Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One)

by Evie Blake

  She feels the silk band going around her eyes and being tied at the back of her head, gently and with respect. She looks into the black cloth and she can see nothing. Her breath quickens. Now she knows exactly what the Doctor wants to do, and yet each time he comes to visit her she cannot help this expectation that overwhelms her as soon as he places the blindfold over her eyes. Such a considerate man. He allows her to enter her fantasies as he enacts his own.

  The Doctor gently pulls her back down on to the bed. He picks up her right ankle and moves her leg to the side. He pulls her garter off and slowly peels off her stocking. She feels it being wrapped around her ankle, binding it to the bedstead. It is not so tight that it will leave a mark, and yet it is tight enough to make her feel tension. He moves her other leg now, takes off the stocking and ties this foot to the other side of the bed. She is lying on her back, her legs wide open in a provocative V. He leaves her arms free. The Doctor likes her to dig her nails into his back. She wonders how he explains these marks to his wife, but maybe the reason he is here right now with her is because his wife never sees his naked body any more.

  She hears the Doctor moving around the room. She knows he is looking at her exposed, wide open for him, and picking up his instruments one by one, thinking about it. She should be frightened, but she isn’t. Her arms are free and she can easily untie herself if she wants to. Yet she has no desire to pull off the blindfold or undo the stockings tied around her ankles.

  She feels the Doctor’s weight as he gets on to the bed and leans over her.

  ‘I think I have just the thing to make you feel better,’ he whispers.

  ‘Please, Doctor,’ she says.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ he asks.

  She lifts her arm and places her hand on her belly.

  ‘Here, Doctor.’

  He takes his time, and the anticipation makes her stomach clench. Will he touch her with one of his cold instruments? Eventually she feels his warm lips on her skin, and the tension is replaced by relief. He massages her belly with his hands.

  ‘Where else does it hurt, Belle?’

  She brings her hand up to her breast, touches her nipple.

  ‘Here, Doctor.’

  He lifts her hand away and begins to kiss her nipple very gently, fondling her other breast at the same time, and Belle feels herself melting beneath the healing hands of her doctor. She cannot see him through the blindfold and this makes the experience even more erotic for her. She is imagining a man doing this to her not just because he desires it, but because he loves her and wants to pleasure her. She knows the Doctor doesn’t love her, but that doesn’t matter now. He has become her dream man, the ultimate lover she hopes to find one day.

  ‘Where else does it hurt, Belle?’ the kind voice of the Doctor asks her.

  She brings her hand down between her open legs.

  ‘Here, Doctor, it hurts so much right here.’

  ‘I’m going to make you all better now, Belle,’ the Doctor says.

  He slowly kisses her all the way from the tip of her nipples, down the centre of her chest and stomach. He kisses across her pelvis until he comes to where her hand is placed. He picks up her hand, kisses it gently and removes it. Now he is kissing her below. Making her better, as he calls it. Such a lover this man is. She feels like congratulating his wife every time she sees her. The Doctor kisses her deeper and deeper, gently using his fingers to help him go further. Even though she is blindfolded, Belle still closes her eyes. She is tied to the bed, and yet she feels as free as a bird. A blackbird. She hears its song inside her head, and it trills with pleasure as the Doctor caresses her with his tongue.

  In this moment of ecstasy I am all spirit, Belle thinks.

  This spirit, this energy of who she is feels like fire in her blood. It fuels her as the Doctor brings her closer and closer to the edge. She imagines that another man is here with her making love. She doesn’t know him yet. He is a projection, but she feels he will come soon. This man who can do everything for her.

  The Doctor pulls away from her.

  ‘How are you feeling now, Belle?’ he asks her.

  ‘A little better, but Doctor, I need you to make sure I don’t get sick again.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ the Doctor says politely. A second later she feels him push inside her, and it makes her sigh with pleasure.

  ‘Is that better?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she breathes.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, beginning to pick up rhythm. Now she knows that the Doctor is going into his own fantasy world. And she too is gone, far away from this room in Venice. She is in her special place, somewhere beyond the dimensions of the real world, in the heavens and at the bottom of the sea. At the same time she is in a small room, a tiny dark cupboard of desire. She locks the door, leaving her thoughts outside and letting her physical sensations take her beyond her body, so that she is right on the very edge, the tiny sliver of a fine line between calm and storm. She holds it for as long as she can, but it is only a matter of seconds before she succumbs to the Doctor’s relentless rhythm and she is climaxing. He doesn’t stop, not for a second, but keeps on as she cascades around him, thrusting into her deeper and deeper. She knows he is lost in the ending of his own private game, and she can feel him growing more urgent, hot, fast jabs. Although her legs are rigid, her feet bound to the bed, she raises her chest towards him and digs her nails into his back. He groans with pleasure and she pushes her fingers deeper into his flesh as he comes with a loud cry.

  Belle stands by the open French window, the curtains fluttering inside and draping her naked body. She watches the Doctor rowing briskly away, his black bag stowed beside him in the boat. He is all business once again. Who would have thought what the good doctor likes to get up to when he is not saving lives? She considers that maybe she is a kind of doctor as well. Helping her clients find release, and the satisfaction that they can’t seem to achieve in their marriages or relationships with other women. She compares herself to one of Venice’s most famous courtesans, Veronica Franco. She was a cortigiana onesta, an intellectual prostitute, admired by men not just for her erotic skills, but for her mind as well. Veronica Franco equated virtue with intellectual integrity. Belle would like to write poetry too. She tries to compose something in her head. Instinctively the words are Polish, not Italian, and the vista of the narrow canal in front of her is replaced by a fleeting image of the woods back home. Tall evergreen trees, stretching on and on, swaying in a soft breeze, whispering to her . . . re-creating these new sensations her body is feeling.

  I am moving. The branches, the leaves that shade my heart begin to stir.

  During Veronica Franco’s time, in the sixteenth century, there was no shame attached to being a prostitute. So, Belle reasons, she is not being immoral. She is stimulating her clients’ imaginations and ultimately helping her men to treat their wives better. Isn’t it preferable that they come to her, a willing participant in the act of sex, rather than force themselves on reluctant wives and fiancées? This is what she is good at, so why not share herself if she so chooses? She wishes that there was a man out there who could understand this. To love Belle you have to let her be free.

  She turns to look at the bed, the sheets still crumpled from their game. The Doctor has left a generous pile of notes on the pillow. It is more than enough to cover the rent on her apartment for the next month. It is hard to believe that it is just over a year since her first astonishing encounter as Belle on the night of the costume party. For the few weeks after it happened she tried unsuccessfully to forget about it. Yet those sensations were there with her all the time. Imaginary fingers touching her, the feel of him within her grasp, making her on edge as if she had an itch she was unable to scratch. When she couldn’t remove the image of herself and the young man from her mind, she tried to relive it and bring it into the bedchamber with her husband. That was a disaster. Signor Brzezinski told her she looked depraved in her Egyptian outfit, and after he had st
ripped her of her finery and washed the make-up off her face, ignoring her tears of disappointment, she felt empty of any kind of desire. Of course it was what he called her apathy that seemed to give her cruel husband pleasure, and he had sex with her then, her passiveness driving him on so that it was clear he did not care whether she was enjoying herself or not. All those old emotions returned: her humiliation and her powerlessness, smothering the part of her she had unearthed the night she was an Egyptian. And so it was with a sort of desperation that she tentatively began her career as a prostitute. As soon as her husband left for business again, she disguised herself as best she could and went exploring. The first few times she found clients around Ponte di Rialto, but as the weather turned colder, she soon realised that she would be more comfortable, and more respected, if she were to rent an apartment somewhere in the city, a good distance from her home ground.

  How fast things have changed since then. Now she truly is living a double life: sometimes the demure Polish wife of Signor Brzezinski, at other times the exotic courtesan Belle, with her entourage of special clients. She knows that it isn’t an ideal life, and yet it is what she needs right now. She isn’t hurting anyone. Not even Signor Brzezinski if he finds out, for he cannot love her. So where is the badness in being Belle?

  Since she is a prostitute out of choice, rather than need, Belle never sleeps with anyone she doesn’t want to. She has a golden rule about Blackshirts and refuses to have sex with them. She cannot abide Mussolini’s fascists, although her husband openly admires the dictator. There are other monsters as well who prowl the streets of Venice, and she is always very careful not to be tempted. She has heard of sick beasts who take pleasure from hurting prostitutes. She never wants to risk that.

  She crosses her apartment, and goes into the front room, where she looks out of the window, turning her gaze towards the lagoon. There is a misty haze hanging over the green water, and an aureole glow behind it as the sun tries to break through. The overall effect is ethereal and dreamlike. She feels as though she is living in a mystical city, a place of dreams and fantasies. Could she live this life in any place other than Venice? She doesn’t think so. This city, founded by Venus rising from the sea, lends itself to sexual intrigue. It is part of its history.

  She surveys the boats nearby, watches the sailors and the dockers busy unloading their exotic wares. She thinks of all the distant lands these boats have been to. How many women just like her, living in other towns and ports, might be looking at them and longing to be aboard too? Her attention is drawn to one boat in particular, a smart white schooner, and the figure of a man walking down the gangway. She cannot make out his face, but she can admire his body even from here. He is tall, and walks with a languid grace, a sexual confidence she recognises. She wonders if he has heard of her, and finds herself hoping he will be a sailor who comes looking for Belle.

  Valentina

  VALENTINA IS LATE AGAIN. SHE WALKS AS FAST AS POSSIBLE in her heels. She is wearing one of her mother’s mini dresses from the sixties, a Bridget Riley dress, all black and white stripes, making her feel strident, not shy like usual. It is a feeling she likes.

  She steps out into the evening rush hour of Milan, confident that cars will stop for her now she is wearing her mother’s dress. Maybe she should take a taxi? But the gallery isn’t far, just off Corso Magenta. It is Theo’s fault she is late, she thinks churlishly. If he hadn’t given her the black book this morning, she wouldn’t have spent the time between arriving back from her shoot today and getting ready for the opening frantically trying to print as many of the old negatives as possible. She is disappointed. They are all close-ups of different parts of a woman’s naked body. Some kind of twenties erotica, she supposes, although they are inconclusive, as if they are a tiny part of a bigger picture. What do they mean? Why has Theo given her a bunch of old negatives? Is it just because she is a photographer interested in erotica and he came across them on his travels? That conclusion is a little lacking. She expects more from him. And his behaviour this morning gave her the feeling that this present has some kind of message. After all, he told her it was time for her to have this gift.

  Well, Valentina thinks crossly, he has either over- or underestimated me.

  She tries to forget about Theo and the negatives for the moment. He is a problem she will have to deal with when he gets back. Tonight she is on a mission. In the large black portfolio she is carrying is a presentation of the erotic pictures she took in Venice. She has finally built up the courage to approach the gallery owner Stephano Linardi. She wants a show in Milan. For one second she thinks of Theo again, of his belief in her talents, and a part of her wishes he was with her. She hates going to these events alone. She finds it hard to play the game and talk niceties to fashionable acquaintances. Yet Theo is so at home in this world, charming all and sundry with his soft American drawl and his easy anecdotes about prima donna artists and groundbreaking exhibitions. She has got used to his company, although she is always very careful not to be too demonstrative in public. Behind the scenes is fine. Unbridled passion in a lift, or in the ladies’, but no holding hands in front of friends and colleagues; that is pushing her limits.

  The Linardi Gallery is packed to the gills. She is pleased for Antonella. She hopes she sells out. She grabs a glass of prosecco from a passing waiter as she weaves through the crowd, most of whom greet her as she walks through. She nods in acknowledgement but avoids conversation.

  ‘Ciao, Valentina!’ She is engulfed in a big hug. She teeters back on her heels as Antonella releases her.

  ‘Well?’ she asks, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Ten. I’ve sold ten paintings already!’

  ‘Brava! That’s fantastic.’ Valentina squeezes Antonella’s arm. She is not as tactile as her friend.

  ‘Yes,’ Antonella replies enthusiastically. ‘And I have already mentioned you to Stephano. Did you bring some pictures with you?’

  Valentina indicates her portfolio, her mouth suddenly dry with unwelcome nerves.

  ‘Excellent. Let’s go and find him.’ Antonella whips her arm under Valentina’s elbow and propels her through the crowd. ‘Stephano! Stephano!’ she shouts over the hubbub.

  Valentina winces. This is far too blatant for her liking, but it obviously works, since Antonella got a show here more quickly than any other artist she knows.

  At the sound of his name, a tall, thin man with curly blond hair, wearing a pair of Armani glasses, turns round and looks at them. Antonella shoves on through the crowd and deposits Valentina in front of him, making a hasty introduction before disappearing again to mingle. Why oh why does Antonella always do this to her? Sometimes her friend exasperates her by her expectation that everyone is as forthright as herself.

  ‘So you are Valentina Rosselli, the fashion photographer?’ Stephano asks her, looking at her curiously through his spectacles.

  Valentina has always found glasses on a man sexy. She really doesn’t know why. She loves it when Theo puts his on to read. It turns her on no end, and usually she pulls the book out of his hand and has her way with him.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, her face stiffening into impassiveness, which always happens when she becomes shy.

  ‘And of course you are the daughter of Tina Rosselli. Following in her footsteps.’

  Valentina tenses further. The last thing she wants to do is talk about her mother and her photographic oeuvre.

  ‘Yes, but I am an artist in my own right,’ she says tersely. ‘I brought my portfolio to show you.’

  ‘Well, it is a little noisy in here,’ he replies, looking at her curiously. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

  He leads the way up a spiral staircase and along a corridor of red-brick walls, oddly bare for an art gallery. His office is a white box with one enormous graphic print by Vignelli on the wall behind his desk.

  ‘I must say,’ says Stephano, sitting down at his desk, ‘you look just like her.’

  Valentina nods in acknowled
gement, but she is irritated. When will the Milanese forget her mother? She has obviously long forgotten them. Tina Rosselli hasn’t set foot in Milan for more than seven years.

  ‘Here.’ Valentina brusquely shoves her portfolio at him to shut him up. Stephano opens it and pores over it, saying nothing for a few minutes. He spends rather too long looking at the last picture, the one of the reflection of her private parts in the Venetian canal. She knows they are not actually visible, but still, it makes her slightly uncomfortable to think he is looking at her completely exposed.

  At last he shuts the portfolio with a snap.

  ‘These are good,’ he says, blinking at her behind his glasses, ‘but I am afraid not appropriate for the Linardi Gallery.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Valentina realises she is surprised. Deep down she knew they were good too.

  ‘This is a fine art gallery, principally paintings, a little photography, but what we do exhibit in terms of photography is not pornographic.’

  ‘This is not porn,’ she counters icily.

  Stephano Linardi shrinks from her glare and flings open the portfolio again at the last image.

  ‘And how would you describe this photograph, for instance, Signorina Rosselli?’ He peeks at her from over his glasses.

  ‘It’s erotic photography. It’s art.’

  He huffs, closing the portfolio.

  ‘Maybe in your opinion. Don’t misunderstand me, it is beautiful, and your technique is interesting, but we have a certain kind of client here in Milan. I am not sure this is the right place for your work. I am sorry.’

  Valentina snatches back the portfolio. This man is an art snob, and she already dislikes him.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll find another venue.’ She is not going to persuade him. She has never begged for anything in her life, and she can see his mind is made up.

  ‘But look,’ he says, putting his hands together and knotting his fingers. ‘Why don’t you leave the memory stick of your images with me? I do think you are very talented and I will ask around to see if there are any galleries of a more avant-garde nature who might be interested. How about that? I really am sorry. This is Milan. Maybe if you were trying to put it on in New York or London, it might be easier.’