by Marco Vassi
He read her expression with open delight. “Ah, I can see dreams of escape dancing in your brain already.”
“And I get special treatment if I fuck you?”
“No, my dear, not fuck. I can get that any time. What I want is total surrender. Real surrender. True exchange. I want you to like me, to think about me, and to look forward to being with me. When you can accomplish that, I would think that your position here would be very solid indeed.”
“And if I don’t, then I can look forward to an early demise.”
“Oh, you are safe for a couple of months at any rate. It takes that long for novelty value to wear off. After that, the girls get case-hardened and go through their paces in the Parlor practically yawning, like old hookers. And nothing is more displeasing to the type of customer that we get to perceive that he can inflict the most imaginative horrors imaginable upon a woman and have them be treated with distraction and ennui. This, of course, drives him to further excess. And finally, nothing will satisfy him but killing her. And so our supply is diminished by a process of natural selection. The women evolve to their doom.”
“Tell me something,” she said, squinting over her cigarette, “don’t you have any qualms at all?”
“No,” he replied breezily. “I long ago decided that the universe was utterly indifferent to everything we here on earth consider among our most esteemed values. When I was nine I witnessed an earthquake. Bankers and paupers, priests and prostitutes, good men and vile rogues all fell together. Since then I have watched death claim its members with total egalitarian cheerfulness. I know, as much as it is possible for anyone to know anything, that this life is the only life there is. So I came to the conclusion that I could do anything I wanted, or could get away with. This position came about, and I took it, fully aware that I was choosing a life of Absolute Villainy. No, I have no qualms.”
“Are you one of the . . . what shall I call them . . . owners?”
“Hardly,” he replied. “I don’t even know who they are. I work for a level of executive below the highest level. And, if I may foresee your next question, I have been here three years. As far as the age of the place itself, I’m not sure. Of course, in a sense, it has been in existence from the beginning of time. The only difference now is that with increased population and intensified wealth over a larger number of people, the demand for women is greater. But slavers have been operating for as long as there have been people.”
Constance stared out at the sea for a very long time, and before her eyes the whole of history seemed to sail. Ships and caravans and the movements of tribes, carrying war and goods and gods and the eternal threat of enslavement, the making of one human being into a piece of property for another. She saw the vision in all of its ramifications, not only in the relationship between master and slave itself, but in that of lord and serf, boss and employee, husband and wife, parent and child, church and believer, politician and citizen, rich man and poor man, human and animal. Fleetingly, she thought of Chet and wondered what he would think of her disappearance. Briefly, she considered that he might guess at her kidnapping, and find a way to track her down, but in the face of the power and expertise of the organization that had taken her, anything he did would accomplish little more than to endanger his life. She would never see him again, and her eyes misted over.
“I think I’d like to go back to my room,” she said at last.
“Of course,” he replied, jumping up to pull her chair away as she stood up.
She stepped clear of him, took a step away and then turned to face him.
“I don’t know how I’m going to handle it yet,” she said. “I may accept the situation in its entirety, with all its ramifications, including the ultimate debasement of falling in love with you. Or I may kill myself. Or I may just let things slide and await my turn. Or I may try to escape.”
“Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t have expected any less of you, including your honesty in telling me this.”
“Well, then . . .” she said.
“Au revoir,” he said, bowing slightly.
When she returned to her room, she found a large manila envelope on her desk. Before opening it she undressed, took a shower, and when she was refreshed, sat nude on the balcony, the warm sun kneading her skin, to look at the contents of the bulky envelope.
The first enclosure was a sheet of paper giving her her Parlor schedule for the following three weeks. She had four eight-hour stints each week, some in the afternoons, but most at night, and one beginning at six in the morning.
“Weird,” she thought, “any man who would be interested in S&M at that hour.”
Under that was a letter officially welcoming her to “The Villa.” It read:
* * *
Dear Constance,
From one viewpoint, the fact that we have kidnapped you and made you available for violent use by a number of anonymous men puts us in a rather formal and strained relationship. On the other hand, what’s done is done, and it is foolish to live in the shadows. You might protest that it is all very well for us to “forgive and forget,” because we are in a superior position, but that is true only from a relative viewpoint. On the scale of absolute reality, our petty dramas are beneath insignificance, and what we enjoy or suffer, or how long our lives go on, makes no difference within the space of a century.
Aside from the duty hours assigned to you (which you can look upon simply as a job, and which makes you no different than you were when you lived on the “outside”), you are at complete leisure and liberty to enjoy yourself. All the amenities are here, including a wide variety of media (all the current films are shown in our theater and all our women and staff are encouraged to participate in our theater group). There are sports, the best medical facilities, a boutique sporting the latest fashions. Under special circumstances you will be allowed to go sailing and horseback riding. About the only things not allowed are telephone calls and incoming mail. If, however, you wish to write to someone to assure him or her of your well-being, we will mail the letter for you (after reading it, of course).
There is the delicate point of The Snuff, and we would be less than honest if we didn’t mention it. There is no real justification for our subjecting you to this, except to note that death comes to us all and so we are not tampering with nature but merely making a few minor adjustments in relation to time.
Well, there it is. We are slavers and through one circumstance and another, you happen to have become one of our slaves. If we can accept our mutual destinies, then we can aspire to a modicum of happiness within our common limitations on this planet.
So, enjoy your days and nights, perform your tasks with verve, and make yourself one of the family. We’re sure that after a while, what with your work and your off-duty diversions, your love affairs and hobbies, time will pass smoothly and you will come to realize that what happens here is as much life as what happens anywhere, and so make your peace with your condition.
Sincerely,
The Management
* * *
When Constance finished the letter, she let it fall to the ground beside her and closed her eyes and remained for a long time without moving, without thoughts, soaking in the rays of the sun. She was calm, resigned, relaxed. Although the fact of it struck her as somewhat peculiar, she was at peace. So many things which provided anxiety in her previous life were missing here. She had no fear of random violence, of unexpected rape or attack. She had no worry about paying the rent. She didn’t know where she was geographically, but suspected it was a subtropical climate; she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold. Her life had become neat, compact, totally rationalized.
Finally, she poked into the envelope and dug out the rest of the material. It included a map of the grounds, with forbidden areas marked out. There was a brisk description of security measures and a warning about the futility of attempting escape. There wer
e color brochures in which different facilities of the place advertised their services, including the library, the discotheque, the arts-and-crafts shop, the adult education center, the yoga center.
With a sigh, she let the envelope fall to the ground, got up, paced around a bit, and then went back inside where she flung herself onto the bed and without warning burst into hot, copious tears. She cried for a quarter of an hour and then fell asleep.
She had troubled, inchoate dreams and was finally awakened by a hand shaking her shoulder. She looked up. It was the maid, a black girl with cocoa skin dressed in black dress with a white frilly apron, net stockings and glossy pumps. The woman was no older than twenty, wore no makeup, and had hazel eyes.
“Sorry,” she said, “but you didn’t hear me knocking. It’s time for you to go on duty.”
“Whaa . . .” Constance said, still fuzzy.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and then remembered, remembered where she was and what the woman was talking about. Her heart sank. A taste of cold lead lay on her tongue. Dread tugged at the backs of her eyeballs. Waking up in the middle of the afternoon after a fitful sleep is always traumatic, but to wake up into such a situation, and to feel the first actual impact of it, is indescribable. Constance realized for the first time that her predicament was not an episode but a permanent state, and accepting it intellectually was relatively easy, and even a bit of conceptual fun. But to live it, day by day, hour by hour, endlessly, was something else again.
The maid put her hand in her apron pocket and pulled out a green, cylindrical pill.
“You might want to take this,” she whispered. “It’ll get you over the worst part.”
“What is it?” Constance asked.
“It’s got a couple of things in it. Something to give you energy, something to relax your muscles, something to make what’s happening feel like a hallucination, something to turn you on just a taste.”
Despite herself, Constance opened her eyes in appreciation of the description.
“Oh, it’s a nice one,” the maid said.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Constance asked.
“I work here,” she said. “I like things to be as pleasant as possible. It’s part of the policy of the management. And maybe you’ll want to do something for me someday.”
“What could I do for you?” Constance said.
“Some day, when you have a full day off, we might take one of these together and . . . play.”
“Never something for nothing, is there?” Constance said, shaking her head.
“First law of the cosmos,” the woman replied. “And I don’t make the laws, I just obey them.”
Constance smiled and sniffed and stood up and stretched.
“All right,” she said, “let me have the happy pill. And one day you come by and we’ll get it on. Why the fuck not?”
“Yeah,” the woman grinned. “You gettin’ the idea.”
Constance took the pill, plopped it on her tongue, and washed it down with a glass of water from the bathroom sink.
“How long?” she asked.
“You got twenty minutes to get to the dressing room. The pill will start to come on in about thirty. By that time they should just be bringing you in. They’ll tell you what to expect this time.” The woman looked at Constance’s body appraisingly. “For now, just put on a robe and slippers, brush your teeth if you want to, and comb your hair, and I’ll take you to the place.”
Constance watched herself in front of the mirror as she did her elementary toilette. Five feet seven, black hair which fell down between her shoulder blades, green eyes, narrow but very full lips, breasts each the size of a small cantaloupe, and a thick, curly bush of oddly coarse pubic hair . . . all combined to make her a compellingly erotically beautiful woman. But far and beyond all these features, it was the swell of her high, broad, and deeply curved buttocks which caused men to turn and stare wherever she went. Her ass transcended the ordinary category and had to be ranked as a primary sex characteristic. The number of men who had wined, dined, and covered her with presents in order to place their hands, tongues and cocks into the tantalizing crevice numbered well over a hundred. The number that succeeded were a twentieth of that. And prior to the previous afternoon, only one had fucked her there, and then most unsuccessfully.
She became aware that she was standing there staring at herself in a trance by a knock on the bathroom door. It was the maid. Constance walked out and tittered when she saw the other woman.
“You look ridiculous in that outfit,” she said. “What is your name, anyway?”
“Carla,” the woman said.
Constance was entranced by the glow of saliva on the other woman’s front teeth. She leaned forward and brought her mouth close to the maid’s. Carla smiled. Constance licked Carla’s teeth with her tongue, and when their lips met her knees went soft and a numb hot wet tingling invaded her entire body. She moaned, and melted into Carla’s face. She became one flesh with the other woman and for a long time they remained glued to each other, barely moving, except for tiny, quick, exquisite motions of their tongue tips and great breathy swallowings of one another’s saliva.
Then Carla stepped back and the whole earth seemed to totter.
“My, my,” she said. “We are going to have a good time one day.”
“The drug . . .” Constance whispered.
“Came on a bit faster with you than with most,” Carla agreed and then went to the phone. She picked it up, dialed three digits, and after a pause said, “Bring a chair.”
Constance sat down and waited, watching herself and the world turn to rubber. The door opened and it seemed to stretch for yards. Robert walked in pushing a wheelchair. He and Carla helped Constance up, slipped a robe over her shoulders, and put her in the chair. And so she went to her assignment, drugged, sensate, wide open, rolling down the surrealistic hallway in a wheelchair.
They brought her to the dressing room where she was slipped into a hood that covered her whole head and left her mouth exposed, black boots and gloves.
“Is that all?” she heard Robert ask.
“It’s one of those nouveau riche publishers of tit books,” the dressing room attendant said. “Made a fortune in less than ten years but doesn’t have the imagination to match his newfound wealth. To him this is kinky and far out.”
“What’s he down for?” Robert asked looking at a clipboard.
“Basic stuff. Three types of whip, nipple clips, fist-fucking, ass fucking, oversized dildoes, suspension from a hanging bar. He wants to finish by pissing on her and coming in her mouth.”
“Has he been warned about the rubber bafflers if he sticks his cock in her mouth? She’s already bitten one off, you know.”
“Yeah, he’s been told. Says he’s going to jerk off on her.”
Constance heard the dialogue and almost swooned. It was inconceivable that they were discussing these things as actual events which were going to take place, and be done to her, as though they were mechanics discussing the performance of a car. But that was merely the beginning.
“How long’s he down for?” asked Robert.
“Two and a half hours,” the attendant replied. “Then she gets a half hour rest and washing down. And then she goes to Henry for five hours.”
“Henry!” Robert exclaimed, in a voice that made Constance shudder.
“Look,” the attendant replied, “I only facilitate the orders. I don’t make the schedules.”
“I know,” Robert said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Poor kid,” Carla muttered.
“She’s tough,” Robert said, “she’ll be all right.”
Constance wanted to ask what Henry did but before she could open her mouth, the wheelchair lurched and she was pushed into the Parlor. The din was overpowering. Men shouting, women screamin
g, a cacophony of harsh breaths and grunts and curses and laughter. The smell of tobacco and marijuana and alcohol was triumphant. There was hardly any air left at all. She heard whips cracking, chains creaking, strange machinery operating. And occasionally, a high piercing cry of a woman yelling, “No, NO!” at the top of her lungs. The chair stopped moving and she heard a low cackle next to her right ear.
“Here she is, Mr. Caccione,” the attendant said. “Here’s your checklist. Please look it over and sign it. If you subject her to any unauthorized abuse, we reserve the right to name the size of the penalty payment.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the voice said. “Gimme, I’ll sign. Then lemme have her, gimme that luscious pussy. Oh man, look at that bush, look at them tits. Oh, I’m gonna fuck her good. I’m gonna give it to her good.”
“Also,” the slightly pedantic voice of the attendant went on, “If you wish to have her used by anyone else, he must keep within the limits of your checklist, and each such use will be added as an extra on your bill.”
“Sure, sure, money’s no object,” the voice said. “Hey, Irwin, com’ere,” he shouted. “Have a piece on me.”
Constance was pulled up, pushed back until her buttocks hit a cold leather slab, and then her arms and legs were tied down. The slab was tilted until it attained the horizontal, and for the second time in two days, she was blindfolded, drugged, and tied down on her back while some strange man prepared to do vile and disgusting things to her.
“I wonder whether understanding him compassionately would help me to accept what he’s doing?” Constance thought as the man ran hot nervous fingers over her flesh and slobbered on her breasts. Her thoughts were like distant clouds, for the drug had succeeded in dissociating her from her sense of self. She was a slave to sensation. The pulsing of her heart, the circulation of her blood, the breathing of her skin, became the screen upon which all else took place, and those processes were so impersonal she could hardly claim them at all. She had difficulty telling the difference between her body and that of the man who was debauching her. The whip fell on her like summer rain, and his fingers in her cunt were like the tongues of kittens on the eyelids. She swallowed his fist as easily as she would a bite of ripe pear. The nipple clips seemed as soft as the mouth of a toothless infant at her breast.