The Shape of Night(42)

My legs are unsteady as I walk out of the bedroom. Is it from drinking too much wine or is it fear that makes me stumble in the hallway? The floor feels like ice beneath my bare feet, and the damp air penetrates straight through my nightgown. I open the door to the staircase and halt, gazing up at the flickering candlelight above.

I stand at the threshold of his world. With each step I climb, I leave my own world farther and farther behind.

Up the stairs I go, the candlelight growing ever brighter. He is at my heels, his boot steps heavy and inexorable on the steps, preventing my retreat. There is only one direction I can go, and I ascend toward the room where I know both pleasure and punishment await.

    At the top of the stairs, I swing the door wide open and step through, into the turret. Golden candlelight washes over me and I look down to see the skirt of coppery silk swishing at my ankles. No longer do I feel the night’s chill; a fire burns in the hearth, its flames licking at birch logs. The light of a dozen candles flickers in wall sconces and in the sea windows I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. The gown molds itself to my hips and my ivory-white breasts swell above the low-cut bodice.

I am in his world. His time.

He crosses to the curtained alcove. Already I know what lies behind those drapes. I have lain spread-eagled on that bed, felt the pleasure of his brutal attentions. But when he slides open the curtain, this time he reveals more than a bed, and I shrink away.

He holds out his hand. “Come, Ava.”

“What will you do to me?”

“What would you have me do?”

“You’re going to hurt me.”

“Is that not what you deserve?”

I do not have to answer him; he already knows that I can never punish myself enough for what has happened. He knows that guilt and shame are what have led me to this house, and to him. That I deserve whatever torment he chooses to deliver.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper.

“But you are also tempted, are you not?” I flinch as he reaches out to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand. “Have I not taught you that pain is merely the other face of pleasure? That a cry of agony sounds no different from a cry of ecstasy? Tonight you will enjoy both, without guilt, without blame, because I am the one in command. Do you not feel yourself craving it, longing for it? Are you not already wet, your body preparing itself to accommodate what is to come?”

Even as he speaks, I feel heat building between my legs, the ache of a hollow crying out to be filled.

He reaches for my hand. Willingly I take it.

    We cross the room and I step into the alcove and stare at the wrist shackles dangling from the beam overhead. But those shackles are not what frighten me. No, what scares me is what I see displayed on the wall. Leather whips. A riding crop. An array of billy clubs.

He tugs me toward the shackles and closes the manacle over my left wrist.

There is no going back now. I am at his mercy.

He grasps my right hand and efficiently snaps the second manacle around it. I stand with both my hands shackled over my head as he studies his prisoner, savoring my helplessness. Slowly he walks behind me and, with no warning, rips open the back of my gown, exposing my back. With the gentlest of touches, he strokes down my skin and I shudder.

I do not see him reach for the whip.

The first crack of leather against my back is so shocking, I jerk against the manacles. My skin throbs from the sting of the leather.

“Is this not what you deserve?”

“Stop. Please—”

“Tell the truth. Confess your shame.” Again the whip cracks. Again I scream and writhe from its bite.

“Confess.”

The third lash of the whip makes me sob. “I confess,” I cry out. “I am guilty, but I never meant for it to happen. I never wanted—”

The next lash makes my knees buckle. I sag, my body suspended by those merciless manacles.

He leans in close and whispers into my ear, “But you did want it, Ava. Didn’t you?”

I look up at him and his smile chills me. Slowly he strides a circle around me, comes to a stop at my back. I do not know what he will do next. I don’t know if even now he’s again raised his whip, and I brace for the next sting of his lash. Instead he unlatches both shackles. My legs give way and I kneel, quivering, waiting for whatever torment comes next.

    I do not see what he reaches for, but I hear him slap it against his hand. I look up and see he is holding a billy club, its wood polished and gleaming. He sees my look of alarm. “No, I will not beat you. Never do I leave scars. This instrument is for a different purpose entirely.” He strokes it against his palm, admiring its polish in the candlelight. “This one is meant only as an introduction. A training device, small enough for the tightest virgin.” He looks at me. “But you are not a virgin.”

“No,” I murmur.

He turns to the wall and reaches for a different billy club. He holds it before me and I cannot look away, cannot stare at anything but the monstrous object looming before me.

“This one is meant for a harlot who’s been well-ridden. One seasoned enough to accommodate any manner of man.”

I swallow. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“No woman can take that…thing.”

He slides the club across my cheek and the wood is smooth and terrifying. “Unless she is properly initiated. It’s what whores do, Ava. You learn to please. Because you never know who will walk in the door and what he will demand. Some men just want to ride you. Others prefer to watch. And then there are those who want to see how much you can endure.”