Slave Wife

by Frances Gaines Bennett

At last Steve returned, empty handed, and Michael rose with vicious grace. “Make certain she stays at the mirror until she has it perfect. Put in a catheter,” her mind tried but couldn’t make sense of the word, “so she has no reason to disturb her practice. I will be back in two hours.”

  Over the months, Karen had noticed Steve’s silent obeisance to Michael’s authority. Emeline’s chatter had overridden any heed she might once have paid. Now, though, it sucked the small remaining life from her.

  After Michael left, Steve didn’t speak, simply mimed his compliance with Michael’s instructions. Silently, he removed her clothing, moving her pliant arms and legs like a porcelain doll. When she was naked he laid her out on the bed, spread her legs and placed a disposable sterile field underneath her hips.

  He left her and entered the bathroom. She didn’t move – what was the point? – just lay unfeeling, staring blindly at the unblemished ceiling’s glossy eggshell surface. Not until she felt his latex gloved fingers spreading her labia did consciousness return … and then fear caused her body to respond instinctively, to try to lurch away from his touch.

  Still he didn’t speak, just held her against the bed with one huge hand until her struggles ceased, his face a stolid mask. When she lay still, he slowly, tentatively lifted the hand, obviously ready for any resistance. Now, though, she wouldn’t offer any.

  Apathetically she watched him tear apart sterile packets and remove a long, narrow coil of plastic tubing and a plastic bag she recognized from medical TV shows. He slid the tubing into the bag’s coupling then, the tubing’s unconnected end between his fingers, once again spread her labia. The sensation was tiny, barely recognizable, until a curious stimulation invaded her bladder.

  Holding the bag with one hand, he lifted her to her feet and nudged her into the bathroom in front of the dressing area mirror. Vaguely, she felt the tubing tugging gently at her inner thighs when she moved her legs. He set the bag on the ceramic counter and she saw, with a flush of humiliation, that it contained yellow fluid. He reached into a drawer and brought out something she’d never seen before – something new and horrifying.

  Karen watched, frozen into immobility, as the iron ring moved toward her throat, then circled it and locked closed. Three thick chains hung from the lock, two connected to smaller rings that he locked around her wrists. The short chains required her to hold her arms bent in an L-shape.

  She’d not previously noticed the small ring sunk into the tiles’ surface close to the mirror. Not until Steve pulled her head down and locked the third chain to it. Then she understood that Michael had planned this new humiliation sometime long ago, before the bath’s construction, and had given Steve instructions in its use. She knew it was true yet it made no sense to her. Had he really expected her to require restraint facing the mirror?

  The chain disallowed her standing upright. She was held slightly bent over with her face close to the glass. Possibly she could sit … if she had a chair. Steve placed makeup remover, cotton pads, and face and eye makeup on the counter within her reach. Still he didn’t speak. He looked at his watch, clearly for his own information not hers, then left her alone.

  Her lethargy was suddenly replaced with panic. She didn’t have a watch. How much time did she have to get the eyeliner right? Hurriedly she applied remover to a cotton pad and wiped her eyes. She began again as Emeline had taught her – first moisturizer, second a sheer layer of creamy base, third pale concealer applied from a silver tube then blended evenly with her fingers, fourth the fine brown line to which Michael had so objected. The first eye, her left, seemed passable. The line across her right eye smeared into a thick wave. Her heart clenched hard as a rock in her chest. As she wiped off the makeup and began again, the hand holding the miniscule brush shook almost uncontrollably.

  After several attempts and she didn’t know how many precious minutes, she still hadn’t gotten it right. Her arced back was weak with strain. She would surely faint if she couldn’t stand upright. And the lines would be neither thin nor straight. Tears flooded her eyes, streaking brown messes – she could almost hear Michael’s angry voice using the words – down her cheeks. Her eyes rolled upward and she slid to the floor, her face pulled sideways onto the cool tile countertop and her arms twisted upward.

  When her eyelids fluttered open, her face was pressed against the yellow-filled bag. She jerked away, overcome with revulsion, and was yanked back by the chain. The vile bag cushioned her face’s impact against the countertop.

  Her aversion was so great it shocked her into rationality. Slowly she lifted her head, testing the chains’ limits. She discovered that she could kneel and it was reasonably comfortable. Once again, she proceeded through the four steps … and this time each line was straight and delicate.

  When Steve stepped soundlessly through the door on crepe-soled nurse’s shoes, she was staring at her reflection. He unlocked the shackles and helped her dress. When Michael returned she was seated at the table, her hands in her lap.

  Before he sat, he loomed over her. She so wanted to escape, to jump to her feet and run, as his long, beautiful fingers moved toward her chin. Yet not a hair on her head wavered – at least she’d learned this lesson perfectly – when his rigid fingers dug into her jaw, tilting her face upwards. Michael examined her face minutely and she held her breath, waiting for the sword to fall, slicing her open.

  Instead, his eyes brightened and his lips curved upward into a celestial smile. “Excellent,” he intoned … and she filled with warmth, her fears gone, replaced by adoration. He sat, without abandoning the radiant smile. “I’m pleased that you’ve made some,” the judgmental emphasis was clear, “progress.”

  His face became serious, intense but not frightening. She looked up at him, controlling any trace of her growing curiosity. He reached across the table and lifted her hand. His heat poured through her limbs to her heart, soothing her fears, soothing her pain. Stunned, she watched him lift the hand to his lips, felt his full lips touch her palm. With love? Could it be?

  He gazed into her eyes and spoke to her. His words were full and rich with sound and meaning, and with something she’d not heard before. Sorrow? Remorse? “Do you see that I’ve done this all for you? Do you understand how perfect you can be, how much I want you to fulfil your potential,” he paused, and the silence seemed to her interminable, “how much I love you?”

  Unshed tears hung in her enraptured eyes. Her heart melted into a spreading pool of ardour. She loved him so much, so wanted to please him. She swore to herself she would try harder. Then he would be happy with her and her life would be wonderful.

  He sat back and looked at his classical blue-faced watch. “Well, I guess it’s too late for dinner.”

  One solitary tear dropped unheeded to the lace tablecloth. Unaccountably her gaze shifted toward the armoire, perhaps because its door had not been properly closed – an unusual and no doubt punishable offence. Through an opening of several inches her clothing was visible. Suddenly she realized what was different. The wedding gown was no longer there.

  “It’s not that bad,” that’s what Mei continually told herself. Most of the time she simply lay curled in what she knew to be a small cage – she’d explored all around herself with her hands, which were bound together and loosely attached to the bottom bars – in a dank, darkened room. At first she’d been unable to get comfortable on the hard, uneven bars. But after many days without movement the aches and stiffness in her limbs had numbed to gruelling nothingness.

  The elegant voice had warned her she would die if she removed the hood. Mei spent many hours thinking about it. But every time her fingers touched the fabric edge fear stopped her. What if someone came in while it was off? Or if she replaced it incorrectly? Did she want to die? And after awhile, she was no longer capable of caring.

  Someone who did not speak extracted her to be cleaned immediately prior to the large man’s – she knew he was a man though he seemed like a hideous beast – visits. Few words wer
e ever spoken to her. Once, when she was first taken, she could no longer remember how long ago, with her bladder full to bursting, she’d begged the elegant voice, “Please, may I go to the bathroom?”

  The voice had replied only one word, “Go.”

  Mei felt below her and realized the cage sat on a large drain. No water or paper was ever given her but at least she could make her waste drain away. Twice a day a metal plate of food and a water bottle were put into the cage. She had to lower her head to her hands to get the food into her mouth. She tried not to think about her smell, her filth. And most of all she tried not to recognize the thought always in the back of her mind, “What will happen to me?”

  The heavy door opened and a ray of light cut through the blackness. Mei heard the bars slide up. “Out,” the voice said.

  She recognized the room by its subtle exotic smell. This time, though, she was not chained to the bed. Her hands were unshackled and she was pushed through a door. To her amazement, and also apprehension, the voice said, “You may remove the hood. Wash yourself and return to the room. Seat yourself on the bed and wait. If you do otherwise you will be killed.” The door closed and the voice was gone.

  Mei twisted her arms and swung them limply side to side. Sensation returned in an intense pins and needles tingling so unpleasant tears filled her eyes. She was afraid to take the time to enjoy the unrestricted movement. With awful, anguished slowness, her hands lifted to the black fabric. The hood now seemed part of her. She’d become accustomed to the perpetual dim vagueness like someone newly blind. Truly she’d wondered if they’d ever allow her to see again. Her fingers slipped underneath the stretchy fabric and, weak from long restraint, she pulled.

  At first even the muted light cut into her eyes like knives, blinding her. Gradually she was able to see. Joy rushed into her along with vision … until frightful questions intermingled into the flood. Why the change? Mei could not imagine it was good. Dread filled her. Her shoulders slumped and once again horrible lassitude consumed her.

  Quickly though, hopelessness was cut apart by terror. She’d been told to wash and she must obey. Her eyes widened at the opulent bath, every surface and wall of marble the colour of pale honey. A glass shower big enough for six people was fitted with gold edges and hardware and filled with many fancy bottles, containers and scented soaps. Hesitantly she stretched out her dirty hand – shamefully she avoided acknowledging the dark streaks of dirt, old food and … well, she wouldn’t think of that – opened the glass-sheeted door and stepped in.

  The beat of hot water against her hair and skin, the wonderful, fragrant, soapy washing away, was, she thought, as close to heaven as she’d ever been. As many times as she dared, all the while worrying about her instructions, she soaped her body and rinsed. Finally, reluctantly she stepped from the shower, dried herself with one of the thick, tawny towels and made her way to the bed.

  Emotions overwhelmed her senses as she sat primly between the handles that had held her imprisoned and – she pushed away the painful, degrading memories – exposed. This room, the room where she’d been repeatedly, hideously violated, was opulent as the bath. The walls were papered with Chinese scenes as richly coloured and patterned as tapestries. The furniture was black, ornately carved and gilded. Everything was draped with black and deep red silk. Incense and the perfume of magnificently arranged flowers drifted in subtle air currents. Against her will, images of her abuse played across her mind accompanied by irrevocable fear about what awaited her.

  The door handle’s quiet turn jolted her like an electric shock, tensing every muscle. She gasped. Into the room walked the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, a lovely enigmatic smile lifting his full lips. With amazing grace he approached and lifted her chin with courtly fingers. Meekly she stared up into his large luminous black eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, his angelic gaze sweeping her face and flicking lower to her naked breasts, “you are a pretty little thing.” His voice was deep, lush and aristocratic, but at his next words her half-formed smile froze then shattered into a million pieces, taking with it her feeble hopes. “My European buyer should find you quite enjoyable.” His rosy lips curved downward and the flawless eyes crystallized to gleaming obsidian. Effortlessly, with only a touch of fingertips, he pushed her backwards onto the bed. “Now let’s look at you.” His voice became steel in her ears. “Spread.”

  It was not even a second, she knew it. That was the length of her hesitation. In a dream, or so it seemed, she saw his finger move toward her thigh and then there was pain greater than she’d ever experienced. Her wail rose into the air before she could bite it back into silence. “Quiet. Spread.” The razor-sharp voice was no louder, no more insistent but her legs jerked apart.

  She couldn’t help herself, despite her previous abuse she quivered when he touched her … there. Again the terrible tone. “I do not want to hurt you but if do not obey me, if you do not stay perfectly still when I touch you, I will, unfortunately, be forced to do so.”

  Now she lay still. To do so was effortless because all hope, all will had deserted her. Thoroughly, exhaustively he examined her. First her front-side. With obvious absorption so focused it seemed to her clinical, or perhaps like a businessman pricing a commodity, he touched, probed, spread her vaginal tissues. By relentless, painful example she’d learned not to resist. Over the weeks her humiliation had been maimed almost to deadness. Her primary emotion was panic so intense she thought her ribcage would burst apart. She wanted to scream, “Why? What is going to happen to me?” but knew she couldn’t possibly.

  Finally he lifted. “Well,” he said softly, clearly to himself, “some damage but acceptable.” He bent again and rolled her like an inert log onto her belly, availing himself of her backside. She buried her face into the silk and, with anguish, prepared as best she could for his onslaught – but it didn’t come. Again he probed, slipping first one then two fingers inside her anus and firmly spreading. After far too many minutes she heard the soft displeased click of his tongue and his almost plaintive sigh.

  For a moment her rigid muscles relaxed. He rolled her onto her back, gripping her hair as if to rip it from her head and pulling her to a sitting position. “Now you will service me, little whore.” The words – the name – struck her like hard slaps. He unzipped his trousers and pointed. Brilliant, shameful red rose into her cheeks.

  She was too terrified to hesitate yet had no idea what he wanted her to do. Again his fingers moved toward her. She quailed, shrinking into herself. This time, though, he grabbed her hand and pressed it against his groin. The soft fabric of his black trousers and undergarment – silk, she realized – startled her. “Suck it,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  The bulge under her hand seemed to grow larger as she tried to remove it from its covering. After some interminable, excruciating seconds – or minutes? – his penis lay across her hand. She’d never seen one before. The thought that her horrible familiarity did not include vision dizzied her. “Suck it,” he repeated, chilling her to the marrow.

  Distaste that she tried desperately not to show surged through her as she awkwardly took his flesh into her mouth. It tasted mildly of sweet soap. “No teeth,” his tone was threatening. “In and out,” again he gripped her hair, “like this,” and forced her head backwards and forwards. His penis was instantly hard as a rock and so big it choked her. She gagged and might have vomited if her stomach hadn’t been empty. Tears streamed down her cheeks and onto her breasts. He laughed melodiously and pulled her head against him. Then the pounding she’d experienced elsewhere was in her mouth. She heard him moan and her mouth was filled with thick goo that coated her throat, suffocating her, before it ran out between her lips.

  A soft knock sounded and the door opened. A man dressed in a grey suit with a headdress she’d seen in pictures of Arabs entered. He held a syringe. The beautiful man nodded toward her. As the other man approached, his face emotionless, fear rushed through her. She tried to curl into
a ball, to hide herself from him but his steps never paused, never abated. Then the needle penetrated her thigh.

  Chapter Five

  Apprehension gripped her as Karen heard the drop bolt’s heavy tumblers clack. For what seemed an eternity but, she realized, was probably only a few seconds, there was only silence. She sat perched on the bed’s high edge with back forced rigidly straight and knees clamped primly together, dressed in the pale dress he’d told her to wear. Compelling herself to control the breaths conscripted by the choking corset, she stared at the door and willed it to stay shut.

  With dismay, she heard the key make its inevitable progress in the lock. Another short pause and the door handle turned. Michael stepped into the room, cool appraisal on his handsome face, and her already chilled blood ran like ice in her veins.

  She didn’t understand why she he scared her so, like so much that was incomprehensible since he’d taken her to California. Aside from locking her in, he’d done nothing to hurt her physically. In fact, he’d been kind to her. She knew he had. She shook her head, striving to clear it of the bewildering cloud of confusion. Certainly her parents must be thankful to have found her such a suitable and generous husband.

  Yet at this moment every one of her instincts – instincts she’d never previously needed in the bond of her parents’ care – made her fear him. Her empty stomach churned with it, almost to the point of nausea.

  He held the door open to allow a second man to enter then, as she now knew to be his custom, locked it behind him. Though average in build, the other man was dwarfed by Michael’s dramatic height and persona. He was dressed entirely in mysterious black, in soft black trousers and dress shirt, but had a pleasant, unassuming face. He carried a small black leather satchel in one hand and a large, rounded case, like an extra large bowling bag, she thought, effortlessly in the other by its luggage-like handle. The unbearably sweet memory of hanging out with her friends in her town’s small bowling alley cut though her like a cleaver.