Eighty Days Yellow (30 page)

Behind me, a hand darted between my legs and forced me to part them. It was Victor’s. I could recognise his touch.

I was now on display and could feel the gaze of at least two dozen eyes running across my skin, exploring me, assessing me, enjoying the spectacle of my total vulnerability.

Oh, Dominik, what did you give birth to?

I realised, though, it had been there already, before him, and he had sensed it and brought it to life, brought me to life.

The jumble of thoughts swirled around inside my head.

In a daze, I followed the ‘auction’ as if I were merely a spectator.

Images raced through my mind, of bad films seen an eternity ago, of events in exploitative BDSM novels that had once tickled my fancy, picturing myself in some Arabian or African marketplace, sand swirling all around, while the burly, dark-skinned slave masters advertised my wares, fingers testing my tautness, others roughly holding me open for the eyes of the crowd to demonstrate the nacreous shade of pinkness of my insides and the contrast with my pale skin. Maybe in those wakening dreams I was wearing a veil, maybe I wasn’t, but in every loop that flew across the horizon of my imagination, I was nuder than nude, so terribly exposed, my intimacy on display for all to see. Or I was dragged from a bamboo cage on the bridge of a pirate ship, the consequence of kidnapping on the high seas and soon about to be acquired by some Oriental prince for his amusement and a place in his crowded harem. Was this what becoming a slave was all about?

The bidding began at $500. A woman began the process. I wasn’t sure that I could serve a woman. I had fancied Lauralynn, true, but from what I had seen so far, I preferred the male brand of domination.

Soon a gaggle of male voices joined the fray and the bids came in at a rapid pace. Each time someone raised the odds, my eyes darted across the audience to try and distinguish the face of whoever was putting a value on me, but the action was too fast, and it soon became a jungle of voices and unfamiliar features.

Finally, the struggle between the two most regular bidders dragged to an end, when all the other voices dropped out. The winner actually appeared to be Arabic in appearance, at any rate Oriental. He wore an old-fashioned if elegantly tailored tweed suit and glasses. He was balding, swarthy, and the curl of his lips betrayed a world of cruelty.

My new owner?

Why would Victor wish to pass me on? Surely not for the money. I had reached just over $2,500. A flattering enough amount, but surely not what a woman was actually worth these days.

Victor handed the lucky winner a dog collar with a leash attached, which he then fastened round my neck. ‘She is yours for the next hour,’ I heard him say.

So this was only a temporary, one-off transaction. I would be going back with Victor after all. Another side to the game we were playing as we explored our darkness.

The man who had bid highest for me, ignoring the leash now dangling by my side, took my hand in his, his prize, and led me to the door. It opened onto a large bedroom. He pushed me onto the bed, closed the door behind him and began undressing.

He fucked me.

He used me.

And when he was done, without a word, he left the room, left me open, numbed by the relentless hammering he had just completed, ignoring me totally.

I caught my breath.

Abandoned like a rag doll in a toy house.

From the other side of the door, I could hear the muted sounds of the private party, the clinking of glasses, the drone of low-flying conversations. Could they be talking about me, discussing my performance, how I rated?

Was that it? Would another stranger walk into the room and take the relay baton in the fuck-the-new-slave sweepstakes?

But nothing happened.

I felt a wave of relief mixed with an inexplicable sense of disappointment. Another stage in my exploration of perversity had been completed. I was still here, still unfulfilled, relatively unruffled, all things considered. How far would I go before it was enough?

Victor came through the door. He didn’t compliment me or make any comment on what had happened.

‘Stand up,’ he said, and I meekly obeyed. I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him.

He was holding the lipstick tube he had retrieved from my bag. He came towards me, brandishing it like some inoffensive weapon.

‘Keep straight,’ he ordered, as he approached, and I felt his warm breath on my naked skin.

He began writing on me.

I tried to look down, but he tut-tutted as if it were none of my business.

The lipstick danced across my front; then he swivelled me round with a movement of his other hand and continued tracing whatever hieroglyphics he was creating across the curve of my bum.

Job completed, Victor took a step back to admire his handiwork, took out a small digital camera from his jacket pocket and snapped away to his heart’s delight. The result seemed to please him.

He pointed me to the door, indicating I should rejoin the milling crowd on the other side. I felt weak, drained by the battering I had just taken, in no mood to argue any longer.

As I walked into the main circular room with its endless glass frontage overlooking the lights of Manhattan, I saw heads turn towards me, smiling, appreciative, lecherous. I didn’t know what to do. Walk further? To where? Stand still?

Victor’s hand on my shoulder stopped me in my stride.

Finally, once everyone present had a full view of me and my inscriptions, he said, ‘You may dress. It’s over for tonight.’

In something of a daze, I slipped back into the jettisoned black velvet dress and, of all things, almost forgot my violin case!

Outside, he hailed a yellow cab, bundled me into it and gave the driver my address. He didn’t join me, just called out, ‘I’ll be in touch. Be ready.’

The first thing I did on reaching my place was undress and look at myself in the full-length bathroom mirror. Fortunately, none of my Croatian flatmates were around.

The thick red letters criss-crossed my skin like waves of infamy. Across my stomach he had written, ‘SLUT’, above my genitalia, ‘SLAVE’, and on my rear, which I had great trouble deciphering as I had to both twist my body round to catch a sight of the inscription and read from back to front, he had in bold red letters spelled out, ‘MASTER’S PROPERTY’.

I felt sick.

It would take me three days of showers, baths and determined rubbing to feel clean again.

Victor called me the next morning.

‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

I denied it.

‘You say that, but I could read the contrary on your face, Summer. And the way your body always reacts.’

‘I’m—’ I gathered a weak protest.

‘You were made for this,’ Victor declared, ‘and we’re going to have a wonderful time. I will train you. You will be perfect.’

The bile was rising from my stomach to my throat, that terrible feeling of being on a runaway train, helpless to change its course, tethered to its thunderous wheels as it rushed down the track.

‘And next time –’ I could hear at the other end of the line how he was savouring every single word – ‘we will make it official. We will register you.’

‘Register me?’ I queried.

‘There is a slave register on the Internet. Don’t fret – only people in the know will be aware of your true identity. You will be assigned a number and a slave name. It will be our secret. I was thinking of Slave Elena. It has a nice sound.’

‘What does it entail?’ My indignation was battling my curiosity.

‘It will mean you will fully accept my ownership, my permanent collar.’

‘I’m not sure I’m ready,’ I said.

‘Oh yes you are,’ he continued. ‘You will be given a choice of a ring or a tattoo in the most private of places, with your number or barcode, indicating your status and ownership. Of course, only those of us in the know will ever set eyes on it.’

Listening to his words, I felt a sense of both shame and excitement rise inside me. Surely in the twenty-first century, these things didn’t happen any more?

Nevertheless, the temptation was strong; a siren call was already tickling my senses and imagination, tempered by the hard reality of knowing I would also be losing the treasured independence I had fought for years to retain.

‘When?’ I asked.

Victor purred. He could read me like an open book. ‘I will let you know.’

He hung up, leaving my life in limbo.

I collapsed back onto my narrow bed. There were no rehearsals for another week. So much time to kill, too much time to think. I tried to read, but the words of every single book I picked up just became a blur and I was unable to concentrate on plot or subject matter.

Neither would sleep come and soothe the storm raging within.

I waited for Victor’s call for two days. I spent my hours roaming through Greenwich Village looking for distractions of the shopaholic variety and dropping in to see mindless action movies in the hope they might help me take my mind off things, but the call never came. It was evident he was torturing me on purpose, ensuring my mind was ablaze with yearning by the time he made contact with me. Every time I entered an auditorium, I adjusted my mobile phone to vibrate in the hope of news during the screening, but to no avail.

I was becoming scared of my own thoughts, of the inevitability of the path I was moving towards.

Then, at three in the morning, one balmy night with the windows open wide to the New York heat and the regular sound of sirens from ambulances and police cars rushing down the canyons of the avenues, it came to me.

A final gamble.

Maybe putting the decision out of my hands.

London was five hours behind, not an unreasonable time to call.

I dialled Chris, hoping his phone wasn’t switched off and he was in the middle of a gig in Camden Town or Hoxton.

It kept on ringing for ages and I was about to switch the phone off when he finally picked up.

‘Hi, Chris!’

‘Hi, hon. You back in town?’

‘No, still in the Big Apple.’

‘How are you?’

‘A bit of a nervous wreck,’ I confessed.

‘Things not getting any better?’

‘No. Maybe even getting worse. You know me – I’m sometimes my own worst enemy.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ There was a moment of considered silence. ‘Summer? Come back to London. Just drop everything and do it. I’ll help if you need something, you know that.’

‘I can’t.’

‘So?’

I hesitated, rehearsing every word around my dry tongue, and then said it. ‘Can I ask you a huge favour?’

‘Of course. Anything.’

‘Can you contact Dominik? Tell him where I am?’

‘Is that all?’

‘Just that.’

A throw of the dice. Would Dominik respond?

12

A Man and His Blues

Their sex was regular, perfunctory.

Dominik had a strong libido, though when the occasion warranted it, he could easily forego carnal pleasures in order to concentrate on other pursuits, research projects or the various literary endeavours he was regularly involved with.

With Summer gone, Dominik had precious else to occupy his time. He had long since fine-tuned his lectures, though he was careful to vary his material, keep things fresh. He had enough notes ready and was quick enough on his feet that he needed very little time to prepare these days. He much preferred to improvise on any given subject.

His current intake of students was dull in the extra-curricular sense; no one interested him in that way. Not that he would actively pursue a relationship with a student: it was too risky. He left that to the less moral professors, such as Victor, who had quickly vanished off campus to take up a new post in New York that had arisen at short notice. He was still a man, though, and he couldn’t help but notice those girls who caught his eye, who smiled invitingly when he looked their way, even if he didn’t act on it, at least until the term was finished.

Dominik had imagined he was in for a sexual hiatus, a proverbial dry spell, to compensate for Summer’s sudden departure, and in some respects he had relished that, wallowed in it, looked forward to evenings alone catching up on his neglected pile of reading material, a new series of books that had so promised to captivate his attention when they arrived in the post from a dealer a few weeks ago but which had been left gathering dust while he concentrated his energies on plotting new scenes for Summer.

Then Charlotte had appeared, turned up at one of his evening talks at the City Lit. Dominik hadn’t believed for a second that she had happened upon his class by accident, having almost overnight developed an overwhelming interest in mid twentieth-century literature. He knew that she had tracked him down, her pride hurt no doubt as a result of his unenthusiastic response to her fumblings at the party where he had shaved Summer. He was surprised that Charlotte had gone to the extent of finding and reading one of his books, but not flattered. Dominik merely saw that she had wanted something and had set out to get it.

They had fallen into a relationship easily enough, simply by continuing to indulge their appetites in the sexual sense. Neither Dominik nor Charlotte had ever formalised their arrangement in words. Sometimes he wondered what she wanted from him. Not money: she had enough of her own. Not sex: he knew that she still saw Jasper on occasion, and, he suspected, other men too, with regularity. He didn’t care. It almost seemed to Dominik that Charlotte simply wanted to spite him, to taunt him, to ensure that Summer never left his mind.

He noticed that she had begun waxing her cunt bare, so that every time he saw her nude, he was automatically reminded of Summer’s once newly shaved genitals, of the ritual that had seemed so perfect in his mind, the ultimate crescendo in their orchestra of lust, an act of depravity that had somehow been snatched out of his control, his fantasy used against him, an act that had pushed them apart instead of bringing them together.

He fucked Charlotte more roughly because of it, took her whenever the mood struck him, though she was always willing of course, and seemed to enjoy it. He rarely indulged in cunnilingus, a task he normally revelled in. He could have licked Summer’s pussy for days, until she begged him to stop, but he never touched Charlotte with his tongue, and he didn’t plan to. She never mentioned it, and continued to perform fellatio with surprising regularity. Sometimes, just to spite her, he held back his orgasm, let her continue to suck and suck until her jaw ached, too proud to give up, to admit that she had failed to make a man come with her mouth.