Then he came into the dream. The disembodied voice of a pure, lyric tenor calling my name. "Christine." Only my name. "Christine."I called back to him, "I'm here. Who are you?" He couldn't hear me, or, maybe, wouldn't answer me. How could I tell which it was? So I listened to the melody and him calling me.I can tell you the night he first sang to me. It was night I turned seventeen. I wore one of the nightgowns Mother gave me for my birthday. It was the transparent silk black one that came only to the top of my thighs, and had matching bikini panties. He sang words of love written for the melody I'd heard all along.Later, he sang other love songs or read to me. He began with poems of love, poems I'd heard before when we studied them in school, but from his lips they were so sweet and pure it was as if I were hearing them for the first time. In a month, he began reading other things—plays, short stories. He would sing and read before silently slipping away.Then, in April, just about. "Kneel!" he ordered her.The abruptness of the command, and its surprising implications, so shocked her for a moment that she just stood there. By the time she had really registered what he had said and what he wanted, her mind began to search for a reason. Why did he want her to kneel?The lash cracked with a loud, sharp sound as it fell on her naked back. She screamed a high, thin scream and fell to her knees in reaction, rather than in any deliberate attempt to obey."That's right!" he told her. "You have just learned what a tiny taste of the whip can be like. And every time you are not fast in obeying a command, you'll learn more!"She was sobbing with the pain, and now he spoke another commend. Her ears could barely pick it up over the sound of her own choking cries. It slowed her reaction."Kiss my boots!" he had commanded. And while she tried to assess what the faint order had been that filtered through her sobbing, he applied another and fiercer lashing across her shoulders. It.
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