The Chris Bellows' Collection

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Willie

The woman is drill sergeant!

I have mentally prepared myself for an afternoon of frolicking about, naked, leashed and pretending to be a dog. But I did not think the makeup artist would be so demanding.

She opens her case to reveal bottles and brushes. A cotton swab of something is placed on the dog nose of the mask. She turns away and the room seems to fill with the scent of what I presume to be paint. It’s strong. The mask holds in the fumes. I begin to feel groggy.

“Hold your arm steady, point the elbow. That’s a good boy.”

Something is slipped over my folded right arm. I cannot see well through the mask. It tightens as she gruffly pulls it toward my shoulder. I hear a zip. My free arm receives the same treatment. It feels like I cannot move my hands and forearms but my brain lags and cognitive feedback comes slowly.

“Yes, that’s good.”

I am reminded of bath time when mother tended to me as a child. Standing naked, my youthful energy insisted that I squirm while my mother tried to dry me with a large towel.

Whatever this Nancy placed on the mask is removed. The air freshens but I remain groggy. My knees begin to buckle. The stern but unctuously speaking woman guides me to the floor. Concerns over her presence and my nakedness seem to evanesce. I kneel. She pushes my head down and as I bend at the waist something touches the linoleum to stop my elbows before reaching the floor.

How odd!

I hear the woman cackle.

“Now be a good boy and lift your left leg. Bend it at the knee so that your ankle presses against your hip. Yes, such a good puppy.”

A similar shroud of rubber material is forced over my left knee, calve and thigh. I hear a zip. When she pushes it downward, something again seems to touch the linoleum before my knee reaches it. I am told to raise and likewise fold my right leg. For some reason this woman is to be obeyed. So stern...so exacting...and strangely, my brain cannot resist

She finds the leather collar and encircles my neck. In my stupor I find I cannot move hands, forearms, calves or feet.

“Stay still like a good doggie while I work, then perhaps you’ll get a nice biscuit.”

I expected to hear an afternoon of canine references and mentally prepared myself. I am grateful I cannot be identified.