Shackled

by Ray Garton

  "A star?" she breathed. "How? I don't understand."

  "Well, for one thing, you will be in my magazine. For another, you will be on my arm wherever I go. And people always pay attention to me. Most of them don't like me, they don't like what I do and they like to think that they're morally superior to me ... but they always pay attention. So, they will pay attention to you. And you, as a result, will be ... a star." He lifted one brow and cocked his head to one side.

  "But ... why?"

  "Because there is something about you, Lacey. You're beautiful, but it's something more. Something that I know will look mesmerizing in photographs, on television, on film. You have something about you that is impossible not to look at."

  "But I-I'm ... I-I-I'm ... under age, I can't do that sorta thing."

  "That's no problem at all. The right clothes, the right hair, the right makeup ... it's no problem at all. Your eyes have maturity beyond their years. I don't know where you got it, but it's there."

  As she looked at him then, Lacey thought to herself, I know where I got it ... from my dad ... and from those people in that dark, dark place ...

  "Oh, one more thing," Rex said. "We need to change your name."

  "My name? But ... why?"

  "Because I say so. And from now on, that is all the reason you will need for anything, do you understand?" He was still smiling, but there was a steely sliver of threat in his soft voice. "From now on, you are no longer Lacey. You are Crystal Daniere. Everyone in this mansion will call you Crystal. And you will answer to that name. If anyone calls you Lacey, not only will you not answer to it, you will tell me who did it and when, and you will tell me immediately. Do you understand?"

  She nodded. "But why Crystal?"

  He smiled again, touched her face, and ran his fingertips down her neck gently to touch her breasts. "Because you are as beautiful as the finest, most expensive crystal in the world. You glisten. You sparkle. And ... I can see right through you ... just like crystal ... so you keep that in mind, okay? And remember ... because I say so is all the reason you will ever need to do anything."

  His words, combined with his smile, gave her a little chill. But it lasted only a second and was gone by the time Rex was on top of her again, telling her what he wanted to do next ...

  So, there she lay, before the camera. She wore expensive lingerie: black and red lace panties and a matching bra that was unfastened in back and hanging loosely from her shoulders, revealing her breasts beneath, her pink nipples, the curves and valleys lit and shadowed just so by the precise lighting. Her black, gartered stockings clung to her long legs, disappearing into her shiny red spike-heeled shoes.

  A woman had done her hair differently. Another woman had applied the makeup on her face. And still another had done her nails, painting them a deep, bloody red that stood out against her pale skin. When they were finished, Lacey had looked at her reflection in the mirror and, for a long moment, had thought it was someone else, someone older and much more beautiful standing before her. But the eyes were hers ... so was the mouth, the jaw ... yes, it was Lacey ... but a much different Lacey. Or, rather ... a much different Crystal, which is what everyone had been calling her through all the posing and picture-taking. But it was proving to be very difficult for her to adjust to this new name; she couldn't stop thinking of herself as Lacey. She resented Rex a little for making her use it ... and for telling her she had to do everything he said no matter what, as if she were some kind of small child.

  The camera clicked again and again, a quick, sneaky sound, and the photographer — named Clay, a squat man in his fifties, very quiet and professional, most of his white hair gone on top, his mustache and goatee giving him a touch of distinction — kept telling her now to move, how to position herself on the bed, what kind of expression to wear on her face, what to think of that might bring about the exact expression he wanted. Sometimes, he rushed over to her, smiling pleasantly, and showed her how he wanted her to lie there on the bed with the black silk sheets. He never touched her in any private places, only the shoulders or the elbows, and always with an apologetic look. Such a gentleman, so nice and grandfatherly, like he had nothing but her comfort and best interests in mind ... and like he would never in a million years do anything that might hurt her.

  It wasn't her first "shoot" — not by a long shot. They had been doing these for days, and even nights. Exactly how many was a mystery because of her unfamiliarity with time and its passing. She didn't understand why she had to do so many ... but she had learned not to ask questions. She had learned the hard way before coming to the mansion.

  She had also learned how to deal with the shoots, how to behave, how to follow Clay's directions. And she was not about to complain.

  Yes, she was mostly naked, showing herself, exposing the private parts of her body ... but she did not complain. She felt so good during her time with Clay, so important because of the way he treated her, that what might seem demeaning to others was to her a great relief after all the real humiliation she'd been through. She liked Clay a lot and decided, after a while, that even if she never saw him again, she would always remember him for the way he treated her during those days of shooting picture after picture after picture. He was a very good, kind man.

  Of course, they didn't do all of them with her lying on the bed; that was only the last set of shots. Before that, they were outside the mansion where Clay took shots of her in the flower garden, frolicking half-naked among the flowers, lying in the grass with the flowers in the background, splashing in one of the stone fountains, feeding the ducks while completely naked, and giving the camera suggestive, seductive looks.

  The entire time — always, no matter what time of day or night the shoot took place — Rex stood silently, somewhere in the background. She only got a glimpse of him now and then because she was so busy following Clay's directions. Rex smiled as he watched, nodding occasionally, his eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

  On that last day of shooting, when they were finished, Rex came to the bed and sat on the edge, putting a hand on her bare back, rubbing up and down, up and down, very slowly.

  "So," she said, sitting up and covering her breasts with the bra — although he pulled the bra away with his fingertips and stared at her breasts, lightly brushing a finger over one nipple — "when am I gonna be in your magazine?"

  "Oh, as soon as possible, sweetheart."

  "Did Clay take all these pictures for just one magazine?"

  "Well, honey, that's the way it works. We need lots of pictures to choose from. Many are called but few are chosen, know what I mean?"

  "I guess so."

  "You don't think I'd deprive my readers of these beautiful breasts for long, do you? I promise ... as soon as possible. You'll be there. But, of course, before that, you need to be seen with me. Around town. At parties. Starting tonight."

  "We're going somewhere tonight?"

  "Oh, you'd better believe it. We're going to Spago. I thought about Morton's, but there are more paparazzi at Spago. It's where people go to be seen. And we certainly want you to be seen." After a moment he said, "I bet you'll be in the paper by tomorrow. Some column or another. Somebody will talk about you. There might even be a picture." He touched a fingertip to her chin, caressing the line of her jaw very gently. "After all, who could resist taking a picture of such a beautiful woman."

  She blinked a few times as she looked at him; she'd never been called a woman before.

  "But I thought you said people don't like you," she said.

  "Most of them don't. But they love to talk about me. Oh" — he chuckled — "how they love to talk. And I love it when they do. So, we'll just give them something to talk about, won't we?"

  That night, two young women — referring to her as Crystal the whole time — worked on Lacey's hair and makeup. They put her hair in a French braid with an elegant antique marcasite-and-diamond hairpin. Then they dressed her in a beaded black velvet dress with an o
ff-shoulder neckline and ruched sleeves. The dress was not distastefully tight, but fitted to show off Lacey's curves. She wore black stockings and black suede high heels. And when she finally saw herself in a full-length mirror, she was stunned.

  After years of feeling so ugly, dirty, and vile because of what her father had been doing to her night after night, she stared at her reflection with openmouthed astonishment, because ... she was beautiful. She was a completely different person, older and sophisticated. Maybe she was Crystal, after all.

  They were driven to the restaurant in the back of a long, shiny, black limousine driven by a very large, uniformed black man. Rex kept his arm around Lacey's shoulders at all times as soft music played from unseen speakers. Even when his cellular phone chirped, his right hand continued to caress her shoulder as he took the call.

  Lacey still did not know what to make of Rex. He was good to her, gentle and kind. But when they went to bed together, he always wanted to do the things she'd done in the complex. He was rough and foul, calling her filthy names as he pounded into her, sometimes spitting on her or slapping her face repeatedly. Sometimes he laughed like a madman while he did those things to her ... while he tied her up, put things inside her, in and out, in and out ... and so many other things that reminded her of that tiny, black, and sometimes smelly room in which she'd spent an eternity.

  She dreaded going to bed with him and had come to despise the smooth, cool feeling of those expensive sheets on her naked skin.

  And yet, during the day, he was so pleasant, so eager to please her. And now he was determined to make her a star. For the life of her, she could not understand why.

  Even though her life had changed drastically, she was still very, very confused.

  "Now, before we get there," Rex said, "I need to tell you something. There will be reporters there. People with cameras, some with recorders, and all with microphones shoved in your face. They hang around like vultures. They will talk to us, ask us questions, take our pictures. I don't want you to say anything, understand? Just smile and look very pretty. When they speak to you, when they ask you things, you just let me answer for you. All right?"

  "Well, yeah ... I guess so. But why?"

  "Because you don't know what to say yet. We'll go through all that. For now, you just smile and look pretty." He grinned. "You're so good at looking pretty, why would you want to do anything else?"

  She just smiled at him and said nothing more.

  There were photographers outside, snapping pictures of people as they went in, stepping forward to talk to them. As Rex took Lacey's elbow and led her toward the door, the people with their cameras and tape recorders hurried toward them. Flashes made Lacey blink and, for an instant at a time, lit up the night.

  Inside, people noticed them — they noticed her — and watched as they were led to their table, ate their meal. Lacey ate Italian food that was absolutely delicious, food that melted in her mouth, but which she couldn't pronounce. Then, people watched them — watched her — again as they left.

  On the way out, more cameras clicked and flashed and a stout woman with short white hair approached them with a micro-cassette recorder in her right hand, smiling.

  "Rex," she said, her voice gushing from her throat and through her stiff grin, "nice to see you. You don't seem to come to this part of town very often anymore. Who's your friend?"

  Rex smiled at the woman. "Lizzie, this is Crystal. My companion. Crystal, this is Lizzie Adams, a columnist for the Los Angeles Chronicle. Crystal is going to be in an upcoming issue of Visions, Lizzie, so you might want to pay her some attention. In fact, not only is she going to be in the magazine, I'm quite confident that she's going to be a star."

  "Oh, really? Well, how nice. And exactly what do you mean when you say she's your 'companion'? Is this a serious relationship? Is this theeee woman? Finally? Are you finally going to tie the — well, I guess in your case, 'tie the knot' might be a bit too provocative, but ... are you going to settle down?"

  "Well ...” He grinned at her and cocked his head. "I guess we'll see, won't we, Lizzie?" Rex started to walk away, taking Lacey's hand ...

  ... but Lizzie turned to Lacey, smiling. "And how did you meet Rex, Crystal?"

  She opened her mouth and took in a breath to speak without even thinking, but Rex spoke first.

  "We met through mutual friends," he said.

  Lizzie raised an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes, giving them the expression that had become her trademark and was pictured above her gossip column in the Chronicle every day. "Some friends, I guess," she said quietly, suggestively.

  Rex tilted his head back and laughed softly, then started to walk away again. But she wasn't finished.

  "What's your last name, Crystal?" she asked as they left.

  "Ryan," Lacey said over her shoulder without a thought.

  Suddenly Rex's hand closed on hers like a vise and she felt her knuckle grind together like teeth. It took effort not to cry out because of the incredible pain that exploded in her hand and shot up her arm as her small fingers and palm were swallowed by Rex's enormous hand, with its hair on the fingers below his knuckles, with the sparkling diamond and gold rings.

  The big black man opened the limousine door for them and they slid into the seat. Rex sat stiffly and silently beside her as the door closed behind them and they waited for the driver to get behind the wheel.

  The car moved away from the curb.

  Suddenly Rex's right hand struck like a snake. It slapped her face once, twice, and a third time, then it pulled away instantly as if he'd been burned and he murmured to himself, "Not the face, dammit, the face, not the face."

  Lacey didn't make a sound, but she held her face with both hands, her eyes wide with shock, breathing quick, short breaths.

  Without looking at her, his hands clenching each other tightly between his knees, he growled deep in his throat, "You don't answer questions, you stupid bitch. Don't you understand that? Didn't you hear me when I said that I would do the talking? Didn't you here me when I said you were to be quiet and look pretty! Is that too hard to understand! Haven't you figured things out yet, goddammit, you ignorant cunt!"

  Rex spun around so quickly, plunging his face into hers, that she flinched and sucked in a breath. Spittle was gathering at the corners of his mouth, glistening in the passing lights that flashed through the tinted windows.

  Through bright, white, clenched teeth, he rasped, "Now, because of your little fuckup, someone might recognize you. Because even though you look five or six years older, someone might hear that name and a lightbulb might go off over their head. You are no longer the same person because I said you are no longer the same person! And that is all you need to know! If I say it, then it's so ... understand?"

  She bowed her head, closed her eyes, as if she were praying. But she was only afraid.

  "You stupid bitch! You just told the biggest syndicated gossip columnist in the fucking country your real last name!

  The tears began. She couldn't hold them back. They fell in her lap as she whispered, "I'm sorry. Really. I'm very sorry." The words came naturally. She'd gotten used to apologizing.

  "Well, it's too fucking late now. We'll just have to make a couple phone calls, fix it up before she prints it. That won't be too hard ... just awkward. But of course ... you'll have to be punished. Otherwise, it might happen again."

  Lacey felt her stomach collapse, fall in on itself. What kind of punishment did he have in mind? She assumed she'd been through every kind of punishment imaginable.

  When they arrived at the mansion, he took her to his bedroom immediately and began to undress, telling her to do the same. When they were both naked, he sat on the edge of the bed, removed his glasses, and said, "Go into the bathroom and open the cabinet over the sink, the one on the left side. Take out a new bar of soap and hold it under hot water, rub it between your hands, soften it up. Then bring it out here."

  She stared at him frowning. This was something new.


  "Do it now, Crystal."

  She did as she was told.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but now he held a long, thick, black sock in his left hand and fondled his genitals with his right. The sock dangled between his legs as his eyes followed her naked body from the bathroom to the bed.

  "Whuh-what do you want me to d-do with it?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  He held out his right hand. "Give it to me."

  He took the wet, pearl-colored bar of soap in his right hand, opened the sock with the fingers of his left, and dropped the soap silently into the sock. Then he stood slowly, looking at her.

  "Lie down on the bed," he whispered.

  The tears came again and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't fight them. Fear swelled in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She sucked her lips between her teeth and turned her face away from him. "Whuh-why? Wh-whuh-what are you gonna do, Rex? Please don't hurt me. I suh-said I was sorry, I ap-apologized, and I muh-meant it, really, ruh-really I did."

  "Lie down on the bed. And don't ask for any fucking reasons why! I don't care how you lie on the bed, because it doesn't matter. This won't show. It won't show at all, no matter where."

  She didn't understand at first, until she looked at the black sock in his hand, stretched low, hanging heavily with the soft, wet bar of soap settled in the toe.

  This won't show. It won't show at all, no matter where.

  "On the bed, Crystal," Rex said wetly.

  She lay down on her stomach, deciding that she'd rather receive the pounding on her back.

  The pounding came. Again and again and again. It felt like a huge club, but she knew it was nothing more than a bar of wet soap in a sock, and she kept reminding herself of that, hoping the thought would ease the pain, as the hot tears burned her throat and eyes, as the inside of her chest swelled with the urge to scream. But she didn't scream. She hardly made a sound ... just an occasional sob. She'd learned well how to remain quiet while in pain.