Beyond the Black Curtain

by Hayley White

  “Bring some of your writing,” Stroud suggested.

  “You sly bastard.”

  “Will you?”

  “Perhaps I’ll shop around for some nice comfy paper underwear for you,” she said, which made him laugh.

  ***

  Stroud picked her up on Wednesday evening and together they shopped for a tree, which they set up in the small sitting room. Stroud also purchased the fixings for a full blown Christmas feast and impressed the hell out of Ever by announcing he would prepare the meal himself.

  “That’s a lot of work,” she said. “We could go out.”

  “I’d much rather eat in,” he insisted and Ever couldn’t argue with that. Her last couple of Christmases had been pretty bleak affairs.

  She helped unpack the groceries and stood by, watching Stroud’s preliminary organization.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. I have it under control.”

  Ever remained in the kitchen, none-the-less. She poured them some wine and, despite Stroud’s assertions, was soon hard at work, cleaning up the debris of the preparations. Food scraps into the trash, used food vessels into hot soapy water, clean dishes dried and stored away or set on the counter for reuse. She flowed unobtrusively around him, smoothly clearing the way as Stroud moved from one task to the next.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I really do enjoy the cooking process.”

  “You enjoy creating a mess. I enjoy restoring order,” Ever said. “Besides, I can’t allow you to do all this work alone when you have a perfectly capable slave at your disposal in case you’ve forgotten?”

  “No,” Stroud chuckled. “It’s nice to have the company. Want to do some chopping?”

  Ever stepped up to the cutting board and in short order had nuts, celery and bread sliced and diced for the dressing.

  “You’ve worked in a kitchen before,” Stroud remarked.

  “Well, I can’t afford to live on take-out.”

  “I mean restaurant kitchens. You handle yourself like a pro. Quick, proficient, never underfoot.”

  “Career Number Three,” Ever admitted.

  “Do you like the restaurant business?” Stroud asked.

  “Actually, it’s got its points.”

  “Did you always work in the kitchen?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I began my restaurant career as a silver service waitress in a three star hotel in England. I had no experience, no work papers, but I turned up in a two hundred dollar outfit my mother loaned me for the trip and they hired me on the spot. Now that was waitressing.”

  “Have you thought about going back to it?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve got the stamina for that kind of work anymore,” she said as Stroud put the finishing touches on binding the turkey legs.

  “I see you don’t confine your bondage expertise only to defenseless women,” she teased.

  “That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” Stroud retorted, lovingly laying the hapless bird in the roasting pan.

  The bird took several hours to cook, giving Stroud plenty of time to practice more of his bondage techniques on the kitchen help.

  They decided to hold off on gift exchange until after dinner, to heighten the expectation. The gifts were wrapped and stacked under the tree and Ever was as curious about the six or seven packages she had not put there as Stroud was about the content of the gift Ever was expected to deliver this special night.

  Dinner was a leisurely, romantic affair and afterwards they repaired to the small living room, Stroud in the big easy chair, Ever knelt on the floor beside him. Red Christmas candles burned on the mantelpiece, a fire warmed the scene.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” Stroud asked.

  “You’re kidding, of course.”

  “We hardly made a dent in that bird.”

  “Plenty for turkey hash tomorrow.”

  “And turkey sandwiches.”

  “Turkey stew.”

  “Turkey soup.”

  “I love leftovers,” Ever sighed happily.

  “Perhaps it’s time to open the gifts,” Stroud suggested.

  Before Ever could reply, the phone rang. Simultaneously disappointed and relieved, Ever shifted to clear the way but Stroud picked up the receiver from the small table by his chair instead of going to the study, as he normally did.

  “Hello? Brooke! How good to hear from you! Where are you?”

  Disturbed by the intrusion of a stranger, Ever’s jealous pangs were soothed by the gentle caresses of Stroud’s hand on her head. She occupied herself in a study of the depressions left on her thighs by Stroud’s ropes earlier in the day. It was surprising to see them still there.

  That afternoon, he had stripped her down to her tank top, bra and panties and left her bound and gagged on one of the kitchen chairs, which at once enabled him to subtly dominate her and get on with dinner preparations. She’d never imagined being bound to a chair could be so taxing. It had been a terrific relief to finally be released, if only to be put straight back to work in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and slicing beans for steaming.

  She’d risen stiffly from the chair, burning with desire but had dared not speak of it. That desire was still glowing within her as she knelt at his feet now. Although at times frustrating, it was wondrous, the way he could arouse her so simply and keep the ember smoldering until he chose to stoke it into red hot flames. No one had done this to her before and she thought this sense of anticipation could easily become addictive.

  She rested her head on Stroud’s thigh with a quiet sigh. He was speaking to this stranger in a tone unfamiliar to her. The unheard voice on the other end of the line belonged to a friend. Apparently a close one. Someone who thought enough of him to call on Christmas.

  “Well, tell Aunt Sally I’m sure there’ll be no problem securing that piece for her... I know she is... Yes, fine... Yes. Please do. There’s someone I want you to meet... Alright. See you then... Merry Christmas.”

  Stroud hung up the phone and Ever glanced up to find him looking at her. He touched her chin gently and bent to kiss her. “Let’s have Christmas.”

  During the phone call, Ever began to suspect that some of the presents under the tree were intended for other friends of Stroud’s. But no. All the packages, save the one she had meticulously wrapped for Stroud, were for her. Six in all.

  Stroud sat with her on the floor by the tree and handed them to her, one by one. Ever was somewhat embarrassed but Stroud derived enormous pleasure from watching her careful hands unveil the gifts he had so enjoyed selecting.

  First he gave her a book containing biographies and plates of paintings by the classical artists. There was a burgundy turtleneck sweater of cashmere wool, which she nestled her face into. Next was a flared, calf length denim skirt that buttoned down the front from the safari boutique at the mall, as well as the yellow satin lounging pajamas from the lingerie shop.

  “Oh, Stroud. You’ve gone too far,” she chided.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said, handing her another gift. “Open this.”

  Ever shook her head with a sigh, accepting the tiny package. Under the wrapping was a small, oblong box that contained a black, electronic lighter with a gold trim accent. Her name was hand engraved on it. Ever was stunned.

  “You seemed so taken with my lighter. I thought you might appreciate one of your own.”

  Ever stared at the elegant object. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you like it.”

  “Oh, I do! It’s absolutely beautiful.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can thank me later,” he said, reaching once more under the tree. “Now this.” He proffered the final package.

  “You’re spoiling me rotten,” Ever cautioned.

  “You’re getting the idea. Open it.”

  This last, medium sized package contained another item of clothing. Ever lifted it out of the box. “Oh my...”


  It was a short, sleeveless, Grecian-style tunic of black jersey, slit down the front nearly to the waist. Ever checked again in the box and found the length of chain intended to serve as a belt.

  “Recognize it?” Stroud asked.

  “Yes,” Ever replied, a rash of goose bumps rising at the sight of the garment.

  “I noticed you admiring that at the exhibition.”

  “Apparently,” she replied. “And the cuffs...”

  “Of course.”

  “You bought the cuffs that day.”

  “Yes. I admit that. Sort of a lucky charm against the hope that you would call.”

  “And the tunic?” she wanted to know.

  “No, worst luck. I had a devil of a time relocating the vendor.”

  Ever was looking at the tunic, fingering the limp, supple material. “You’re a very observant man.”

  “It’s in my nature,” he said simply.

  “Could make you rather dangerous.”

  “In an attractive way, I hope.”

  Ever half smiled, her attention still stuck on the tunic.

  “That’s for you to wear on chilly winter evenings, when I’d much rather have you naked.”

  Ever huffed softly. “How very considerate.”

  “I try to be.”

  Finally she looked up, her eyes misted. “Thank you,” she said, embracing him. “You’ve made this Christmas very special.”

  He hugged her back, pleased by her happiness.

  “Now,” he said, as they broke off. “My powers of observation tell me there’s one more package under the tree.”

  The sudden alteration in Ever’s mood was subtle but very apparent to Stroud.

  “Yes,” she agreed in a near whisper.

  “Well, I know I didn’t wrap it...”

  Ever drew in a breath, her lips pursed.

  “Is it what I think it is?”

  “Yes,” she answered, still immobile.

  “Well, a gift is for giving, not taking,” he pointed out and, finally, Ever reached under the tree for the weighty, rectangular package, handing it to him with both hands, as though reluctant to relinquish it.

  Stroud tore off the brightly colored wrapping paper, revealing a stack of about one hundred and fifty, meticulously typed manuscript pages. The title page bore only one, neatly centered word: ‘Courses’.

  He glanced up at Ever whose eyes were pinned on the manuscript.

  “I’d like to read it now,” he said and Ever nodded.

  She was very nervous about showing him her work, which greatly enhanced the value of the gift.

  “It isn’t finished,” she said.

  “I can see that,” Stroud said gently.

  He had dealt with artists afflicted with ‘viewing jitters’ before. But the apprehensions of the artist could be more quickly allayed, since it took less time to study and assess a painting than it would take to read this manuscript. She needed a distraction.

  “Get undressed,” he said. “Put on the tunic.”

  Ever stripped down and slipped the garment over her head. He handed her the chain and Ever belted it around her waist. The tunic was very fetching. No. It was spectacular and Stroud had to clamp down the urge to grab her and take her right then.

  “Now. I believe there’s a dishwasher waiting to be loaded,” he said, deflecting the wounded confusion clouding her eyes. “But first, I’m going to need my cigarettes, an ashtray and a cup of coffee.”

  Ever seemed frozen to the spot, her eyes on the manuscript again.

  “Go,” he urged and she finally took off, leaving him to rise from the floor, switch on the reading light and ease back into his chair for this much anticipated view into Ever’s private pastime.

  Courses

  Rain. If only it would. Wild black rain. A perfect match for her mood. But the ceiling of heavy clouds was stagnant. Soiled cotton wool. Saturated, yet inactive. Ineffectual. If they would but surrender a few drops, then she could weep. Unload the weight of this terrible moment.

  She’d been standing at the window an hour or more. Watching. Waiting. Imprisoned by clouds. Dread. Helplessness. Steel manacles bound clenched fists behind her back. Fists that held nothing but the expression of her anxiety. Today he was coming to collect his trophy.

  Yes, if it rained she could weep. And he, on the pathway outside, would pass under that descending shower. Perhaps the rain would wash away some of his power. The power that had enabled him to acquire her. A man she did not know but already feared...

  The coffee, cigarettes, lighter and ashtray arrived with alarming speed. Ever hesitated, hovering nervously by until, having affected no break in Stroud’s concentration, she slipped back into the kitchen to attend to the task he’d assigned.

  Stroud smiled slightly and continued to read, his mind eventually detaching itself from the pleasure he took from the sounds of Ever’s labors. The sounds that bespoke her precious presence in his home.

  Love was liquid. That’s what it was. Liquid. Sometimes clear, sometimes opaque. Sometimes fluid, sometimes solid. Sometimes hot, sometimes cold. Sometimes free flowing, cleansing, soothing, and sometimes flushed, like putrid waste.

  Garrison’s love was cold. Solid ice. He had not touched her in days. That is, with nothing but whips, cold, cold chains, and cold, cold glances. She had displeased him in some way he would not explain. Or, perhaps this is what pleased him. This distance. This frost. This psychological torture. Not knowing.

  There had been times, in the beginning, when he had set her alight. Scorched her in a flow of hot lava. She had burned. Like a melting candle. Like a fallen star, hurtling into the sun.

  But love was not the word for this. Enslavement was. There was nothing for her to give that had not already been taken. Once, she had loved...but that love had proven to be the vehicle of her banishment to this dark shore. Flushed.

  Flushed along this course. Like a blood red river. Swept downstream. Toward the stronghold that was Garrison. Arms, iron. Eyes, steel. Heart, stone. Garrison. Not so much a man as a state of being. Swept across the threshold of this dark fortress. Drawbridge rising. Enrounded by the stone walls of that bitter soul. Locked in that cold heart. Sealed, as though in a tomb...

  Stroud was still reading by the time Ever had completed her chore. He spied her from the corner of his eye, once again hovering expectantly in the archway.

  “The fire needs fuel,” he said without glancing up.

  Ever crossed to the hearth, extinguished the depleted candles and re-stoked the fire. She came over to the coffee table, tentatively resting her hand on the cigarette case.

  “Help yourself,” Stroud said and Ever took a cigarette and lit up. “Now sit down and be quiet,” he instructed, so Ever sat by the hearth, chin rested on her crooked knees, staring distractedly into the rekindled flames.

  This room. Designed for her. This dungeon. This window. Tiny. Thick iron bars, mortared into stone. Bed - more of a rack - jutting into the room’s center, as a man’s erection juts from his tense loins. This rack, where she could be, frequently was, split apart and immobilized for his amusement.

  Table. Small. Low. A three legged stool. Blank paper and pencil provided. A place to sit and vent her sentiments in words. On paper. For him to seize and invade. As he invaded everything.

  She had tried to keep away from that corner. The only place that offered any form of distraction from this endless wait. Only place. She had tried not to scribble to no avail.

  So she had done it. Because she knew. Paper was destructible. As she was. So she wrote. Penciled her confession, in large words that ran down the page in listing lines, like a ship drained of half its ballast. Then she ripped them. Ripped and ripped, until the sentences were only words. The words only disconnected letters. The letters a small pile of confetti that seemed large on the tiny desk.

  Punishment. Bound. A tattoo of searing red stripes that made grid work of her flesh. Diamond shaped boxes in which those shredded letters could have been etche
d. Like a crossword puzzle. Cross words. Lines crossed. Bridges. Swords. Heart crossed... She had not done it again. Not yet.

  Only other place was the wall. Mirror there. Large, to catch her whole image. There to reflect her subjugation. Mirror, glass, but unreachable. Precious breakable glass. A blade for veins. Inaccessible, behind bars. Bars there, also, so she may never see herself, other than behind bars.

  And he would come again. His image in place behind hers. The true garrison. In due course, he would come...

  Stroud stared at the last page a long moment before setting it aside. Still he sat, in muted contemplation. Ever was not even aware he had finished reading. She had snuck another cigarette and he, so steeped in the reading, had not noticed the movement. She was startled by the sound of his voice.

  “You were afraid to show me this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  Ever continued to stare into the flames, unable to respond.

  “Were you afraid I wouldn’t like it?”

  Ever’s mouth compressed and Stroud assumed he would not get an answer. His eyes dropped to the manuscript pages.

  “Afraid it would give you power,” Ever murmured.

  Stroud studied her but Ever’s eyes remained averted.

  “It certainly does offer some insights.”

  The slave advanced no further comment.

  “Ever, come here.”

  Ever moved across the floor to his chair side.

  Stroud leafed through a sheaf of pages. Turned the chosen passage for her to see. “When did you write this scene?”

  Ever shrugged. “About four months ago.”

  “You wrote this without ever having been involved in this kind of relationship?”

  “Yes.”

  “But your description of the situation. The conflict of emotions in your heroine.”

  “All in my imagination,” she said softly.

  Stroud sighed. “Well, you certainly are a writer.”

  “I’m a fantasizer.”

  “What do you think a writer is?”

  Ever made no comment.

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “About a year, on and off.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “I think it may be the best thing I’ve ever written.”