The Choices of Evelyn Ch. 10-12

Evelyn stopped feeling stunned by the constant twists and turns of the blond woman. Zelda sold her to the bitch. She was supposed to be her... what... property? Slave? This couldn't be reality, could it? But the belt cut in her wrists, and piss trickled down her thighs.

The woman straightened her back, making her breasts strain at the tight jacket. Her face regained its stern mask, her eyes froze to an even colder blue.

"So, I return today and find you without the plug. And worse: with all your hair untouched. What made you disobey me so flagrantly, stupid little girl? What makes you so arrogant?" Evelyn knew what to say, that the woman had it all wrong, but her throat blocked the words. Then she croaked: "I... I... was going to put the plug back in after the ride. It was for the ride, honestly." The woman slapped her face again.

"Dammit, Evelyn, don't insult me. Who do you think I am, selling me lame excuses. The hair, cunt! The hair!" She pulled at the glorious, wind-blown halo of copper curls with ferocity. "Would you have shaved that later too?" she cried out. "My God, don't make this sorry happening even tawdrier by lying to me, stupid bitch! Don't add shame to the pain you've already caused." The woman angrily wiped her eyes. Black streaks gave her pale face a demonic touch. She turned back and showed the small object in the palm of her hand. It was the clipper. With a mighty swing she threw it down the mountain; a faraway rustle betrayed its landing. Then she turned toward Gustav.

"Untie her," she said. And after the belt had been loosened and Evelyn had sunk to her knees, exhausted, she said: "Take her upstairs and have her pack her things. Then bring her to the airport." She turned on her heels and walked away. Evelyn knelt in the mud, her head hanging. A curtain of hair cloaked her face. A horse snorted. A stone bit her knee.

***

Chapter Twelve– Katrine.

On her first night back home, Evelyn knew she'd blown it. Who was she kidding; she already knew it the minute the car left the hills to take her to the airport. She'd strained to catch a glimpse of the stables or maybe even sweet Votan. But trees and shrubbery covered everything. A well-known emptiness returned to the pit of her stomach, settling in its familiar niche to mock her.

The last glimpse of the house disappeared behind a steep knee of the mountain. Evelyn sank into the leather back seat of the speeding car, touching her precious hair. The word wasn't so much 'precious,' she mused, 'costly' was more like it.

Her apartment was still a shamble. She scrubbed and worked and washed until she could at least sit down and eat and sleep. Big men came to repair her doors and the toilet. She tried to keep away from them as far as she could.

Three days later the place was inhabitable, and her financial reserves wiped out. She'd also lost three of her last five clients. Lying on her lonely bed, a bitter smile crawled over her face. Ah, yes. She ought to be proud of herself. She had not budged, had she? She had not sold herself to this arrogant bitch who tried to humiliate her even while being absent. What did she think Evelyn was? A toy? A silly teenager so overwhelmed with awe that she would accept anything? No. She was a woman, she could choose. And she had chosen, hadn't she? She'd chosen the right thing.

One small detail didn't help Evelyn much, though. She was too honest to believe her lies. Instead of proud, she was sad, frustrated and alone. She'd imagined returning to her life, only to find out that all that was left of that life were ruins. And they were in such blatant contrast with how she'd felt opening the curtains on the majestic mountains, climbing down the mountain naked, a sweet breeze kissing her skin, riding the horse, tasting the fresh-baked bread... What she felt mostly, was the numb certainty that she'd cut her nose to spite her face.

She'd returned to her city, but was it still hers? She'd only lived there for a few years, after fleeing the choking small town of her youth. It was the town where she'd gone to be free, to live the life that had been denied her. In the end, it had become home. The difference was, she could smell it now – a dank mixture of traffic exhausts and the deep, oily undertone of the river that passed through it. Evelyn had never smelled her town, just like you never really smell the house you call home. But the city she came back to stank. It fell on her like an old moldy blanket, one without holes. She was a stranger at home.

Her apartment smelled stuffy, even after days of cleaning and painting. Evelyn opened all windows to let in the airless city-air. She sank down on her bed and stared. She did not move until much later.

***

Pressing your face into a soft, fat pillow is a wonderful way to avoid reality. Especially when the pillowcase has just been washed with lovely lavender soap. A warning is in order, though. Overdoing this treat may lead to addiction. It may contort the brain into believing it works.

Evelyn was close to this point. So close in fact, that failure smelled of lavender to her. If she would now take a flight to Provence and walk its endless fields of lavender, she might sink to her knees and cry her eyes out. Ah well. C'est la vie would be a proper answer, wouldn't it? It always is. Life is what you get. And if you hate it, tant pis, ma belle, a pity, sweetheart. Nous sommes désolés; we are so sorry.

She'd been back for a week now, doing practically nothing since the first frenzy days of cleaning and repairing. She lay in bed most of the time, smelling lavender. When evening fell, she got up. She ate a stale croissant and sipped tea. Why did she still feel so numb? Her jaws moved slowly around the tasteless crumbs. She took a big gulp of the lukewarm tea to get rid of them. Such a glorious life. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes. She wiped them away with an angry hand. Enough of this. So, she'd been used and shoved around, letting herself be lied to, betrayed and manipulated. But she wasn't to be blamed for that, was she? Zelda had hypnotized her. Given her to a crazy friend, who tied her up and injected her with whatever godawful drugs. From then on, Evelyn had been helpless, hadn't she? A victim of sick, mean people.

Okay, she hadn't been exactly strong. But that was the drug. And she had this thing about being easily intimidated; not able to say no – not to Olivia, not to Zelda or the blond woman, even if she wasn't there. So, she was vulnerable, pliable. Ah, well, who was she kidding? Being bullied gave her a soaked pussy. It gave her enough fantasies to keep her in a shower for hours.

So, what? That didn't give them an excuse to tie her up and beat her, did it? No reason to inject her with drugs and sell her to a crazy rich bitch who thought she would shave her head, only because she'd written it down on a piece of paper. Fuck her. Fierce white teeth tore at the innocent croissant. Evelyn made the crumbs fly. At that instant her phone rang. Four, five times it rang. Then she found it hiding in the pocket of her coat. It was where she'd left it on her bed last night – before she sank into her loyal pillow.

"Hello?" she said. Her voice croaked with lack of use. It was a woman. She said her name was Katrine. She pronounced it Ka-treen-e. In a German-traced voice she said Evelyn came highly recommended. Then she allowed a pause. Evelyn didn't say a word. Neither did she follow up on her first impulse, which was to throw the cell phone at the nearest wall. She just froze.

The woman ignored the awkward silence. No doubt she assumed, arrogantly but correctly, that the girl was still there. She said: "I must see you, Evelyn. I hear you need money; I'll pay well. Be at the Hilton in an hour. Forget your panties. My room is 1245. Take a cab." The click was followed by soft dotting beeps. Evelyn stared at the flat plastic instrument in her hand. Then she dropped it on the bed, sinking next to it. A long and desolate moan escaped her mouth. Recommended? Who recommended her? Who? Stop kidding yourself, Evelyn. It's Zelda. You're a whore in this town. Get used to it. News has spread around. She fell back on the mattress, her hand sliding between her thighs. It slowly started rubbing her clit.

***

Evelyn rode the elevator to the 12^th floor. There was muzak, of course. There also were co-passengers. One was an elderly lady with a poodle in the exact color of her hair – off orange. There also was a young couple of the backpacking persuasion. They kept kissing all the way up. The boy mauled the girl's lovely denim clad ass.

The room was halfway down a corridor. She didn't hesitate before knocking. There was no thought in her head. The door opened to reveal a woman in a black, formal suit. She was a bit plump in her white starched dress shirt, dark sheer nylon stockings under a knee-length skirt and patent leather pumps. Her hair was slicked back from her pale, doughy face, and she sported a man's tie of black shining silk.

"Ah, there you are," she said, her accent even thicker than on the phone. It made her over-articulate every word. "Welcome to this rather impersonal place, but well... it'll do." She smiled at Evelyn. Then she turned around to walk in, trusting the girl would follow. "Get naked, darling!" she cried over her shoulder. She went to the bar to pour herself a glass of well-iced whisky.

Evelyn walked in, one foot after the other, her unseeing eyes focusing on a distant place. She undid the buttons of her coat. Then she slid out of her blouse and skirt. She revealed the lack of panties, and her hairless baby-slit. Taking off her bra made her breasts jiggle. She stood naked and silent at the center of the room.

The woman's back was to Evelyn now as she was talking into her cell. It was a rather long-winded conversation in articulated German. It lasted minutes. All that time Evelyn stood there in silence. The conditioned air blew on her exposed skin. She shivered and stared out of the large windows over the rooftops of her city. Memories of Olivia returned. She'd often used this same hotel. More minutes passed. Evelyn wondered if there was someone at the other end of the phone. She shifted her weight, it made her right hip stick out. One hand rested on it, the other dangled at her side. A muted TV-set gave all kinds of information on the weather in far-away places like Shanghai and Bangkok. Still, the voice droned on. Its foreign rhythm almost hypnotized her into a state of emptiness.

Maybe that was the reason why she hadn't heard the command to kneel. When it came a second time, it was accompanied by a slap in her face with soft black leather gloves. She winced. Then she sank to her knees. She spread them slightly, opening her thighs, resting her hands on them – palms up, head down. She supposed it was the right routine.

She heard the woman walk around her, noticing the swishing sound of stockings rubbing together. And the tinkle of ice in a glass. Green banknotes snowed down on the rug, before her knees.

"You're an easy slut, aren't you, Evelyn?"

"If you say so, Madame," she answered, keeping her face down. Madame seemed the right word.

"I hear you love being told what to do. Do you?"

"Yes, I do, Madame," she agreed. "Please tell me what I should do." Remembering Lilith and her friends, the way her body had responded to their humiliation, and the moist way it had anticipated what might wait for her at this hotel, she wondered why she felt nothing, now. Or maybe there was something, deep down under a blanket of numbness: disappointment.

A black shining pump came into her narrow field of vision. The heel rested on the flesh of her thigh. She could almost see her face in the leather.

"It is rather dirty, liebchen. Don't you agree?" Evelyn kept silent. Then she sighed and took the foot with the shoe and brought her face to it. The leather tasted chemical; polish, maybe, leaving a bitter sensation on the tip of her tongue. But she went on. She licked the shoe with unhurried strokes. The woman was quiet; the only thing Evelyn heard was heavy breathing, getting faster. With each lap the speed increased. It became a shallow, high-pitched panting. Evelyn's disappointment grew, struggling to the surface of her numb mind.

The woman had no discipline. How could she begin to control a girl if she lost it herself in minutes, only by having her shoe licked? Evelyn continued her lapping. She arrived at the curve of the heel, lifting the foot higher to reach it. There were little flakes of dried dirt on the heel. She lapped them up – they ground between her molars. She continued, as she did not get other commands. Finally, a prolonged moan and a stiffening of the leg told her the woman had a mild orgasm. She did not know if she should stop or go on. But she stopped. She looked up past the shirked-up skirt and the wide-open shirt into a hot, red face.

Katrine took her foot back. She straightened her clothes. Then she told Evelyn to crawl to the bathroom and draw her a bath. Evelyn's knees sank into the rug. She crawled until they slid over cool, white tiles. The loud hissing of the water in the echoing room drowned out all sounds. It seemed to give her a sense of privacy. She sank down on her heels, pouring fragrant bath pearls into the swirling water. Then, suddenly, feelings rushed back in. They took command over the wordless chaos that had reigned her mind ever since the phone call.

You undressed, she thought. You licked her shoes and soon you'll eat her cunt. Why? There is the money, but you don't need to be here and do this. You defied the blond woman, remember, even though life there was – amazing. You were strong then, so why end up like this? Get up and leave.

Evelyn didn't get up. She reached out and felt the water with her fingers. She dipped them into white towers of glittering foam. Then she closed the faucet and sat back on her heels again, waiting for the woman to arrive.

She knew why she was here. The woman was her external backbone. And tomorrow she'd need another backbone, and another. Being without someone to control her made her lose structure. She'd collapse into a wailing puddle of soft pink goo. On her own she was a machine lacking batteries; she was a puppet without strings to make her move. On her own she was no one. God, she hated herself for thinking that. But how can one hate oneself? There is no escape of oneself, is there, short of stopping to be oneself and become nobody?

Or even take the ultimate step and... She pushed her face forward between her knees. Her hot brow kissed the cool floor. Her frame shook. At that moment Katrine entered. She'd wrapped her pudgy body in a robe. Her bare feet were in slippers, her hair was done up in a towel. She stopped and stared at the sobbing woman at her feet.

"What is the matter, kleines?" she asked. Her voice was a half whisper. Evelyn stopped crying. She rose to her knees, then to her feet. She took the woman's face between her hands and kissed her mouth. Then she left the bathroom, gathered her clothes and half of the money. She got into her coat and shoes and left the hotel room.

***

Sitting across from the man, Evelyn tried to concentrate. The conference room was huge and empty, except for the two of them, a long table and a lot of designer chairs. Beams of sunlight reflected off the table top and the elegant objects on it, like stainless steel cans and crystal carafes. Outside, spring was a riot of greens and whites and yellows. Inside, everything radiated the efficiency of humming office reality in grays and blacks and whites. Evelyn tried to focus on the man. He'd been her client for years now, owner of a medium-sized business importing and selling flowers, plants, bulbs and seeds. It always struck her as ironic that his offices were absolutely void of any sign of his trade.

"What is wrong, Evelyn?" the man asked. It took her a moment to realize he'd spoken, and another to understand his question.

"Ehm," she said, clearing her throat. "I'm fine, Paul, why ask?" He raised the report they'd been going through – her proposals for Johansson's Plants & Flowers' website and P.R. activities for the coming year.

"This is rubbish, girl, and you know it," he said, dropping it on the table. "Rehashed, uninspired rubbish." She protested weakly, but the man shook his pepper-and-salt head. For his late forties, he still looked good – tanned and trim, using his boyish, white smile to project a young and dynamic persona, the perfect image for his business.

"Of late, Evelyn," he went on, rising from his chair, "you seem not to be really interested anymore – distracted. And it can't be other clients, as I happen to know you don't have many, anymore. So, what is it?" He had walked around the table, now standing close, forcing her to look up.

"Nothing," she mumbled. "It's nothing. Just a lapse... the economics, you know..." Her voice trailed off.

"Bullshit," the man said, sinking to his haunches, so his face was at her level. It created an awkward intimacy. Especially when his hand touched hers. "You know, honey," he went on, making the hair in her neck rise with the endearment. "I hear stories about your, well, other activities."

Evelyn pulled her hand away. She wanted to say that her private life wasn't his business, but the wave of hot embarrassment seemed to close her throat. His hand now rested on her knee, right where the hem of her skirt was. She pushed back her chair and rose, trying to evade him. But he just followed her. Evelyn grabbed her briefcase and turned away, but his strong hand checked her, grabbing her wrist.

"To be honest," he said, his face close, "you were never very good at your business, you know? Not really." Putting his other hand behind her back, he pulled her even closer. Blind panic froze her as his after shave overwhelmed her senses. "I always thought, though," he almost whispered, "that you were great ass, a hot redhead bombshell; just the way I like them."

"I'll scream," Evelyn panted. "Let me go, or I'll scream." He chuckled.

"More bullshit," he stated. "A day of bullshit." Evelyn felt his hand grab her ass cheek through her thin skirt. She squirmed, trying to free herself from his grip. "This is not a small town," he went on as his hand felt her up, now sliding under her skirt, mauling her soft inner thigh. "But it is small enough for people to be seen and remembered, you know. I don't visit lesbian jazz clubs very often, and God forbid, I don't frequent street corners, but in this town, it is hard not to hear things, meet people, share gossip..."

Captured in his embrace, Evelyn felt the floor sink from under her. How could she have ever thought people wouldn't notice and talk? She still squirmed and moved, but she knew it was in vain. And it wasn't just because of his physical force, it were his words that made her resistance evaporate like the air from a ruptured balloon.

"No," she said. "No, no, no..." But even she herself had no idea what exactly she said no to.

"Oh, yes," he breathed. "Who would have known Evelyn Connors was a whore? So, now there's a proposition that isn't dull or rehashed. I like your thinking, honey. Wow, let's do it!" His hand left her wrist and tore at her blouse. Its flimsy cotton was no match for his strength. She felt the cool breath of conditioned air lick her chest, making her nipples tighten inside the cups of her bra.

He pushed her on the table, making a glass tumble. His fingers tore at her panties, as he pushed her thighs apart with his knee. Evelyn started to scream, but her hoarse voice was blocked by his hand. The panties ripped; stubby fingers pushed against her bare pussy.

"Ah," he exclaimed, his mouth almost on hers, "a bares, shaven cunt... wow, wow, wow... Christmas so early!" Gagged and grabbed and forced down on the shining table top, Evelyn felt her resistance dwindle – and her mind flee. As the strong hands ravaged her clothes and body, her eyes stared out of the large windows and into the fresh, green spring world outside.