Destined to Play, Feel, Fly Trilogy (19 page)

It feels like an eternity ago. My intuition slyly suggests that that version of myself withered away when I accepted my blindness and I should acknowledge I am in the process of being ritualistically reborn. I don’t allow myself to dwell on it further.

On leaving the pools I am wrapped in a towel. What skin I have left is alive and sensitive, and this becomes even more apparent as I am laid face down on my belly. I am adjusted a little as is the towelled bench I am lying on. As strong hands begin to knead my shoulder blades and various parts of my back, I am thrilled to verify I’m on a massage table. Jeremy has certainly planned the last few hours to perfection — aside from the ‘missing in action’ orgasm.

The towel is whisked away from my body, as the strong scent of orange and honey penetrates my nostrils. I raise my head slightly from its position to confirm the sweet citrus odour. My head is eased back as my hair is scooped up from the nape of my neck and bunched up away from my body. A sticky substance is dolloped on the small of my back before the hands return and the massage begins in earnest. The gooey ointment smoothly discovers my extremities as the skilful hands ensure I’m thoroughly embalmed in the intoxicating yet sticky combination.

I allow my mind to wander, not wanting to focus on anything in particular. I know in myself that the more I consider my situation, the more stressed my body will become — not a good thing when strong hands such as these are dissolving tense muscle tissue upon contact. I try to focus on my breathing … it works for a while. My mind seeks to further unravel the need for Jeremy to have me blind and questionless this weekend. His logic makes partial sense, and I can’t deny that I have certainly experienced sensory overload. As for emotions, I don’t know whether I am coming or going … I should be relaxing and letting go, I love a good massage and this is glorious. This feels so good, I am becoming as soft and gooey as the ointment as it sinks into the pores of my skin. What is holding me back? I can’t help but sense there is still something more to all this that Jeremy isn’t telling me. It’s not normal to put relationships at risk like this for a bit of frivolous and, at times, terrifying fantasy, is it? Even if it is with Jeremy … even if I feel more sexually alive and sensual than I have in my entire life … Is our relationship about more than this weekend?

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by reality as a number of arms lift me up, turn me over and place me back on the
towelled bench. More orange and honey arrives on my belly as smaller hands work my stomach, chest and breasts. I jolt when they slide over my nipples and instantly attempt to normalise my breathing.
It’s only a massage
, I convince myself. The hands establish their rhythm with my breath and the kneading continues, as do my thoughts.

Jeremy was right. I have too many questions; they seem to be multiplying exponentially in my brain like a viral disease. My body relinquishes all pretence of flesh and bone as the insistent palms morph me into soft clay. What could I do now, anyway? Would I once again be prevented from leaving? I don’t even know where I am. My breath becomes shallow as I consider both the consequences of being here and the reality of trying to escape. Is that what I really want? Deep down I know I don’t want to leave, I’m just scared of exploring what he has planned for me, as I always am — at first. Damn him for doing this to me; for forcing me to reach for a conclusion that seems impossible. Am I honestly this weak? All the values I have clung to so desperately in life, those that have given me stability and meaning and worth. And I am throwing them out the window for one careless, fanciful weekend? Is that all it will be? Or is this truly valuable research?

My mind implodes with the weight of my moral dilemmas until only numbness remains. My body becomes limp, there is no resistance left. I am a mere jellyfish awaiting the next current to reveal my future path. Exhausted mentally and emotionally, and now physically pliable, just as he wants me to be, I’m sure, I allow the blackness to surround my mind and let the futile desperation in my thoughts dissipate.

Flashes of memories flitter within my dreamlike state. Happy memories: my babies, birthday parties, smiling faces, my son
telling me he loves me eight hundred million, billion, zillion times more than the universe, and my daughter explaining why she will live with me forever and ever and that is why she must marry me and only me. The memories of my children flood through my subconscious one after the other. Simple times, uncomplicated times, but why does Robert appear somewhat forlorn, disengaged, in these visions of our family unit? I hadn’t noticed before. These pictures make up so much of who I am, minute by minute, day by day. Yet, why does it feel like there is still something missing? Why does his body language reflect that something is also missing for him?

My internal arguments and debates are spiralling out of control. Jeremy has talked before about the possibility of me exploring my secret, dark fantasy, the one that provided the basis for my thesis all those years ago, the one I have never truly acknowledged as my own, except very briefly to him. Am I brave enough? I could never go there with anyone but Jeremy, and he is handing this experience to me on a personal and professional platter. What if I say no when it is exactly what I have always longed to experience, just to know and understand once and for all? Is fantasy just fantasy and should it be left that way, or is there a need and desire to act on it, to experience it first-hand? My mind seems a little fuzzy, meandering, and no longer able to accommodate the complexity of my thoughts as I surrender to the masseur’s magic hands.

The sound of rolling wheels restores me to full consciousness and it is only then that I realise I am moving; lying down, but moving nonetheless. I struggle and attempt to raise my jelly-like limbs off the table. They are so relaxed and heavy from the massage it’s almost impossible. I try again.

‘Please lie still, we won’t be long.’

‘What? Where are we going?’ My voice sounds raspy and the words can barely leave my mouth.

I realise I must have dozed off … for minutes? hours? Surely not? We come to a stop.

‘Madame. You are awake, may I help you?’ A female voice speaks to me.

‘Ah … yes, thank you.’ My natural politeness kicks in.

‘Can you tell me how long have I been asleep?’ Hands raise me gently to a sitting position. A robe, not the same one as before — this is more velvety and feels heavier — is placed over my shoulders. I notice it has no arms, or at least my arms are not threaded through any sleeves. It feels smooth against the silkiness of my skin, with no remnants of the massage oil’s stickiness.

No answer. Has everyone I encounter been told not to answer my questions?

‘Would madame like some tea?’

Oh, tea, that’s a surprise.

‘Yes, madame would.’ The words pop out of my mouth a little too harshly. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ I remember my manners.

‘Could you please tell me where Jeremy — I mean, Dr Quinn, is?’ Nothing. I have no idea if he is with me or not, but I don’t sense that he is, if that makes any sense.

‘Jeremy?’ I try again.

‘Please answer me if you are here. We need to talk. Please?’ My voice sounding more anguished with each word.

Typical, just when I need to speak to him, he has vanished.

Hot tea is carefully placed in my hand and smells delicious. It calms me and distracts me from my rising nerves. I embrace the infusion in the air, scenting camomile, with a hint of vanilla
perhaps. I taste a little at a time so I don’t burn my lips. Perfect. The tiny cup feels like a heavy weight in my hands given the relaxed state of my muscles. As I finish the remainder, I feel bands around my wrists. The cup is taken away from me, giving me the opportunity to explore further. It feels like leather with a small jingly thing rattling above and below. They are a couple of inches long and fit quite snugly around each wrist. Shit!

‘Jeremy!’

Silence surrounds me.

I try to find where they are buckled, but can’t seem to locate an opening. Don’t tell me these, too, have been tailor-made. I feel my pulse quicken. I scan my body mentally to locate any other foreign objects and sure enough, there are also two, slightly larger versions around my ankles. Oh god, I go weak at the knees. In sheer defiance I quickly attempt to find an opening or buckle to remove. There is nothing. This happened when I was asleep?

I’m startled to feel that another band is being swiftly placed around my neck; there is a strange sound as it is tightened into position. I’m momentarily stunned, finding it difficult to breathe as I adjust to the constricted feeling. It too, has a jingly metal component, one on the front and one on the back. I freeze. This is it. This is what Jeremy was talking about. Wanting to play harder, push the boundaries.

What does he want to experience with me like this? More importantly, what does he want me to experience like this?
Okay
, I think to try and calm myself down,
it is not as if I didn’t know this was coming in some way and here it is
. It is apparently going to happen very soon. Oh, dear. The adrenaline pounding through my heart and pumping through my veins is more pronounced now than it was when I jumped out of the
plane. The physicality of my emotions is as fascinating as it is astounding. So real, so intense, so vital. Am I prepared to stop now, when my response is this intriguing?

What are the alternatives? I could speak. I could scream. Perhaps that is what I should do, right here, right now … but I don’t. I remind myself that I did exactly that at the dinner to no purpose whatsoever, and thank goodness he completely ignored me then because the sexual tension was exceptionally gratifying in the longer term. I literally feel carnal energy shooting through my body at the memories. Ah yes, it was definitely worth fighting through my own fear to achieve such phenomenal rewards.

This must be part of his master plan. He has certainly succeeded in sending me into hyperventilating overdrive and nothing has even happened except for an exquisite massage and leather straps bound to my body. I love and hate that he can do this to me, make me feel and experience things I never believed possible. It makes me feel as if every beat of my heart is meaningful to my life. I will do this for him, for myself and for his research. I will be strong for him and maybe, just maybe, it may help set me free. From whom, from what I wonder … possibly, from myself …

Am I willing to discover the truth first-hand rather than watch from the sidelines of life?

I stand silently as my wrists are bound behind my back.

Still silent, as a velvet hood encircles my face.

Remain mute, as I am ushered along a corridor, my bare feet shuffling on the plush carpet. Demurely being led to a destination without force, by unknown, faceless strangers, without resisting. How many people surround me? I have no idea. I sense their energy, not their quantity.

I am forced to confront the stark reality of asking myself once and for all, if I do, in all honesty, trust Jeremy. Imagine my life without the seductive, beguiling, enticing and challenging Jeremy in it. Of course I trust him, when have I not? He brings my otherwise black and white life into brilliant technicolour. Although I’d be remiss if I didn’t also acknowledge his expertise in creating phenomenal psychological dramas, such as the one I am currently in. My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a deep baritone voice.

‘Bring her to me.’

I am brought.

Strong male hands lightly grip my upper arms.

‘Remove her robe.’

It is removed.

My legs are stationed apart.

Life is strange, you know. We spend our whole lives building up self-esteem, learning to love ourselves, educate ourselves, ‘better’ ourselves, and then it comes to this? How incredibly quickly the confidence we build for ourselves, built carefully layer upon layer over the years, the decades, can dissolve into insignificance in mere seconds.

The way people look and dress and act, what you do, what you earn, how well educated you are, means nothing when you are stripped bare, desperately naked, vision violated, symbols of slavery strapped to your ankles, wrists and neck.

Two fingers deftly penetrate my vagina so efficiently that my mind is instantly silenced and reality slices through me. I stagger forward with the shock of the intrusion but am held securely in place. My breathing quickens in response.

What power is left? What ounce of human dignity?

How is it then, that if I had a penis, I’d have a massive erection?

I have a sense of slipping into a psychological void, a place I have never dared enter within my own psyche, somewhat like I imagine Alice felt sliding down the rabbit hole in her mind. I am compelled to continue the journey.

‘Note that,’ says the baritone.

Noting
… I really am on the other side of the experiment now. Who would have thought that I would be standing here accepting the violation that has just occurred to my body? Not me, not in a million years.

‘Place her in position.’

Outwardly, no voice, no sight. Complete acquiescence as I am lowered into a kneeling position.

Something long, thin, smooth and cold slides under my breasts. I inhale sharply at the touch. Like the bow of a violin, it moves back and forward across my chest, sliding slowly below my breasts, then above, then carefully and accurately past the tips of my nipples as if tuning itself to my body. The sensation is slow and rhythmic and I’m grateful I’m already on my knees. My nipples harden in anticipation as illicit shivers cascade through my shoulders and back. The bow then moves seamlessly and elegantly between my thighs, creating such a heightened sensual tension it causes me to cry out in anticipation of what is to come. It is preparing my body for imminent play.

‘Hmm. She does react instantaneously, J, just as you said. This is excellent news.’

J — Jeremy? He has been discussing me with others?
Of course he has, I’m here aren’t I?
I answer my own question.

‘Jeremy! Please talk to me.’ My voice escapes more softly than I expect; apparently it has been buried too long.