The Collectors (11 page)

“Is everything all right?” she said. She took my arm and placed it through hers.

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Nervous, I guess.”

Jeanne stopped and turned me toward her.

“I’ve never seen you nervous about anything.”

I didn’t want to hesitate. Part of falling in love with Jeanne was discovering the pleasure I found in pleasing her. I didn’t have to second-guess her. If she asked me to do something, it was because it pleased her in some way for me to do it, and so I did.

“I want to go for you, of course,” I said. “But I’ve never been in a group situation before. And, you know, they’re French.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t speak their language. What if I’m told to do something I don’t understand and they do something I don’t want them to do. It’s just scary to me.”

Jeanne frowned, but saw I was a little upset. Mostly, I just wanted to go to bed. The jet lag was making me wobbly. I think my bottom lip was quivering a little.

“There’s nothing to worry about; I promise you,” Jeanne said. “And just so you know, they all speak English. They just don’t always let you know that.”

It was the first time I didn’t feel like doing what Jeanne wanted me to do.

“If it’s all the same to you, then, I’ll just hang out. Not participate.”

Jeanne started walking again. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” she said, and I noted the ironic tone in her words.

I should have known such generosity on Jeanne’s part was a double-edged sword. All I felt at the moment was relief. I’d discovered so much about myself during the weeks I’d been seeing Jeanne. I’d found in myself a capacity and desire for submission and pain that surprised me, even though I’d fantasized about it for years. But I thought my limits might fall short of a group scene with strangers. Or maybe I was just tired.

We arrived at the building on the Rue Boudreau, an immense and imposing structure with gray stone, black wrought iron balconies, black shutters. Lights sprang from many of the windows, softening the exterior of the building, making it inviting. Jeanne rang the bell and soon we found ourselves getting off an elevator directly into an apartment. Apartment seems an inadequate word for the place. It looked like Versailles to my Midwestern eyes, huge, sparkling, ornate. It took several minutes for me to take in what I was seeing, and in that time Jeanne introduced me to Natalie, who looked remarkably like Jeanne. She kissed me on both cheeks and took me by the hand down the long gallery-like hallway. Jeanne walked behind me.

We entered a living room so enormous my jaw dropped. The price of such a home in Paris, especially this part of Paris, was incomprehensible to me. There was astounding art and artifacts everywhere. Unfortunately, my bug-eyed look made me appear more like a gawking American than ingénue, and this was exactly the moment all faces in the room were turned toward me. In the center of the room was a grouping of four large sofas, set in a square, with women sitting on all of them, and more women standing around. Quite a few exclaimed upon seeing Jeanne and there was much chatter in French. Somewhere in there I was introduced. My name was mentioned several times, though in what context I’ll never know. I always assume the worst, however. I guessed they were talking about what a moron I looked like. Even though I was wearing a chic new dress, I felt outclassed. All around me style erupted from every woman I looked at, whether it be the simple turning up of a sleeve or the way that a scarf was knotted. It was intimidating.

Jeanne had me by the hand as we joined the others, two of whom rose to make room for us on a sofa. The gathering appeared to be a regular party. As I looked around I saw there was no evidence of any of the accoutrements of bondage and discipline. There were no women collared and sitting at their mistresses’ feet. Instead, I saw friendly faces, people coming up to offer me wine, to introduce themselves and ask where I’m from, all in English. I cast a suspicious look at Jeanne, who was smiling like a cat with a feather sticking out of her mouth.

After an hour or so of party talk, I felt completely at ease. I had a conversation with a woman who knew quite a bit about Balthus and offered to take me on a tour of the places he’d lived and worked in Paris. Another woman was an old friend of Jeanne’s, and she told me a funny story about the first time Jeanne had driven in the city. Jeanne wasn’t always as smooth and assured as she seemed.

Eventually, I noticed one woman had her eye on me, which ignited a little charge of excitement. She was standing behind the sofa opposite me, not paying attention to anyone else. She wore a black suit of gabardine, a scarf at her open collar, very European glasses on her sharply featured face. Her haircut was severely short. I felt a bit like a girl at a school dance being checked out by a boy from across the gym. I thought I wouldn’t mind it at all if she asked me to dance, or whatever the much more adventurous equivalent here would be. I stared back at her, knowing I was sending her an invitation. Then I looked at Jeanne to see if she’d seen this exchange. She was talking and laughing with a young woman sitting next to her, holding her hand and fondling the necklace she wore. Why would I worry or hope that Jeanne would feel jealousy? She was always one step ahead of me, never in a vulnerable position. Me making goo-goo eyes at someone wouldn’t change that.

Soon, small groups began to leave the room and head down the long hallway. I assumed there was a designated play space at the other end of the apartment, which, from what I could tell, put it a mile or so away. I felt a complete change of heart from the reluctance I felt during our walk to the party. I was curious to see the action, curious what Jeanne would do with me in front of others, and really curious what my admirer would be like. Jeanne took me by the elbow and led me down the hall. I looked at the woman she left behind on the sofa and was glad to see her turning to someone else. Apparently, she and Jeanne had not made any plans.

Jeanne did not speak to me, and her grip on my arm was painful. We finally reached the end of the hallway and walked into a room similar in size to the living room. I thought it might have been a ballroom at some point in its history. There were Baroque murals across the entire ceiling, loaded with angels and clouds. Three enormous chandeliers hung in a line, casting only muted light on the room. The dimness was cast off in the four corners of the room by floor lamps that illuminated groupings of furniture, both domestic and bondage oriented. Women were settling into the different areas and I quickly took inventory. A simple library table was in one, straps attached to each leg. A woman was undressing another in front of it, while a third pulled a flogger and some cuffs and a collar from a nearby chest. In another corner was an ottoman, also impressively simple, and there was already a naked woman being tied to it. A third corner held a freestanding metal frame where a woman would be attached by each limb, arms overhead, legs stretched apart, her body available on both sides. A group was approaching it, one woman pulling another by a collar.

The last corner had a bed. It looked like someone was going to sleep in it that night. It was dressed with beautiful linens and colorful pillows, and there was a nightstand and reading light. This was the corner Jeanne led me to. We arrived at the same time as three other women. Jeanne said something to one of them, apparently offering them first use of the bed, and we settled into the sofa in front of it. I looked at the women for a moment and was amazed to see how they now appeared to be either obviously dominant or submissive, whereas I’d not had a clue while we were socializing in the living room. Their clothes were the same, but there was a shift in their bearing that didn’t even seem subtle to me. Two of the three women were submissive and they stood quietly while Jeanne and the dominant continued to speak in French. Then the dominant, whom Jeanne called Aimee, had one of submissives sit on the sofa with us and took the other to bed.

Over the next half hour I sank further into the furniture as the activity all around me became louder and more chaotic. In our own corner, Aimee thoroughly paddled the ass of the submissive she’d tied to the bed. Then she grabbed a harness and dildo from the toy chest, turned the woman around, and fucked her for a long time, causing the woman’s very sore ass to rub against the bed clothing. Both were strangely quiet during the whole scene, until they cried out, in tandem, and laughed as they collapsed together.

I wanted in on the action. I knew better than to make the first move with Jeanne, but I hoped she could tell I was excited by all of the fidgeting I was doing. She again took my arm and we went to watch the action at the wooden frame. A woman with bright red hair was strung up tight. Someone had gagged her with a neon orange ball gag, which contrasted horribly with her hair. I watched her with envy, hoping I’d have a turn when they were done with her. There were women in a semi-circle around the frame, while the top was directly behind the bound woman, wielding a large, heavy flogger. The lashes she was laying on the submissive’s back and ass were a more intense punishment than I’d yet experienced from Jeanne. The woman screamed through the gag. I looked at all of the women staring at this tableaux and saw they were transfixed, as was I. They’d seen this dozens of times, no doubt, and still it had a magic hold. It was very powerful. Jeanne seemed a little fidgety now, so I tried to get things moving.

“I’m ready for this.”

She turned toward me with an eyebrow lifted.

“Just so you know,” I added.

“It’s of no concern to me whether you are ready or not.”

“Well, then,” I said. “Would it be better if I just let you know I’m ready for whatever you would like?”

“It would be better if you didn’t speak.” She turned back to the scene in front of us, and I felt my face burn a little in shame. It was a little like trying to kiss someone and having her turn away from you, only a million times worse. It started to dawn on me that Jeanne was not very happy with me. My admirer from the living room chose just this moment to approach Jeanne and ask permission to take me to the library table, which was currently unoccupied. I cast a hopeful look at Jeanne, thinking she may well want me away from her for a little while if she was irritated with me.

“Thank you for your request,” I heard Jeanne say in English, “but Laura will not be joining in the activities tonight. She’s not feeling quite up to it.”

The woman frowned as she looked at me, no doubt wondering why I had been flirting with her if I was feeling poorly. She excused herself to try her luck elsewhere. I looked back at Jeanne and saw a face carved in stone. I honestly didn’t know whether to be mad at her, nervous about her, or sorry that I’d upset her. She clearly was unhappy and I realized having an emotional reaction of any kind was something I’d not yet seen in her. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

There was a break in the activity as the woman in the frame was released. I tried a lighthearted approach.

“It looks like the frame is free. Perhaps you’d feel better if I was in it and you had the flogger in your hand.”

No response. Mt. Rushmore. Jeanne walked away from me, straight over to the woman she’d been cooing with in the living room, and whispered something to her. The woman nodded, followed Jeanne to the frame, and then looked right at me while Jeanne stripped her and tied her to it. My face flamed. I felt everyone was staring at me, asking who the stupid twat was who’d just come to observe, who told Jeanne she wouldn’t play, who then started flirting with someone else. I became deathly afraid that Jeanne was furious with me and would send me back to the States and out of her life.

Before she took the flogger to the woman, she warmed her up by caressing all parts of her beautiful body. She sucked on her breast, rubbed her clit, brought her close to orgasm before backing off. The crowd was reassembling to watch, and I wondered what kind of reputation Jeanne had among them. Watching her give someone else the kind of attention I had only known her to give to me was very hard. As if reading my mind, Jeanne came over to me, pulling a key card out of her pocket.

“Go back to our suite. Do not talk to anyone on your way out or on your way back to the hotel. I want you naked and kneeling by the bed when I return.”

She didn’t look me in the eye when saying this. I took the key from her.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I did exactly, but I’m very sorry.” And I was. Despite the unusual dynamics in my relationship with Jeanne, I still felt we were close and very compatible. As with all first fights, I was terrified we wouldn’t survive it. I left the party and caught a cab back to the Ritz.

*

It was three in the morning when Jeanne returned from the party. I knew because I was kneeling next to the bed, close to the alarm clock. The carpet in the Ritz was thick and soft, so my knees were in much better shape after hours on it than they were performing the same feat on the hardwood floors back home. Still, it amazed me I did this at all—kneeling quietly for two hours with no one policing me, simply because Jeanne told me to do it. Usually, I would feel a growing excitement as the time passed, but this night had an element of penance in it. I was on my knees hoping Jeanne would not be mad at me.

As soon as she entered the bedroom I could smell sex. She reeked of it. She didn’t acknowledge me but simply walked straight into the bathroom. Five minutes later she emerged in a fluffy white robe, her hair wet, feet bare. She sat on the bed in front of me.

“In the past,” she said. “I’ve had companions to whom I’ve explained my simple requirements and who took it upon themselves to unilaterally do or not do something based on their wishes, not on mine. I immediately eliminated those women from my life.”