Burn

by Dawn Steele

  Devon knows exactly what he means. He has heard the way Horsch talks to Rachel Krieg, all slick ooze and smarmy. Horsch would probably do anything to get into Rachel’s pant if she would give him the time of day.

  The elevator doors hiss shut on Horsch’s still sneering face. Devon rides it all the way up to the twenty-second floor. The doors open, and he walks with trepidation to Apartment 22. How apt: 22-22.

  He rings the doorbell. The woman who answers it is a Valkyrie – tall, blonde and stunning.

  “Rachel,” he acknowledges her carefully.

  “You’re late,” she quips, holding the door open. “You’ll be punished for that.”

  A prickle of unease slides down his spine as he steps in. Of all his commissions, she is the one he fears most. He wonders how she can be friends with Claire. They are apparently gym buddies, but they are as like as chalk to cheese.

  He remembers the day Claire introduced him to Rachel. They were sitting at a smoky bar. He was ill at ease. He was still new to the job and had yet to come to grips with it. But it’s necessary if you want to keep on painting, he told himself.

  Claire had always treated him with a hint of amusement, like a pet, when they were out in public. It was only when they were in bed that she became the contrite submissive to his alpha male. But in public, the situation was reversed. Claire was dominant and aggressive and very much the rich lawyer’s society matron.

  Claire bought him a drink at the bar. It was a post-sex drink, and she was restless that night. She was on a high and she wanted to go out clubbing instead of spooning against him in bed, which he much rather preferred. He wasn’t much of a party animal, but since she was paying for his time, he was literally bound to go with whatever she wanted.

  His drink was a margarita. He tentatively dipped the tip of his tongue to the side of the glass to lick off the salt crystals, which he liked. The bar was one of those glowing paneled types. The stools were high and the bar itself was a smorgasbord of bottles and glasses hanging from their stems.

  A very tall woman sidled over to them and eyed him speculatively.

  “New toy, Claire? Robbing the cradle, aren’t we?”

  Claire was slightly tipsy from the two vodka martinis she had downed. “He’s twenty-one, just in case you’re asking, Rachel.”

  “My point precisely.” Rachel’s sharp blue eyes raked his face and body, seeming to penetrate his tight clothes. He was wearing denim, and the top two buttons of his shirt as well as his jeans were undone. She reached out with her sharp fingernails and seized his chin. She turned his head this way and that.

  “Excuse me,” Devon said uncomfortably. He batted her hand away from his face, but gently. It never would do to annoy a potential customer or a friend of a regular customer. He got most of his referrals from Claire.

  “How much does he charge?” Rachel said, licking her lower lip.

  The bartender overheard and grinned as he wiped the inside of a tall glass. He glanced at Devon with a knowing look. Devon felt exactly like the two-bit hustler he was. He flushed with embarrassment and looked away.

  “Five hundred for the night,” Claire replied.

  “All night? He’s pretty. Very pretty.”

  Rachel’s hand snaked out to touch his hair. Devon steeled himself not to flinch. This is what a prized bull must feel like in a meat market, he thought.

  “You want to come home with me, pretty boy?” Rachel said. Her finger trailed down the side of his face.

  Devon glanced at Claire, and she nodded. “Go ahead. We’re finished for the night.”

  “That will be another five hundred,” he said to Rachel.

  “Done,” she said, never taking her eyes off his face. That same finger traced his jawline and down the middle of his throat, burning his skin. “Come.”

  Rachel was the first woman to make him feel like an absolute sexual object and nothing else. A whore. And for the first time, the veracity of what he was doing struck home.

  *

  In the present, he follows Rachel into the bowels of her deep apartment. She is obviously rich, as can be seen from the collectibles that adorn the surfaces and recesses in the walls. Antique vases and jars and miniature snuff bottles are everywhere, lit by well-placed and unseen lights. He always has the impression that he is entering a museum.

  She doesn’t lead him into the bedroom but to another room down the corridor. She calls this her playroom. It is hidden behind a black door, and she unlocks this. The cleaning lady who comes every other day is not allowed in here.

  “Go in,” she orders.

  He knows the rote.

  Once in, he starts to strip, as is expected of him. Her burning eyes bore into every segment of his body. Although she has seen his body many times, he still feels embarrassed. Perhaps it’s because she makes him seem less than human – nothing but a sexual plaything to be toyed with and discarded.

  Once he is naked, his cock stands erect. He can always get it up, no matter the occasion, thanks to his relative youth.

  “One thousand dollars,” he says, bracing himself.

  “Later.”

  “No. Now.” It’s the only time he can be forceful in this whole interlude.

  She has the money ready, as always. She hands it to him in ten one hundred dollar bills, and he slips them gratefully into his jeans pocket.

  She holds up an outfit. “Get into this.”

  She is always ready for him. The pieces are laid out like that for a party.

  She watches him as he slips into it. With these kinds of outfits, you never knew which appendage went into which hole. The outfit is made of part leather and part PVC. Except for its gleaming buckles, the material is entirely in black.

  When he has finished dressing, most of his body is bared. Black strips crisscross his chest, abdomen and back, leaving his penis, scrotum and buttocks naked and protuberant. Leather bands with metal studs circle his neck and wrists.

  He feels exposed and very vulnerable.

  The room is filled with bondage paraphernalia. Bondage racks and furniture are strategically placed amidst rods and dangling hooks and harnesses.

  Devon braces himself nervously. Which one of these would she subject him to tonight?

  It’s his turn to watch her as she strips and changes into her bondage gear. Her outfit is black PVC, exposing her breasts and nether regions. She is a true blonde because her pubic hair is a dark golden. She picks up a long black whip. Devon flinches.

  “You’re not supposed to leave marks on me,” he reminds her, though she never listens.

  “I won’t leave anything that won’t heal in three days,” she says, turning back to him. She slides the tail of the whip across her palm. “Now come with me.”

  With trepidation, he follows her to a rack mounted in the shape of an ‘X’.

  “Press your chest and body to the wood,” she commands him.

  He obeys. He allows her to bind his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the rack. Her knots are tight, and the leather thongs bite into his flesh. His broad back and buttocks are exposed. The wood is hard and grainy against his pecs and nipples and the flat slope of his stomach.

  He crushes his fists and tightens his back and buttock muscles. He does not turn to watch her.

  She laughs softly.

  “Why so serious, Devon? You must be used to this by now.”

  He will never get used to it. He has tried to like it. He really has. He knows plenty of people are into the bondage and sadomasochism scene, but he has never been one of them. He doesn’t mind playing dominant and submissive roles. He doesn’t even mind being handcuffed to the bed while a woman straddles him.

  But he doesn’t like being splayed like this on a rack, as though he is some captured Roman slave, condemned to be tortured.

  The first blow takes him unawares.

  Thuck!

  His buttocks flare with sudden heat from the lash. He flutters his eyelids and bites his lower lip, refusing to give in t
o the pain.

  Thup!

  The second blow catches him in the small of his back. He suppresses the cry in his throat. He will continue to suppress it for as long as possible, but even he knows he cannot sustain his silence indefinitely.

  Later, when he is raw and striped and marked, she will ask him to fuck her. Or perhaps she will leave him tied up to the rack and fellate him as he stands. Then she will give him a two hundred dollar tip for his obedience.

  He tries to tell himself that this is worth the money.

  BALM

  Devon creeps in at about four in the morning. Abby is already asleep, but she is a light sleeper and she awakes as soon as he closes the main door with a sharp click.

  She doesn’t say anything as he enters the bedroom. She can see his silhouette against the backdrop of the window. He is breathing rapidly and looking at her as she lies there in his bed, pretending to sleep.

  He gazes at her for a long, long time. Then he moves noiselessly to the attached bathroom and closes the door behind him. She can see the slat of light coming on beneath the door. She listens for the sounds of a shower being turned on, but there is none.

  He is in there for an unusually long time. There is no sound of a toilet flush or running water or anything associated with someone being in a bathroom. She sits up in his bed, unable to go back to sleep. She’s worried about him. Is he all right?

  “Devon?” she calls softly.

  Of course, the bathroom door is shut and he may be unable to hear her.

  She gets out of bed. She is in one of the long T-shirts he has bought for her earlier that she now uses as a nightgown. Her feet are bare, but the bedroom is carpeted. She pads to the bathroom door and presses her ear against it.

  “Devon?” she calls again.

  When there is no answer, she turns the doorknob slowly. It rotates without meeting resistance. She pushes open the door, and winces when the hinges creak painfully.

  Devon is slumped in the bathtub. His mouth is open and his eyes are shut, and he is snoring slightly. His head rests against the rim and his long legs are folded. He is shirtless, and the shower is not on. His body is twisted slightly so that she can see his back.

  What she sees makes her gasp.

  His pale back is crisscrossed with angry red striations, as though someone has repeatedly beaten him with a stick. An opened jar of emollient cream lies beside the bathtub. He has obviously been trying to apply it to his injuries.

  Has he been beset by muggers, just as she has?

  “Devon?” She shakes his arm gently. “Devon?”

  “Wh-what?” he splutters and opens his sleep-encrusted eyes. For a moment, he cringes when he sees her, and then he remembers where he is and relaxes. “I must have fallen asleep. Did I wake you?”

  “Devon, what happened to you?’” She indicates his back. “Did someone hurt you? Were you mugged?”

  “Mugged?” He looks startled. “No. I wasn’t mugged.” He seems uneasy now that she has seen his back.

  “What happened then?” she insists.

  All sorts of horrible scenarios plague her mind. She visualizes him being set upon by gangs, torn, beaten up and left bleeding.

  “Nothing,” he says quickly.

  “Don’t try that with me. I am not a fool.”

  “I am not a fool either.” He gestures at her exposed arms. Her bruises have faded into yet a lighter shade and her scratches now wear the raised brown seams of healing. “If you’re not telling, I’m not telling either.”

  Two can play at the game, he seems to say with the challenge in his beautiful eyes, shining in the ceiling light.

  She locks gazes with him. They teeter on the impasse for an impossibly long time, and then she blinks and looks away.

  “Go back to sleep, Abby,” he says softly.

  “Let me put the balm in your wounds.”

  “They are not wounds. They’ll heal.”

  “Let me do it anyway.”

  “Only if you let me dress yours.” His eyes flicker to her arms.

  Breaking the deadlock, she sighs and nods.

  “Come lie down,” she says.

  He gets up with difficulty, and she gives him a hand. They go into the bedroom where he flops onto the bed, flat on his stomach. She turns on the lights so that she can have a good look at his marks. He buries his face in the pillow.

  “I think you need to take off your pants,” she says soberly. There is no innuendo in her statement. When he hesitates, she adds, “You’re not shy, are you?”

  No, he reckons he isn’t. He reluctantly half-turns and unbuttons his jeans. Then he slides them off his buttocks, leaving the top of his jeans to cover his thighs. He isn’t wearing any underwear.

  She is shocked to see that his well-shaped ass is even more striped with red lashes than his back. One of the red welts is oozing slight blood. There is no uncertainty now. She is sure he has been beaten severely, and he appears to have been a willing participant. But why would he allow someone to do this to him?

  No questions. That was the agreement.

  She bites back her remarks and retrieves the jar of cream from the bathroom. She digs her fingers into the white concoction and takes out a generous dollop. She smears this on his back, and continues to do this until all his lash marks are covered with a soothing layer of cream. His skin is like satin otherwise, and it pains her to see his beauty being marred like this.

  He winces slightly when she dabs the cream onto the welt that is bleeding.

  “Does it hurt?” she asks, concerned.

  “No,” he mumbles into his pillow.

  She is extremely aware of the intimacy of this act she is performing on him. Touching him, rubbing the salve onto his golden skin, admiring the way his small back muscles tense and relax as she applies her tender care onto him. Prodding the soft shoal of his buttocks so that his flesh sinks in deeply. All the while feasting her eyes on his beauty, the graceful curvature of his swanlike neck, the way the lamp highlights his chestnut hair into a rich golden brown.

  The angry striations extend to the backs of his upper thighs as well.

  “Pull down your pants further,” she says.

  “Ah, so you’d have your wicked way with me,” he says with amusement.

  “You wish.”

  He curls, facing away from her, and tugs at his jeans, pulling it way off his legs. He drops them on the floor. She catches a glimpse of his darker pub hair, and then he flops back onto his belly and hugs the pillow to his face. He is now completely naked.

  A frisson of desire traverses her loins. But she refuses to be bowled over by it as she resumes her ministrations on his flesh.

  When she has finished, she says, “Do you want to change into something more comfortable?”

  He turns his head. “Maybe a pair of shorts. Don’t forget, it’s my turn to do you now.”

  He gets up from the bed, his long body an object of perfection in the soft yellow light. He shields the front part of his body from her as he swings his legs over and walks to the bathroom. He is out of sight for a moment. When he comes back, he is wearing a pair of baggy grey shorts. He carries a couple of plastic tubs in his large hands.

  “Hold out your arms,” he says, getting on the bed again.

  She crosses her legs and does so. Her arms are very thin and discolored.

  “These are antibiotic creams,” he explains.

  “Whatever infection I was supposed to get would have festered by now and be done with,” she tells him wryly.

  “You never know. There might be secondary infection going on.”

  He gently massages the creams into her arms and palms. She gazes upon his face as he does so, thrilled by the attention she is getting from this beautiful boy.

  “You take the bed tonight, as promised,” he says. “I did tell you that you could. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No, you’re hurt. We can sleep together on the same bed. It’s only sleep. I’m not going to jump you.”
<
br />   He gives her a quizzical look. “Just how old are you really anyway?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Are you planning to jump me?” She says this half hopefully.

  He seems to hesitate. “No.”

  “Then it wouldn’t matter.”

  She gets up to turn the lights off as he puts away the creams. Once the room is dark, they snuggle together under the covers. Their bodies do not touch, but she can still feel his warmth under the expanse of the quilt. He is like a furnace.

  She listens to his breathing, which acquires a gentle rhythm. It’s very peaceful here, and very still. She can see his silhouette in the dark. He is lying on his side, possibly to avoid compressing his injured skin. His face is turned towards hers.

  “Just for your information, I’m over the age of consent,” she whispers.

  He doesn’t reply. From the gradual slowing of his breathing, she can tell that he is fast asleep.

  She drifts slowly to sleep herself, thinking how nice this arrangement is.

  ENTRY

  “There’s a vacancy at Padriag’s,” Devon announces as he puts down his paintbrush.

  It has been one week since she has come to stay here. And every day, she has posed for him, earning her keep as his model. Not once has he asked her to pose naked, much to her conflicting emotions of chagrin, relief and disappointment.

  “Can I see it?” she asks.

  “The vacancy?”

  “No, silly. The painting.”

  “Not yet. I’m almost finished. But I need some touches on the backdrop.”

  Abby takes in the nondescript lounge which has been converted into a studio. “What can be so difficult about painting this?” She waves her hand over her backdrop.

  For answer, he merely smiles. “An artist can’t reveal his vision until he’s good and truly ready. So do you want to come with me to Padriag’s or not?”

  “For what?”

  “For the job, of course.”

  She rolls her eyes theatrically. “Why can’t I just pose naked for you and charge you twice the fee?”