by John Benson
I should be used to them by now, the dreams which haunt my night, the Demon who tries to eat me, the man who spanks me. I dream the Demon dream, a formless thing, a ravenous hunger whose mindless instinct is to snuff me out, make it so I cannot be, and I wake in terror and a cold sweat and my stomach rebels and tries to expel my hard-won dinner and I must fight to keep it down, stay calm. And I lie awake then in the spooky dark, afraid of the ambient rustlings in whichever of my imperfect hiding places this is, afraid of almost everything.
And then I dream the other dream, a video drama without sound. Me in leggings and a tunic top, all new, light blue, and I watch and think how cute I look, all cleaned up and all. And I watch me hang my head and pout as the man scolds me, and I wonder what I've done, why I take it, why I don't fight back or run. And I watch as he pulls the blue leggings down my legs and I wonder why I step out of them, why I cooperate. He leads me and I go with him, pensive, downcast yet willing, and he bends me across a sofa's arm and flips up the little blue tunic top and I see my butt all white and bare, then pink, then red, then welted as he whips me with a springy stick while I rock from side to side and my bottom clenches and unclenches. And then the focus shifts and I see my face, pained, clotted with tears and I watch myself squeal and beg and finally cry.
Then I wake, aroused, confused, ashamed. What is that dream? Is it a thing which will be, a thing which should be, or a thing to be avoided? My knack won't say. My knack, which helps me keep hidden from the wild boys so they don't slut me. That helps me thwart the locks on the dipsy dumpster down at Mickey Dee's so I can gorge on stale soy burger and cold Krispie Fries with packets of Ecstasy Sauce, whatever that is, ingredients listed in print so fine that even my young eyes cannot decipher. My knack which guides me but is sometimes absent, sometimes fickle, and doesn't always answer questions.
I must take the hints I'm given and fill in the blanks myself, so I decide they're both dreams of warning, things to be avoided, the Demon and the man, death and helpless pain. But then the dream enlarges and I see a little more, see past the awful whipping, see the man help me rise, see him dry my eyes and hug me and hand me back my leggings, and I see myself not bothering to put them on, just walking away down a corridor while he looks on fondly. And I realize he's enjoying the sight of a girl whose tunic top is now acting like a way-way-too-short dress but he's only looking, isn't touching. And I see myself go into a room, four walls, ceiling, floor and central heating. A place where it might be safe to sleep.
That day it rained so I felt wet and yucky and there were cops everywhere and dodging them slowed me down so I missed my appointment with the dipsy dumpster and the garbage truck stole my supper. And then a gang of wild boys caught sight of me and chased me and I tore my dress getting away from them so I looked even rattier than usual. And I went to bed hungry and dreamed and this time my nightmare changed. I saw myself walk to his house and ring the bell. And I saw him answer and talk to me and let me in. I saw myself go there so now I know the way. So I can go there if I want and he will spank me and give me a warm safe place to sleep. Does that mean he'd also feed me? Do I want that? I know how to be a wild girl now. Do I even remember how to be a tame one? Is that why he spanks me? To tame me? It isn't so he can slut me.
I must take the hints I'm given and fill in the blanks myself. The idea of being spanked sucks. But so does my whole life, and winter's coming. So whatchya gonna do?
It might have been the hardest thing I ever did, knocking on that man's door. I yearned for warmth and comfort but was repelled by the loss of freedom, yet I wondered. Were my two nightmares two separate warnings, or were they one choice, and by choosing the man I might escape the Demon? Spanked is better than eaten, right? Besides. The wind grew chill.
He opened up his door. Kris Harmon, the name on the mailbox said, and sure enough, this was the man I saw in my dreaming, oldish, slightly balding, but at least as I stood there in my scuzzy tatters he didn't look at me with contempt. "Do I know you?" he asked.
"Not yet," I said. "But it's as if as I know you. I'm Cissy, and I see you in my dreams."
"A scam," he said. "Or a precog, and that's not likely."
"You were spanking me," I said. "And what's a precog?"
"Come in," he said, and stepped away from the door so I could enter and change my life forever. Or not. After all, I knew how to be a wild girl. I could always run away.
The foyer had green plants, a verdant welcome. And a kittycat who greeted us, tail raised. I hadn't remembered a cat. He led me to the front room and my breath caught. This was the room. That was the sofa. He bade me sit. I did, aware of my body in a way both nice and not nice. I fingered the arm, remembered seeing myself across it.
"A precog is someone who sees the future," he said. "You're either that or a telepath, since I haven't told anyone my fantasies."
"Your what, sir?"
"My secret. That I wish I had a girl to spank. So which are you, little girl? A precog, or a telepath?"
"Precog," I said. "But not a very good one. I see what it wants me to see, just little snippets, mostly. Hints. And sometimes they don't come true and I don't know whether that's because I was warned and could avoid things, or because it doesn't always work. And sometimes I try to avoid something and it happens anyway. Darn little talent. But at least it keeps me away from the wild boys, at least so far, and lets me live by dumpster diving."
"Wait right here," he said, and I waited, sure he'd gone to fetch his whippy stick, this man who wished he had a girl to spank. But what he came back with was a big glass of juice. "There's more where this came from," he said.
Wow. Cool and crisp and slightly tart, squeezed from the flesh of real apples, not coal tar laced with fructose. Wow. "I kept wondering what it meant," I said. "The vision. Did it mean 'stay away from that guy, he spanks' or was I supposed to come? Maybe I'm here to do a deal. I let you spank me and you feed me and give me a warm safe place to sleep. I can't stay away from the wild boys forever, and it doesn't seem like you plan to slut me. So maybe this is the right place for me to be right now."
"I don't rape young women," he said. "But I'll spank them if I think I'm doing more good than harm. Please. I need to know more about you if I'm to decide. Why are you on the run?"
I don't know if it was my knack speaking or only wishful thinking, but I guessed that I could trust him. I felt myself relax a little, begin to almost hope. "Two years ago," I said. "So that means I was fourteen. Papa lost his job and didn't stop spending so pretty soon we were in too deep. They took Papa off to the work farms. Mama jumped off a bridge before they could slut her. And I ran away before they could stick me into Orphanville."
"I've heard it's not too nice there, Orphanville," he said, "but wouldn't it be safer than living wild?"
I shook my head 'no' so forcefully that my hair flopped counterpoint. "Uh uh," I said. "It's a bad place, a place of seduction and betrayal and rape. A factory for making nuns and sluts and mousy little girls afraid of their own shadow who will do anything they're told, and if I turn into any one of those, it's a shortcut to the Demon."
"Demon?" he asked.
"It eats," I said and stopped, like a toy whose battery ran down.
The room was silent. The kitty came in and found a pool of sun to sit in while she washed. His face changed slowly and then he stood. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."
"Are you kicking me out?" I asked, afraid he would reject me, more afraid of rejection than I had been of the spanking. How weird is that?
"No, silly," he said. "Since you're staying I have to buy you some nice clothes to wear. People see you dressed like a sewer rat in this neighborhood, they'd call the cops."
I felt such relief, such anticipation. So what if this was the end of freedom. It isn't like I was giving up the freedom to do anything I wanted because I hadn't been able to do anything I wanted. I was too busy doing everything I needed, like dumpster diving and hiding from the cops and wild boys both. So I let him take my hand and lead me to a zippy little flitter that took us downtown to a real store for girls my age and he let me pick out what I wanted. I chose two dresses, a yellow one and a pink one. And a real cute outfit with light blue leggings and a little tunic top. Helping fate. Giving it a chance to turn real. I knew that meant I was going to get that spanking. But that kind of made it more exciting. Besides. It wasn't that high a price to pay.
I wriggled out of my scuzzy things and luxuriated in the rain room, lathering myself and rinsing off until my skin turned wrinkly, and then I toweled off and chose the blue leggings and tunic top, accepting fate, encouraging it even. Why did I want this? Why was I at least as excited as I was afraid?
He fed me real food. I mean, like really real. The real flesh of a real chicken cooked in herbs, mashed potatoes with real butter from a real cow, green peas, yum. "You seduced me with a glass of apple juice," I said. "Now this. No wonder I'll let you do anything you want."
"Except now there's a problem," he said. "You're okay with it, but I still need a reason. I shouldn't spank you unless you've been naughty."
"You want to and I'm getting more than I'm giving up, so that's a reason," I said. So strange. If my vision was going to come true, I'd have to help it. Encourage him. How weird is that? "Besides," I said, "being a wild girl is naughty. I lived by lying. I lived by stealing."
"Except it was the only choice open to you," he said.
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