The Ties That Bind (5 page)

"Props," he said in response.

There were, of course, questions in her mind. But she had
remained silent.

"I need this, Fiona," he said. "Still
game?"

"Of course."

He told her to strip and put on the garter belt, stockings
and spike-heeled shoes, which she did. Then he told her to apply the makeup,
exaggerating her mouth and cheeks and putting the black eyeliner on as thick as
possible. She remembered she had loved the idea. It seemed like a masquerade.

While she put on the costume, he took off his clothes and
put on the leather jock strap. When she had applied the makeup to his
satisfaction, she stood in the center of the room, affecting a number of what
she calculated were naughty poses. He made no move to come toward her.

"Pick up the riding crop," he said.

She did. It felt smooth and light in her hand. This is fun,
she remembered telling herself, acknowledging her own arousal.

"Have you any idea what is going to happen?" he
asked.

"No."

Although she thought of herself as sexually experienced,
she honestly had not an inkling of what he had in mind.

"If you truly care about me, you'll comply with my
wishes. With enthusiasm and without reservations. Can you do that?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"If this is what you want..." she began.

"This is what I need," he replied.

"Anything you ask, darling."

"Then let me explain what is expected of you," he
told her. "I want you to treat me as your slave. I'll do anything you tell
me to do. Treat me like scum, like a worthless pig. I've been bad. You must
accept that. Rotten to the core. I've got to be punished and disciplined. Do
you understand?"

She wasn't sure she had. Love crossed all boundaries, she
remembered telling herself. Of course, she would comply.

"It's a game, right?" she had asked, hiding her
astonishment.

"Can you accept such a role?"

"If it is important to you, Farley."

"It is," he assured her.

"I'll do anything you ask."

"Without reservations?"

"Yes."

"It's only a game, isn't it?" she had asked
again, wanting to be reassured one more time.

"Our game."

"Then I'll play."

He flashed a smile and put his finger in her mouth. She
sucked it. Then he withdrew it.

"Call me names," he told her.

She hesitated and he seemed disappointed.

"Go on," he coaxed. "Dirty names."

"You filthy pig," she said hesitantly.

"Louder. Worse than that. Terrible names. Please,
Fiona."

"You ... lousy fuck."

"More."

"You slimy bastard."

"Thank you. More," he begged.

She continued. Her voice rose.

He dropped to his knees and crawled toward her.

When she recalled these events years later, she could not
remember even the slightest level of protest. She was accepting, absolutely
compliant to his wishes, determined to show him her understanding of his need,
to prove her love and trust. As she was drawn deeper into the action, she felt
more and more that it was her duty to be enthusiastic and energetic, to fully
satisfy his wish to be punished and humiliated. He is doing it for me, she told
herself, searching for the logic of it.

She did not ask why he needed this kind of treatment. In
sharing this secret with him, she felt even closer to him, more loving. In an
odd way, she was flattered by his confidence and she wanted to fulfill his
expectations to the best of her ability.

He kissed her shoes, begged her to blindfold him with the
leather strip. Then he asked that she write filthy words on his body with the
lipstick, which she did. With his instructive and pleading encouragement she
was prodded to accelerate her actions, to swat his body with the whip.

"I deserve more," he cried, urging her on.
"Tell me what I am."

She found herself more and more into the game. He began to
call her "mistress."

"You are filth, dung. A piece of shit."

"I am worse than that," he cried, begging her to
tie him up. She tied his hands to the legs of the bed.

"Tighter," he prodded.

He was bent over, his naked buttocks jutting out. "I
need to be paddled."

She took the paddle from the bed. He asked to kiss the
paddle, then, as she paddled him, he counted each blow, urging her to swat him
harder. Was there a moment when she felt that this was wrong, or silly, or
hurtful, or all three? She would never be sure. Did she feel like she was participating
in a perversion? She could not recall.

"I'll never do it again," he cried. "Make me
do anything, anything."

It seemed, that first time, an exciting theatrical
adventure, and she threw herself into it with abandon. Although her blows were
heavy, she did not break his skin and she followed his instructions to paddle
him until his buttocks were red. Did she love the role she was playing?
Probably. It proved to be an afternoon studded with deep orgasms for both of
them. Despite the subsequent guilt and self-loathing that came later, the
crisis of confidence she had experienced about her "normality," she
could never deny the pleasure of those moments. Never that.

Heading the car back to Washington, she noted Farley's odd
serenity. He had turned to her and kissed her lips as she drove, caressing her
hair. If anything struck her as strange, or even weird, it was her own sense of
total acceptance. She had done what he needed and she was happy about that. He
expressed his gratitude, explaining that he had shown her his absolute trust.

"This is the way I have proven to you how much I
care."

Her heart jumped in her chest. He truly loves me, she told
herself.

Next week, he told her, it would be her turn.

She remembered how she had thought about the idea every
waking moment of her life in that week. It did not repulse her. Actually, she
looked forward to it, wondering how she would react. Nor could she recall the
slightest thought at the time that what she had done and what she was looking
forward to doing was bizarre or perverted.

It was, she decided, a method to prove her love, to
illustrate her trust in him. As he had done. Besides, it felt good. No one had
come to any harm. She showed no inclination to analyze the origins, motivation
or meaning of such an episode. It filled his needs and gave them bodily
pleasure. And, she was certain, it brought them closer together.

On the next Saturday, the same process was repeated. He met
her in the same costume that he had worn the week before, carrying the same
tote bag. They checked into the motel in the same way, using the name she had
used the week before and paying for the room in advance.

"You'll do exactly as I say, won't you, Fiona?"
he asked as he emptied the tote bag on the bed.

A surge of excitement pulsed through her as she saw the
items laying helter-skelter on the bed.

"Without question," she told him, eagerly.
"Anything you ask of me."

"You'll be my absolute slave. Like I was last
week."

She nodded.

Their eyes met. Then he barked out a name.

"You filthy bitch."

Had she been shocked, despite her expectations? She would
never be certain.

"You've been an extremely bad girl, Fiona. Haven't
you?"

"Yes."

"Did I give you permission to talk?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You talk only when I order you to. And when you do,
you call me 'master.' Do you understand, bitch?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, master."

"Whatever I say, you will do. No matter what. Your
will is mine. Slut."

She nodded.

"And you must never look me in the eye. Do you
understand? Speak."

"Yes, master."

He ordered her to undress him, which she did without a
word, not looking him in the eye. Then he ordered her to take off all her
clothes and stand in the corner facing the wall.

She felt her excitement surge. A spear of adrenaline moved
through her, penetrating, giving her obscene, moist pleasure. She had loved it.
She heard him moving around behind her, but she felt safe, trusting him. She
was exhilarated by this trust. She felt unburdened, totally in his power.

She could not remember how long she had stood there, except
that she enjoyed being there, loved being there, loved obeying.

"You've been a filthy whore, Fiona," his voice
boomed. "A terrible disgrace. Haven't you?"

She nodded.

"And because of that I have to punish you. Come
here."

She turned. He was completely nude with a huge erection.
She remembered that she could not take her eyes off of it. She wanted
desperately to kiss it.

He ordered her to lie on the bed on a high nest of pillows
and he tied her wrists tightly, achoring her to the legs of the harvard frame.
Then he did the same thing with the ankles.

She was spread-eagled on the bed. She felt happy, she
remembered. Happy!

"This is just the beginning, Fiona. You've been a pig,
a slut, a cunt."

He printed words on her arms, then on the inside of her
thighs. She could not tell what he was writing, except that the movement of the
cold lipstick on her thighs caused her to climax. She shuddered with pleasure.

"Did I tell you to do that?" Farley asked.

She shook her head.

"You don't deserve to have pleasure, bitch," he
said. "Do you understand?"

She nodded.

He sat watching her for a long time, still naked,
tumescent. He wrapped his hand around his penis and shook it.

"You want this, don't you?"

She nodded, then whispered, "Oh, yes."

"What did I tell you about speaking?"

She remembered how delicious she felt in the face of this
implied threat.

"You don't deserve this," he told her, standing
up, coming closer to her. He bent down over her and whispered in her ear.

"You are a filthy slut, aren't you? Well, aren't you?
Speak."

"Yes, master."

There were other words he used to describe her and she
nodded her consent. Then he took the riding crop and made her kiss it.
Suddenly, he slid it across her breasts, then struck her with it. It stung and
she cried out.

"Did I tell you to cry out?"

"It hurt."

"It hurt, what?"

"It hurt, master."

"You really need to be taught, you cunt."

Again he hit her sharply across the breasts. Again she
cried out. He took the leather blindfold and put it around her eyes. Then he
stuffed a gag in her mouth. Deprived of light and speech, she felt herself
becoming disoriented, confused. It was not what she had expected.

She felt him untie her ankles. Then he drew her legs over
her head in a kind of somersault position and anchored the rope at the head end
of the bed, where he had fastened her arms. Her legs hung in the air, her hips
partially raised, her underside and genitalia exposed. It was impossible to be
more physically vulnerable. Still, despite the discomfort, she begged herself to
trust him. This was a test. Wasn't it?

"You need this, you filthy whore."

She felt the hollow whack of the paddle on her buttocks and
across her vagina. Then another. It seemed to go on forever. At each blow he
called her another filthy name. At first, her arousal accelerated and she
expected it to increase. But the pain, contrary to her expectations, was
actually starting to diminish any arousal. The game was losing its allure.

But she could not tell him this. She could not speak and
she struggled against the bonds. When the blows stopped, finally, she listened
as he moved behind her. Then she heard a whirring sound. Some sort of
electrical device. She heard his voice.

"You've given me no choice, whore."

The sound grew louder. The device was coming closer. When
it touched her skin, she realized it was a vibrator.

"If only you had obeyed me to the letter, Fiona,"
Farley said. She felt the vibrator press against her body, then waves of
excruciating pain. He was pushing the device into her anus.

All pleasure had vanished. The pain was ghastly. She felt
herself choking as she squirmed helplessly against the bonds that held her. The
gag prevented her from crying out, although she tossed her head from side to
side in agony.

"You deserve this, you whore," he shouted above
the now grating sound of the vibrator.

His words cascaded in her head. The pain permeated her,
filled her, tortured her. She heard her own screams in her head, but no sound
as she struggled. She wanted to disappear, lose herself. She seemed to have
remembered wishing for death.

Stop, her mind screamed, her head swinging wildly from side
to side as he pressed the vibrator deeper into her body. He was oblivious to
her struggles, her pain, her agony and her desperate but silent entreaties. He
spoke, but she could not hear him above the sound of the vibrator as it
shuddered inside her body, spreading its excruciating pain.

She might have lost consciousness. She would never be
certain. Nor could she ever be sure what had really gone on in her mind at the
time, except that she knew she was experiencing the ultimate mortification.
This was not trust. This was not love. This was fearsome, a shocking and
painful abuse of her body. It crossed her mind that he was trying to kill her
with agony.

It had been a long time since she had dipped into that
rusty vault of memory, but she was certain that her recall was accurate.

"You were wonderful," she remembered him saying
sometime later, his voice silky. Had she lost consciousness? Was it really his
voice? Did he have no memory of the pain he had inflicted? Was this suffering
supposed to prove something to him? She felt him releasing her bonds.

"You've made me very happy," he said.

Was he really saying that or had her hearing become
impaired? He had brutalized her. Hurt her. Hadn't he seen that? He removed the
gag. She recalled trying to talk, but, at first, she thought she had lost the
power of speech. She felt paralyzed. Her body ached from the aggressive
violence he had waged against it.