Bound in Moonlight (5 page)

As for the accusation of perversity, he maintained that I was only shocked by what I saw because Americans are so straightlaced compared to Europeans. Enlightened though I was, he said, my culture had never prepared me for the prospect of anything other than “doing one's wifely duty with the lights off and the nightgown on.” So, of course, being a typically guileless, uninformed American girl, I would naturally find the more creative forms of lovemaking repulsive.

Well, of course, I was mortified by being lumped in with the common herd, which was undoubtedly his intention, but having never been exposed to so smooth a schemer, I didn't figure that out until later. I lied and claimed I wasn't repulsed at all, when, in fact, the cunnilingus had appalled me and I hadn't known what to make of the whipping. I said I was just “taken aback a bit” and disappointed by his infidelity. And then, God help me, I told him that I now understood and appreciated why he'd held himself back with me, but that it really hadn't been necessary, since I was anything but straightlaced.

Well, now he was pretty sure he had me, and I'm ashamed to admit that I was questioning my earlier resolve to end the engagement. The bastard actually got down on one knee, took my hands, and told me he'd never been in love before, never even had a real relationship, and couldn't bear the thought of losing me. Since it troubled me to think of him with other women, he promised to “be an absolute monk” until the wedding. As for afterward, he assured me that our “marital relations” would be only as adventuresome as I wished them to be.

I told him I'd always considered myself adventurous. “I may not know much about such matters at present, but I assure you I have an open mind and am willing to learn—if and when the time comes.”

Well, that was all he needed to hear. He jumped up, crossed to the far corner of the library, slid out a book, and brought it back. “They've got an outstanding little collection of bawdy literature here, but this one's my favorite. You might find it instructive, that is if you're willing to read this sort of thing.”

I took it, saying, “I'm not much for self-censorship,” although, of course, I had never read such literature in my life. The book was the first volume of
My Secret Life
by “Walter.” He told me it would teach me a great deal about the sexual inclinations of men. “It can only benefit our marriage.”

Hickley tried to get me to take back the ring, but I told him I'd have to think about it—a decision for which I've thanked myself ever since, as it allowed me to salvage some small shred of dignity out of the humiliating episode. He told me that he and his friends would be leaving the next morning for the French Alps, but that they'd be coming back that way in a few days, and that he hoped I would be “in a suitable frame of mind to accept the ring” then. I said I'd be gone by then, weather permitting. (As it happened, I wasn't, but not because of the weather.) I resisted his attempt to kiss me good-bye, which caused him to walk away looking like a whipped puppy.

The housekeeper told me that my luggage had been left in
la Chambre Rouge,
a bedchamber on the second floor of the castle's east range. To get there, I had to climb the winding stone staircase in the southeast tower. As I did so,
My Secret Life
in hand, an elegantly attired couple dashed up the stairs from behind, pushing past me with a breathless apology.

“Oh, it's Randy's Yank,” said the woman over her shoulder as she paused a few steps above me. It was “Fuck Me or Frig Me” Fanny. “Do join us. I hear Lucinda Mumford's upstairs hitting the slit in the Boudoir.”

Having no idea what that meant, but filled with curiosity, I followed them to the top of the tower. As soon as I stepped onto the landing, I knew that I'd entered a special place. I'll describe it as best I can. The tower was round and quite large, its thick outer stone wall perforated with arrow slits. The lower levels were comprised of one or more stone-walled rooms, sometimes pentagonal or otherwise strangely shaped in order to fit into the circular space. On this top level, however, there was just one round room somewhat smaller in circumference than the tower itself, leaving a sort of corridor about six feet wide all around the outside of it that was furnished with couches and chaise longues.

The round room looked to be of newer construction than most of the rest of the castle, judging from its exterior walls, which were darkly paneled, but with a tall window every few feet. Through these windows could be seen the interior room, the walls of which were papered in apricot watered silk and lined with gilt-framed full-length mirrors. In the center of this strange “Boudoir,” suffused with afternoon sunshine from skylights in the conical roof, stood a large four-poster bed. On the bed lay a beautiful young woman in a black satin gown and glittering jewels, masturbating.

She lay on her stomach with her skirts bunched around her waist in a great froth of black petticoats and her ruffled drawers, also black, pulled down to the tops of her stockings. The only exposed part of her was her ass, which I recall as looking like smooth white marble against all that black. Her hips were slowly rocking, and I saw that she had one arm beneath her, moving rhythmically. Her mouth was open, her eyes heavy-lidded, dreamy. Through the glass, I could hear her shuddery breathing, and I remember thinking,
My God,this is real. She's really diddling herself, and I'm really watching.

Fanny and her companion reclined on a leather couch against the wall in the semidarkness of the outer corridor, she unbuttoning his trousers as he worked his hand under her skirt, both of them staring into the round room. I heard stertorous breathing and low voices from elsewhere in the corridor, and realized they weren't the only couple enjoying this display. But how were we able to see into the room through what were obviously mirrors?

“They're transparent mirrors,” whispered a man I hadn't realized was standing next to me.

He was incredibly good-looking in a sun-gilded Mediterranean way, with a mass of dark, curly hair and sweet, warm, molten chocolate eyes. There was a frankness in his expression and demeanor, an openness, that was utterly disarming. It was the man from the fountain, the one who'd called me a beauty and asked me to join them. Hearing him speak English with an American accent tickled a memory I couldn't quite call up. I had the sense that I'd met him before, or at least seen him, but not there.

“A Russian fellow installed them for us a few months ago,” he said as he raised a wine bottle to his mouth.

“Us?”

“Well, he installed them for Seigneur des Ombres. I'm really just a . . . long-term tenant, you might say.” Gesturing toward the mirrors with the bottle, he said, “They're half-silvered, so that if you're looking into a brightly lit room from a darker room, you can see in, but the people in the room can only see their reflections.”

“Then she doesn't know she's being watched?” I whispered back. “That's horrible. That's . . .”

“Oh, she knows. Everyone knows what
le Boudoir des Miroirs
is about. There's a waiting list to use this room. You'd be surprised how many people harbor an exhibitionistic streak. It can be booked for the night, or for an ‘afternoon nap,' like this. I'm Inigo, by the way.” He extended his hand as nonchalantly as if we were meeting at some Fifth Avenue dinner party.

“Emily Townsend.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry, have we met?”

“Not that I know. Fanny Caddingdon told me your name when I asked her who the pretty new girl was. I don't suppose you have any American cigarettes.”

“Sorry, no.”

A door on the other side of the “Boudoir of Mirrors” opened slowly and a man slipped in. He was around thirty, nice looking, but with a predatory glint in his eye. I felt a very real sense of alarm as he crossed stealthily to the bed.

Patting my back, Inigo said, “This is all part of what Lucinda was hoping for when she asked for this room.”

“You mean, it's staged?”

“Oh, no. Once someone has booked
le Boudoir,
there's usually a bit of negotiating between the other guests as to which of them will pay the surprise visit, or which group, if that's the plan. But the person sleeping in the Boudoir has no idea who that might be. The uncertainty is part of the thrill. This fellow is Theodore Newton. He and Lucinda are Americans and former lovers, but I understand she turned him in for an older, richer model a couple of years ago. He's been trying to reignite the flame since they've been here, but she's been giving him the cold shoulder. I say, would you like to sit down?” He pointed to an empty chaise.

“Oh. No. No. I, um . . .”

“Just to sit,” he said. “I didn't necessarily mean . . . you know.”

Necessarily? “I don't mind standing.”

Newton unbuttoned his trousers, withdrew his erection, and gave it a few firm strokes. I knew I should leave that instant, but I was riveted. I'd never seen a penis before, erect or not, and it was quite an eye-opener. I remember being surprised at how satin-smooth it was, with that glistening purple glans. He sucked three fingers into his mouth to moisten them and said, “A penny for your thoughts, Luce.”

She gasped, but before she could react, he pressed a knee to the small of her back and pushed the fingers up her quiver. She shrieked and thrashed, giving him clumsy backward swats with her free hand, the other being pinioned beneath her.

“A penny's not enough?” he said as he worked his fingers around inside her. “No, I don't suppose it would be. But I can guess your thoughts from how wet you are. You must have been imagining all those rubies and emeralds and pearls you traded me in for. That's what gets you dripping, isn't it?”

“You son of a bitch!”

Unlatching one of her necklaces, a strand of diamonds with fat Baroque pearls at regular intervals, he said, “It's what you think about when you're lying there getting pegged with that shriveled up old tiddler. It's this you love.” He shook the necklace in front of her face. “I'll bet you wish you could just fuck the jewelry and skip the middleman. Do you still love taking it in the ass?”

I gaped as he shoved the necklace into her rectum, forcing in one big, irregular pearl after another, until all that was visible was the clasp at the end of a little string of diamonds. It was lewdly beautiful, like jewelry for the derrière. He jiggled it. She sucked in a breath, hips trembling.

Still pinning her to the bed with his knee, he finger-fucked her while tugging and twitching the necklace. She moaned hoarsely.

“Teddy, you bastard,” she breathed, thrusting faster, faster . . . “Cocksucker. Fucking prick . . .”

He took his knee away. She didn't even seem to notice. Just as she started to climax, he pulled out the necklace—pop-pop-pop-pop-pop . . .

She screamed and bucked as she came. As she was recovering, Teddy leaned in close and said softly, “Did he know I'd be here, Luce? Did you tell him I was the reason you were coming to France without him, that you were desperate to see me again, fuck me again, even if you're too proud to admit it?”

“N-no,” she stammered as she struggled for breath. “God, no. If he finds out . . .” She shook her head.

With a look of triumph, Teddy flipped her over, tore off her drawers, and mounted her. He grabbed her hips and drove in—so forcefully that I let out a little squeak. He fucked her hard, grunting with each jolting thrust. She climaxed again, clawing at his back and moaning, “Oh, Teddy . . . Oh, God, how I've missed that big, hard cock. Deeper, Teddy, deeper . . .”

“Are you all right, Miss Townsend?” Inigo touched my arm.

I jumped. Just that light touch through my sleeve had given me a sexual spasm, that's how aroused I was by that point. “I have to go. It . . . it was a pleasure meeting you.”

He called my name as I sprinted down the stairs, but I didn't slow down till I was behind the heavy oak door of
la Chambre Rouge
. Except for dinner, I pretty much kept to my room for the rest of the afternoon and evening. That night, I sat up for hours in my red velvet-draped bed reading
My Secret Life
. I found it deeply depressing, not because it was long-winded and banal, which it was, but because the sex was dirty, smelly, brutish, and vaguely scatological. And “Walter” himself struck me as both immature and rapacious, a despoiler who preyed upon women, including innocent virgins, with an utter lack of conscience.

Reasoning that an “outstanding collection of bawdy literature” should contain something more appealing, I went back down to the library in the middle of the night to see what else there was in that little corner. I discovered ten (count 'em, TEN) other volumes of
My Secret Life,
but I chose instead
The Autobiography of a Flea
by “Anonymous,” because a brief skim revealed a refreshing dollop of wit mixed in with the hot, graphic sex.

On my way back to the second floor, I heard soft footsteps above me in the winding stone staircase. I hesitated, but curiosity got the better of me. I went upstairs more or less expecting to find other houseguests in the observation corridor surrounding
le Boudoir des Miroirs
. It was hard to tell, because it was dark as hell, but I appeared to be the only one there (it was, after all, the wee hours of the morning).

I could see through the transparent mirrors into the Boudoir itself, though not nearly as clearly as I had that afternoon, because the lighting conditions weren't ideal. According to Inigo, the mirrors worked best when looking from darkness into light, and the Boudoir was lit entirely by moonlight. There was plenty of it, given the skylights, but still, moonlight will provide only so much illumination.

My view was dim and a little hazy, as if I were looking at one of those out-of-focus Julia Cameron photos of which you are so inexplicably fond. I saw the big bed, on which a woman lay curled up on her side, clad—or half-clad—entirely in black leather: a wasp-waisted corset, gloves that came up all the way to her shoulders, and a hood that conformed to the contours of her head and neck, covering them completely. From my perspective (I was looking diagonally across the bed from the foot to the head), I could see that the hood laced up in back. I couldn't figure out how she could breathe through solid leather, but then I saw that it moved over the mouth with each breath she took, so I realized there must be a patch of something like black gauze there. I could tell she was fast asleep by the somnolent rise and fall of her chest, although I couldn't, and still can't, imagine falling asleep with something like that over my head.