Beyond the Black Curtain

by Hayley White

  “Then you’ve written other stories?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Like this?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “What brought you to this kind of writing?”

  There was a protracted pause. “Longing.”

  My God, he thought. He’d been more accurate in his initial assessment of her than he’d ever dared imagine.

  “Well, I don’t see how you can believe this can’t compare with what I read to you.”

  Ever shrugged again. “It doesn’t, does it?”

  “No,” Stroud said firmly. “It’s better. It’s dark and frightening but it really stabs at the heart of things. I think it’s good and there certainly are people who will really go for it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Ever finally smiled a little, the moon reflected off the sunlight beaming from her master’s face.

  Stroud patted the pages on his lap. “When this is finished, you will submit it for publication.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “We’ll figure out where to begin.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was during Ever’s week long Christmas hiatus that Stroud first saw her apartment. Ever was no longer afraid of giving up the location, since Stroud already knew where she lived, but as she keyed the lock of the front door, she was suddenly self-conscious about the revelation to him of how she lived. They stood at the end of the long room which comprised the sitting and dining areas, not to mention the open, walk in closet beneath the stairs.

  Ever was instantly aware of the age and simplicity of her furniture. Wall units crammed with note books, a couple of plants, a few treasured knick-knacks consisting of bits of wood, sea shells, small china figurines with no value or meaning to anyone but herself. The apartment itself, with second rate brown and gold flecked shag carpet and walls thoughtlessly painted a stark popcorn white, rather than the warmer Navaho white, like other rentals in the area.

  “Not a fancy place,” she said. “It’s an old building, but pretty typical for this area.”

  “It’s very cozy,” Stroud said. “Just the sort of environment I’d expect to find you in. It suits your needs, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. I admit there’s been a certain joy in the independence. It’s easy to maintain, although I wish I could let in more light. It’s not like the place I left...” she said and Stroud took it to be a reference to the separation from her husband.

  “There are no pictures on the walls,” he remarked.

  “No,” Ever said. “I guess I always assumed this was just a temporary thing. Stupid, really. I’ve been here for two years.”

  “Will you show me the rest?”

  “There isn’t much,” Ever said, leading the way between the closet and dining table toward the kitchen, which Stroud could already see through the empty door frame.

  A tiny square vestibule divided the living room from the kitchen. Here were two doors – one to the left, which was the bathroom, and one to the right, Ever’s tiny bedroom. After a cursory glance into the kitchen and bathroom, Stroud stepped into the bedroom. He moved all the way in, skirting the black lacquered, metal frame bed. He stopped by the dresser in the far corner and turned to scan the entire layout.

  Apart from the dresser and the bed, there were two natural rattan bedside tables, with drawers and enclosed cupboard space below, topped by a rather intriguing pair of black porcelain lamps with wicker shades that drew the whole collage nicely together. There was a minuscule built in closet with no door and, on the wall, a large cork board with dozens of strips cut from index cards pinned to it in meticulous rows. A brief study revealed it was a story board she probably used as a plotting aid for her writing. The brick and board shelves she’d constructed under the window by the bed were crammed with note books of varying sizes and colors. This writing of hers was everywhere.

  On the top shelf, lovingly framed in cheap portrait frames, were photographs of two men, presumably cut from magazines. Striking looking men, apparently celebrities. One of them he recognized as a star in the music world.

  “Are these heroes of yours?” he asked.

  Ever laughed, blushing slightly. “Actually, one of them is. Very much so. I don’t really know the identity of other man.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re for inspiration. Character models. It’s easier to work from real faces.”

  Stroud smiled. “I see,” he said and his eyes returned to the bed. “I like the arrangement in here. The black and wicker is an interesting combination. Did you pick it out?”

  “Yes. It’s about the best I could do since the divorce.”

  “It’s very you.”

  Ever smiled shyly, viewing the whole thing with a new eye.

  “Would you mind if we made some additions?” Stroud asked.

  “Additions?”

  ***

  Over the next couple of days, Stroud took Ever shopping. They went first to a hardware store where Stroud acquired an assortment of chains, locks, keys, threaded chain connectors and cotton rope.

  He also took her to a bondage boutique downtown where Ever was obliged to stand and be fitted with an additional collar, a set of wrist and matching ankle manacles and a leather blindfold padded with sheepskin. He also picked out a black whip, similar to the one he had at home, and a small, thin bladed cat-o-nine-tails. This little cat looked innocuous enough but Ever soon discovered it was a harrowing instrument to endure across the tender flesh of her inner thighs.

  Stroud made one other stop at a department store where he purchased an elegant, locking jewelry chest of polished wood, large enough to hold most of the other purchases he’d amassed. This way, he explained, should he decide to pay her a visit on a week night, he would not be ‘caught short’.

  Ever was delighted with these acquisitions – if not a little intimidated. Now there was definitely no corner from which Stroud was excluded. There was even visual evidence in the living room in the form of eyebolts he’d screwed into the woodwork of the box beam that formed the dividing line between the living and dining areas. The chest was set up on the oak dresser in Ever’s bedroom. The key went on Stroud’s key ring.

  ***

  For the New Year’s celebration, Stroud purchased tickets to a restaurant party with a lush buffet and a live band. They arrived early, securing a quiet, private booth in a semi-darkened corner. The band was good, without being abrasive, the crowd animated.

  They dined, and danced, and returned to the table where every whim was liberally satisfied by a cheerful, attentive waiter. It was the party of the year.

  Yet, as the evening progressed, Ever’s mood seemed to grow incongruent with the gaiety of the occasion.

  Stroud gazed at her thoughtfully. “We’re dressed to the T’s, surrounded by good company, drinking excellent champagne but you look a little grim. Something wrong?”

  “To tell the truth, I hate New Year’s.”

  “So do I,” Stroud admitted, surprising her.

  “Why?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  Stroud’s eyes drifted out toward the gyrating dancers. “This used to be a favorite celebration of Francine’s and mine.”

  “Francine?”

  “My wife.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “Widowed.”

  “Oh, Stroud. How awful.”

  There was a pause.

  “It’s been five years,” Stroud said and turned back to her. “I should be over it by now.”

  “How do you get over a thing like that?” Ever asked and Stroud was touched by her understanding. “What happened? Was she ill?”

  “Car accident.”

  “Sudden, then.”

  “Very.”

  Ever shook her head in sympathy. “It’s unbelievable, the way things happen sometimes.”

  Stroud nodded. “It’s partly the reason I moved here. Distance myself...”

  Ever sighed an
d nodded. “Would you prefer to leave? You can drop me off at home, if you’d rather be alone.”

  Stroud gazed at her with a gentle smile. “That’s very generous of you,” he said, then his smile broadened, offsetting a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “But I would never consider it. Francine may be gone but you’re here and I know where I’d like to see you at midnight...”

  They went back to Ever’s apartment, where Stroud made full use of the eyebolts he’d installed in the archway, as well as the manacles and whip. And, later, in bed, the equipment he’d purchased to bind Ever to it.

  By midnight they were thoroughly disheveled, sitting up under crumpled sheets, drinking champagne from round bottomed glasses, quietly joyous and sated. The new year, perfectly turned.

  Chapter Nine

  Although the new year started out well with Stroud, the same did not hold true for Ever’s work situation. The best efforts of the telemarketing staff were not enough to significantly increase enrollments during January. Even though Ever was setting between six and eight interviews a week, it was no guarantee of enrollments. Most prospective students simply did not have the money and were unwilling or unqualified to take out loans.

  Nothing new there. Ever had similar experiences at two other schools, one of which was now in receivership. Generally, she enjoyed the work, but morale was down among the faculty and the transient telemarketers had little stake in the school’s success or failure. Telemarketing jobs were a dime a dozen.

  Ever tried to maintain her optimism and, for the time being, her concerns were largely obscured by her distraction with Stroud.

  ***

  Saturday morning, Stroud and his mistress sat at the kitchen table enjoying a breakfast of fruit, croissants and coffee. Vibrant sunlight cut through the mini blinds in yellow shafts, slicing the table in stripes of gold.

  Ever was mellow and happy, seated with one foot folded up on the chair, wearing the yellow silk pajamas Stroud gave her for Christmas. The memory of the previous night’s rapture drenched her in a soft, sensuous glow. She was more relaxed than usual, talking in an easy flow about this and that.

  Stroud was happy, too. Happy to have Ever near him and proud. Proud of her beauty, proud that she seemed contented in the relationship, and he was proud of himself. Very proud of his ability to arouse and suspend Ever, before driving her into climaxes that delivered her soft and quivering into his arms.

  He was also proud of her performance and sometimes surprised. Despite her customary formality, even primness, he’d discovered she was a difficult woman to shock. Although her experience in the lifestyle had been limited, it was evident she’d ranged far beyond those limitations through psychological avenues of adventure.

  By now he understood that Ever, like himself, had predetermined values by which she guided herself and judged his conduct. He also realized her boundaries were still well beyond the point at which they now stood. He had no desire to disrupt the relationship as it was but he did want to take it further.

  “You seem to be feeling strong today,” he said.

  “Strong?” Ever questioned, breaking off her stream of light chatter. “Why, today I could conquer worlds!” she declared with an extravagant stretch. She dropped her elbows to the table and smiled at him warmly.

  He returned the smile. “Well,” he said. “I’ll take special care not to drain this wonderful flush of energy, since we may have company tonight.”

  Ever’s smile melted in stages. “Company?”

  “Yes.” Stroud stood up and carried the dishes to the sink. “I’m expecting a guest sometime after dinner.”

  “A man?” Ever asked, directing her question at the sugar bowl.

  “Yes,” Stroud replied and said no more.

  As Stroud promised, it was a quiet day. They spent the morning reading the newspaper, ate a leisurely lunch, then walked in the brisk air down to a small community park.

  Later, they sat before the fire with hot chocolate. They spoke of light matters, neutral subjects, but Ever’s effusive mood was gone, diminished by the prospect of this anticipated guest and what the implications might be. The passing hours weighed on her, each drawing her nearer to the arrival of this stranger.

  When the light began to fade, Stroud got up to make some calls. Ever stayed by the fire, trying to deal with the quarrels in her head. It was nearly an hour later when he called her to dinner.

  Dinner was a quiet, brief affair, with Ever totally incapable of voicing the questions plaguing her, and Stroud, apparently unaware or unconcerned with her misgivings.

  “You have about an hour,” he said afterwards. “Why don’t you take this time to bathe and dress?”

  Ever glanced over but Stroud was already engrossed with the wash up. She silently withdrew upstairs.

  Stroud had laid her clothes out on the bed. A simple Viella blouse of powder blue, a skirt of the same soft draping material in a print of small blue flowers, and a sheer, front fastening brassiere. There was nothing else. Not even sandals.

  In the bathroom she noted the presence of her lipstick and scent bottle on the counter top. There would be no panties, nor even shoes, but she was expected to do make-up and perfume. Stroud wanted her to make a favorable impression on his guest. This man, whoever he was.

  More than once during her preparations Ever nearly succumbed to tears. Of course, once she commenced the make-up, tears were entirely out of the question, as were scowls or creases of disapproval. As she smoothed the creamy foundation over the planes of her face, so she smoothed away the worry lines and stroked back the heavy brow. But no detailing around the eyes, no matter how skilled the artist, could erase the accumulating fear in them.

  An hour was not very long for all she had to do and certainly too short a time for much conjecture as to whether to suppress what may be groundless fears, or to confront Stroud and demand right of approval or disapproval. You should have broached the subject at dinner, she chided herself, firmly resolving to at least inquire as to the identity of this man as soon as she got downstairs.

  The point was moot. By the time she started down, the sound of two voices in conversation told her the time for questions had expired.

  Stroud rose as Ever appeared at the base of the stairs. The other man rose, also, and Stroud introduced him simply as Brooke. Ever nodded in greeting. “How do you do?” she said softly and Brooke nodded.

  This was a tall man, Stroud’s height, maybe taller, and at least ten years younger than herself. He had the kind of physique intended more for swinging from jungle vines than confinement in a business suit, but he looked good in jacket and trousers. Very good. His clothes were expensive, cut along trendier lines than Stroud’s and, despite his almost bestial countenance; he wore them in an easy, unaffected manner.

  His face was all man. Thick eyebrows, a well shaped nose and wide sensuous mouth. His brown hair, a few shades lighter than Ever’s, was styled long and thick over his collar with one maverick lock that flopped over his broad, high brow. Although clean and manicured, his hands were large and capable looking.

  He had an imposing, restless presence, despite his slight, off kilter slouch. His eyes were electric blue – the kind of eyes that made a woman feel as though lead plating would not prohibit him from viewing as much of her as he pleased. Ever silently hoped Stroud would not detect one detail of her appearance that had been neglected in her preparations to meet his guest.

  “Ever, would you please bring in the wine?” Stroud asked and Ever nodded, retreating to the kitchen.

  A small tray had been set up with three stemmed glasses. Ever opened the fridge and found the matching carafe, already filled with red rose. Ever placed it on the tray, which seemed to be designed for this crystal ensemble, and rejoined the men in the sitting room. Stroud was seated in his usual spot. Brooke was on the long branch of the sofa, almost at the end, his leg crossed, his arm over the back. He looked comfortable enough.

  Ever set the tray on the white coffee table and, at a nod
from Stroud, poured the wine. She served Brooke first, then Stroud. When she picked up her own glass, Stroud bid her take a seat on the couch, centered between them.

  Sometime between her departure to the kitchen and her return, a leather riding crop had found its way onto the coffee table. It must have been placed there during those few moments, since there was no way Ever would have missed noticing it the instant she came downstairs. No way – unless she’d been totally distracted by the younger man’s piercing blue eyes...

  Now, of course, trapped between them, with only a thin stemmed glass to cling to, she could see nothing else. The men were conversing but she could not distinguish the words. She was sure she had never seen that crop before, which was confirmed the moment Stroud reached over to pick it up. Ever’s spell was temporarily broken and she realized they were talking about it. Stroud’s new acquisition. This lovely find.

  Stroud stretched across, Brooke reached out, and the thing changed hands. Ever took a gulp of wine, pretending not to notice – the crop or the conversation. From the corner of her eye, she watched Brooke examine the crop. He even passed the shaft of it under his nose, in appreciation of the smell of new leather. He didn’t handle it like a piece of fine craftsmanship but more with the air of a man who enjoyed untamed horses and a hard ride. He handled it like a man thing.

  Through a haze of mounting stress, Ever was able to ascertain that Stroud had purchased the crop at a shop for fine saddlery specializing in imports from Britain. So many riding whips were constructed of fiberglass anymore and it was such a relief to see the old traditions were not entirely dead.

  Ever agreed with these sentiments. She had no desire to be whipped with anything made of fiberglass. But then, she had no desire to be whipped with that crop. At least – surely not...

  Brooke replaced the crop on the table. His swift, youthfully punctuated movement made Ever want to recoil. She tried like the devil to keep a handle on the talk between the men but there was a dull roar of interference in her head, a partial deafness that isolated her from their company like a wall.