The Collectors Read Free

dress and strappy, low-heeled sandals. Simple, and, hopefully, elegant. This was important if the mistress I was about to meet was French, or even French-ish.
    Adele used a key to open the door, and we were met in the foyer by a middle-aged woman whose severe face did not move in the slightest as she took in the sight of us. My heart sank, for though I didn’t have a clear idea of what my ideal mistress would look like, I did know she wasn’t supposed to resemble Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca . This woman looked like she’d have a hard time loving a puppy. I didn’t want to think what she’d do with a cane in her hand and a bottom within reach. Adele put a reassuring hand on my forearm.
    “Good evening, Mrs. Kirchberger. Will you let my mistress know that my guest and I have arrived?”
    Mrs. Kirchberger motioned for us to move into the living room to the right before leaving us on our own. I started to speak, but Adele put her fingers to her lips and shushed me. Nothing gets my hackles up like being shushed, and I hated Adele a little bit.
    “What?” I said.
    “We’re always to sit here quietly while we’re waiting.”
    “How long?” I was whispering now.
    Adele just shrugged and I could get nothing further from her. I worried we were in for a long wait. I could think of many scenes in the literature (I referred to it as if it were a field of study, like the Victorian novel), where the submissives had to wait endlessly for their mistresses, usually in circumstances far less comfortable than my present one. It had never occurred to me I would actually enter a world where I would regularly have to wait. I was terrible at waiting. Really terrible. What if I were gagged and bound and made to wait on my knees on a hard floor, a blindfold keeping me from knowing day from night? I wouldn’t last ten minutes before going loco, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. I would be all alone in an immense room—blind, mute, bound, helpless. I felt a stirring between my legs and started squirming on the sofa. Adele cast a rather doleful look at me.
    I soon exhausted my fantasy and began taking in the details of the room. Something told me I shouldn’t wander about to admire the fine oil paintings and sculptures that decorated the large room, but I could easily see they were created by very advanced and accomplished artists, some of them recognizable. Every piece of furniture, every fabric, every last touch was gorgeous, yet the room looked more comfortable than decorated, more personal than perfect. Whoever created this room was complicated and talented.
    Mrs. Kirchberger reappeared and motioned us to rise. Adele sprang up, obviously eager to see Jeanne. I was eager as well. The long wait had done nothing to lessen my curiosity. Mrs. Kirchberger led us up the front stairs. At the top was an open area with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with mismatched volumes of all sizes. It was a well used library. I could see at the end of a hallway there was a formal dining room, presumably with a kitchen nearby. And in between was a closed door that Mrs. Kirchberger opened. This was the point of no return, I sensed. She would be behind this door and I knew my life was about to change.
    The room we entered was a luxurious study with a rich mahogany desk and chairs at one end, a fireplace with sofa and chairs at the other. The walls were a deep red, the natural woodwork ornate and gleaming. My gaze covered all of this searching for Jeanne, but Mrs. Kirchberger had shut the door behind us and there was only Adele and I in the room. I was so disappointed! The idea of another long wait almost defeated me.
    Before I could complain to Adele, a door opened in the wall behind the desk—a hidden door perfectly camouflaged by one tier of a wall-length bookcase.  As if by magic, the woman I’d spent years struggling to visualize walked into the room and my heart seized up. I took a deep breath trying to loosen the tightness in my