A Routine EnslavementChapter 29 Day of Reckoning
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Luke stared at his laptop screen without seeing it, lost in a haze of physical fatigue, emotional exhaustion, and psychological inertia. A few minutes earlier he’d heard Kathryn’s car pull into the driveway, followed by the thump of doors as Bill returned home for what Luke knew would be an extremely difficult week to endure.
Please don’t come over, please don’t come over, please don’t come over, he silently begged, and whether due to (unlikely) divine intervention or (much more likely) Kathryn’s subtle discouragement, no one knocked on his door. And so he sat, gazing into a void of his own creation, accomplishing nothing.
My feelings are interfering with my work. They’re not stopping me from doing it — it’s my uncontrollable and unresolved feelings for Kathryn that are accomplishing that particular deceleration — but they’re preventing me from making the choices my expertise demands. He’d finally regained a small measure of control over his wayward emotions and dug into a few more orders, but quickly realized that he was resisting wines he knew wouldn’t be at their peak for a decade or more. It’s like I don’t want to grant them that much of a future. How pathetic can I be? I’m about to toss every remaining bit of professionalism out the window in desperate pursuit of a woman I still might not win. I’m dragging this out forever just because I want another week, another day, another hour with her. If I can live with being the other man, then I can live with that too, but no matter what happens I have to get my head screwed on straight and do the job they hired me to do. Or, at least, do it as well as I can without compromising any more than I already have.
And so he worked, taking frequent breaks to move bottles around whenever he needed to clear his mind, trying to rededicate himself to doing the best job he could despite the impossibility of the circumstances. In the midst of his renewed commitment to at least temporary focus, the knock he’d been dreading finally arrived.
“Son, how goes it? I understand you and your friend took the boat for another spin yesterday. I keep forgetting to remind you, so thanks for that.”
“We did indeed.” If you knew just what kind of spin, I’d be dead where I stand. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us use it.”
“Actually, yes you can.” Uh-oh. “There’s something I enjoy doing every once in a while that Kathryn absolutely refuses to do, and you’re just the man to take her place.” Once I get past the unintentional innuendo ... especially because there’s nothing she absolutely refuses to do ... this doesn’t sound good at all. “We’ll have to get an early start, but would you mind joining me for a little fishing excursion?”
Oh god, no. Please, please no. “Are there actually fish in the lake? Bigger than the bait-sized ones congregating around the dock, I mean?” he asked in a desperate attempt to evade the invitation.
“Well, they have to grow up somewhere, don’t they? Anyway, I gather you’ve never fished before, because catching fish isn’t the point of fishing.”
“I’m not sure that makes much sense.” It was another pathetic effort to dispel his mounting tension with a joke, but to his relief Bill took it in stride.
“It does when you’re as terrible a fisherman as I am. We’ll drink some cheap-but-cold beer and fail to draw so much as a nibble for a few hours, then we’ll head home and you’ll have the rest of the day to yourself. How about it?”
Kathryn’s plea that he accept any and all invitations echoed through his mind, despite his resistance, and though this was very nearly the last thing in the world that he wanted to do — perhaps only watching them make love would be worse — he knew he had no real choice.
“Sure, it sounds like ... well, I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the right word, but it’s rare that I’ll turn down an invitation to drink before noon. What time?”
“Seven. Any earlier and the bugs will eat us alive. Any later and we won’t experience the full measure of humiliation over our failure to provide basic sustenance for our families.”
Despite his anxiety, Luke couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, I’ll meet you on the dock at seven. You know, we could ask Irina to buy some live fish and sneak it into a bucket somewhere. We could pass ourselves off as heroes.”
“Oh, hell no,” Bill said with an embarrassed laugh. “I tried that once. I was on a boys’ trip with some old college buddies, and everyone was catching fish — and the eyes of the local beauties — except me. After a few too many whiskey sours, I wandered into a local bait and tackle where they had some fine looking specimens in a tank. That’s fish, not women, though at the time I was having about the same amount of luck with both,” he joked. “Long story short, I got caught before I even left the store. Kathryn would see through the attempt immediately. Anyway, see you tomorrow. Bright and early!”
Great. Just fucking great. Maybe I can stage a fake wrist injury and get out of this. Hell, I’d even settle for a real one...
That night, he treated himself to a ridiculously expensive and overindulgent dinner centered on sous vide beef tenderloin, black summer truffles, and porcini ravioli in a foie gras cream sauce — he was glad he and Bill didn’t share a cardiologist — and opened one of the exact sort of wines he was childishly wishing he could deny them, a 2001 Giacosa Barbaresco Asili. It was still far from fully mature, but the silky way its tannins danced with the crushed flowers and the fruit was compelling. By the time he finished the bottle and started digging through his dwindling liquor supplies, he almost felt fortified for tomorrow morning’s nightmare.
In the end, providence and the vagaries of weather saved him from his terrible fate. Bill was in a lively, talkative mood, while Luke — more than a bit hungover, which only partially muted his dread — was the opposite, especially as his counterpart’s irrepressible joviality suggested that he’d gotten comprehensively laid the night before. It was, especially given what Luke had experienced only a day earlier, another pointlessly churlish resentment that he was having a harder and harder time controlling, especially as his departure approached and hard choices loomed.
They’d just finished loading the boat and were in the process of untying it when what had, up to that point, seemed like fairly unthreatening clouds abruptly turned thicker and darker. A jagged pillar of lightning crashed into the lake’s surface, followed microseconds later by its whip-snap crackle as the sound echoed across the water.
“Hmmm. I don’t suppose we want to be anywhere near that, do we?”
“I’d say not. Especially as your boat has an antenna, which would make us the highest point on the lake.”
“Right. Well, that’s too bad. Let’s get this stuff back in the boathouse. Maybe we’ll get another chance one of these days. And keep those poles angled downward!”
The sudden change in plans seemed to dampen Bill’s previously unsinkable mood, and as Luke re-stowed their gear he took the opportunity to look around the boathouse interior, noticing things he either hadn’t seen before or didn’t have the knowledge to consider. Scintillating ideas began germinating, though he kept his secret smile to himself and instead put on a show of disappointment for his generous host, alleged friend, and unwitting rival.
Thunder and lightning threatened all morning, but there was no accompanying rain, and about the time he’d expected to be finished with their ill-advised fishing excursion, the sun broke through the clouds ... warm, cheerful, and mocking. Luke hadn’t gone back to work, instead allowing the enticing thoughts racing through his head to send him back to Michelle’s reading list. Grabbing a few recent purchases, he began crossing the lawn, pausing when he heard a curious and unexpected noise. A pause he immediately regretted, for when he heard it again, he realized it was Kathryn crying out in all too familiar ecstasy.
The sound appeared to be emanating from one of the house’s upstairs windows, most of which were open. Every single wail was was a stiletto through his heart. So much for my foolish hope that watching her and Alejandro would make this easier, he brooded, picking up his pace and trying to shut out a soundtrack he’d memorized. A half hour or so of inspection and experimentation later, he was back in the guesthouse and thinking about lunch.
After a few quarter-hearted hours of grossly inefficient work, he was so distracted that he texted Wendy to ask how she felt about everything that had transpired. In return, he received a series of terse messages reminding him she was indeed experiencing the “heavy feelings” she’d expected, that he’d promised there weren’t going to be any recaps and that it was way too early to go back on his promise, that she needed some time to herself, and finally, that she was going to be fine and he should “concentrate on his own fucked-up life.” A few minutes later she sent a purple heart emoji, followed by a broken one. He puzzled over this for a while, searching for but failing to find some subtle shade of meaning. I guess asking her is out of the question.
Having failed to distract himself, he checked his personal email and was immediately greeted by a pair of communications from Alejandro. Intrigued, he opened the first and found a link to an archive containing a carefully edited directory of the solo photographs for which Kathryn had posed, followed by another of the two of them having sex. He randomly opened a few from both, marveling at his lover’s exquisite, irresistible beauty and the skill with which the photographer enhanced it, but then he stopped. I can’t deal with these right now. Not while she and Bill are in the house, banging away and trying to rediscover the foundation of their marriage. He began the process of uploading the albums to one of his cloud accounts — Alejandro had asked him to let him know as soon he was finished — and clicked through to the second. It read:
“Our mutual acquaintance insisted that I send both of the attached images, and gives permission for you to share them with Kathryn, but only with Kathryn. It represents a body of work in which I do not take as much pride or pleasure as the rest, save that it is exactly what she wishes from me and others. She also asked me to tell you that she hopes the images give you, and I quote, ‘some ideas for our big date.’ From anyone else I would deem this little more than outrageously provocative humor, yet from her I can only conclude that she means it in earnest. Enjoy, if you can.”
Given the extremity of Faith’s interests, his mind raced at the possibilities, but he couldn’t restrain his curiosity for very long and opened the first photo. His first reaction was confusion over what he was seeing, quickly followed by an involuntary gasp of shock. The model’s wrists were tightly chained together as she dangled from one of the ceiling rings she’d shown them. Her legs were spread wide open by feet bound to what looked to be iron blocks, yet her suspension forced her onto her toes anyway ... a position that looked intensely uncomfortable. Her head was covered by a black hood secured by the thick rope wrapped around her neck, itself tied to the other ceiling ring in a dangerously taut configuration. The hood had slits over her mouth and nose, but her eyes and ears were masked, and there was no way to identify her unless one already knew what she looked like naked. Though even then...
Below the hood she was equally unrecognizable, at least to Luke. A constellation of welts and bruises — some of them linear, many of them not — covered her from shoulder blade to ankle. The greatest concentration of marks was across her buttocks, which looked to have taken furious and sustained abuse. The second photo was essentially the same but taken from the front, and it was clear that her breasts and her sex had been the focus of a similar amount of attention. Only her hands, arms, and feet remained pristine. From both her nipples and several points around her sex hung heavily weighted clamps that dragged and stretched her sensitive flesh downward, though the clamps were of a much fiercer type than the ones they’d used on Kathryn; sawtoothed and — given how much they distended the flesh into which they bit — tightened as much as they could be without actually piercing skin. A sheen of sweat covered her entire body, strings of drool dangled from her mask, her breasts, and their cruel accessories; and rivulets of what appeared to be a pronounced level of arousal snaked down her inner thighs and clung to her cruel vaginal jewelry.
Luke stared at the photos in horror, respect, disbelief, and admiration. The horror was because, even though he’d seen what he thought were some fairly extreme acts in BDSM-themed porn, he’d never seen anyone so comprehensively marked. To know that it was an incredibly famous supermodel in such straits — a woman who made her living from the untouchable flawlessness of her face and body — was even more jarring and difficult to believe. The respect he accorded to Alejandro, for despite the obvious severity of his work, there was no sign of blood; whatever he’d used (and Luke surmised he’d used a lot of different things), he’d gone exactly as far as he could without going over the edge. The disbelief was that, despite what she’d promised right from the start, someone he’d found so delightfully playful and sensuous could so desperately wish to be treated this way. And the admiration was for Faith, for this was something she’d not only accepted but enthusiastically demanded. Enduring such depredations would require near-infinite sources of strength and fortitude. At which point, an even more disturbing thought occurred.
I wonder how Kathryn will react to these photos? Will she be horrified? Revolted? Or will she be as palpably aroused as she was every time Faith hinted at this sort of thing? Maybe all three? I very seriously doubt I could do anything this over-the-top, to her or anyone else, but if she finds this appealing, will she be disappointed if I’m incapable? His mind was already at work rethinking and reimagining the ideas he’d been developing into plans, but it was also engaged in a struggle with his heart. Whether it’s this, the future of our relationship, or our everyday emotions, I can’t seem to face the possibility — no, the probability — of hurting her. And yet, that’s exactly how I’m failing her. How I’m failing us.
The next morning he was sitting at the table, intensely focused on his laptop, when someone knocked on the guesthouse door and, without waiting for an invitation, opened it and bounded up the stairs. He stealthily closed several browser windows and looked up to greet his guest, but she beat him to the verbal punch.
“Hard at work?”
“Actually, yes. In a sense.” To his private amusement it was quite literally true, for he was sporting a demanding erection that her unexpected presence was unlikely to help diminish. He’d been considering solutions just before she arrived, but with her around they’d obviously be delayed.
The corner of her mouth curled upward; she of all people most certainly understood his implication, though she didn’t know the source of it. “I came to tell you that you’re expected for dinner tomorrow night around six. The usual apéros on the patio, after which you’ll finally get to experience the wonders of the smoker. Bring libations, of course.”
“I need a little more detail than that. What’s Sevinay up to this time?”
“Actually, we gave her the night off. Penance for ... well, you remember. Bill and I are cooking. He’s in charge of the meat and I’m doing everything else. And to answer your question: pork, smoke, spice, nothing acidic. Plus some Southern standards.”
“How splendid that you’re cooking together.”
“Luke...”
“It could’ve been worse, you know. I could’ve taken the ‘he’s in charge of the meat and I’m doing everything else’ line and run with it.”
“Darling ... my love ... I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say, except that you’re not helping.”
“That’s not entirely true. I’m unburdening myself of a reservoir of bitter sarcasm filled to overflowing by an unnatural spring of unworthy jealousy. Better to grab the bailing bucket now so I’m not still drowning tomorrow night. What you’re right about is that I shouldn’t be dumping the excess on you.” He pushed his chair back and stood, holding out his arms and pulling her into a hug. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to resist, but then she melted into it — and him — with her usual loving tenderness.
After a few wordless minutes, she teased, “So is that all for me, or were you watching porn?”
“The latter is none of your business, and the former’s only been true since you arrived, but now that you mention it...”
“Luke,” she repeated, breaking the hug and sighing, “you know we can’t...”
“That’s not what I meant. Our photos arrived yesterday. I haven’t really looked at them, aside from two or three in each set — for fairly obvious reasons, they’re too much for me to deal with this week — but there was also the one that Faith wanted us to see. The one from after we left. Although, one actually turned out to be two.”
Her cautious reaction to his blatant invitation disappeared. The look on her face was beyond intrigued. She’s excited. “Well? Can I see?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’m ... why are you asking?”
“They’re ... intense.”
“I’m sure they are. I’m not surprised, you know. Faith and I talked about a few things while you were in the shower.” Dragging a chair next to his, she sat down and leaned towards his screen. He was painfully aware of the heat emanating from her body as she pressed against his arm. “So? Show me, already!”
“Okay. Just remember that I warned you.” Keeping an eye on her reaction, he opened the email, waited for her to scan Alejandro’s message, and double-clicked on the first attachment.
Whatever reaction he’d been expecting, hers wasn’t it. There was no gasp of horror (or flush of arousal), there was no sudden lifting of hand to mouth in shock, there wasn’t even any dilating of her pupils. There was only a calm, steady, almost analytical study of Faith’s distress. After a while, she nudged his hand away and opened the second photo. Luke was staring at her face, intent on reading everything she wasn’t saying, but while he thought he caught her tongue briefly emerge to moisten her upper lip, of even that tiny little indicator he wasn’t entirely sure.
Finally, she broke the spell, leaning back in her chair and, in an uncharacteristic monotone, observing, “I’m not ready for that yet.”
“Yet?“
“Whether or not I ever will be, I don’t know. It’s exactly what I expected to see, though, and I can’t deny that I’m...” By her abrupt decent into silence and the sudden change in her expression, it was clear that some unexpected change in her emotions had arrested her declaration. She glanced at his crotch. “Slide back.”
“What?”
She was already on her knees before he could object or react, frantically lowering his zipper, extracting his rock-hard organ, and sucking it straight into her throat. She’s almost never taken my full length that quickly or easily before. Not without a lot of warming up, he thought as he groaned in response to her pleasurable assault, except...
Only then did he finally realize what was going on. Those photos sent her into a submissive space. Not completely, or at least it doesn’t seem so, but what she’s doing to me makes much more sense if that’s what’s happening. It probably started because she was picturing herself, rather than Faith, being subjected to such treatment. Still, isn’t this an even bigger betrayal of her rules than Monday’s? Not that I’m going to stop her, because this is one of the most fantastically aggressive blowjobs I’ve ever experienced.
Indeed, she was fellating him as if racing against a nearly expired timer, and it took her less than a minute and a half to bring him to a mind-blowing climax. She gulped down each and every stream of ejaculate the moment it arrived, but as soon as his balls stopped providing their cream, she detached, tucked him back into his pants, and stood as if nothing untoward had occurred.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept what just happened to yourself, please,” she murmured. “Including from me. I mean it. Don’t mention it again.”
“Of ... of course,” he stammered, unnerved by her rapid shifts in mood and dazed in the aftermath of his even more rapid climax. Who would I tell, anyway? She started to leave, stopped at the top of the stairs, and slowly rotated to face him. Though her eyes were downcast, her expression was one of surprise at some unexpected discovery. Luke wondered what shift in circumstance was on its way next. Maybe the first stirrings of guilt? Even though everything we’re doing is cheating, that was pretty blatant. Not that I made the slightest effort to stop her.
“I just remembered that I’ve looked like that. Worse, perhaps. In the past, I mean.”
Oh no. Oh my god. He was rising to comfort her when she furiously shook her head, her crimson curls waving him away as they swung back and forth. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Thank you — really, thank you — but I don’t need to be hugged or talked down from the ledge of my nightmare. I was trying to figure out why I fell so hard and so fast into a submissive place just now, but also why I snapped out of it immediately afterwards, and suddenly it came to me. It’s just another part of the way my past and my present are inextricably intertwined. But here’s what’s different: I experienced a memory of looking like that — of being treated like that — and I’m actually okay. Or, at least, I’m going to be fairly soon. That’s a good sign. A really good sign.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving Luke bewildered and anxious despite his post-orgasmic haze. For no reason I can discern or logically justify, her “good sign” feels anything but. Why should that be? Is it just that I harbor some despicable desire for this week to go badly for her? That I’m so against her making progress with her husband that I actually wish her ill? Because if so, especially when the subject is her past, that’s utterly wretched of me.
“This is refreshing as hell. It’s a shame those clouds are likely to chase us inside, because this tastes like sunshine on ice. What’s it called again?”
“It’s a Paloma. Tequila, various types of citrus, something sparkling. It’s a pretty malleable recipe. And you’re right, because it’s intended to be refreshing. I was going to try to come up with some sort of clever variation on sweet tea, given what we’re eating, but I ran short on research time.” What I actually ran out of was interest in improving tonight’s dinner. God, I really am acting like a petulant infant.
“Well, I’m not usually much of a tequila drinker, but I can make an exception for this. Darling, if you want me to stop pawing you so you can set yours down for a minute, let me know.”
“No thanks. I’m happy right where I am.”
Luke ground his teeth, bit his tongue, and pinched his thigh ... all of it in a barely successful effort to avoid some sort of bitterly sarcastic response.
Kathryn was perched on Bill’s lap. She’d placed herself there about fifteen minutes earlier, as what appeared to be the final rays of the day’s sun shifted until they were turning her face a shade of red that almost matched her hair. Exactly like the last time the three of them enjoyed cocktails on the patio, Bill’s arm was wrapped around her midsection — Luke knew that his internal need to add “possessively” was his issue, not theirs — but this time he was idly caressing the exterior curve of her breast in a way that wasn’t entirely hidden from their dinner guest’s attention. And what’s with her “happy right where I am” crack? he wondered. Was that aimed at me? Is she trying to tell me something I really don’t want to hear?
“Me too, dear. Me too. But don’t get too used to it; I’m about due for another go at the sauce mop, after which I think we should probably close the umbrellas and head inside. I can keep the smoker out of the rain, but it looks like there might be some wind as well. You know, that’s three days in a row that the forecast’s been wrong. Right, Luke?”
Maris
- 23.05.2021
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