Someone’s hand roughed up my hair, then pulling my head back, the head of a penis presented itself to my waiting lips. The stench of a man’s crotch was a heady aphrodisiac causing my mouth to salivate and my lips to open as they sought out the fleshy organ. I toyed with the head, using the fellatio skills I’d been trained to use. But suddenly, all my careful skills were whisked aside with the huge member unceremoniously shoved into my mouth. I immediately gagged. But the huge organ wasn’t going away. The man who owned it lunged again and again, drilling my mouth so fiercely that I could barely breathe. My nose was nestled against the base of his organ, pressed to a hairy crotch and forced to stay there by a pair of hands clutching the sides of my head and using my ears as handles. So intent was I on the man at my mouth that I hardly realized there was another one working the opening of my ass, his fingers invading the sexual places of my body until my pussy flowed with juice and my asshole was lubricated for the sex that was certain to follow. Even my underside was molested, breasts pawed by a crude hand until I shrieked—as much as one can shriek with a cock clinging determinedly to my throat.
The penetration went on until I was not only stuffed at the mouth, but a thick male organ impaled my ass and my cunt was savaged by probing fingers. My mind had settled into a hazy delirium where the sound of the pounding music matched the rough beating of my body’s orifices, until I’d nearly passed out from the frenetic attack. My resistance diminished like crumbling leaves in a wet gutter. That gone, the mood of the night began to infect me with a hedonistic fervor for more: for another cock, another hand, another pair of lips to please, the scent of another man to shock my senses back to life, or perhaps, the sensuous softness of a woman’s body to soothe away the physical cruelty committed by my sadistic lovers.
One crashing orgasm led to another, then another, then to my screaming into the sweltering night air; I found myself rolled onto my back, my limbs askew and the chains half gone—though the shackles at my wrists and ankles remained. The red sash had disappeared so that when I opened my eyes, I saw Thayer staring down at me through the murky haze of the labyrinth.
“What a fucking slut!” He shook his head in mock disgust; his way of diminishing me further.
Even if I’d wanted to speak, I wouldn’t have dared open my mouth.
The screams of a coming woman, perhaps the agony of her pain, were all the labyrinth would tolerate from their sexual ‘properties’, as we were fondly called. I’d learned this fact the hard way on my first excursion into the shadowy depths of that lusty lair.
The first time a stranger referred to me as ‘property’, I’d risen up with fists clenched, blurting out an unwise, “How dare you!”
The man was within his rights to knock me down with the back of his hand, although Thayer did it for him.
The look of shock on my face hardly phased my husband. I knew he had a dark brooding side; war does that to men, but I’d never seen it surface—not like that, not aimed at me, his beloved wife. Ten years of marriage had taught me that my husband was a complex creature with passions I could barely understand, though I always thought I’d made a reasonable attempt to do so.
When out of the blue one Sunday afternoon Thayer made his first and not so subtle inquiries about my inclination for sexual adventure, I could sense that much of his time spent brooding had been aimed at his own perverse inclinations. Until that day, the kinkiest we’d been in bed was anal sex—maybe a once a month adventure—and a little light bondage, as in tying my hands to the headboard of the bed while Thayer teased me with a feather or his fingers. He finally worked me up to a short-taloned leather flogger, which I later learned was far more playful than painful in its impact. At first, I was pretty pissed off that he didn’t allow me to return the favor and tie him up, but from early on during our simple experimentation it became clear that I would not be the one tying the knots or wielding the whip in my marriage. I accepted this. It wasn’t a huge surprise to me that Thayer had a bit of a sadistic streak, although it was always something we joked about rather than took seriously. A little light-hearted banter would ease any tension and we’d be off on another subject. I was actually proud of myself for being so damned cooperative, making a quick assumption that what rankled hotly in my husband’s soul needed occasional expression. If I could be of service, why not? However, I never dreamed that the ‘occasional’ expression would be taken to a place where the extremes of sexual perversion were not just innocuous experimentation but a serious game.
In his first forays on the subject, Thayer said he’d met a man, a member of a loosely knit organization that arranged sex parties; would I like to try one?
Yes, he said the whole thing in almost the same breath. My immediate response was: ‘Are you fucking kidding!’ To which Thayer flatly stated without a bit of emotion, ‘No, I’m not.’
I stormed out of the bedroom, and we were estranged for the rest of the night until I had some time to think through my response, his motives, and the strange way the proposal effected me.
“Does it mean that I have sex with other people?” I asked him. I stood at the den door, where I later found him reading the evening paper; my arms were crossed in front of my chest, as I defensively waited for further details.
He looked up, peering at me over his newspaper and above his reading glasses. “If it’s out of the question, I’m okay with that,” he said. The almost ominous quality of his earlier demeanor seemed to have vanished, and I stared at matter-of-fact old Thayer, calm and serene as ever. The man was steady if he was anything, and he loved me, that I knew. I knew too that this was not a mid-life crisis; something deeper had spawned his interest.
“I was actually thinking the idea sounded, well, interesting,” I offered, as if I’d truly risen above my pervious turmoil. It took me a lot to get that statement out, but once I’d stumbled over the words, I was pretty happy I’d told him the truth. “You just took me by surprise. I never had any idea that something like what you’re suggesting would cross your mind. You’re normally pretty protective of me. The old ‘look but don’t touch’ kind of thing.”
He chuckled, knowing how right I was.
Finally, he put down the paper and considered me thoughtfully. “This is different, Kathryn. And I don’t blame you for being hesitant, I was too. But then I felt as if the whole idea opened something in me that I’d been trying to resist. They call it the labyrinth. I’m not sure why, but I do know that you may find every kink in the book there. I also know that it’s not a equal opportunity club, if you can even call it a club at all. Women are treated as playthings, and for some, as if they are no more than properties. There’s S&M, bondage and lots of sex. If we go at all, it has to be your choice, and you have to be willing to submit to what I ask of you. You either play by the rules or we don’t go. If I knew more, I’d tell you, but I think that pretty much explains what it’s about. I realize it’s not much to go on. If it had been anyone but Alec suggesting this, I’d have passed on it and never mentioned it to you.”
“Alec?”
“I’ve known him since college.” He observed me for nearly a minute while I mulled this information finally adding: “No pressure, Kathryn. I swear.”
“But if you really want to try it, why not? This isn’t some sort of lifetime commitment, is it?”
“Not that I know of.”
A deep breath, a smile on my face. “Then we’ll go.”
I slipped into the room, making my way into his warm lap where he cuddled me close, wrapping me in his big affectionate arms. We kissed until our kisses led us back to the bedroom where we made love again, our passions fueled by the unseen energy of the labyrinth already working its way through our horny bodies.
I came out of my sex-soaked trance and was jerked to my feet with a tug from Thayer. He’d attached the leash to my collar, and while I had a break from the frenetic sexual activity, he led me around like his prized pet. During the quiet moments, I had time to collect myself and get a good look
at my surroundings.
The labyrinth is never found in the same location twice—at least not in my several years experience. I’ve been taken to various estate homes—some the ostentatious overstatement of the filthy rich, some ramshackle old houses with charm and bad plumbing. Just as intriguing was a Spanish hacienda, the ruins of an army fort, and, in the dead of winter an ancient hunting lodge with the scariest staircase I’ve ever climbed on hands and knees. There’s always music—heavy metal, string quartets, sexy jazz; I don’t know who sets the stage but it always fits the mood. And yet, the sound that most remarkably sticks in my head as I think of the labyrinth is that of barking dogs. These canine sentries guard against the world outside, which has no place within the delicate balance of the labyrinth’s movable walls. I’ve come to find some comfort from their vigilante service, though I wonder if that comfort is more psychological than real. If the dogs are there to warn the unsuspecting, and plant a quiver of fear in the hearts of the women who are part of the proceedings, they certainly do their job well.
It has become clear to me that whoever creates the labyrinth in its many incarnations ensures its secrecy and has protected its activities from intruders, and even the long arm of law, with more than several vicious dogs that ward away the indigent and the curious that might happen on the scene.
How all this works is just mere speculation on my part. I know that Alec West has something to do with it, and a man named Mr. D’Lancy, though for the life of me I don’t ever recall meeting him. It makes me wonder if he exists at all.
Any attempts to wring facts from my husband have failed. He either ignores my inquisitive probing, or shrugs as if he doesn’t have a clue how these events are pulled off. Knowing Thayer, he knows plenty, at least enough to feel safe himself and sure that I will be safe as well. I sometimes wonder, however, if other women who find themselves in this offbeat world feel as safe from harm as I do. I have Thayer. Who do they have protecting them?
On a more upbeat note, I like to imagine that somewhere there’s a magician stirring a pot and casting a spell, one that weaves its way like an insidious fog through the minds and bodies of the labyrinth’s players, drawing them to assemble for a night of riotous perversion and returning them to their lives with that significant piece of them that the real world leaves longing finally feeling some degree of satisfaction. Conjured through the careful manipulation of shadows and mirrors, I sense the labyrinth as a dangerous inebriation, even though I’m sure it’s no more perilous than a couple of cocktails or a relaxing joint on a Friday night.
On this occasion I found myself in a converted warehouse, although it was not clear exactly how the large space was being remade—subsidized apartments, upscale condos, an office building? No clue as I crawled across its wood floors, although the shining surfaces looked as if they’d been thoroughly refurbished, which led me to believe that this was not some slapdash renovation. The walls were enormous, the partitioned rooms quite large, sound hit my ears in strange ways coming from all directions. Some conversations I heard distinctly, while much of the din was just a constant roar of noise. After a time the surrounding atmosphere became so chaotic inside my head that I let my mind check out and my body lead. I had done that before with good results.
But wasn’t that exactly what I wanted—a place, a time, a circumstance where Kathryn could quit being Kathryn, quit being the stock broker, the wife, the self-made woman, the dynamic force in a power-oriented world? That would make me the labyrinth’s cliché female: assertive working woman by day, harlot by night. A cliché I frankly don’t mind.
I know that many of the other females there didn’t share my situation. Did I know this because I’d spent time with them talking ‘labyrinth’ over coffee and donuts? Did we lunch together every Tuesday noon and share ‘labyrinth’ gossip?
Of course not.
I know what I know by instinct. Seeing women baring their bodies is seeing them bare their souls, their lives, their warts and subtleties. Seeing them beaten, crying, pining for more, begging for the soul deep satisfaction that comes from playing amongst the damned and the extreme, tells me volumes about who they are. All the facts about them read like the pages of an instruction manual. I know them; they are my sisters, my fellow slaves to unspoken lusts, even though we’d never speak to one another should we meet on a city street.
Jewel was there that night with Billy. By the time we arrived at their scene, she was already on her knees, weeping, her head in her hands as Billy berated her for some supposed crime. My opinion? Lots of made-up stories arise to give the heavy stuff a decent rationale. Like the burned dinner, the overdrawn checking account, or being caught running around on her husband—that would be a laugh, since Billy is not Jewel’s husband. I know this because I listen carefully to the innocuous conversation, the ones I’m not supposed to hear but I do anyway. I pay attention. The entire scene intrigues me, plus there are the dead hours of these long nights when I recoup from one scene of exhausting sex play and must regroup for the next. As demanding as the constant action sometimes is, even I need a break, even Thayer can appreciate that.
Dead hours can get boring without some way to spend my time.
I think. I listen. I form opinions that will never be voiced. I even make up stories for my sister sex slaves, only to learn, if I’m lucky to stumble on real facts, that I’m not far off the mark about these women.
One important opinion: regardless of the events that might damn a labyrinth property to a hard night of sexual abuse, the stated ‘criminal’ acts of which they are accused are just excuses, what sadists and masochists do to justify their need to give and receive the extremes of pain. There should be no need for excuses, but I know for some that heightens the experience. They are living out their dreams, their secret fantasies in ways the real world never allows. At its heart, this is simply a wonderfully creative, deviously deceptive, but in the end basically transparent game of pretend.
Jewel wept with great emotion—and that was real. As always, she suffers true pain. I imagine her life is a miserable one; something was murmured once about a drunken husband. Which causes me to wonder, is her masochistic play at the labyrinth an act of revenge for her? Or the way she eases the pain in her life? Does she need this sort of night to soothe away the ache that her real life gives her? I believe so, in part, though I believe there is something deeper, too. She is possessed by this. I see that truth on her emotive face, and all the make-up and all the pretty smiles cannot mask that fact. When the make-up and the pretty smiles fade her screams remain, her tortured face turns savage, her eyes grow wild, and she begs like a dog to feel another lashing stroke of the whip tear into her body.
It’s good that Billy loves her—which is something that is quite clear to all. But like every other man who belongs in this crowd, Billy is a sadistic bastard. I watch Billy and Jewel with fear and awe of something so shockingly brutal and tenderly moving that I’m prone to clutch my throat, the anxiety in me grabs hard as I breathlessly watch their startling interaction.
In the warehouse he repeated what I’ve seen from him before. He stalked her first, a slap to the face followed, then derisive remark.
“Look at you, slut! Yeah, look at you, weeping like a baby.” Another slap and her sobbing grew richer and more self-absorbed. “You deserve your tears,” he mocked her. “You like them, you need them. Tell me that’s so.”
She hesitated, preferring the bath of tears to a glance at his face. But that is not what Billy wanted and he used the tip of a riding crop to raise her chin so she would look him in the eye.
Finally, after constant balking, there was an anguished: “Yes, yes I need them, Billy!”
She sobbed more, tears streamed from her upturned face as Billy refused to lower the crop.
There are no safe places in the labyrinth, no place to hide. Everything is exposed.
“You want it hard?” I asked.
Sobbing still, she said: “Yes, Billy. Yes, sir, I want it hard.”
“You want me to beat you?” He always makes her be specific.
“No-No!” She shook her head and closed her eyes, but he was right there with her, denying her denial.
“Look at me!” he snapped like an angry terrier.
“Yes, sir.” Like the true supplicant her hands were in praying position.
“And what is your crime tonight?”
“I’m a lousy wife and a miserable mother. I steal stuff. Money. I’ve taken his money.” Her anguished face was filled with guilt.
Taking her husband’s money because he wouldn’t give it to her otherwise—this little tidbit of information came to me a year ago when I heard Billy talking to Thayer as Jewel was coming down from a subspace high.
“You disgust me,” Billy sounded angry.
He slapped her face several times, then jerked her chain and forced her to her feet. She rose to stand teetering on a pair of ridiculously high spike heels that no woman could master—a fucking sadist’s dream. With her collar shackled to a hanging hook, she was forced to her tiptoes, forced to stay steady, even when Billy smacked her big breasts back and forth with the palm and back of his hand until both were bouncing madly and gloriously red.
“You just don’t know how to behave, do you?” The question just rhetorical.
He started smacking her pussy, making her dance on precarious tiptoes, wobbling, wavering, reeling from side to side while he barked an ill-tempered, “Stand still!” Then he continued the abuse in the same vicious way, knocking her off balance again. Finally, he moved in close and grabbed her by the collar, the two going eye to eye. “I said, stand still.”
Labyrinth Page 2