The clock is pointing to nine, and that means that I have been on the stool for three hours. The thin crack of light underneath the garage door is beginning to fade, but it's still mild and the humidity is building. It seems long ago that Marcus had burst angrily into the kitchen.
"Go down to the garage and wait for me there," he growled ominously.
"Should I finish the cooking?" my voice comes out as a whimper.
"Leave it!" he shot back immediately.
I was already in trouble and it would be foolish to antagonize my master any further. I have belonged to Marcus for just over three years and I both love and fear him. Intelligent, articulate, polished - he is effortlessly superior. Always poised, always ahead of the game. Marcus is in the right place at the right time, and he does not need or seek my opinion. I learned not to question him. As our relationship developed into ownership it became clear that I am only expected to follow instructions. In return, although I am far from an equal, I am part of Marcus's life. I am his cook, his cleaner, his personal shopper and gopher, his driver, his friend, his fuck buddy, his whore, and his lover. We are young and independent; we have potential. We are in an adventure in which Marcus can achieve anything. In return, well, as you know, I'm his slave. A conventional relationship would not meet Marcus's needs. A partner could not be controlled or shaped and might be unreliable with ideas of their own. I'm much more suitable, a part of his system. Marcus is not old guard, we are on first name terms as long as I do what I'm told. I must have slipped up; I'm desperately thinking back for some forgotten chore or unintended misstep.
It took about ten minutes for Marcus to join me. Visibly calmer, but his temper was still simmering.
"Strip," he commanded, "then get on the stool."
I took off my clothes as quickly as humanly possible. It would not be smart to show anything but absolute obedience at this point. Marcus pulled off the cover from the punishment stool. It had been three weeks since I had last seen it. Made of beaten and welded metal it looks industrial and, while not beautiful, it does have a utilitarian elegance. It is vaguely blue green in color, with dull rainbow bands on the strong welds. The stool has four steel legs, square tube struts. The struts are disproportionately short, making the stool seem to squat above the heavy base plate. Below the plate are wheels for repositioning.
I sit on the round seat. The cold metal on my ass produces a shiver that mixes in with my apprehension. Despite the warm air, the shiver continues. I know that nothing will happen immediately. Marcus has never punished me when he is still angry. Punishment is about learning and improvement, not revenge. But I have little doubt that there will be ample opportunity for regret. The stool is a holding position, and an uncomfortable one from my perspective. But I am glad that it gives Marcus the opportunity to think while I stew. He drops the leather restraints onto the concrete floor in front of me.
"Put them on," he said, calmly but coldly.
"Please can I ask-", I start.
"Shut up," he interrupts harshly.
I strap the restraints first to my ankles and then my wrists, snapping the padlocks shut on the locks. The task helps my nerves. Marcus checks the tightness. He pulls my ankles back, locking them to rings at the bottom of the struts. I mirror the squat of the stool with bent knees. I feel small. I look up at Marcus as he locks my wrists to the top of the struts below the seat. Then he leaves me to watch the clock.
Over the next few hours, I listen to the sounds coming from outside. At first there are cars passing with people returning home from work, then they become less frequent. An ambulance passes somewhere nearby, the siren starting and stopping for traffic. Occasionally there is some human noise, too far away to hear exactly. Life continues normally outside the garage. I try to think systematically through the day. Marcus was working in his office until mid-afternoon, everything was fine. Something must have happened during his late meeting. I can't understand what. I had crisply ironed his shirt. His shoes were polished not quite to a mirror finish, just as he liked. When he was out, I began to clean the office. I changed the flowers and scrubbed the wooden floor until it glowed in the afternoon sunshine.
The automatic garage door howls abruptly into action. I am glad for the distraction. The punishment stool is part of the punishment. After three hours my body aches with pain. The slight movement in my ankles allows me to at least change the pressure in my knees. Only my thumbs can reach the seat. By pushing up with my thumbs I can relieve a little of the numbing torture on my ass, at least until the agony in my thumbs became unbearable. I try to straighten the posture of my hunched back. This is how I pass the time. Clever ideas have become impossible, I fixate on repetitive thoughts and the temporary relocation of pain. Each second, I wish that my crime would be named so that my sentence could properly begin.
The doors are open, letting in the evening air. Outside I see the dazzling headlights of Marcus's car. In a moment of surreal confusion, I imagine that I am on a road. I suddenly feel my nakedness. I realize that the car had been missing from the garage. Engine running, the car glides inside. The headlights stop a few feet from my now blinded eyes and then extinguish. I hear the driver's door slam shut. I fight to make sense of the shapes as we plunge back into darkness for a few seconds before the jarring tick of the fluorescent lights.
I stare at the car, knowing that it must be at the heart of my trouble. I valeted the car this morning. An expensive, glossy, lustrous piece of luxury black machinery. It gleams under the hard lights as if it is taunting me. Its sleek reflections seemingly malevolent. I cared for it and it has betrayed me. I know every inch intimately and, as a professional might, I survey it in a single instant. I am drawn to the windshield. A smear has been incompletely removed by the wipers.
Marcus starts to speak.
"Bird shit," he pronounces slowly.
