“Take these off me,” I say, but he only looks at me coldly.
“Do you understand?” he says. “Do you realize you brought this on yourself? If you were more compliant, I wouldn’t have to take such extreme measures. I warned you not to be so obstinate. Now it’s too late. I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
A drop of sweat slides off my forehead—sweat from fear, not from the warmth of the room. M. gets up. He folds my clothes neatly and places them on a table; then he leaves, closing the door behind him.
I pull on the chains, but they are securely attached to the wall. I yank again, and feel the cuffs chafe at my wrists. Beside me is a table with a key on it—but out of my reach. I twist from the waist, throw my leg over, and try to reach the key with my toes. The table is too far away. I try again, stretching every muscle, the cuffs burning into my wrists, but it is hopeless. There is no way I can escape.
I call out, but M. doesn’t answer. I watch the burning candles. It was dangerous for him to leave me here alone, the candles unattended. An unwanted image surfaces in my mind: the room catching fire while I’m chained to the bed, helpless.
Suddenly, the door flings open. I jerk, drawing in my breath. All I see, for moments, is the darkness of the hallway.
Then M. enters. The first thing I notice is the black hood. It’s an executioner’s hood, the kind you see in movies—molded tightly to his head, large holes for his eyes and eyebrows, the hood edging his jaw, then cutting up to the bridge of his nose, completely freeing his mouth and nose. Next I notice the tight jeans—M. never wears jeans—and his bare chest. A black studded armband circles his left upper arm, and he’s wearing fingerless black gloves. Clipped on his belt is a knife sheath, with only the handle of the knife visible.
He slams the door shut, walks over to the bed, stares down at me. The body belongs to M., but I don’t recognize the eyes behind the hood, eyes so expressionless, so devoid of human feeling, that they could inhabit an automaton. He climbs on the bed, straddling my chest. The weight of his body, the denim against my skin, the knife sheath poking me in the ribs—it all makes me claustrophobic. I breathe heavily, my outstretched arms straining against the cuffs and chains. M. looks up at the handcuffs. He places one gloved hand on my right arm; his bare fingertips, slightly cool, contrast with the warm leather of the glove.
“Let me go,” I say.
His head jerks down, as if he’s surprised I have a voice. Dark eyes, now furious with emotion, stare at me behind that horrid hood. He slaps my face, sharply, and I scream.
“Did I tell you to speak?” he yells. “Did I?!” And he slaps me again.
“Stop it!” I say, but my words only make him angrier. I feel the sting of his hand once more, sharp, burning, and my eyes water.
He leans down, his face inches from mine. “Say another word,” he hisses, gripping my neck, “and it’ll be your last.”
I blink, and a hot tear of pain runs down my cheek. Lying there, I say nothing, afraid he will slap me again, praying that is the worst thing that will happen.
M. releases my neck, then climbs off me. He reaches over to the table for a candle. It is long, thin, in a brass candlestick. He walks to the foot of the bed, carrying the burning candle.
“Give me your foot,” he says, reaching down with one hand, cupping it so I can place my heel in his palm.
I shake my head, reflexively drawing my feet up closer to my body.
M. is silent for a moment. “We can do this two ways,” he says finally, his voice controlled. “Either you put your foot in my hand voluntarily, or I’ll tie your legs down. The choice is yours.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to blink back tears. This is a horrible mistake, I think. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t what is supposed to happen. I open my eyes and lower my legs. M. reaches down again and I put my right foot in his hand. My leg is shaking, but I can’t stop it. M. lowers the candle, then stops and looks up. His eyes gleam in the candlelight, two shiny orbs piercing the black hood.
“Shhh,” he says, before I say anything. “Remember, you’re not allowed to speak.”
He holds the flame close to my skin, and I clench my jaw so I won’t call out. I shut my eyes. M. grips my ankle, holding it firmly. I feel heat along my toes, then on the ball of my foot, but no pain. I wait for him to burn me.
It doesn’t come. When I open my eyes, he releases my foot and says, “That was very good. I know you wanted to speak, but didn’t. I see you can be trained, after all.” He turns around and switches on the television, then he walks over to the camcorder and turns it on. My image appears on the screen, faint in the dim candlelight. M. scowls.
He walks to the side of the bed, the candle still in his hand. “I’ll permit you to speak now,” he says, and he tips the candle over.
Hot wax drips on my stomach. I flinch and scream out, from shock more so than pain.
M. gives me a disdainful glance. “You don’t know what pain is,” he says, and he lowers the candle a few inches, tips it over again. This time, my scream is warranted. The wax sears my flesh like a hot iron.
“Please,” I say, “no more,” but M. ignores me. He dribbles the wax around my stomach, around each nipple, on the insides of my thighs. He gauges the distance of the candle to the sounds of my cries, raising and lowering the candle to vary the intensity of pain. He holds it high and the wax cools slightly before touching my skin; he holds it close and the wax scalds like boiling water. I beg for him to stop.
“Stop?” he says, holding the candle inches from my skin. “You want me to stop?”
I watch the flame, not able to take my eyes off it. “Yes,” I murmur. “Please.”
“You don’t like this?” I hear the mocking tone in his voice.
I shake my head. M. raises the candle, away from my skin, and I sigh with relief.
“Then perhaps I should give you something else,” he says. He sets the candle on the table and gazes at my body, at the hardened wax on my torso and thighs, appraising me. Then he walks over to the chest of drawers, pulls out the middle drawer, comes back to the foot of the bed with rope in his hands.
“Perhaps a little punishment,” he says, “to help you with your discipline problem.” He straightens out the rope. There are two long pieces, one end of each attached to a leather cuff through a metal D ring.
Again, reflexively, I draw in my legs. M. reaches down to stop me. I whimper at the touch of his hand, barely resisting, knowing, with my arms chained, it will do no good to fight back. He puts a leather cuff on one ankle, then the other.
He stands on the mattress, raising my legs over my head, doubling me over, then ties the end of each rope to an eye hook in the wall, my legs spread apart, my buttocks off the bed. The insides of the ankle cuffs are lined with something soft, fleece possibly, and don’t chafe my skin, but this position is awkward. M. gets off the bed, surveys his work, then walks over to the chest of drawers again and comes back with a long red scarf. He twists it in his arms, pulling it taut, then reaches between my legs and wraps the scarf around my neck. I start to panic, thinking he is going to choke me, but then he lifts it to the back of my head and wraps it around my mouth. He forces it between my teeth, then ties it off in the back.
“I can’t have you making too much noise,” he says. Then adds, “And you will be making noise.”
1 watch him as he walks over to the south wall and stands in front of his whips. He chooses a long narrow cane, about three feet long, something he’s never used on me before, then returns to the bed.
“Bamboo,” he says, flexing the cane, standing over me. “This will be different from any beating I’ve given you in the past,” he continues. “Consider the spankings and whippings you’ve experienced previously as sexual foreplay.” He runs his fingers along the length of the cane, touching it lightly. “This will not excite you. This is punishment,” and he draws back the cane and slashes it across my ass. My legs jerk against the rope, a sharp pain shudders through my body. I moan, and tears instantly come to my eyes and stream down my face.
“I’m not putting up with any more foolishness,” he says. “Do you understand? I never want to hear you complain when I bring out my rope. I’ll bind you whenever I choose.” He walks over to the table next to the television and brings back my clothes. He holds them up.
“I’m sick of seeing you in jeans and dirty blouses,” he says, dropping them in a heap on the rug. “From now on you’ll dress appropriately.”
He slashes the cane down again, on the backs of my thighs. Another jolt of pain, white hot, goes through my body as I scream into the gag. I strain against the ropes and chains.
“Do you understand?” he asks, and I nod through my tears and moans, still feeling the pain on the backs of my legs. What he said, however, is not lost to me.
From now on you’ll dress appropriately
. From now on. He does not mean to kill me here. He will not be my executioner. Not here. Not yet.
“Good,” he says, “but I’m not quite through. Five more strokes with the cane.”
I shake my head vigorously.
“Yes, my pet,” he says, rubbing my calf with his hand. “I want you to remember this the next time you think of disobeying,” and he brings the cane down five more times, each one harder than the last, each stroke sending a shock wave of pain vibrating through my body.
When he’s finished, he unties my legs and lowers them, then unknots the scarf and takes it out of my mouth, but leaves my arms chained to the wall. He sits down on the side of the bed. Tears are still running down my face, my body sweatcovered and maculated with candle wax. It takes me minutes to stop crying.
When I am quiet, he asks, “Are you going to behave from now on?”
Meekly, I say, “Yes.”
“That’s a good girl,” he says, brushing my cheek lightly. “You’re going to be my good girl from now on, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“I thought so.” He looks at me carefully, as if he’s deciding what course of action to take next, his face sinister in the black executioner’s hood. He unsnaps the knife sheath on his belt. Slowly, he draws out the knife, then rests his hand on his knee. The blade is shiny and curved on the bottom, with a sharp hook on the top. From an encounter with a previous boyfriend, I recognize the type of blade—it is a hunting knife, for skinning animals. M. taps it gently against his leg.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” he says. “You brought it on yourself.”
I’m breathing hard, watching the knife as he taps it on his jeans. I think of Franny, of the cuttings on her stomach and breasts. The sound of my heart pounds in my ears. I want to say something but am unable to open my mouth. He said from now on, I keep thinking. He said from now on. This won’t be the end.
He lifts the knife and puts the tip of it against my breast. When I feel the sharp blade, I let out a small moan.
“You still don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you? I could be a maniac with a knife.” He presses it against me harder. “Or even a psycho killer,” he adds.
I smell the fear in my sweat. Tears, again, come to my eyes.
“Spread your legs,” he orders.
I close my eyes. I can’t do what he says. I heard his command, but my legs are paralyzed, unable to move, palsied with fear and regret.
“Do it,” he repeats, and I open my eyes and look at him. He stares down at me, his face hard, implacable, unreadable. Suddenly, I know: he will kill me today. He is unrecognizable behind that mask, a different person, gone over the edge. This is what Franny saw on her last day. This is what happened before he carved up her torso. I feel my tears.
“Do it,” he says once more. “Now.”
I shake my head. M. presses the knife harder against the flesh of my breast. Somehow, my legs part. It is as if they were spread with someone else’s hand—not from my own volition.
“Wider,” he says. “Wider.”
My body is clammy, damp from sweat. I lick my lips. My legs open wider until they are spread-eagled on the bed. I feel vulnerable as never before. Watching the tip of the knife pressed against my breast, I think of Franny.
In a flash, the knife is between my legs. I gasp, feeling the cold tip of the blade on the lips of my vagina. I stare at the hand between my legs, whimpering.
“Don’t move,” M. cautions me. With his free hand he cups my chin and forces me to look at him and not at the knife. “Don’t move,” he says again, his face close to mine, his breath hot.
Then he gets down between my legs. I shut my eyes, squeeze them tightly, mumble a prayer to a higher power. I feel the knife scraping against the inside of my left thigh. I tense when I feel the blade, waiting for M. to thrust it inside me, expecting the pain.
The scraping continues; first on one area of my thigh, then another. I look down and see that he is scraping the hardened wax off my leg. He finishes the left, then begins on the right thigh, flicking off all the wax. He works up to my stomach, not leaving so much as a scratch, then, with his fingers, he peels the wax off my nipples and breasts. Chips of wax speckle the bed. When he is through, he puts his finger inside my vagina, twists it around.
“Your pussy’s wet,” he says, drawing out his finger, licking it off. “Amazing what a little fear will do.”
I lie still.
M. gets up and unsnaps the sheath from his belt, replaces the knife, sets it on a table. He takes off his jeans and underwear, but leaves on the black hood, the studded armband, the fingerless gloves. He walks toward me, his penis erect, then reaches for the key on the table and unlocks my wrists.
I am free. It happened so suddenly, I am momentarily stunned. I lower my arms, rubbing them, working out the stiffness and aches. I cannot put my feelings into words. I continue rubbing my arms, stalling for time, trying to make sense of what happened. Feeling tears come again, I blink them back.
“Goddamn you,” I say, and try to sit up.
He pushes me back down, pinions my arms with his. “Did I frighten you?” he asks, taunting me. I struggle to get up, but he is too strong. My arms are still sore and weak.
“Don’t fight me, Nora,” he says, then he laughs. “It only gets me more excited.” He tries to kiss me, but I move my head to the side. He stands up.