch, to paraphrase."

"I never said," Kyle began, appealing to the counselor.

"No, you're right. Your exact words were, let me see, 'sick, twisted, disgusting bitch, slut. Oh, and total cunt. Have I missed anything? I'm sure I've blocked some of it out."

Kyle sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression saying, 'it's your funeral, have at it.'

The counselor pursed his lips, but said nothing, waiting for Tracy to continue.

"Kyle's horror is over the fact that I'm submissive. My fantasies lean toward bondage and discipline. S amp;M. You know, slave girl in chains, that kind of thing."

Tracy couldn't believe she was saying this out loud, but like the disenfranchised homosexuals of the fifties and sixties, she felt a certain exhilaration at 'coming out' like this. It was one thing to share it with others of like mind, like Paul and even Guy, but here she was admitting it to a practical stranger, in front of her deeply disapproving husband. If she weren't so nervous, she would have laughed with pleasure at what a release it was.

Dr. Pearson's hands didn't fly to his mouth in horror. He didn't scream or run from the room. He didn't pull out a scarlet letter to attach to her bosom. He just nodded and turned to Kyle. "You're a psychiatrist?" he asked, his voice neutral.

"I am," Kyle nodded back, looking self-important.

"And yet you still harbor these beliefs that a particular sexual orientation is morally wrong, evil as it were?"

Kyle looked surprised and spluttered, "Well, I, that is, yes. I mean, this isn't covered in the standard diagnoses. This is outside the realm of psychiatric treatment. It's just, shit, man, it's sick!"

Dr. Pearson nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Tracy. "And how does it make you feel, to know he feels this way about your sexual orientation?"

"Lonely," Tracy whispered, and started to cry.

Tracy called in sick the next day. She wasn't really ill, but she felt sick at heart. Her yearning for Paul was almost physical, and she realized she had to admit to herself at least, that she hadn't closed any doors. Since Kyle had destroyed her computer, Tracy went over to his and logged on.

Anger spurred her on, as she recalled his numerous self-sex marathons, pants around his ankles, cock pumping purple and turgid in his hand, while he typed away to his sex buddies online. But this was ok – this was just masculine release, don't you know.

Typing rapidly, before she changed her mind, Tracy logged on to the Palace and waited impatiently as the letters scrolled across the stick drawing of a palace, indicating she was 'in'. She scrolled slowly through the list of people on the board and her heart sank when the names jumped from SexyGirl to SMKing, with no Sir Stephen in between.

Halfheartedly she scrolled through a few of the newer articles about 'the life' and then suddenly, at the bottom of her screen, the words, "Sir Stephen invites you to join him in his chat room 102." Oh god! He was there. And he wanted to talk to her. She longed to call him on the telephone, but didn't have the nerve, after their last heartbreaking call.

Quickly she typed the words to accept his invitation, and entered the room.

"Hi," she typed.

"Hi," he typed back.

"What are you doing on here?" she asked. It was, after all, the middle of the workday.

"I could ask you the same thing," he typed back.

"I'm sick. Took a sick day."

He didn't respond. She typed another line, her heart in her throat. "Can I call you?"

"You know the number."

When he answered Tracy's heart squeezed so tightly, she could barely breathe for a moment.

"Oh, Paul! Oh, Paul, I've missed you so much!"

"Me too, Tracy. Are you ok? I've been so worried about you."

"God, I'm sorry, Paul." Softly she began to cry.