Ezra lived two blocks from the newspaper, in an older but very elegant apartment building made when wood was still available for building. I loved the way the floor boards creaked in the entryway even though I could see that they were virtually worn away from years of use. I’m sure the substructure of this building had to be shored up with metal and concrete, though it was pleasant to see that some one cared enough to take those measures. Feeling the wood molding on the doorway, it was still oily from having been polished, the pleasant smell remaining on my hands like perfume. Thinking of that I smiled to myself, only whores wear perfume anymore.
On the third floor I knocked on door number 332, a silver-haired man answering the summons. He stared at his watch, nodding. Apparently I arrived on time, because he showed no displeasure.
“In here please, Miss Duchet,” he said, clicking his heels behind him so formally, I mistook him for a butler. On the walls of his living room there were pictures everywhere of military campaigns, plaques indicating awards and decorations the man had won, dozens of smiling and frowning photographs of stern men consummating the ends of battles. Ezra himself was dressed in military pants that I recognized from the open wars. He’d been at Coitroun and Marchett and the Prussian highlands, places in a school child’s history book. I saw photographs of journalists whose lives were the stuff of my aspirations, though there were no more wars anymore, these campaigns made sure of that. The whole world would keep the peace after the Coitroun blood-bath.
“Let’s get on with it, Miss Duchet. If you’ll disrobe I’ll begin.”
“Disrobe?” How abrupt. I was wrong to question him. Seeing the disgust on his face at my hesitation, I nervously began to unbutton my coat, letting it fall to a chair behind me while I went on to complete his order. Pulling my white blouse from my pants, I shivered as Ezra impassively looked on me. While he waited he leaned against a table, content to stare as each button quit its loop and the two sides of the blouse fell to the side. The garment slipped off me with a shake of my shoulders. Undoing the belt of my pants I lowered the zipper and the soft fabric dropped to my feet. Stockings, bra and pants suffering the same fate. My pile of clothes ended up on the chair behind me, while I stood shivering and naked before this uncommunicative man.
“A little slow, but you’ll learn,” he commented as he came to me, taking my wrists in his hands and drawing them over my head. He pulled them through tight fitting loops hanging from a beam in the ceiling. With a pulley he raised me higher still, so I was on tiptoe when he was finished. A million thoughts raced through my mind, from the absurd, as in what could he possibly be doing with me? to the mundane, as in how will I possibly be back at work by one thirty for my conference with Max? All thinking ceased however when the first strike of his lash hit my skin. Then, I was in Rowena’s land, thinking of her alone, allowing the prima donna of masochism to dance inside my brain. I’d been waiting to taste pain like this, rich, full and lingering. Each stroke of the lash against me was laid on separate from the one that went before, giving me ample time to feel the full effect. Across my back, my ass, thighs and calves, and then my belly, breasts and sex in front. Within minutes I was writhing as much as possible within the bonds, encouraging him to strike another blow even though I knew that it would only be more painful than the one before. At intervals, Ezra stopped long enough to fondle my genitals and poke his fingers in both caverns between my legs. Starting again, the blows became less painful, more exuberant with the pleasure delivered.
Picking up the pace of the attack however, the man’s style changed so there was no break between blows. I tried to keep up with the rush created in me, but that became impossible. Rather than moan, I was screaming. And with each bit of anguish, another tear dropped from my eyes and ran down to my chin. Those tears tickled my skin but there was no way to wipe them away. Every once and awhile, I’d look up to see the clock on the wall and another minute tick by, thinking all the while that the timepiece was moving in slow motion, or that real time had stopped, leaving me there forever in this suspended place of agony. When at last the man was finished, I hung for awhile limp, twitching for the air itself was stinging my raw skin.
“I think that’s all I need to make my report to Sergei,” he said watching my prayerful attitude as my eyes begged him to let me go. “I’m afraid it might be painful for you to work the rest of the day. But that is part of the life you want to live. You’d be wise to consider this carefully before you make a final decision.” Ezra lectured me a while longer as he paced about me, looking at the results of his work. I could see my breasts myself, looking as though they’d been clawed by a cat, little places where the skin was broken were smeared with blood, drying. I imagined that the rest of my body would bear the same marks, especially my ass where he’d spent the most energy.
Finally letting me down, my arms felt like dead weights. “I suppose you’ll be expected back at work in fifteen minutes,” he said, rhetorically. “You’d better dress quickly so you won’t be late. Clicking his heels again like the military man he was, he left me, my nakedness, and my marred body to decently restore myself.
One glance in a mirror on the far wall, I saw quickly that while the skin at nearly every part of my body was raw from the lashes, there were no other broken places, no blood to clean up. Dabbing a handkerchief in a glass of water, I washed away the smeared blood on my breasts. Seeing that these places would heal, I put on my bra and the remainder of my clothes quickly, wishing that I didn’t have the meeting with Max at one. I’d have never returned to the paper that afternoon, and there were lots of reasonable excuses I could give.
(c) Samarel, www.samarelart.com