He was her mentor but he hadn’t asked about her goals. For months he hadn’t asked her much of anything, instead relying on his past brilliance to carry them through — a “cache” he’d called it when she complained that she needed more of his attention.
“It’s always ‘what have you done for me lately?’ I only have a 24-hour cache with you,” he’d accuse.
“Yeah, and it expired three weeks ago, you lazy so-and-so,” she’d think but wouldn’t say. Instead she’d apologize and hope he wouldn’t dismiss her as a high-maintenance burden, so great was her need of him that she would accept any scrap he’d offer.
Gone were the weekly conversations. Gone was the belief that he would spank her good and hard and long and just the way she needed, just the way he promised. Gone were the questions about her days, replaced with a litany of reasons why he couldn’t talk, a breathless monologue with a ‘good night’ attached.
He couldn’t text: his phone was lost; the battery was dead; he was in meetings. He couldn’t email: he had presentations; he was on the road; his life was too important. He couldn’t see her: he had a business emergency, a stiff neck, another place to be.
She itched with dissatisfaction. She hungered for the connection they once shared.
Fueled by this dissatisfaction and hunger and having no other means to communicate with him, she composed one last email.
For the first time ever, she lied to him. She said she’d met someone and could no longer see him. She refrained from accusations, which made her proud. But she had met no one, which made her sad.
Not surprising, but sadder still, he gave her up with little fight.
Some time later…
“A ‘mentor’,” she said as if she were asked to swallow vomit. “I don’t want you to be my mentor. Let’s not ever use that word. Strike that, please and thank you.”
He’d made the suggestion between the strap and the cane, admiring how she suggestively readied herself for him, gently easing her hips up and down as she found the right height. Now he paused and arched a brow, which she couldn’t see.
“But you should have goals. You want accountability, right? Rewards? Punishment?”
“Only if they are for real. I don’t want pretend goals or pretend accountability.”
“Or pretend rewards or pretend punishment?” He asked as he rubbed an area on her lower cheek where he was sure a bruise would form. “I promise that there will be no pretending. Ever. From you or from me. You deserve the real thing.”
“Fine. But call it something else. I don’t like that word: mentor. It’s a bit like ‘moist’ or ‘fart’ to me. It conjures…images,” she explained as somewhere inside she still burned with disappointment and regret. “You could be my Adviser?”
“Disciplinary Adviser. I like it. Henceforth I will be known as your D.A., responsible for keeping you on the straight and narrow,” he said as he tickled her side, and then her feet, watching her legs wriggle and her hands protest, reveling in her laughter.
He picked up the cane and she grew serious.
“Are you sure?” She whispered.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Because I’ll expect a lot from you,” she said.
“You are worth a lot to me,” he said simply.
