Dangerous (25 page)

These outrageous garments had a strong ethnic flavor I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Levantine, nor Greco-Roman, but instead reminded me of things I’d seen at the far end of Renaissance Faires, where the naughtier cosplayers dressed in garb from this or that erotic fantasy series. Without the freedom to speak I had no way to ask about its origin.

The one modesty permitted us was our hide thongs: rustic, hand-made things unlike anything found in a modern lingerie store.

And as before, we wore the bells about our ankles and wrists, enhancing our movements with a delicate cascade of notes. Our feet were shod in light, beaded sandals.

But the strangest part of our costume was the masks, made by Milton himself, I was told. They were grotesque, elaborate Boschian things of paper-mâché which covered the entire face and reached around to the back of the head.

Josie’s mask was a cat, or maybe a lion, but of that peculiar medieval style with bulging eyes and a fanged mouth like a Chinese dragon.

Lorena, the ranking girl, wore a crow’s head with an open beak and unruly coal-black feathers to match her hair.

And as for me, well…Milton had a sense of humor. He must have consulted with Val on this project, because I wore the mottled white-and-orange face of a koi. Inside the large, gaping mouth was a matte-black mesh that hid my face while permitting me to see clearly. The whole affair was topped by a dorsal fin, with small paddle-shaped fins swept back at my ears. I found it grotesque and avoided looking at reflections.

Because of our anonymity behind the masks, we each bore an identifying number on our right shoulders, temporary tattoos applied earlier that afternoon. Lorena was 2, Josie 7, and I bore the number 9. I didn’t know if the numbers had any real significance, but they did reflect our seniority, and allowed the guests to ask for us individually. Being numbered like cattle had thrown me into an odd mental state, almost as if I’d been drugged. I didn’t like it, but compared to the vast strangeness of the evening that one small thing scarcely mattered.

Milton himself wore a grinning Guy Fawkes mask, though his identity as the host of the party was no secret. The other guests, however, were a complete mystery. At least to me.

I watched for the arrival of a pale woman with white hair. But in the end I realized with disappointment (and some relief) that Val was not coming to this party.

By nine o’clock the last of the guests had arrived. Milton called for attention, and thanked them all for coming. Next, he introduced Lorena, Josie and me by our numbers, and announced that we were responsible for seeing to everyone’s refreshment—not only with beverages and hors d’oeuvres, but also by nature of our obvious physical delights. (He said this last with a showman’s wave, to quiet murmurs of approval from the score of masked partygoers.) We three were forbidden to speak to the guests, or remove our masks or thongs, nor were guests allowed to touch us in these places. But the rest of our bodies were free for whatever handling a guest might desire, so long as we were not marked in any way.

I had suffered far worse with Val, yet the announcement still made me gasp, to Lorena’s wry amusement. Although outwardly polite to me, she had radiated a superior manner all day, quite unlike the affable Josie.

And handle us they did, both men and women, though mostly the men. I was glad of my mask because it was impossible not to blush when being touched so frankly. Being alone among so many strangers, without Val there to embolden me, made it harder to bear.

One couple stood out from the rest. He was tall, handsome in a brooding Zorro way and clothed in sharp-looking slacks and dress shirt. What arrested everyone’s attention, though, was his flame-haired companion with the feathered Mardi Gras-style mask. Her small, lush figure was amply displayed by an opaque white silk garment very much like our own. Unlike us, however, her neck bore a gleaming steel collar to which the man had attached a light chain leash ending in a leather loop. For most of the evening she knelt or sat quietly beside his feet. They moved together with an easy grace that implied practice, a lengthy relationship.

“Khaareans are so creepy,” Josie whispered at one point, from behind her cat mask. She had been watching the strange couple, too, as we stood at the bar on a break while refilling our serving trays. Mute, I had no way of asking what a Khaarean was.

Lorena made a point of walking past us then, clearly annoyed by our dawdling. Chastened, we resumed our hostessing duties.

A little after nine-thirty Milton invited everyone to follow him to his studio: a brightly lighted structure built into the angle between the back of the house and the garage. Once everyone had assembled, he unveiled a…well, I didn’t actually know
what
it was.

It appeared to be a large, abstract wooden sculpture mounted on a sturdy base about six feet square. The sculpture itself was taller than a man and composed of smooth, organic shapes which drew the eye along sensual trajectories. A number of circular brass fittings could be seen at at various points, set flush so as not to disrupt the smooth lines of the…thing.

Milton clapped his hands and called for his girls, so we put down our trays and stood demurely before him. He told us to remove our silk garments, and help each other put padded cuffs on our wrists and ankles. After that, Milton spent some time arranging our bodies in artful poses, and used the conveniently recessed rings to hold us in place. Now I understood their purpose.

Milton used a step ladder to fix Lorena’s wrists to a projecting point at the top of the sculpture, high above her head. Her legs were held apart by widely-spaced rings in the base. Around the other side, my back was pressed hard against a more columnar part (it was very cold at first) and my wrists pulled back, one on each side. Because my ankles were clipped to a single ring I was free to wriggle from the waist down, but only a little. Josie was pushed against me, belly-to-belly, and locked there with her limbs forced wide apart in an X configuration. Thus I was trapped between her round body and the smooth, unyielding wood. We were forced to hold our heads to opposite sides so as not to crush our masks together and damage them. Anticipation made us breathless, and suddenly the mask felt hot, confining.

Milton arranged some colored lights and,
sans
mask, shot photographs while the guests looked on. Even if the pictures ended up on the internet, I told myself, no one would recognize me in this mask.

When he had done with that, Milton cleared away the lights and brought out an ice chest. From this he produced a dozen brightly-colored water pistols which he distributed to the guests, inviting them to amuse themselves by squirting us. The icy needles of water were not as bad as a flogging, but nearly so. When a pistol ran low, there was plenty of melted ice water in the chest with which to refill it. Our squeals elicited dark laughter from shooters and onlookers alike.

Josie’s body shielded me from the worst of it, but I felt a throb of sympathy when she jerked against me with a muffled shriek. “Sorry, sorry,” she said after each contortion, afraid she was hurting me. I quite forgot my rule of silence and kept reassuring her I was okay. After a few minutes of struggling we were left panting, exhausted, and goose-fleshed from the cold.

At length we were freed and our cuffs removed, at which point Milton brought towels for us to dry ourselves. This we did, in full view of everyone. The cold had the greatest effect on Lorena, having turned her fair skin almost white, to reveal a faint blue map of veins on her breasts and thighs.

By now the night air was turning chilly. Someone had removed our silk garments earlier, so there was nothing for us to do but shiver and hug ourselves against the cold. Fortunately Milton took pity on us and led everyone back inside the heated house, to a large entertainment room.

And here the night’s final amusement was held. The three of us knelt in the center of the room while guests drew slips of paper from a box. The slips were adhesive labels upon which were printed single words like
blossom, moon, the, a,
and
stirring
. These were placed randomly upon our bodies before Milton explained the purpose of the exercise. The guests were split into two teams, who took turns arranging our bodies so as to construct lines of haiku, in something resembling a game of Twister. The results were more amusing than poetic, and Josie and I laughed as hard as the masked participants. Lorena, however, suffered these indignities with a feigned stoicism betrayed by the fire in her blue eyes.

Milton stood to touch her arm, and asked in a cheerful voice, “This is quite fun. Don’t you agree, Two?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t sense her irritation, however well she tried to mask it. But then, Milton did seem to have a special interest in Lorena.

“Yes, Sir!” She was instantly cheerful, as if a shade had been raised to admit the sun. And then I realized the point of his question, his touching her. Despite the velvet delivery, it had been a serious warning:
drop your airs, or suffer the consequences
. From then on, she was pure sunshine and butterflies, a capitulation that pleased me greatly.

Finally the guests left. The house fell silent, and we were allowed to remove those stuffy, claustrophobic masks. Josie fetched three soft bathrobes and the four of us sat together on a large L-shaped leather couch, drinking chamomile tea.

Lorena made a point of cuddling with Milton, while Josie warmed me with kisses and soft embraces, perhaps an unconscious reflex on her part to counter the other woman’s territoriality. The bells locked on Josie’s wrist were by now a familiar sound—and a welcome one, for they accompanied her tender touch on my hair, my face. Her dark eyes were hypnotic as they gazed deeply into my own. In the twenty-four hours I had known her, this kind, effervescent woman had become very dear to me.

Just before midnight Lorena dressed and went home. Milton showed her out.

When he returned, I took his open hand and rose.

“You’re a sweet girl, Koishi,” he said paternally, and kissed my forehead. “Val is indeed fortunate.” Then, at Milton’s bidding, Josie took me upstairs to prepare for bed.

Between those unfamiliar sheets, recalling Josie’s moist goodnight kisses, I lay awake until the rectangle of moonlight slid from the nightstand to the floor, and plunged into a dream of swimming in dark, churning waters.

19     
scrapbook

I WASN’T SURE if Josie lived with Milton, or had simply stayed for the weekend, but once again she woke me with a soft kiss, just past eight. I found her bent over me, sitting on the edge of the bed as I came to my senses.

As on the previous morning, she led me to the bathroom and started the shower. When the water was warm she slipped off her robe, and I saw the numeral 7 was gone from her shoulder. Josie drew me into the shower with her, and began to soap me. The water turned the tinkling of our bells into a dull rattle.

Yesterday. in this same situation, she had told me, “Just relax, I’m supposed to do this for you. You’re a guest.” This time I needed no prompting.

Today, however, Josie’s ablutions became outright caresses, and for several minutes she kissed and stroked me under the falling water. It was very pleasant, but I didn’t know how to respond, or even if I should. Nor did I know whether she was following instructions from Milton in this, or taking a liberty. Yet she was so disarmingly sincere that I quickly surrendered to my body’s own hungers and moaned softly beneath her touch, eyes closed, leaning back against the tiled walls of the shower.

Presently she stopped, and embraced me briefly before pulling back to regard me with a smile. I thought she was about to speak when her expression changed and she released me to shut off the water. After that, we dried each other and wrapped our hair in towels.

Sitting lotus-style on the bed, she removed the 9 from my shoulder with baby oil. Then we rose and dried our hair. Finally she put on her robe and went to fetch my clothes.

§

After a pleasant—if odd—breakfast of beef hash spiced with jalapeño, as well as fried eggs and biscuits, Milton took a last sip of his iced tea and said to me:

“Would you like to come with me to the study while Josie washes up?”

His request had not a trace of dominance or command, indicating he didn’t expect me to be particularly submissive this morning. I nodded, still mute, and followed him into the hallway.

The morning’s earlier haze was gone but the sky remained overcast, making the study a murky gray. Milton dispatched the gloom by switching on a series of recessed halogen spots, warm as sunlight.

It was a medium-sized room, longer than it was wide, with windows running the length of the leftmost wall. It was an organic work space that wasn’t
messy
, but certainly not sterile. On this side of the room I saw a couch and two facing chairs, with a coffee table in the middle. On the other end of the room was a large desk with a computer, and a stack of drawings.

“Have a look around,” he said while walking around the desk to boot up his computer. It beeped, and after the musical startup sound he began to click with the mouse, but I could see only the back of the monitor. When he looked up, his face glowed with light from the display. “Please, feel free,” he encouraged, with a wave. I heard a pregnant note in his voice, as if there was something he
wanted
me to find.

Certainly there was much to see here.

He kept a half-dozen pieces of sculpture sitting around, mostly abstract, but a couple were more mechanically oriented designs resembling clocks from another dimension. A strange mobile hung from the rather low ceiling, of a sort Calder might have created, had he been stoned.

A large bookshelf occupied most of the right wall, brimming with manuals, art books, and a healthy collection of classic literature. Unlike Val’s library, this one wasn’t arranged with military precision: some books had been replaced in a hurry, and laid flat across the tops of others. Many were well-used, as evidenced by the creases down their spines and post-it notes sticking out from between pages. Were Val to discover such disarray in her own home, she would blow a gasket.