Tantalized

by Nenia Campbell

  Sometimes, when the car is stalling, I think I feel a fleeting touch on my body. It lasts only a few seconds, but it is enough to drive me mad. I want to ask if he did it, if he touched me, but Delacroix seems annoyed when I speak, seeming to prefer that I endure the torment without question.

  I know when we are there because Delacroix pulls off my blindfold. I find myself staring at what looks like a squat, old abandoned warehouse through the dashboard. The sky is darker now, spangled with stars reflected darkly in pools of unidentified liquid that spatter the street. The rainbows in the water seem to indicate the presence of motor oil. I stare at the club again, dissatisfied. Corrugated metal with spots of bright orange rust. Dark windows, covered by posters and fliers for strippers and exotic dancers.

  “Is…are you sure that this is it?”

  “What do you think?”

  Well, I don't know. That's why I asked.

  “Are you frightened?” he wants to know.

  “No.”

  “Don't lie to me, Miss Abrahams. Never lie to me. I know you are frightened. Your body betrays you.”

  I fold my arms over my breasts. “I'm not frightened,” I snap at him. “Do your worst.”

  “Don't make promises you can't keep, Miss Abrahams. You will only disappoint the both of us.”

  He raps on the door and a metal plate slides with a screech to reveal a pair of eyes that look jaundiced in the orange glare of the streetlight nearby.

  “What's the password?” a low male voice says.

  “Caligula,” Alexander says unhesitatingly.

  The door opens.

  “Who's that?”

  “Caligula?” he says idly. “A Roman tyrant.”

  But I'm referring to the bouncer, a big, scary black man who is all tats and piercings. He's got to be at least 6'7” because he dwarfs Delacroix. But he bumps fists with Alexander and waves us through with a knowing smirk, which surprises me.

  “Do you come here often?” I ask Delacroix.

  Even though he's made it clear he prefers I don't talk, I'm curious, and I can't help feeling annoyed and jealous too. The way Delacroix acted, it was as if nobody had ever made a pass at him like that before. At least, that was what he had led me to believe.

  “I used to,” he says offhandedly.

  “Alone?”

  “No,” he says. “Not alone.”

  I figured as much but hearing it confirmed doesn't make me happy. Delacroix notices my frown and shakes his head. “Don't pout,” he says. “It makes your lips sag. You want to please me, don't you?”

  Yes, but I want to be the only one.

  So I say, “Not particularly, at the moment.”

  We step into the main room. There is a bar against the far corner where several people are sitting on stools upholstered in a strange fabric that glows beneath the UV light. They are sipping cocktails I can't identify, which says a lot. Could be the lights though, warping the color. Rendering it alien.

  “Relax a little,” Delacroix tells me.

  A lot of the bar patrons are wearing leather, and not much of it. One woman is wearing a bandeau top that scarcely covers her nipples. But apart from the attire, this place doesn't look too different from an ordinary bar. I am not impressed.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Yes,” I say, unhesitatingly.

  To the bartender, he says, “Give me a Leg Spreader and a Dirty Redheaded Slut.”

  “Are those real drinks?”

  Delacroix says, “It would appear so.”

  “Do I look like a Redheaded Slut?” I hold out one of my dark, brunette curls for his inspection. Someone in my family was Greek, so I have the pointed nose, the out-of-control hair, the green-based skin.

  Other people call it 'olive' but that only looks good if you have a tan. If you don't, you just look like you're seconds away from throwing up all the time.

  “Would you have preferred a Slippery Nipple?”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Alcohol is alcohol.”

  “That's not quite true,” he says, but I'm not about to argue semantics with him. I'm parched, aching for a drink. Aching for sensation, aching to be touched.

  I'm an empty cup that needs filling.

  I can only hope he's capable of doing the trick.

  I watch the bartender pour three different kinds of liquor into one glass, four in another. Delacroix hands the Dirty Redheaded Slut to me, which I might take as an insult except this whole scenario has become sightly surreal. I take a sip and the alcohol goes right to my head. I shudder a little.

  “So is this it?”

  “No. The fun happens in the basement.”

  “What kind of fun?” I ask, gulping down another fourth of my glass. The alcohol is really taking effect now. I'm starting to sweat. “Maybe we have different definitions of fun. Most people do.”

  “The kind of fun that lives on in infamy.”

  I admit that does sound like my idea of fun.

  I drain my glass and hand it to him. Delacroix shoves both of them aside, along with a tip, and slings his arm around my waist again as we head towards the elevators. It's awkward walking alongside him like this; he is so much taller, and my hip keeps smacking into his waist, but he doesn't seem to mind.

  The doors close behind us with a metallic chiming sound. Delacroix runs his hands beneath my shirt, fitting them into the grooves of my waist. They are a perfect fit, although slightly cold.

  “You might not like what you're about to see.”

  I'm about to tell him that I'm not upset by a little bit of hot wax and acupuncturists' needles, but then I remember that I'm not supposed to have looked up any of that stuff—but only barely. My tongue feels as loose as a flapping shutter in a rough wind.

  Uh oh, I think. I might be drunk.

  “It could upset you.” He kisses me, backing me against the elevator wall. He tastes savagely of alcohol. “It could upset you. It upsets a lot of people. But just remember, it is all voluntary and consensual. Nobody is here against their will, however much it may appear to the contrary.” His erection presses against my belly, straining against its confines.

  I like the feel of him jerking against me, and grind my hips against him, savoring his surprised reaction.

  Delacroix takes a step back and holds me at bay. “I want to fuck you, Miss Abrahams. Yes. I want to fuck you—hard and painfully, and so thoroughly as to make you feel as if you will never walk again—but I want to have your permission. Your unequivocal permission. I want there to be no doubt in your mind that you want everything, everything, I have to give.”

  “You have it,” I say, casually.

  “We'll see,” he says again.

  The elevator doors slide open.

  The first thing that hits me is the smell and how familiar it is. Sour, stale sweat and old leather. The smell of any school gymnasium catering to post-pubescent children. With one difference. Because the other smell is also familiar, but far less nostalgic; it is the fake butter smell I have come to associate with jizz, sour, salty, sweet, and illicit.

  I feel as if I have wandered into some kind of circus. Or maybe onto the set of a French erotic film. Lacy lingerie, leather corsets, period pieces, everyone has some kind of theme going on that makes them stand out from the rest, while still managing to blend in. Others are dressed like animals, to varying degrees, and a few are completely nude save for what their piercings and tattoos cover.

  I stare and don't feel the least bit guilty for staring because there is alcohol in my blood, and because these are people who are asking to be stared at. I've seen people having sex before, but never people who actually wanted to be seen. It's odd; this willingness to be in the public eye makes me feel even more like a voyeur. Maybe it's because these people are just as aware of me, and forming their own judgments as a result.

  Enigma emanates from unseen speakers but no one is dancing to the music. Few people seem to even be aware that there is music. Most of the groups are hudd
led in the center of the room, standing together but separate. One man is completely naked except for a tail that trails out of his buttocks to tickle the backs of his thighs. I stare at him incredulously, watching him twitch his ass to make the horsehair sway.

  “Why is that man dressed up like a horse?”

  Delacroix looks around to see who I'm talking about, but he doesn't register any surprise. “It's his scene. Some people get off on total power exchange.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “It's the term for when the dynamic between a dominant and submissive is skewed, to the point where one may be on par with a god, and the other, scarcely human.”

  I watch the young man prance around.

  “How does his tail stay on?”

  “It's inserted into the anus.”

  “Like a butt plug?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  To which Delacroix says, “Why not?”

  I can't think of a proper argument. It just seems strange to me, but so much does. I feel like a butterfly that's been forced to shed its cocoon prematurely. “What's with the people in the center of the room?”

  “Most of them are submissives.”

  “And the people just walking around? Are they the dominants?”

  When I posit this hypothesis Delacroix smiles but doesn't respond. His eyes are roving around, searching for something he doesn't appear to feel like sharing. The dominants—if that's indeed what they are—are wearing more clothes than the people in the center of the room. None of them are naked. Some of them are even fully dressed. Apart from that there is nothing to separate or distinguish the two groups from one another. Not attractiveness, not build, not even gender. I have to admit, that much surprises me.

  A stirring redirects my gaze. One man takes a woman in a black merry widow aside. She has to be in her late thirties, whereas the man barely looks old enough to order alcohol. He shoves her hard against the wall—which doesn't look very clean—keeping her pinned by the back of her neck. Then he cocks his arm back far enough to make me flinch, smacking her ass hard enough to cause the flesh to jiggle.

  The skin immediately turns pink and flushed but the woman seems to enjoy it. She squirms and writhes against him, until he gets annoyed and says, “Spread your legs. Wider,” he snaps, when her attempt fails to appease him.

  “Y-yes, Master.”

  I roll my eyes as he says, “If you are dressed like a whore, you should—and will—act like one. I want to see your cunt open for me, so I can see how wet you are for me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” she says breathlessly.

  Delacroix catches me making a face and shakes me. “Show some respect for other people's fantasies. You are acting like a child.”

  Chastened, I lower my eyes to the ground. But I raise them again to watch the couple as the man unsnaps the front of his leather pants. I hold my breath as he takes his half-erect cock in hand, which is the biggest I've ever seen. He doesn't use it to fuck the woman, though. Instead he uses his penis to flagellate her broken skin, and the woman whimpers and says, “Please, Master. Please. I want you to fuck me.”

  “You must be punished for your transgressions,” he tells her. “You have been most ungrateful.” He unsnaps the front of her black merry widow so he can spank her breasts as well, watching with a sort of dark satisfaction as they bounce with each strike.

  That the man is young enough to be her son does not appear to bother either of them. The woman continues to moan, and the man takes the tip of her breast into his mouth while reaching around to slip his fingers between her legs.

  Delacroix watches them expressionlessly.

  “Do you find this erotic?” I ask him.

  “Not this particular scenario, no, but I can see the appeal of flagellation. The mottled flush at the point of impact is not dissimilar to a maiden's blush.”

  “He's spanking her tits.”

  “Not anymore. But yes, I see what you mean.” Delacroix smiles. “There's something Freudian about that. You seem like you would be a selfish lover, Miss Abrahams. So focused on yourself and what others think of you. Learn to let go.”

  “This is silly,” I hiss. “Stupid. How does that make me selfish?”

  “I brought you here because I thought you could handle it. Can you handle it? Or do you want me to take you home?”

  “No. I do not want to be taken home like some disobedient toddler.”

  “Then don't act like one.”

  We pass a woman getting her breasts bound by rope. The rope cables around her chest so tightly that her breasts have taken on a slightly purplish hue from the constricted blood pooling in her flesh. Her partner takes two lit candles and sets down one on each of her engorged breasts, which are sticking straight out.

  We watch the blood-red wax course down the sides to drip down her skin, painting her body like the poster of a horror movie. Hot wax can hurt the skin, Delacroix informs me. They make special candles for sex play, although some hardcore individuals prefer the sting and bite of ordinary ones.

  Another man nearby has clamps on his nipples. They have a long chain that connects between them and runs down to link to a metal ring around his cock. His partner bends him over the table and fucks his ass. When the man arches his back the clamps on his nipples tighten and pull on his dick. His moans are almost loud enough to drown out the Enigma that is still blasting from the speakers, on loop now.

  Yes, I can understand pain as release.

  We go into another room that feels a little warmer. The floors are tiled and smell like antiseptic. Lemony and chemical. There is a beautiful black woman sitting in a chair, stripped to the waist. A man wearing Latex gloves stands behind her, sponging her back clean. She closes her eyes, which have eyelashes as long as a giraffe's. At first I think he's giving her a sponge bath, or oiling her hair, which has the same slippery sheen as silk, but then the man with her takes a needle from the tray at his elbow and begins to insert them into her flesh one at a time.

  I watch her face carefully, wondering if it hurts, but apart from a few delicate winces she remains perfectly still. Her tolerance for pain is impressive. It takes years to develop such callused reserve.

  I would know.

  Once the man has finished his work he takes a long piece of colorful ribbon and begins working it through something I cannot see while speaking to her in a low voice that sounds almost like a rumble from where I'm standing.

  She glances our way and smiles, revealing teeth that are less white than I expected. I'm not sure why I fixate on that, but I do, and it makes me feel a little ill at ease. “Would you like to see?”

  “See what?”

  She tilts her head up and then to the side, describing the general area of her back. I hesitate, but politeness and curiosity win out, so I say, “Sure.”

  The woman does a pirouette, revealing her back. There are about twenty rings of silver metal sticking out of her spine, ten on each side facing parallel. The man has woven the ribbon through the rings, back and forth in a zigzagging pattern, pulling the skin taut so that it looks as if she has a Victorian corset laced right into her skin.

  It's chillingly aesthetic, and makes me think of Gothic stories about fairytales gone wrong.

  “It's beautiful,” is what I say aloud, and Delacroix smiles; I've passed at least one test tonight.

  On the other side of the room, another woman, also half-naked, is having needles inserted into her breasts. The needles are thin and tapered, like those of an acupuncturist, and have little rhinestones on the ends. The woman doing the inserting is using them to create a sun-like corona to frame her submissive's brassy gold nipple shields. It's interesting, but not as pretty as the corset piercing, and looks far more painful. But Delacroix seems very pleased, and tells the woman they look beautiful, touching and stroking her breasts as he speaks on the pretext of examining the other woman's handiwork.

  I'm annoyed by the way he lets his fingers li
nger. I'm pretty sure the woman is a lesbian, and basking in his compliments and nothing else, but the fact that Delacroix would touch another woman's naked breasts while with me makes me extremely angry.

  He compliments them both a final time before turning back to face me. His face bears a relaxed smile as he asks me, “What do you think of my getaway?”

  “It's certainly no Love Boat.”

  “I'd have thought that show was a little before your time,” he says.

  “Hello. Cable TV. Reruns.” I narrow my eyes. “What the fuck was that? Your hands were all over her. Or were you just giving her a free breast exam?”

  “Are you jealous, Miss Abrahams? You don't need to answer. I can see it on your face.” Delacroix pulls me towards him, not quite embracing. “It's not Love Boat. Is that all you have to say?”

  “It's not quite as bad as the pictures on the internet led me to believe,” I mutter, half-turning away, not about to let him off so easily. But then as I see the shadow pass across his features I quickly realize my mistake.

  “You looked it up online?”

  Fuck. “Well, yeah. Now that you mention it.”

  “I told you not to. You promised me.”

  “Did you really think I'd let you take me to some fucking fetish club without making sure you weren't into something really fucked up?” I ask him. “You've already shown how little you care for rules.”

  “And you, as well.” My words draw out a hint of a smile that softens his forbidding expression. “As opposed to something far more wholesome?” I'm about to smile back at him, but he closes his hand around the back of my neck the way the man who was spanking that woman in the first room did. “I take that as a sign of your tacit approval then.”

  “Not so tacit,” I point out, looking up at him. If he moves closer, we will be kissing, and I'm a little frightened by how badly I want his lips on mine in spite of (or perhaps because of) all I've seen. “I still want to fuck you, even if you're a freak.”

  “Good,” he purrs. “We will spend the evening together then. Not tonight, I don't think, but soon. Very soon. In the meantime, I'll have to think up an appropriate punishment for your defiance.”