The Facility (20 page)

“Notice her mouth,” Abul said. “See how bright red her lips are. Lick your lips, Mrs. Ryan. See how they shine. She has a well-formed mouth. Not long ago she used it only to gossip with her rich, lazy friends around their swimming pools. Tell us what you’ve learned about the true purpose of your mouth, Mrs. Ryan.”

“My mouth has only one purpose which is to provide pleasure to my Master.”

“And how is such pleasure given?”

“By...by...sucking him. My lips and my tongue serve my Master by making love to his...to his...cock.”

Abul winked at the two men on his left, “Is it only my cock you make love to, Mrs. Ryan?”

She hesitated. “No, I...have learned that it gives you pleasure to feel my lips and tongue on...on...everything,” she said.

“Not just my prick and balls, but everything?” he chided.

“Yes, everything,” she said.

“Well, now, let us see how well you have learned to use those warm red lips and that pink tongue to greet your master.” He crooked a finger at her.

She knew this would be required of her. It was what she dreaded most. She got down on her knees and crawled across the space that separated her from the four men. She knelt in front of Abul, her head bowed.

Abul glanced at the two men on his left and at Zubair on his right. Then he looked down at Kathy. “Suppose, Mrs. Ryan, that your wonderful husband, this husband you’ve told us you still love...suppose he did not die. Suppose he was in your fancy house at this very moment waiting for you...anxious to make love to you in your big soft bed. Suppose all you have to do now is say that you would rather make love to him than show my companions your true feelings for me. If you were to say ‘I prefer my husband’, I would send you to him immediately and the two of you could take up where you left off. The two of you could be again in America in your fancy house. Be in each other’s arms on your wedding bed. Tell us, what would you do, Mrs. Ryan,...what would you do? Tenderly kiss your husband’s mouth or kneel at the feet of Abul?”

She waited several moments, her head bowed. Her husband was not at home. He was dead. And she was here, naked under her dark blue pinstriped coat and skirt and wearing stiletto heels. She was in this foreign place, kneeling before the man she hated most in the world. His worn boots were dusty and hot. She knew that his feet would stink with sweat and dirt. With trembling fingers she unlaced the right one and tugged it off. He had not worn socks. The fetid odor and the sight of his ugly feet sickened her. She looked up at him. “If given the choice to kiss my dear husband’s mouth or kneel at the feet of Abul, I would choose to be where I am, on my knees before you.” Steeling herself, she extended her right hand and gently touched his foot.

“I think I know what you intend,” he said. “But you must earn the privilege by showing that you’ve had a change of heart, a genuine transfer of affection.” He signaled to Miko who came forward with an iron bucket. She squatted next to Kathy and took from the bucket a photograph and held it up. Kathy’s hands flew to her mouth. It was of Jeff. It had been taken about two months before his death. His handsome face smiled out at her.

“Before we left your fancy house in America, we gathered up a few mementos. This is one of them. Do you recognize the man in the photograph?”

“Yes, yes,” Kathy could hardly breathe. “It’s...it’s my husband.”

“Unfortunately, all of your other photographs, even the albums, have been lost or destroyed. This, Mrs. Ryan, is the only one left of the dear departed husband you once loved.”

“Oh!” Kathy exclaimed as she reached for it. Miko quickly drew back.

“To prove we are not without compassion, Mrs. Ryan, we will give you the photograph, but you must know in taking it you will be saying, in effect, that your recent admissions were lies; that you have learned nothing about your true place.”

Kathy shut her eyes feeling as if her heart might burst in her chest, feeling the anger and hatred well up inside her, wanting more than anything to kill the sadistic tormentor who grinned down at her. She turned away from Miko and the photograph.

“Not enough, Mrs. Ryan. Before I judge you worthy of doing the service you so obviously wish to perform, there’s one thing more.” Fearfully, she glanced up at him then looked away. “Miko has a small vial of gasoline. As an act of devotion to me and as proof that you now realize your former husband was a weak, effeminate poor excuse for a man, it would please me to watch you place his likeness in the bucket, pour gasoline over it and then Miko will give you a match.” The three men looked at Abul and shook their heads in admiration. “Open the button on your jacket,” Abul ordered. With trembling fingers she opened it. He extended his bare foot. She drew in her breath as he touched her naked stomach with his long, ragged toenails. “The old or the new, Mrs. Ryan? You have a choice.”

She shuddered. This was the most heartless thing he had ever required of her. To make her destroy the last image of Jeff! She felt his toes press against her stomach. She looked up at his smirking face. He was certain he’d won. He knew she would refuse. And if she refused, Satomi would give her to him. But as she glanced down at his damp calloused foot pressing against the white skin of her stomach, she also felt a wave of heat wash over her body and a moistening between her legs.

Kathy turned back toward Miko and nodded. Miko hesitated before dropping the photograph into the bucket. Kathy took from her the small container and box of wooden matches. She poured the gasoline and struck a match. As the photograph burned, Kathy turned away. When nothing was left but a few fine ashes, Miko carried the bucket back to the far wall where she stood again beside Mi Jong.

Kathy felt in burning the only remaining photograph of Jeff, she had participated in his death; that in destroying the last image of him she had betrayed him in a way that was unforgivable. Perhaps she should have refused. Perhaps she should have thrown the gasoline in Abul’s face and held the lighted match under his chin. If he survived he would have killed her. If he didn’t Satomi would have killed her. Perhaps that would have been better than what she knew the hated Abul would now demand of her. But it was too late. Jeff’s photograph was ashes. Abul was waiting. Her breath was coming faster. She felt her mouth fill with saliva. She swallowed.

“You see, my friends,” Abul frowned, “this woman is beginning to understand where she belongs and who she belongs to.” He slid his foot back to the hassock. “Tell us who you belong to.” he said.

“I belong to you,” Kathy whispered, unable to check the tears that spilled from her eyes. The unthinkable part was that for now she really did belong to him, she was this despicable brute’s woman, his prized American whore.

“Completely, Mrs. Ryan, is your body completely mine? Let us hear you speak with more conviction...no, conviction is not enough. Let us see and hear devotion.”

Once more, she reached out and touched his foot. Then, looking up at him, said, “I have given my body to you, completely, unconditionally. I want to belong to you. I want to be your woman...your possession. I...I...would feel honored to be...to...be your American whore. I am grateful that you allow me to kneel here at your feet...that you permit me to be near you.” As she spoke, her nipples stiffened. She glanced down at them then looked up at the grinning men, “You see, just saying the words, ‘Abul’s American whore’ excites me and knowing that’s what I truly am, excites me even more.”

“I’ve kept you long enough, Mrs. Ryan. My friends want to witness how you have chosen to demonstrate your respect for your Master.” He leaned forward and put his hand under her chin, “You did choose it, did you not, Mrs. Ryan? In fact, it was you who suggested this way of showing your respect?”

Kathy was forced to look up into his leering face, “Yes, Master Abul, I suggested it.”

His bare foot, now propped up on the low hassock, was stained with dirt and sweat and gritty with sand. The sour smell made her nauseous. Between his toes she could see dark, moist scum. There were video cameras slightly above the hassock and on each side of it. She removed his other boot.

“Goddamn, my friend, your feet! They stink,” the man called Zubair laughed. “When was the last time they knew soap and water?”

“Four days ago,” Abul said, looking steadily at Kathy. “She likes the smell and taste of a real man, don’t you, Mrs. Ryan? Even the smell and taste of a real man’s feet arouses her, doesn’t it, Mrs. Ryan?” He placed his other bare foot on the hassock.

“Yes, Master, the smell and...and taste of a real man excites me. The smell and taste of...of...your feet excites me.”

“Show us, Mrs. Ryan. Hold open your coat and thrust out your breasts. Imagine what you are about to do. Let us see how the thought of serving me arouses you.”

Parting her jacket, Kathy squared her shoulders and looked down at his ugly crooked toes, the long almost black toenails were broken and jagged, and caked with filth. The men hooted and laughed as they watched her pink nipples darken and become longer.

“Does thinking about it make you hot, Mrs. Ryan?” Abul asked. “Are you eager?”

“Yes, Master, I am...I am as you can see...aroused, and I want to...to do it.” Kathy felt dizzy and thought she might faint.

“Ask,” Abul said.

“Please, may I...may I clean them?”

“Clean what?”

“Your...your feet, Master.”

“You just now burned the last known photograph of your late husband. Are you glad you did that, Mrs. Ryan?”

She knew he would continue to push her as far as he could. “Yes, yes I am.”

“Why Mrs. Ryan, why are you glad?”

“Because burning it has freed me to be here, where I belong. Destroying the photograph has cut my last ties with the past. I am now able to serve you as I should.”

“Before you show us proof of your complete surrender to me, there is one thing more you should be aware of.” After the photograph, Kathy knew there was nothing worse he could do to her. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “It was me, Abul, who freed you from your foolish marriage.” Kathy began to tremble. “The food that was given to your husband on the airplane, the sandwich that poisoned him, I was the one who had it prepared. I was the one who forced the attendant to serve it to him. The flight attendant was easy. It’s always easy to make a single mother with two small children do what you want her to do.”

“No,” Kathy whispered, “please no...”

“Yes, Mrs. Ryan,” Abul poked his friends and laughed. “It is true. I was directly responsible for sending your handsome young husband to his death.”

Kathy fought against a rage that threatened to consume her. “You...you murdered my husband?” she whispered, not looking up at him.

“Yes. And for that you should be grateful, you should thank me. But there are better ways to show your gratitude. Are you ready to show your gratitude, Mrs. Ryan?”

It was a long time before she spoke. A violent shudder went through her body. Finally, she answered, “Yes, I am ready.”

“Ready to show what?”

She paused trying desperately to get her rage under control. “Ready to show my gratitude.”

“For what?” Abul continued to goad her, knowing she was close to defying him.

Not looking at him and struggling to quell her rage, she said, “I am ready to show my gratitude to you, Master Abul, for freeing me from my old existence by...by...taking the life of my husband, so that I might become your woman.”

Once more she surprised Abul. He felt certain his admission would cause her to break. “Well then, Mrs. Ryan, let us not keep you waiting. It’s been a long hot day in the mountains. You see how my feet perspire. Does that offend you?”

“It does not offend.”

“As my friend, Zubair, has observed, I have not washed them in quite some time. How do you propose to clean the feet of the man who made you a merry widow, Mrs. Ryan?” The men laughed again.

Tilting her head to look up into his scornful face she fought to hide her loathing of him, but at the same time another powerful wave of heat washed over her and she blushed.

“I wish to clean your feet with my mouth,” she said softly and looked down again. Once more the men laughed derisively.

“Very well, Mrs. Ryan, but I want to see the devotion in your eyes. I want to feel your devotion on your lips, your tongue.”

She raised her head and closed her eyes for a moment willing herself to suppress the mounting fury of her anger. She licked her lips. “Please,” she said. “Please, master, grant me permission to…to…show my devotion.” He nodded.

Tentatively, she lowered her head to his bare feet. He tilted his toes up from the hassock. They were long and twisted. Wiry black hairs grew from them. The fetid smell of sweat and dirt was almost palpable. Placing her small hands flat on either side of his right foot, she parted her lips and slowly took his big toe into her mouth. She began to gag, but forced herself to continue. With her tongue she felt along the sharp edge of his long toenail and then under it where she tasted the caked filth. Aware of the cameras next to her, she lifted her eyes to look at him as she worked to loosen the grit with her tongue. Pausing so that the men could observe, she swallowed. Then, pushing her tongue further under his nail she dislodged and sucked out the grime that had accumulated there. Again, she looked up at the men and swallowed.

“Jesus! That’s fucking sick,” Zubair said, turning away.