“Even a few each day is terrible for the skin,” the woman said.
The woman cleansed the make-up from X’s face with a botanical milk, wiping it off with a warm washcloth and then stroking the skin with a cotton ball dipped in toner. The woman informed X of the ingredients of each product that was used on her body, noting that her gift certificate included a bag of all the cleansers, moisturizers, and oils that would be used on her today. There were astringents to purify, marine compounds to revitalize, herb extracts to soothe.
After the facial, X was rubbed with virgin oils containing cypress, marjoram and lavadin, the woman skillfully smoothing the tenseness from X’s body. The woman finished at X’s feet, scouring them with a pumice stone, massaging the arches and in between each toe. The treatment felt wonderful, and X felt grateful that Compton had wanted her to be so pampered.
Finally, when the woman left the room so that X could stand up and dress, X had a sensation of dizziness, making it seem that she was floating, not her entire body but like some part of her was going to escape into the air like a balloon let out of a child’s small hand.
When the woman returned with the bag of goodies, X thanked her, telling her that now she felt wonderful, that the woman has the hands of an angel. Then X slipped into the Russian’s palm a rather large sum of cash that made the woman’s eyes light up.
X finished at the salon, getting her hair tied into a neat chignon and having her make-up done.
She returned to the hotel room then, hoping to sleep for an hour before she would need to get dressed for the evening. But in her room, on her bed, X found a small box on top of a garment bag. A note was taped onto the box and X took it out of the envelope and read it.
I hope that you will wear these for me tonight. I adore you. Terry.
She unzipped the bag and removed a white coat. She examined it for a moment, unsure about the material from which it was constructed. It wasn’t fur—no, upon closer inspection and then from reading the tag, X realized that the coat was in fact made from feathers, ostrich feathers.
Next, she opened the box. A mask sat atop a garment. X picked it up. The part that covered the face was a lovely and feminine, decorated with music notes and gold paint which accented delicate swirls around the perimeter. A spray of long and warmly colored feathers extended from the top of the mask. X put it to her face and peered at herself in the mirror, glad that it was just a partial mask and not fully covering her face. The black ribbons that would later be used to secure it to her head draped down to her collarbones. In her reflection, she saw that the plumage, so delicate and lovely, made her appear as if she were a bird of prey, powerful and intimidating, yet beautiful.
After setting the mask on the bed, she lifted up the garment from its box, pulling it up from the swath of tissue paper. And this garment, in comparison to the extravagant ones that had been purchased for her at the designer shops, this piece was barely a garment at all—made from nylon and spandex, its dark purple fabric was meant to cling to the body, its hem stopping just below the horizontal gluteal crease; the back was essentially nonexistent except for a thin string of fabric which followed the line of the spine from the base of the neck to the coccyx. The front would barely cover her breasts, she realized. The incredibly deep plunge of the garment would expose the space between her breasts, her belly button, and her lower abdomen.
X put it on, knowing that this dress was not the kind of thing a decent (or sane) person would wear in public. This was a garment best suited to strip clubs, bedrooms, or orgies. It was cheap and she liked that such a rich man had bought such a cheap thing. It did not adhere to societal norms of accepted dress; it accentuated and teased in ways that people, in their everyday lives, did not comfortably tolerate. It reinforced to her that Compton was different. She appreciated this. His sexuality was vulgar and subversive and proletariat. Hidden behind his business demeanor and stoicism, there was another man, one she could understand.
X dropped the garment into the box, wondering to herself what Compton would be wearing to the masquerade ball this evening, and then, more curiously, wondering the same thing about Simeon.
She climbed onto the bed, face down so as to not displace her chignon, and listened to the street traffic until sleep came to her.
13.
Compton arrived at 6 o’clock as he said he would, entering the hotel room in rush, setting his laptop bag under the console table, happy to see X through the open door of her bedroom as she sat on a chair and read a book.
He entered the room and saw that she was already wearing the dress that he had purchased for her.
“Stand up and let me look at you,” Compton said.
X closed her book and stood, wondering if the special double-sided tape that she had asked the spa to send up would keep the fabric from sliding off her breasts. It worked.
“Words cannot describe your beauty.” He paused, relishing the experience of looking at her. “The limo is outside waiting for us,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed in the car.”
X began to put her coat on, but Compton came over and stopped her.
“Not yet,” he said. “I have something for you.”
He handed her a small box which she opened. Inside was a pair of chandelier diamond earrings.
“They’re antique, so they aren’t blood diamonds,” he informed her. “The total weight is five carats.”
“They’re beautiful,” X said as she held them up and then put them on, “truly beautiful.”
X paused, sensing that he had a request.
“Whip me.”
X told him that she had not brought a whip or flogger.
Then, Compton undid his belt, pulling it through the loops until it dangled loosely in his hand. X took it from him and told him to take off his shirt. He undid a few of the buttons and then pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the bed.
X held the belt. The leather, soft, supple, and black, was folded over by X, folded over onto itself so that in her right hand she held the buckle and the end. Then, she ran her thumb through the separation between them until it had reached the smooth curve at the middle. With a quick movement, she snapped the belt together, the sound of its leather colliding sending waves of sound through the air and to Compton, a noise which seemed to penetrate him. It was so lovely. He wanted her to do it again, and she did.
Compton kneeled and put his hands onto the bed in front of him. X whipped him until her arm grew tired, doling out a preemptive penance.
When they had finished, X pulled her coat over her nearly naked body, carrying the mask in the box under her arm. She accompanied Compton down to the limousine, he carrying a snakeskin case which contained whatever it was he planned on wearing to the masquerade.
X climbed into the car, Compton following behind her. The bodyguard was already up front with the driver, and once the pair had sat down, the driver slowly pulled away from the hotel.
Compton pressed a button and put up the privacy screen between the front and back of the car, dimmed the interior lights and turned on some music. X took off her coat and Compton was aroused again at the sight of her.
A stocked bar ran along the side of the vehicle, and Compton and X looked through the small bottles of liquors playfully until Compton opened a couple of them and mixed them each a drink.
Compton opened a white bag that contained their dinners, pulled out two small white Styrofoam containers, and handed one to X. She opened the box, seeing that it contained a hamburger and French fries. A laugh escaped her.
Compton took a packet of ketchup out, tore it open, and squeezed its contents over the fries before popping one into his mouth.
“Sometimes I just want a big greasy burger,” he smiled. From the bag, he pulled out a napkin and began to roll it, fold it, and twist the thing until the shape of a rose appeared. He handed it to X who accepted his gift with a smile.
They enjoyed their drinks as the city passed by through their windows, its light diminishin
g as they journeyed to the chateau where the evening’s festivities would be taking place. The car drove with a smooth momentum towards the Loire region, X and Compton becoming more inebriated with every mile.
As they neared the Loire region, Compton opened his python skin case, took off his clothes, and began to put on the outfit that he had brought along. He pulled on a leather pair of pants, leaving his chest bare with the exception of a leather harness which X helped him buckle. The case also contained a thick collar and long leash, and Compton asked X if she would clasp the collar behind his neck, a task which she indulged, jerking it a little after the buckle was secured.
Finally, the car pulled into a long circular drive outside of a large chateau. A row of cars, several of them limos, was already parked outside in a neat line along the pebbled drive. The faint vibration of music pulsed through the air, seeping its way out of the building and into the cars where the drivers waited as they chatted on cell phones or read the paper.
X looked through the car window to the chateau and saw a building, grand and stately, three stories high, its perimeter bearing tall multi-paned windows which exuded dim lights from behind thick curtains. It instantly made X wonder what sorts of activities were occurring within its walls and many rooms.
Compton peered out the window as he kneeled next to her.
“It was built for a Prussian prince in the 16th century,” he said. “You can see from the roofline that it is built in the classical Mansard style. It even has a secret dungeon, an oubliette.”
X looked up to the top floor and saw how the windows poked out of the hip style roof, one which had several chimneys lifting up through the peak. At a side terrace, a group of masked people smoked, the moon above them highlighting the clouds and illuminating them below.
X asked, “And they have this party here every year?”
“Yes. But there’s no need to worry. The building is surrounded by thousands of acres of forest.”
X wasn’t worried. It was Compton who should be worried.
Compton said, “I would like you to make a selection for me.”
From his case, Compton removed two masks and laid them onto the leather seat. One was a simple chrome mask. The other, made of leather and expertly constructed, was pink and bore large eyeholes, pointed ears, wrinkles on the forehead which were emphasized with thin streaks of black paint in the furrows, and a wide, repulsive pig nose. X pointed to it.
“For the capitalist pig.”
Compton picked it up and secured it to his head.
X saw that there was still one thing in the case. It sat alone now, displayed on the satin lining. She knew that Compton had brought it because he wanted her to put it on him, so she didn’t bother to ask him if he wanted to wear it. Instead, X leaned over to him, undid his pants, and pulled them down to his ankles. Then, she took the plastic implement and slid it over his hard penis. X pushed it back to the base of his cock and then connected the ring around the back of his testicles, locking it, using the key that she picked out of the case. A male chastity belt. She attached the key with its tiny key ring to the buckle on her shoe while he zipped his pants back up.
Next, X opened the box and removed her own mask. She held it against her face and then turned away from Compton. He lifted the black ribbons and tied them tightly above her chignon, lifting his hand to grasp her privates after he had finished and then quickly pulling his hand away.
“Oh, the invitations, I forgot the invitations!” he said, whacking the forehead of his mask.
X let out an irritated groan.
“Just kidding,” he said as he pulled them from the jacket of the coat that sat crumpled on the seat. X’s father used to do a similar trick to X’s mother when they were in the checkout line at the grocery store. He would tell her that he had forgotten his wallet and she would fall for it every time. “Are you ready?” he asked.
X slipped into her coat.
“Yes, Terry, I am.”
14.
As X walked across the pebbled drive towards the chateau, shielded from the late winter chill by the feathered coat she wore and followed by an obsequious man linked to her by a leather leash, a billionaire wearing a pink pig mask and following a woman arrayed with feathers, the hilarity of the scene became apparent to her, this image of the fowl leading the swine.
They made their way up a set of wide stone steps before they arrived at the door. X knocked, and a few seconds later the door was opened by a man dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. He wore a simple white mask on his face which covered his visage entirely, making him appear doll like, as if he were made out of porcelain. With a sweep of his arm, he directed X and Compton into the main hall, a space illuminated by a large crystal chandelier which hung from above.
A few steps ahead, a man and a woman stood on the black and white checkered marble floor. The woman, a long-legged and big breasted blond, her nipples erect from the cool air which entered the room each time the door was opened, was wearing only stiletto heels, a miniscule black thong, and a small black mask encrusted with rhinestones which caught the light with her every movement. Her large red pout of a mouth was taped shut with bright red tape, covered with one large “X” that crisscrossed over her lips and extended from the edges of her nostrils to the sides of her chin. In her arms, she held a wide silver tray covered with a variety of chocolate candies.
The man next to her was shirtless and wore leather pants similar to Compton’s. He was also masked, as everyone at this soiree would be. His mask, shaped from leather, extended down towards his goatee, sweeping over the line of his jaw, making it appear almost as if he were wearing a Roman helmet. The sharp peaks of the mask coupled with the obvious strength of his body made him appear soldier-like, threatening.
When the man asked in French for their invitations, Compton handed the man two rectangles of paper. The man examined them both, needing to compare the unique numbers that were written in the upper right corners of each card to numbers on the sheet on his clipboard.
As they waited for the man to find the numbers on his list, X reached over, picked up a small chocolate candy, and popped it into her mouth. When she went to pick up another, the man stopped her with a wag of his finger, then drew a large X on the top of her right hand.
“Only one for each person,” he said in French.
The man located the corresponding numbers and crossed them off with his pen. X was unable to read the invitations that were now in the man’s hands and wished that she had asked Compton to look at them while they were still in the limo. She did see that they appeared to be hand calligraphied, the invitation written on flower embossed silk paper.
The floor below them pulsed with the music that was being played in the basement where partygoers danced. Ahead of them, a curved marble staircase swept up to the second floor, and to either side, wide doorways led to a dimly-lit salon on their left and a dining room on their right. From every direction, unable to be drowned out by the pulsing music or occasional laugh or conversation, were the sounds of pleasure, some high and others low, some female and others male. X began to grow aroused upon hearing them, and her pulse quickened as it began to sink into her that they were at an orgy, an event that she had never before attended but had always wondered about.
The man who had opened the door for them took her coat and hung it along with the others on a long coat rack. X noticed how the eyes off each of those in the room with her ran up and down her body, measuring her. They were undressing her with their eyes, she knew, mentally erasing the already scanty material covering her most private of places.
The mask, however, and the way it obscured her countenance, allowed her to retain a certain dignity. Their stares could not penetrate the mask, and X was able to see herself as if looking through their eyes, stripped down bare with only the mask remaining. She paused for a moment in the awareness before yanking on Compton’s leash and leading him into the petite salon.
The same music from below was pouring out
of speakers at the corners of the room, a digitized percussion with hints of the Indian mridangam and kanjira, the music hypnotic and trance-inducing.
The room was full of people, their attention barely interrupted by the entrance of X and Compton. Many of the people were either watching the performance taking place on a white ottoman at the center of the room or partaking in their own erotic pursuits.
X could see, at the edges of the room, every combination of pairings. Man rubbed against man, woman against woman, man against woman (or women), the bodies pressing against each other over plush furniture or Chippendale chairs, the people whispering to one another, the whole scene reflected from a large mirror that sat above a wide fireplace. X caught her reflection in the mirror, and for a brief moment, she did not recognize the person staring back at her. Instead, she thought that she was looking at another partygoer, a different woman, until finally her mind made the connection that it was her own reflection that she was seeing and that indeed, it was her in this strange place.
The thick smell of sex was in the air. The musk of it mixed with sweat and cologne and the sweet scents of fruity drinks and made its way into every corner and crevice, up every nostril as if it were a crude, vulgar incense, the scent of debauchery.
Next to a 17th century oil painting, a woman was pressed up against the wall, her cheek next to the plaster and her skirt hiked up, a muscular man fucking her ferociously from behind. An auburn-haired woman was stretched out on a chaise lounge, naked on the red Jacobean fabric, another woman kneeling on the floor, head between the other’s legs. A man stood next to them, watching, grasping his dick in his hand, jerking it now and then. Tucked in a corner, a woman poured white wine over her bare breasts and giggled as a Mediterranean man lapped it off, the gentleman following the stream down to her crotch.
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