“You don’t deserve it,” she said. “You don’t deserve any of this. Enjoy it because it’s all you’ll ever get from me.”
“Yes, Domina, it is a privilege to be in your presence. Thank you.”
She got off the bed and dressed, then removed the tape from his eyes and tossed it onto the floor, leaving another task for the man’s maids.
Pleasure then pain. That is what our lives are.
*
Compton had asked X to speak and then had made a request. He wanted to use the latex vacuum bed. He wanted her to control his breathing. X considered.
She remembered the list that Simeon had given her which had so simply listed erotic asphyxiation among all the others fetishes as if it were as harmless as a foot fetish or wanting to be tied up. Any asphyxiation play was dangerous. Every year there were people who accidentally killed themselves trying to get off by restricting their breathing. It wasn’t that the practice was new—people had been doing it for centuries, had realized long ago that the hanged man often left this earth with an erection and a wad of ejaculate in his pants.
She told him to get in.
Compton slid into the latex vacuum bed, a contraption slightly longer and wider than his body. Once between the two layers of latex, X zipped up the side, sealing him in. The only opening was a small round hole that sat directly over his mouth.
A small vacuum sat near the bottom and X turned it on, sucking out all the air and confining him inside. Encased in the slick black latex, his body looked as if it had just floated up from a tar pit. The vacuum continued its low hum, sealing Compton in completely and outlining every curve and nuance of his body underneath. Under the latex, X could see the discernable bulge of his erection. X leaned close to his head.
“Are you alright in there?”
“Yes, Domina.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“Yes, Domina, of course I do.”
X allowed him to be restrained there as she sat nearby watching him. Being enclosed in a bed like that was something she would not have enjoyed, having a tendency for claustrophobia; however, for Compton, he endured it without complaint and without muttering his safe word.
And then, she went over to him, placed her hand over his mouth, and counted to 25, thinking that 25 seconds isn’t too long, that being deprived of air that long won’t kill a person. Compton, she knew, had no idea how long she would keep her hand over the opening. When she freed the air hole, Compton sucked in the air with a couple quick gasps. There was a hint of panic to it. She thought that it must have felt like being born.
After his breath slowed to normal, he said, “Again, please, X.”
X placed her hand over his mouth and this time counted to forty. When she lifted it, he again sucked in the air, this time with more of a need than the time before.
X leaned down again next to his ear. Speaking through the latex made it seem like she was talking to an older person who was losing their hearing, and this in itself lent an absurdity to their actions.
“Are you finished in there? Was that enough for you?” X might as well have been talking to an old man on the toilet who needed help getting off the seat.
“One more time, please, X, this time for over a minute.”
X realized that Compton must have been counting in his sack as his breathing was being withheld. She admired his focus.
“Fine,” she said.
Once again, X placed her hand over his mouth and began to count. As she looked down at Compton in his silly black sack, she realized that he had trusted her completely with his life; her hand over his mouth had become the line between life and death, and this thought, one simultaneously frightening and compelling, gave her a deep sense of discomfort. All it would take to end everything would be to keep her hand where it was. A few minutes with her hand over his mouth would free her of this situation.
How long would it take until the brain was impacted, until the alveoli began to scream for air? He deserved the torture. Of course he did. For his wealth alone he deserved it, the vulgarity of the monetary number, the incredibility of it, unknowable because his assets changed by the second, this sum that had transcended wealth and achieved its own mysticism. He should suffer for the number alone, for the cruelty it represented.
She kept her hand over the hole even though she had stopped counting. She kept her hand there even when she saw him begin to struggle under the thin latex in a disturbing tremble. If he tried to say his safe word, would she hear it over the hum of the vacuum? Would it matter? Maybe Compton would pass out first. But if he died in this odd bed, how would she explain it to the police? To Simeon? If she killed a murderer, would she feel any guilt? What if he wasn’t a murderer?
Finally, she lifted off her hand, allowing the oxygen to flow back into Compton’s lungs. This time Compton gulped the air in with absolute urgency. X turned off the vacuum, unzipped the bag, and told him to get up. Compton climbed out slowly, a dazed look on his face, the man squinting and red-faced like an infant just out of the womb. A few moments later, he stood up.
“Our play is finished for tonight,” X said, the residue of her discomfort still lingering.
“May I speak?”
“Yes.”
“Allow me to retrieve your tribute.”
“First,” X said, “I have something for you.”
She went to her bag and took out the pencil that Simeon had given her.
“I have a gift for you. It may appear to be a regular pencil, but it is one that has been in my pussy. Use it in your office. Think of me when you look at it. Try not to lick it.”
X handed the pencil to Compton.
“Thank you, X, I will,” he said, smiling a big grin before placing the pencil behind his ear.
Compton went behind the bar and unlocked the safe. Simeon had told X that Compton would pay double if he could watch her count the money in the nude, and X wondered if he had the courage to ask her to do so.
When Compton returned, he was carrying a small manila envelope.
He asked, “May I speak, Domina?”
“What is it now?”
“There is ten-thousand dollars in this envelope. I would ask that you take the five-thousand above what has been agreed upon if I could only watch you count it in the nude.”
X took the envelope from him, opened it and pulled out all the cash.
“Get on your knees, Worm!” X commanded, enraged that he had actually asked for such a thing.
The man obeyed and once he was on his knees, X slapped him. Deliberately, she counted out five-thousand dollars and threw it at him, the bills falling all around him in a storm of money. Then X picked a few of the bills off the floor and stuffed them harshly into his mouth. She paused for a moment, surveying the scene, halted by the image before her, so surreal and humorous, the woman frozen by the dark pornographic beauty of it.
The other bills she returned to the envelope.
“You’re a pig,” X said, spitting on his face in disgust. “I can’t be bought. You are not going to buy me, do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said almost unintelligibly behind the wad of cash in his mouth.
“Lie down on the floor, Worm, until I am gone, and then after that you can climb back into your hole.”
And with that X got her things and let Steinberg know via the intercom that she was ready to leave, the woman slamming the door behind her as she exited. After returning home, X connected the camera to her computer and burned the images to a disc before sending them to her printer, knowing that they might prove useful to not just Simeon.
9.
For two weeks after X saw him, Compton sent her flowers every day. Each morning she was greeted by a delivery man bringing vibrant arrangements of roses, peonies, lilies, dahlias or other full, colorful and fragrant bouquets. At first, X considered throwing them away, but she had decided that the flowers had committed no sins, and their beauty had won her over. As she placed them throughout her apartment, f
irst in her living room, then her bedroom, followed by the kitchen and the counter in the bathroom, X pretended that the lovely blooms did not come from Compton, hoping the denial of their origins would help her be more able to enjoy their presence.
Anne had insisted that a show be held for X’s new works, and finally, after repeated nagging, X had relented. The show, they decided, would include both her older and newer work and be a catered affair.
The gallery advertised the event in the paper and on their website, as they did with all the other shows at the gallery. X helped Anne display all the works, making sure they were showcased exactly how she envisioned, tilting and adjusting the track lights above them until the bright swaths which illuminated them also seemed to envelop them, injecting each work with a vaporous and almost ethereal quality.
Because X was suddenly flush with money, she had covered the cost of having the show catered and even made sure to have a full bar service provided. The caterer and bartender, dressed in tuxedo shirts and trying their best to appear calm as they rushed to set up, were busy laying out tablecloths and silverware, stacking plates, clinking glasses and hurrying in and out to their van to bring in the food, drinks, serving plates, napkins and liquor bottles that would provide the food and libations for the event.
A half hour before the opening and as the two women were making finishing touches, another arrangement arrived at the gallery, this one a generous collection of pink sapphire orchids. The delivery man gave it to Anne who in turn gave it to X who opened the card, reading it. Wishing you success tonight. T. Another arrangement from Compton, obviously aware of her show.
“Let’s put these on the table by the hor d’oeuvres,” Anne said as X handed the flowers to her. “They’re lovely,” Anne commented. “Who are they from?” she prodded. Anne was always curious about the men in X’s life.
“An admirer,” X answered, deflecting the question.
“That handsome man I saw in the studio, I bet,” Anne said excitedly, referencing Simeon.
As X went through the gallery one final time adjusting the paintings and trying to ignore the anger that had come into her with the arrival of Compton’s flowers, she wondered, would the man never leave her alone?
But as friends and gallery patrons and other artists started to arrive, the anger began to subside. As X sipped at her wine, a fruity white that left a sugary residue in her mouth, she noticed that the gallery was absolutely packed with people. Many of them were familiar faces while others were strangers. Still, all of them chatted together, laughing, flirting, looking at her paintings between bites of citrus-infused mini-crabcakes, artichoke and parmesan filo bundles, petite spanokopita, slices of kiwi or fat cherry tomatoes, alternating nibbles with sips of wines or mixed drinks drank from short, glistening glasses, their buoyant overlays of ice speared by slim red straws.
X thought the high turnout was perhaps due to the California winter that even with its mildness had driven people to do more inside, or maybe it was that their advertising efforts were finally starting to make a difference. Either way, X enjoyed watching people viewing and discussing her paintings and also enjoyed interacting and conversing with the group.
At the peak of the evening, Anne came over to X and put her hand on her arm.
“You’ll never believe who’s here! Terry Compton’s over there! He’s a huge collector of art,” Anne gushed.
X looked across the room and saw Compton and Steinberg in front of one of her paintings. The small orbs of light above them accentuated every contour, furrow, and groove of the men’s faces, making the men seem both surreal and idiosyncratic as they stood there, each with a drink in hand and immersed in a quiet conversation.
“Maybe he’ll buy something,” Anne said, and the thought of Compton owning one of her paintings nauseated X.
She went outside to have a cigarette. The sun, by then, was gone. A few of her friends were outside discussing Compton’s appearance, one of them saying that Anne had called the newspaper and that a reporter was on his way. X tried not to discuss it, which her friends mistook as modesty.
Once X was back inside, Anne took her arm and led her over to Compton and Steinberg. Compton looked X up and down, surveying her black dress and peep-toe heels, noticing as her long earrings caught and reflected the light. He thought then that he should get her some earrings, some antique diamond ones perhaps.
“Mr. Compton,” Anne began, “this is the artist. I thought you would like to meet her,” Anne cast her eyes at X briefly, “especially since you are purchasing all her paintings.” Anne had a giant smile on her face.
Compton held out his hand and X took it, and the pair shook hands gently. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. “Your work is stunning. Like you.”
X was unable to think. Thoughts would not come over the rage within her. The idea of him owning all of the paintings angered X as well as horrified her. Later, she realized that she should have refused to sell them, but at that moment, X felt as if a huge wave had engulfed her and that she was stumbling in the rough surf trying to regain her balance and catch her breath.
“You are going to be a well recognized artist,” Compton said, “I have no doubt of it.”
X responded, “I would rather be a talented artist than a recognized one,” and Anne seemed surprised and embarrassed by her remark.
Her only thoughts were on how much she hated Compton. What was before a sturdy dislike had proceeded to hate. The last time she had seen him, the man had had the nerve to try to pay her thousands of dollars to take off her clothing for him as if she were a stripper or some kind of whore. She didn’t want him to buy anything that belonged to her, whether it was her body or her paintings.
The reporter had finally arrived and he snapped a photo of X with Compton, Steinberg, and Anne. X faked a smile, sure it would look insincere in the photo.
Compton spoke to Anne, “David here will arrange to have the paintings picked up and for the payment.” Then he shook Anne’s hand and with that they were both gone.
As soon as they left, Anne could not contain herself any longer.
“Can you believe it! It’s going to make the major papers you know—Compton is a well respected collector and doesn’t add lightly to his collection. Other galleries, big ones, are going to want your pieces now. You won’t forget where you started, will you?” she said, gushing.
Up until that point, X’s work had appeared in a few galleries and she had won a small handful of awards. Foolishly maybe, she spent more energy on the actual paintings than she had on trying to establish her name. It was difficult for her to comprehend or anticipate the implications of Compton’s purchase. X had been bought.
“And the best part is,” Anne continued, “Compton insisted that he paid 25 percent more for your paintings and that he covered my commission fee. He didn’t want any one else to have one.”
All that work that she had put into those pieces—they were more than pigments on canvases, they represented the sum of her experiences, her artistic vision, the crux of her life work.
It angered her, having this pathetic bootlicker buying her paintings because he wanted something. Wanted what? Control? To impress her with the status and fame his purchase would inevitably invite? X felt that she might cry or put her fist through the wall but restrained herself.
Anne left X to go talk with the reporter, and word of Compton’s purchase spread throughout the room. People came over to X to congratulate her. Somehow in the last few minutes X had risen in their view of her; X had instantly gained their respect and esteem.
As soon as X was able, she returned to her apartment, and with focus and determination threw each and every flower Compton had sent her into the dumpster behind her building.
10.
Compton’s purchase of X’s paintings had made news in not only the regional newspaper but also in several national papers and magazines. Suddenly, far-way gallery owners were contacting Anne and asking to carry X’s work. In an instant, X had go
ne from an unknown, struggling painter to a sought after one gaining in fame, all because of the seal of approval that she had received from Compton.
Magazines called her for interviews, which X declined, an act which only seemed to add to her allure. One paper even featured her name subtitled with the question, The next great artist? X allowed Anne to handle all the business, unable to cope not just with all the new attention but also with the means by which she had attained it.
Another few weeks passed and Simeon told X that Compton wanted to see her again. This time Simeon had called X on her cell.
She told him, “Agent Simeon, I hope that you understand that I am not getting any information from him.”
Simeon responded, “The bug you planted has gotten us more information than we could have hoped. And we have reason to believe that Compton is going to ask you to accompany him on one of his upcoming business trips. You will be able to report on his business associates—he always likes to show off his lady friends to his business partners.”
X built up the courage to ask Simeon a question that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to.
“Agent Simeon, what would happen if he loses interest in me?”
“X, he isn’t losing interest. Trust me.”
“But what would happen?”
“The car will get you on Saturday.”
At that point, a fear expanded and exploded. She wondered, would she disappear regardless after her usefulness had been exhausted? Maybe Simeon and his men would feel that the best route in dealing with X would be to dispose of her, remove any evidence of the role she had played with Compton after she had served her purpose. She remembered what Simeon had said, Lots of people disappear every year, a whole multitude of them. Maybe that was her ultimate fate.
Compton wanted to see her again, wanted her to hurt him. But X knew that it wasn’t just about the pain—a person can inflict plenty of pain on themselves. No, Compton wanted X to do it, and she knew that he enjoyed it. Before, she had wanted to punish Compton for his wealth, for the possibility that he had taken another person’s life. It had been about justice. But now she wanted to cause him pain because the thought of him suffering gave her such pleasure, its sweet velvet indulgence.
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