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2006-04-13
I’ve met Henry as a client at the publishing company that I work for. Despite the reputation of an expert editor, nowadays I spend most of my working time in meetings, conferences and seminars, traveling a great deal. I leave the grueling work of editing and sometimes constant battling with an author to junior staff. They still seem to be passionate enough to overlook relentless challenging of their own minds by people who had enough time and will to sit down and put a heap of words into slightly coherent manuscripts, which would then have to be plowed through with a fine comb, eliminating typos, grammar mistakes, and unfortunate combinations of words, which seemed more of an overstuffed bag of rubbish than anything artistic. I am always amazed at how protective people can be of their work, despite the fact that some of it did not even reach a level of high school essay. It is quite fascinating to see how many people believed in themselves so strongly. Well, I think I’d rather not turn this into a literary critique, as my once impeccable taste for beauty and purity seemed to have parted ways with me. However, when Henry P. negotiated his series of manuscripts, which were to see the light of day as reference schoolbooks on ancient pottery, I was the one who was appointed to do the job. In his 40s, Henry had just achieved an amazing success as a painter; his talent was compared to that of Miro and young Kandinsky, his work selling like hotcakes. Despite the initial reluctance to commit myself to what seemed like a gigantic time consuming project, I finally agreed. To have my services requested by a man who seemed to be very professional and highly talented, well, what can I say? My ego was stroked many times over and I blindly plunged into grueling process of delicate, yet firm advisory to a man, whose own ego was inflated to the point of bursting. We had spent numerous days together, and as inevitably our professional relationship slowly developed into a friendship, I started visiting his house in the appropriately affluent part of London on frequent basis. Henry had always been smart enough to know that he was a tremendously good painter, however, his sculpting and pottery skills were limited in creativity, and to serve his passion, he elected to write books and hold lectures on the subject rather than dabble in it himself. His home was an actual artistic Disneyland to anybody with an eye for aesthetics, surprisingly lacking display of any of his own work, with the exception of the large studio at the bottom of the garden, literally packed with the harvest of his creative mind. During one of the many afternoons that we spent together in his home, browsing and sorting through a mountain of photographs, sketches and Henry’s own miniature paintings depicting Greek pottery, the conversation swerved into the inevitable waters of sexual nature.
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At first, we were nostalgically reminiscing on our boyhoods, followed by exploration of our rather wild college years. I was astonished by the realization that what we both found most impressing were so-to-speak little steps in sexual growth. The fondest memories did not seem to be of wild sex, although there were a few mentioned, but rather our minds seemed to spew the imprinted images of smaller achievements on the road to the ultimate conquest. The first hand job ever, the first feel of the young, pear shaped breasts, the first time our trembling fingers touched the warmth of the girls’ wet crotches, which neither of us succeeded in entering beyond a quick feel at the time, and of course, the glorious first look at the open pinkness of pussies, encircling the little buds of feminine pleasure, appearance of clitorises described as oversized raisins. The last remark, which I believe was Henry’s, had us both barking with laughter. That moment made me feel youthful again, nostalgic mixes of what I would like to do again, as well as what I most certainly did not have the energy to go through, had I had a chance to repeat it all. ‘Alright then,’ said Henry, wiping away tears of laughter, his body still jerking with giggles. ‘Confession time!’This simple statement had us both in another bout of howling laughter. ‘No, seriously!’ said Henry as we finally got hold of ourselves. ‘The kinkiest thing you’ve ever done, Trevor!’ His finger stabbed in my direction, his face a glow of expectation. How well did I know Henry to really confess to anything that should probably be kept private? Should I have told him about a 21-year old Dutch girl that I had fucked in the haze of hashish fumes just three weeks ago while attending a seminar in Rotterdam? She was younger than any of my own children. How about the time when I had my wild sister-in-law give me a blowjob so intense I nearly passed out from pleasure, while my wife sat in the other room, talking to her father, whose health was rapidly failing? Less than two weeks later we buried him, my guilt weighing heavily on my soul. I felt so very ashamed of what I had done. Penny was always a bit of a tart and it was rather stupid that I fell into her trap; I was terrified that my wife Claire would find out. The fact that I toyed with Claire’s happiness and had thrown her own dignity into the puddle of mud without her even knowing it sobered me up.
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No matter what I did, I loved Claire with my entire being, and I still love her. She was the only one who ever stood by me through thick and thin. She had given me three beautiful children; she is a great lover and my best friend. The intensity of shame and guilt were surprising and overwhelming; I was a good boy for a while after that. For a moment I considered telling him of my first anal sex experience, when Donna, my girlfriend in the first year of college and I were making up with sex after a huge argument. In a moment of closeness and renewed feelings of affection, she agreed to try the alternative, which she had always denied me. Once I had managed to squeeze my well-oiled cock inside her virgin arse, things got out of control and I could not stop myself from fierce and fast-paced pounding as deep and hard as I could, while she cried and tried not to scream. Her pain spawned fire inside me that I could not put out until I shot a spray of hot sperm inside of her beautiful, round bum. That was the last I ever saw of Donna. She absolutely refused to see me or even take my calls. I am aware that I could have gotten myself in a lot of trouble if she was to tell anyone. However, it was the early 70s and people did not really talk freely about sex, no matter the so-called sexual revolution of the preceding decade. That was the first time that I realized pain was a huge turn on for me. However, I left it at that. I most certainly never inflicted any more physical pain on another woman.
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I still have anal sex, but it’s always with women that I know I will probably never see again. London, you see, is a wonderful city if one needs to relieve the urges that one might not want to put his spouse through. As I presume any other metropolis, it is a wonderful city where one can find all sorts of people, any kind of food one’s heart desires and any kind of sex one’s cock is itching for. I also must add that subsequent experiences in anal sex never produced reaction that I got from Donna; therefore, I never continued to explore the path of painful pleasure. ‘Trevor?’ Henry’s voice pulled me out of my reminiscences. ‘Oh,’ thoughts in my head were spinning as if caught in a tornado. So many confessions I could have made, so few I really wanted to. I went with the biggest and safest cliché of man’s sexual career. ‘A threesome. ’ Henry’s smirk told me I didn’t hit the target. ‘With two birds from Manchester. ’ I added quickly. ‘Oh, my GOD, Trevor! A threesome! You wild beast, you!’‘Alright, Henry,’ I said as if speaking to a child who just got overexcited. Except, I know Henry was not so at all. He was simply grossly sarcastic.
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‘Mind you,’ he giggled. ‘Manchester birds can be quite kinky, take it from an expert. ’ He winked at me. Okay, this was getting interesting. ‘I say, Trevor,’ the previous bout of laughter returned, only seeming to affect Henry. ‘Do you ever do anything really naughty?’What was there to say? Of course, I considered Henry one of my friends now. Although, I did not know Henry half as long as I did my other friends, most of them since the ancient times of college. And out of that bunch, only a few were aware of my indiscretions and escapades. ‘I mean, I really expected you’d do better than a threesome, you’ve always struck me as a hedonist, for Pete’s sake. ’ He nodded, his mouth working for a moment as if searching for words. ‘You enjoy the best restaurants, go to the best parties, best everything, Trevor. And all you’ve ever done that you can brag about is a threesome? I bet there is a closet full of skeletons in your house, you just won’t tell me. But you know what, Trev? No worries. How about I tell you first?’The playfulness that I felt only moments ago had dissipated. I was not convinced that this sort of talk interested me any longer.
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It’s one thing to talk sex with your old mates, very old mates. As far as Henry was concerned, I have practically just met him.
I did not feel like disclosing my deepest, darkest secrets. At the same time, I did not want to hear what his were. Or did I? ‘Let me show you my cookie jar, Trevor,’ said Henry, jumping out of a reclining chair. The heap of photographs that he had been browsing through slid off his lap and scattered all over the floor. ‘There goes an hour of work, Henry!’ I felt upset. This sorting and cataloging business had never been my favorite and Henry’s gesture was most unwelcome. ‘Oh, lighten up, Trevor. I might even let you dip your fingers in my jar. ’ He winked at me and walked over to the computer desk in the corner of the living room, where we had been spending our afternoon. Henry opened a deep bottom drawer, rummaging through. His face lit up as he pulled out a huge book. A wedding album? A scrap book? He most certainly regained my interest in one hot second. Gripping it with both hands, delicately as if holding a baby, he brought the book over to me and shoved it in my lap.
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‘Before you look,’ his voice sounded as a warning. ‘All you see is to stay between us, Trevor. ’ The last trace of smiles and grins disappeared. He was all business now. ‘This is my personal collection. I took most of the photographs, sketched all drafts and every single little painting is also mine. ’ I nodded. What else was there to do?‘It’s personal and very private. Once you sere this, you might change your mind about me, but I don’t think so, Trevor. I think you will enjoy it. ’ With that he turned his back on me, returning to his seat. I opened the book that was literally bursting at the seams. What I saw hit me like a ton of bricks. The images were of explicit sexual nature; they were saturated with violence, torture, pain and fear; people being spanked, beaten and whipped, hogtied, suspended from pulleys, raped and sodomized with dildos, vibrators and other objects that remotely resembled a phallus; some were burned with cigarettes or cigars, thrust onto wooden ponies, impaled on objects, some of which I didn’t even know what they were; spat and urinated on; there were blood and tears mixed with sperm that covered the faces of women as well as men in obvious torment. Every once in a while, the person dominated seemed to enjoy the pain and would seductively smile into the camera.
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I probably gaped with my jaw touching the floor. In one simple statement, it was the hell of de Sade brought to vision. It was not art, not as I saw it. I was horrified. However, to my utter amazement, I was also mesmerized by the images. I have never been the one to inflict physical pain upon anybody - well, since that one time with an ex-girlfriend - but seeing faces cringe in pain and terror, bodies contorted into positions that seemed absolutely impossible, I had to admit, repulsion and fascination joined hands. ‘My word, Henry! Is this all real?’ I asked breathlessly, flicking through his secret stash. ‘I mean, are they really in pain or is this just an act?’ I noticed that my voice had reached a high, almost hysterical pitch. I don’t know what prompted Henry to rise back out of his chair and gently pull the album out of my hands, slapping it closed and returning it to the cabinet where it had managed to burn my mind from a distance. ‘Some of it is real, yes. Some is just modeling,’ he said and offered me a fresh drink. ‘All of it is consensual, you know. ’ His eyes paused on me for a long minute and his mouth worked as if to find the right words after a slip up. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have shown it to you. It’s very private, you understand.
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You can’t tell anybody about this. ’I nodded, occasionally glancing towards the cabinet where the array of the horror images now rested. With a quiet sigh of relief, I realized that I did not know anybody in the photographs, or recognized a familiar face in the paintings. Namely, Henry’s wife Vivian, a petite creature with beautiful face and the saddest eyes you had ever wanted to see. ‘Well, let me see, then!’ I waved my fingers as if I was bidding farewell to a child. ‘Go on, then. Let’s have a look!’‘Ah, you old devil, you. I knew it, Trev. I simply knew it!’ I would guess that confusion on my face was replaced by a frown of denial. I wanted to tell him how wrong he was. To my surprise he just shook his head ‘no’ as my mouth opened to voice my protests. ‘Tell you what, Trevor. Let me have you take a look at a couple of films, right?’ I nodded. ‘And if you like, I can fix you up with this bloke, Terry, who runs a dungeon in East London. ’‘A dungeon?’ my voice was still plagued with hysterical anxiety.
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‘Well, it’s not really a dungeon, of course. That’s just what they are called, you know. Places where they take pictures like these, sometimes make movies, and…’ he paused as if the best was yet to come: ‘…. where you can go and do things or have things done to you. ’ His blue eyes were piercing. ‘If you know what I mean. ’‘No, Henry, I don’t think so. ’ My protests were weak, even I sensed that. Well, not to go into too many details about the rest of the afternoon, which turned out to be completely useless regarding having any more work done, a couple of hours later, I found myself driving home, with two video tapes resting on the passenger’s seat. This is what I have always been fantasizing about. However, having never found or even looked for someone to share my very suppressed interests, I never explored beyond occasional rough sex x-rated movie. Absolutely nothing in the vicinity of what I had just seen. When I entered my home, I called out to my wife. ‘Claire?’ I yelled. ‘Darling?’ There was no response.
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It was Thursday and my wife had a habit of spending one evening a week with her friends, going out to dinner and for a couple of pints in of the Camden Town pubs. Thursdays were usually the designated days of ‘girls’ night out’. She wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet. I ran my hand through my hair and found it damp with perspiration, despite the cold bite of December air. The bundle of films in my other hand was burning my flesh and soul. I didn’t really want to see them, but at the same time, I knew that I would. I had to. The switch of unstoppable curiosity had been flipped. At the time I didn’t realize it, but the switch had actually been broken off, unable to ever be forced back into its proper position of oblivious ignorance. In my paranoia, I ran upstairs making sure Claire was not simply having an early night already tucked in bed. I stepped out the back door, blinking into the darkness of the garden, calling out her name a few more times. I shook my head over my own stupidity. Surely, Claire would not be sitting out there on a cold winter evening. Finally, satisfied that she was not at home, I headed for my study, which had been my son’s bedroom before he moved out. I poured myself a glass of whiskey straight up, making it a double, no ice or water to take away the effect of sharpness that I yearned for.
I opened one of the VCR boxes and peeked inside. The cassette sported a white label with hand-written scribble, which I recognized as Henry’s. It was no surprise that the film was appropriately titled The Fury of Mistress Carmella. Unimaginative predictability of the cliché made me snicker, and despite the better judgment I popped the cassette inside the VCR player. I turned on TV, sat in the chair and pressed Fast Forward button. I listened to the tape running with gaining speed for a while, before I finally pressed the Play button. By this time, my entire body tingled with curiosity. While still in the car, an idea of Henry giving me the tapes of some museum or other, maybe even a pottery related National Geographic program entertained my mind. The title on the cassette had shot down that hope and fired up another one. I felt excited, uncomfortable, even embarrassed and most of all, there was an anticipation of dread to overcome my entire body, as if standing on the edge of abyss, ready to plunge into the unknown. ‘Turn and face the strange…’ Bowie’s haunting voice echoed in my mind for a few seconds, only to be quenched out by the high-pitched scream of woman in pain. My eyes popped open at the sight of a small, ivory white, hourglass shaped body, its back turned towards the camera. Her hair was only a couple of inches long, black and ruffled in a crazy mess as if somebody had run through it in a passionate fury. Her buttocks and thighs were of a violent pink color, crisscrossed with bloody gashes, and every few seconds, the creature clothed in black leather on the side of the screen brought a whip of too many tentacles to be counted while swishing back and forth, onto the pattern of it’s ‘canvas’, adding another gash or two, making the small body jerk desperately. The tortured woman stood straight up, her hands pulled up high in the air and spread into a wide V with wrists firmly secured to the posts on each side of her.
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The legs were spread wide, restrained with metal shackles at the bottom of the same posts. Her head bobbed forward whenever she was not assaulted with the whip and her body looked like a giant X. For a moment, I could not tell whether the assaulter was a man or a woman. Black leather cap was covering the entire head, and despite the long and thin ponytail cascading down the back, I suspected it might be a man. Nowadays, one cannot really establish the gender solely on the evidence of the hair length. I thought it was a man, as I could not fathom a woman being this cruel to another woman. Then, the figure turned towards the camera as if to look at the curious spectator and I could see a pair of huge breasts protruding through the holes on the upper part of the leather vest. Only now did I notice the high-heeled boots and feminine curves of her arse. The head mask sported openings for eyes and mouth.
The tongue shot out of the mouth hole, wildly waging up and down at me. She grabbed one of her own breasts and, still holding the whip, crudely massaged it, all the while keeping an eye on the camera, tongue saluting in my direction. The bloodied woman, now in the background wept loudly, her head flowing back and forth as if it was a buoy on the ocean waves, broken by a soft summer breeze. The woman in the leather outfit now slipped one hand down her stomach and started rubbing herself between the legs. ‘Hello, lover!; she said in a smoky voice and the crudeness of the scene jerked me out of a trans-like state. I found myself sitting on the very edge of the armchair, my mouth open as if waiting to catch a fly, my eyes wide and bulging to the limit.
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I closed my mouth and was hit by a sharp sting of whiskey. As I looked at my hands, I realized I was literally squeezing an empty crystal glass as if trying to squash it with my fingers. I had just downed a double whiskey in one long gulp without even realizing. I slumped back in a chair, grabbed the remote and pressed Stop button. The room was plunged into silence, but the screaming and whimpering that I had heard only seconds before still echoed in my head. I got out of the armchair and wobbled my way to the VCR. I ejected the tape with trembling hands. Plopping it back into its case and dropping it to the floor, I reached for the other tape. Did I really want to see more? It was disgusting and perverted. I knew things like this happened, after all, I was not a child. I even fantasized about it somewhat. But I didn’t know it could be this brutal and realistic. Why did this disgust excite me so? Why did the perversion to which I had just been a witness excite me to the point where I realized my pants were constraining my cock and I felt the need to unzip and relieve my manhood of its restrains. So I found myself standing in the middle of the study, feeling my mind turning into the direction that I did not want it to turn to, nevertheless, excitement rising in my head and my pants. I was brought up in a conservative way, as I supposed most people are.
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I had never come across any true violence, sexual or otherwise. Years earlier, I remembered, when kids were still very small, Claire and I saw a porn video together. It was just your standard cock sucking, pussy eating and all in all juicy fuck film, but that night, I was so turned on that I made love to my wife in a very rough way, making her weep in fear and astonishment. I know I did not hurt her physically, but the side of me which she had never seen before seemed to unnerve her. I was ashamed and apologetic afterwards and I believe she understood. After that, the only time I would watch porn was on my own. If I needed to relieve myself, I would either do it in the bathroom, or by paying a visit to whomever I was seeing at the time. I have to admit that on a couple of occasions, I have even used the services of escorts. And of course, there was that thing with Donna. However, this was different. The sight of the grail body wiggling under the brutality of its tormentor excited me beyond belief. I poured myself another drink before gathering the courage to take a peep at the other video. I did not bother to read the title. This time, I managed to watch more of the film. I fast-forwarded, watched for a while.
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Fast forwarded again and watched some more. I got through 2-hour film in about 30 minutes. My mind was continuously assaulted by images of weeping and screaming men and women, being whipped and spanked; broken skin, bleeding gashes, tears mixed with runny make up and sweat. Incredulously, those same sounds of pain-induced horror were music to my ears. A woman tied to an overhead pulley sat on a wooden pony with weights strapped to her ankles, the pointy edge cruelly pushing between her labium; a man handcuffed to the bed was wildly fucked by a woman using a strap-on, who was - not surprisingly - again dressed in black leather; a young man was tied to a metal X stand, his nipples pierced with safety pins, his testicles tied with a rope so tight, they looked like two oversized marbles, almost black from the lack of blood circulation, making my own hand reach between my legs , cupping my balls through the pants, as if afraid the pain from the screen would surface in my own body at any moment; another woman in the same position had her breasts roped just as tight, and they looked like two small, deep purple desert bowls glued to her body. The last image that I remember seeing that night was of a skinny, long-legged man, again tied to an X stand, being brutally whipped across the chest, stomach and front of the thighs. As the camera zoomed in on his wailing face, to my horror, I realized that the acne spotted visage could not have been more than 18 or 18 years old. Bloody hell! I actually yelled and shot out of the armchair. I forgot all about the remote control and ran to the VCR player, wildly punching the Stop and then Eject buttons. I was sweating profusely. My knees buckled and I could barely support my weight, preventing myself from falling over like a drunken fool. I carefully put the videos in the back of my desk drawer, took a shower, ignoring the hard on twitching between my legs and crawled under the covers of my bed. I wished Claire were at home. I wished we could talk about the insignificant events that happened to us during the day. I wanted to hear her gossip about neighbors and discus the trivial events in our children’s lives, which she was so good at blowing completely out of proportion.
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I wished my cock was not hard and my hands did not itch to grab it and wank it into oblivious pleasure until I blew my load off right there, in our warm bed. I wished for many things that evening, but eventuality of the circumstances made me get out of bed, return to the bathroom and do what my body wanted and despite my mind wishing I did not, while the still frames of images that I had seen that evening flashed behind my tightly shut eyes. The following Monday, as my secretary brought in a stack of mail, most of which was already opened; I noticed a khaki green envelope, smaller than your standard one. Christmas was just around the corner and many envelopes that found their way to my desk at this time of the year were of motley colors, but for some reason, this particular one drew my attention. When I held it in my hand, I noticed a sticker with Henry’s address in the upper left corner. I smiled, the bugger sent me a Christmas card, how thoughtful. I opened the envelope and extracted a card that was undoubtedly Henry’s own work of beautiful snowy hills in watercolors. As I opened it, something fell out and landed at my feet. It was a plain white business card. I picked it up and on under the name Terry, there was a pager number, underneath that, in bold red letters it said: WE’LL BOND YOU WITH PLEASURE. The awkward discreetness made me snicker and I turned to Henry’s card. Christmas present for you. Don’t worry about the cost. Call Terry. Ask for Evie, you won’t be disappointed.
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It took me a good couple of weeks into the New Year before I finally gathered enough courage to send a page to Terry. Videos, pictures and conversation with Henry weighed heavily on my mind throughout the holidays and I could not think of much else. I found myself dialing Terry’s number more than once, but then I chickened out, slammed the receiver down and tried to rationalize with myself that this was probably not a good idea. However, the can of worms was opened. Or was it Pandora’s box? Simply, my curiosity has been stirred beyond the point of return and finally, the day came when I completed dialing the number and it has taken three long hours for Terry to finally return my call. We chatted for a while, and I had a feeling that he was testing the ground so to speak. When I mentioned Henry’s name he knew immediately who I was talking about, and for some reason, I had a feeling that Henry’s art did not have all that much to do with the recognition. Terry asked me quite a few personal questions and as before, I wanted to slam the phone down, forgetting about the whole thing. But, now I was actually talking to the man and there was no going back. Questions came as an avalanche, and sometimes I did not even have the time to think of the answer properly before it spilled out of my mouth. Which dungeon did I normally use? Dungeon? Oh, none, this will be my first time. Did I want to dominate or be dominated? Neither. I just wanted to watch. Would anybody else be accompanying me? No, I will be alone. Was I a copper? No, I was not.
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Did I have any preferences of what the dominatrix was to wear? In my nervousness I laughed and said, pink and green polka dotted dress. Was I serious about the dress? No. Anything would be fine. Did I have any specific preferences about the punishment to be administered? No. Did I have any specific preferences about the sexual acts to be performed? No. Were there any particular tools I wanted to be used? Not really. Was there anything I didn’t want to see? Yes, no teenage boys please. Was I sure I was not a copper? Yes, quite sure. After all, Henry must have explained that we worked together. Yes, he did. Did I understand that he would have to cross-reference with Henry about me, as this is how he worked? Yes, that would be fine. Did I understand the imperative importance of keeping this conversation and anything that might follow a secret? Absolutely! Was there anything else I could think of? Yes, I would like to see Evie. There was a long pause. For a moment I became afraid. Did I say something wrong? Was I too bold? Did Henry exercise his sick sense of humor again and Evie was Terry’s mother’s name? Or maybe his wife’s? Or, God forbid, his daughter’s? ‘You do understand that it might take a while if you want to see Evie, mate?’ finally Terry spoke.
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‘She does not perform with any of the girls from our little business here. She only does the real thing and there are not quite that many customers who like to be watched by a stranger. ’I nodded, and as I remembered that for obvious reasons my response passed by unnoticed, I coughed and tried replying again. ‘Yes, I do. I can wait. ’‘Are you sure? If this is really your first time, maybe you just want to get a taste of it with someone else, and then…?’‘No,’ I was quite adamant now. ‘I can wait. I want to see Evie. I heard she was the best. ’ Of course Henry did not tell me she was the best. But, I learned to rely on Henry’s taste in everything, and if he said Evie is the one to see, by God, Evie was the one I wanted. ‘Alright, you got it, mate. ’ Said Terry. .
