He has hired my tutors from the best institutions of learning in all Europe and I may, at a whim, travel anywhere in the world and enjoy any luxury. A man has been hired for my protection, and in his hands I am quite confident I am as safe as any president or king. Make no mistake, though, I am Gustav’s property, as surely as my mother or any of the others who labor for him in brothels, hotels, saloons and bars from Bangkok to Boulder.
To remind me of this, he will send men to me upon occasion. I need not ask who they are or why they have come. It is obvious the way they look at me when I open the door. It is a turn on for some, apparently, to be able to use a lovely, genteel, perfumed young lady as though she were a common whore.
Actually, I would prefer to serve in one of Rainier’s chattel houses, parading day and night in my underwear before an endless stream of potential customers or even chained to a stinking cot in a rundown ghetto, rather than live the kind of lie I must now endure. I cannot convey the swirl of emotions, the overwhelming feelings that come upon me whenever I must rise from my reading of Descartes or Rousseau, abandoning my recordings of Mozart or Beethoven, and walk barefoot to the polished wooden door, light silk clinging to my lean body which evokes leering from a drunken face, some thick-fisted man or men beholding me as prey, an aperitif. Day and night, their voices, the obscene commands ring in my ears. More often than not, these are the only greetings I receive.
“Get on the bed, bitch and strip.”
“On your knees, slut, take me deep.”
“You’re the one I’ve paid for? A skinny cunt like you? Better work double hard then, eh?”
French, German, Italian, even Japanese—I hear it all.
Worse still is when they say nothing at all, for then I must anticipate their wants, prostituting myself before them. Words or no words, I know just the same that I am only a piece of arse, expensive and rare for which they have paid a pretty penny. Too fucking much, if you ask them, given the market for tail these days.
Quinn, my guard and protector hears everything though he would never interfere. It is an unspoken thing, a pachyderm in the two-story townhouse, around which we walk, he and I, stumbling, awkwardly covering over. It’s absurd, of course, this pretending between us that I am a young lady. Isn’t it obvious what I really am; obvious each time one of us opens the closet to find the row of whips, the devices hanging there for the men’s usage? Could there be any other point to the discrete but unmistakable eyebolts at the four corners of my bed, or the one from the ceiling which I see each night, the last thing I behold before I go to sleep?
And what about the pile of chains kept secreted away beneath my bed, just under the dust ruffle—chains made precisely to fit the bolts? And what of the marks upon my skin? Sometimes the men leave me in disgrace and Quinn must come and unchain me. He has never touched me, though, not once. I do not think he is gay and so I must assume there is some spark of decency in him—the way he turns his head, averts his eyes as he unlocks my spread eagled body, handing me towels, ointment and bandages.
Why does my master sentence me to this life? He hardly needs the money, so it must be the principle of the thing. A little joke to himself, or maybe a point he’s proving. Nothing for free; everything has its price. No one questions what he does with me in comparison to the others. Why he educates one particular slave, why he pampers one slut over another. He’s a billionaire. An eccentric. When all is said and done, he may sell me for a handful of coins or, if he wishes, or to insure my silence, cut out my very tongue, the tongue so carefully trained to recite the intellectual riches of western civilization.
Then again, he might marry me. I’m told all his females have that fantasy—from the sluts who wait tables and strip for customers in his seedy Girly Girl clubs all the way up to his secret million dollar a night call girls among whose ranks are reported to be some of the top actresses and entertainers in Hollywood.
Speculation is rampant on the secret of the man’s powers. Some say black magic, others that it is some eastern occult power. It is said he can enslave a woman with a single glance. It was certainly true in my case. I’ve been had by him myself and I assure you, his charms and powers are not exaggerated. The man owns me, as surely as he owns the Louis the Fourteenth desk I write at or the Picasso on my bedroom wall.
Do not ask me how I have come to this; only know that I am a prisoner and that I require neither bars nor chains for my keeping. Quinn is here, but he knows I will never try to escape. My own heart accomplishes this task quite nicely. Not a day, not an hour goes by that I do not think of Gustav, both hoping and fearing, my emotions sent into crushing agony each time I hear a knock on the door, each time I see a black car in the street, following me slowly over the winding, ancient cobblestone. Will it be him, this time? Will he come for me again to seal upon me the mark of his ownership? At a word from him, at a mere look I would strip for him on the street. I would kneel naked; I would lie, submitting for him in a hundred ways and shapes. My dreams, my thoughts are consumed with this submission, made all the sweeter, all the more seductively forbidden by the knowledge that his interest in me is only because of her. My mother is whom he loves, whom he has loved these past twenty years and who he will go on loving till the day he dies. I know this now—I am sure of it beyond doubt and were he to come to me again I would say so to his face, risking any punishment to do so.