Chambers of Desire: Opus 1

There I sit, feeling the cold wood of the chair pressed against my naked bottom, feeling the creak of old mahogany in my bones as I shift my weight back and forth. The creak is so loud, so dangerous. I can't make too much noise, or he'll hear. Then, I reason, he might be there now. I wouldn't know. The blindfold makes me, well, blind. Under different circumstances, this entire scene would be routine. Yet, it feels… dangerous.

I moan softly, writhing
back and forth on my chair again, but the knots are too tight. The ropes wind up my body like so many snakes, constricting me in new ways whenever I squirm.
I feel aroused at the thought that they’ve somehow been fashioned to suffocate me slowly the more I struggle. The mysterious, dark-haired man who did this certainly knew his rope work.

“Now, now,” a rumbling voice says in the darkness outside my blindfold. I stiffen immediately. Something about his voice is so... disarming. He gently brushes a piece of hair out of my face, but there's something perverse about him, something that makes part of me, deep down, want to push him away. He's blindfolded me, he's tied me to a chair, and he is about to do the kinkiest things to
me. But my arousal is stronger than the desire to escape.

“There's no need for haste,” he says with that seductive hiss. Terror and lust mount in me, in step with mounting excitement. I’ve heard of strong partners before, men who would command you, men who would take you, but it was all child’s play. Nothing like... this.

Prologue

I met my destiny on the road I took to avoid it, but it all started with Brandon destroying everything we had in one swift stroke.

Dignity? Gone. Future? Gone. Doting fiancé? Gone. My virgin
ity was the only thing that seemed to be in tact.

The white silk wrapped around my waist, my cheeks rosy with eagerness and desire... I thought my life would lead t
o this moment of perfection, planning it all in my head for what seemed like years.

I would sigh when he’d pick me up to
carry me into our room. Rose petals leading to the bed, candles giving everything a warm glow, champagne chilling by the bedside. I’d melt into the fluffy cotton sheets, then gaze into his eyes. Brandon would gently lift the hem of my satin slip and reveal the ivory lace that I'd picked out just for that moment. But suddenly, I’m not the one he picks up. I’m not the one he kisses hungrily, and the rose petals, the champagne, the perfect moment...all of it belongs to another girl entirely.

An eating disorder, occasional poor impulse control—I’m not a saint, but
that doesn’t justify Brandon’s actions. When he first accused me of binging and purging three months into our relationship, I vehemently denied it, but when I saw he cared, I broke down and told him everything. The moments when
it
would take over, and I’d lose myself completely. My sister Courtney setting a constant example didn’t help, either. She seemed effortlessly perfect to me: smart, charming, thin.
Why can’t you be more like your older sister?

Dating Brandon might have been the first thing I did right, in my
parents’ eyes. Regular tennis partners at Royal Oaks Country Club, they had spent years on the waiting list, filling the pockets of the board with charitable
donations
and private
contributions,
until they too were given their coveted spot on the membership list.

The Clarke family planned on me studying
business at my father’s alma mater, Southern Methodist University. My dance training had been intended merely as a line or two on my resume; the kind of finishing-school accomplishment that girls from the
right
kind of family in Dallas are expected to have. But dancing became my safe haven—a sanctuary from the stifling social life of Highland Park. I spent the best hours of my childhood at the studio, polishing and perfecting my skills.

After graduation
, I told my father that I was considering a career in dance and wanted to apply to Boston University. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I wanted to dance then I was going to disappoint my family (and have to find the means to pay my own way). I fought, but eventually gave in—with the condition that if I hated SMU after one year, then my father would
think
about sending me to Boston. So off I went, to SMU, exactly as he’d always planned.

For years, my parents and the Russells had conspired to set me up with Brandon, lam
enting that he was too young for Courtney. Lonely at SMU, as I’d been for most of my life, all I did was go to school, to dance rehearsals, and home, every day. Eighteen years old and tired of the monotony, I finally relented to my parents’ pleas and went to a movie with Brandon.

Although the initial chemistry was only lukewarm, I did find Brandon
interesting; he was not a social climber; more importantly, he showed a genuine interest in me.

When he
proposed on the first day of our sophomore year, on our one-year anniversary, I cried. The round diamond glittered proudly in its tiny satin box while he told me he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make me as happy as I made him. Me, in a fairy-tale romance? I’d have laughed aloud if you had tried to convince me of that even two years earlier, but there he was, with promises of happily ever after.

Our previous year together remained largely innocent
. Perhaps, a part of me believed that Brandon would suddenly realize that he was wasting his freshman year in a relationship with me and bolt the first chance he got. Every so often, when Brandon kissed my neck in just the right spot, or touched me in just the right way, I’d want to forget everything and let it go much further than it had before. But determined to stay in control, I would hold out.

And yes, we did get
a little handsy under the blankets during a few Friday night
Scream
marathons, but I made sure we always stopped short. My impulsiveness ran rampant when it came to food and clothes, but sex was another matter. It was the one area of my life where I felt in control. When he proposed, I thought I hadn’t waited in vain.

Before I could say
spring break
, my mom and Mrs. Russell had already planned the entire extravagant affair. Invitations confirmed that, on April 4, we’d marry at Royal Oaks with five hundred of our (OK,
their
) closest friends. In the four months after the proposal, we’d (my mother) selected a raspberry vanilla cake frosted with hazelnut ganache, peach-colored rose bouquets (Mrs. Russell), a surf-and-turf entrée (Dad), and a twelve-piece brass band specializing in James Brown cover tunes (Brandon).

Nobody asked me, but I ab
horred the color peach—it brought out all the ruddiness in my skin. I went along because I had finally done something right for a change. You couldn’t have paid me to ruin that. After a lifetime of being the sister who couldn’t measure up, I was the darling of my family, the good little bride, marrying the
right
kind of man.

To celebrate, on an uncharacteristically rainy afternoon, my mother, Mrs. Russell, Courtney, and I went dress shopping after a long lunch at the Crown Plaza off Elm Street. The lunch was formal and stuffy, my leg sore from the sharp kicks I’d received from Courtney after a few small attempts at humor. Mrs. Russell kept smiling at me expectantly, veneers shining, as if she were waiting for me to finally do something
interesting
. “Come on, roll over!” I imagined her saying, as if I were a tiny terrier about to do a trick.

After three dresses that made me look “a little bit
hippy
,” my mother misted over, saying that we’d found ‘the one.’ Worry surged through my heart as I stood on that round pedestal, dress clipped in the back, veil perched in my sun-fingered hair. The wrongness of everything threatened to overwhelm me, but I shoved the feeling down. I’d deal with it later. My mom didn’t offer such unbridled approval very often, and I was so happy to please her.

“What about this?” I asked my mother, as we waited in line to pay for the dress. “You know, for something blue?” My finger stroked the smooth surface of a small hummingbird comb. I imagined it tucked in a loose curl of my hair, glinting secretly. I’d always loved the color turquoise and had recently lost a bitter battle to wear a stiletto in that color. “Turquoise and
peach
?” my mother had asked. “Wouldn’t you rather find something in a nice lavender? Maybe dove gray? Here, let me see...”

I put the comb down, and shut off the part
of myself that had opinions, moving through the rest of the afternoon as if in a dream: the tasting at the caterer’s, the meeting with the planner’s. Good thing my autopilot setting was well-practiced. I’d had almost my whole life to perfect the skill of smiling and assenting on cue.

We ended the interminable afternoon back at the Royal Oaks, where we met some more of my mother’s friends for tea. They discussed the linens, the dress, whether or not I should have peonies in my bouquet. My disguise must have slipped, because once again I felt the sharp point of my sister’s shoe digging into my shin beneath the table.

“Sabrina,” she hissed, teeth still clenched in some semblance of a smile.

“Hm?” I blinked, trying to seem as though I’d been paying attention.

“Mrs. Russell just asked you a question.” Oh. Shit.

“So sorry, Mrs. Russell. Could you repeat that for me?”

She looked slightly affronted. “Of course, dear. I was just wondering whether or not you and Brandon have talked about the champagne you want to serve at the reception. I was just thinking, Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque might be nice. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Russell. You have such great taste.” My response must not have sounded as sincere as I’d intended it to, because everyone at the table was looking at me like I was a bird that had pooped on their church hats.

“If you ladies will just give me a second to freshen up?” I pushed away from the table and scurried to the bathroom, where I promptly locked myself in a stall and let my forehead rest against the cool metal wall.
Breathe, Sabrina. This tea is just the tip of the iceberg.

I heard a couple of women entering the bathroom.

“Ugh, my skin looks like shit. I knew I shouldn’t have let the facialist use that microderm stuff.” Woman number 1 was clearly fishing for a compliment.

“Shut up, you’re practically glowing. My hair, on the other hand, is a disaster.” Woman number 2 sounded genuinely concerned about the state of her hair.

There were a few minutes of silence, as the pair presumably primped in the mirror. I hoped they’d leave. All I wanted was little peace and quiet.

“Nicki, did you read this month’s Cosmo? There was an article about these super-expensive extensions from poor Indian girls. I want some!”
Wow, Woman number 1. You sound like a true humanitarian.

“Oo
h, yeah I did, and I want‘em too, girl. How about that article with the Brazilian girl who sold her virginity? Could you believe that? She said it was to help with her mom’s medical bills, but honestly, what a whore.”

Since the minute I’d let Brandon slip that shimmering diamond on my left hand, I had become someone my parents loved and were proud of, and for that, I was grateful to him. It was no longer,
Oh, Sabrina
, with eye rolls and sighs, but
Oh, Sabrina
, with smiles and hands over their hearts. I didn’t want to lose that. When the truth came out, I hated him for taking it away from me.

“I’m sure he’s sorry, Sabrina”—that’s what my father had to say about the problem. He’s sorry? Are you fucking
kidding
me? I gain two measly pounds, and I’m embarrassing the family, but Brandon sucks on another woman’s tit, and
I’m sure he’s sorry
? I hadn’t expected my parents to take his side so quickly, so easily. At the very least, I’d reasoned, I’d earned a sympathetic hug, a kiss on the forehead, and a “He doesn’t deserve you, honey.”

For a split second, I considered listening to them—considered forgiving Brandon, finally returning his tear-streaked voicemails, full of regrets and
I’m sorrys
. Considered smiling broadly and zipping up that pearl white dress and saying
I do
in front of five hundred people. For one second, I thought, maybe, just maybe, I could still have this perfect life. But when my parents threatened to withdraw their “financial support,” as they put it, if I didn’t reconsider, my blood boiled. I would not be blackmailed into becoming a dutiful wife to someone who doesn’t respect me, I decided. I can go only so far to please these people.

“Sabrina,” my mother reasoned with me on the late Thursday evening that I’d received the text from Lindsay, “I understand you’re hurt, darling, and you have every right to be. But you’re not going about this the right way. You know, your father has had his, um, indi
scretions, but you don’t throw away a marriage for that. Just get something you want out of it! What do you want, honey? Bigger ring? Longer honeymoon? He won’t say no...”

Moving to Boston, of course, was out of the question.
What do I want?
I wanted to scream. I want to be able to trust the man I’m marrying! I want someone to love me unconditionally; I don’t want a marriage based on financial compensation for a lack of love.

But I didn’t say that. What I didn’t want was to waste was my breath trying to convince this woman that my heart was more important than keeping up appearances. She’d lived by that code her entire life (look pretty, be quiet, and never,
ever
make a scene) but I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not anymore.

At first, I imagined all the ways to mutilate Brandon, hurt him the way he had hurt me. Shoving him into the Rio Grande was too quick; he wouldn’t suffer nearly enough.