Cold calls and colder brush-offs, lame excuses and low rent lies; it was just another day on the road, one that was soon to become no more memorable than any other. Dalton Truro edged the two-year-old Taurus into the loose gravel driveway and squinted to a stop by the office of the second rate motel.
"Fucking perfect," he muttered as he trundled wearily inside to book a room.
Later, sprawled fully clothed on the cheap bed spread, he stared up at the ceiling and absently studied the mystery stains and aging cracks of the dank, unremarkable room. He ached for sleep, but sleep didn't come. He lived in a debilitating netherworld; trapped in a job that required constant travel and cursed with the inability to fall asleep in strange surroundings. Over the years he'd become accustomed to living in this twilight realm--or at least resigned to it--and it sometimes occurred to him that his odd malady was an exquisite metaphor for the sense of utter powerlessness that permeated his existence.
He switched on the TV set and began to flick methodically through the channels, less interested in the programming than the oddly comforting cascade of flickering blue images. Around midnight he was roused from this cathode ray-induced trance--a state normally about as close to sleep as he ever came--by a kind of commotion seeping through the thin walls from the adjoining room.
He flicked off the TV and lay in the darkness listening. Voices. A man and a woman speaking in hushed, urgent tones. The words were unintelligible; the underlying passions obvious. His curiosity grew and he leaned forward, ear to the wall, straining to decipher the muffled conversation.
Suddenly, the voices grew loud and angry.
"What is it, then? What the hell is it you want?" It was the man’s voice, its tone a mixture of wounded anger and utter frustration.
"Never mind, "the woman shot back, "just forget it!" Her inflection was sharp, but beneath its cutting edge was a hint of resigned discontent.
"Forget it? ‘Fat chance. You never let me forget! You never let it go! How am I supposed to give you what you want if you won’t explain what it is?"
"But you don’t understand," she sighed, "If I have to ask, it’s not the same. It just doesn’t work…it…" Her voice dissolved into inarticulate tears.
Heavy footsteps preceded the slam of a door, its echo dissolving into soft sobbing. Dalton leaned back from the wall, disappointed. He lived for these chance encounters, these voyeuristic glimpses into the lives of others. When he could sample the most intimate moments of strangers, however vicariously, it somehow made his personal limbo a little easier to bear. He bounded to the door of his room and stepped outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man from next door.
Jerry Madsen lit a cigarette and leaned into the brick wall by the ice machine, fuming. Dalton smiled to himself, and then ducked back inside his room, re-emerging a few seconds later with his ice bucket. Brushing by Jerry, he began to unhurriedly fill the flimsy plastic vessel.
"212?" asked Jerry.
"I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?"
"Yeah…you’re in room 212, right? I hope we didn’t wake you up or anything. I mean, well, me and my girlfriend—we’re in 214--we were having an argument, and I guess it got kinda loud."
"No big thing," Truro shrugged, "I heard you, but it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t sleeping."
"Good, good," replied Jerry distractedly.
He crushed the last of his cigarette onto the pavement, and then leaned back against the soda machine with a long sigh. Dalton topped off his ice bucket and silently began to size up his next door neighbor. Madsen was in his middle twenties; clean cut, fresh faced and generally wholesome-looking. Truro despised him on principle, and decided it would be amusing to toy with this guileless pup for awhile.
"A little trouble with your girl, huh?" Dalton ventured.
It was the perfect gamut, this innocuous question, a carefully set trap which he was confident the sallow boy before him would fall into head long. Suddenly, Jerry’s manner softened visibly and he leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. Truro looked away for a split second, hiding a smirk, and then turned his attention back to the young man.
"It’s like…well, this is embarrassing, but…well, it’s like I don’t know how to please her. You know…in bed? It’s like she wants something that I’m not giving her, but I can’t get out of her what it is. ‘Know what I mean?" Jerry volunteered sheepishly.
"Well," nodded Dalton, "I know that sometimes you just have to take them in hand…women, I mean. That, sometimes you have to be proactive; you have to lead them in the way they’ve probably wanted to go all along but couldn’t bring themselves to admit, if you get my drift?"
"I’m not sure I do."
"It’s really very simple, my young friend. Most women lack, shall we say, discipline? In their most private heart of hearts, they want a man to take control. In fact, they need it. They’d never admit it, of course, and they’d protest till the end of time against it but, take it from me, it’s the truth. Women need discipline, and it’s up to men to provide it—if they have the courage, of course."
Truro found it difficult to contain himself. If he could actually get the kid to fall for this line of bullshit, he could foresee a very entertaining next few hours in the offing. Visions of impending shock, revulsion and an embarrassingly noisy public scene danced in his head as he awaited Madsen’s reply.
"Ok, well I guess you might have a point. Something’s sure wrong," said Jerry, "but, I wouldn’t have any idea how do that…how to take control or whatever. I wouldn’t even know where to start."
Dalton smiled.
"No problem, lad. I can help you."
"Help me?"
"Yes, help you. Guide you. Talk you through it, so to speak."
"I don’t understand. I don’t…"
Dalton tried not to show his growing impatience with the boy’s irritating tendency toward slow wittedness and, instead, moved a little closer.
"You have a cell phone?" he asked, conspiratorially.
"Sure" said Jerry, brightening a little.
"And an earpiece?" continued Dalton.
"Yep. Right here."
"Excellent. Here’s what we’ll do…umm….?" Dalton looked at the younger man quizzically.
"What? Oh, sorry. I’m Jerry."
"Dalton. Ok then, here’s what we’ll do, Jerry. Put in your earpiece, wait outside your door and I’ll call you from my room. Then, I can talk you through this thing; tell you just what to say and do—in the dark--and your lady will never know the difference. She’ll get what she needs, you’ll get what you need, and everything will be sweetness and light again."
Jerry looked at Truro incredulously for a moment, but then slowly began to nod. Dalton could barely hide his excitement. The fool was inviting him into his most intimate life. He was willingly providing a playground for Truro’s most manipulative inclinations, and the thought of it filled him with perverse glee. He patted Jerry’s shoulder reassuringly as the two men headed toward their respective rooms.
As he closed the door quietly behind him, Dalton reveled in a wave of pure exhilaration. He nearly hopped back and forth across the dingy room; tossing a handful of ice into a plastic glass, retrieving a flask from his suitcase, pouring himself a stiff shot. Then, as if collecting his wits, he slid slowly onto the bed, downed the drink, flicked off the bed side lamp and dialed Jerry’s cell phone.
Jennifer Adams jumped involuntarily as the door to her dark motel room opened to reveal a figure silhouetted in the threshold.
"Jerry? Is that you?" she ventured.
"Don’t say a word. Just stand there for a few seconds, and then step inside and close the door behind you."
Dalton’s voice was soft, clear and commanding as it flowed through the cell phone earpiece directly into Jerry’s consciousness.
Jerry quietly closed the door behind him and stood, motionless and silent. He could hear Jennifer stirring on the bed, her breathing becoming suddenly rapid and shallow. He could imagine her peering apprehensively into the darkness.
"Jerry? Answer me! What in the hell are you doing?" she demanded.
"Take a few steps toward the bed and then stop. Don’t say anything just yet."
Jerry moved to within arms reach of the bedside. Through the darkness, he could just make out Jennifer’s form beneath the sheet, straining to make sense of what was going on.
"Goddammit, Jerry! This isn’t funny anymore. Say something!" she pleaded, her voice quivering.
"Now," urged Dalton, "repeat these words exactly, and try to sound firm when you say them. Here goes. Don’t you…"
"… worry, young lady. I have plenty to say and, for once, you’re going to keep still and listen. Do you understand?"
His direct and forceful delivery surprised Jerry a little, and he felt something brand knew to him; a rush of confidence which seemed to grow with each word that passed over his lips. Jennifer was flabbergasted. This sounded nothing like the usually pliable Jerry that she knew and, even more surprising, she was aware of an inner stirring; a feeling of recognition deep in the pit of her stomach.
"Excellent," whispered Dalton. "Now, reach over and turn on the bed side lamp, but stay right where you are and look her straight in the eyes."
The sudden burst of light made Jennifer squint and shrink back involuntarily; she pulled the sheet tighter to her bosom. Jerry stood near the bed, staring down at her silently.
"Jennifer," began Jerry, "things are going to change around here. We’re going to come to an understanding and, once we do, there will be consequences attached to any violations of our little agreement."
Jerry was amazed to hear the words come from his mouth. Jennifer’s eyes widened in disbelief. Dalton stifled a sardonic chuckle from his adjoining room. This was going even better than he’d hoped.
"When she starts to protest—and she will-- do this," ordered Dalton into the phone.
"Who do you think you’re…? What do you mean consequences? What in the world is…?" stammered Jennifer incredulously.
Jerry leaned quickly forward and cupped Jennifer’s chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. She blinked in surprise as he tilted her face up and locked her eyes in an icy, penetrating gaze.
Dalton was ready.
"Oh, I’m sorry missy, did you miss the part when I said that you were to…"
"…keep still and listen? Did you miss the part when I mentioned things were about to change around here?" Jerry demanded.
Jennifer gasped. Part of her wanted to lash out; to pummel her lover with her fists; to fight with every ounce of her being against his presumptuous arrogance. And yet, the stirring within her grew. She blinked and stared back, saying nothing.
"Take her by the hand and get her to her feet," commanded Dalton.
Jerry grasped Jennifer’s wrist in a steely grip and pulled her from the bed. The sheet fell from her shoulders and she stood before him, naked and vulnerable. Her face flushed and her body shuddered, but still she said nothing.
Dalton was elated. He was positive that, within a few short minutes, all hell would break loose in the adjoining motel room, and that prospect made him nearly laugh out loud with perverse delight.
"Sit down on the bed, and don’t take your eyes off her," Dalton ordered.
Jerry quickly obliged. He knew something was changing between he and his lover and, although he didn’t completely understand it, he was getting the distinct impression that he liked it.
"Now, young lady, let me show you…"
"…what’s going to happen when you violate our new understanding. Let me give you a little illustration of what I mean by consequences," Jerry intoned smoothly.
"Pull her over your lap, bottom up, and hold her there," commanded Dalton.
Jerry hesitated, momentarily stunned by the utter audacity of what he was being told to do.
"Do it!" snapped Dalton.
Jerry obeyed. He hauled Jennifer over his lap and placed a hand on the small of her back, locking her firmly against his upper thighs.
"Jerry!" sputtered Jennifer as she struggled against her new and decidedly awkward position. "What in the hell do you think you’re doing?"
"Spank her! Do it! Don’t be a little wimp! Take her in hand and turn that little bottom a bright shade of red!"
"What??" blurted an astonished Jerry.
"Huh?" asked a puzzled Jennifer.
"DO IT NOW!!"
Jerry’s open palm came down hard against Jennifer’s unprotected bottom. The stinging shock blasted through her body, causing her to buck and kick involuntarily.
"Jerry!" she yelped, "Stop it!"
"Don’t stop. Keep going. Are you a man or a punk?" hissed Dalton.
"I’m no punk," Jerry growled angrily.
"What? I never called you a punk. Jerry, please, I…."
Jennifer’s protests were interrupted by a torrent of searing slaps. Her bottom bounced up and down as if to meet the next blow, as she twisted and squirmed in a desperate attempt to avoid the stinging onslaught.
"That’s it! You’ve got it. Make’em count!" urged Dalton.
The sounds of the heated spanking echoed into Truro’s room and he stifled a maniacal laugh. It wouldn’t be long now. It couldn’t be.
Jerry continued the punishing swats, smiling a little as Jennifer’s soft white skin began to turn from glowing pink to bright crimson, while steadfastly ignoring her wriggling screams and steady stream of inarticulate curses.
"Keep it up," directed Dalton, "and say this: I told you things were going to be different around here, Jennifer, and…"
"…the sooner you accept it, the better off we’ll both be. If not, you can expect a repeat performance of this little lesson, my dear. From now on, I’m in charge. Do you understand?" asked Jerry.
"Ow! Oh God! Yes! Yes, Jerry! I understand! Please. Please stop!" pleaded Jennifer. "You’re in charge. I promise! I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted!"
Jerry let his palm rest on her steaming flesh.
Dalton gulped. This wasn’t what he’d envisioned. No, not at all. This simply couldn’t be happening.
"Are you sure?" Jerry demanded, punctuating his question with a final hard slap.
"Yes, baby. Yes! Please. It won’t happen again, I promise."
Jerry scooped Jennifer up into his arms. In spite of her shock and pain, Jennifer felt loved in a way she’d never felt; a way she realized she’d longed for all her life. She melted into her lover’s arms, kissing him passionately.
"Noooooooooo!!!!" screamed Dalton, silently.
"Mmmmm, yes baby, yessssss" purred Jennifer.
Dalton heard the clatter of Jerry’s cell phone as it fell to the floor in the next room, and then, abruptly, the unmistakable sound of the connection going dead. He groaned audibly as his frustration and disappointment became nearly unbearable. The sounds of sweet, passionate love making seeped into his room, assaulting his ears like velvet razors. He buried his head in the pillows, pulling them tight around his ears. Bathed in the flickering blue light of the TV, he ached for the blessed release of sleep; a release which never came.