by Gary Kemble
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Now, as a reward, you may kiss the tip of my boot.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
Harry leant forwards, already anticipating the taste of the leather. But at the last moment she moved her foot away, down onto the base of the throne. He leant over, trying to kiss her boot, and she moved it again. Onto the floor. She was half standing now, laughing as he desperately tried to kiss her boot. He leant over further, and the laughter died.
‘Get up!’ she said, almost a scream. He cowered away from her then climbed to his feet. ‘Turn around.’
He complied. She sucked in breath.
‘Come here,’ she said. She grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to the centre of the room. There was none of the languid movements of the first time. She hurried, almost as though afraid, pulling his hands together and snapping the cuffs around his wrists. He winced as the steel bit into his flesh, but didn’t try to fight her. She clipped the rope onto the cuffs and strung him up onto the balls of his feet. He remembered last time, how stiff he’d been. But this time he was flaccid.
Her gloved hand caressed his shoulders. Burning pain exploded across his back as she pressed a finger into one of his cuts. She let out a deep breath.
‘What’s this?’ She thrust the finger in his face and the awful stench assailed his nostrils.
Anger flared. ‘You should know. You cut me.’
She grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back so hard and fast his neck cracked. ‘DO. NOT. SPEAK. TO. ME. LIKE. THAT!’
Something pressed against his throat, and blood trickled down his body. He closed his eyes, then flexed his hands, thinking of the swallows. Thinking of the swallows led to thoughts of Bec. Harry focused on Bec’s eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled the pain and fear.
She won’t kill me.
‘You won’t kill me,’ Harry rasped.
There was a noticeable pause, like the world was holding its breath. But maybe that was just Mistress Hel. The scalpel dropped from his neck.
‘What did you say to me?’ She grabbed his chin.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth to stop himself speaking. Failed.
‘You won’t kill me.’
Mistress Hel let his chin go. ‘Maybe so, but there are worse things.’
She walked to her bench and returned with a flogger. Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
Harry cried out.
‘It’s to do with this, isn’t it?’ she spat, pinching the skin at the nape of his neck. ‘What is it. What is this thing?’
‘I don’t know.’
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
‘I told you. I got drunk.’
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
Harry hissed through gritted teeth. His back and arse tingled. She brushed against his burning skin. Her breath ticked his ear. In spite of himself, he grew hard.
‘Harry. I’ve seen a lot of tattoos in my time.’ She traced a finger down his back, between his legs. She grabbed him and pulled.
‘Argh!’
‘I know a bit about dark magic. Enough to know that isn’t some random design. What. Is. It?’ she asked, punctuating each word with a yank on his balls. ‘Do you think your girlfriend would like a eunuch to play with? WHAT. IS. IT?’
Harry panted. Sweat dripped off his face. He didn’t hear his phone ringing until she let go of him to get it.
‘No!’
She returned with the phone in one hand. The other still clutched the scalpel. She held the phone up in front of his eyes.
‘Who is Sandy?’
It took every ounce of willpower for Harry to choke back a reply.
Mistress Hel stared at him, eyes hard. ‘You will break. They always break.’
She put the phone down on her throne and picked up a piece of chalk. She drew a circle around him. When the circle was complete, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change. It was harder to draw breath. He felt cocooned by a warm, pulsing glow. His cock grew harder, throbbing. But there was something else; a bass note of pain in his back.
Mistress Hel muttered under her breath. Harry couldn’t make out the words but he could hear her perfectly. Every syllable was in his head. The desire grew.
‘Please . . .’ he said.
She looked up at him, smiling. Then she continued around the circle, marking the symbols at regular intervals. With each sigil, the air thickened further and the feelings of desire multiplied. The pain in his back grew. It felt as though spindly fingers had slithered into each of his wounds and were trying to drag him away.
‘Who is Sandy?’
No-one. A friend. A contact for a story I’m working on.
‘No . . . one . . . important.’
‘Hmm . . .’ She cut him. But unlike his first visit, the pleasure was doubled up with a lightning bolt to the brain.
It would be okay, he told himself. He could tell her. What could she do? Sandy lived all the way up the Sunshine Coast. Harry could warn her before anything bad happened. Harry could drive up there himself. Get himself away from Mistress Hel. And sort himself out. It would be okay.
‘Harry. If she’s not important, why do you have her saved as a contact?’
‘She’s a psychic. A spirit guide.’
Fuck! Harry couldn’t believe that he’d spoken the words until he saw the smile on her face.
‘Interesting.’
Mistress Hel disappeared from Harry’s sight. He was salivating, waiting for it. Anticipating it.
Cut. Harry cried out. His mind split in two. One half revelling in an oily mess of pleasure. The other half watching in revulsion as he capitulated.
‘So she’s the one. Sniffing around in my business. It’s not right, is it, Harry?’
‘N-no, Mistress.’
‘No, and you’re going to help me, aren’t you, Harry?’
Harry groaned. Tried to clench his mouth shut. His resistance crumbled. Walls fell and dark oily smoke engulfed him, shrouding his body. It was terrifying and it felt fantastic. Harry was no longer thinking about how to resist, he was thinking about how to give Mistress Hel what she wanted.
‘Y-yes, Mistress.’
‘Okay, good. Here’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow, you’re going to pay Sandy a visit.’
‘Okay . . .’
The scalpel trailed across Harry’s back, not hard enough to cut.
‘You’re going to close your fists with their pretty tattoos, and you are going to beat her . . .’
‘No!’
‘Yes. You’re going to beat her. Every time you hit her, you will feel the most incredible sensation you’ve ever felt.’
‘No!’
Mistress Hel grabbed Harry’s hair and pulled his head back. ‘Yes. And when she’s on the floor, you’re going to choke her, and you’re going to come back to me and tell me the job is done, and I’m going to reward you.’
‘NO!’
Mistress Hel walked in front of him again. She laid a hand against his cheek. ‘It’s okay. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Harry,’ she whispered. Her hand trailed down his body. His chest, his abs. She grabbed him, her hand sliding up and down. Harry whimpered. The pleasure surged through his whole body, through the cuts in his back, through every nerve cell. Through every memory. Up and down, up and down.
Cut. Stockings, panties, silk, lust. Dust, blood, pain, guilt.
‘Please . . .’ Harry said. He swallowed. His mouth was dry.
‘Well, if you won’t do it, I’ll have to find someone else. Where does she live, Harry?’
Fight it, Harry. Fight her! He was too exhausted to look up, but he closed his eyes and pictured the swallows. He concentrated on the details, the shading that had caused him so much pain. He thought of the tattooist, with her purple t-shirt and ratty jeans.
‘I . . . I . . .’
Cut. Harry felt the orgasm rising in him. He started crying. ‘Please . . . please don’t m
ake me . . .’
‘Where does she live, Harry?’
Up and down, up and down. The pleasure, so intense now it was pain.
She leant her head against his shoulder. ‘There was this one guy,’ she said. ‘I left him with four cuts instead of five. You know where he is now?’
Harry shook his head. His body quivered.
‘Wolston Park. The psychiatric hospital. As far as I know, he’s still humping anything he can get his cock near, still can’t get himself off. I literally drove him insane with desire. No more fucking around. Where does this bitch live?’
Harry closed his eyes again. Flexed his hands. Felt the pain there, a million miles away. Saw the triangle. A symbol of strength. I won’t tell her. I’d rather die. He opened his eyes.
‘I forget,’ he said.
Mistress Hel stared at him. She knew he was lying. But there was no rage this time. No threats. Just an inscrutable expression on her face.
‘My, my. You’re the stubborn one, aren’t you? No matter. I’m sure I can find her from what you’ve told me.’
‘No!’
‘Hold still now.’
Cut.
‘Argh!’
Harry blacked out. When he opened his eyes he was hanging by the wrists, staring at the mess he’d made. Mistress Hel was on her throne, legs crossed, gazing at him. Thoughtful. She rose and walked to him, grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. She stared into his eyes.
‘Hmm. We still have some work to do, I fear,’ she said. ‘But that will have to suffice for today.’
‘Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.’
‘Harry. Look into my eyes.’
Harry looked. She gently rocked his head from side to side. Her pupils had dilated, to the point where the irises had swallowed all but a thin sliver of green. Harry had the feeling there was something moving back there, in the darkness. Mistress Hel’s lips were puffy and red, engorged with blood.
‘Harry, when you have your shower, you won’t just wash away the blood and the come, you’ll wash away the memories, okay? Everything that happened at our session. All you’ll remember is the pleasure. All you’ll hold onto is the realisation that I am the only one who can bring you that pleasure. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
She went to the wall and released the rope. Harry fell to the ground, legs tingling. The pins and needles were so bad he crawled to the shower. Sandy. I have to warn her. He saw his phone as he passed it, but knew Mistress Hel wouldn’t let him use it. I have to get out of here and warn her.
He stepped into the shower. The water felt fantastic, the temperature perfect, the jets pounding his aching muscles, and suddenly warning Sandy didn’t seem so important. The bathroom steamed up. Harry closed his eyes and let the water run down his body. That was amazing. He didn’t understand how she did it. It wasn’t fair that he’d missed out on this for so long. Harry turned off the taps and enjoyed the sensation of the slightly cooler air caressing his wet body. He got out and towelled himself off.
Harry cleared the mist off the mirror and assessed himself. He looked tired.
‘I’m holding on to too much,’ he said. ‘I need to let go.’
CHAPTER 32
Harry jerked awake, terrified without knowing why. Momentarily mistook the dressing gown hanging off the bedroom door for an intruder in his panic.
Wincing, he sat up. His back pulsated in time with the pounding in his head. Sweat cooled on his body. Through the gap in the curtains he saw a slice of suburbia lit by streetlamp. Wind whistled through the eaves. He shifted his legs under the covers and the room spun. Nausea washed over him.
He climbed out of bed. He hated the sensation of the cold floorboards against his feet, but he couldn’t be bothered scrounging around for his slippers. He pulled on his dressing gown and shuffled down the hallway to the kitchen. He pawed for the light switch, then almost cried out when the fluorescent tube on. He stood there, hands over his face, until his eyes adjusted.
Medicine box. Panadeine. Water. He stood by the kitchen window for a few minutes, cool air on his face. He finished his water. He sniffed and grimaced. It smelt like something had died outside. Then he realised it was him.
‘Urgh.’
He carried himself to the shower, wondering what was wrong with him. He’d showered just a few hours ago, after his magnificent session with Mistress Hel. He removed his pyjamas and turned on the taps. Maybe he’d caught a bug. He hadn’t really been looking after himself lately.
As the air steamed up, he saw the black stains on the back of his pyjama top. Blood? He picked it up and sniffed it.
‘Urgh!’
Harry dropped it, horrified. It stank like rotten seafood. He turned, looking at his back in the mirror as it started to fog up. Five angry cuts. They’d been healing up, but now it looked as though they were fresh. And there was bruising around them.
Something clawed at him, some memory. He pushed it away and got into the shower, letting the hot water wash away all the confusion. The flogger. Had she used the flogger? He tried to think. Water ran down his face. He couldn’t remember. Whatever she’d done, it was sensational. Just thinking about it now was getting him hard again.
He stepped out of the shower and dried off. He felt good now. Sleepy. Maybe it was just the nightmare that had made him feel a bit off-colour.
Harry went back to his bedroom and pulled on some fresh pyjamas. Saw his phone sitting by the bed. Again, a flash of memory tried to grab him. He picked up the phone. A stab of pain hit him in the back of the head. He winced. Closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them again. Clicked the button, checked recent notifications. Nothing. Shook his head.
‘I’m suffering for no reason,’ he said.
He got into bed, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
* * *
Harry lay in bed, unwilling to move. Despite the bad sleep and the headache, he felt curiously refreshed. The midnight shower had helped. He listened to the wind. Through the gap in the curtains he could see big white clouds skating across a deep blue sky. Harry didn’t feel like doing anything.
He reached for his phone, intending to download a movie. Something brainless. There was a message on his lock screen. His mood darkened.
Yo Harry. What’s happening? Grapevine says you didn’t sort things out with Bec.
Harry took a deep breath. Fucking Dave. Of course, Dave would assume Harry would want to sort things out with Bec. Because Dave assumed that everyone was like him, everyone wanted to get a decent job and get married and have kids. Maybe Harry didn’t want that. Harry was starting to feel as though Bec was something that had to be removed from his life. His work too. He wanted to be with Mistress Hel. Just be with her and . . .
Harry sat up, slid his feet over the side of the bed. Put on his slippers. Him and Mistress Hel? He tried to imagine it. It didn’t make sense. Not in any way. But still, maybe it would all make sense if he could just get rid of all these distractions and devote himself to her.
He mulled the thought over, climbed out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. He saw his laptop open on the dining room table on the way past, but the thought of work just made him feel cold inside. Gloom and doom. Why did he put himself through it?
Harry stopped, looked around. Something about his phone. Something he was meant to do. His neck tattoo flared. He rubbed it. He should get rid of the tattoo, get it burnt off once and for all. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t done that already, after everything he went through. And where was the thanks for it?
He put the kettle on to boil, got out a cup and put a teabag in it. Stared out the window. It was sunny outside, but cold. He flexed his hands. He’d basically saved the country from electing a highly unstable sociopath. And what had happened? He’d got a bit of attention, and then the world went on about its business.
Harry slopped water into the cup, laced it with milk and sugar, and took it outside. It was nice, just sitting in the su
n, drinking tea, not worrying about anything. Not worrying about Bec, or his work, or (Sandy) his friends. It would be good to be able to leave all the decisions to someone else for a while. He thought again about Mistress Hel.
As the tea warmed his stomach, memories of his night with Mistress Hel warmed the rest of him. God, she was perfect. Perfect body, perfect face. She was smart, funny. And she gave him pleasure like no-one else ever had, ever could. And she wanted to be with him. That was the bizarre thing.
Harry found himself in a trance, thinking about her. The closest he could remember to this kind of feeling was when he first started going out with Bec. But even that didn’t compare. When he first started going out with Bec, there was a lot of fear, anxiety, worry that she wouldn’t like him. With this, he knew exactly what was going on and exactly what he had to do.
And for the moment that was just letting go and giving in to it. It was nice here, out of the wind. It was an apt metaphor for how his life would be, if he could just let go of everything else. A nice warm place, in the sun. He thought of Mistress Hel’s milky white skin, her green eyes. Stockings. Knee-high boots. Riding crop. He thought of her long black hair, imagined what it would be like if she ever gave him the privilege of being able to run his fingers through it.
The sun crept higher in the sky. Harry shuffled inside, back to the kitchen. He pulled some bread out of the freezer and ate it cold, then dragged himself to the couch and laid down. His phone rang. There was something annoying about that phone, so he left it, shoved his hands over his ears so he could barely hear it. He switched on the TV, and cranked the volume.
He spent the afternoon watching kids’ shows on TV, not really seeing them, just zoning out and thinking about Mistress Hel. Everything he watched seemed to relate to her. A few times his tattoo flared up. He wished he had some beer to drink, to dull the pain.
On a whim, he decided to walk to the pub. He got out of his pyjamas and pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt, then carried himself out the door, barely remembering to pull it closed behind him. He worried that he’d be too tired to walk, but once he was outside he felt good. To be away from his computer, to be away from his home. He realised at the end of the street that he’d left his phone behind, but he didn’t care. It felt good to leave it all behind.