Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  “Mistress,” he said, “may I speak?”

  “Do not call me Mistress,” she said. “Refer to me as either Domina or X. But you may speak.”

  Compton, an aficionado of dead languages (though Compton had argued many times that a language is never really dead if its roots live on), paused to relish the title—Domina—the Latin word for Mistress, a word he also knew that in German meant a dark-skinned grape used to make red wines. Intoxicating.

  The ball muffled the sound of his voice. “

  Inquam, Domina, inservio (I say, Mistress, I serve you). Leave me here for as long as you like.”

  And with those words, X shut the little door and left him there. The man was still as a statue, his breathing the only movement of his body. With his head encased in the metal ball, he looked like he was an underwater explorer in an early version of scuba equipment, or, likewise, as if the heavens that Atlas carried on his back had suddenly rolled up and encased his head, and these images made X laugh.

  She remembered the bar at the side of the room, walked over to it, and put some ice from a small refrigerator into a highball glass before mixing herself a vodka and tonic. This was easy enough. She’d pass the time babysitting the bastard and drinking his liquor.

  As X sipped her drink, she walked to the back of the room where all Compton’s own equipment was neatly hung onto a brushed stainless steel pegboard. He had gags, hoods, clamps, cuffs, spreaders, whips, electro-stimulators, anal plugs, feathers, ticklers, paddles, mitts, armbinders, and even a leather straight-jacket. These sat alongside leashes, collars, pinwheels, penis plugs, chastity belts, and simple leather floggers. He was as equipped as a bondage store.

  Above the pegboard were three neatly stenciled Latin words: Sua cuique voluptas. X went to her bag and took out her phone, connected to the internet, and typed in the phrase. It quickly returned the answer to her. Everyone has his own pleasures.

  Sitting on the table were a variety of origami figures: dogs, cranes, swans, rabbits, and frogs sat next to tiny paper boxes, perfect lilies, and delicate paper chains. X looked over at Compton, perplexed, realizing then that these figurines had been made by him. A submissive into origami. What a strange man.

  At the side of the pegboard was a glass-fronted case filled with books. X went over to it, opened it, and pulled out a volume. It was an early translation of Venus in Furs, its pages yellowed and crumbling. She put it back on the shelf after opening it and reading a paragraph, returning it to its place next to the first edition of Lolita. There were several editions of the Kama Sutra which sat next to one she had seen before, Psychopathia Sexualis. She found Notes from the Underground by Dostoyevsky. There was an original French version of Story of O. Compton had first or early editions of the writings of the Marquis de Sade, Pierre Klossowski, and Sartre. And the one by Sartre, seemingly out of place, X took out and tucked under her arm, holding it tight to her body and then hiding it in her bag of gear. It felt good to steal from someone who usually stole from everybody else.

  A bathroom sat at the back corner of the room and she peeked inside. It was a simple enough bathroom, mostly marble, the areas above the sink and in the shower tiled with golden mother-of-pearl. X sipped at her drink, finished it, and then returned to the bar where she poured herself another.

  A few minutes later, X made her way back to Compton.

  The dimmed recessed lights above them cast peculiar arrays of shadows through the room, and these dark distorted outlines of the furnishings and chains that hung here and there increased the gothic feel of the space while adding to it a sense of something looming. Whether sadness, emptiness, or absurdity, X was unsure. Maybe it was all the aforementioned.

  X removed the nipple clamp and let it drop to the floor. From her glass, she removed an ice cube and ran it first over Compton’s freshly unclasped nipple before repeating the act to the opposite one. Compton’s small pink nipples reddened from the ice, the little hairs around them folding over, saturated from the water. As X rubbed them and teased them, rivulets ran down Compton’s abdomen before dripping in fat drops onto the floor.

  Compton’s codpiece was held together with simple snaps which X undid before letting it fall between his legs to the floor. From her bag, she retrieved a wooden ruler which she took with her back into the cage. By the time X had returned, Compton’s penis was erect, and the little organ stood straight out in front of him. After opening the little door at the front of his head cage, X popped in one of the ice cubes from her glass. The cube would sit at the bottom of the head cage next to his neck, she knew, and gradually melt. In just a few moments, little streams of water began to make their way out from underneath the bottom of the globe and trickle down his torso. She popped in another cube and let the door remain slightly ajar.

  “You have a pathetically small penis,” she said, giving her assessment, “even when you are erect.” After scooping another ice cube from her glass, X ran it along Compton’s short shaft, hoping that his erection would retreat, but it did not. Instead, he let out a groan of pleasure from within his sphere.

  “And while I’m at it, I might as well tell you that even though you are a moderately handsome man, and in that I mean that you are not disgusting, your mustache is absolutely atrocious. You look like you have a caterpillar crawling on your lip. It disgusts me.”

  X dunked the fingers of her right hand into the drink and let the clinging drops of alcohol and tonic drip onto his penis. The muscles of his abdomen clenched as the liquid touched him. The alcohol wouldn’t burn him, she knew. Other times, she had put wine or vodka onto a man’s penis and then licked it off. The woman placed her glass onto the floor.

  “Let’s see what you have here, get an exact measurement. There isn’t really much to see,” X said, placing the wooden ruler along the underside of his penis. Compton’s member had a slight curve to it, making it turn up a little at the tip as if it wanted to stare back up at him, and because of this X had to push the head of it next to the ruler in order to get an accurate measurement.

  “Your penis is four-and-one-half inches,” she reported. X gave it a quick whack with her ruler and he yelped in pain. “That’s sad, really. I feel sorry for you. I guess there are some things that money can’t buy.”

  “Forgive me, Mistress,” he said.

  His statement irritated her. “You have no short-term memory, do you?”

  “Forgive me, Domina.”

  “I thought a man like you would be more intelligent, really, an assumption that was clearly in error.”

  X walked to the pegboard in the back and pulled off a restraining device. On this device, five metal rings were connected by a leather strap, and then with it in her right hand and Compton’s penis in the other, X slid the contraption over his member, pushing each ring over the glans until the back ring had reached the whole way to his base, and once there, she pulled his testicles through the hoop with a slight but not incredible amount of gentleness.

  “How fitting a man like you owns the Gates of Hell. I saw all your gear and toys. Looks like you bought one of everything.”

  Compton’s penis actually looked rather nice adorned with the metal rings and leather. X appreciated the juxtaposition of different mediums, of leather and steel, of flesh and metal.

  She decided to unlock the head cage and release him. As soon as he was free from it, he looked down at his penis and its rings that encircled it.

  “Kiss my boots and thank me for putting that onto your pathetic penis,” X said.

  Compton dropped onto his knees and started giving little kisses to each of her boots.

  “Thank you, Domina, for this wonderful adornment.”

  She allowed him to continue his kisses for a few more moments before taking a few steps back and out of the cage.

  “May I speak, X?”

  “What do you have to say?”

  Compton averted his eyes to the floor as he asked, “Is there anywhere else you would like to be kissed?”

  T
he woman, sublime, entered the cage and bent over next to him, picking up the nipple clamp and releasing his cuffs before tossing these into her bag.

  “Go over there and stand with your nose against the wall,” she commanded, and he obeyed.

  She went over to him. As she stood directly behind him she whispered, “There is something that you need to understand, Worm. I’m not a whore. I might never fuck you. If you want somebody to fuck you or you want to eat some pussy, I’m sure there are plenty of women just waiting to throw themselves at a wealthy man. I am your Domina, not your lover.”

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  “I didn’t tell you to speak!”

  “May I speak, X?”

  “What is it now?”

  “Please allow me to masturbate,” he said.

  X laughed. “Why should I? Do it after I leave.”

  “I’ll pay you. A tribute for the goddess.”

  “You are already paying me to be here,” X said.

  “I’ll give you more.”

  “To whack-off?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  X stepped away from him and considered, remembering the image of the money on her kitchen counter.

  “Make it five.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Please allow me to go behind the bar.”

  “Fine. Do it.”

  Compton left her, naked as he was, and went behind the bar where he kneeled down, opening a safe, she supposed, and then he returned with fifty $100 bills in a simple white business envelope which he handed to her. X pulled out the bills and counted them as he watched before placing them back into the envelope, licking it, sealing it, and burying it deep within her bag of gear.

  “Get onto your knees and I will sit here and watch as you do so.”

  X sat onto the simple wooden chair where Compton had been sitting when she arrived. Compton spit into his hand and started to rub his penis, moving his hand repeatedly over the metal rings that encased it.

  He looked over at her briefly, and she scolded him, “Do not look at me, do not think of me,” and as soon as the words had been spoken, Compton moaned and came onto the floor in front of him, the genetic material of one of the wealthiest men in the world dropping onto the radiant-heated wood floor below, splattering to the ground like Onan’s seed in Genesis.

  “Get onto your hands and knees,” X said, and he obeyed. “Do not move until I am gone.”

  She put on her coat and picked up her bag, then went to the intercom and said into it, “I am ready to go to the car,” and soon after, X was gone.

  5.

  For the three weeks since X had seen Compton, it had become her habit to go to her studio in the afternoons. The only relief she could find was at the small studio space that sat above a gallery owned and run her friend Anne, a space which she shared with another artist, a German sculptor who had been out of the country for the last several months. It was an open space with lots of light and wide plank floors, a space conducive to creative energy.

  X threw herself into her painting. There was nothing that could soothe her and allow her to escape as painting could. At least the canvas could take her from her thoughts for awhile. X directed the paint completely, and in turn, completely yielded to it.

  Simeon had told X that she had been chosen, in part, because she did not work in a dungeon, establishments which Compton steered clear of. They wanted a woman who was not known as a dominatrix and who couldn’t be linked back to a dungeon. And on top of that, Compton wanted a woman motivated not by money, but because it was her nature. X had fit the bill. How they had determined it was her nature, X did not know, and she hadn’t bothered to ask, but to their assessment, she had concurred. Plus, Simeon had told her, Compton had a fondness for artists and art, had a private collection that was remarkable and vast.

  Simeon had made it seem as if X’s lovers had supported her completely, making it appear as if she never had to work, but this was not the case. She traded working for Anne at the gallery for her studio space, helping the owner with bookkeeping or the scheduling of shows. Up until her mother had passed away, (what a non-threatening way to say it, that is; no, her mother had shriveled away) she had worked a regular job and made a decent but not exorbitant living. X had saved and scrimped away some money that when combined with the inheritance of her mother’s estate had afforded her the luxury of a much needed break from the regular office routine and a chance to pursue her painting.

  Regardless of what Simeon had implied, the truth of the matter was that X had only ever dominated a man because the man had wanted her to—and because she had wanted to do it. Some of them, X had loved, and for all of them, she had held at least a fondness.

  Now X was receiving pay and what she did became a ‘service.’ Maybe Compton liked to think of the money as a tribute and not a fee, she knew, but quite simply, he was paying for a service, and X served no one. That is what she believed.

  In the space since X had been taken to Compton, she had hoped that she would not hear from Simeon again, that perhaps Terry Compton had not enjoyed his session with her and did not want to see her again. In reality, X expected that it was just a matter of time before Simeon inserted himself in her life again, and one rainy afternoon while she worked in her studio, he appeared.

  Ignoring the sound of his steps approaching her easel, X continued to paint a geometric study that was starting to resemble a honeycomb.

  From behind her, Simeon asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing. A geometric.”

  “Your nothing is very nice,” he said. “You’re talented. I wondered what your work might be like.”

  X put her brush down. Her hand had started to cramp as soon as Simeon had entered.

  “What do you want?”

  She stood up and lit a cigarette. Her studio mate was gone and there was no one to bother other than Simeon. As X blew the smoke toward his face, he tried not to notice her insult. A chill was in the air and the old radiators were creaking.

  “Compton wants to see you again.”

  “It will have to wait until after Thanksgiving. I’m going to L.A. to see my brother.”

  “Fine. It can wait until you get back. We need you to plant a bug for us.”

  “In his dungeon? That should be easy enough. You know, it would be simpler to get somebody a job as a maid and she can plant your bugs anywhere.”

  “Not in his dungeon,” he said, “in his office. He doesn’t allow the maids into his office, he’s afraid they’ll go through his papers, sell his information to his competitors.”

  Simeon fumbled in his interior suit pocket and then handed X a pencil. It looked identical to a regular yellow number 2 pencil, the kind kids used to fill in test answer sheets.

  “There is a bug in that pencil.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Not at all. Get it into Compton’s office somehow.”

  X examined the pencil. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Figure it out,” he said. “You’re smart enough, aren’t you?”

  X resisted the urge to fling the pencil across the room and instead set it down next to her paintbrush.

  Simeon handed X a manila envelope. She opened it and pulled out a thick stash of cash and a small digital camera.

  “That’s the money from Compton for the last time. Steinberg gave it to our access person to give to you. Although from what I understand, Compton gave you a little extra last time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Simeon didn’t answer, and X realized that he probably had that knowledge because the dungeon was bugged. If that were the case, they would have heard everything she said to him, known everything that had gone on between them. For all she knew, she had even been video recorded.

  In her hand, she held the five thousand dollars that Compton gave as a tribute for each session. The thick wad of cash was made of slippery-crisp new b
ills. She put the money back into the envelope and put it onto a table next to her easel. Most of her adult life she had scrimped for money and now X was running out of places to hide it.

  As X turned on and inspected the digital camera, she considered and then decided against taking a photo of Agent Simeon before asking him what he intended for her to do with the device.

  “We need you to take some photos of Compton in his dungeon. He can’t be wearing his blindfold, he has to be identifiable.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “We considered that. We thought that perhaps you could put tape over his eyes.”

  “You’re so clever,” X said snidely. “And then what will Mr. Simeon do with the photos? Give them to Compton to use in his Christmas card?”

  The man didn’t answer her question. She knew the answer anyway—the photos would probably someday be used to blackmail Compton, threaten him with embarrassment.

  X put camera into her purse.

  Simeon said, “He is hoping to give you ten thousand this next time, but he wants you to count it in front of him. Hopefully, he’ll give it to you in $100’s so it won’t take you too long.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He wants you to count it naked.”

  X snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray, releasing miniscule specks of ash that lifted into the air above.

  “He can go fuck himself for the extra five grand.”

  “Tell him yourself,” he said, “you’re his Domina.”

  And it had surprised X that he had said Domina and not Domme or Dominatrix, making her even more sure that the CIA had listened in on their session, that the dungeon must be bugged, but the term was becoming common enough. X thought that it was likely that the agent who had been killed had planted a bug in the dungeon one of the times she was there. Probably that was why Simeon wanted the office bugged now—the dungeon had already been taken care of.

  X sat in front of her canvas, picked up her brush again and started to paint, trying her best to ignore Simeon, but he pulled up a chair next to her and watched as she dabbed thick color onto her work.