I return the smile, because already, his soft, deep, resonant voice has started delivering some calm. “Very funny,” I reply. “Please, by all means, continue.”
He does. He explains to me that 95% of our behavior is controlled by our subconscious rather than by our conscious mind, which yeah, kind of blows me away. He says the key for me is to allow my subconscious to come forth, and feed my conscious mind the information pertaining to the incident last October so that I can be free of it.
“I’ll never be free of it,” I snap.
“Yes Carson, you will,” he insists. “It’s already pushing through bits and pieces through your dreams. It’s like pulling a band-aid off slowly, and dealing with the pain in tiny increments rather than pulling it off quickly and allowing the pain to subside.”
I nod. “Okay,” I sigh, “Let’s do it.”
“Get comfortable,” he instructs, “Take off your boots.”
“Why?” I ask straightening up.
He chuckles good-naturedly, “Trust me, I’m not going to ask you to take off anything other than your boots. I want you to get comfortable on the sofa, put the pillows under your head and neck, and then I’m going to sit down here,” he says, as he walks over to the end of the sofa.
I pull off my boots, and lay back against the velvety pillows, scooting back to get comfortable. He takes a seat at the end of the sofa, and pulls my feet onto his lap.
“Your feet are a hub of pressure points. Did you know that?” he asks, as his fingers start a slow, methodical press and rub massage on one of my sock-covered feet.
“Umm, yeah, I’ve heard that,” I reply, enjoying the foot massage. “Should I close my eyes?” I ask.
“Whatever you want, but don’t fall asleep on me,” he replies, clicking a remote, which pipes soft instrumental music into the room. “You need to be deeply relaxed, but if you start to fall asleep, I can pinch you right here,” he says, pressing a place on my insole, which immediately causes me to jump a bit.
“I get it, I get it,” I reply, “Just keep up with the foot massage, Doc. Especially around the ball of my foot. I think it’s really working.”
He chuckles again. “Never knew a woman who didn’t enjoy a nice foot massage.”
“You still don’t,” I say, my eyes closing.
He puts me though some slow breathing techniques, and true to his word, I’m totally in a deep relaxed state.
“Tell me about the end of October of last year, Carson. Did you have special plans to celebrate Halloween?” he asks softly. “I checked the weather for that week last year. It was a late fall; the leaves hadn’t totally left the trees yet, and it was a week of crisp, cool sunny days, wasn’t it?”
I nod. “Yes, it was. I remember how the smell of fall was everywhere as I went to and from my classes that week. I skipped my last class on the 28th. I never did that, but I did that day because of the party.”
“Party?”
“Yeah, One of Shelby’s friends who wasn’t in college, was having a Halloween party at their house over in Washington Heights on a Thursday night. She said I should go, but to make sure I wore a costume because it could get a little raunchy.”
“And is that what you liked?” he asks.
I giggle. “No, but I know Shelby and the people she keeps company with, you see. So, I was hoping to get a few connections for the class I’d been accepted in for the following semester. A Research Journalism senior level class. I wanted to blow the Professor who’d approved my admission away with my project.”
“Tell me about your project, Carson.”
“It started out to be a research on underground sex clubs in the city. But after what I’d seen at Sanctuary, and then the night of the costume party, it turned out to be about something else.”
“Oh yeah?” Krew asks softly. “Can you tell me what that something else was?”
I feel my chest tighten just a bit, and when it does, Krew presses his thumb against the ball of my foot, and moves it in a circular motion over and over until I release a deep, cleansing breath and feel the weight lifted with my next words.
“Sex trafficking of underage girls and boys.”
13
Halloween Last Year
“It’s open!” I yell, “Come on in.”
Shelby pops her head into my dorm room, taking a look at my costume. “Oh My God,” she says, looking me up and down, “You may wish you selected something else,” she comments.
“Why?” I ask. “You said it’s a Halloween Costume party, the theme being a character from a classic book, so what’s wrong with this?”
“Alice in Wonderland?” she asks. “Umm . . . you look like you’re fifteen. Where’d you get the wig?”
“It came with the outfit,” I reply, “Well look at you? Who the hell are you supposed to be? Madonna?”
Shelby is dressed in black leather from the tip of her heeled hip boots to the short bustier dress that leaves little to the imagination. Complete with black leather elbow gloves.
“Noo,” she replies with a laugh, “I’m ‘O’ from the ‘Story of O’.”
“Oh,” I say cracking a smile. “Well, that’s certainly a classic alright. So, you didn’t tell me the theme was classic erotica literature.”
“Well, it isn’t specifically, but like I told you already, a lot of people from Sanctuary will be there. These parties are epic. Invitation only. It cost me two hundred bucks for the two of us. You can pay me later.”
“Oh, damn. I didn’t know it was a pay to play gig. But you know, I’m only going to watch – research purposes.”
She rolls her eyes, “You still gotta pay. Here’s your ticket,” she says, handing me a printed ticket with today’s date on it.
“Let me get your money,” I say, going over to my desk.
“Later,” she says, “Where the hell would I put it in this getup. Anyway we got to hurry. My car is parked in a Tow Away Zone.”
The party is nothing like I expected despite the fact I knew beforehand club members would be there. As soon as we enter the house, our tickets are taken by a bouncer type who’s dressed as the grim reaper. The smell of weed permeates through the rooms and it’s so damn pungent I’m pretty sure I’ll be enjoying a contact high.
All of the furniture has been moved against the walls in both the living room and large dining room. The house is huge, but nothing to speak of as far as furnishings go. It’s an old two-story, which needs some serious cleaning and repair. All the floors are wooden, and creak with age as the people inside mull about in clusters.
“I’m going to mingle just for a few,” Shelby says, “Be back in a few.” She takes off in the direction of what I can only guess is a den right off of the living room. I watch as she passes through the arched doorway, where the air is thick with smoke curling from pipes and bongs.
I shrug and make my way through the main room, and head over to a group of four people, standing in a cluster; all of them have their gazes locked on me. One man is dressed as a The Marquis de Sade, another as Peter Pan. Those characters are easy to identify, but the woman standing with them is wearing a flamboyant and feathery owl mask. It covers most of her upper face and head, but I can see wisps of flaming red hair along her neckline. Her tight ivory satin dress has a deep U-neckline, exposing both of her ample breasts. There are shiny silver clamps attached to each of her nipples. I look quickly back up to her face as her ruby red lips part in a mocking smile.
“I see we have a ‘Lost Girl’, here,” she says in a throaty whisper.
“Oh no, I’m not lost, I’m just . . . mingling,” I reply with a smile.
This brings laughter from all except the short, petite woman standing next to the Owl Woman. She’s wearing a black velvet mask that covers most of her face. There are slits for her eyes, nose and mouth, but nothing else. She appears to be dressed as some medieval Roman slave from the looks of the white belted tunic and loincloth. She has leather straps wrapped criss-cross from her wrists to her elbows
. I notice her upper arms show healed scars, as if she’s been whipped in the past. I shiver.
Owl Lady speaks up, “I’m Owletta and we didn’t mean to laugh, but we naturally assumed your costume was Alice from the 3-part novel, Lost Girls. Well you must know it, the characters from Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland and Wizard of Oz?”
I’m clueless. “No, can’t say that I do.”
“Oh well Alice, you must read it! It’s the erotic version of those classics and very well done I must say.”
“I can’t deny that,” the deep voice of Peter Pan growls as he gazes over at me beneath his eye mask. “Looks like we’re from the same book, babe. Maybe we can re-play some of the scenes,” he suggests.
I ignore his remark and turn to the petite girl and smile, “And who might you be?” I ask.
There is silence and I wonder if part of whatever character she’s dressed as, is supposed to remain silent.
Owletta speaks up on her behalf. “This is Nydia, the blind and deaf girl slave girl from Pompeii from the book ‘The Last Days of Pompeii.’ She belongs to Burba tonight, her sadistic master, who’s apparently gone to get refreshments.”
“Ah, I see,” I reply, feeling totally out of my element here. “Well, this gent here needs no introduction,” I continue, “Pleased to make your acquaintance Marquis,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Tout le plaisir est pour moi, Mademoiselle Alice. J’ai comme une impression que vous allez agréablement pimenter la fête, ce soir. J’ai hâte d’explorer vos talents si particuliers.”
Apparently the Marquis doesn’t know I speak fluent French. What he said is this: “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Alice. I have the impression that you are going to pleasantly spice up the party this evening. I look forward to exploring your particular talents.”
Quite the cad I see. So I reply to his unwelcome overture. “Mon intérêt consiste à regarder, monsieur gentil.” [My interest lies in watching, kind sir.”]
I get a frown for that and then he quickly turns his attention to the man who I can only presume is Burba, the master of Nydia by his dress and the way he pushes her to the side.
Thankfully Shelby is back and joins the conversation as if she knows who the people are behind the costumes. Perhaps she does.
“How’s it going?” she asks, clearly bombed.
“Lovely,” I reply.
She hands me a Rum and Coke, which I gratefully accept from her, taking a healthy swallow. Several minutes later, I feel it hit me. Something is different. My muscles feel like spaghetti, and my mind is fuzzy, but not in a bad way. It’s as if I’m watching things through somebody else’s eyes. The music and conversations are simply white sound and the room is transfixed like center stage as the lights dim, and a spotlight from overhead illuminates.
Marquis de Sade steps into the spotlight, and he beckons silently for the slave girl, but as if it’s a practiced play, and it very well might be, Burba steps into the circle of light. The two men stand chest to chest, sizing one another up as if they’re about to duel.
But suddenly raucous laughter breaks out between the two men. They give one another hearty slaps on the back, and turn to the people now gathered around the bright circular light. It’s become the main event for this party my muddled mind concludes.
“Who wishes to tend to my slave girl, Nydia?” Burba hollers out to the crowd. “Who desires to shackle her for their pleasure?” He looks out among the throng of people standing around, and then, as if this has all been practiced in advance, Owl Lady steps forward, pulling Nydia by the wrist into the circle of light. “I will!” she announces, “Allow me to have my pleasure with this slave and allow her to taste me, Burba!”
“Very well,” Burba bellows. “Shackle her but save the best for me, dear Owletta!”
I watch as Owletta tears the tunic and loincloth from Nydia, and pushes her down to the floor, so that the slave is on her hands and knees. She pulls out steel shackles, clamping her wrists together in front of her, and doing the same to her ankles.
Owletta then sheds her garb, exposing her naked bottom half. She squats in front of Nydia, her fingers separating the folds of her pussy as she shoves her pelvis closer to the slave girl’s mouth. Nydia, who is clearly not blind, rolls her tongue up and down Owletta’s folds, her teeth nipping at her clit. Groaning as if she’s in pleasure by eating Owlet’s pussy, Owletta orders her to fuck her with her tongue. Nydia complies. Guess she’s not deaf either.
My mind is foggy still, and I feel a hand touching my back, rubbing my shoulders. I turn quickly to see Peter Pan watching me, his tongue flickers across his bottom lip. “Shall we join in the fun, Alice? There’s room for more in the spotlight.”
My tongue is thick. But not so much I’m unable to hiss out an answer to his invitation. “I told you, I’m here to watch only. Why don’t you get lost?”
“Bitch,” he growls, “Apparently you’re immune to the happy powder I put in your drink.”
I quickly realize why the fog has invaded my mind; numbed my cognition. I turn and make my way to the front of the room, elbowing my way through the spectators, to get to the front door. I push it open, head over to the porch rail, open my mouth wide and shove my index finger inside, pressing my tongue down, allowing my gag reflex to awaken, and do what I need it to do.
I lean over the rail, and toss the contents of my stomach. I repeat the action until there is nothing left. Tears from the heaving run down my cheeks. I wipe them with the back of my hand, and breathe in the chilly October night air, to get my breathing regulated once again. My head is pounding from the exertion, but the effects of whatever it was Peter had put in my drink are slowly subsiding.
Several minutes later, I hear the door open and turn to see Shelby coming out onto the porch. “Are you alright?” she asks, “I’ve been looking for you. I saw you pushing your way out the door.”
I looked at her. “Did you know that prick put something in my drink?” I ask loudly.
“What? No, who are you talking about?”
“That Peter Pan prick,” I snap. “I told you I didn’t want to do anything but watch. But you leave me alone the minute we get here!” I’m angry and Shelby knows it, but she’s not about to give an inch.
“Wait, wait one fucking minute,” she snaps back, “You wanted to come, so I brought you, but I sure as hell am not here to babysit you or to be your personal bouncer, Carson. I’m here to have a good time. And,” she continues, “It’s time for me to make my appearance so you can Uber on out of here if you can’t handle this.”
She turns on her heel and re-enters the house.
What the hell?
I’m confused again - but not for the same reason as before. My curiosity trumps any fear or apprehension I have about not witnessing all of this in full. So I head back inside to see that others have joined the circle of light.
I squeeze through the onlookers so I can get a better look at the activities taking place. Burba is now wielding a leather flog, which he is putting to use on Nydia’s ass. She squeals in pain with each slap of the leather on her tender skin. Several of the lash marks are oozing drops of blood. But Burba continues as he watches Owletta, who is now on her hands and knees, getting fucked anally by The Marquis de Sade. His grunts of pleasure and her squeals of delight seem to propel Burba to continue the whipping of the slave Nadia.
And then I see newcomers to the limelight. It’s Shelby, excuse me, I mean “O” from The Story of O, and none other than Peter Pan. Shelby is wielding a leather crop, as she stands with her legs apart, Peter kneels in front of her, his shirt removed, as she lays the crop across his bare back. He flinches just a bit, as she continues using the crop, and then suddenly, he lets out a low, primal growl; his hands shoot out and grab her boots, pulling her legs out from under her. She lands with a thud on the floor, and the attention of Burba is now on ‘O’ and Peter.
He drops his flog, and brings Nydia to her feet, releasing her ankle shackles, he drags her over to wh
ere ‘O’ and Peter are now coupled up. She’s still in her leather skirt and boots, and he’s relieved her of her bustier and is sucking on one of her tits.
I admit, I’m transfixed with seeing this weird sexual show play out. Someone from across the room yells out, “Let’s see some fucking and sucking!”
Owletta is up for that challenge as she struts over to Peter, pushes ‘O’ aside, and unceremoniously squats down in front of him, her hand reaches out and takes his cock, fisting and jacking it. Burba now joins in, shoving ‘O’ onto her back, pushing the leather up to her belly, and ramming his hardened cock into her pussy in one hard thrust. She screams at his girth, but within moments, her pointed leather boots are digging into his buttocks with a vengeance as he continues to pump in and out of her without a condom. The Marquis has now moved over to the couple, straddling ‘O’s face, his dick shoved halfway down her throat as she gives him head.
Soon, it all becomes a frantic frenzy, of fucking, slapping, flogging and switching partners. It’s too much for me when in one haunting moment, I see Nydia, the slave girl, pass out after being put in a choke hold by the Marquis de Sade, and my first instinct is to pull out my cell and dial 9-1-1. But as I start to do just that, Nydia’s head rolls to the other side, and she vomits.
I’m in shock. The players continue as if nothing has happened. I walk closer to where Nydia is now sitting up, and removing the leather straps which were criss-crossed around her hands, wrists and forearms. That’s when I see it.
On the inside of her wrist, I see the heart tattoo with the initials “JW” in the middle. I recognize that from my visit to The Sanctuary. The hand from the glory hole.
She works at The Sanctuary.
Nobody seems to notice that Nydia is leaving the circle, which now some of the bystanders have joined for a mass orgy. I feel sick to my stomach, but I know I have nothing left to heave.
I watch as she limps out of the room, and I follow her to see if she’s okay. She removes her mask as she heads into the downstairs bathroom, but I can’t see her face as she closes the door behind her.
Wicked Love Page 5