X couldn’t keep her mind off the fact that she truly wanted to cause Compton discomfort, to humiliate him and insult him, having become preoccupied with the desire ever since Compton had purchased her paintings. The worst punishment, of course, would have been to ignore him, but Simeon had made it clear that if X did not follow his orders that awful things would happen, and she took the man at his word.
Before Compton, X had dominated men, in part, because she enjoyed the pleasure they derived from their submission. But since she had met Compton, her pleasure was garnered not from the man’s pleasure but from his pain, his humiliation, his pathetic need. Shit, X thought every time she dwelled on the shift that had occurred, I’m becoming a real sadist.
She wondered if this viciousness had always been a part of her that had simply awakened when Simeon and Compton had entered her life or if their presence had engendered this new urge. If the men were the catalyst that had sparked this dormant part of her, what did it matter? The end result was the same. X had changed. Her motivations had shifted.
Either way, she was going to have to run, she decided. But first, she was going to hurt Terry Compton.
11.
This time, when X entered the dungeon, Compton was not on his little chair. Instead, she found him behind the bar, fixing himself a drink. X had arrived earlier than he had expected and had surprised him. Compton was half-naked again, wearing only his cuffs and leather codpiece that exposed his ass. He greeted X with a wide, shit-eating grin.
“Wipe that grin off your face and put your drink onto the bar. Do not take one little sip from it.”
Compton obeyed.
Next, X commanded, “Go over to that wall and prepare yourself. I am going to strike you until I draw blood.”
Over at the bondage cross, X clipped Compton’s cuffed hands and wrists to the x-shaped contraption so that his back faced her and his right cheek pressed against the wall. X brought out what appeared to be a type of paddle but that was really just a small oak handle with a treaded rubber loop at the end, an implement that would move with each blow and dig into the skin bit by bit, she knew.
X hit him with it right in the middle of his back, and a little pathetic yelp escaped him. X whacked him again, this time on his bare ass. She continued striking him on his back and watched with growing satisfaction as his back reddened. Soon, she knew, the implement would draw blood. She paused.
“I want to tell you something, you little fuck, I don’t appreciate it that you bought all my paintings. I want them back.”
Compton spoke, his voice fragile. “I’m sorry, X, but I’m not giving them back.”
X repeated striking him until the stratum of his epidermis was broken and the cells began to break and push the slightest bit of blood to the surface. It was a ragged injury, wide and messy like a road-burn.
X continued, relentlessly, until a sufficient number of blood vessels had broken and thin red lines began to roll down Compton’s lower back and then down over the cheeks of his ass, the thin streamers of blood unfurling as they mixed with his perspiration. From a slim cylindrical container, X filled her palm with fine sea salt, and after throwing a smidgen over her shoulder to atone for what she was about to do, she flung the salt onto his wounds and then licked the last of it from the lines of her hand. As a guttural sound escaped Compton, his nerves screaming at the suffering that was occurring at a cellular level, the rupturing torture of it, X felt a shiver of satisfaction jolt through her body.
X leaned in close to him, “If you want to see me again, you’ll give them back,” she said as she released his bonds and told him to turn around.
Amazed at the amount of pain he was enduring, X decided to vary her approach. There was little evidence of Compton’s discomfort. So, dexterously, X unsnapped his codpiece and slid a metal ring over his penis, a ring that had little sharp points inside it and a little dial that allowed it to be tightened, a screw which X turned as Compton winced. If only she could have witnessed a tear in his eye, she might have been satisfied.
“Please let me show them to you, Domina,” Compton said.
X picked up her paddle and tossed it back into her bag. It hit the rest of her gear with a clank.
“Where are they?”
“In my private gallery,” he answered.
X walked to the back wall and pulled off a collar and leash. When she returned to Compton, she buckled the collar around his neck, clipped on the leash, and then removed a crop from her bag.
“Get on your hands and knees because we’re going for a walk.”
As they reached the door of the dungeon, Compton said, “I will need to have Steinberg unlock the gallery. Please let me stand up and use the intercom.”
“Fine.”
Compton stood up and gave Steinberg his order, then got back onto his knees. X opened the heavy dungeon door, one that looked like it came from a Spanish estate, all thick wood and beautifully carved. He scuttled in front of her and out into the long hallway.
X had never been through more of the house than the stairs and short section of hallway that Steinberg led her down each visit. The inside of his home, equally as opulent as the exterior, gleamed from every surface. The floors, lined with white marble, were bordered on each side by strips of green onyx marble veined with delicate spider webs of red and white crystallizations; the hand-glazed walls to the sides of them bore paintings and warm sconce lighting. As X walked behind Compton, smacking him with the crop on the ass as they went down the hall, her gaze was transfixed by the long tunnel of the hallway, so clean and free of dirt as to be almost sterile, hospital-like perhaps, and certainly unwelcoming. Finally, they stopped in front of the bronze doors of an elevator.
“We need to go to the second floor,” he said.
“You have an elevator in your house,” X said, disbelievingly. She pushed the button and when the door opened Compton crawled into it with X following. Even the elevator was lavish. A richly upholstered bench ran along its side, and a gilded mirror hung over a sleek metal handrail set against the dark wood walls.
“How many rooms does this disgusting place have?” X asked, yanking on his leash and jarring his head as she did so.
“Fourteen bedrooms, sixteen bathrooms, two offices, three living areas, my private art gallery, an exercise room, kitchen and formal dining area, and an astrological observatory on the roof.”
“Is that it?” X yanked the leash again, jerking Compton’s head again.
“Well, there are the tennis courts, the swimming pool, and a servant house on the property. And a garage for my vehicles, of course.”
As the elevator door opened, X whacked him with the crop and he scurried forward.
Compton led her down another long hallway. As they passed an open bedroom, X noticed an older Latino woman who was inside and in the middle of making a bed. The woman paused to look up from her work and then quickly looked away. Perhaps she had seen something similar before, and X bet to herself that the maid had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Or perhaps she was simply disgusted to see her boss going down the hallway on his hands and knees, wearing only wrist and ankle cuffs and a collar on his neck, a little metal ring on his tiny penis, followed by a boot-wearing dominatrix smacking him on the ass with a crop. If the maid could see the size of Compton’s penis, X thought, she surely would have laughed, might not be able to contain herself. Maybe the woman would tell the other maids how tiny he was, tell them how the rich man had a small dick. X took pleasure in Compton’s humiliation.
They turned a corner and Steinberg was there waiting in front of a sleek metal door.
“Sir,” he said to Compton, “please forgive me, but the security system is not accepting my code. You will need to do an optical imprint for it to unlock.”
Compton started to stand and X hit him with her crop on his shoulder. Along with the drying blood on his ass, now the cross-hatching of red lines had appeared on his back and shoulders.
“Did I tell you to stand?
” X snipped, fully aware that Steinberg was watching the whole thing, wanting to embarrass Compton in front of his staff member. To her disappointment, whatever reaction Steinberg was having to seeing his boss being treated in such a way was unapparent.
“May I stand?” Compton asked. “I must stand to use the optical scanner.”
“Beg me,” X said, wanting to fully humiliate him.
“Please, X, allow me to stand and use the optical scanner. I ask it with all humility.” Compton bowed his head down like a bad dog. Steinberg diverted his eyes.
As X looked at Compton on his hands and knees, it occurred to her that the man had become like one of her art works. He bore the markings from her hand. Her medium had been human flesh, and her technique, pain. It had its own grotesque beauty.
X turned to Steinberg and told him to remove his tie and give it to her.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“You heard what I said. Give me your tie.”
Steinberg, uncertain how to proceed, paused as if frozen, as if time had stopped, unsure of how to respond. Finally, Compton spoke after X whacked him with the crop.
“Take it off, David.”
And then David Steinberg reached up to the half-Windsor knot of his necktie and began to undo the smooth blue strip of cloth, the silk produced in China and the tie assembled in Italy before being sold at an upscale men’s store that he had long ago shopped in while on a business trip with Mr. Compton. Once the tie was free from his neck, Steinberg held it in front of him meekly, the length of it draping over his thumb and hanging toward the floor.
X took this tie from him and then let it drop next to Compton’s head.
“Polish his shoes,” she commanded Compton. “Spit shine them.”
Steinberg, taken aback by the demand that had just been made to his boss, stood speechlessly, his mouth agape, his skin reddening from embarrassment as Compton picked up the expensive tie. A small wad of spit flew from Compton’s mouth, landing neatly on the tie, and he began to polish Steinberg’s right loafer.
“Make sure you get by the heel,” X said, and Compton buffed that area before moving on to the other shoe.
Finally, when Compton had finished rubbing the entirety of Steinberg’s dress shoes, X told him to stand up.
Then she asked Steinberg scathingly, “Why are you still here?”
“Mr. Compton has not used the optical scanner before and may need help.”
Steinberg directed Compton to stand directly in front of the optical scanner with his forehead against a pad made for this purpose.
“Mr. Compton,” Steinberg said, “say ‘Begin,’ and the software will recognize your voice and start the scan.”
“May I speak, X?”
“Just say the God-damn word and get us in there.”
“Begin.”
A little light came out from the scanner and there was the sound of the mechanisms of the door unlocking. And with that, Steinberg was gone.
The lights turned on automatically when they entered the gallery. Small orbs above the paintings illuminated each work and lights on the floor directed beams which accentuated the contours and lines of the sculptures. Leather tufted benches that had been placed around the room allowed a person to sit in front of a work if one so wished. A lovely patterned carpet covered the entire floor. There were no windows in the gallery which X guessed was for security but also to protect the work from light damage.
X thought that when they entered that she would be able to go directly to her paintings and retrieve them, but instead, X was pulled in immediately and distracted by the works around her. They mesmerized her, emitted a resonance which hypnotized and seduced. X walked over to the closest wall and Compton scurried behind her, dragging his leash behind him on the floor. In front of X was an original Van Gogh, one that X had only ever seen listed in a book as privately-owned. She walked through the room, completely enrapt and entranced.
Compton’s collection included many of the most well-known artists who had ever lived: Picasso, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, Cezanne, and Duchamp shared a wall. These sat close to more recent artists such as John DeAndrea, Blansky, Mapplethorpe, Warhol, Richard Estes, Don Eddy, Keith Haring, Francis Bacon, George Condo and Lisa Yuskavage. There were sculptures by Lipshitz, Pineda, and Marisol.
X recognized the names of many of the artists, but not all, and interestingly, these were the works that garnered the majority of her attention. Because she was unfamiliar with those artists, X was unsure how to interpret their paintings, the knowledge of the artist’s life or other works being unavailable for her to use as a lens through which to view them.
So hypnotized she was by all the works that X barely remembered that Compton was following behind her on his hands and knees. X continued through the room as if in a trance until finally, in front of her, X saw her paintings clustered together. They looked so out of place among those other works and masterpieces that she almost broke down crying from the inferiority she felt. Instead, she backhanded Compton across his face. She wouldn’t be feeling this way if it weren’t for him.
“Why do you have them here?” X said, staring at them there on the wall.
“I don’t understand what you mean, this is my art gallery.”
“But they don’t belong here,” X said as tears started to roll down her cheeks. She didn’t want Compton to see her cry but he looked up at her as she spoke.
“They do belong here,” he said, starting to kiss her boots. He kissed them at first gently and then completely; what had begun as little pecks to the tops of her feet turned to pure adulation—he licked them, he clung to them, he rubbed his face onto them, leaving smears where once there was shine.
She asked him, challenging Compton, “Why do you have all these works, why do you own them? How can you say that they are yours?”
Compton sat down on his ass and scanned them all, contemplating her question.
“It makes me feel peaceful to come here,” he answered.
“But these works, they belong to humanity. They should be in a museum.”
“After my death, they will all be distributed to museums I have specified.”
X looked him in the eye. “But why must you have them all now?” The fact that one man had all these works, including her own, seemed incredibly selfish and petty. X sat down on a bench and Compton sat on the floor next to her like a dog, both of them looking at the artworks around them.
“X,” Compton began, his voice gentle and thoughtful, “when I come here and look at these pieces, it gives me something that I am unable to get anywhere else. Artists see things in a way that other people are unable to experience except through artwork. All I can answer is that it makes other parts of my life richer to be able to see through their eyes.”
“But why did you buy my paintings?” X asked. “To own me? To make me want to hurt you?”
“No,” he began. “I bought them because I wanted to be able to see through your eyes.”
What Compton did not elucidate on was that he had mostly purchased her paintings because he thought that it would make her happy. There are two ways in which people are motivated in the world—internally or externally. Compton, who was motivated by external factors, mistakenly thought that X, who was motivated by internal measurements, would be pleased with the newfound fame and praise that had come her way due to his purchase of her paintings. And if his purchase was destined to make her angry, to make her want to hurt him more, even that would be an acceptable outcome. He won either way.
Compton believed in artistic talent—he did—but he, like X, knew that there were many incredibly talented artists in the world who would never get a glimpse of fame or recognition. An artist needed vetted, needed a stamp of approval from those in power before he or she was accepted as such in the general population. That stamp typically came hand-in-hand with the amount of money that could be garnered from a particular piece—money was the de facto measurement of the particular value of an artist. Collec
tors who knew very little about art would buy works because this or that artist had a buzz about them and there was a likelihood that the piece would increase in value.
What X wanted was not fame, but talent. She wanted to find satisfaction in her own works. The critics could go to hell—what did they ever create anyway? A bunch of blabber. Give me a paintbrush, and that is enough, she had always thought. No, X painted for this reason—she painted because she couldn’t not paint.
There was a deep, suffocating silence.
“I want them back,” X repeated.
“X, I cannot. If it is more money you need, name your price.”
She slapped him and then slapped him again.
“It’s not about the money. They’re my paintings.”
“They will always be your paintings, X, regardless of who owns them.”
X decided to threaten him. “I won’t see you again,” X said, fully aware that she could not just leave him but wanting to see his reaction and ascertain if her threat would be effective.
He called her bluff. “If that is how it must be then I suppose I will have to accept it. But let me make you another offer, X. In return for your paintings remaining at my gallery, you may choose another work, whichever one you wish, and it will be yours. Donate it to a museum if you want. Send it to them in the mail.”
X could barely believe his offer. No wonder the man was known as being able to negotiate almost any deal.
She walked around the room again until stopping in a dark corner where she found a small Van Gogh painting, a portrait of a woman which she knew that Van Gogh had painted at least four different ways. He hadn’t simply painted over his original—he had painted several different versions—in one, the woman wore a green shirt; in another, black; in one, the flowers of the wallpaper behind her are blue, and in another white. What had he seen that caused him to paint what was essentially the same image several times with just a subtle variation? X walked over to it and started to take it off the wall.
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