What I Did for Love (14 page)

Rand pulled me up and out of the tub. I saw two large robes on the shelf beyond us, but he pulled my wet body against him. He was all heat and desire, his eyes briefly thoughtful.

“If it hurts, I don’t care,” he said in a rough voice. “You’ll have to put up with it.”

I was in an aftermath of such throbbing, my breathing still rapid, I was not hurting, silently grateful that the pinch I had felt at his thrust had disappeared into orgasm.

His naked body still flush up against mine, he wrapped a large towel around us, binding us together, moving his chest slightly to feel my breasts against him, moving us backward into
the sauna. The steam was pleasant, not with the distinctive fragrance of cedar, but like the bath, scented with roses. The sauna was made of pine or poplar, not that I cared.

He laid me face down on one of the benches, the towel under me, and quickly splashed cold water on my buttocks. Taking one of the small straps he had brought in, he held me lightly and used the strap on my buttocks, five short, sharp lashes.

“It hurts more when your skin is wet,” he said.

Yes it did.

His voice was as quietly sharp, an edge of anger in his tone, and maybe cruel enjoyment. “I’ll bet this is your first spanking.”

It was.

He turned me face up, pulling the towel away, placing one of my legs straight along the bench and moving the other leg so that it hung over the side, and raised my arms above my head. “Stay that way,” he said in a thick voice. Bending slightly, he traced his finger from my navel to my crotch, exploring me, then parting the lips. I saw he now had the small cat o’nine tails in his hand, and he flicked it against my openness, swift, stinging, brief. His erection was strong again, and he raised me, lifting me to a teak shelf, sitting me on it, my buttocks burning from the hardness of the wood after my spanking. He saw me wince, and smiled cruelly. I was even with the height of his penis, and wondered if he had had this shelf built just for this, as he parted my legs, and entered me again.

I was a bit sore now, and he felt the friction of it. He hesitated, perhaps wondering if I should be made to endure that pain too, but then he took a tube of lubricant and quickly worked it so that I was slippery. Pressing me back against the wall he held one hand over each of my breasts, squeezing them in rhythm with his thrusting, pinching my nipples, heady with his own lust, swinging in and out of me in long and lazy strokes. Suddenly his rhythm shifted to quick and hard, so that he came in a rush. A few moments’ lingering, a last caress of my breasts, and he
withdrew. Picking up the towel which had fallen to the floor, he wiped us both down, pulling me back to the tub for us to dip into the water, bathing away this new wetness. Next he put the spa robes on us, leading me back to where the beds were.

He laid me on the narrow cot. It was low, surrounded by pillows, and he knelt on them, bending over me, nibbling my breasts, sucking them, half whispering that my breasts would be very sore when he was done, working me with his clever hands, moving upward to kiss me with deep, penetrating French kisses, then running his tongue down my body to lick at me, circling my clitoris with his tongue and making me writhe with pleasure.

“Stay still,” he commanded.

Well, that was our bargain. I held onto the sides of the cot as he called me his whore, and muttered bitter words, all because I had said no to him, because I loved Bredon more than even this crazy-making lust for him. I did not care what he said and where he touched me or how. Yes, for Bredon’s sake, but also for my own lustful sake. A bargain made with a man whose first touch could start me toward a throbbing climax seemed an ironic gift.

He guided my hand to his erect penis, and I felt him swipe a line of lubricant into my palm. “Do what you did last time,” he said, pleasure making his voice a thick growl. I repeated the technique Robin and I had learned, hearing him groan, and then he came over me, unable to wait any longer. “Spread your legs, wide, wider…” He pressed his hands outward on my inner thighs, entering me, thrusting, squeezing my buttocks, rearranging me and thrusting again. He pulled us both down onto the pillows, pressing me into them as he lowered his chest against mine, enough weight on his arms to keep from crushing me, but pinning me tightly as he rocked his hips fast and faster and gave a shout as he came. I could feel the spurting and the sense of fullness in his last thrusts. He stayed there as he grew soft, only slowly pulling out of me. He closed the robe over me as he rolled away, the pillows under us so soft, I think he dozed
slightly and I felt myself drifting off in a cloud of pleasure and pain.

We woke to a small mantel clock striking two. Time was growing short. I don’t think either of us thought we would sleep at all. Rand went into the sitting room, and somewhere beyond must have been a kitchen or pantry. I heard cups, a kettle. He came in with tea, herbal, fragrant. He had spooned honey into my cup, and I wondered if he had used it too. Silence prevailed. I sipped gratefully. Elderberry. It tasted wonderful.

He had been watching me, and as I finished he took my cup, setting it aside with his own.

“Come,” he said, pulling me up, leading me now toward the bigger bed. We passed the strangely shaped piece beyond us that looked somewhat like a half-pear. It was cushioned all around, with little thongs and ribbons on the posts next to it. In answer to my silent, curious look, Rand said, “Next time,” in the voice of a parent or principal who is saying that one’s punishment is coming.

He laid me on the bed spread-eagle, spreading my thighs as wide apart as he could, and held a small vibrator against me, kissing me and then circling my breasts with his tongue.

“They look like gorgeous ice-cream cones,” he said, “and oh, those sweet cherries at the top.” My breasts were not the great size of women who have implants. They were an eighteen-year-old’s breasts, high and very firm, pointy like the Balthus pictures, and sensitive to his every touch, kiss, lick, and tiny bite. I struggled not to squirm or moan. My buttocks throbbed from the spanking and my clitoris throbbed from the cat’s blow and the vibrator, while his kisses drowned me with the pleasure his lips gave my mouth and my breasts, his tongue tracing the arc of my belly.

He used the lubricant on his penis, though I was very wet again. He swiped the lubricant between my buttocks, and took an object that he pressed into me. I gasped. It did not hurt, but it
was a new sensation. “It’s a butt plug,” he said, recognizing that it was new to me. The plug had long leather strips attached to it, “so it doesn’t get lost,” he said and grinned, with a hint of lewd harshness. He moved his hand, fingers entering my vagina, his thumb on my clitoris, working me. My legs wanted to close over his hand, my arms moving downward from the spread-eagle position.

“Ah, you’ll need some restraining.” He gave a low laugh as he stopped to wrap the headboard scarves around each wrist, quickly securing my ankles with the scarves on the footboard posts. I was a naked X on the bed, and he gazed with satisfaction at the picture I made.

He laid his body over mine, his hands curving behind my hips and then between my buttocks, his penis entering me very deliberately, penetrating me very deeply; more, it seemed, than before. He stopped for a minute and reached over to the table, placing a long, flat object over my clitoris, a vibrator of a kind I had never seen, whirring, while his rhythm was languid but steady, and his breath grew more ragged, as mine did. I closed my eyes, wishing I could moan the way he did.

He took his time, and I had had a burst of orgasmic pleasure before he finished. He felt the change in my body, and I opened my eyes to see him, through my clouded vision, smiling almost smugly at my pleasure, his face quickly growing fierce, his eyes tightly closed as he moved toward climax. I became conscious of the chiming, again, from the mantel clock. It was almost time for me to leave.

He quickly undid the scarves, and I felt the release of pressure as he pulled the butt plug out. I went into the bathroom, glad to pee and to wash the fluids from between my legs, though the area was sore from Rand’s rough sex. I stuffed the skirt and blouse into the tote bag and lifted the jeans out, pulling them on quickly, my crotch and buttocks smarting as they shaped themselves to my body. I fished out the cash, which I stuffed into my jeans
pocket for the ride home. Retrieving my sandals and stuffing the other clothes into the bag, I pulled on the t-shirt, hung my security purse inside it, and slipped the shawl over me. When I emerged into the sitting room, Rand was also wearing jeans, his robe maybe in a laundry basket somewhere in the house.

He pulled me onto a hard chair across from him, smiling with satisfaction as I winced again. The spanking had been short but very effective. “I like your velvety fur,” he grinned. “But I also want to see you without it.”

I looked at him warily.

“I want you to get a Brazilian wax,” he said, offhandedly. “No hair anywhere down there next time.” He reached over to a small notebook and took a card from its inner pocket. “Go to this salon.” The card simply said “Mme. Aldiva,” with a Park Avenue address and phone number in the lower left corner. In the lower right corner were the words, “On the Mezzanine.”

“She’s expecting you on Wednesday, ten o’clock. I’ve told her that I’m sending you.” Looking across the room at nothing in particular, in a tight voice, he said, “She’ll have some other things for you to do.” He ignored my questioning face. “Don’t try to pay her or tip her. It’s taken care of. I’ve told her you are Ms. Kaye. Leave as soon as you can after she’s finished. You’ll enter on Park, but you can leave on the side street.” Now his look was stern. “She won’t ask you any questions and she won’t be talkative.” I thought, no kidding, really?

I wondered how often he had done this before. Seeing my doubtful, studying look, he said, “My sister uses her.” He grinned. “Sometimes her husband too.”

I blinked at the information, though I knew men did these things. Seeing my face he said, “Not I. Not ever.” So that was my answer but I was to be “Ms. Kaye.” A funny play on words. “K” was the first letter of Balthus’ real last name.

The sun was not quite up as I slipped away from Rand’s house, phoning the car service as I went, walking a few blocks
northward toward the pickup point I had asked for. And I thought about hair and waxing as the car drove through the sparse early traffic.

Many of the girls and women I knew had been waxed in all sorts of places. Hair was removed from their eyebrows, upper lips, underarms, “bikini lines,” their legs, and for some whose body chemistry shifted to menopause, chin hairs that many found most mortifying of all.

Rand’s body had downy, soft hair on his chest and stomach, down along the V that started below his navel, like a thin fur coat, beautiful, a light reddish brown. The stories of girls and women at my schools always had one story of a man whose rising curls of thick hair covered his back, chest, legs, even knees. Some hairy men who also had full beards, looked like bears covered in their winter coats. In high school, girls had competed with their funny stories of undressing with a man to find unexpected hair boiling out of shirts and trousers. I had seen enough pictures in books and online, to know how many ways hair covers the human body, or is barely there, like the gorgeous golden chests of Polynesian men. My brother and I had been spared the heavy growths of legs and arms, having inherited our mother’s smooth-skinned body.

I also knew about waxing salons. Some women were extremely hairy, and thought themselves ugly for it, constantly fighting their own bodies with shaving, electrolysis, waxing, depilatories. Even where hair was supposed to be, on their heads, there was discontent. Whatever their hair type, my friends got their hair curled or straightened, bemoaning the fineness or the coarseness, friends of African descent in political issues with their hair as well, to straighten or not, and when and how. What I could easily understand was hair color and glamor. The tragedy of my parents deflected me from a lot of the typical adolescent preoccupation with appearance, and I had never been waxed nor part of a gym regimen, but I did return to using a salon, very expensive, very perfectionist, that produced eye-catching results
to please my vanity.

My ruminations over these things ended as we pulled to the curb several blocks from my apartment. I walked from there in the cool morning air, glad for the shawl but feeling the warmth of summer on the soft winds that came and went. Home, I pulled off my jeans to relieve the pressure on my crotch and buttocks, and got water to take the first of the Plan B pills. Away from Rand, rationality had returned. He had been so deep in me when he came, and I was so lost in orgasm, I didn’t care when I felt his warm fluids filling me. Now I cared very much, and made a note that I taped to my bathroom mirror, a “six PM” reminder to take the second pill.

Next I wanted to shower and to sleep for a while and put aloe vera lotions on my sore places. For the soreness between my legs, I would have to be content with Vaseline and cornstarch. I would check my messages later. The important thing was to rescue Bredon’s project. Sitting in my panties at my computer, a soft pillow under me, I entered the passwords that led me to Bredon’s account. The promised amount was there with the words, “transfer completed.” I sighed, wondering where I would ever find a lover like Rand after his vengeful bargain was done. I shook my head, ah, well.

The Times had arrived, and I heard Marilisa open my door just widely enough to place the paper on a small table next to the doorway, softly closing it again and leaving. I remained quiet. My bedroom could not be seen from the front room, and she must have thought I was sleeping. I got the paper and looked at the Sunday sections that came bundled with the Saturday edition. Usually I looked first at the Magazine and the Book Review, but now I pulled out the Arts sections, quickly scanning the pages, and there was the story, Rand a museum trustee, a first for someone so young. He was thirty. Now I knew. Twelve years was a substantial age difference, as though it would ever matter now.