by Patricio
(10/13/04)
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Chapter 11
Something has changed. Violet dreams of her own torture and delight in the sound-proof room and believes her dreams are memories -- and hopes. But for a week she doesn't see him, even though he's been in her rooms in her absence. There are traces of him when she gets home: cups out of place, the debris of meals in the trash, his fingerprints appearing on the mirror in the bathroom when the shower makes steam.
She dreams of swinging from her wrists in the sound-proof room, saying “Please don't make me want this,“ as he whips her.
She seeks out pictures of suspended women and sends them to him, hoping to pique his interest. Strangely, he replies saying “I miss you,'“but he doesn't come to her.
She feels bound to him now. In the middle of the night, sleepless, unable to come yet restless with desire, she finds pictures on the Internet of leather collars, with gleaming metal rings dangling from them. She can smell the leather. She can close her eyes and be tethered.
The following evening, driving home from work, there he is, at the corner where she first ever saw him, gazing over the precipice by the side of the road. He doesn't appear to be looking out for her. He seems almost a forlorn figure. She pulls into the car park. When he gets in he says, “Close your eyes.” He takes her wrists, and pulls them behind her, crossing the left over the right, so that she has to lean forward. Then his right hand is at her cunt. “I can't,” she says, although she suddenly feels she can.
“You've been looking at collars.” Her head jerks towards him, though she keeps her eyes closed. His fingers are inside her. “You have no privacy with me. I know what you're doing. I'll never collar you.”
“'I want,” she begins, and his free hand is at her mouth. He pushes his fingers between her lips. It's like a gag. She licks him. She wants to bite.
“Collars are clichés. We must be beyond all that. But on Sunday...”
That's all he says. Her cunt has begun to move against his hand. Her teeth want his fingers. When his teeth begin to bite at her right breast through her clothes the world tilts on its axis. Finger-fuck me in my car. Someone I know may be passing. Finger-fuck me in my car. Don't make me want this. Finger-fuck me in my car. Finger-
On Sunday she waits on her bed, naked and trembling. She has tethered herself, by a chain to her ankle, to the door handle of the sound-proof room. She has painted her toenails and fingernails silver, and on the thumbs, and the big toes, has drawn, in violet varnish, A and V.
None of this is in accordance with his instructions. He has given her no instructions. He's sent her an email, adorned with a picture of her suspended by her wrists. “Sunday,'“ it reads.
It's late morning when he arrives, dressed entirely in blue even to his shoes, his eyes smiling. As soon as he sits beside her on the bed, he takes a padded leather blindfold and puts it over her eyes. Buckles it in place. Only then do his arms enfold her. He kisses her face.
His fingers in her vagina half-lift her and she stands. His other, left hand is at her breast, twisting a nipple to make her turn in his desired direction. “Hands on your buttocks, pushing out your cunt,“ he says.
He pushes her backwards, she almost topples with the surprise of it until she understands what he wants, out of the room.
He takes her to the bathroom and has her stand there, legs apart, while he washes her with something soft, like a sponge, that he must have brought with him. He doesn't touch her face, but begins at her shoulders, moving first down her arms, lifting her hands away from her buttocks briefly; then down her back to her buttocks; then down her front over her breasts, armpits, ribs, belly, not dwelling at her sex; then her legs. He washes her; rinses her; dries her.
He only speaks to say “Lovely,'“ about some part or another of her anatomy. She's never felt more like the object of his desire.
He leads her, his fingers in her vagina again, backwards again, to the soundproof room. He unclips the chain from her ankle, and unlocks the door.
As he takes her into the room, and closes the door, she keeps pushing her hands against her buttocks. Finger-fuck me. Finger-fuck me in the soundproof room. “I may mark you forever today. With the bullwhip. It will hurt badly. You can decide on something milder. You must ask me for what you want.”
She knows him; knows that this is the appearance of choice; that there's a challenge here, and that he knows how reluctant she is to refuse a challenge. All the same, she hesitates. She's seen images of bull-whipping. A woman howling. “Please,“ she says.
“What?”
She doesn't know what to say. “Please whip me,'“ she says, almost inaudibly.
“What?”
Louder: “Please whip me. Please bull-whip me.”
But it's an hour -- a dizzying blind hour of being put over his knee, of gentle spanking and slapping and caressing and her refusing to come and he makes her come and oh she melts in to him in spite of what she knows is to happen later -- an hour before, a little unsteady, she's standing on the stool, still blind, her wrists fastened to cuffs above her head.
He says, he said while he was slapping and caressing her, that he's been practising on a mannequin, that there's a technique to bull-whipping, that...
She realizes that in her fear she's clinging to remembered sentences in her head and now he's not saying that, he's telling her to kick the stool away and ask for the first lash.
She takes a deep breath, and kicks the stool away, and makes her voice be firm and proud as she says, “Please whip me.”
No delay. He lashes her with the whip three times in rapid succession, across her buttocks, her upper back, her buttocks again. It's razors scraped across her skin. It's a fast knife through her flesh. Her voice says “No!” and her body kicks wildly.
He fastens her ankles with rope to the struts of the frame so that she can't kick any more. He asks her if she'd like him to whip her again.
She finds herself shaking uncontrollably and struggling to answer. Don't ask him to whip you. Don't ask him to whip you again. “Please whip me again.”
He whips her where her buttocks meet her thighs, twice, and she tries to leap out of her bonds as her voice soars beyond soprano.
Please whip me again. Please whip me again. Please whip me again. Don't say it. Don't say it. “Please whip me again.”
In the middle of the night her body is in flames and how can she sleep? He's still there. He has her kneel at her computer and write what he did to her -- how he whipped her breasts, and her belly, and the fronts of her thighs, as well as her back and buttocks -- and then, in the midst of her writing, he is lying on the floor between her legs, his mouth at her cunt. “Please whip me again,” she says, as he licks and sucks at her. “Please whip me again. Please whip me again. Please whip me again. May I come?”
His mouth is too busy to answer. Her skin is on fire. The world spins and she is falling. Her head half-rests on the keyboard, as she weeps, as he pleasures her, as she types an endless line of qqqqqqq qqqqqqq qqqqqqqqq qqqqqqqqq ...
