“Free tomorrow night?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
“Meet me here, eight o’clock,” he told her, and his invitation was one of exclusivity and romance. As she went into the compound, she was already thinking about what she would wear and the perfume she would put on.
Back in her room, with the rest of the day to herself, Constance was at loose ends. After a bath, she dressed in a short, flared skirt, disdaining undies, and a loose, short-sleeved cotton blouse through which the outline of her breasts and the dark of her nipples were tantalizingly visible. It was the kind of mood which, several months earlier, would have had her out on the street, “shopping,” which is the female equivalent of cruising. She would have roamed the department stores and boutiques, stopped for a drink at a sidewalk cafe in the mid-50s, strolled through Central Park, and in general spread her spoor far and wide, reveling in the glances and stares, the impact of the psychic depth charges that men set off between her buttocks as she passed. She would have flirted with the possibility of taking on any one of the hundreds of available fuckers and lovers who would have dropped whatever they were doing to step off with a lovely lady and slide a throbbing cock into hot, juicy, and hungry flesh.
And finally, she would have gone to Chet’s apartment, would have roused him from his cybernetic stupor and sucked him into the world of sensual reality. He would have squirmed and cajoled and smiled to himself and run through his entire inner soap-opera of antifeminine notions and then, with a cry, would have surrendered to her heat and lost himself in a quivering dance to the tune of her needling desire.
But here, what with her stint in the Parlor three or four days a week, plus the erotic gratuities given to the guards and the steward, plus dalliances with Sheila and some of the other women, the notion of going on a walk of titillation seemed a much of a muchness.
“And yet,” she mused, “too soon do we lie cold in the final fuckless sleep.”
She decided to make a tour of the facilities, to check out some of the things she’d been hearing about. Also, she did need to do some shopping and Sheila had told her that the shopping arcade was stocked with the finest items one could find anywhere, a veritable Neiman Marcus of a center. She put on a pair of pumps and stepped out into the hallway, already falling into an unconscious swish of the hips, a small but deadly twitch of the buttocks as she moved. She was very sexy and she knew it. What surprised her, however, was to learn that she was also quite randy.
“Hell is an eternal itch,” she thought. “And Heaven is a scratching in just that spot where one’s own hand won’t quite reach, or, reaching, doesn’t really do the trick.”
She gave herself one last look in the mirror. She had never looked better. The only flaws on her body were a small bruise near her left eye where an overenthusiastic client had slapped her with a closed fist, and several dozen pink stripes down her back, the result of a concentrated whipping four nights earlier. Each woman was looked over by an attendant while in the Parlor to see to it that no man extract more than he paid for. Also, except for a Snuff, the house policy called for “nothing more than cosmetic damage while inflicting pain of any sort.” Thus, the women were protected from having their fingernails pulled out, their hair torn out by the roots, their bones broken, their eyes gouged, their skin severely cut or burned. Thus, a man might hold the tip of a burning cigarette a sixteenth of an inch away from a woman’s ass flesh until the hair was singed and the skin pierced with an excruciating pain. But he was not allowed to grind the cigarette out in her skin. He could shove his cock into her unlubricated asshole and make her faint with the searing sudden shock, but he couldn’t slip a splintered baseball bat into her cunt. On those rare occasions when a man did get carried away, he was immediately pounced on and dragged off.
This puzzled Constance. If Madge’s theory was correct, then all the men who came were part of the same club, nabobs of international finance, and one wouldn’t imagine that they would do each other violence over something so paltry as a slave woman’s life or looks. On the other hand, if the place were a money-making organization, like a gambling casino, and the men simply jaded millionaires paying astronomical fees in order to do dirty on the faces and bodies and spirits of captive women, one would expect a much more spartan setup without all the niceties to which the women were treated. “They would just keep us in a dungeon,” she thought. No, there was something else going on, something she had only begun to sniff out. The instincts of the investigative reporter began to function once more now that the total personality had more or less accustomed itself to the dislocation of context shift. She made a note to begin taking mental notes, and realized that it was more important to her to find out what was going on beneath the surface appearances than to attempt to break out. She had no doubt but that she would have no trouble escaping once she understood the nature of the prison.
She went out into the hot afternoon. It was a typical day on the compound. Twenty or thirty women lolled about, shopping, strolling, chatting, taking coffee in the outdoor café, which was decorated to look like a Paris bistro. The others, she knew, were either on duty, or in their rooms, or partaking of one of the indoor activities. Several guards sat or stood on the rooftops of a few of the strategic buildings, commanding an eagle’s view of the entire area. Several of the attendants, a steward, and a man whose position she didn’t know but who seemed rather important, were walking toward the single gate, which opened out of the inner compound to the recreation area which ringed it. She imagined they were going to examine the construction site. There were no clients in evidence, of course, the men who came to the Parlor being brought in by a secret entrance, billeted in a totally quarantined building, and allowed to see nothing of the establishment except their rooms, the orgy hall, and the tunnel in between.
She spent several hours making purchases, a delight since no money was required. She had had the tendency, as all the women had, to “buy” more than she needed at first, but when her tendency to glut had fulfilled itself within the first week, she picked up items with an eye to elegant necessity. She had a shopping bag full of things by the time she finished, ranging from food to be kept in the small refrigerator in her room to lipstick to be worn on nights when she needed to remind herself of a previous identity.
She sat at one of the circular tables, under an umbrella, and ordered a Pernod. She kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet together, sighing with relief as she sipped the cool drink and let herself relax into the mood of the moment. It was bizarre. She might actually be in Paris, or on Central Park South, or in Mexico City. She might actually have done all the things she just did. She might actually be filled with the same feelings, the pleasant fatigue, the vague sadness which always accompanied the dying afternoon, the tenuous erotic tingling which made her legs feel as though they had been massaged for an hour and were leaden with laconic desire, wanting only to fall open and be invaded by a large, powerful, sensitive and tender force.
She had almost made up her mind to go back to her room to masturbate when the voice intruded on her solitude.
“You seem so vulnerable with all your innermost thoughts dancing across your face like sheets blowing on a line, the sun drying them, the wind furling them, and about, below, above, the brainy blue sky, the long green grass, the white slatboard farmhouse in Maine.”
The imagery, so familiar yet so removed, captured her vagrant attention and she turned her head to look for its source. A young man, perhaps no more than twenty, sat to her side. He had gleaming black hair, which sprouted in a profusion of thick curls over his entire head, eyes that opened a vista into his soul . . . dark, moist, overgrown with sparkling moss, like the stone walls of a deep well. He resembled nothing so much as a cherub, except that he was suntanned. His torso gave evidence of thousands of hours of swimming and tennis. He was naked from the waist up. His legs, although covered with loose white cotton pants, were obviously muscled and shapely. He wore no shoes. On the table in front of him lay a sketch pad, and his hand, even as he spoke, was tidying up the last few lines of the rapid impression he had taken of her. Glancing even from where she was, and seeing the thing upside down, she knew he had caught her essential beauty and not lost any of the anatomical precision of her face.
“Poetry and drawing,” she drawled after regaining her composure. “My, my, you must have been sent to the best schools.”
She had not intended the sarcasm and hostility, but once it was out she felt the rightness of it. There was no way of telling who the young man was, but it was clear that he was no ordinary personage in the hierarchy of the place. The odds were terrific that he had the power to have her taken off and tied down and left for his pleasure, and she more than suspected that he must be connected to the real owners of the Parlor. He had that fine air of great wealth, which suffuses one from birth. He was a person who never had to do anything other than precisely what he wished to do. Which meant he would be utterly charming and affable, and yet capable of unspeakable cruelty.
He was looking at her steadily, with hard-edged amusement.
“Am I supposed to wait upon your leisure?” she asked, “or can I just get on with my business?”
He smiled, and her blood ran cold.
“I think I’ll take you with me for a few hours,” he said.
He raised one hand, snapped his fingers, and at once two guards ran out of concealment.
“Handcuff her,” the young man said, “the wrists behind the back.”
Constance was pulled off her chair, yanked roughly to her feet, and the cold steel manacled her hands together. Within five seconds she was standing in front of the young man, helpless, trembling. This was not a client with an attendant nearby, or even a guard with his own skin to protect. This was a powerful stranger who combined the sensitivity and cruelty of a Gestapo colonel as played by Dirk Bogarde. The man waved his hand and the guards disappeared. A number of the people still in the square looked on with attitudes ranging from idle curiosity to compassion to twitching hunger to see what would happen.
The man stood up. He left the pad on the table. He walked behind her. She tried not to follow him with her eyes. His hand went abruptly under her skirt, finding there only the naked flesh. She pressed her buttocks together, but his fingers were insistent. He pried the tense muscles apart, and found the slick hole at the center.
“Quite the little cockteaser, aren’t you?” he said. “I’ll bet you used to go around like this all the time in the world outside, driving men crazy, secure in the knowledge that the police had to protect you, the same police who would have loved to get on the line of men waiting to slide their cocks into your sperm-slick snatch. And all the while, I’ll bet you wrote pieces about women’s liberation, and how oppressive men were. And didn’t you get your revenge, you hot little cunt? Didn’t you make them sweat and squirm? Well, it may be time for some role reversal.”
With that, he slipped the middle finger of his right hand into her asshole. She gasped and blushed. With his other hand, he yanked her skirt off. She was naked from the waist down with a man’s hand in her ass.
“Move,” he ordered.
“What?” she said.
In reply, he simply shoved forward and she was forced off balance. She began to walk. It was grotesque, humiliating, and highly stimulating to be marched around in front of everyone else in the square in that totally compromising position. With each step she took, his finger seemed to lodge more deeply in her asshole. Her cunt began to tingle and get moist. She was on the brink of a prelude to ultimate degradation. Several times she wanted to fling herself facedown and have him finger-fuck her and force her to take the next step in the stripping away of her self-consciousness. Added to that was the fact that he was so overwhelmingly attractive, and under other circumstances she would be kicking her legs to the heavens and rubbing her nipples and running her tongue over her lips and crying out until she was hoarse to have him shove more things into more of her holes.
“That would be called making love, perhaps because it takes place in a bed and the man and woman involved know one another’s names. But here, what do I call it?” She was given over to one of those satori-type moments in which it is seen that what one does is beyond categories. For an instant, the entire structure of civilization fell away, including language. She was a life form, on the face of a huge rock in the middle of a mysterious and fathomless universe. Attached to her was another life form, and together they were doing an arcane dance the esoteric meaning of which might be unknown to all but a very few.
“Oh, it feels so-o-o-o good,” Constance moaned, breaking out of her revery.
The man pulled his finger out sharply and abruptly, and she quivered for half a minute, her ass cheeks contracted and trembling, her legs shivering, her tits shaking, her nipples wrinkled. At that moment she would have found it gratifying if a tank had rumbled into the arena, rumbled toward her, and wedged the barrel of its howitzer into her expanding cunt.
The man grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward. He took her to the door which led out of the square. He marched her past the swimming pool where her passage was greeted by shocked glances or whistles and catcalls by the women lounging there. Halfway across the space, he spun her around and, crouching down, spread her legs apart. He formed his fingers into a V and shoved them quickly into her pussy. She went bowlegged to accommodate the entry. Once in up to the second knuckles, he curled his fingers and made a fist. She was fist-fucked standing up.
He then began to push his fist forward, forcing her to walk backward. She had to cover the hundred yards past the pool and tennis court, in full view of some fifty people, with the young man squatting in front of her, his fist covered by her cunt folds, as she staggered and stumbled backwards, ass thrusting and exposed.