Elliot Mabeuse (25 page)

"Do you make it a practice to go around rubbing yourself on men's legs? Don't you have any shame?"

I felt her tensing as I spoke, her body going rigid. She was warm and after I finished the knot, I slid my hand down her back and caressed her ass, hot from her spanking. She felt like she was glowing.

I stood close and whispered in her ear: "What am I going to do with you, I wonder?"

"Conner…"

"In the bedroom."

She started to walk to my bedroom and I stopped her.

"Not that one. Tonight you get to see what's behind door number Two. It's time."

She looked at me.

I'd kept the second bedroom door closed and locked for as long as I'd known her.

It was, in fact, what a more serious BDSM master would probably call his dungeon, a room dedicated to bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism as I practiced it, a room I'd designed specifically for Emma.

It wasn't really ready, but it had occurred to me some time ago it never ever would be "ready" in the sense of being finished. It's incompleteness spoke not only to the fact that I would never have everything I wanted in order to experience everything I wanted to experience with Emma, but also to the fact that the deeper I got into BDSM, the more I realized I would never approach owning Emma in the way I longed to own her either—that the whips, the chains, the toys and apparatus I built and collected in many ways only signaled my frustration at never being able to hold her essence and possess it in the way I desired.

I went in my room and got her robe, a short, robin's egg blue synthetic I always think of as her color, the color of Venus, and I brought it out for her.

"Put this on. I don't want you going in there naked."

It was true, though I couldn't say why. The things in there required a certain amount of respect. You undressed in their presence—you didn't walk in naked.

Emma slipped the robe on and I opened the locks—there were two—swung the door open and turned on the light.

As far as dungeons go, it wasn't much, I suppose. No faux stone block walls or flagstone floor. No rows of menacing torture equipment hanging from the wall. Nothing to catch the blood.

There was a small bed from one of those apartment-furniture places—small but expensive and well made, with a thin mattress backed by a thick plywood board. There was a rail bed, which I'll describe in a minute. There was a sturdy old Goodwill armchair bolted to two huge pieces of four by six, the upholstery ripped off and replaced with my

own crude tacking: vinyl and stuffing. There was another chair for me. There was a stepladder that reached almost to the ceiling. There was a mirror leaning against the wall for use from the bed.

The ceiling had been set with two by fours lag-bolted to the ceiling joists which ran the length of the room. I like overhead work and do a lot of it. I had more Unistrut up there with wheeled rollers, another chain hoist that could roll back and forth. There was a block and tackle over the bed. There was a small dresser that held a bunch of toys and towels and things, two lamps and a vase of dried flowers on the floor.

The top of the window was covered with a double layer of black fiberglass, which allowed air to circulate but would keep anyone from seeing in. It looked out onto an air well anyhow, so there wasn't much chance of anyone looking our way, but the windows across the way were from the shower for the Royal Dragon Hapkaido Karate Dojo and you never knew when some sweaty martial artist might want to have a peek. It was summer in Chicago and hot, and we'd need the air. The bottom of the window had a double window fan, and right now we could hear the vague thump of disco rock from the late night exercise class being held in the front of the dojo.

I was going to tell you about the rail bed. It's a simple piece of equipment really, just an elongated box made out of steel tubing. Technically it's a square prism, about six feet long, and each side is a stainless steel rail or pole. They attach to a square platform at each end, a headboard and a footboard. It's about the size of an old telephone both, laid on its side. There's a thin, vinyl-coated pad on the floor, and the rail bed rests about an inch over the pad, supported on metal legs.

The great thing about the rail bed is the attachments. There are a bunch of clamps that attach to the rails that can be slid along its length and adjusted here and there. Then there are rods that attach to these clamps, and more clamps that attach to the rods, so you can pretty much rig the rail bed up to hold whatever you want, however you want it to hold it. There's like nothing it can't do.

Emma looked around at all the equipment the way you look at a gift you've received from the planet Mars, wanting to like it, but having no idea what anything was, or what the stuff would be used for. Of course she knew what a bed was, and a chair, but she didn't understand what the ladder was doing in there, or the rail bed, and why the chair was stripped of its upholstery and redone in crude vinyl and bolted to the floor.

I suppose she'd been expecting some sort of fabulous salon of red velvet and rhinestones, something whorish like that, and for a moment I felt disappointed for her too. After all, I'd done the room myself. I'd selected everything for the express purpose of using it on her. It was a little embarrassing, revealing all my fantasies in what I'd assembled, and as she gazed at it, I considered.

Why do we do this? Why do we take people we love and tie them up and take whips to them and spank them, put collars around their necks and make them do things, call them names and mistreat them, let out these dark urges and show them this savage side of ourselves and demand they show us theirs?

It's a question I think most people don't even ask themselves, the impulse is just so deep and instinctual. It's like asking why we get hungry or why we want sex in the first place. It's something built into us, like the urge to kiss or caress. In many ways, it just seems like these things taken to the extreme—the kiss becomes a bite, the caress

the flash of the whip. So in one sense it's simple extremity—touch taken to its exaggerated conclusion.

But surely there's more to it than that. There's some primal satisfaction that goes along with the capture and bondage, as if this kind of behavior is hard-wired into us, an atavistic memory of ancient mating patterns still seeking expression. Some of us long to subdue, others long to be subdued. It excites us, like foreplay. It
is
foreplay. For some of us—for me, I know—the sight of a woman in rope is insanely erotic, and it's always been like that for me, even before I was old enough to know what sex was.

So it's primal as well. And in addition, it's a demonstration of the depth of one's passion and love, isn't it? It's a trial by ordeal, a way of showing what one will suffer for one's lover and one's love, right there without any doubt—love made manifest, stripped of the poetic finery and psychic ambiguity and pared down to the most basic and obvious emotions.

I left Emma in the room for a moment and walked into the kitchen. I filled a pot with warm water and brought it into the room, then took a towel from the dresser. Inside the towel was a small piece of heavy chromed steel chain, only five links, each about an inch long, scrupulously cleaned. I placed the chain in the warm water as Emma watched.

There was another reason we played these games. So far, all the things we'd done together had been more or less spontaneous, or at least, rather haphazard. True, the session in the motel had been planned, but it had taken minimal equipment, and I'd gone in there with no clear plan in mind of what I was going to do. But here I'd assembled a room full of furniture and equipment for just one purpose—the control of

Emma's sensations. That's what I was after. Control of her body was only important insofar as it allowed me to control her sensations.

By taking control of her sensations, I'd be taking command of her. I'd make her an instrument on which I communicated my feelings.

I was going to play her, that's what I was going to do. I was going to play Emma's body and her feelings and her emotions like a harp, like a symphony orchestra. I was going to take over her emotions and make them my own, make her an instrument in my hands, humming, throbbing, singing to any tune I wanted to play, to any feelings I wanted to transmit. That was my goal. That's what I intended to accomplish, to make Emma Fiore ring with the music of Conner Devlin and make her feel exactly what I felt.

I would become one with her like an artist becomes one with his violin or his piano or his saxophone or trumpet, the music of emotion pouring from her, from my soul through my fingers to my whip or my cock—into Emma, into her body, her nerves, her mind, and then out, out into the world, my every experience filtered through the sensorium of another living, breathing, human being, a woman sexually in tune with me.

For that's what sex is about ultimately—communion, ultimate communion, the fusing of two beings into one, their feelings, emotions, hearts, minds and souls, and whether it's done with kisses and caresses or whips and chains, it doesn't matter in the end.

"Come here." I was suddenly excited and eager to get started, and Emma came to me, glad to be able to do something she understood. She didn't understand the room, the railbed, the ladder, the chair, but she knew their use was sexual and she'd be expected to use them and she was willing, so already, the magic was starting, the mood was changing. This was one of the uses of this room. It was a special place for us, a

place where Emma put on her role as giver and I assumed my role as taker. This was consecrated ground.

I pulled her to me and took her in a kiss, surprising her with my excitement. I held her with one arm, my other hand holding her right wrist as I kissed her, parting her lips with my tongue. I kissed her and she responded, kissing me back grudgingly at first, as if she had to be convinced of the worth of this place, as if she knew this wasn't a wholesome place to be.

And it wasn't. It wasn't at all, and I made no pretense of that. It was my sleazy spare room, loaded with BDSM furniture, and that's exactly what it looked like. As I kissed her, I backed her up, turning her around so I had her sitting in the armchair with the crude, tacked-on vinyl upholstery. She sat down heavily and tried to pull her little robe down over her lap without losing my kiss but I was already reaching into the dresser nearby, getting the cuffs.

"Mmm… nnnn…" She tried to talk against my lips as I opened the cuffs and fixed them on her wrists. There was no helping the robe now, which slid up to the top of her thighs, revealing her little crease, her knees pressed tightly together.

Two metal clips from the top drawer fit nicely into the screw eyes in the bare arms of the chair. The clips snapped tight as she tried to free her arms, but too late—

Emma was caught.

I stood up and hit the switch on the wall. The ceiling fixture went off, leaving the room bathed in red light from the lamps. It looked like the light of hell in there and felt just as hot. I turned the window fans on and the they started up with a twin drone,

sucking the air out with scarce enough breeze to move the hair on Emma's head, drowning out the monotonous thud of the disco music, smoothing it over with a low, sensual hum of white noise.

I had some dope in the room too, and I could have lit some up, but really, I wasn't interested in that now. What I was interested in was the exact human dynamics of what was about to occur between this beautiful, nearly-naked girl chained in my BDSM

playground under a red light, destined to be fucked tonight probably within a very few minutes, and myself. I wanted to watch how it happened. I wanted to see the changes occurring. I wanted to be aware of everything transpiring in her and between us. I wanted to watch myself and watch her, see ourselves objectively and participate too, be a specimen in my own seductive experiment.

I got up and leaned over, kissing her mouth again and letting my lips on dwell on hers, feeling her reach towards me and open like a flower in the sun.

"What have you got for me tonight, Emma?" I teased her lips with mine. "What have you got for me tonight, baby? Huh? Something good? What is it, baby? Tell me."

"Oh Conner, whatever you want. You know that, Conner. Whatever you want."

I leaned over so I could play with her breast through the sheer silky synthetic of the robe, rubbing the fabric back and forth over her hardening nipple.

"Mmm, yes. But what if it's not enough, Emma? What if you should run out?

What if I should maybe need more than you've got, baby? That would be terrible, wouldn't it? What would we do then, precious?"

As I spoke I dug around in the dresser drawer ‘til my hand closed on a crop. I took it out and held it where she could see it.

"But then, that would never happen, would it?" I dragged the tip of the crop along her long, smooth legs. "That would never happen because I always know where to get more, don't I, Emma? I always know how to get more from my baby, don't I, sugar?

Don't I, you gorgeous slut?"

The leather crept along her legs with an almost imperceptible drag, sliding over her knee and the top of her thigh and then the inside of her leg. Emma let her head fall back against the chair in wanton surrender. As always, her reaction to my touch was almost beyond her ability to control. She was lost as soon as I made contact with her.