“It gets like a gambling casino,” Sally continued. “And it’s like each of the slabs or pieces of equipment is a table. One is a roulette wheel and another a craps table and another black jack. And while each girl belongs to the man or men who paid for her, they almost always let other men have her too. So the men kind of wander around the room, trying to find out where the action is.”
“And we’re the games,” Madge said bitterly. “They hang us up and spread us out and spin us around and whip us and shove things in us and piss on us and we don’t mean any more to them than any other toy they use to amuse themselves.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Anyway,” Madge continued, “that’s why the kitchen is always open. And as to room service, well, why look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“The menu is in the desk drawer,” Sheila said moving over to pick it up and bring it back to the bed.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Constance said. “Or, I was, I guess, until I bit that guy’s cock off this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Madge replied. “We all do something like that at the beginning, but the novelty wears off. Besides, if you do it three times they get really pissed and do you in. After the second one you’re given a warning. They usually treat their clientele with as much disdain as they treat us, but they can’t allow themselves to get a reputation for this kind of thing.”
“I want a steak,” Constance said, “rare, with a baked potato and sour cream, and a crisp fresh salad with oil and lemon, and a good red wine, and afterwards coffee and cheesecake.” She looked around and smiled. “What the hell, right? The condemned woman ate a hearty meal.”
“That’s the spirit,” Sally said.
“I’ll have the same,” Madge put in.
“Me too,” said each of the others.
Sheila reached over and pushed the buzzer next to the bed.
Ten seconds later, there was a light knocking on the door. The women looked at one another, surprised.
“Well, that was fast,” Constance said. “You can’t complain about the service.” And in a louder voice she called out, “Come in.”
Robert was standing at the door. Behind him were two men. They had black hoods over their faces.
“Oh my God,” Madge said in a voice that made Constance’s blood run cold.
Robert stepped inside. His entire manner was one of apology.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’ve had a request . . .”
A short silence spaced the room. Finally, Madge stood up. “Which one?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the tremor in her voice.
“Sally,” the man said.
Sally cried out once, then pushed her fist into her mouth and closed her eyes. The other women closed around her and hugged her. There was no movement for a full minute. Then Sally stood up slowly.
“I’m ready,” she said.
She walked to the door, turned, smiled at the other women, and then whispered, barely audibly, “Good-bye.” Then she walked quickly out of the room.
Robert nodded to the three women, his manner dripping diffidence, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
“The bastards,” Madge muttered.
A few seconds later there was a second knock. Constance let out a whimper, but Madge walked briskly to the door. When she opened it, a short, slightly stooped man of about fifty stood there. He was dressed in a faded butler’s uniform, a peculiar anachronism.
“You rang?” he said in a high-pitched voice.
His words hit the ambience of the room like a mallet striking a gong. It was a very long time before Madge replied, her voice firm.
“Yes,” she said. “Steak, rare; baked potato with sour cream; a crisp salad with oil and lemon; a good red wine, and afterwards, coffee and cheesecake.”
“And how many will that be for, madame?” he asked.
Madge could not control herself any longer. Tears gushed from her eyes and she turned away. Constance stood up and walked slowly to the door.
“That will be for three,” she said.
They sat next to a large open window overlooking the sea to have breakfast. Robert was jauntily dressed in cotton slacks, a bodyform T-shirt, tennis shoes, and socks. The entire outfit was a pure white. She had allowed him to escort her to the dining room and order coffee and rolls, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a filet of whitefish which had been caught just an hour earlier. It was an unusual breakfast. But Constance had shown by her attitude and manner that she held Robert in contempt for his part in taking Sally away the night before.
They were into their second cup of coffee and first cigarette of the day before he spoke.
“Your feelings are understandable,” he said. “But your behavior unsophisticated. I had imagined that you, more than any of the women we’ve brought in, would grasp the reality at once and make a complete adjustment without wasting time on bemoaning what can’t be helped. It’s gauche for me to point it out, but your time is limited, and you have no other viable value but to live as fully as possible while you have the chance.”
“I’m well aware of the existential implications of the situation,” she replied coolly. “But believe me that my present distaste for your company provides me with as full an emotional complement as I could wish.”
“I’m prepared to accept your mood because I find you attractive. You are the oldest woman we have ever had, and so add a touch of much-needed maturity to the available provender. Also, you are perhaps the most intelligent. I read your article, and then dug up earlier things you had written. You might have had a brilliant career if your lust for sensational stories hadn’t ended you here.”
“So my article was the cause of my kidnapping.” Constance crossed her legs and lit another cigarette. She was wearing loose orange slacks and a short-sleeved blouse, and had decided to go without shoes. On the outside she had limited her smoking to three a day, but here she had no hopes for any real longevity and an extra five or ten cigarettes a day would add a pleasing recklessness to her sensibility.
“We reasoned that after your failure to get it published anywhere but the Enquirer you would move on to something else, but we couldn’t take the chance. You would have come across more stories about disappearances and would probably have gone to the FBI or some such group. Besides, during the week we were watching you, I developed an overpowering curiosity to have you.”
“And has it been satisfied sufficiently?” she shot out.
“Oh, I haven’t touched you yet. And I won’t, until you come to me freely. One of my staff privileges, of course, is my pick of the women, so I could order you for the Parlor or for my private room at any time, but I’ll wait.”
“What on earth makes you think I’d ever go to you freely?” she said. “After all, you are a murderer.”
“Because sooner or later you will grow hungry for a relationship with a man. Something that can’t be satisfied on the gaming tables, or by your little lesbian follies. And I am intelligent, affable, warm, friendly, and good-looking. And there is another reason, one you ought to have figured out already.” He smiled at her, and the gap between the boyish expression on his lips and the deadly calculation in his eyes quite mesmerized her for an instant. “Those who are nice to me get a little check put next to their names, and when a request for a Snuff candidate comes along, those names tend not to get picked.” He waited an instant for the full weight of his words to sink in, for her to realize that he had the power of life and death over her. “Also,” he added, “I am authorized to take an occasional woman out for a sail, or horseback riding past the walls.”
He read her expression with open delight. “Ah, I can see dreams of escape dancing in your brain already.”
“And I get special treatment if I fuck you?”
“No, my dear, not fuck. I can get that any time. What I want is total surrender. Real surrender. True exchange. I want you to like me, to think about me, and to look forward to being with me. When you can accomplish that, I would think that your position here would be very solid indeed.”
“And if I don’t, then I can look forward to an early demise.”
“Oh, you are safe for a couple of months at any rate. It takes that long for novelty value to wear off. After that, the girls get case-hardened and go through their paces in the Parlor practically yawning, like old hookers. And nothing is more displeasing to the type of customer that we get to perceive that he can inflict the most imaginative horrors imaginable upon a woman and have them be treated with distraction and ennui. This, of course, drives him to further excess. And finally, nothing will satisfy him but killing her. And so our supply is diminished by a process of natural selection. The women evolve to their doom.”
“Tell me something,” she said, squinting over her cigarette, “don’t you have any qualms at all?”
“No,” he replied breezily. “I long ago decided that the universe was utterly indifferent to everything we here on earth consider among our most esteemed values. When I was nine I witnessed an earthquake. Bankers and paupers, priests and prostitutes, good men and vile rogues all fell together. Since then I have watched death claim its members with total egalitarian cheerfulness. I know, as much as it is possible for anyone to know anything, that this life is the only life there is. So I came to the conclusion that I could do anything I wanted, or could get away with. This position came about, and I took it, fully aware that I was choosing a life of Absolute Villainy. No, I have no qualms.”
“Are you one of the . . . what shall I call them . . . owners?”
“Hardly,” he replied. “I don’t even know who they are. I work for a level of executive below the highest level. And, if I may foresee your next question, I have been here three years. As far as the age of the place itself, I’m not sure. Of course, in a sense, it has been in existence from the beginning of time. The only difference now is that with increased population and intensified wealth over a larger number of people, the demand for women is greater. But slavers have been operating for as long as there have been people.”
Constance stared out at the sea for a very long time, and before her eyes the whole of history seemed to sail. Ships and caravans and the movements of tribes, carrying war and goods and gods and the eternal threat of enslavement, the making of one human being into a piece of property for another. She saw the vision in all of its ramifications, not only in the relationship between master and slave itself, but in that of lord and serf, boss and employee, husband and wife, parent and child, church and believer, politician and citizen, rich man and poor man, human and animal. Fleetingly, she thought of Chet and wondered what he would think of her disappearance. Briefly, she considered that he might guess at her kidnapping, and find a way to track her down, but in the face of the power and expertise of the organization that had taken her, anything he did would accomplish little more than to endanger his life. She would never see him again, and her eyes misted over.
“I think I’d like to go back to my room,” she said at last.
“Of course,” he replied, jumping up to pull her chair away as she stood up.
She stepped clear of him, took a step away and then turned to face him.
“I don’t know how I’m going to handle it yet,” she said. “I may accept the situation in its entirety, with all its ramifications, including the ultimate debasement of falling in love with you. Or I may kill myself. Or I may just let things slide and await my turn. Or I may try to escape.”
“Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t have expected any less of you, including your honesty in telling me this.”
“Well, then . . .” she said.
“Au revoir,” he said, bowing slightly.
When she returned to her room, she found a large manila envelope on her desk. Before opening it she undressed, took a shower, and when she was refreshed, sat nude on the balcony, the warm sun kneading her skin, to look at the contents of the bulky envelope.
The first enclosure was a sheet of paper giving her her Parlor schedule for the following three weeks. She had four eight-hour stints each week, some in the afternoons, but most at night, and one beginning at six in the morning.
“Weird,” she thought, “any man who would be interested in S&M at that hour.”
Under that was a letter officially welcoming her to “The Villa.” It read:
* * *
Dear Constance,
From one viewpoint, the fact that we have kidnapped you and made you available for violent use by a number of anonymous men puts us in a rather formal and strained relationship. On the other hand, what’s done is done, and it is foolish to live in the shadows. You might protest that it is all very well for us to “forgive and forget,” because we are in a superior position, but that is true only from a relative viewpoint. On the scale of absolute reality, our petty dramas are beneath insignificance, and what we enjoy or suffer, or how long our lives go on, makes no difference within the space of a century.
Aside from the duty hours assigned to you (which you can look upon simply as a job, and which makes you no different than you were when you lived on the “outside”), you are at complete leisure and liberty to enjoy yourself. All the amenities are here, including a wide variety of media (all the current films are shown in our theater and all our women and staff are encouraged to participate in our theater group). There are sports, the best medical facilities, a boutique sporting the latest fashions. Under special circumstances you will be allowed to go sailing and horseback riding. About the only things not allowed are telephone calls and incoming mail. If, however, you wish to write to someone to assure him or her of your well-being, we will mail the letter for you (after reading it, of course).
There is the delicate point of The Snuff, and we would be less than honest if we didn’t mention it. There is no real justification for our subjecting you to this, except to note that death comes to us all and so we are not tampering with nature but merely making a few minor adjustments in relation to time.
Well, there it is. We are slavers and through one circumstance and another, you happen to have become one of our slaves. If we can accept our mutual destinies, then we can aspire to a modicum of happiness within our common limitations on this planet.
So, enjoy your days and nights, perform your tasks with verve, and make yourself one of the family. We’re sure that after a while, what with your work and your off-duty diversions, your love affairs and hobbies, time will pass smoothly and you will come to realize that what happens here is as much life as what happens anywhere, and so make your peace with your condition.
Sincerely,
The Management
* * *
When Constance finished the letter, she let it fall to the ground beside her and closed her eyes and remained for a long time without moving, without thoughts, soaking in the rays of the sun. She was calm, resigned, relaxed. Although the fact of it struck her as somewhat peculiar, she was at peace. So many things which provided anxiety in her previous life were missing here. She had no fear of random violence, of unexpected rape or attack. She had no worry about paying the rent. She didn’t know where she was geographically, but suspected it was a subtropical climate; she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold. Her life had become neat, compact, totally rationalized.
Finally, she poked into the envelope and dug out the rest of the material. It included a map of the grounds, with forbidden areas marked out. There was a brisk description of security measures and a warning about the futility of attempting escape. There were color brochures in which different facilities of the place advertised their services, including the library, the discotheque, the arts-and-crafts shop, the adult education center, the yoga center.
With a sigh, she let the envelope fall to the ground, got up, paced around a bit, and then went back inside where she flung herself onto the bed and without warning burst into hot, copious tears. She cried for a quarter of an hour and then fell asleep.
She had troubled, inchoate dreams and was finally awakened by a hand shaking her shoulder. She looked up. It was the maid, a black girl with cocoa skin dressed in black dress with a white frilly apron, net stockings and glossy pumps. The woman was no older than twenty, wore no makeup, and had hazel eyes.
“Sorry,” she said, “but you didn’t hear me knocking. It’s time for you to go on duty.”
“Whaa . . .” Constance said, still fuzzy.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and then remembered, remembered where she was and what the woman was talking about. Her heart sank. A taste of cold lead lay on her tongue. Dread tugged at the backs of her eyeballs. Waking up in the middle of the afternoon after a fitful sleep is always traumatic, but to wake up into such a situation, and to feel the first actual impact of it, is indescribable. Constance realized for the first time that her predicament was not an episode but a permanent state, and accepting it intellectually was relatively easy, and even a bit of conceptual fun. But to live it, day by day, hour by hour, endlessly, was something else again.
The maid put her hand in her apron pocket and pulled out a green, cylindrical pill.
“You might want to take this,” she whispered. “It’ll get you over the worst part.”
“What is it?” Constance asked.
“It’s got a couple of things in it. Something to give you energy, something to relax your muscles, something to make what’s happening feel like a hallucination, something to turn you on just a taste.”
Despite herself, Constance opened her eyes in appreciation of the description.
“Oh, it’s a nice one,” the maid said.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Constance asked.
“I work here,” she said. “I like things to be as pleasant as possible. It’s part of the policy of the management. And maybe you’ll want to do something for me someday.”
“What could I do for you?” Constance said.
“Some day, when you have a full day off, we might take one of these together and . . . play.”
“Never something for nothing, is there?” Constance said, shaking her head.