Balustrade (3 page)

“
You might need to reiterate,” Jack said, before Hilary could open her mouth to ask for clarification on the matter of payment. She’d certainly caught Chantal’s odd joke about wishing they’d paid for it. If they weren’t, who was?

“
I know Hilary was unclear as to the need to schedule twelve days away for what is ostensibly a weekend retreat.”

Ostensibly,
Hilary thought. Good word. Perhaps but possibly not, just like their marriage.

“
Dr. Madrigal discussed the need to commit to community service hours as payment? We’re not going to be collecting trash on the highway, are we?”

Chantal laughed.
“Of course not, though if you could fit a few religious zealots into bags on your way out, that would be just fine.”

The woman straightened a stack of paperwork, tapping the edges.

“
Yes,” Hilary said. “She mentioned the community service, but not directly as payment.”

“
Well that’s exactly what it is, and it will be provided by you at the close of your treatment, beginning Monday morning. I assume that won't be a problem or you wouldn't be sitting before me.”

“
What sort of community service are we talking about here?”

“
That remains to be seen,” Chantal said, facing the contract toward them and placing two small x’s next to two lines. She passed the pen to Jack. He signed without further question, and Hilary, reluctantly did the same. Chantal, quickly—too quickly?—withdrew the sheaf and stashed it into the desk before standing, straightening the skirt of her robe and making certain her sash hung correctly. “And now, to show you your accommodations.”

Chantal strode out of the room without waiting for them to even stand up.

“Well, I’m glad we got all our questions answered.” Hilary rolled her eyes. “Is it possible to know less about what’s going on here than before we actually came?”

Jack ignored her, as usual, hopping to his feet and
beckoning for her to follow him into the hall. Hilary stared at the desk and then toward the hall. Finding the doorframe empty, she rushed around to find the drawer containing their contract oddly accessible. There was no lock to speak of. She reached out to slide it open, catching the vaguest impression of typed words before a shadow fell across the desktop.

“
Ms. Carson?” Chantal stood before her.

Hilary gasped, backing away and pointing toward the desk.
“I was just—”

“
Yes?”

“
I was just admiring the inlay on the top of your desk.”

“
Ah!” Chantal swept forward and brushed her fingertips across the glistening white scrollwork. “Mother of pearl. It is lovely. Smooth.” She glanced up at Hilary, her eyes wafting over every inch of her.

Back in Seattle, Hilary would have shrugged off such an overtly suggestive gesture, but here in this odd place
, it seemed menacing. Hilary got the impression that Chantal was not coming onto her, as much as she was assessing her. Scrutinizing her response.

“
We should probably find Jack before he gets into trouble,” Hilary joked.

Chantal smiled wanly and waved her hand toward the door.
“After you.”

When Hilary spilled out into the hall, she was almost surprised to find Jack not far away, leaning against the wall. He wore a small smile and looked altogether content in his surroundings as though Balustrade was where he was meant to be.

Chantal scuttled past and pointed to another passage. “Please,” she said.

Jack mimicked her gesture, coaxing Hilary forward toward the opening.

Inside, was a simple bench, across from it, two robes hung from a wall covered in hooks—an abundance of them—as though a hundred robes had once peopled it. Against the far wall, a table held up two wooden boxes, lids hinged open with dangling padlocks cleaved to their latches.

“
Please remove your clothes and change into your vestments. Place your items in the boxes and lock them. Someone will be along shortly to secure them for you.”

             
Hilary’s hands crept across her mid-section in an uncomfortable embrace. “Did you say vestments?”

             
Jack had already pulled off his shirt, his nipples hard in the slight chill, or perhaps for the benefit of Chantal’s eyes.

             
“Or robes, if you prefer. Most everyone here wears them,” Chantal said, her stare fell on Hilary in a studious, assessing manner. A gaze Hilary had noticed twice before.

“
The terminology is allegorical,” she continued. “I’m sure you’re aware there’s a metaphoric component to the program. The shedding of your worldly attire symbolizes a renewal, a clean start for yourself and your relationship. Start basic, work toward a depth of understanding.”

And with that, she left them.

Jack was already wriggling out of his boxers, his cock swaying as he balled up his clothes and tossed them into one of the boxes like a basketball.

“
Score!” he said, biting his lower lip.

Hilary glared at him.
“You’re acceptance of this whole thing isn’t exactly endearing.”

He pouted.
“Just give it a shot, Hil. That’s all. Just open up.”

S
he stared at him for a minute, his smile never faltered, his damn puppy-dog gaze fixed. Hilary slipped out of her clothes, pushing down the band of her skirt, peripherally aware of Jack’s scrutiny. Despite having been nude in front of her husband so often she’d forget his presence, here, in this strange place, a feeling of discomfort thundered in. She reached for the robe before taking off her shirt, turning away.

Hell, the room didn’t even have a door.

No. Door.

Outside, the hall seemed to stretch on and on, but finally they were ushered through an opening into a large, courtyard exposed to a starlit sky. Venturing forward, Hilary's shoes skidding on the polished marble floor, the scale of the place solidified. Enormous. Intimidating.

“
This is where the indoctrination ceremony will be held,” Chantal said, taking in the space herself with an air of appreciation. “Tomorrow.”

Unlike the solid black exterior
, the courtyard was ringed in a scaffolding of glass walls and steel balconies and rising from the center of the stone floor—in the exact spot any sane resort designer would have slotted for a pool, lounge chairs, and a sexy high-end bar—like an atoll in an otherwise still sea, stood an odd cage of wrought iron.

The metaphoric balustrade was all too literal, it seemed.

A
n ornate raised rail surrounded a stone stair descending into a darkness so bleak, Hilary began to feel a stitch behind her eye, a sharp pain that disintegrated into a dull ache when she looked away and quickly returned when she reset her eyes on the strange structure. It had the feel of a pit.

A sore. A dark bruise in the marble.

Why had she thought that? Her stomach turned, literally twisted beneath her abdomen as though struggling to find an exit. Hilary looked up at the second floor and began to place the design. It was very office space, glass walled cubicles looking out onto long balconies. In front of each of these rooms stood a figure in a white robe with a black sash.

“
What are they?” she whispered, fingers fumbling with the white tie that bound her robe to her.

Chantal followed her gaze.
“Those are the suggestives. They're supplied to get the ball rolling...so to speak.” She smiled slyly.

“
The ball rolling?” Hilary narrowed her eyes in a question.

“
Yeah,” Jack said, grinning. “The ball rolling.”

“
So we need suggestions. That's what you're saying.”

Chantal dipped her chin and looked over the structure of her ornate spectacles.
“Occasionally. We find our clientele benefits from a bit of liberal instruction. Some loosening of inhibition to settle them into the work here at Balustrade.” She continued to talk as she gestured toward the nearest staircase. “Your therapeutic plan consists of three levels of engagement. All geared toward enhancing your mutual intimacy as well as opening up your mind to the possibility of other options. A creative awakening is how we like to say. The random suggestions they provide are just the beginning.”

Jack was eating this up. Nodding
aggressively, turning to Hilary as though Chantal was offering a time-share condo at a fifty percent discount. Jack had zero percent understanding of intimacy. What he was hearing and what was being said were two different things. Hilary knew enough about her husband to understand that he was sold on their “therapeutic plan” in the same way he could be talked into buying a new cell phone or into believing that the next American Idol was actually a valid musician. Needless to say, Hilary was skeptical and hesitant to climb the stairs to their room, where someone would be assigned to do whatever they were doing outside each. Monitoring? God only knew. They were about to find out, but she wasn't certain she wanted to.

“
Like I said. You'll have ample time to relax this evening. You may opt for a suggestion to reach a calming space before the indoctrination ceremony or simply lounge on your bed, take a shower, whatever.”

“
Is there a mini-bar?” Hilary quipped.

Chantal spun.
“No alcohol whatsoever. There are no vices allowed on the premises. No drugs. No cigarettes. No stimulants or nerve dulling agents to speak of. For Balustrade to successfully intervene in your drab colorless relations, you must fully avail yourselves to everything it has to offer. From its subtle nuances to its most abstract and vibrant orchestrations.” The woman rested her delicate fingers on Hilary's forearm and lifted an eyebrow conspiratorially. “Believe me, Hilary, you'll want to be completely alert for this. And afterward, you'll never live outside this level of clarity. It becomes a part of you.”

As they turned toward the stairs, Hilary was stunned by the presence of a giant of a man. He
stood beside a nearby passage, almost as tall as the door and clad entirely in bespoke tailoring, Savile Row via Bumfuck, Nowhere. The tailoring accentuated his impressive frame, which Hilary had to force herself to look away from, lest Jack and Chantal notice. The man jotted notes onto the brown paper wrapping of a rather large package. When he turned to greet them, Hilary was taken aback by the depth of character in his features. A bulbous nose, that by all accounts should have been hideous, somehow complimented his heavy brow and tan, strident cheeks. His lips were full and before he spoke, he wet them sensually—or at least he did in Hilary's estimation. As though the simple act were the preamble to something lascivious. But instead, he spoke.

“
Chantal, are these the Carson-Bartlebys?” His voice was a rolling bass that quivered between them, the kind that shakes ripples into standing water and wetted other, more necessary things.

Chantal smiled
. “Ah, Ludovic. Yes. Hilary and Jack, Ludo is our facilitator. He’s in charge of the surrogates but he also acts in that capacity. In fact, he'll be yours. Ludo will provide you with an intense level of attention. I assure you, you're in good hands.”

Hilary
smiled and nodded a polite greeting—glancing at the man’s hands briefly, taking in their reach, huge—while Jack jutted his own hand forward into Ludo's, pumping the man's arm with an aggression Hilary wasn't certain she was comfortable with.

“
Pleased to meet you,” Jack said.

Ludo merely grinned and turned his gaze
back to Hilary. She felt it settle there and wondered what sorts of interactions he had planned for them.

“
A facilitator? Does that make you our new therapist?” Hilary asked, breaking the concentrated fervor of the man's gaze.

He shrugged.
“It is what it is.”

Hilary
felt a stitch of panic at the words, a distaste rising in her that was at once conundrous and unwelcome. She hated the phrase, in that it meant, basically, nothing. But then again, it could have been just a turn of phrase and as usual, she was dwelling on the minutiae—what Dr. Madrigal had referred to as Hilary's cornerstone act of boredom.

“
Balustrade will help you get out of that bear trap of a skull and get you to experience, life, sex, intimacy in whole new ways,” she had said.

Well, here we are.

“Then, we'll see what that is,” Hilary said, finally.

Ludovic's near sinister smile curled into something more pleasant, not completely welcoming, but at least not as provocative.

“We will,” he said, completing the circular exercise in non-speaking.

“
We'll leave you now?” Though Chantal’s question required no response and they were already taking the stairs by the time Ludovic mumbled a goodbye and went back to his addressing.

Hilary pressed in close to Chantal and asked,
“Shouldn’t he have a robe on?”

The woman glanced back at Ludovic, a smirk stitched on her lips.
“Ludovic looks much better in a fitted wool trouser. See how it bunches there. At the crotch?”

Hilary bit her lip.

They reached the first gallery and found it entirely empty, doors shut and nothing at all happening in the windowed rooms. This changed dramatically as they climbed to the third floor, for standing at each of the rooms around the circumference of the floor's railings were people in gray uniforms, robes with sashes, similar to Chantal's but shorter, their sashes a darker shade of gray, their faces stoic and eyes focused on the rooms before them.

As they came up to the first of these, a young woman with blonde hair pulled back so tight, her eyes seemed to be
affected, Chantal stopped them and whispered, “Glynnis is one of our suggestives. She's quite busy as you can see.”

She was skittering her pencil across a pad and then stepping forward to press the message against the glass.
Hilary followed the motion and only then did she notice the scene playing out in the room beside them. A man leaned over another, prone and face down on the bed his wrists bound in a cotton tie. The man squinted, reading the note. He reached down between his legs and shook an enormous cock, running it back and forth over the crack of his partner's ass before plunging it rudely and with significant depth into his anus. The other man screamed and his legs kicked, his bound wrists pounded at the bed as the other man pounded into him, moaning.

Hilary
looked away, her eyes wide, and noticed Jack. He was in a different kind of shock, one that kept his gaze locked on the men before them.

Chantal said,
“You mustn't be ashamed to watch. This couple is sharing in an experience. Their suggestive is providing the utmost in care to assure both their needs are met.”

“
But how does she know?” Jack asked.

Chantal breezed past Glynnis and gestured for them to follow.
“Very simply, we have been supplied with a comprehensive assessment by your therapists and medical doctors. We've even connected with some of your former lovers to gain an understanding of your hang-ups and issues that have to be addressed for this retreat to be successful. No worries. Your stay will be a triumph.”

Former lovers? Hilary’s
jaw dropped. “Jack, really?” she hissed.

Chantal
sauntered ahead, hopefully far enough.

“
Did you know about this?”

“
Of course not.” Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her forward. “But we're here and we need to take this opportunity. It may be our last chance. I trust Dr. Madrigal, implicitly. I'm certain she wouldn't direct us to a useless exercise. She's been very helpful, don't you think?”

Hilary
scanned his face for a sign that he was being disingenuous—a tic of the brow, a bead of stray sweat, a shift of the eyes. Finding none, she nodded. Though the answer she wanted to give was much more riddled with questions.

The next room featured a di
fferent scenario and different suggestive, and while the genders of the participants were more in keeping with Hilary's familiarity, it was the quantity that stood out. Two couples writhed on the bed.

“
How long have these people been here?” she asked.

Chantal glanced into the room, made eye contact with one of the lovers, mouthed a quick and saucy,
“Get it” and kept walking. “The Thornes have been here since two. The Claytons at least a couple of hours. Why do you ask?”

Hilary let out an uneasy laugh.
“It just seems pretty quick to jump into something so...”

“
Open?” Chantal suggested.

“
Advanced, I guess I was going to say.”

“
That's an interesting choice,” she said, eyes wandering the darkened sky above them.

“
What is?”

“
Nothing. It's just..well…I would have supposed you'd meant 'deviant.'“

The statement hit
Hilary like a slap on the wrist with a ruler, though Chantal was the opposite of a habit-cloaked nun.

“
I don't. I didn't,” she stuttered.

The idea that she'd presented with a prudish vibe made her cringe. She looked to Jack for support but he was far too busy watching the orgy to notice her discomfort. Her eyes followed his and flinched upon seeing the hairier of the men withdraw his thick cock from one woman, pivot and then bury it deep within the other. The woman gasped in ecstasy, probably having something to do with the fact that she was already being penetrated anally by the other man. The three clutched at each other and
Hilary's eyes sought out the other woman, who'd left the bed and was wiping at her vagina with a washcloth. The imagery was the antithesis of sexy. The players were middle-aged, pudgy, pasty and woefully untrimmed.

For the first time in a long time,
Hilary appreciated Jack's effort to manscape and debated getting a wax herself. She looked away before the embarrassment set into her cheeks, head snapping back to Chantal, whose gaze fell on her intently.

“
You must understand that each participant couple is here for a very specific course of treatment,” she said. “You'll invariably witness sexual situations that are foreign to your experience. Acknowledging them and being okay with what you see can only help you to embrace the depth and breadth of your own intimacy and your ability to both receive and give pleasure.“

There was definitely a lot of
that
going on.

Hilary
's hesitancy about the program was increasing exponentially—from room to room, situation to situation, each scene more foreign than the next. Even the regular couple stuff somehow disturbed. Though anything would—baking, playing games on a laptop, reading—when accompanied by the flattened affect of a suggestive staring, assessing your every movement.