by Jay Lawrence
There was a note on the dressing table.
* * * *
My darling April,
You excelled yourself last night and I am very proud of you. I will be performing this evening and therefore must rehearse today. You will order a cab to take you to the Alhambra Theater on Davenport Street for eight o' clock. Wear the jade green dress and your fur coat. No panties. Tell the doorman who you are (Miss April Shaw) and he will show you to a box. After the show, I plan to take you to a club. Oh, and you can write and post that letter of resignation to your employers. Tell them you got married.
With love,
Jack
* * * *
The phrase 'no panties' was underlined in red ink. Susan stared at the sheet of paper. She had forgotten about Clarke, Clarke, Fry and Watt and her dismal position as junior typist. She had also forgotten her wretched room in the boarding house on the Parade. Jack was making arrangements about that. Her rent would be paid in full and someone would call to pack and remove her meager possessions. It was all so simple. All she had to do was comply. It was as if the old Susan Holroyd had passed away. Perhaps she should place a funeral notice in the local paper. Susan smiled at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She was April Shaw, the glamorous blonde assistant of Mr. Jack Shepherd, hypnotist extraordinaire. Adventure and romance had come to whirl her away, at last.
* * * *
"Good evening, Miss Shaw."
The doorman at the Alhambra theater was teasingly deferential, winking once, then clicking his heels together and offering a jaunty salute. He resembled a character from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, all gold braid and artifice. Susan wasn't sure how to respond. Certain that Jack wanted her to present a sophisticated front, she sailed on through the grand entrance hall, keeping her chin up and her back straight, just as she had tried to balance a book on the top of her head when she was a little girl in search of an elusive thing named 'poise'. It wouldn't do to trip and make an exhibition of herself but neither could she watch her feet. She knew by the admiring glances she received from both men and women that she looked stunning in the full-length mink coat. It was not a garment one would wish to relinquish to the cloakroom, so she kept it on as she carefully climbed the stairs to her special theater box. She felt sexy – there was no other word for it – and had already begun to perfect a swaying kind of walk which could be viewed as both sensual and elegant.
Behind a heavy velvet curtain, the little box was empty and contained just one small gilded chair. On the seat of the chair lay a long cream envelope inscribed 'Miss Shaw'. Susan's heart began to beat hard and fast as she picked it up. What new game was the hypnotist playing with her? Without pausing to remove her coat, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper within. Carefully written in Jack's bold slanting hand it read merely:
Watch my lips.
Susan frowned. Slowly, she slid the heavy coat from her shoulders. She felt as if the entire audience was looking at her, all alone but highly conspicuous in her prime vantage point just above the stage. She remembered the first night she had watched the hypnotist perform and how she had somehow become ensnared by his powerful and charismatic presence. Hadn't she watched his lips then? She always fixed her gaze upon his mouth, for his eyes were too strong, too piercing to behold. Looking into them was like staring at the sun; she was bedazzled to the point of blindness. So, she followed the changing shape of his mouth like a lip-reader.
The young woman looked down at the jade green dress. It was pure silk and Chinese style, with a high collar and a long slim skirt slit to the thigh. A cheongsam, the shop assistant had called it. Again, Susan wore very high-heeled shoes. Her stockings were fastened to a garter belt as she had followed her instruction to wear no panties. She wished Jack had told her to leave her brassiere behind too. When she sat down, the fine silk clung to her bottom, coating her flesh as closely as the soft downy skin surrounds a juicy fruit. Susan imagined the silk clinging to her breasts and forming suggestive little peaks over her nipples. She crossed her legs and the tight skirt parted to reveal a lengthy expanse of thigh, almost to the young woman's stocking top. With a sudden hot rush, Susan realized that she desperately wanted Jack to fuck her again. It was as if she had been starved for many years and had suddenly found herself beside a groaning table of luscious delicacies. Almost horrified at herself, she realized that she could easily live for sex.
The small orchestra in the pit beneath the stage struck up a jolly introduction and the lights in the auditorium went down. Instinctively, Susan leaned forward, resting her manicured hands upon the gilded ledge of the box.
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen."
Watch my lips.
As soon as the hypnotist stepped out from behind the curtains, the young woman focused upon his face. He didn't move much during his act, she had noticed; that was one of the impressive things about Jack Shepherd. He seemed to affect those around him without changing much, if at all, himself. She imagined him as a sturdy rock in a swirling chaotic sea, with audience members dancing about him like hapless eddies, singing, behaving quite absurdly. He could make them do anything. He was a puppeteer with a vast selection of marionettes. There was something quite sadistic about it all.
Watch my lips.
Susan felt her nipples begin to tingle beneath the lacy brassiere and Chinese dress. She kept her gaze firmly fixed upon the hypnotist's mouth. He never turned to face away from her, not once, she noted. All of his gestures and movements were economical and contained, as if he hardly needed to try at all. It was perfectly natural for women to bow respectfully to his feet as if he were the Dalai Lama (hearty laughter from the crowd) or men to grunt like pigs or wag their rear ends in puppy tail fashion (shrieks of hilarity).
Watch my lips.
Susan began to slide into that strange otherworldly place of trance. The seat of the little gilded chair was quite firm and her bottom still ached from the pussy whipping of the night before. That was what Jack had called her private parts. She quite liked the term. Her pussy was very wet as she watched his lips. Pussy wanted attention. She desperately longed to touch Pussy, make Pussy purr with pleasure again. It seemed that the more she concentrated on the hypnotist's mouth, the more she needed to touch herself.
I mustn't! Not in a public place!
The young woman's fingers strayed to her stocking-clad thigh. She would just stroke the fine iridescent nylon with the palm of her hand. After all, she was only really visible from the chest up. Susan imagined a gentleman with opera glasses following her every move from the balcony above. To her surprise, the thought thrilled her, and she eased a couple of fingers over the stocking top and up the lacy garter belt to explore the moist haven between her legs. Pussy was tightly compressed by her crossed thighs, so she had to wiggle the fingers through, but she was soon rewarded by the feel of the soft moist curls on her Mound of Venus. To really play with herself, she realized that she would have to spread her legs, so she uncrossed them, reinserting her damp fingers and pushing them deep within the softly pulsing cleft. It hurt a little and she thought of Jack's body inside her. She closed her eyes, focusing on her memory of being taken on the tall four poster bed. He had stayed inside her just long enough to make her his, she knew. It was like a kind of brand. No one else could take her virginity, for he possessed it. She came, shuddering violently, with a clear image of being whipped imprinted on her mind. When she opened her eyes, the hypnotist had vanished and the stage was empty.
The heavy velvet curtain behind her stirred and Susan hastily withdrew her hand from her crotch, feeling like a child caught with her fingers stuck in a jar of sweets. It was Louise. The redhead smirked, as if she knew what Susan had been doing.
"Good evening, Miss Shaw. I believe we are off to slum it at a Soho club. Are you ready? Don't forget your lovely coat."
Susan stared at the buxom woman who stepped forward to fondle the mink coat's collar.
"This is the most Jack has ever spent
on a girl. Don't let him down."
A surge of anger rose in the young woman and her cheeks reddened. Why would she let the hypnotist down? Then she remembered that she had closed her eyes at the vital moment, the climax of the show, because she was having her own little erotic finale. Had Jack looked up at her and found she wasn't paying attention? Suddenly, Susan felt wretched. She let Louise assist her with her coat, then followed the older woman out of the theater like a lamb meekly trotting after a ewe. Such was her misery that she hardly noticed that they left the building via the shabby side entrance reserved for tradesmen. It was raining outside, the pavement glistening black and orange under the street lamps. A cab was waiting and they climbed into the back. Susan had an odd hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she were being kidnapped again. She didn't trust Louise. The two women sat in silence as the cab followed a tortuous route through the heart of the city. Susan thought that Louise must be jealous and the realization gave her both strength and concern. She looked at her own reflection in the cab window, a wide-eyed blonde with teardrops of rain trickling across her perfect face.
* * * *
In the Chinese restaurant, there was a large golden dragon similar to the one on Jack's silk robe. The hypnotist had arrived late, causing Susan's insides to contort with anguish, and he had spent most of the meal either ignoring her completely or speaking to her in a distant, rather condescending tone as if she were a stranger from a lower social strata than his own. Louise, sensing an opportunity to put the younger woman in her place, lavished attention on Jack, flirting and laughing like a teenage coquette. Susan watched her large bejeweled hands, very white against the scarlet table cloth, as they gestured expansively and smoked an endless succession of yellow Russian cigarettes. She felt like a child who must be seen but not heard. Suddenly, she realized that even her lack of panties could not maintain her sense of arousal. All she felt was wretched and somehow ashamed. Like a little bird, she picked at the chicken and rice on her plate, barely able to swallow a fraction of the meal. Finally, Jack addressed her, his dark brown eyes expressionless.
"As you know, I had been intending to take you on to a club tonight, April. A striptease club, actually. In fact, I had hoped you might perform, with a little encouragement. However, your lack of attention to detail and instructions cannot warrant such a treat. Louise is going to take you home and I will go to the club by myself."
Hot tears prickled Susan's eyes. She imagined the club, with a bevy of beautiful girls in various states of dress and undress. She had been given the opportunity to be a star of sorts, to be admired for her lovely lithe body and her glamorous new look. But she had lost her chance. Jack gazed at her levelly over his tiny china cup of tea. Very softly, he murmured: "I can't stand disobedience, April. You'll do well to remember that in future."
Louise stubbed out her final cigarette and drained the dregs of a Martini. Susan stared at her large round breasts, which were tightly encased in a black lace cocktail dress that was revealing enough to be interesting but not sufficiently risqué to draw adverse remarks. The older woman reached for her evening bag and Jack slipped her coat about her shoulders, leaning down to speak very quietly and intently in her ear as if issuing instructions. Louise listened and nodded, then she inclined her head towards Susan and smiled a most predatory smile.
"Dear me! All dressed up and nowhere to go. Come along, girlie. You're coming home with Aunt Louise."
Susan left the restaurant, one wrist gripped very tightly by the older woman. She longed to look back at Jack and sensed his eyes on her as they reached the top of the stairs that led down to the street. She had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she knew on some level that she was in danger. It was an instinct, hard to define. She walked slowly and carefully down the long, steep flight of stairs, mindful of her high-heeled shoes. Two men passed them, walking up, and both turned to stare, entranced by her shimmering blonde beauty. I am beautiful but worthless, thought Susan, not returning their gaze.
Outside, the street smelled of fried food and neon lights stained the damp road with a lurid palette of yellow and pink. Louise hailed a taxi and they climbed in, off to yet another address. Susan thought that she would have liked to have traveled on the Underground, clasping a leather strap in a swaying subterranean railway carriage. The other passengers could admire her gorgeous jade green dress, with its embroidered peony flowers and revealing split skirt. The dark winter night pressed against the rattling windows of the taxi as they moved off who-knew-where. Susan didn't care all that much. She imagined two City gentlemen in pinstripe suits and bowler hats undressing her as she swung from the strap in the Underground train, hands bound above her head. When they had her naked but for her stockings and stiletto shoes, they whipped her with their tightly-rolled editions of "The Times." Then a third businessman inserted the rubber tip of his long black umbrella into her bottom. In her daydream, Susan squealed and began to squirm her buttocks over the rubber shaft, which slipped inside her anus with a satisfyingly easy glide and felt divine.
"Here we are. It's the second house on the right, driver."
Susan peered through the rain-spattered window of the cab. It was very dark outside, as if the night was gathering a misty cloak about the stone shoulders of the tall grim house. She stepped out on the curb, certain that she had entered another, different kind of dream. The ground floor of the house appeared to be used as some kind of store or workshop, with a large display window whitewashed over to render it inaccessible to the curious eye. There were double doors and a small brass plaque on the wall stated:
M. Fouquet & Son
Mannequins
"Do try not to dawdle, dear. We don't want you to catch your death, do we now?"
Louise had taken a heavy-looking key from her bag. It reminded Susan of the key to her stepfather's coal cellar. The redhead slid the old key into the ornate iron lock and turned it with some effort. Deep inside, a potent animal instinct warned Susan to run, but she couldn't move, her eyes transfixed by what the opening door revealed.
"Shop dummies."
Louise glanced reproachfully at her young ward.
"Don't be gauche, April. They are dress mannequins of the finest quality. Step this way."
Together they entered the dimly lit showroom. Susan gazed in awe at the lovely life-like females which stood on pedestals like modernistic statues. All were fully dressed, in a selection of garments ranging from casual skirts and cardigans to elegant full-length evening gowns. Despite her initial unease, Susan walked around the room, admiring the marvelous figures and flawless features of the models. They all wore realistic wigs, seemingly of human hair, and each color was represented, black, brunette, auburn and blonde. There was a full-breasted, round-hipped blonde bearing a tag that read 'Jacqueline, size 14', and 'Yvette, size 10', a willowy raven-haired mannequin which reminded Susan of her pre-peroxide self. She bent down to flip up the hem of the model's pretty cream cocktail dress. An oval pink label on its thigh read 'Made in England', like some witty attempt at a faux birthmark.
"Is this part of your beauty business, Louise?"
The older woman did not reply but opened a second door which revealed a glimpse of a steep narrow staircase.
"Come upstairs, April. We have some important matters to discuss, you and I."
Susan replaced Yvette's skirt reverently and looked at Louise. There was no escape from whatever insidious punishment Jack had decided in his wisdom she must bear. She glanced down at the parquet floor of the showroom. Even in the dim light coming from the glass globe in the ceiling, she could see that the place was dusty. A real showroom would surely be kept swept clean. The young woman's heart began to thump in her chest as she approached the flight of stairs. It looked like a mountain of piano keys, rising in even steps of black and white, upwards to a small landing with a frosted glass window and a tiger-striped vase on a narrow ledge. Susan placed one foot upon the bottom step, ready to climb. As she did so, Louise grasped h
er from behind and pressed a soft cloth against her nose and mouth. Overpowered by the sweet, dizzying scent of chloroform, the young woman fell forwards onto the stairs.
* * * *
Up and down the City Road
In and out The Eagle
That's the way the money goes
Pop goes the weasel!
* * * *
When Susan came to, she was lying on a low couch, a chaise lounge, in a formal drawing room. Her beautiful green silk cheongsam had disappeared and she realized as she fumbled towards mental clarity, that she was naked but for her stockings and shoes. There was something restrictive about her throat and she raised her hands to touch what seemed to be a heavy leather dog collar. The collar was attached to a length of rope which snaked across the thick Chinese rug then vanished underneath another larger couch. The familiar nursery rhyme 'Pop Goes The Weasel' had played in Susan's pre-waking dream and she realized that the tune came from a musical box on a table nearby.
* * * *
Every night when I get home
The monkey's on the table
Take a stick and knock him down
Pop goes the weasel!
* * * *