
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one made it onto my ideas page
and I actually tried to write some of it, shown
here. It was actually kind of inspired by a John D.
MacDonald novel. Dennis has been emotionally abused,
he's been in an abusive marriage and then abandoned.
Amy likes certain kinds of pain, in a loving
relationship. The story was going to take them
through Dennis' rehabilitation over the summer,
climaxing with her allowing him to whip her (probably
during a violent thunderstorm, just for the imager)
in part to exorcise his demons, and hoping that he
would learn about a healthy top/bottom relationship.

I don't know enough about the subculture, however.
Lack of nerve got me until the juices fuelling this
one had dried up.

JS


THE WHIP HAND

Copyright 1997, 1999 Jordan Shelbourne

Taffy was barking but Amy didn't think anything of
it; Taffy was a barking dog.  Amy kept trying to
lift the compressor, trying different positions for
leverage.  A woman said Amy's name, and Amy squinted
into the doorway bright with sunlight, then wiped
her arm across her eyes to get rid of the sweat.
There was a woman there, her silhouette short and
dumpy.  "Muriel?" asked Amy.

The woman stepped inside.  "How you doin'?"

Amy nodded.  "Okay."

"Have you found anybody yet?"

Amy shook her head, then stood up.  She was easily
a foot taller than the other woman.  "Been too busy
to look."

"If you don't get help, you can't get the hay in."

"I know that, Muriel." Amy sounded tired.

"I found someone."  Muriel leaned forward.  "And
he's good looking."

Amy made a disgusted sound.  "I don't need matchmaking.
I need a farmhand."  She started for the door but
Muriel placed a hand on her arm.

"He needs a place to stay.  He's, uh, he's not well."

Amy looked at her suspiciously. "Not well how?"

"I don't know.  Come look at him."  Amy grabbed a
rag off a nail and wiped grease off her hands as
she walked into the yard.  Muriel's dusty green
Reliant was parked on the roundabout by the woodshed.
She could see someone in the car, sitting quietly.
Taffy was planted five feet from the car, barking
her fool head off.

Muriel fussed on ahead and opened the car door.
"Come on out."

"Shut up, Taffy," said Amy, and the dog circled off.
Amy watched the man unfold himself from the car.
He was big, over six feet, and his suit flapped on
him like a scarecrow's.  Muriel was partly correct:
he had been handsome once.  His face had the drawn
look of long hardship.  But like a fine horse, he
had good lines.  He stood there, watching them both
warily.

"Dennis," said Muriel, "this's Amy Wharton.  She
owns this farm."

Amy stuck out her hand.  "Hi." He nodded hello and,
after a slight hesitation, put his hand out.  His
grip was weak and tentative.  She tried to look him
in the eyes, but he turned away, head bowed.  "Do
you have a name?"

"Yes'm," he murmured.  "Dennis March." She looked
at him, and he hastily added, "Ma'am." He seemed so
_fragile_ that Amy reached out to touch him, and
discovered that he was trembling, like a frightened
horse.  Then she understood why Muriel had taken
him up, and she knew she would take him in.

"Get your things," she said.

He spread his big hands, palms up, and Muriel said,
"He doesn't have anything."

Amy sighed.  "You can pick'em, Muriel.  Well, you
can't work in that, Dennis.  There's some old
coveralls by the woodshed, they'll be at least four
inches too short but they're better than nothing.
Muriel, do you want to make coffee while I set Dennis
up?  We'll get you in proper clothes and then I have
to fix that compressor before milking time.  There's
a pair of, uh"--six months and she still didn't want
to say Cory's name--"old boots there that might fit
you."

In the woodshed, she handed him the coveralls and
boots.  He took them and stood there, looking at
her. "Well," she said, "the bathroom's just inside
the door there, just past the woodstove. Go put'em
on."

He gave one convulsive start when Taffy circled
around to yap at him, then looked back at her. Then,
under Amy's gaze, he slunk forward.

What is wrong with him? He's like a whipped dog,
she thought.

He looked comical in the coveralls, pale shins
exposed to the summer sun, but she kept her face
straight, and led him into the shed.  "You know
anything about compressors?" she asked; he shook
his head.  "Okay," she said.  "Then you get to lift
and I get to look."

Together they hoisted it up onto the edge of the
metal box it sat in, and he held it steady while
she looked.  "It's a broken retainer clip.  Can you
hold it while I get the new one on, Dennis?  They're
fussy sometimes." He nodded, sweat already rolling
down his face.

His muscles were starting to jump and twitch by the
time she got the clip on, and she kept talking softly
to him, the way she'd gentle a horse.  When they
finally put the compressor back down, she said,
"There, you did _fine_ now!" in a too-jolly fashion.

Muriel poured coffee for him first but Amy noticed
that he didn't touch his cup until after both women
had taken sips.


	 ---And it ended here---

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