It's About Power
Chapter 4
That was how it started. I felt the great weight of his disappointment, an emotion tinged with the kind of uncertainty that did not accompany anger. If Bill was angry with me, I could deal with that. I could beg his forgiveness. I could perform some act that would allow me to regain his favor. I could show him that I was apologetic. With disappointment, I couldn't find a way to fix things. I couldn't wiggle out of the way. There was nothing to wiggle away from. The disappointment sat on me like a stone, and it piled up, one disappointment on top of another. I tread carefully as we formed our relationship, one based on power and lack of it. Bill, of course, had the power. Sometimes, in relationships like these, amateur scholars will try to make you believe that the submissive partner has power. After all she (or he) does not have to bend to her dominant's will. She does not have to submit to him. It's her choice, isn't it?
To be fair, I could say I had a choice. I could be independent and miserable, or I could be subservient and for the most part happy. I chose the latter, as any reasonable person would. Was that a choice? I couldn't say for sure.
Standing back from it all, I can look back at our forming relationship and see where it has led me. I started out as a young, innocent woman, easily fascinated by this astounding two-hundred year old vampire. He was a breath-taking man, capable of turning me on and breaking me down. He could push me through a range of emotions in a single night, and I was powerless to stop him. I loved being powerless. It was an escape from my life, from the real world. I didn't have to listen to thoughts and I didn't have to make any decisions. I could just be. I was a plaything in the hands of something greater, something stronger.
I began to take pleasure in the simplest tasks, anything I could do to see that smile on his face, that desire in his eyes. I wanted and needed his approval, even if all I received from it was an acknowledgement, a nod or a short remark. That was enough for me, enough of an incentive to go beyond his expectations. Because his property was old and decrepit, I spent my days off fixing up the place. I started in the kitchen, replacing the cracked tiles that lined the sink, sweeping and mopping the floors, and cleaning the inside of the fridge. I kept the clean ice box stocked with True Blood, in a variety of "flavors", and I made sure there were ice cubes and phallic shaped vegetables, should he desire them (which he sometimes did!). It took me a little more than three days to finish the kitchen, and then I moved on to the living room.
I bought a book about re-upholstery, and I got Bill's approval on a couple of fabrics. I stripped the old Victorian sofas down and sanded the wooden parts. Then I applied paint and varnish to get them looking all spiffy again. I recovered the exposed fabric and made sure everything was beautiful before Bill awakened that night. He made love to me on the brand new sofa, covering the fresh new fabric with a towel to keep it clean.
I called a contractor, with Bill's approval, to make the bathroom functional, and then I decided to rework the bedroom we sometimes used for our play. I took one of Gran's old quilts from our attic and placed it over a set of new sheets in an attractive blue paisley print. I varnished the bedposts and the frame so it would look all pretty again, and I took down the curtains so they could be washed and ironed. I vacuumed the braided rug, and I even brought up a chest for Bill's various accoutrements.
"It looks beautiful," Bill murmured against my ear when I had finally finished the reworking of his home. It had taken weeks to complete, what with my schedule at the bar. I had made all sorts of silly mistakes, and stuck my hand in wet paint or drying varnish more than once. I was a terrible klutz with the housework, but it all got done, and that was the important part. Bill's pleasure was noticeable, not only in the way we shared our physical passion that first night in the new bed. He was also tender, taking little blood from me to sate his hunger. When he had had his lust fulfilled, he gathered me up and took me to the bathroom. I had had it decorated with a deep and wide claw-foot tub, and creamy white tile. Bill set me down in the basin and filled it up with steaming hot water and bubbles. He climbed in behind me and washed my hair. He kissed my neck and rubbed my shoulders.
"It seems so odd," I said quietly as he rubbed my back with a sponge.
"What does, Sookie?" He asked, his mouth near my ear.
"I feel like I should be bathing you, not having you bathe me."
"Sookie," he rumbled. "It pleases me to please you. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, it is. I guess I just didn't think about it that way." I shrugged. I still felt distinctly odd, though. It was almost as though I was uncomfortable with his doting on me. I felt awkward, like I should be doing something, busying myself.
"Relax, Sookie," he said. "If you prefer, I will pleasure you another way." His hand reached around me and parted my thighs. I surged with excitement even though I was exhausted from our previous engagement. Then I realized what he had said. I didn't prefer anything. I wanted him to prefer things and I wanted to sit back and accept those preferences. I looked over my shoulder at Bill, and he kissed me.
"I want you," he muttered roughly. His fingers reached up into me, three of them stretching my insides. I squirmed into his chest and reached for his hand involuntarily. He grabbed me with his free hand and pulled my arms away.
"I'm yours," I groaned, thrusting my hips into his hand. I could feel his cock swell behind me, and I squirmed against it to assist in his stimulation. He forced yet another finger inside me. Most of his hand was shooting in and out of me, and I threw my head back over his shoulder. I was a mix of pain and pleasure. My skin was on fire, and my blood pumped through me faster and faster. Bill's fangs grazed my neck for a second, and then pierced the jugular. Blood gushed into his mouth, and I felt like the stopper had come loose from the drain. I was being sucked down, hard and fast. My mouth made movements, but my voice took forever to follow them.
"May I come?" I begged him. I pleaded with him. I knew he had the right to say no to me, and I loved that. Still, I wanted to experience an orgasm, to let it fill me and break me and release me. Bill licked at the wounds in my neck. I could feel his penis softening against my back. He had released in the water.
"Maybe," he said as an after thought. "Maybe later."
One afternoon, following work, I came to the house to prepare for Bill's waking. I bought fresh blood for the fridge, and I unloaded it and placed it on the shelf. I poured myself a glass of sun tea from the small pitcher I'd left in the icebox. I leaned against the kitchen counter and drank it, imagining Bill in his hidey hole somewhere in the bowels of the house. I wondered vaguely what it was like to sleep under the floorboards. I loved the woodsy smell of him, the lingering reminder of his home in the earth. When I finished my tea, I rinsed out the glass and left it beside the sink to dry. I went upstairs to rest on Bill's bed. I pulled back the quilt and crawled beneath it. I shut my eyes for just a moment, but when I opened them again, it was nearly dark.
Bill and I had a system. Call it a ritual if you will. I loved the expectation of it, the sameness. Like the rest of my relationship with Bill, our simple ritual was an escape route from the real world of commitments and responsibilities. When I was home at twilight, I would kneel in front of the hearth, my eyes closed, my hands open and my palms exposed. Bill would find me there, ready and waiting for him, and we would do whatever it was he had planned for the night.
I scrambled into my place, but Bill was already awake. He was grouchy. I could just feel it on him, like the way the world feels right before a rain storm. He didn't regard me, but walked past me into the kitchen to get a True Blood from the fridge.
"Sookie," he growled in an angry sort of way. "There's no O Negative."
"There isn't?" I asked, surprised. I got up from my spot by the hearth and went to check the fridge. I'd gotten O positive at the store by mistake. My heart took a dive into my gut.
"What? You didn't believe me? You had to check for yourself?" He almost spat at me. He reached into the cabinet for a glass and he caught sight of my tea glass, sitting clean and dry on the counter.
"What's this? You can't put away your dishes now?" Grouchiness radiated from him in toxic waves. I quickly grabbed the glass and opened the cabinet. "Don't bother with it now."
"But…" I said. He caught me in a sharp look. I swallowed hard. This wasn't the time for arguments, however true they might be.
"Upstairs," he scowled at me. I hardly wanted to share his bed tonight, but I loped up the stairs anyway. Bill stopped in the bedroom doorframe. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and threw me into the room ahead of him.
"What the hell is this Sookie? Were you born in a barn?" He threw his arm at the unmade bed, the quilt bunched up from my nap and subsequent rising.
"I…" I wanted to apologize, but my throat closed up.
"Get out!" He yelled at me. He took my arm and almost tossed me back down the stairs. I stumbled and held onto the railing. "Maybe some time away will teach you some respect for my property." He slammed the bedroom door.
My eyes flooded with tears as I lurched down the staircase and out the front door. I stood on the porch for several minutes, hoping his dead heart would grant me forgiveness, but it didn't. I nearly fell down the porch steps and wandered in a daze across his lawn, through the cemetery, back to the farmhouse. I sat on my own porch steps and wept, deeply saddened by my vampire's disappointment. I berated myself for falling asleep under the quilt, for forgetting about the glass by the sink, for stocking the fridge with the wrong blood. I cried until my tears ran dry and my stomach ached.
He ignored me for three days. He did not call and he did not visit. He did not come to the bar when I worked at night. He did not linger on my lawn while he waited for me to come home. I stood as close as I dared, on the edge of his side of the cemetery, but he never came out. They were the longest three days of my life, and I was in a deep bog of depression when he finally knocked upon my door.
"Sookie, honey," Gran called from the front of the house. "Bill is here to see you."
"Bill?" I whimpered. I streaked out to the front door to receive him, forgetting to brush my hair or wipe my face or check the state of my clothes. I staggered onto the front porch and tore down the steps to meet Bill upon the lawn. He looked at me, a pathetic shadow of myself.
"I'm sorry," I wept, falling on my knees in front of him. My shoulders shook and I bowed my head. Oh God, I begged for his forgiveness. I couldn't live with the pain of his disappointment. The rocks on my shoulders were holding me down, and I could barely stand up anymore.
"I forgive you, Sookie." He touched my head. "Don't disappoint me again. I don't like being upset with you."
"I won't! Not ever again!" I shook my head violently, and I made a solemn vow to never go against his wishes.
Our relationship was about power. He had it, and I didn't. Whether I chose that path or not, it was what lay ahead of me. My misery was replaced with joy, and when he took my hand and allowed me to rise, I felt a surge of pure love.