Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  X had already begun to read it over, noting how the contract stated that all the activities she and Compton would be involved in, ones that would include role playing and physical interactions of a sexual nature, were completely consensual. Any danger in their activities was an accepted risk and that X (her full name listed once at the beginning of the contract and after that all references named her as Party X) would release Mr. Terry Compton from any resulting damages, whether physical or emotional, in perpetuity. It went on to say that in the case of a breach of confidentiality, legal options would be pursued to their fullest extent.

  X knew that she didn’t have a choice but to sign the contract. She put her signature to it quickly and then handed everything back to Steinberg. The man smiled at her, pleased at the sealed deal, aware that his superior would be happy that he had ensured their safety legally.

  He removed a ring of keys from a clip on his belt, flipped through them, found the one he wanted, and unlocked it.

  “When you are finished,” he said, “press the intercom inside the room and I will come get you. Our driver will be outside, ready to take you home.” Then Steinberg was gone.

  X waited until the sound of his footsteps disappeared, reached out to grab the doorknob, and slowly, she opened the door.

  3.

  It isn’t just about the sex, of course. For Mr. Terry Compton, sex was never more than a phone call away, and more often than not, with reliable regularity, much closer than that. No, if it were just about the sex, Terry Compton would not have been sitting in his dungeon nearly naked, eagerly awaiting abuse from a dominatrix named X, a specific creature that he had until recently only ever fantasized about.

  What Terry Compton wanted more than anything was that which he could not have. His desire for whatever that thing or person happened to be at the time became all-encompassing, completely consuming. Where at first, the vision of it in his mind was little more than a fond thought to which he would escape, his longing grew exponentially almost, it spread throughout him like dye permeating water, coloring his being entirely.

  What Terry Compton wanted was to experience an authentic erotic thrill, and the longing for such had become his predominant desire. The man already had all the money he could ever have hoped for, more of it in fact than he could have ever imagined. His mother would have been proud: he could, if he had wanted, buy the shoe factory where she had worked (shut down by then for many years, the equipment shipped off to China) ten thousand times over. What he wanted now was a woman who did not throw herself at him, happy to be in the resplendent aura of a billionaire, but instead one who detested him, loathed him, deplored him.

  Along with that, he simply, quite simply, enjoyed being whipped, pinched, poked, prodded, spit on, tied up, talked down to, humiliated, spanked, blindfolded, teased, tickled, led around on leashes, cuffed, collared, walked-on, plugged, purloined from, urinated upon, and told that he was worthless, these things mixing with the seductive ideas of being blackmailed, kidnapped, and publicly embarrassed. He took particular pleasure in knowing that he was not chained into desiring only what was sensible, took pleasure in knowing that he was not a piano key without the choice of how it is played.

  He didn’t know why he liked the things he did, and the truth of the matter was that he didn’t really care. Probably some high-priced shrink would have him pay $400 an hour to have him describe all of his fantasies and fetishes (ones becoming increasingly more necessary for his arousal), more than what most professional Dommes charge for their services and not nearly as fun. Then maybe Mr. Compton would be told how this particular oddity of his being could be linked back to this or that event that happened to him long ago, to his upbringing somehow, to religious practices, or to punishments he had received as a child.

  What the shrink would not be able to do, successfully at least, would be to tell Mr. Compton how to change this part of him. You see, he didn’t want to change, didn’t see a need to. What was he hurting, really? There were terrible things that happened in the world, oh, the true cruelty that people were capable of was mind-blowing, literally mind-blowing in some cases.

  Terry Compton was certain of this much: that the duration of this life was all he could be sure of, and he had every intention of living it to the full depth and breadth in whatever way he decided. He wanted to taste every pleasure of the world, to procure any gratuitous sin he desired. He had been to ashrams and cathedrals where he was told that there would be a reckoning, an after-life, a reincarnation, and by the way please give us some money and well, if there is nothing afterwards, no guarantees, no refunds, sorry buddy, you’re shit out of luck.

  Now, inside his dungeon on a simple wooden chair, Terry Compton sat, blissfully happy, waiting.

  4.

  When X opened the heavy door, she went into a large, windowless, and dimly lit room, a space simultaneously modern and gothic and filled with every manner of bondage equipment imaginable. Beyond her and unnoticed, Terry Compton watched as she entered, the cool backlight of the hallway behind her creating an aura of light around her murky silhouette, the door jamb acting as a frame, making it appear as if she were a painting coming into life, a figure walking out from a two-dimensional canvas into the three-dimensional world in which Mr. Compton lived, a fantasy come to life.

  From the back of the room, X heard a voice.

  “Come here,” it said, and she tried to locate the sound.

  Upon hearing the man’s voice, the woman wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake by not running, made a mistake to come to this place instead of taking the money and disappearing, consequences be damned. But it was too late now to dwell on such things. Now, there was no turning back.

  X scanned the room. It looked as if the man had ordered one of everything from an S&M store. A large steel canopy bed sat in the center of the expansive dungeon, a piece which was ornamented with restraint hoops welded on every corner and rail. Nearby was a metal bondage chair, similar to her own but less ornate. On one side of the room was a stand-up jail cell, a puppy cage, joy-rider chair, and four-point sling on a large metal stand. On the other side was a latex vacuum bed, sex cushions of varied shapes, and a stockade next to a sex machine. The giant X-shape of a large bondage cross was adhered to the wall to her left. Above, heavy metal piping ran throughout the room, dangling suspension hooks or chains or shiny clips. Rings and hooks extended from walls, making the room ready for play at any area. A small, intricately carved bar sat along the wall. It was a perfect dungeon.

  X walked toward the back of the room and spotted Compton on his simple wooden chair. Costumes tell people how to behave, what to expect and anticipate, and X understood the importance of costume, how it was a doorway through which the mind and personality entered a different state. Compton understood its importance as well and had dressed suitably for the occasion by wearing only bondage cuffs on his wrists and ankles and a black studded codpiece over his privates. X knew that costumes could also be disguises, another understanding that she shared with Compton: the child molester in the religious cloak; the policeman on the take; the money-laundering businessman.

  Now, as she stood just a few feet away from Compton, he spoke to her. “I was told that you were attractive, but they were wrong.” There was gentility in his voice, a hint of refinement in the kinetics of his sentences. He paused, making X feel momentarily insecure about his impending judgment. Finally, his assessment came, “Attractive? No. Beautiful is the word. Tell me, what is your name?”

  “My name is X.”

  Compton already knew that the woman in front of him was called X, and he had already considered the multitude of meanings and associations behind the letter (one afternoon in his office he had listed out everything that he could think of related to the letter).

  X: the 24th letter of the modern Latin alphabet; the female chromosome; the cross tilted over on itself for crucifixion, better known as Saint Andrew’s Cross; the X-rating; the accepted signature for illiterates; the symbol m
arking the spot where treasure could be found; the shape similar to the man’s figure in Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man; the shape of the bondage cross; the Roman numeral for ten; the shortened form of “extra,” “cross” and “Christ,” as in extra large, railroad crossing, or Christmas (the Greek word for Christ being Chi, its symbol similar to the letter X); a mysterious quality, as in the “X” factor; a common variable in mathematic equations; the phonetic sound of the middle vowel and final consonant of the word sex; the mathematical symbol for multiplication; street slang for the drug ecstasy; the letter representing the kiss, as in XOXO, and likewise, when combined with O, the letter used to play tic-tac-toe.

  X: seek it and ye shall find.

  The woman before him expressed no need to explain her name, (some things are best with an air of mystery behind them), and anyway, let him figure it out.

  She dropped her bag onto the floor and then took off her fur coat and let into fall into itself in luxurious folds, revealing her red silk corset. The fabric clung to her curves, accentuating them. Her patent leather boots, ones that extended over her knees and glistened with an oily, synthetic shine, emitted a squeak anytime she moved. A chrome neckband circled the woman’s throat, smooth as mercury.

  Compton felt a rush of stinging, tingling excitement jolt through his body, so lovely was her radiance.

  Compton was more handsome than X had anticipated, was more attractive in person than in his photographs. She was grateful that at least he wasn’t physically repulsive. He was 24 years older than X. He had made his first million before she was out of diapers, his first billion before she was out of elementary school.

  Time had carved and refined him. The lines on his face made him look rugged and well-lived, deepened his character, amplified it. Even when he was not smiling it seemed that some kind of subtle smirk remained. His hair, once dark brown and now mostly white, was cropped close and tight to his head. His body, lean, tan, and toned, was the physique of a wealthy man with enough time and money for personal trainers, private chefs, and tailored work-outs.

  His face seemed so gentle and cheery that X had a difficult time imagining him as a killer. She reminded herself of the possibility that he had not committed the murder, that maybe he had nothing to do with it at all, but the thought brought her no comfort. After all, Ted Bundy had been a very attractive, gentle looking man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She suddenly felt certain that over the course of her life that she had probably passed many murderers on the street and never even had the slightest idea. How could a person tell? How could a person really know? And either way, she knew, whatever the truth was, the best thing was to be cautious with such a man, to remember to never let her guard down.

  “This is how it will be,” X said, establishing the rules straight away, “do not speak unless you are spoken to. If you feel you must speak, you may ask for permission. You will not look me in the eye unless I tell you to do so. Do you understand?”

  Compton diverted his eyes to the floor before answering. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Lie prostrate on the ground.”

  Compton got off his chair, dropped down to his knees, and then slowly lowered the rest of his body to the dark hardwood floor, the muscles of his arms and back flexing collectively.

  X lifted up her right foot and put the tip of her boot against the nape of his neck, digging it in just enough to make him squirm.

  “You and I are going to have an understanding,” she began. “I know who you are and I know that you are a wealthy man. But one thing that you must understand is that I am not doing this for the money.” X reached down and pulled her riding crop from her bag and ran the end of it slowly down his spinal cord. “You see, I want to hurt you. I want to cause you pain. I take pleasure in the thought of it and even more from the realization of it.”

  Immediately, X whacked Compton as hard as she could across his lower back. He felt pain. He was grateful for it.

  She moved her heel down his back a few inches so that it rested above the bone of his spine, then she put a good deal more of her weight onto her foot. Any more pressure and she’d probably make one of his discs explode.

  “In the outside world, you are a respected man, but you and I both know that you don’t deserve this admiration. To me, you are a worthless human being.”

  While X was saying these things to Compton, it occurred to her that she was being perfectly honest. It was not a game, or play, or script, only the truth. X hit him again with her crop, this time on his shoulder blade.

  Now, she kneeled down next to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

  “I want you to know something, Mr. Compton. You mean less to me than a bug that I might crush on the sidewalk while I’m walking. Even an ant that I squash I might have pity for. But you, you are nothing to me. Remember that—you are worth less to me than an insect. You are a parasite of humanity who profits from the work of others, and that is why I will call you Worm. So tell me, Worm, what is your safe word?” It would have been fine to X to deny Compton this ticket out, but tradition demanded it.

  Compton lifted his head slightly off the hardwood floor.

  “Laissez-faire,” he answered.

  She laughed out loud as she stood up.

  “That is too perfect,” X said. “Now, Worm, go over to that wall and get on your knees.

  Compton got up quickly and went over to the wall as X followed him. He dropped down to his knees and the woman lifted up each of his arms and attached the D-rings on his leather wrist bands to clips that were built into the wall for this purpose.

  X took her flogger from her bag and pulled its supple leather tails through her palm before striking him as hard as she was able, making the leather bite into the skin of his back. X hit him again and continued until she had found a rhythm, a cadence.

  “Are you a religious worm?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Tell me, then, have you heard the story about the rich man and the eye of the needle?”

  “Of course,” he said. X hated his smugness and hit him across the top of his quadriceps and then several times on the bare soles of his feet for punishment.

  “Then tell me what it says,” she nagged.

  Decades before, Compton’s parents had dragged him to church, taking him each Sunday until he had been exempted at age 16 so that he could work bussing tables. His father had decided that a good work ethic was ultimately more valuable than a saved soul, though his mother hadn’t agreed. The man lifted his head up as if searching for the quote from the heavens.

  “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

  X put her flogger into her bag and pulled out her four-foot braided whip and released it onto his back. Compton’s back, red already from the flogging, now began to show the crisscrosses of welted-up lines.

  “It would seem then, wouldn’t it, that you are quite damned,” X said, “but there is a piece of knowledge that is often overlooked in regards to that saying.” With the next lash, Compton flinched with the pain, and she enjoyed witnessing his discomfort. “You see, there was a gate in Jerusalem called the Needle’s Eye. The gate was only a few feet high.” She let loose another lash. “In order for a camel to pass through the gate, it had to go through on its knees.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “I didn’t tell you to speak.”

  From her bag, X fished out a metal clothespin and placed it on Compton’s left nipple. He was breathing heavily by now and running his tongue over his lips intermittently. X picked her whip up again and directed it to the bare flesh of his ass, skin left open to abuse by means of the skimpy leather straps that held on his codpiece.

  “You can still go to heaven,” the woman said, “but you’ve got to get there on your knees.”

  Beyond them, people died and others were born. Goods were bought and sold. They were in the dungeon, connected by the pain. It made the world outside dissolve.


  X wrapped her whip up into a small circle and put it on the floor. A large cage was nearby, and she spotted an interesting implement hanging from the top of the cage, a device that she had heard about but had never used. She unclipped his wrists from the wall and X told him to crawl into the cage, following him in as he entered.

  “Faster!” she demanded, laughing at how ridiculous he looked skittering along the floor like an animal.

  Compton entered the cage and stayed on his hands and knees, silently awaiting her command.

  “Stand up,” she said. Compton predicted what X intended to do to him, and he salivated at the thought.

  A steel sphere hung from the top of the cage from heavy links of chain, giving the cage the appearance of being a shrunken, strange discothèque. The ball was slightly larger than a basketball and made of brushed metal. A few small air slots dotted the front. X reached up, opening the globe into two separate hemispheres. It swung apart smoothly, its halves connected by hinges on the back.

  “Put your head in there,” X said.

  Compton backed into the open ball, still careful not to make eye contact with X. The ball had been suspended at the perfect height for the man, the bottom of it hovering just above his shoulders. The woman closed the hemispheres around his head, securing them together with a small brass lock that she fished out from her bag. X handcuffed Compton behind his back, then after unclipping the clothespin from his left nipple, X snapped it over the right.

  A small metal hinged door sat at the front above the air slots. X opened the tiny door so that she could be sure Compton could hear what she was about to say.

  “You are a very trusting man, or a very stupid one, because you have allowed me to place you into that ball with no idea of my intent or how long you will remain within it. I could just leave you there until your lap-dog of an assistant comes and finds you, but of course, he wouldn’t have the key to the padlock, and then what?”