by Olivia Myers
Alexander made Christine edgy, although everything about him was gentlemanly. Each time they met she always noted how dapper he looked, as if he’d been dressed for a photo shoot: plain white dress-shirt with a thin tie slicing his body in two halves, which his impeccable, Italian coat then drew back together. His hair was slightly longer than most men’s, and he wore it parted and generously covered with gel, so that its exterior shone like steel.
What made Christine nervous was his face. It was a perfectly handsome face, clean-shaven, even rather pleasant to look at, but there was something distinctively cruel about it. His lips were too thin and when they grinned they sliced Christine like a paper cut. In those lips she could read his arrogance, an awareness of his own power. It both thrilled and scared Christine to be too close to the man.
“Show me the bedroom,” said Alexander.
With her clipboard pressed tightly to her breasts, Christine led Alexander to an adjoining room. She made a “voila” gesture with her hand as she revealed an enormous, four poster bed. A curtain was bunched up at the top of the bed, waiting to be let down. It was the most ridiculous bed Christine had ever seen. A regal monstrosity, like something from the time of King Louis.
But Alexander had insisted on everything: the size, the four posts and especially the curtain. He did not like being exposed to the dark, he’d said to her. He was afraid of it. Christine had no idea how to take that statement.
This was the first time Alexander had seen his new bed. He screwed up his thin mouth, twisting it this way and that. Christine found it impossible to read the expression. Alexander kept his real emotions camouflaged so that Christine was constantly thrown into a state of confusion, not knowing if he liked something or detested it.
“It looks fine,” he said at last. Christine felt a great weight fall off her. “It looks fine,” Alexander repeated, his voice low, mocking, and icy, “but I am not going to be looking at my bed, am I?”
Christine didn’t know if he had really asked the question, or if he was simply talking to fill the cavernous room. She was rooted in place, afraid to speak, yet afraid of the idea that he might be waiting on her to break the silence.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide. Alexander’s voice cut through the silence again, as penetrating as an ice pick. “Close the door, please.”
His please made Christine shiver but she did as she’d been bidden. In her experience with Alexander, he had always been conspicuously polite. Polite, but direct. Alexander never requested: his default was demand.
“I do not like open spaces,” he said to her, still in French. “You understand?”
“I understand,” Christine answered in French, and felt the words pass from her like a ghost.
“Please,” Alexander said again. “Lie on this bed. Tell me if it is comfortable. Do this now.”
Christine obeyed. She didn’t have a choice. When Alexander spoke to her the way he was speaking now, there was something hypnotic about it. There was a power that made Christine’s body obey the words of this man, and not the words of her own will. Not the warning that flashed in the back of her mind, the warning that she had learned to ignore in the past few weeks.
She set the clipboard down gingerly on the bedside table and lay down on the bed. Her ample breasts rose and fell softly with the quick, heavy breaths she was taking. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself.
“Well?”
“I am comfortable,” Christine whispered. The sounds of drawers opening and closing infiltrated the naked silence. Christine tightened her eyes and winced with each new jarring sound. She knew what was coming. Ever since Stephen had moved out, she lived for this.
“You are not telling me the truth,” came Alexander’s voice. “You are not comfortable, Christine.”
Her name in Alexander’s voice filled Christine with a terrible, painful thrill. It was like a bad word, coming from him.
“You need my help to be comfortable,” he said. “You have too many worries, Christine.”
“I have too many worries,” Christine responded with a whimper. She knew what was expected of her. Alexander had been thorough in her teaching, the first time he had used her. That was what he said: used. For Alexander, there was no such thing as making love. There was only using.
“You need me,” said Alexander. The voice was frighteningly close. The sound stung Christine’s ear like a wasp. “Say it.”
“I need you, Alexander.”
No sooner had the words passed her lips than Christine felt a rough pressure turn her body over and force her legs apart. A man’s hand, a hand as big as Christine’s face, grabbed her ankle and expertly slipped a leather thong around it, then moved on to the second ankle. She knew better than to open her eyes for this part. Alexander never let her watch him work. She’d made the mistake once before. Never would she make it again.
Alexander moved on to her hands and fastened these to the posts above Christine’s head. The knots were tight and Christine whimpered as she felt the harsh rope dig into her flesh.
“You are too delicate.” Alexander’s voice was as close to her now as the vein in her neck. She felt the weight of the giant man on top of her, his chest pressed against the thin cloth of her white top. His enormous penis pressed against Christine’s thigh. He was completely naked, and she still fully clothed. But she was not allowed to open her eyes. This was forbidden. This was what Alexander demanded.
“How delicate are you, Christine?”
“I am nothing, Master,” Christine whispered, her voice seized with trembling.
“I am going to take off your blouse, Christine. And then I am going to take off your skirt. If you move one muscle—if I see even the twitch of your eyelid—I will stop immediately and you will never see me again.”
“Yes, Master.”
Christine froze the instant Alexander laid his hands on her. He bunched Christine’s thin white top in both hands and lifted it up her body until it was stretched above her head. She was not wearing a bra—Alexander had demanded that she never wear an undergarment in his apartment after their first meeting—and the cool air made her skin prickle. But she dared not move.
Alexander’s hands slid down her body until they were resting on her thighs. They unclipped the thin, leather belt of her skirt with expert speed and tossed the object aside. Then he seized her skirt and tugged it down past her thighs. Functioning on instinct, Christine wiggled the lower half of her body to make removing the garment easier.
“Don’t!” The fury of Alexander’s voice struck Christine like a bullet. A moment later and she felt Alexander’s hand as it collided with the cheek of her buttocks. The blow was as hot as lightning. Christine felt her eyes fill with tears as the fire roared through her, and she bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“You were to remain still,” Alexander said. “You have disobeyed me.”
“Master,” Christine choked. “Please, Master.”
“You will not be punished today.”
“Master,” Christine had to fight to suppress a sob. “Please, Master. Please, I will take anything from you.”
“You will have no punishment today.”
“Please, Master,” Christine’s voice whimpered. Tears flowed from her eyes. “I need something, Master.”
Alexander did not make a sound but Christine could feel him behind her, feel his presence. She could feel his strong, warm cock barely touching her thigh.
At last the voice behind her answered. “You are not going to be punished today. But your tears please me. So I am going to put my cock in your asshole. You are to say nothing. Do you understand?”
“Master—” Christine began, only for the punch of Alexander’s penis to cut her short as it entered her. The word she had formed transformed into a half-scream, and then into a gasp of pleasure as Alexander drove his throbbing cock deep inside her. His thighs rocked back and forth as he put himself further and further in, and the bed rocked as Christine rocked, completely at o
ne with the man who was at once both so terrifying and exhilarating.
Although he wasn’t trying, every rocking motion caused her clit to rub against the bedsheets. She was going to come, and she clenched her teeth so she could be silent. Her pleasure was something Alexander could never know.
Alexander put all of himself inside her, until it felt for Christine that she was no longer herself, but him as well. It was as if she were sharing this strength, pumping with him. And then she felt a sudden, hot explosion in a place inside her body no one had ever been before, until now. She felt Alexander’s power as he ejaculated, as if she herself was the one in his position. With his final stroke, she felt herself tense, felt her own explosion of pleasure. She exhaled raggedly, determined to come without his knowledge.
Christine was nearly out of breath from gasping. She felt her throat strangling to find sounds, but she knew that she was not to speak until Alexander was through.
He took his time after he came inside her, letting his penis linger until it had softened, and only then did he pull out. She remained tied to the bed while he dressed. Only when he had untied her was she allowed to open her eyes.
His cruel, smirking face greeted her. Christine recoiled instinctively from it as if from a monster’s face in a nightmare. She was still naked, and she struggled into her blouse and her skirt as he stood over her.
“The bedroom is fine,” he said, watching her reaction. “I will see you in two days to talk about the kitchen.” Without another word, he took his coat from where it was resting on an armchair and disappeared out the door.
Christine remained another hour, smoothing her clothes, making the bed. She felt Alexander’s seed inside her. It was the warmest part of the man, without a doubt, and although she’d never tell him, its presence was a comfort. Putting her face into her shirt in case he was somehow still watching her, she hid her smile.
***
In a café not far from the Rue de la Sainte-Ursule, Christine sat holding a thin, French cigarette. She took small, periodic puffs, but otherwise ignored the cigarette. Her attention was focused elsewhere. She was waiting for someone.
A little past noon, a tall woman with dark hair and impeccable high heels waved at Christine. She hurried to Christine’s table with little, mincing steps.
“My lovely!” she said, exchanging kisses on Christine’s cheeks. Adèle Demoraine was Christine’s coworker at La Nouvelle Monde, and the first person Christine had met when she first moved to Paris with Stephen. Adèle had been attending the university in Nanterre at the time, just outside Paris, where Stephen was a guest lecturer delivering a series on French poetry. Adèle liked Stephen’s lecture and had requested an interview with the man for a segment in the campus Arts magazine. It was during this interview that Christine first met Adèle.
What a difference those two years had made! Searching through her memories, Christine could recall Adèle as a shy university student, always in a hurry, a student who wore jeans and a loose coat, who didn’t know how to put on makeup because she’d been reading about Renaissance architecture while the rest of the girls her age were learning about mascara.
But Christine liked Adèle. Her spunky personality, her sharp wit, her intelligence—and the two girls stayed friends long after the interview. It was because of Christine that the two now worked together. Accounts at La Nouvelle Monde were often too big for one person to handle and Christine, when she began, had been asked if she’d like a partner. She hadn’t wasted any time in choosing Adèle.
Adèle had had no wealth to speak of and her prospects of making a big break in the art world, even with her intelligence, had been slim. And for Christine, it didn’t matter that Adèle hadn’t any technical interior experience. Christine knew that she would pick it up in a matter of weeks.
Adèle had picked up much more than technique. As she joined the coffee table, Christine searched for the university student she’d met a few years ago and found little trace. Adèle was now sporting the height of fashion. Her extraordinary legs were covered in black, shining leggings; her skirt was high-riding and chic, dark leather; her sweater was tight and revealed the thinness of her torso while remaining low cut enough to afford a good look at her enormous breasts. Her heels, which she rested on another chair, enfolded her tiny feet like gloves. Her face was pale but her eyes were dark, almost alarmingly so.
Darkness. The thought of the word brought an overwhelming tightness to Christine’s chest that threatened to overwhelm her. It was too much of a reminder of Alexander. Christine clutched the table for support and fought back tears.
“Oh God, Christine,” Adèle said in rapid French, her pretty face twisted with concern. “I am here less than a minute and already you are crying. What is wrong? Someone has poisoned your cigarette?”
Christine managed to smile despite the pain in her chest. Already with Adèle nearby, she had begun to feel better.
“Adèle,” she said. “I feel like whenever we meet I always end up unloading all of my problems on you.”
“So it’s him again,” said Adèle. She lit a cigarette and looked at Christine with sympathy. “Ahl-ex-ahn-der,” she said, palletizing the vowels.
“I can’t stop,” said Christine. “It’s bad, I know. I am terrified of the man. I am always shaking when I am near him. He’s dangerous. I think sometimes he really wants to harm me.”
“Who could want to harm you, Christine?” said Adèle. “You are loved and adored by everyone, even those who hate you. I hated you when I met you because I was envious. Now, I could kiss you.” Adèle moved the hand clutching the cigarette away, turned in her chair, and kissed Christine tenderly on the cheek.
“There,” she said. “I feel much better for having kissed you.”
“You’re not like most other people,” said Christine.
“No. I am better than most people. I am smarter. Thanks to you, I am sexier. And if you can win the affections of a person who’s better than everyone else, everyone else should be easy.”
“But I wasn’t talking about affection,” said Christine. “With Alexander there is no affection. It’s all power. I love his power. And I can’t stop loving it. I beg him whenever I see him to do worse and worse. I think I’ve surprised him, asking for it. Last time we met he even refused to hurt me. I think he is trying to put more and more control over me. I’m afraid of where it will lead. But I am excited to know. More than anything I am excited. That’s what scares me.”
Adèle watched Christine closely as she spoke. When Christine had elapsed into silence she let a moment of silence pass in which she stubbed out her cigarette. “I think it is you who is addicted to power. Not Alexander.”
“That can’t be true,” said Christine. “Alexander ties me up. Alexander makes the rules. I am his slave and I love it.”
“Dear Christine,” said Adèle, “Wonderful Christine, whom I love more than anyone else in the world. It breaks my heart to say it, but you are in trouble. You say Alexander controls you, but no—you are controlling him. You are making him do as you want, even if you say it is what he wants. Is this not true? You enjoy it, I think, more than he does. It is your own power you love, not his.”
Christine shook her head vigorously, even as she saw the truth of what Adèle said.
“It is absolutely true,” Adèle pressed. “And if you continue like this I don’t think you will have an ounce of tenderness left in you. I think you started to lose this tenderness ever since Stephen cheated on you, and I think you are still losing it.”
“That’s not true,” said Christine, almost in tears. “I could never stop loving you, Adèle. And it kills me to say it, but there are parts of Stephen I love still.”
“That will continue on for a little while,” said Adèle. “And then you will pour all of yourself into Alexander and become colder than him because you will have more power than him. You will forget about love. You will love power and that is all. But I can see you don’t believe me.”
“
No.”
“Then we will make an experiment. When will Alexander tie you up again?”
Christine blushed at Adèle’s frankness. “In a few hours.”
“Good,” said Adèle. “Now, for our experiment. I want you to be tender to dear Alexander. Call him my darling. Call him dear. Offer to take his little pecker in your mouth. Say that nothing will give you greater pleasure than to please your sweetheart. You say that he tells you he will not hurt you if you don’t obey him? I don’t think this is true at all. I think he is afraid of you. If you keep him afraid of you, I think he will do whatever you want. And then, my lovely Christine, you will see what you are becoming.”
“I don’t know, Adèle,” said Christine, frowning, but the other woman had already stood up from the table.
“I have a client to meet, and I must go. You must do this for me, Christine,” she said. “It destroys me to think of my beloved Christine, turned all to stone. It destroys me to think that you will be abandoning those who love you truly.” Adèle’s voice became soft, tinged with a deep and profound pity. “Those who would spend their whole lives loving you.”
***
Hours later, in Alexander’s dimly lit reading room, Christine dwelled on Adèle’s words. She knew what Adèle meant by them. Long before Stephen had cheated on Christine, Adèle had warned her that if she continued to treat him in her callous way, she was in danger of losing him.
The words had proven prophetic, as things turned out. Christine cared deeply for Stephen but the longer she was with him the more she enjoyed her status as the partner of a literary genius, as his inspiration, his muse. She had taken him for granted, used him and his status as a footstool to prop herself up with. By the time they were engaged, the relationship was hollow and coarse.
When Stephen returned from his two months abroad as a guest lecturer, Christine had nearly forgotten about the man she was engaged to. He existed now as an entity, as a fancy name, but his position as the love of her life was buried deep. It was no wonder the relationship had broken apart so quickly! Stephen had not even tried to defend himself when she’d found the condom in his pocket. She remembered his weary reply to her accusation: