by Hayley White
Stroud emptied his glass and set it on the table for a refill. As Ever sat forward to pick up the carafe, Brooke tossed back the remains in his glass and held it as she refilled it.
“You said there were some other things?” Brooke was saying.
“Yes,” Stroud replied, rising. He left his glass on the table but Brooke took his with him as he followed Stroud around behind the couch to the service table. Although her glass was still half full, Ever refilled it from the carafe as Stroud opened the drawer to show Brooke the items stored there.
By now, every syllable of the conversation fuelled the fire in her head and Ever knew the carefully applied antiperspirant was beginning to fail her. Stroud was showing Brooke the manacles and the collar, and she thought, Please, please! Don’t let him take them out of the drawer.
She could not raise her eyes as the men returned to their seats but she was able to assure herself they had brought nothing with them from the drawer. Thank God.
Ever was gazing at the last tiny sip of wine in her glass, wondering if Stroud would notice if she poured herself another, when he finally addressed her directly. Her head jerked up.
“Ever, if you please...” He was standing by the dark plum colored upholstered chair near the end of the short branch of the sofa.
Ever set her glass on the table with a click and rose. Stroud had her kneel on the seat of this armless chair, her arms rested across the back of it. Her fingers dug into the soft padding as she heard Brooke get up and approach.
Without a word, Stroud stroked a hand down the back of Ever’s head. She heard a warning whisper of air before the crop struck her across the behind. Her fingers dug deeper into the back of the chair, her breath caught in her throat. The blow was not severe but Stroud never began with his heaviest stroke. She took five more evenly paced blows of Stroud’s hand, before there was a pause.
Ever felt the urge to glance around but she feared Stroud would reprimand her. Yet, there was really no need to see. She already knew what he was going to do, although it was impossible to believe he actually would place that weapon in Brooke’s enormous hand with an invitation to…
The first stroke hit low, catching her across the upper thighs. It was not a particularly harsh blow but heavy enough to telegraph Brooke’s intention to prompt a reaction.
Ever braced herself more steadfastly. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this extraordinary situation but she was damned if she’d let Brooke see her flinch.
She refused to keep count but it seemed Stroud permitted Brooke at least twenty blows, each superior to the last in placement and power. By the time Stroud called a halt, Ever had yelped twice. Her face was pressed into her forearms and she burned with pain and humiliation as Stroud raised the back of her skirt, revealing to Brooke the result of his efforts.
Ever was still in position on the chair when Brooke took his leave about twenty minutes later. Stroud offered her the remains in the carafe, which she accepted gratefully, but she was prohibited from expressing her feelings about what had occurred. In fact, she was not allowed to speak of it at all until Stroud broached the subject during the drive home the following evening.
“You have some comments about the week-end?” he asked, catching Ever off guard.
“I suppose I do.”
“Let’s hear them.”
She’d had more than ample time to collect her thoughts but, up until this moment, Ever believed her impressions would have to be saved for her secret journal.
“I was... surprised you would just bring someone in that way and allow him to smack me with a crop.”
“Surprise is good,” Stroud replied with a note of approval. “Did you truly object?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could have.”
Ever stared out the window in silence for a moment.
“Are there going to be more ‘surprises’?” she asked.
“It’s safe to assume there will,” he said.
Chapter Ten
Ever’s notes about Brooke did not begin with the crop episode. When she tried to put her thoughts down on paper, she found she could not clarify her feelings about it. In retrospect, it seemed like a dream, and it was really Stroud’s final words to her that left the lasting impression. “It’s safe to assume there will.”
***
Ever was indeed surprised when he called her mid-week to say he’d be down within the hour to see her. She used the time to bathe and attend to a bit of hasty straightening up. She burned with excitement at the prospect of seeing him, but upon his arrival, Stroud wasted little time on small talk or preliminaries.
Almost immediately, he took her to the bedroom. He stripped her and laid her on the bed, wrists chained to the headboard, her legs spread and bound to the footboard. He stood at the dresser, his hands on the open lid of the outfitting chest. He’d planned to undress and take her immediately but he paused.
“Something is missing,” he said.
“Missing?” Ever echoed, her tone ill-meshed with the mood in the room.
“From the chest.”
“What?”
Stroud’s hands now lighted on the edge of the dresser, one either side of the chest. “You don’t know what I’m referring to?”
“No,” Ever said.
“You’re sure?”
Ever choked out a laugh. “What is this? Inventory?”
There was a short pause, and then Stroud said, “Yes. Why not?”
“What?” Ever cried.
Stroud’s hands detached themselves from the dresser and he turned. “Why don’t you list off the contents of the chest?”
‘What?’ formed again on Ever’s lips but she didn’t speak it. She flushed with sudden heat in response to the undertone of challenge in Stroud’s quiet request.
“Stroud I—”
“You don’t think you can do it?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Why don’t you try?” He was unbuckling his belt and, when it was undone, he did something he rarely did. He drew it out of the belt loops of his trousers.
“I’m waiting,” he said.
“There’s a length of binding rope,” Ever began, a little faintly. “A collar. The manacles, which I’m wearing, the chain and locks attached to those. The blindfold...”
Ever paused, momentarily distracted by the way Stroud was coiling the belt around his knuckles.
“Is that everything?”
“Two silk sashes,” Ever continued. “A leash, the chain connectors, bolt snaps, the cat, ankle bracelets…”
“You’re wearing those.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She stopped again to think.
“The cat,” Stroud stipulated into her pause.
“I mentioned it.”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t there?”
“You know it isn’t.”
“Did you take it out last time you were here?” she suggested.
“Week-end before last,” Stroud said in a crisper tone. “You put these things away yourself.”
Ever was mute. The belt in his hand was prepared for use as a whip. He was terribly still and calm.
“Tell me where it is.”
“Perhaps it’s misplaced.”
“Is it?”
No. Hell no. It wasn’t misplaced. Ever’s lips pursed.
“Well?” Stroud asked.
“In the closet,” she admitted at last.
“Which closet? This one?”
“On the shelf. Under my sweaters,” she said in a near whisper.
Stroud went to the bedroom closet and returned with the cat-o-nine-tails.
“Why did you hide this?”
“I’m afraid of it,” she confessed, which he’d known all along.
“As afraid as you are of being struck with this belt?”
Ever froze. Stroud set the cat down on the dresser. “I’m surprised you’d do this,” he said. “Your action reveals a new side of you. Of course, it’s pl
aced you at risk of learning a new side of me...”
***
Come the week-end, Ever still smarted from the punishing effects of Stroud’s belt, but his demeanor implied there was still ground to make up. Ever didn’t mind. She was prepared to go to just about any lengths to restore his trust in her. Yet, once again she was caught off guard.
On Friday night, instead of taking her to his bedroom, he led her to another room down the hall. It was a tiny room, suitable perhaps as the nursery of a newborn. Opposite the door, near the corner, a small window was set into the wall, forming a deep ledge that was about as high as Ever’s chin. This window, square at the bottom and arched at the top, was exactly the same shape as the barred window in the stone cell of Ever’s literary heroine.
The room was bare, except for a full-sized mattress on the floor with a white, faux fur coverlet and a single pillow. Ever was perplexed by the presence of a roll of toilet paper on the floor, until she realized the elegant, white porcelain object beside it was an antique chamber pot.
The only other addition to this stark ensemble was a shiny chrome chain extending from a ring screwed into the base board by a steel plate.
She’d been put to bed nude before. She’d worn manacles and a collar – even had her collar locked onto a chain. But she’d never had to sleep with her manacles chained together. Nor had she been sequestered in a private cell, the door of which was locked from the outside.
Stroud said nothing but words were unnecessary. There were enough words crowding Ever’s head as she lay down for her first sleepless night in this cell. Although perfectly comfortable, this was not a room for rest. It was a chamber for reflection upon the realms into which her master wished to steer her. A place that clearly illustrated the depth of Stroud’s commitment.
***
Brooke paused outside Stroud’s front door, surprised by the intensity of his excitement. Tonight he would see Ever again. Silent, compliant Ever. An enigma. She was undoubtedly beautiful but very different to other women he’d met in Stroud’s company. Of course, she’d said only four words at their first meeting but Brooke was sure Stroud would not invite a woman that bored him into his life. Not this far in. Brooke didn’t know how to define the perimeters of this kind of relationship, but he figured Ever must be something special. She intrigued him and his curiosity lured him into the situation.
Ever was on her knees in the living room, her torso prone over a large round ottoman upholstered in white leather. She was nude, except for a pair of black panties. She looked very fetching in the pose and Brooke was delighted that Stroud had seen to this arrangement for his arrival.
Brooke followed his host into the kitchen where he was preparing coffee. Stroud chatted about business matters. Brooke attended with only half an ear, marveling at Stroud’s casual approach to the evening’s proceedings. Perhaps a man of his experience did not succumb to impatience under such circumstances and Brooke would have to trust in Stroud’s sense of style and timing in these matters.
Several whips of varying degree were laid out on the coffee table in the living room. Stroud invited Brooke to look them over while they drank their coffee.
“Oh, I like this,” Brooke remarked, picking up the black, dual lashed whip.
“Yes, it’s a favorite of mine,” Stroud agreed but he picked up the camel whip as he rose and finally approached Ever. He began with a few firm strokes across her back side, then invited Brooke to try his hand.
The camel whip struck with a heavier, broader stroke than the crop he’d experimented with the week before. In a way, it was more fun, since there was less risk of injuring Ever.
They soon graduated to the crop, Stroud still confining the striking area to Ever’s buttocks. Brooke didn’t concern himself with Ever’s feelings until Stroud commenced across her bare back with the long quirt, wresting the first gasp from her. It was a small, tense intake of breath, the kind of sound made by someone trying to suppress reaction. The gasps took on a more desperate tone once Brooke began with the quirt and he quickly discovered his growing confidence with the crops could not be applied to this instrument.
When he hesitated, Stroud signaled to him. Brooke stepped back slightly and continued with the quirt, demonstrating little improvement in placement and consistency. By now, Ever was obviously laboring. Stroud raised a hand. “We’ll break for a few minutes.”
He squatted to apply manacles to Ever’s wrists, which he locked together before withdrawing to the kitchen for fresh coffee. Brooke stayed behind, silently studying Ever. Although many had already faded, some of the marks on her back had come up in welts and Brooke wondered if this was one of the more severe whippings she’d endured.
He sat down with Stroud for a second cup of coffee as they discussed the handling of crops as opposed to more flexible whips. Stroud mentioned the possibility of Brooke trying out the black whip.
“Are you sure?” Brooke asked, thinking Ever must have reached her limit.
“Of course,” Stroud said, rising.
For the first time that night, Ever showed resistance as Stroud brought her to her feet. She didn’t speak, but it was clear she was still self-conscious of her nudity. Even more obvious was her reluctance to be bound against the wall. Brooke was intrigued by the bruises still evident on Ever’s thighs from Stroud’s belt earlier in the week and astonished at how much more affliction she tolerated at their hands that night.
Stroud began with the black whip and, when Brooke got his hands on it, his concerns about Ever once again melted away. He worked up to a steady rhythm, losing himself in the sights and sounds of his strokes, Ever’s cries, and the dance of her up stretched body under the lash. Perspiration bled from his pores like the toxic waste of unexpressed yearnings and the stronger Ever’s inarticulate protests became, the more he wanted to punish her. The more he wanted...
Ever was still against the wall when it came time for Brooke to leave. The image of her there was burned in his mind as he sat alone in his car outside the house. He did not want to over stay his welcome but he’d been reluctant to go. He still coursed with energy and a feeling of... power. He boiled with a sexual tension that thrilled him and he knew it would not be appeased by anything but more of Ever.
***
Once again, Brooke’s visit was the main focus of Ever’s week-end at Stroud’s. And, as before, having checked every effort on her part to bring it up, Stroud was the one to broach the subject during the drive home on Sunday evening.
“Judging from your response to my questions over these past weeks, I suspect being dominated by two men is a fantasy of yours...”
Stroud paused, yet not long enough for Ever to think of a reply to this insight.
“Even if you admit to this, it doesn’t mean you automatically consent.”
“Consent to what?” she asked softly.
“I want to introduce Brooke into the relationship.”
“It seems you already have,” Ever said. Stroud made no reply so she asked, “Is this a prelude to some kind of group thing?”
“No. This concerns only Brooke. I’d like him to see more of you, and vice versa.”
“Why bring Brooke into it?”
“I have my reasons. Do you think you can handle it?”
“It depends,” Ever said.
“On what?”
“How far it goes.”
“And what do you perceive as the limit?”
“I don’t know...”
“Suppose there are no defined limits.”
“Meaning?”
“Ultimately, I’d like Brooke to be able to exercise almost the same freedoms with you as I do.”
“Including sex?”
“Would that be unacceptable?”
“I’m not even sure I like Brooke.”
“Is it relevant?”
Stroud flicked on the indicator and turned onto the shoreline drive. He glanced at Ever briefly but her face was averted, her eyes scanning the strip of beach curving awa
y to the horizon. In a few more yards, the view would be obscured by the high rise buildings of the small city. He slowed and pulled up first in line at a red light.
“Not everything you do for me will be uncomplicated or easy,” he said quietly. “Perhaps nothing will...”
The light turned and they pulled away. The pace of the journey slowed as Stroud negotiated the streets of Ever’s neighborhood. They were not far from her door. It was almost dark.
“And what if I were to fall in love with him?” Ever asked, thinking the question would shock him.
In a perfectly neutral voice Stroud answered, “You must always follow your heart, Ever.”
***
Their conversation was on her mind as Ever stripped and paused to examine herself in the mirror that night. Her arrival home was characterized by the same dreamlike quality she’d felt the Sunday before. She slipped into her nighty and, before turning out the light, she picked up the cloth covered blank book, twenty pages of which were now filled with tiny, careful script.
‘Marked again, although not as brutally as the first time. Now a new dimension is added, since these are not the legacy of just one man, but two.
Follow my heart. Follow a heart that races like a panicked horse down a rocky ravine into strange and potentially treacherous territory?
Can I confess my apparent anxiety is also the face of unlimited eagerness? My caution an equal competitor to my desire?
How to frame a reply to this question when I hardly have the where-with-all to form an opinion...’
Chapter Eleven
Friday evening. Stroud’s knock at the door. Strictly punctual, as always. Ever grabbed her overcoat from the walk-in closet and tossed it across one of the dining chairs on her way to answer the door.
Stroud stepped inside, bringing a gust of chilly wind with him.
“What kept you?” he asked.
“Kept me?”
“From answering when I came to the door.”
“Oh, I had to get my coat from the closet.”
“I told you I’d be here at seven. At seven you’re ready to answer the door.”
His tone didn’t tell her. His tone was level and conversational, as always. It was the words. She’d made an error.