The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (20 page)

Marc observes.

I speak. “Do it again.”

Crack
. I am nearly done now: close to my conclusion. I stare down at the floor and then
I realize: a handmaiden is kneeling there
with a mirror
. She is tilting the mirror for my benefit:
so I can see myself,
naked and shackled, being caned. And, yes, I do look beautiful, I do. But why? Why
can flagellation be beautiful? Is that what Caravaggio was asking? The cane hits me
one more time and I moan, very quietly, and I look at Marc and he nods.

“Enough,” he says.

And the caning stops.

The handmaidens step forward and untie my hands. I rub my raw and aching wrists; then
I am deftly collared and Marc leads me away, by my silver chain, to a side room: a
luxurious, rather Oriental room.

The collar is detached. Marc says quietly to me, as he kisses my hand, “Rest here,
X, for a few minutes.”

Then he disappears. I gaze around. This is a haremlike chamber with towels and silk
cushions and copper bowls of water, and candlelit mirrors. Thirstily, I drink the
water and the wine offered by the attending girls. They have wrapped me in a silken
robe, and so I lie here, half dreaming, drinking the wine, my mind oddly empty. Then
Marc is standing in the doorway; he gestures to me.

I follow Marc outside. I am in my silken robe but it hangs loosely open, showing my
breasts and my small waxed triangle of pubic hair and I don’t care. My sexuality is
surging inside me. I want Marc. I want him. I want him to take me.

But Marc has other plans; he escorts me to the center of the chapel, which is full
of more masked people, more candles, and more choral music, this time deeper and more
intense, and then I see another painted and gilded naked woman who is shackled—just
as I was shackled. She has her back to me, her nudity is hoisted and she is ready.
Marc hands me a rattan cane and says, very quietly, “Beat her.”

For a moment, I pause. This is different. I have to do the caning?

The silence is intense. Then I look again. I recognize the body, the shape of the
young ripe buttocks. The white ass, unpainted.

It is Françoise. And now Françoise turns and looks at me. Her arms are hoisted in
the air; she is shackled to that hanging iron ring. Smiling softly, she gazes in my
eyes, and she says, quite sadly: “It is okay, X. I was the one caning
you
.”

Françoise turns her back to me once more; her beautiful head is bowed and waiting.

I look at Marc. He nods. So I lift my arm. And I strike.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

“O
UCH.”

“Ah,
mi dispiace
.”

“You’re meant to have a tender touch, Marc. Being an aristocrat.”

I am sprawled across Marc’s lap, the way I was sprawled when he was spanking me in
his palazzo. But this time my dress is lifted and I am exposing my bare ass to his
hands, not so that he can
spank
me, but so he can anoint my tender and inflamed skin with antiseptic cream. A cream
that is rather cold.

He dabs a little more of the perfumed cream, and rubs it on me, where the rattan cane
bit into my flesh. No blood was drawn, but the reddening pain is real enough.

“You really do have a quite ravishing arse,” he says, meditatively, as if admiring
a Rubens portrait acquired by an ancestor. “This seat of Venus, this throne of majesty
. . .” His fingers massage me, soothing me with medicinal cream, and I stare down
at the polished wooden floor, still a little drunk and woozy, and confused, and ashamed.
And aroused. And hungry.

I look over my shoulder where the seventeenth Lord Roscarrick is kneading lotion into
my ass.

“Are we done, Celenza?”

“Yes,” he says. “We’re done.” Gently and approvingly, he pats me twice on the butt,
like I am a reliable little sports car, then he puts the cap back on the ointment.
I stand up and walk over to look at myself in the mirror, twisting my head to see
my body from behind, illuminated by soft lamplight.

The pink welts are dwindling, but the biting memories will not evanesce so easily.
The way I enjoyed caning white and curving Françoise; the delicious taste of the heady
and curious wine; but most of all the view of my own flagellation in the mirror of
Marc’s eyes. Him watching me being beaten, naked and caned. Something deeper than
sex has been stirred in me this night. But it is sex, too. Oh, sex. My libido is unfurled.
I am finding it difficult not to jump on Marc. Yet I also feel shame for what I have
done. And the shame itself is part of the pleasure.

How does this work? Is the transgressive quality the key to it all? The key of the
Mysteries?

I let my dress fall, and turn toward Marc, who is now sitting languidly in a chair,
gazing at me. He is still wearing his very
dashing
tux but his tie is effortlessly undone, and his white shirt is ripped open by a few
buttons, revealing a swooping triangle of his dark, sexy chest; somehow he looks like
a handsome young gambler who has lost it all on a Mississippi riverboat, and who has
now blown the last of his inheritance on champagne. There is a nihilism in his smile,
an anarchy in the ruffled curls of his black hair, an insouciance in his pose: one
leg stretched out, one elbow resting on the chair back, leaning to the side, assessing.

“What time is it, Marc?”

He glances at his silver watch.

“Three
A.M
.”

“Is it?”

I have totally lost track of time. The wine, the whipping, the music. The Mysteries
ended with a kind of cadenza as everyone drank more of the spiced and sugared wine
in the candlelit chapel. The music got louder and louder, and then it became more
modern and percussive.

And I danced with Marc. But this was a wild dance, wild and romantic at once. We danced
out through the floor-length windows onto a vined and lonely terrace, high above the
ghost town, beneath the ghostly moon, in the empty valley filled with moonlit summer
mist. We danced and held each other tight, as the music ascended and crescendoed,
and then somehow we ended up here. At three
A.M
. I have showered the paint away and put on a dress. With no underwear.

“I’m hungry,” I say.

He sits forward, and turns toward the door, and calls, “Giuseppe?”

With military immediacy the door snaps open.

“Signor?”

“We’ll have our picnic now.”

“Sì, signor.”

What is this?

I watch with intrigue as Giuseppe and two of the handmaidens—don’t they ever sleep?
Maybe no one sleeps during the Mysteries—bring in three large wicker baskets and a
tartan blanket. I recognize the blanket from Capri. The girls lay out plates, cutlery,
and wine bottles, and then such a spread: ciabatta bread, fat salamis, and just unwrapped
cheeses—cubes of the best Taleggio, creamy and melty Gorgonzola—and big, fat Neapolitan
tomatoes, with little green caper berries, and juicy pink-and-purple cherries, and
soft red
soppressata
sausages, my new favorite Mediterranean cured meat, soft and sweet, a kind of transgender
saucisson
.

Giuseppe and the girls disappear. The food awaits us on the rug, like an image of
cornucopia in a seventeenth-century still life. A glimpse of the land of Cockaigne.
Peasant heaven.

“You think of everything,” I say, swooping down on the food, kneeling rather eagerly.

“That is my job,” he says, looking at me deeply. “To think of
everything
.”

He gazes at me again as I grab a knife and slice into the long, juicy salami and—rather
unfemininely—shove the delicious salty meatiness into my mouth. I do not care. I am
a shameful creature, I am a bad and terrible girl; but I am also a hungry bacchante,
a starving maenad. Marc slips off the chair and grabs some ciabatta, tearing a big,
rough, peasanty fistful, which he slathers in Gorgonzola.

We eat and drink wine, and we smile—and then we laugh. We drink more wine. I feed
him a slice of saucisson. He feeds me two cherries, letting me bite the sweet, yielding
flesh as he plucks the stalk away. I giggle. He kisses the underside of my white wrist.
We share the
soppressata
. I put my hand down his shirt just to check if his heart is working. He eats a slice
of fine lemon tart and then kisses me with his sweet lemon mouth.

It is a midnight feast; it is a childhood dream of a picnic, made somehow illicit
and more delightful by the hour. The moon smiles down over the Aspromonte. Marc pulls
down my dress and pours a little Taittinger Comtes de Champagne on my breasts, sucking
the champagne from my stiffening nipples, the cold, cold bubbles making me wince with
pleasure. I breathe deeply in the half-light. He kisses me again, and sucks and licks
the champagne away. There is cherry juice on my white skin. Champagne in my hair,
champagne everywhere. Enough time has passed. The cutlery is scattered. The cherries
are crushed. The rug is ruffled. Let the moon wash the plates.

I
N THE MORNING
I yawn and rise, smiling at the ceiling and turning over to cuddle up to Marc, but
he is gone. Gone? The dent in the pillow is faint, meaning he has been gone awhile.
Instead there is one of his elegant notes, written in fountain pen. Folded on the
bed next to me.

Gone to Plati for a meeting. Have some breakfast downstairs. I will see you at three.
La Serenissima awaits! R. x

Plati? Meeting?

I lean to the other side and check my watch: my God, it is twelve noon. Leaping from
the bed, I run to the bathroom and scald myself with water—it is too hot, especially
on my still-tender ass. Then I towel myself down, then go to the big, heavy, Bourbon-style
wardrobe and pull it open. Giuseppe, or someone, has carefully hung all of my clothes
here; I could very easily get used to this aristocratic lifestyle.

I choose a simple Prada summer dress, light marine blue, and laceless white tennis
shoes. I have a yearning for simplicity. Exactly how did I ever reach a stage when
a thousand-dollar Prada dress counted as “simplicity”?

Now I am a little agitated. Plati? Meeting? Meeting
who
?

I run to the door. Giuseppe is nowhere but I can hear voices downstairs. The voices
of people chatting and eating? It sounds like the voices of breakfast in a big hotel—and
I can smell fresh coffee, too. I run down the stairs and turn right—no, this is just
the rear courtyard. I am gazing at parked cars—some expensive, some utilitarian. Marc’s
Land Rover is here. So he must have gone off with someone else. Who? Giuseppe?

Heading back into the castle I step left, and right, following the scent of fresh
baking, and the chatter of people, encountering a big wide terrace with large tables
and parasols under the sun. And people taking a very late breakfast. The white-dressed
girls ferry coffee, juice, croissants, and confitures to the various guests.

This must have been the open terrace, staring out over the valley and the forests
and deserted Rhoguda, where Marc and I danced last night. It looks very different
by day. More daunting, somehow, with all these sophisticated people; these smiling,
rich faces, male and female, young and middle-aged and elegantly old, people I dimly
recognize, but from where? From last night? Perhaps, but maybe elsewhere. Celebrity
websites. Newspapers. Gossip magazines.

Abruptly, I feel awkward. There is no Marc to guide me through this daunting world
of European wealth and upper-class decadence. No Marc to escort me gallantly to my
table, his firm hand on the small of my back, gently pressing, guiding, and teaching
me without my even realizing.

I gaze around.

“Alexandra?”

A lifeline has been thrown. I crane to see, and I spot Françoise, at the most distant
table. She is waving me over.

I nod at one of the white-dressed girls. “Cappuccino,
per favore
.” And I step to the table with its white metal chairs where Françoise is just finishing
a croissant.

She smiles at me slyly and says, “Good morning.”

“Bonjour.”

Her smile widens.

“I bet you are good at tennis.
Quite
the forehand.”

“I am known for my dramatic service game.”

She laughs politely.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was . . . exhilarating,” I say. “So, I suppose, yes. I did.” I am looking at her,
directly, brazenly, as I reach into the basket and take a croissant, smoothing it
with apricot jam. Sweet, dark yellow jam; dark, bitter coffee with milky froth. Delicious.

Her eyes glitter. She is in jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Dressed further down
than me. But I can remember her undressed entirely: painted and naked, hoisted and
at my mercy. I can remember my arm raised, caning her beautiful white ass. It was
arousing. Why? I cannot be bisexual, can I? No, I really don’t think so. I want men
too much—I want Marc Roscarrick
far
too much. But it was exhilarating, and also
arousing,
in its own way.

“What about you?” I say, sipping more coffee. “What do you think about . . . all of
this? I mean the Mysteries, as a whole.”

“They are changing me,” she says simply. And she seems pensive as she gazes over the
old crumbling Bourbon balustrade. The somber forests of the Bitter Mountains lie beyond.
“Daniel told me the Mysteries would do this—change me. I didn’t really believe it,
but it is true. I am seduced. I love it all—I adore the Mysteries, I even like the
drama, the intrigue: Where are we going next? Who will be there? What will happen
to me? But”—she hesitates, and turns to me—“they are also . . . rather frightening.
Un peu dangereux
.”

A white-dressed girl waits patiently at the tableside; I ask her for more coffee.
Then I turn back to Françoise, and I ask her about Daniel. She tells me he is doing
business this morning; they will be leaving in the evening.
Doing business,
just like Marc.

She duly asks me about Marc, where we met, where he is. I tell her, happily. But then,
less happily, I remember the words she used in Capri.

I really need to clear this up. Marc’s disappearance this morning is niggling.

“Françoise, on Capri, you said something about Marc.”

A soft, warm breeze—rising from the deep valley below—ripples the canvas of the parasol
as she listens to my question. Her expression is honest and candid. But also a tiny
bit anxious.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Françoise?”

“Really, I don’t know anything more than that.”

“Yes you do.”

“But—”

“Tell me. Please. As a friend.”

“But—”

“Françoise!”

She looks at me, takes a deep sigh, and says, “Okay. There is gossip. The thing he
did. But I shouldn’t have said what I said. These are feeble rumors.”

“The thing he did? You mean the Camorra? That he is in the Camorra?”

She gazes at me, frowning deeply.

“No.”

“Then what? What? His dead wife? His money? What?”

A bird of prey is circling above us. The terrace is now largely deserted, the breakfast
tables strewn with tousled napkins, the chairs set back. We are almost alone. Where
is Marc? How dare he just leave me here? To go for a meeting in Plati? I surge with
sudden but righteous anger.

“Françoise, I want to know everything. Everything, anything,
everything
. Tell me. I’ve had enough of all the enigmatic bullshit.”

Françoise winces, but she also nods.

“All right. The very wildest rumor I heard is this.” She breathes in—and breathes
out. “I only learned this the other day—because I was talking to a friend, an Italian
girl from the Second Mystery, talking to her about you. And then I mentioned Roscarrick
and this girlfriend of mine, her name is Clea, well, I mean, she is, you know, connected
in Rome . . .”

“Françoise!”

“Okay, okay. They say Marc was involved with the ’Ndrangheta—as a very young man—here
in Calabria. . . .”

“What is it? What did he do?”

A pause. Finally she answers.

“He is said to have killed someone. Shot him in cold blood. In broad daylight. In
Plati.”

The eagle is still circling above us, mewing as it hunts. A forlorn but sinister noise.
I am stunned into silence.

Françoise reaches across the table and holds my hand with her two hands.

“X, please remember this. Marc Roscarrick is young and handsome, rich and clever—in
a very envious society. This isn’t America, where people celebrate success—this is
old Europe. Deepest, darkest old Europe. People often resent success, it breeds bitter
jealousy. So I suspect the rumors are merely that. Put your mind at rest.”