by Patricio
(12/24/03)
Read previous chapters
Chapter 4
The knocking at her door Friday morning, in the midst of her breakfast, is insistent. She somehow assumes it's going to be him. The English villain, at last. Instead she opens up to a man in overalls she doesn't know. "Ms Violet?"
She's quick enough to answer to that, yes, but when he says he's here to fulfill the order of 'Mr Shay' she can't stop herself saying, "I beg your pardon?"
"Mr Shay. You have a spare room you're gonna play music in, right?"
"I do. Right." She keeps the tone of interrogation out of her voice. Why? Why doesn't she just tell him to go away, that she doesn't know anything about playing music, that she can't imagine why he... "I do."
"We'll be ready to start the sound-proofing just as soon as you've gone to the office. Mr Shay gave us a key..."
She can't concentrate. All Friday she just can't concentrate.
When she drives home, there he is, waiting in his blue car, at the curve in the road, overlooking the icy lake and the dangerous mountains. She slows, and he flashes his lights and sets off.
She follows him to the bar-and-grill down the road. She's shaking as she gets out of the car. She wants to shout at him, or fuck him, or beg him for something, or...
All dressed in blue again, he hugs her, kissing each cheek, as if they were old friends.
He takes her left hand in his thin, pale right.
Soon they are sitting opposite each other in a booth, sipping Earl Grey tea.
"Mr Shay," she says, smiling into his smiling green eyes.
"Shadist," he says, smiling, almost jocular. "Your shadist."
"Ah." She licks her lips. Shade for a violet.
Words fail her.
"I hope this is exciting you," he murmurs, with a surprising earnestness. "I, you see...you shape words beautifully. And you are beautiful. So I wanted...to find original ways of...exciting you..."
You bastard, you are invading my days, violating my privacy, filling me with fear and foreboding, I hate hate hate this feeling of being occupied by you, of having my entire life ..."Yes," she says, "you have, it does," unsure what questions she's answering. "I want you, please come home and englishman me, please..."
Has she said this out loud? He is all (polite, decorous) Englishman now, sipping his tea: "Not yet," he says, "thank you, but there is indeed something I should like..."
She has invited him into her home. The English Villain. They are standing together in the hallway, which as far as she knows he has not yet changed in any way. They haven't talked about the soundproof room, which is presumably finished, which she doesn't dare to look into. They aren't embracing. She struggles with courtesies:
"Do you want a...?"
"I'd like to do it now," he says, gently. "I want to...to..."
He hasn't disclosed what he wants to do with her. She's asked him in and she doesn't know what he intends to do with her. Only that it'll happen in the bathroom. Dream me. Love me. Make me into myself.
He has a small canvas bag over his shoulder. "I love the mirror," she says, wanting to giggle, as she pops into the bedroom and unties the rope from the lower left leg of the bed. Back in the hall, still on the verge of hysterical laughter, she hands it to him. He follows her into the bathroom. "It's very..." she says. Calm down. Calm down.
"Very cramped," he says. He kicks off his brown shoes and stands on a corner of the bath to remove the fan. From his canvas bag he uncoils a long length of rope. He passes it through through the metal ring, until it's dangling, at knee height, in two equal sections. He gets down. "Here, Violet."
That's not my name.
She isn't quivering now. No she isn't. She stands, waiting. He removes from her the turquoise jacket she's worn for work. He lowers the seat on the toilet, then the lid, and folds her jacket carefully, and places it there.
He takes off her pale blue blouse, button by button, even though she normally just lifts it off after a few. There are seven buttons. Each seems to take an eternity. He's smiling, and she smiles in return. There seems nowhere else to look but at him. He folds the blouse, placing it on top of the jacket. He unhooks and unzips her navy skirt. She steps out of it for him. He folds it, adds it to his pile.
He doesn't hesitate. He's behind her. The bra has a single clip. He removes it. Without pause, the bra still in his hands, he takes hold of her hose and her panties together, and pulls them down. "Please," he says, and "Please," again, and she has stepped out of them.
She is naked. Naked for this man she hardly knows, who has stolen her keys and installed metal rings and a soundproof room in her home. She wants to ask him something, but she's shy, naked and shy. He has hold of her left wrist. He ties her rope, the short length she has kept ever since...ever since this all began...
He ties her wrists together in front of her. Tightly. Tightly.
Obviously, she thinks --
And then, when he opens the canvas bag and takes out the packet, she has that urge to giggle again. Surely not? Surely he's not going to...?
"'Here, Violet...."
She is. She is laughing, bent over the sink. He is rubbing the stuff into her hair. Oh God, oh God...
Soon, a few moments later, he has checked her underarms and found them shaved, soon he is rubbing the stuff into her luxuriant pubic hair, oh my God, oh my God...
And then he, it's not funny all of a sudden as he ties one end of his long rope around the rope tying her wrists and tugs, and her arms rise, rise without her bidding, rise above her head.
He ties the far end of the rope to the faucet. She stands there, nude, helpless, bound.
"It takes twenty minutes," he says. "For the stuff to..."
"Please," she says, "please..."
His eyes tell her that he knows what she wants. He smiles. He kneels down. He lifts her left foot. "Violet's toe," he says, and licks her little toe. "Violet's toe," he says, and licks the next toe. "Violet's toe."
Violet's foot, Violet's ankle, Violet's calf, Violet's shin, Violet's knee...
"Please," she says.
He licks and kisses every part of her. Violet's entire fucking body, if you please. Violet's flesh, Violet's skin.
"Sir," she says at one point, somewhere around Violet's fifth rib.
He: "I don't really go for all that stu..." And then he's kissing her again.
Violet's clitoris. This is the last place he ministers to. First he wipes her clean with the soft touch of her own violet (yes acquired this week) towel, then touches; licks; kisses. "Please make me come," she says.
Getting back to his feet, he smiles. His refusal is indirect: "Time to rinse your hair," he says, undoing the rope. She lowers her aching arms.
She can't seem to stop herself. As he pushes her head down, his hand on her back, to rinse her hair, she englishmans herself, bent there, frantic, saying, "Sorry, I, I..."
He strokes her spine, with his soft hands, as she shudders. "Violet," he says, "Violet, Violet..."
He leaves her, finally, nude, her hands still bound to each other, the longer rope wound round and round the tops of her thighs, lying on her back on her bed, looking up at herself.
She shudders, her hands busy with her pleasure. The hair on her head, and her pubic hair...oh God...
Her violet hair.
