by Evie Blake
Along with her nerves is excitement. Her heart is beating fast, and she can feel her stomach cramping with anticipation. After what she saw on the internet last night, she decided not to look up any more images of S&M. She doesn’t want to be put off any more than she is already. It isn’t that she judges these people. It’s just she can’t see the attraction of pain when it comes to sex. And yet she is intrigued. She wants to understand this dark side to human sexuality. Is it a perverse thing to want to do? Or is it liberating, acting out natural instincts even?
Leonardo Sorrentino is the opposite of what Valentina expected. He is young, for a start. She had this image of an older man, fat and bald and a little obscene. A stereotype, of course. Leonardo is probably only a couple of years older than her. He is dark skinned, like Theo. Even reminds her of her lover a little, with his easy smile, although Leonardo is not as tall as Theo, and his eyes are dark brown rather than blue. He is dressed in an impeccable and expensive-looking navy suit, and a shirt the colour of violets, which despite its pretty hue looks far from feminine on him. She can smell the Armani as soon as she walks through the innocuous entrance of the private club.
‘Signorina Rosselli, thank you for coming,’ he greets her.
‘Call me Valentina,’ she says, feeling awkward at his formality.
‘Leonardo,’ he smiles back, squeezing her hand in his.
They walk down a long corridor of shiny black marble tiles, with dimmed lighting on the walls. Any minute Valentina is expecting to be led into a den of torture instruments, yet when he finally ushers her into a room at the end of the corridor, she can’t help feeling a little disappointed by its plainness. Soft lighting, a large cream sofa and matching cream rug. Not one whip or chain in sight.
Leonardo invites her to sit. He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it on the back of his chair. His purple shirt is made of soft silky cotton, and clings to his well-defined chest. He has just two buttons undone, not too much and not too little. He takes a bottle of white wine from a fridge in the corner of the room.
‘I must tell you how much I liked the series of erotic self-portraits you took in the canal in Venice,’ he says as he pours out their wine.
Valentina stiffens in shock. No beating around the bush with Signor Sorrentino. She imagines him looking over the images of her exposed body. She has a feeling that he saw all of her even if it was in his imagination.
‘How did you get to see them?’ she asks him. ‘They haven’t been published or exhibited anywhere. Not even on the internet.’
‘I am afraid I have promised I won’t tell you that, Valentina.’
‘Was it Stephano Linardi? Did he give you a copy of my memory stick?’ she demands. She knows she is being too direct, possibly rude. She has always found social graces a challenge. Leonardo arches an eyebrow in reply.
‘He said they were porn, not art,’ she tells him.
‘Well in my opinion they are neither,’ says Leonardo. ‘I would call them erotic narrative. You are telling an erotic story with your images.’
He pauses, takes a sip of his wine.
‘I have seen it in your fashion photography as well, how you choreograph a scene. This is why I would like you to do this project for us. It’s so important to get the right tone.’
‘But why do you want pictures taken in the first place?’
‘Actually it wasn’t my idea,’ Leonardo admits. ‘I have been approached by a third party, who insists that I don’t reveal his identity to anyone. He wishes to publish a book of erotic and tasteful photographs of the S and M scene. There is also the possibility of exhibiting the work.’
How can S&M be tasteful? The thought passes fleetingly through Valentina’s head.
Interpreting her silence correctly, Leonardo says, ‘I can assure you that sadomasochism can be quite beautiful and graceful at times, Valentina.’
‘But I have no experience of it,’ Valentina admits, trying to look unembarrassed.
‘That is exactly why I have asked you do it. You are an unbiased observer. Well, I hope unbiased. If you do think that sadomasochism is, well, a sick perversion, I suggest we don’t pursue the project. For your own sake.’
Valentina thinks about it. She takes a sip of her wine, while peeking at Leonardo under lowered lashes. He looks the picture of wholesomeness. She can’t help wondering if he is a dominant or a submissive. It is hard to imagine him doing anything too brutal. Just as with the mystery of Theo’s book of old negatives, she is driven by curiosity more than anything else. She knows she will not walk away from this opportunity.
‘No, of course I don’t think it’s sick. In fact I am fascinated,’ she admits.
Leonardo smiles at her again. He has a broad smile, almost dazzling. She cannot return it, and it makes her feel as if she appears even more surly than usual. He cocks his head on its side in puzzlement at her sour expression, his smile slowly fading.
‘Well, good,’ he says, standing up, speaking more formally again. ‘So first of all let me show you around so that you can start thinking of ideas. Really it’s completely up to you what you want to do. Most of our clients have agreed to be photographed, so you can choose to be a fly on the wall and simply make a record of what is occurring, or you can construct your own scenes if you like.’ He pauses, smiling at her again, this time more slyly. ‘That could be quite fun for you.’
Valentina still doesn’t return Leonardo’s smile.
‘Maybe,’ she says coolly, but she can feel her body begin to heat up beneath her leather jacket. Construct her own scenes? The idea is enticingly erotic. She can apply all her passion for detail and theatricality in this sensual setting. The possibilities make her almost dizzy with excitement.
‘Remember, Valentina,’ Leonardo continues, ‘I don’t want pornography. Any man or woman off the street can do that. I want something artistic. That’s why we’ve picked you. We want eroticism.’
‘I understand,’ Valentina says as she follows Leonardo out of the room and further down the black marble corridor. He leads her to the top of a staircase, also made of black marble, and turns to her.
‘There is no one here at the moment,’ he tells her. ‘It is a little too early in the evening, but I will show you one of the rooms our clients might use. That is if you are ready?’
She nods, following him down the stairs. The lights grow dimmer and dimmer, and she feels a prickle of fear down her spine. She hates going into dark, confined spaces. At the bottom of the staircase is a small oval hallway with three doors leading off it. There is one light casting a murky glow around the space.
‘So, Valentina.’ Leonardo points at the doors one at a time. ‘Behind each of these doors are different levels of experience, so to speak. The wooden door leads you into what I would call our more-pleasure-than-pain room. The leather door is more pain than pleasure.’
Valentina swallows hard. What’s the difference? How much pain still allows some pleasure?
‘And this room,’ he walks up to a steel door, polished and shimmering in the dim hall, ‘this is the Dark Room.’ He presses his hand against it, turning round and staring at her with an expression of triumph. She can see it then instantly. He is a dominant; there is no doubt.
She looks away from Leonardo and stares at the metal door.
‘What happens in the Dark Room?’ Her voice is almost a whisper.
Leonardo takes a step towards her. He is so close, his Armani aftershave is almost overpowering.
‘In the Dark Room you are scared, Valentina, because as the name implies, there is no light. You can see nothing, not even your hand in front of your face.’
‘Why would anyone want to go in there?’ Her voice lowers.
Leonardo flashes her a flirtatious look.
‘It is precisely because of your fear that you are able to heighten your sexual experience to a degree you will never have anywhere else.’
Valentina doesn’t move. She knows this man wants her to react. To laugh, perhaps.
Or exclaim. Even run away up the stairs. She won’t do it.
‘I see,’ she says calmly. ‘But I suppose it will be no use to me if it is all in the dark. I won’t be taking any pictures in there.’
Leonardo nods, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
‘Quite right. There is no need for you to go into the Dark Room . . . unless, of course, you want—’
Valentina cuts him short.
‘Can you show me the other rooms, please. I’m afraid I have to go soon.’
Leonardo’s smile widens. He knows she is lying. Already he has worked her out. She is scared of the Dark Room.
‘Very well,’ he says, strolling over to open the wooden door. ‘This is what we call our Atlantis Room. You will see why, I hope, once you have experienced it for real.’
Valentina pauses on the threshold. She looks at Leonardo’s hand, his elegantly manicured fingers, as he slowly turns the handle. Her heart begins to race. She has a feeling that once she steps into the Atlantis Room, her life will never be the same again. It is a choice she is making on her own, without the consent of her lover, and yet as she moves forward, she hears Theo’s soft American accent in her head. That’s my girl, my intrepid Valentina.
Belle
THERE IS A KNOCK ON HER DOOR. BELLE CHECKS HERSELF in the mirror. She brushes down her dress, her hands gliding over the slinky black material. It is one of her maid’s uniforms, which Belle adjusted herself. Something she enjoyed doing, sitting on her little balcony in the Venetian sunshine, sewing and listening to her neighbour playing Bach on his harpsichord. She is not allowed to do this sort of work at home, but she loves to make things and it gave her great satisfaction adjusting Pina’s uniform for the needs of her client. The little black dress now hangs just below her bottom, and above the line of her black stockings, which are of course decorated with white lacy garters. She has a crisp white apron on over the dress, and a little white maid’s hat crowns her black bob. The Russian knocks again. My, he is impatient today, Belle thinks, picking up her feather duster and opening the door.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ She bows her head respectfully as the Russian strides purposefully into the room.
‘Good afternoon, Katya,’ he says, looking stern. ‘And what took you so long to answer the door?’
‘I am sorry, sir, I came as fast as I could.’
‘Well that’s not good enough, Katya,’ he replies, fixing her with a steely glare, making Belle’s heart race a little. ‘You will have to be reprimanded.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Because I did not do as you said.’
‘That’s right, Katya. Last time I told you to answer the door promptly after my first knock. Today I have had to knock twice.’
The Russian holds his arms out for her to take off his coat. He smells of tobacco, and sandalwood. It is an intoxicating mixture. He hands her his hat and gloves and she places them neatly on the sideboard. He has a small riding crop in his right hand, which he slaps gently against the palm of his left hand. The sight of it makes her stomach clench.
She leads him into her bedroom and he walks behind her, using the riding crop to lift the hem of her dress so that he can see her bottom.
‘I am pleased to see that you have followed my directive, and dispensed with underwear.’
He speaks so formally, Belle thinks, like the bureaucrat he is. She can feel him trailing the tip of his riding crop down her bottom, and flipping it gently against her legs so that she squeals with fright and excitement.
‘Contain yourself, please, Katya. You must submit to your punishment with humility.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replies, casting her eyes down demurely.
He sits on her bed and puts the riding crop down beside him. Then he crooks his finger and beckons for her to come closer.
She is standing right in front of him now. She can feel her nipples pushing in anticipation against the cheap artificial silk of her maid’s uniform. The Russian’s voice drops an octave.
‘So, Katya, tell me what you are.’
‘I am subordinate, sir. I did not follow your orders.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to spank me, please, sir.’
The Russian takes her forcefully by the hand and puts her over his knee. Belle’s breath becomes short and shallow. They have done this before, and yet every time she feels a thrill. She can’t think why. When her husband hits her, she certainly does not enjoy it. She feels degraded and angry. Yet when the Russian spanks her, Belle has to admit she finds it strangely erotic. It must be because she has free will. She knows that all she has to do is tell the Russian to stop and he will. She can break the spell of their little charade at any time, but she doesn’t want to. Her skin is tingling with anticipation. She can feel his erection pressing into her chest.
The Russian pulls up her maid’s uniform so that her backside is bare. He massages her bottom with his hands. She wonders if he will use the riding crop. It is right there next to him on the bed. All her senses are heightened, and when his bare hand slaps down on her backside, she feels it vibrate through her whole body. Its hurts, a little, but not too much. She knows it is stimulating the Russian, and that what will come after her punishment will be so very sweet. He spanks her again and again, and her flesh feels raw and alive. Five, six slaps and he stops. She hears his breath heavy with desire as he stands her up.
‘Good girl,’ he says, pushing his hands between her legs, and touching her. ‘What do you want me to do now, Katya?’ he asks, the whiskers of his little beard tickling her chin, his expression benign now that he has spanked her. Belle reaches down with her hand and touches his hard penis, which is pressing against his flannel trousers.
‘I want you to show me who is master.’ She gives him her sweetest smile and widens her eyes in innocence.
Belle is on her hands and knees looking at the pattern on her Persian rug. Her dress and apron are discarded beside her, but she still wears her stockings and maid’s hat. The Russian pushes into her with a low moan, and holds on to her breasts. He immediately begins pounding into her with such force she almost collapses on to the carpet. She loves this primal sex with the Russian. The contrast between his cool aristocratic bearing and the wild passion once he is inside her. He holds her waist with both hands and grinds into her, going further and further. Belle closes her eyes and joins him in his wild abandon. She is Katya, his little Russian maid, his love slave who will do anything for him, because he takes care of her and always will. It is a fantasy she likes, despite the fact she hates being bound to her husband. She can’t explain this contradiction.
The Russian is crying out, ‘Katya, milaya moya!’ as he finally comes, his vibrations sending Belle into a spin so that she is climaxing as well. They collapse on to the Persian rug, both of them glowing with perspiration, and the Russian rolls off her back to lie beside her.
Belle turns to him. Now he is a different man. Tears are streaming down his face. His expression is one of utter devastation.
‘Oh, dear Igor,’ she says, taking him into her arms. He presses his wet cheek against her bare breasts, and she strokes his hair, letting him weep. She looks down at his scarred body, his back covered in red welts, the marks of his time in prison in Siberia. Despite his aristocratic bearing, Igor was in fact a revolutionary, a comrade of Lenin’s. It might have been amusing to consider how this diehard communist liked to play the lord and master, if he wasn’t such a tragic figure. He was forced to flee Russia after Lenin died and Stalin replaced him. He tried to stop Stalin’s rise to power, and now he was a wanted man. Belle has made herself feel sorry for him, never asking about before the Revolution, whether he was one of those Russian soldiers who burnt their way through her homeland the year she married. That was so long ago now.
She holds Igor in her arms until he has stopped crying, the two of them naked. She feels cleansed by his wash of emotion.
‘Who is
Katya?’ she asks tentatively.
Igor sighs, turning to look at her with melancholy eyes.
‘Despite my revolutionary background, Belle, I have to admit I am not working class. I was brought up in a wealthy bourgeois family. We had a maid. Her name was Katya.’
He sighs again, as if he has the woes of the world upon his shoulders, then moves away from her, standing up. She sits up on the rug, watches his pale back, stiff and narrow. He reminds her of a heron, a solitary, aloof figure, watching the business of life swim past him.
‘I was in love with Katya,’ he says, dropping his head and clutching his hands together.
‘What happened, Igor?’ Despite his obvious distress, she senses that her Russian needs to tell her this.
He spins around to face her. His eyes are still wet from his tears, yet lit up with passion like the blue flames at the heart of a fire.
‘She died. It was my fault. I was supposed to take care of her. She was so loyal . . . so innocent . . . so sweet . . .’
Belle gets up and walks over to Igor. She puts her arms around him. Now that they are no longer in the throes of passion, their nakedness seems so trusting and pure. He bends his head and speaks into her shoulder.
‘I left her behind thinking she was safer, but she wasn’t . . . My family escaped, but not Katya. I had ordered her to go with them if the time came to flee, but apparently she refused. She waited for me until everyone else had gone, and the Whites rode into town looking for me. They made Katya pay for my absence.’
‘Oh, Igor.’ Belle embraces him tightly. He lifts his head, looks her in the eyes. She can see the anguish in their blue waters.
‘Dear Belle, thank you for understanding.’
She squeezes his hand.