Quiver (2 page)

In the dark, Brian’s hand takes hers and places it firmly on his growing erection. The witch throws back her head and begins to sing, her bright red mouth stretched wide. Brian throbs to a climax under Sandra’s moving fingers.

The next night he brings home a length of pink ribbon.

Lying there afterward, her ankles and wrists stinging, her body still warm from an orgasm whose voluminosity had surprised even herself, Sandra realizes they have stepped over a boundary displacing their equilibrium. She glances over at Brian, who lies with his back to her, his skin glistening.

The demands of Sandra’s commission begin to dictate their lives. She is in a frenzy, bent over cardboard models in which
the doorways yawn red, the turrets shoot up like flames and the external fire escape spirals down like drifting smoke. The more she scrawls her designs across the heavy draft paper, the more she feels her cells, her muscles, her juices thicken in expectation. The movement of her heavy pencil as it sweeps across the graph of her building suddenly holds the promise of a penis. A compass swing imagines tracings across a nipple. She wants her every orifice filled. She wants to lose control. To lose responsibility.

Every night, after hours of exhausting drafting and debate, she succumbs to Brian’s little knots. His manipulation of her limbs makes her scream—stretching her, opening her—while the night breeze drifts in through the balcony doors, carrying faint shouts and the wailing of fire engines.

Sandra visits Brian during his lunch hour. Between the X rays, plaster casts of jaws and root-canal work she arrives, breathless. Brian, recognizing the click of her stilettos on the concrete steps of the fire escape, dismisses his assistant. Still wearing his white surgical gown, he leads Sandra by the hand to the dentist’s chair. He ties her hands and ankles to the steel frame and gently places a gag in her mouth. He picks up a scalpel and cuts away at the crotch of her nylon tights. Kneeling, he hoists up the chair until her crotch is almost at eye level, then carefully splits her white underwear. With trembling fingers he folds the fabric back to reveal her Gold, as he calls her thick bush of blond pubic hair and cunt. To the sound of Stravinsky, he spreads her nether lips open and very slowly begins to snip away at the fringes of pubic hair around her vagina with tiny scissors, until the pink labia shine under the heat of the dentist’s lamp. Brian pauses. Sandra is transformed. She trembles silently under his fingers. Her huge eyes roll
above the gag. The only visible flesh is her vulva. Brian’s hand brushes the tip of her clitoris. It flushes a deep red. Sandra revels in her helplessness. Brian, unaccustomed to this mute, malleable Sandra, fixes a small brush to the end of the drill. He bends down and, with one hand parting her labia, he caresses the tip of her clit with the spinning brush until she begs for mercy and comes, writhing, still tied and gagged to the chair.

The semen dries on the inside of Brian’s thigh. Sandra takes a new pair of tights from her handbag and rolls them over her full, firm legs. She uses the reflective surface of the overhead lamp to apply her lipstick and adjust her hair. Completely clothed in a conservative grey suit with padded shoulders, her permed blond hair immaculate except for the curls that have stuck to her sweaty brow, she tucks her portfolio under her arm and heads out for an appointment with the Sydney City Council.

Brian watches her from the window and begins to grow hard again, thinking how no one would guess that this woman belonged to him, this dynamic controlled woman, who was, a minute ago, completely in his power.

Time is running out. Most nights Sandra comes in after eleven. She slips her clothes off and collapses exhausted on top of the blankets, still dressed in her underwear. Brian lies there, his eyes open, feeling her breath rise beside him. He wants to touch her but now all that is forbidden. Shut out, a part of him starts to hate her.

The closer the completion date of the building, the more distracted and obsessed Sandra becomes. Conversation evaporates. She can talk only of work, poured concrete and foundations. Brian thinks he is disappearing, fading into insignificance.

Soon their only real contact is during her lunchtime visits, when she is slave and he is master.

Her urgency consumes her. Her orgasms feed her work. Her work inflames her further. To save time, she has stopped wearing underpants and taken to wearing a garter belt. She has also shaved off her pubic hair. Everything is closer to the skin. As she walks through the council chambers in her high heels and long skirt she can feel the movement of her legs rub the spheres of her sex together. In a boardroom meeting, caught in a ring of men, she relishes her secret nakedness. Everything is designed to maximize the moment. The frenetic pace she lives her life has taken on a rhythm. This is her new equilibrium.

A man is perched on some scaffolding, just below a neon sign reading
BERYL’S COOKIES ARE THE BEST
. He sees a woman, beautiful at forty. She walks into a dentist’s office in the building opposite. The man immediately senses something in her poise—her very gait—that suggests sex. As he draws closer, he fancies for a moment that he can smell through the glass, through the steel, sensing the rich pungent scent of her sex. Silently, out of view of his colleagues, he swiftly lets down the pulley so that his section of scaffolding is directly opposite the dentist’s window. Hidden by a section of flimsy hardwood, he watches at his leisure the beautiful woman opposite whom he thinks is in love with a dentist. He watches as she walks into the center of the room and then lifts the edge of her skirt. The dentist walks up to her and pushes his hand roughly between her legs. It is as if the man can feel the damp imprint of her sex on his own wrist as the dentist pushes the woman toward the chair.

She falls slowly into it, her hair bouncing slightly on her
forehead as if in slow motion. The dentist opens the woman’s legs with his rubber-gloved hands and ties her ankles to the chair. She puts up no struggle, but stares down at him with wide eyes. The man watching fancies he can see her bosom rising and falling in fear, in excitement, in submission. He moves closer to the hardwood panel and presses his erection against it. She has large breasts hidden under a tight white cotton blouse. It is this exterior of demure righteousness that pleases the watching man. He imagines that under the white cotton she would have long brown nipples that would harden against his teeth.

The dentist lifts her arms and ties her wrists to the head of the chair. The man watching would unbutton that blouse and release those full breasts. That’s what he’d do. He would weigh them thoughtfully in each hand, then slowly run his thumb over those hardening nipples until they became erect. Then he would squeeze them firmly together and begin to suck at one and then the other until he could hear the woman moan. That’s what he’d do if he was there. But the dentist seems only interested in touching the other. The best part. The bit he’d leave until last. The man watching reaches down and touches himself with his calloused hand, imagining the lips and tongue of the woman pulling down over the shaft of his penis, then over the knob with small circular motions, taking him deep into her throat. He always likes leaving the best part until the end.

Now the dentist has his face buried between the woman’s legs. The man watching looks at the woman’s face. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are rolling back in pleasure. She moves her arms backward and forward, chafing against the rope binding her to the chair. The man watching closes his eyes and comes against the grain of the wood. Every day after
that he eats his lunch suspended in the little steel cage that hangs down the side of the building opposite the dentist’s office.

It’s now mid-December and the pressure on Sandra is immense. She feels as if her whole life is focused onto a thin point, and that thin point is the commission. Everyone else recedes, defined only by their function in relation to the execution of the building.

The more obsessed she becomes, the more Brian’s anger ferments inside him. He hates the cardboard model of the museum, with its red turrets and display windows large enough to house several fire engines. He hates the way his wife burns with beauty as she manages four phone calls, two builders awaiting orders and a landscape gardener. He hates the way she has begun to look through people until they say words like
façade treatment, tilt slab
and
clerestory lighting
. He tries folding up his anger and slipping it between his gum and lip, but like an abscess it festers. He decides that he will confront her. He will force her to take a day off. But when he rings her office the line’s engaged, when he tries the mobile the call is diverted; the fax is always busy.

He finds himself waiting for lunchtime. He finds that tying her down excites him more than fucking her. The equilibrium tilts back with the chair.

It is the end of summer. The reflective glass is now fitted to the steel frames, and the man’s work is almost done. He sees a small blue BMW drive up a ramp and disappear into a parking lot in the street below. He smiles to himself and starts counting.

Twenty. He knows it takes twenty counts for her to be in the opposite building and seated in the dentist’s chair.

Nineteen. “Just off for a smoke!” His mates smile knowingly. He climbs into the small steel cage and begins lowering the pulley by hand.

Fifteen. He can see her walking swiftly across the road, her blond hair white in the sunlight. He is excited by the knowledge that he alone knows where she is going and why. The pulley stops with a jolt. It sways slightly, then rests against the steel brackets. He squats close to the iron-mesh floor and stares into the office. The room is empty, the lamp is illuminating the vacant dentist’s chair. The green of the leather shines, desolate and medicinal. He hates the dentist.

Five. She is at the door taking off her coat. She is hanging it carefully over the hook on the back of the door. The dentist enters. He walks up to the woman and pushes her over the dentist’s chair. She falls, breasts forward, across the seat. He pushes his knee between her buttocks. As she is pinned to the seat, he grabs both her wrists and uses a towel to tie them crudely together.

Three. The dentist lifts up one thigh and pushes it over the arm of the chair. He ties the ankle to the outside frame. He then pushes her right thigh over the other arm and ties that ankle. Sandra is spread-eagled over the seat, her buttocks arched high in the air. Her face is pushed down into the seat. Brian rolls up her dress.

Two. She is wearing nothing but stockings.

One. He thinks she looks most beautiful like that. In surrender. He can see her elegant hands pressed up against each other almost in prayer. Her cheek is pushed down against the green leather. The man squatting in the steel cage thinks other
women would lose their dignity tied up like that. But not her. He loves her for that. The way she stays dangerous even when tied up.

Brian steps back from his handiwork. His heart is pounding uncomfortably close to his throat. His wife’s ass lies spread before him, the faintest wisp of blond hair framing anus and cunt. Beautiful. He can hear Sandra breathing. Her eyes are shut. He kneels and places his finger a millimeter above his wife’s clitoris. He watches her grow erect. He wants her to say the word, he wants to hear her beg. He spreads her lips even farther apart and blows hard along the ridge of her clit. Sandra squirms. He can see the moisture collecting in the dark shadows. But she says nothing. Her silence makes him want to smack her hard across the ass. But he thinks this will give her pleasure, push her over the edge. He would like to take his cock out and press it against the rim of her asshole, gently teasing. Then plunge into her, feeling her arch in sudden pain. He does not. Like a mystic, he slowly runs his spread palms over the circumference of her, in the air above her skin. She is groaning now. He steps away and walks around to the other side of the chair. She looks up at him. Her eyes are blank animal. He wants her to say how much she wants him, needs him, to lose control. He pushes his fingers into her mouth and probes the inside of her gums, soft, wet. She sucks at his fingers, wanting.

“You want me, don’t you? You need me, don’t you?” She says nothing. He pulls his fingers out of her mouth. He kicks the base of the chair. It spins around. Her body rotates with it like a crazy merry-go-round. He watches her, her torso swinging from shadow to light from light to shadow like day to night. She doesn’t cry out, but accepts this chaotic world as if it were
her penance. The chair stops spinning. Brian buries his face into her cunt. He sucks and licks her until she is close to bursting.

Suddenly he stands. He takes off his white smock and hangs it over her leather coat and leaves the room. The door slams behind him.

The man in the steel cage watches the dentist leave the room. The woman is still tied over the chair. He looks down at the street. The dentist, his bald head a pink map, walks across the street then into the car park. The man’s heart begins to hammer. He looks back at the room. The vulnerability of the woman tightens his loins, his cock lies hard in the leg of his shorts. Slowly he begins to slide the steel cage down to the ground.

Sandra lies motionless. She can feel the heat of the lamp on her back. She is listening hard for her husband’s footsteps. She hopes he’s in the adjoining room, although she has already heard him disappear down the corridor and into the lift. The presence of him in the other room is an irrational illusion, but she holds on to it to stop herself from screaming. She struggles with the ropes but he has tied her firmly. It is impossible to escape. She lies there open to the world. It is then that she hears the click of the door.

“Brian?” With her face against the seat, Sandra cannot see him. The footsteps are heavy. He comes up behind her. His hands are on her. They run down the sides of her buttocks to her pussy. He opens her lips, his thumb on her clit. Strange hands, heavier than Brian’s, the skin rough like a cat’s tongue. He rubs her gently. The strangeness of this man excites her. His smell is different, he smells dark, as if he has more body hair.
Like soil, with a faint tinge of machine oil underneath. She feels the dull weight of his cock against her thigh. He enters her slowly. He is bigger than Brian and she stretches with his thickness. She gasps as he starts to increase his rhythm. Pushing his large hands under her skirt, he releases her breasts, pulling at the nipples. He reaches up and unties the knots around her wrists. He pulls her upright and down onto his lap, cupping her breasts as she rides him, and biting the back of her neck. She feels the mouth she hasn’t yet seen—full and strong, the bottom lip jutting over the top. She twists to see him but he firmly keeps her facing away.