The Ties That Bind (25 page)

"I'm really worried about you, Fiona. He could be
dangerous."

"You can stop worrying, Gail. I'm going to call it
off."

She heard Gail breathing through a long pause.

"Will that end it, Fiona?"

"I hope so."

She wished she hadn't sounded so tentative.

"Anyway, Harrison is coming over," she lied. She
needed to put Gail at her ease about her security. "Maybe it's time I just
let it go."

She didn't feel completely convincing.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Fiona said, "I'm sure. Now you get
back to your father."

Moving into the den, she poured out half a tumbler of
Scotch, took a sip, then reached for the phone again. But before she could dial
she heard a faint knocking on the door. Her heart leapt.

Through the side window of the door, she saw him. At the
same time, he saw her. He was dressed as she had seen him that first night. He
wore a raincoat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. His hands were thrust into
the pockets of his raincoat.

Her earlier resolution dissipated. She had got him to come.
Her instincts had been correct. Seeing him now, she knew there was no turning
back. Calming herself, she opened the door.

"I've been waiting for you, Farley," she said.

"Were you?," he replied, inspecting the
surroundings with a predator's zeal. "I was intrigued by your
invitation."

"I knew you would be," Fiona said, taking a sip
from her drink, noting that the pockets of his raincoat bulged with more than
the bulk of his hands. Obviously, his props, she decided. "Would you like
a drink?" She started toward the den.

"No," he replied, following her. "I've come
for other reasons."

"Yes, you did," Fiona agreed.

"You said she was tops," he said.

Unfortunately, her mind could not formulate an alternative
plan, one without Gail. She had to stall him, wait for another idea to cross
her mind.

"She is," Fiona replied.

"Is she here?" he asked, facing her now.

Fiona hesitated, debating whether to tell him the truth.
But then he might think she had been lying all along.

"No. I have to make a call."

"Not yet, Fiona," Farley said.

Fiona was oddly relieved. Their eyes met. But she could not
read the intent behind his expression.

"I'm glad we understand each other, Fiona," he
said.

In lieu of finding an adequate answer, Fiona nodded.

"Not many people understand," he said.
"After our last meeting, I could see that you were battling with yourself
over your desires. That time, years ago, I should have exercised more control
over myself. It was wrong..."

"It's alright, Farley. That part is over."

"And you do believe me about ... the other?"

"Yes, Farley," she lied. "I believe
you." Did he buy it, she wondered?

"Good," he said, pausing, watching her face.
"Why do you wish to do this for me, Fiona?"

"The other night ... why fight it, Farley? It's not
just for you. I saw my need as well as yours. I was frightened by it."

"And now?"

"I'm ready."

"And this person you spoke of?"

"She is a true mistress. Much more caring and better
at it than I can ever be. I want to learn from her. I'm not fighting this any
more, Farley. It's what I want. What I always wanted."

From his reaction, she felt that she was getting it right.
The only missing ingredient would be Gail. And Fiona still hadn't come up with
an alternative.

"Where..." He looked around the room.

"Not here, Farley. I've arranged things on the lower
level recreation room."

"You can call now, Fiona," he said.

"Are you sure?" Fiona asked. There seemed no way
out. She would have to involve Gail. Again, she thought of calling it off.
Again, she demurred.

Fiona turned and started to move toward the phone. She
hadn't taken more than a few steps before she felt a sharp blow to the back of
her knees. She buckled instantly, the drink falling to the floor, the glass
breaking. She sank forward, hitting the floor hard. Before she could recover
her presence of mind, she felt her arms thrust behind her and cold metal
clasped around her wrists.

He was on top of her, holding her down. He put a leather
plug in her mouth and fastened it around her head. Then he tied a leather
collar around her neck. He got off her and stood up, then pulled on a kind of
leash. The collar tightened.

"Stand up," he commanded, pulling on the leash.
There was no choice. Either choke or stand up.

Her legs felt wobbly, but she did manage to rise to her
feet. She wasn't dreaming this. She was totally in his control, vanquished,
unable to cry out and stunned by the ferocity of his attack. Deprived of
speech, she felt weaponless. With an effort of will she tried to get her sense
of panic under control, to force alertness.

She noted that he was wearing plastic gloves, which
telegraphed his intention and accelerated her fear.

"Now lead me downstairs, bitch," he said,
tightening the leash as she moved down the stairs. She couldn't believe she had
allowed herself to get into this situation. In the recreation room below, she
stood helpless while he inspected the room. He still had not removed his
raincoat but she could see that it still bulked out in the pockets.

He inspected the ceiling and walls. To one side of the room
was an exposed pipe painted the color of the wallpaper to hide it. Without
looking in her direction, he emptied the pockets of his raincoat. Fiona saw
chains, some D-rings, a riding crop, a cat-o'-nine-tails and what looked like a
large plastic dildo. She had no illusions of what he had in store for her.

He threw a length of chain over the pipe, then pulled her
leash and brought her to the area where he had positioned the chains. Keeping a
tight, almost choking, grip on the leash, he took off her handcuffs and
attached her wrists to the chains using D-clamps, then pulled them taut. She
felt her body stretch to the balls of her feet.

Unable to talk, suspended and painfully stretched, with the
leather leash available to him to choke and further torment her, she could only
observe him helplessly.

"You are a filthy, lying bitch," he cried.
"Everything you get, you will deserve. Do you think I'm a fool, Fiona? You
think I'm not aware of your filthy tricks? I'm about to show you some
punishment that will live in your memory beyond the grave."

She continued to observed him, fearing at any moment that
he would place a blindfold around her eyes. She tried to isolate her mind, free
herself from fear and concentrate on finding a way out. Suddenly, he came
closer to her and lifted his arm. He was holding something in his hand.
Suddenly a switchblade sprang to life.

"Are you enjoying this as much as I am, Fiona?"
he asked, smiling. He put the knife against her cheek. "Warm it up, you
bitch." Resist the pain, she begged herself. Deftly he placed the blade at
the neckline of her blouse and sliced downward. Her blouse sprang open.

"Don't you love this, Fiona?"

Again the blade moved, slicing her brassiere in two. Her
breasts fell free. Then he moved the flat of the blade against her nipples.

"See how they pop, Fiona. How would you like me to
snap off the nips?" He giggled as her head rolled from side to side.
"Oh, we'll get to that. There's so much more to do."

Skilled cuts of the blade split her slacks, which fell to
her ankles. Then he worked on her panty hose, which slipped away from her body
and bunched on the floor. She was completely naked now.

"How does it feel to be naked and powerless, Fiona?
Isn't it exhilarating? And you can't even cry out. How very sad, so very
sad."

He moved the flat of the knife down her stomach, then to
her pubic hairs. He cut one away and rolled it in his fingers.

"Getting hot, Fiona? Do you feel the thrill in your
body? Do you feel the ooze of pleasure? Come, my sweet Fiona, my trusting
Fiona, my silent goddess. Let me see your pleasure."

Bear it, she begged herself, watching him, wondering how to
convey some hint of enjoyment under the circumstances, to forestall him. Still
smiling, he moved backward and, putting down the knife, began to take off his
clothes. As she watched him undress to his underwear, she wondered if this were
theatrics or a prelude to murdering her. What she needed most of all was the
organ of speech. She noted, too, that he was, at least partially, tumescent.

From his pocket, he removed what looked like a vial. He
held it up for her to see and smiled. Then he removed the cap. It was lipstick.
Cherry red lipstick. The kind that had been used to decorate Phyla ... and
Fiona. She noted that it was not a new lipstick, but one that had been worn
partially down.

"Now we must label the meat. What shall we say you
are, Fiona? How about this?"

He wrote across her breastbone, just under her neck

"C U N T," he said, calling out the letters as he
printed them. She could not see them. Then she felt the lipstick roll down the
front of her body to where her public hairs began. Without looking, she knew
what it was. The arrow, exactly how it had appeared on Phyla's body and hers
years ago.

"How about this, Fiona?" he said, laughing as he
wrote in longhand on her left thigh. "Slut, right? That about describes
what you are. Now what shall we call the other one?" He wrote across her
left thigh. "Whore. Isn't that what you are, Fiona? Whore?"

He stepped back to view his handiwork. Then he moved
forward and circled her eyes with black eyeliner and then wrote across her
forehead.

"You know what I wrote, slut?"

Inexplicably, she nodded her head, an involuntary reaction.
He chuckled.

"Of course, you know," he said.

"Scum," he shouted. "Aren't you scum,
Fiona?"

When she didn't respond in any way, he pinched her nipples
between a thumb and forefinger.

"Right?"

He pinched harder.

It was unbearable and she screamed inwardly, then nodded
her head vigorously.

"Good girl."

He removed his fingers from her nipples and giggled.

"And how about the word 'trash'? I could write that on
your butt. Would that do it?"

She nodded, a response that seemed to please him.

"Just for that, Fiona," he said, "you get a
nice treat."

He moved backward so that she could see him clearly.
Removing his shorts, he threw them on the top of his outer clothes which he had
placed neatly on a chair. She noted that he was in full erection. He picked up
the cat-o'-nine-tails and moved behind her.

"You'll love this, Fiona," he said. She felt the
lipstick moving along her buttocks.

"It looks wonderful back here," he said.

Then she heard the crack of the whip.

"Listen to that music, Fiona."

Suddenly her body was suffused with pain as the knotted
cords struck her back, then her buttocks. Blow after blow came down on her. She
heard him grunt and wheeze with each blow. The pain was unbearable. She could
not scream out. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Finally, he stopped and came around to face her. He seemed
crazed. She noted that he was still wearing plastic gloves. It was ominous
detail.

"I think this needs an accompaniment, Fiona. I haven't
heard a word out of you."

He unstrapped the leather gag and pulled it out of her
mouth. At that moment the telephone rang. Her eyes looked toward the phone. He
froze for a moment.

"Who would that be?" he asked.

"I'm a homicide cop, remember," she said
hoarsely. He contemplated her answer as the phone continued to ring. Then the
ringing stopped and she could hear the click of her answering machine as it
took the caller's message.

"Well," he said. "Isn't technology
wonderful?"

She managed to croak out a response.

"It could be urgent. Maybe my boss."

"And here you are."

He reached back and struck her savagely across her breasts.
She screamed out in pain.

"Will you play that tune again, Fiona?"

Through her pain her mind groped for escape. He is going to
kill me, she told herself, searching her mind for some way to survive.

He put the cat-o'-nine-tails down and picked up the riding
crop. Then he moved behind her and struck a blow with the crop across her
buttocks. Again she screamed as the pain seared through her.

"You should see the pretty stripes," he said.
"Look at that," he said, moving backward. "See the pretty
stripes."

She braced for another blow. The telephone rang again. As
it rang, an idea pulsed in her brain.

"More," she cried, above the sound of the phone.
She heard the message machine kick in. "Beat me," she screamed.

He struck again across her buttocks. And again. In her
agony, she lost all concept of time.

"I love this," she screeched, at the top of her
lungs. All she could think about now was staying alive, forestalling him. The
blows rained down on her.

"Again," she screamed.

She could hear his heavy breathing as he paused for a
moment.

"Don't stop," she cried.

"I didn't hear you thank me, Fiona."

"Thank you," she whispered, barely able to talk.

"Thank you, what?" he yelled.

"Master. Thank you, master."

He moved in front of her. His body was glistening with
sweat. He inspected her face.

"Oh, we forgot something," he said. He reached
for the lipstick again and roughly painted her lips.

"Now that's the look I wanted," he said.
"Now smile."

She forced herself to smile, then watched in terror as he
reached for the large plastic dildo that he had put on nearby chair. Picking it
up, he flicked a switch and it began to hum and vibrate.

"Remember the sound, Fiona. And how good it
felt."

He came toward her. The device looked massive. She knew it
would tear her apart.