She’d never imagined such pain.
“The State has given me a new job, something safe and very out of the way. They don’t trust me anymore, they never will after this.
“And believe me, even when your hard labor is over the horror won’t end, it’ll only get worse. You’ll see. The stares will make you climb inside your coat and hope that it’s perpetually winter so you can hide your head in a scarf. You’ve no idea what scorn is heaped on me day after day. I’d gladly exchange places with you.”
“You could have divorced me,” Delila said.
“But I can’t now.”
“If this is so painful to you, go ahead,” she said.
“It wouldn’t work if I tried. The agreement I signed acknowledging my intentions to you lasts the duration of your sentence.”
“Then you’ll divorce me when it’s over?”
“I don’t know,” he said. His head hung down, while he sighed deeply, and then looked into her eyes again, “I don’t know.”
When he left, the key in the heavy outside dead-bolt lock clicked hard.
***
On what might have been a time for Delila to enjoy the infinite freedoms she had in her apartment, from the views outside her windows to the magazines in the rack beside Armand’s chair, and free excursions to the ice-box and kitchen cabinets that Armand liberally stocked with food she hadn’t seen in months, she did little more than worry, wondering when her husband would return. Considering their last conversation, she worried if he would return at all.
To Delila’s relief, Armand arrived home at nine o’clock that evening, looking tired when he walked through the door. She took his coat, and hung it in the closet. She didn’t dare kiss him, though she was dying to lay her lips on his. She offered him food, which he turned down.
“Just some tea,” he said, when he finally reached his chair and sat.
Getting the drink for him, Delila sat herself and watched him while he slowly drank, and then leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Perhaps we could talk?” she finally interjected at one point.
“I’ve nothing more to say to you,” he answered.
“To say at all?” she tried once more.
“That’s right.”
Staring at him moments longer, then hearing his heavier breathing, Delila concluded that he wouldn’t be coming to bed. Retreating to the adjoining room, she pulled back the white sheets and the baby blue blanket, and fell asleep.
***
Delila: I almost lost my bearings when I felt Armand’s hand on my thigh. He stroked it vigorously, his hands passionate; and when I was about to turn over and splay my legs for him as I would a customer in my cubicle, I discovered the passion was more than my customers ever gave. The memory of this reached back so far it seemed as if it had been a decade since I’d last felt that kind of touch.
He pulled me over and parted my thighs, playing roughly with my breasts that were used to such things. Even so, I cried out when he squeezed them hard. It always hurts, despite getting used to this kind of harsh massage. It hurts even more coming from Armand. He fucked me angrily, his penis entering between my legs and pounding so wildly I thought he’d destroy my cunt. He was quick though, his seed spilling into me deep.
He held me then, his arms wrapped tight, and I was silent, waiting for him to speak, which he did not. I think I fell asleep, my next memory his cock once again deeply planted in my groin. This time the copulation was less frenzied, this time his encircling arms took me about the bed, holding me so closely to him that I could hardly move. This time, I climaxed too, after his long, slow, steady movements finally raised desire, not simply fear.
In the morning, he said little more, and next the day repeated the day before in similar fashion, ending in a similar way: Armand collapsing into his chair coming home from work, a mug of tea in his hand as he fell asleep, and an unmerciful assault to my body in the middle of the night. This was the only place our souls still connected.
***
Armand: The instructions were quite clear. The State had even asked me if I needed the necessary bamboo to complete the punishment. I accepted the implement gladly. They told me she’d be checked when she returned to her factory job. They expected the required caning to be clearly apparent, at least six distinct lines on her backside. They didn’t care where the six lines appeared and they didn’t care if there were more.
I thought the six would be adequate. I had no desire to see my wife in more agony, and I couldn’t see what purpose it would serve. Yet, my feelings changed once the punishment commenced and an unspeakable satisfaction came pouring into me as I answered her crimes with the cane. She lay over the kitchen table, her wrists bound to the far edge, her naked ass the obvious target of such a pose. If I’d had a scourge or lash, I might have laid strokes on her back and thighs, but the cane in my hand was for only one purpose.
I struck hard and fast, thinking it best to get the six over with quickly. The first three stuck with what I thought was a mighty snap, and yet, I heard no cries from her, hardly a squeal. I hated that. Especially when there’d been great passionate wails raised at her floggings. I hit her harder still, the next three, and began to hear her moan. However, six was not enough. Something righteous surged within me, some gratitude as well. For the first time since this horror began, I was feeling vindicated, the malevolence in me diminishing, my inner pain less acute.
I caned Delila’s bottom another six times, each cut etching itself deeper than the last, each cut taking more of my woe away. Her cries changed from moans to shrieks. Even those gave me some contentment. It wasn’t as bad as her punishments in the State courtyard, but it was much more satisfying for me.
Seeing the result, I didn’t have to count to see that there were enough lines to please an Inspector.
When I finished, I let her remain bound over the table while I went to my chair to restore myself. When the emotion in me diminished, I returned to untie her; and out of mutual need, we made love in the silence of our bedroom and our thoughts. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but I know her body clamored with desire greater than anything I’d witnessed from her. Every time I touched the marks on her ass, she made sounds that came from some place in her I’d never touched before.
Later that afternoon, when I took her back to the train station, I told her I had no plans to divorce her when her sentence was up. To that, Delila smiled meekly. An hour later, I was alone in my apartment again and she on her way back north, I wish I’d said more.
Chapter Sixteen
Delila was in the bath, washing away the dirt from the grimy trip back to Outer Island. The corner of the train, where she rode for nine long hours, contained hardwood benches that were covered with grease and city smut. She dove under the warm water and lingered there, floating suspended in the treasured liquid, until her eyes began to burn from the soap. Breaking the surface of the water, her dark hair was plastered sleek to her head.
“Refreshing yourself?”
She opened her eyes to see Degas looking at her.
“The bath is soothing.”
“Soothing your skin, or your soul?” he asked.
“Both,” she admitted.
“Ah! You have something to show me?” he asked.
She looked at him not comprehending.
“The marks your husband was to give you.”
“You’re inspecting?” she asked.
“My how all you sluts forget that I am an Overseer,” he replied. “Get up and bend over.”
Delila complied with his command, rising from the water to show the man her bruised and welt-streaked bottom.
“Ah! He was pissed, I’d say,” he remarked. “More than required.”
“Very pissed.”
“I don’t doubt you screamed on a few of these.”
“I did.”
Delila turned back around and sat back in the water. “You’ve seen enough, haven’t you?”
“Enough to make my d
etailed report. You’re looking unusually sullen, my love. Is something wrong?”
Delila hesitated to reply, but something in Degas kind expression lifted her from the memories of the last five days. A confession might put all the horror aside. “I know it sounds strange, but I’m glad to be back.”
He nodded. “The marriage bed is not so sweet.”
“Not when there’s so much hurt to overcome.”
“You know, Delila, two women in our midst were once in your place. Offenders, dealt with as rudely by the State as you have been, and even more rudely by their husbands. By their own choice, they never returned to the other world. You needn’t either.”
“Two women, here? But there are no other marked women?”
“The rings were removed. Just ask them, Lexia and Mira will be happy to confide in you.” Degas smiled as warmly as she’d ever seen him smile and let her continue the bath in private.
Lexia and Mira, she thought as she lay back against the edge of the tub. They were two of many who treated this place as home. Could she ever do that?
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, when Delila expected Fier to lead her to her cubicle, he did not. Instead, he entered her room, presenting her with clothes to wear, a surprising change.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“From Degas.”
“Degas?”
Astonished, she pulled the dress from Fier’s hand. “Why would he be giving me this?” she asked.
“Your assignment changes today. You’ll be walking the floor, picking up customers on your own. The dress is meant to help you in the task. Put it on and don’t dawdle, you’re expected out there in ten minutes. And don’t worry; if you’re not there, I still have orders to cane you at will, although by the looks of your bottom, you couldn’t take much more.”
Leaving her alone with the dress, Delila stood up and pulled the garment to her, hugging it as if she had something precious next to her skin. It felt so soft. Gazing into the full-length mirror on the wall, she was stunned by the way the rose-colored fabric of the satin dress looked next to her dark tresses. The feminine and the dark collided for a sumptuous picture of sensuality.
Delila: On the floor, I was a different creature than in the cubicle where men came to me baited by the ring, tantalized by the woman they thought I was. In my subversive way, I used my status to gain my own satisfaction. Without the mark of my crimes displayed so conspicuously, I was like the other whores plying my trade. I liked the challenge, even if it required that I become bolder. I’d been convicted of seducing Rafferty—a fact that was hardly valid the way I’d so sheepishly uncovered my breasts for him. However here, this was seduction! This was a deliberate flaunting, swaying my ass as I walked, the way I’d seen Lexia do, sidling up to the often hesitant customers, rubbing my dress bedecked body against them as they took notice of my feminine attributes made available. Some I’d fucked before in the cubicle, though they were shyer in the open.
When I made pacts with the willing gentlemen, I took them to one of the rooms down a corridor where there were beds for the nightly excursions between my legs. My customers gave me pounding, throbbing climaxes and much to shriek about.
“Why these marks on your ass?” one man asked me, just after my return to Outer Island, when he felt the cuts that Armand had laid on my rear.
“You’re screwing a married woman,” I told him, showing him the ring that he’d neglected to notice before.
I thought he would throw me from the bed, at first, and then his face lit with the most sinister look, as if it made him hotter to have me. Then, he pounded my cunt severely, as if he needed to punish me too. I found the response amusing; I also found he wasn’t the only man to think that he had a right to punish me. There must have been rules in the cubicles for appropriate behavior with a whore; on the floor and in the rooms however, the fucking was more liberal, and to feel the heat of a man taking his wrath out against my bottom with his hand was not uncommon.
It was common too to have more than one lover at a time. I was free to participate in the free-for-alls, where a dozen men and women groped and screwed so it was hard to recognize who were whores and who were customers.
With my new freedom, I was able to enjoy the wider aspects of Outer Island, understanding how much of a pleasure palace of carnal acts this place was. Nothing was taboo inside the Island, and there was no one to ask questions, or call anyone an offender.
Oh, yes! The judgment prevailed. Such a skewed environment created all sorts of bizarre decrees: customers who fucked only one whore, as if that was a sign of fidelity; customers who insisted on being spanked after they’d copulated, to appease their guilt, no doubt; and others who spent most of their time inside these walls, defending the place to the listening ears of their paid lovers.
I noticed too in my excursions about the brothel, that our customers were not all from the obscene masses of New Victoria’s citizens. Though I heard no real names spoken, I recognized faces that I’d seen in newspapers: bankers, businessmen, doctors, and yes, even State officials at the highest echelons of the bureaucracy. I almost expected to see the Judge that condemned me walk through the doors some night.
When I commented to Lexia about this, she flashed me an arrogant grin. “What they all know and don’t admit is how deeply the fascination for our dark home truly is. They’ll never get rid of us, they don’t even want to. I believe they’re all crazy out there, living lives as charlatans and false moralists. That’s why I live here; at least you can count on Outer Island to be honest.”
Lexia was right about honesty and freedom. So was Degas. I didn’t have to hold back a thing. Any desire I hungered for had the potential to be made real in the main chamber and side rooms and leather galleries of Outer Island. Any fantasy that the whores and customers dreamed became the stuff for reality. And so, like a dream, I felt as if I were floating from one sensation to another, one body thirst to the next without stopping for an instant. As long as I kept my thoughts focused on the present moment, not acknowledging the past or thinking of the future, my mind was at ease.
One night in the center of the main chamber, I made love to Mira, forced to by the men that had claimed us. They had us collared—something that wasn’t required of me now; but on this night Mira and I were both collared and led around on leashes like puppies. Mira was used to the treatment, and made me laugh when I was inclined to feel self-conscious. When the men pushed us together and demanded an exhibition, I to solace in her lack of restraint. She took the lead, massaging my breasts with both hands through the satin dress as her lips greeted mine for a dozen gentle kisses, and then a full-mouthed one where our tongues met inside. I found the feelings between my legs as precious as the ones men gave me. Likely they were even more potent because women’s bodies were still new to me. The informal sensuality between whores was as soothing as it was climax producing. As an exhibition, the female/female eroticism generated a dreadful heat I hadn’t expected, and soon I lost all sense of place and self-awareness, of the eyes that surrounded us—those proverbial ghouls that feasted on anything Outer Island contrived that was strange and bizarre.
That first night Mira and I made love before the hundred eyes, we began mid-floor and proceeded to drop to the rough wood at our feet, as if nothing mattered but the two of us and our special affections inside the tiny enclave we fashioned around us. I pretended that there was no one but Mira and me, even though I think that the audience made me more aroused by its presence. From the fullness of her milky breasts to the softness of her belly to the gentle recesses between her thighs, I marveled at her body and how it replied to my touch in infinite ways. We might have continued for hours playing, but were interrupted after the first climax. Other sex acts were required of us that took Mira and I to opposite corners of the main chamber, although I knew we’d be together again.
Chapter Eighteen
Delila was collared and transported for her second conjugal visit, remanded
this time into the hands of a stiff prison matron. The hefty woman smelled of contraband spirits and smoke, likely because the entire trip she puffed on rolled weeds and drank from a bottle she kept slung against her hip. Delila wondered how the woman got away with the crime. Midway through the journey, when the train stopped for six hours of repairs, the belligerent woman spent two hours eyeing Delila before she finally took her in the toilet at the station.
“You ever get a woman off?” she asked the prisoner.
“No,” Delila lied.
“Then you can learn,” the matron replied. Her heavy hands pushed Delila to the floor between her legs. The woman raised her skirt, leaned back against the tiled wall and pulled her prisoner’s collared neck toward her, until Delila had no choice but to satisfy her, as she demanded.
The matron’s cunt had a sour taste, but it responded well to the tongue Delila forced as deep as she could into the fleshy interior. When she centered her attention on the engorged clit, the woman let out small shrieks. Delila would have thought the woman cumming at that point, but the matron held her prisoner’s head, pulling her hair, and forcing her against her crotch for a long time after the whimpers of climax were over.
Stripped as she’d been of all freedom and will of her own, the matron violated her peace of mind in a way no other sex act had. In Outer Island, by some twisted reasoning, Delila saw her sexual prostitution as a choice, even if there was no real choice. To make her servitude manageable, there had always been a lusty element of arousal accompanying her duties. She’d made certain of that, and of course, Outer Island screamed eroticism. However, this was not Outer Island, and so there was no arousal this time, with her face pressed to the woman’s pungent cunt. In the hands of the matron, she felt dirty, sinful and less human than the rest of the world. Such use violated what tiny bit of self-esteem she had remaining.
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