White Silk & I Belong to You

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I refrain from smirking. “You could put them back on,” I suggest.

  “No!” She looks at me in disbelief. “I can’t do that. He’s ordered me not to, besides he kept them.”

  She quivers with excitement, which starts to affect me in familiar ways. I feel my body react. I should expect this, although it seems so juvenile. Fun, maybe. But at thirty-four, I’m a generation once removed from games like this one—unless it’s just my past ruining the idea.

  “And what else did he do?”

  He made me get off, you know, play with myself. Right there in the middle of the Stony’s lunch crowd.”

  “Any one see?”

  “Oh dear, I hope not. We were in a booth, and I was next to the wall with my sweater over my lap.”

  “Did you scream?”

  “Shelly!”

  I’m not usually this forthcoming about sexual matters. Of course, Sunny is being particularly blunt today.

  “Just curious,” I shrug. “I’m thinking ‘When Harry Met Sally’. You remember the scene?”

  “Oh, God no!”

  “So what’s all this mean? New boyfriend?”

  “Shelly, this is serious, really serious. I’ve never felt like this before. I hear his voice in my head, every thought I think, every move I make, I feel him with me, his eyes roving my skin, combing my thoughts.”

  “You love him?”

  “Love him?” The word has her baffled.

  “Yeah, love him.”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “Why? Or you’re just doing this for thrills?”

  “I don’t think so,” she reflects on the idea as though it’s never crossed her mind. “I think I could love him. But that isn’t what’s important.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s the submission. I’ve never wanted these things before, but I do now. I mean being under the control of a man… I know it sounds unenlightened. But—” she’s been almost trance-like and comes-to talking directly to my face, “you think all this kinky, dungeon, slave stuff is dumb, don’t you?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “I don’t know, I just get this funny feeling from you.”

  “It’s not dumb, Sunny. You’d be surprised how sexually enlightened I am.”

  She rolls her eyes and sports an insipid grin.

  “Anything is okay with me as along as it doesn’t effect your work. That clear?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “All right then, let’s get to work.”

  Settling Sunny down is as easy as listening to the events of her life, some of which are more astounding than others. And while this one isn’t exactly astounding, it does have a clear effect on me. I’d hoped I’d be immune by now. But obviously not.

  “Oh, by the way, this was stuffed in the mailbox,” she turns to me, handing me an envelope with my name printed on the front—hand delivered; there’s no stamp, no address, no return address. The phone rings before I have time to open it, so I open my bottom desk drawer and stuff it into my purse for later.

  Steven knows I was taken hostage while filming a documentary about the legendary Orient Express. He knows I was kept captive for three years, eventually released by a sympathetic captor who decided I should be freed. But that’s all he knows. He knows nothing about the sexual slavery I was trained for, how I was used by dozens of men and eventually sold to a rich businessman to serve as his slave.

  I refuse to tell him the more lurid details of my captivity. I fear his empathy for my situation will disappear when the details get crude, and they would get crudely graphic. He’d question me. He’d want to know more, but I don’t have the stomach for going into it again. I went through it all with Kovac. He combed through every nook and cranny of my memory and heard every salacious and terrifying tale. But he was the only one who knew the whole story, and he was the only one who ever will!

  What scares me most of all with Steven, or any other man, is the story behind the bare facts, the mixed emotions, the anger, the fear and the desire so raw that even now it raises strange feelings in me—like when I hear Sunny talking about sexual submission. Yes, I have accepted that submissive side of myself that loved the incarceration and the servitude, but I doubt that any man, other than Kovac, could accept the whole truth, and not just accept but celebrate that truth. I figure that now there’s so much more of me to celebrate. Sexual submission is a just a part I can play with now and then, but it need be no more than that.

  We were at Steven’s beach house a week ago, during a storm that shook the windows and turned poor Sam into a sniveling little beast, cowering in the corner, whimpering sadly.

  That night I got as dark as I ever go with Steven when I pulled a rope from the kitchen drawer while searching for a flashlight. Sudden inspiration gave way to impulses I’d previously squelched in his presence.

  “Want to play a game?” I asked when I returned to the living room.

  He sat on the couch, smirking at me, which took on an appropriately evil look as thunder rattled the house and lightning brightened the room with flashes of brilliant white. He eyed my face and then the rope.

  “That for you or me?” he asked cautiously.

  “Me. You tie my hands behind my back and do terrible things to my body,” I said with a mischievous grin.

  His smile grew bigger. I felt his consent. I knew then that this was the way to handle my fascination for dark, confining sex. Whimsy. Spontaneity. He’d never refuse me.

  “Why not?”

  Of course, why not, the electricity was already out… no reading, no TV, no radio. There was little else to do but let the electric storm take charge. With Mother Nature happily cooperating, the game was on.

  He took the rope from my hand, stood up and planted himself behind me, all one hundred and eighty pounds of thick muscle, firm flesh and testosterone-laden drive. I shivered from my shoulders to my toes as one hand feathered its way down from my neck to my behind, where he cupped the base of my ass and gave it a gentle squeeze. I never remember when he’d been more thrilling to me than at that moment and I surrendered to that touch. I closed my eyes—which did nothing to close out the flashes of lightning that intermittently tore through the room. My eyelids brightened, and I could feel the explosions in my crotch, almost as keenly as I felt Steven’s hand fondling my privates. He tied my hands behind me, looping the sisal around my wrists several times until they were securely bound. Then he moved in front of me, where his hands went under my t-shirt and he slowly raised the thin cotton over my breasts. My nipples clenched into knots as the air stirred around them. A tingle of excitement darted through me, as I realized that my boyfriend was witnessing a surrendering side of my personality he’d never seen, feeling my arousal in a whole new way.

  “Do terrible things to your body,” he whispered between claps of thunder. “I wonder what that means?” He answered the question himself as his fingers closed in over my nipples and he began to squeeze with a biting pressure he’d never used before. As the pressure increased, so did the resulting pain. My breathing became more labored as I fought to hold back the whimpering cry that threatened at my lips.

  He gave my nipples an extra twist before he let go.

  “You’ve done this before,” I suggested.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “But right now, you’re supposed to be quiet.”

  By whose rules? I wondered. Maybe he understood more than I gave him credit for.

  We’ve only been together a little over six months—which seems like years, not months—I thought I had every corner of his sexual repertoire figured out, but perhaps not. Perhaps there is a dominant master lurking beneath the surface of my nice guy. Just my luck to never get away from sexual despots.

  Steven left me standing with my eyes closed, while a disorienting mix of sound and sensation swirled around me. I could feel myself sway, my balance unsteady as if a hand were reaching toward me, subtly pushing me off my feet. Should I jus
t fall back—or was the sofa even there? I couldn’t be sure and I couldn’t open my eyes. That would be cheating, my internal, made-up rules insisted. Before I toppled over, however, Steven returned to me, his lips meeting my lips with a kiss, one hand steadied me at the shoulder and the other pressed into my crotch.

  Something white hot and chilling ripped at my clitoris. I flinched on instinct.

  I struggled, thinking he’d lit my tiny sex bud on fire. But it wasn’t fire; it was ice, pressed so tightly against my clitoris until it burned the skin and that white-hot cold seeped into my bloodstream, carrying the artic blast into every inch of my shivering form. I jerked in an effort to get away, but couldn’t wrest from his tight hold. His arm circled my waist with visceral strength. No amount of kicking or screaming would free me, but I didn’t kick nor did I even attempt to scream—those were thoughts not actions, pictures in my mind but not how my body chose to react. Instead, the submissive switch in my psyche had been thrown. I returned to that other time when to balk could mean a fierce rebuke, to struggle meant more pain, not less, to scream would have resulted in a stunning slap across my cheek.

  Did he know what he was doing? I kept wondering to myself.

  Despite my puzzlement, I succumbed and the ice slipped into my vagina where the sensation became manageable. The remnant of that icy fire warmed me, relaxing and arousing my clenched vagina. Sex juice and water poured out over his hand.

  Then he was gone again, moving about the room, pushing furniture aside.

  Returning to me, he yanked off my shorts and panties, letting them drop to my feet. He held my arm while I disentangled myself from the pool of clothes. Then he pulled me with him to his overstuffed chair, where he sat down and I sat on his lap, straddling his hips.

  His groin was as naked as mine, his member rising with every gyration my bare crotch made against his flesh. He held my hips in place, while I danced for him, jiggling my pushed out breasts in his face like a lap dancer plying her trade. While my eyes remained tightly shut, I imagined his lit with fire, that burning gaze that occasionally appears even in a mild-mannered man in a moment of self-seeking arousal. It is so rare in Steven, yet a welcome reminder that that even he has a dark side to his character.

  I felt that dark side, especially when his fingers returned to my nipples and roughly pinched the sensitive buds. He leaned in twice and sucked, even bit them until I swooned a bit, despite my attempts to contain the grief. He sucked them harder still, until they were sore and throbbing. I humped him wantingly with his erection hitting my mound with every move. His hand went for my opening, forcing my thighs wide. Then I raised up as he pointed his shaft at my doorway, and I sank back down on the thick meat, sucking it inside my slit.

  With no hands and no way to steady myself as we roughly fucked, I was forced to give up my power and surrender to his control. I do this well, he’d be forced to conclude. He clutched my hair and pulled back, so my chest thrust into his face. He mauled my tits with his mouth and teeth and his one free hand. For the first time since our sexual relationship began, I was objectified and used, and that made me cum. The realization tripped the cumming switches in my brain, and my mind drifted free.

  “Yes, yes… fuck me!” I gasped, as I writhed against his groin until he exploded in climax. Bound still, my movements were limited to the freedom his controlling hands gave me. All that was pent-up let go. Surrender surrounded me, breathed through me and took over until Steven, whose cum was finally spent, pulled me forward into his chest and I lay there exhausted in his arms.

  “Wow! That was certainly something,” he quieted gasped after a long moment of silence. Even the thunder had ceased to roll. He ran his hands though my hair lovingly. “Was that terrible enough for you?”

  “You’d think so,” I answered him a little oddly. I’m not sure how he took it.

  “Open your eyes.” My closed eyes had been as fixed as if I were wearing a blindfold, and I had to pry them open. I was a little scared to do so, a little scared about what I’d see.

  I could hardly make out Steven’s face in the dark room. Lightning flashed in the distance far beyond the cottage windows and the thunder was now no more than a slow, rolling rumble traveling far into night.

  As my eyes adjusted, I could see Steven’s smiling broadly.

  “You okay?” He showed the worry in a fretful expression.

  “I’m wonderful,” I purred contentedly. Even the scratchy sisal didn’t bother me; the restraint was a welcome friend.

  “How have we missed this?” he wondered aloud.

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ve never fucked during a thunderstorm before.” I smiled.

  “I suppose not.”

  He started untying the rope and I wanted to tell him to stop. But what would I do then? Suggest I wear it all night? No, my broad-minded, slightly tarnished man of steel wasn’t ready for that much truth.

  I was glad when I could put my arms around him again and feel the comfort in our embrace. This was more natural for him, the proper ending for a rough fuck and a rough night. All the jagged edges had been smoothed over as we felt neatly tucked back into familiar roles.

  I wonder now how dark my sexy stallion wants to go. At the same time, I warn myself not to rush things. We must be cautious.

  ***

  It is not until I’m safely home that I discover the unmarked letter Sunny handed me this morning. I finger the plain white envelope baffled by the anonymous feeling it gives. I rip open the flap, which had been efficiently sealed so it takes a little tugging, and find inside a plain white sheet of copy paper with a brief typed message.

  “How potent are your memories… what do they tell you, Michelle? Wisdom comes in refusing to deny yourself.”

  I must have read the strange note over a half dozen times trying first to absorb the meaning, then secondly determine who would send such a message in such a mysterious way. A shiver of fear darts up my spine.

  Steven? This is not like him at all. But then who?

  The message sounds like Kovac, but Kovac’s dead. And who but Kovac would know my memories… maybe Jordan, the man I left behind, who gave me up for dead, who later introduced me to Kovac on my return. Impossible! Jordan’s across the country, living with another woman and couldn’t care less about me now. Who then?

  I’m afraid to answer my own question, worried that I know the answer. That just can’t be!

  Chapter Two

  I’m not exactly sure what instigated my recent spate of sex crimes—Sunny’s monologues on her awakening sexual submission, which I take for just another phase of her evolving life adventure; the night in the beach cottage with Steven and his dark flip side; or the anonymous cryptic note and what it fails to tell me—its sender and its purpose.

  My impulsive behavior begins several days after the note arrived. I wonder if someone I know has learned the details of my past—the abduction, the terrorists, the training, the slavery—and thought it cute to throw it at me just to see how I’d react. Obviously, that someone would be deliberately trying to rattle me. Do I have enemies to fear? Has my documentary suddenly become so threatening to the rightwing establishment that they’re out to stop me? This seems so illogical; like most documentaries, mine will hardly make a wave in the public consciousness. We’re fated to do great work and receive little recognition, and certainly none that lasts more than a few weeks. Besides, there’s hardly anyone who knows what I’m doing, or what my conclusions will be. My last documentary—my grand return to the medium following Kovac’s death—certainly made waves, though it was hardly controversial. But the buzz on that has died over the last few months and like all good examples of this craft sits on the shelf more that it’s aired.

  Lost in this puzzling quandary, I find myself at the same time obsessed with the male population that moves with regularity in and out of my physical space. I feel them breathe, hear their beating hearts. I shiver when I see a rolled shirtsleeve and a bare forearm, or the sight of tight buns in t
ight blue jeans. My body dances lively tangos when a man of almost any kind is within three feet of me—which makes walking down a crowded sidewalk almost unbearable. And Steven, I’ve attacked him every night in the last several days, jumping his body like a tigress attacking prey. Of course, he’s willing to have this rougher lover greet him when the lights go out. But I’m sure he’s as puzzled as I am about what has precipitated this atypical behavior. No, I will not tell him about the anonymous note.

  My sexual energy seems boundless and unfettered. It’s not enough to have sex with Steven; I want it with strangers, men on the street and in the cafés, the guy that browses the library stacks, the one picking pineapple in the grocery store—and the fellow in the museum who dutifully reads from the program before studying each print with judicious care.

  I don’t even like the black and muddy-brown oil painting he sits before, but I sit too. He doesn’t appear to notice me as his eyes search for meaning in the abstract art that dominates this one white museum wall.

  I wait for him to leave before I get up and once he moves on, I circle around the museum in the opposite direction, thinking that it would be better to lose him and be free of his influence on my sexual imagination. But there he is again as I return to the lobby. I walk out after him, following in his footsteps as he moves into a clothing store that sells men’s sports clothes—the upscale variety. He fiddles through several racks; I do the same. When he spots me, he smiles, remembering that I was sitting on the same bench in the museum.

  “You like the Atherton piece?” he refers to the morose painting we studied so thoroughly side by side.