Slave Wife

by Frances Gaines Bennett

  Karen’s mother wept convulsively for forty miles, all the way to Delia’s door. Delia hugged her and encouraged her to talk about it, but without success.

  Sadness and, she saw it so palpably, hopelessness overwhelmed Karen as the door closed behind Delia and her parents. She felt a slim hand on her shoulder. When she turned both Michael and Emeline were smiling at her. “Why?” she wondered.

  Emeline took her hand and led her toward the suite’s bedroom. “Cherie, it’s your wedding night.” Her voice was warm with sultry sensuality.

  She helped Karen remove her suit and then her undergarments. It had been many months since Karen had resisted nakedness in front of Emeline – or any of “her” staff.

  Emeline lifted the lid of a satiny cardboard box that lay on the bed’s coverlet and removed a long flesh-coloured garment unlike any Karen had ever seen. She spread a circlet of the odd fabric, helped Karen step through, then with tremendous effort pulled it to Karen’s waist. Emeline released the fabric and it constricted into a stranglehold, forcing out Karen’s breath in a loud snort and making her feel sick to her stomach.

  The door opened and Karen’s trainer, Steve, entered. Steve looked like a big brute, thick and muscular and ugly, like a boxer. He was actually, she’d learned, an EMT and had never shown any sign of intrinsic cruelty. In fact, Karen always found his adherence to Michael’s instructions remarkable in its meticulous neutrality.

  Emeline lifted the fabric and helped Karen slide her arms into the sleeves, pulling the skin-tight tubes up her arms like stockings. The fabric stretched, but only fractionally. It felt strange, synthetic yet silky. With her arms situated, the garment stretched across her ribcage to her sides, covering her chest but little more.

  “Lie down on the bed, Cherie.” Emeline eased Karen down onto her belly on the luxurious coverlet. The woman’s manicured fingers straightened the long fabric ends under Karen legs. Her long nails whispered like dry leaves down Karen’s skin.

  “Ready?” Karen wasn’t certain whether the question was for her or Steve. “Breathe in, Cherie.” Karen was accustomed to struggling to make herself as small as possible to fit into every article of clothing, so immediately did her best to comply. This time was different, though. She felt Steve’s ham hands grab the peculiar fabric at her back.

  Emeline never panted, not even during vigorous exercise. But now Karen heard both Emeline’s and Steve’s laborious breaths above her. Her body was pulled from side to side and constricted, like in a cylindrical vice. Over her own gasps, she heard Emeline’s uncharacteristically gruff voice, “Almost.” Then she could no longer breathe.

  They stood above her, resting. “Now the legs.” Steve’s hands were on her left hip and the tugging began again. The zipper’s motion down her leg was obvious this time … and again, down her right leg.

  Steve and Emeline stood. “Finis!” Relief flooded Emeline’s voice.

  The fabric tube held Karen in its implacable grasp, painfully, frighteningly crushing her internal organs. The blackness swimming into her vision was pierced by Emeline’s cultured, ubiquitous tones, “Breathe calmly, Cherie, and as deeply as you can.” Karen strove to settle her rushing breath and pounding heart, and the blackness receded.

  She again heard Emeline, her voice brimming with satisfaction, “Karen, come and look. You are so svelte, so elegante!” Emeline helped Karen up from the bed. The girl could barely bend her limbs in their pitiless fabric restraints. She moved, stiff legged and with an unusual cumbersome sensation between her thighs, to the long mirror.

  The garment was almost the identical colour to her skin, indeed looked like skin. It bound her from shoulders to ankles, leaving only her full teardrop shaped breasts bare. Karen goggled at her image. All the excess “baby fat” had vanished, leaving only slim curves. For a reason she didn’t entirely understand, tears welled into her eyes.

  Then she noticed excess fabric bunching in her crotch behind what was clearly a hole in the fabric over her vagina. Karen noticed Emeline’s glance follow her own. She thought she saw pity flash on the French woman’s face before the usual felicity reasserted itself. Fear coursed through Karen. What was the fabric? She was too terrified to ask.

  Emeline was again ebullient. “Look what I have for you, Cherie.” She pulled a piece of fragile white silk jersey from the box and held it up in both hands. It was a negligee but shaped almost identically to the perpetually waiting wedding gown. Emeline slipped the silk over Karen’s head. Karen heard its gentle rustle but felt nothing through her restrictive garment. Again she goggled. The ethereal garment clung voluptuously to her newly pared curves then fell to a circular pool at her feet.

  While Karen stared at herself, Emeline turned back the bed. “Come, Cherie. Time to await your husband.” She plumped a thick pile of pillows and helped Karen rest against them, the covers arranged decoratively at her hips.

  Breathing was intensely difficult. A fresh burst of nerves made Karen’s heart once again race and blackness return. Emeline smiled kindly down at her. “Relax, Cherie. It will be wonderful.” Her dulcet voice washed over Karen as she slipped through the glass doors.

  A moment later, Michael stood beside her, still dressed in his dark suit. His smile held something she hadn’t seen before and it sent her blood surging into her head – and lower – as she looked up at him. He leaned down to her and his full lips pressed hers. “Let me look at you.” His mien was warm and, she discerned despite her naiveté, intensely masculine as he lowered the covers. He looked into her face. “See how beautiful you can be! It is only because I love you that I want this for you – I want your perfection to come alive.”

  Her fears and distress dissolved and she was consumed by gratitude toward him … and love?

  He moved toward the armoire and undressed, carefully hanging jacket and pants and folding undergarments while continuing to examine her, adoration filling his countenance. From under lowered lashes she watched him. She’d never seen a man’s body entirely naked before, and especially not one so beautiful. Her eyes went to the broad muscles of his chest, the hard angles of his pelvis and then, slowly, shyly to the protuberance rising at his centre.

  She heard her pulse throbbing in her ears as he moved to her side. At first he sat, simply looking into her face and down the length of her body. He took her hands in his and kissed the fingers and each palm, then her lips. Hitherto unknown sensation surged deep inside her and, with ripples of worry joining these others, she felt moisture well in her vagina.

  What was happening inside her? Could she stop the wetness from soiling her garments and the bed? A chill passed through her, quelling the other sensations, as she imagined how angry Michael would be. She tried to focus, to find some way to fix things. But before she had a chance to think, he was on top of her. She felt his hardness pressing into her belly.

  Instead of proceeding, though, he lifted himself off of her. His face was stern and her omnipresent fear sluiced upwards. “First, we must consummate our marriage.”

  She saw his right hand reach lower then felt her negligee lift over her hips. She gasped as his fingers touched the hole over her vagina. But they withdrew. She was aware they wrapped around his hard penis … and then his penis’ fat end pushed inside her.

  A small sound escaped her lips but he continued his progress inside her. The stretching hurt but she also found it curiously stimulating. She moaned and he paused momentarily and peered into her face. With one quick thrust he was inside so deep his pelvis pressed against hers.

  Something had torn inside her. She almost fainted with anxiety – and something else, something pleasurable? – but as she’d learned so onerously, she restrained any outburst. Only one small scream escaped her blanched lips while a hodgepodge of uncertainties raced through her tremulous mind. Had he injured her? Was it possible to be injured by sex?

  But he didn’t continue. Again he lifted off her, sliding out his long penis from her astonishingly wet vagina. Again the sensations threaten
ed to distract, to unbalance her – and she couldn’t be distracted. It was too dangerous.

  “That’s done,” he said, apparently satisfied, as he withdrew completely and peered down at the blood trickling in a thin stream over the garment’s edge. He removed several tissues from a box on the bedside table and blotted up the trace of red.

  His stern visage hung over her. She quailed at his next words, “I’m afraid, my dear, that I can’t do more than what is necessary until you reach your objective. Until that time I must use other means.”

  She looked up at him stupefied, with no idea whatsoever to his meaning. Again his hand went to his penis. This time though he sat back on his haunches and slid the shaft into the bunching of fabric behind her vagina, pointedly allowing her to look downward to observe his action. She watched the fabric form a stiff tube around him.

  He smiled and she saw only partially disguised cruelty. “It’s a prosthesis. Until you do not have to wear the garment to be slim it is the only hole I’ll use.” He shook his head sadly, “and, my dear, until that time I really cannot touch your body unless it is encased in the garment.”

  She was too flabbergasted to grasp her welling humiliation. Then, his body was on top of hers again. She lay like a sodden clay lump hearing his heavy breaths in her ear but feeling only rubbing against her pelvis and bumping against her thighs as he spent himself inside the prosthesis.

  Chapter Four

  The limousine crawled along the wild winding road through eerie floating grey fog curtains periodically pierced by rays of bright sunlight. It twisted and turned through rocky brown hills swamped with evergreen thickets, tall strange trees with ghostly streamers of grey-green leaves and hanging strips of mottled silver brown bark, all splashed irregularly with baby pink. From time to time, the thick green broke open to expose steep declinations painted by the sky’s blue, dropping past tiny houses and the elaborate buildings of the University of California Berkeley campus to the uneven pool of San Francisco Bay. The fiery sinking sun burst through the haze in occasional glimmers of light on the dark water and the Golden Gate Bridge’s orange tower tops.

  Houses hidden on the hills’ steep sides grew sparser and finally, when the car penetrated Charles Lee Tilden Park’s undomesticated periphery, entirely ceased their residence. The limo slowed and manoeuvred onto a narrow drive heading straight uphill. Karen stared out through the tinted windows, transfixed by a wall of green pines densely interwoven with the massive, many-flowered pink balls of aged hydrangeas wreathed in fog ribbons.

  After several minutes, the vehicle broke free of the vertical foliage onto a flat promontory scattered with large, astonishing rocks surrounded by a multiplicity of living green shapes, textures and shades sprinkled with the pink feathery projectiles of flowering cherries. Falling off the ridge into an artful wilderness were many levels of a pink stucco and glass house under a curved green Spanish tile roof.

  Michael patted Karen’s hand and her head snapped toward him. In the respite provided by the strange and beautiful landscape, she’d somehow forgotten him. “We’re home, my dear.”

  It was Steve, now dressed in a white uniform, who strode down the curving stone path, opened the limo door and helped her out. Michael sounded relaxed and content, “Steve, please take my wife to her room. She’s had a tiring trip and needs to rest.” Karen looked muddledly toward Michael as Steve led her away. She really had no idea what to expect and the lack of knowledge terrified her.

  Steve’s hold on her arm was firm, without any possibility of resistance, even when he opened one of the two heavy oak front doors. He guided her into an expansive space fronted by immense windows edged with lead casements surrounding small panes. The spectacular view down to the Bay stretched before her. However, she was given no time to look. Steve led her across the room and into a long hall.

  At the hall’s end, he opened another heavy Spanish style door and ushered her down a short flight of raw wooden stairs into an opulent masculine bedroom furnished in heavy but simple and square Mission-style furniture. This room provided a fabulous view of wild hills.

  Steve did not stop. He propelled Karen into the hall traversing the dressing area and bath, past neat rows of built in cupboards and through a back door into another bedroom. The room did not fit the house.

  A half-canopy in a floral pattern that matched the bed’s low painted footboard hung protectively from the two tall carved head posts. Small pieces of 18th century furniture – tables, delicate armless chairs, a low scrolled back chaise lounge and an exquisite lady’s desk holding a selection of leather and cloth bound books behind its glass front – were scattered in small decorative clusters throughout the large room. A ceiling high, painted armoire stood against one wall. And rather than the warm, bare plank floors she’d passed over in the house’s other parts, this room was filled with the whorled medallion of a thick pink, gold and cream Aubusson carpet.

  However, the most striking dissimilarity was the room’s closed aspect, an air heightened by the one small window. After the rustic open spaces, Karen immediately felt claustrophobic.

  Steve deposited her to sit primly on the bed and strode to a small door next to the armoire, which he opened. “This is your bath. Would you like me to run it for you?” He smiled gently – the first smile she’d ever seen from him. It humanized his blocky face, drawing her to him. “I will care for you now.” He motioned to the bedside phone and a small, tentative ray of hope hit her. “If you need anything, the phone reaches me directly.” Her spirits sank, the hope dashed.

  He opened the door to the armoire and, with dismay, she saw the clothes from the Saint Paul suite inside. They seemed to her somehow different but she couldn’t define how.

  “Here are your clothes.” He asked again, “Would you like a bath?” She hesitated and deep creases formed in his square brow. “You need to rest.”

  Finally she nodded and he left her alone. She heard water running. She sighed and her eyes flitted around her new “home”, across the highly polished antique furniture, the luxuriously feminine fabrics and delicate knickknacks. As with everything Michael touched, the room was beautifully done … and it made her paralyzingly miserable. She looked around and realized the only door to the outside was the one they’d entered, and it went through Michael’s bedroom.

  Hideous lethargy consumed her. She now knew with certainty she would never escape whatever it was he planned for her.

  Steve emerged wiping his hands on a small towel and helped her undress. He hung up the suit she’d worn to travel and put away her shoes. Then he again took her arm and led her into the bath.

  When she crossed the threshold, she stopped in surprise. Facing her, a glass wall ran lengthwise behind the tub. The bath, she realized, was cut into the hillside. Rather than fitting flush, however, a wide shaft had been left to rise to the hilltop. She looked entranced at thickly twined tree roots over which grew masses of grass and plants climbing lankily up toward the sunlight.

  Steve squeezed her arm and she turned her head. The room was not large but it was pleasant, efficient and most important, it was bright, not only from the light above. Every surface was plain cream ceramic tile, matching the cream toilet, sink and Jacuzzi tub.

  Fragrant steam rose from the water. Suddenly Karen wanted nothing more than to surround herself in the warmth. She moved forward and Steve helped her step in. As she extended her torpid limbs into the gently swirling water she looked up to the blue grey sky above. With a jolt, she saw the metal grate over the shaft’s opening. A large brass and steel lock hung prominently from the grate’s edge. Tears moistened her eyes, then as quickly vanished. Why should she be surprised? She’d known she was a prisoner … but now, at least, she had her patch of sky.

  She had once again dressed, in another of the endless series of too-tight dresses and high heeled pumps, and carefully dressed her hair and applied her makeup. Now she silently awaited him, her hands clasped demurely in her lap, at the small round, linen-draped tabl
e, set for dinner with pale bone china plates and cut crystal glasses, all rimmed with thick, hand painted gilt bands.

  She started at a heavy metallic clatter, then heard the key turn in the lock and looked tensely toward the massive wood door. Michael entered, immaculate as always in a dark suit. His examination of her as he approached dragged across her face and body like icy fingers. He sat down, shook the linen napkin onto his lap and nodded to Steve, who left the room using his own key.

  With apparent satisfaction, Michael’s eyes swept his surroundings. “I hope you’re becoming rested in your lovely new room?” It was not quite a question – not one, she knew, that required a true answer. Michael peered appraisingly, looking at this and that part of her as if at the elements of fine statuary.

  Steve had only just set the first course, a salad of spring greens, beets and tiny bits of goat cheese, before them when Michael’s face grew dark and thunderous. Karen quailed, profoundly wishing she could shrink to invisibility. “I thought I was safe dismissing Emeline but I see you are not yet capable of applying your own make-up.” In disgust, he indicated the salad to Steve. “Take this away.” Steve quickly lifted the plates and exited the room. Karen resisted the impulse to watch the food go away – more food disappearing just short of her lips, more food denied her.

  Michael returned his glowering visage toward Karen. She tried to meet his gaze but her head spun. “Your eyeliner is unacceptably thick! I can’t bear to look at you.” Then he was silent. She struggled to calm her breathing, to hold herself upright, and waited for his brutal propulsion away from her. Despite his words, the dark holes of his eyes opened fixedly toward her, as terrifying as a lion’s maw.