The Confession of Alexa Connor

"It's a masterpiece!"

They were standing in the Countess' expansive drawing room. The light was dim, as if to emphasize the secrecy of their meeting. Heavy curtains were drawn against the darkness outside. A log fire was crackling in an imposing fireplace at the opposite end of the room.

"A true masterpiece," the Countess repeated. She was pacing slowly, her attention directed towards a tall circular table standing in the middle of the room on thin, elaborately decorated wooden legs. Poised obscenely on top of it was the sculpture of an oversize, erect phallus. It was carved in exquisite detail from a single piece of wood: a smooth glans proudly crowning a sinewy shaft of impressive girth. Its entire length was crisscrossed by a network of thin veins, accentuated sharply by the soft light of a table lamp caressing it from one side. It was carved with such skill that it positively appeared to be pulsating, as if caught in the throes of a violent orgasm.

Alexa was standing silently a few paces in retreat, her gaze following the countess as she attentively studied her new acquisition from all sides. The hardwood floor was creaking softly under her steps. For a moment she seemed oblivious to the presence of somebody else in the room. Then she looked up suddenly, as if some tangent thought had broken her concentration.

"Oh, of course. Your fee. But please, take a seat while I do the necessary," she said cordially.

Alexa followed her accross the room where an L-shaped leather couch and matching armchair were facing each other in front of the fireplace. She remained standing while the countess accessed a safe hidden behind a painting.

"In cash as promised," she said as she handed Alexa a stack of notes inside an envelope. "Can I offer you a drink? To celebrate our success?"

Without waiting for an answer she walked to the small bar where a lonely bottle of scotch was standing next to an acrylic ice cube bucket and three tumblers neatly arranged on a tray. She fixed two whiskey on the rocks, using tongs to drop a large ice cube into each glass. "Shall we sit down for a minute? There is something I would like to discuss with you," she said as she handed Alexa her drink.

They sat facing each other silently over an antique coffee table, the countess in her armchair, legs crossed, and Alexa on the couch, leaning forward with elbows on her knees, holding her glass with both hands. The stiff drink and the cosy warmth of the log fire were making her sleepy. She watched the shadows dancing on the countess' face, studying her not for the first time. She was attractive, in her mid thirties perhaps. Rather young to be a called a countess, Alexa thought. Her husband had disappeared in a light aircraft some years earlier, leaving her fortune and a title. After his death she had lived like a recluse for some time, mourning his loss as was assumed, until she emerged one day, transformed from dutiful wife into a strong-willed and independent woman, ready to enjoy the freedom that great wealth can buy. And this was how, one day, her path had crossed Alexa's.

"I just learned of another piece in Evelyn Vaughn's collection," the countess suddenly said, interrupting Alexa's thoughts. "It's an oil painting of an orgy between clergy and nuns in a catholic church. All under the watchful eye of the holy son." She paused for effect, looking straight into Alexa's eyes. "It caused quite a scandal, as you can imagine." She smiled mischievously, took a sip from her drink and leaned back into her armchair. "I would like you to get it for me."

"With all due respect," Alexa replied carefully, "but I thought we had discussed this as part of our agreement. I never visit the same place twice."

"I appreciate that yours is a dangerous profession, Ms Connor. Rest assured that I am willing to compensate you appropriately for your troubles."

"Why don't you simply buy it from her?" Alexa retorted. "It might even come cheaper than obtaining it by illegal means."

"I cannot have my name, and my late husband's for that matter, associated with this sort of..." - she waved her hand, searching for the appropriate word - "this sort of pastime. And I can't imagine Evelyn would want to sell. Not to me nor to anyone else." She took another sip from her drink and gave Alexa a complicit look. "So you see, we have no choice but to resort to more unconventional ways."

Alexa slowly swirled her glass, thinking it over. It seemed risky, breaking into that house twice in such a short time. Evelyn might be expecting her. And if she got caught, who could know what this eccentric might do with her. But then again, everything has a price, and the Countess was a wealthy woman.

"I want double my usual fee," Alexa said without blinking. "Half payable before the work and the other when I deliver the painting."

"So be it, Ms Connor. I will have the money ready for you by tomorrow. And now if you would excuse me." She rose, indicating the meeting was coming to a close. They shook hands and the countess retreated to the other side of the room where the sculpted phallus was still waiting for her on its pedestal. Alexa let herself out silently, without taking another look back.

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Something rustled in the foliage high above Alexa's head. A short, high-pitched wail rang through the night. Then silence again. For a few endless seconds she remained frozen, listening anxiously, but all she could hear was the sound of leaves stirring softly in the wind. Just a nocturnal bird, she thought as she tried to calm herself. Her torch light was turned off and the forest, filled with unfamiliar sounds, felt oppressive on this moonless night. She shifted a little and raised her binoculars.

She was crouching at the edge of a copse, half hidden inside a bush. Facing her across a shallow valley was a round, perfectly shaped hill, stripped of vegetation and covered in closely cropped grass. A small road was snaking up its flank to a gate in a tall wrought iron fence that completely enclosed the upper slopes. Behind the gate, near the apex of the hill, loomed the mansion of Evelyn Vaughn. The heavy stone facade was lit by floodlights shining up from the landscaped garden. From a distance, the building appeared as if surrounded by a diffuse halo, signalling its presence like a beacon in the middle of an ocean of darkness.

As Alexa swept the compound she could see a limousine parked on the gravel road near the entrance. Behind it, a series of wide steps led up to an arched doorway where a dark figure - probably the driver - was leaning against a pillar smoking a cigarette. Above him and to the left, a light was shining in a second floor window, flickering from time to time as a shadow crossed and recrossed its path. The rest of the house appeared deserted.

Alexa lowered her binoculars and checked her watch: the phosphorescent dial was showing 8:23 pm. She crept deeper into the cover of her bush and sat back with her head leaning against a branch, waiting. A feeling of restless anticipation was settling over her. Squatting in her hiding place with the house in view, barely a few hundred yards away, she could appreciate, for the first time perhaps, the reckless audacity of her plan. And there was something else: an uneasiness, like a bad premonition warning her from some deep recess of her consciousness. Why had she decided to come back, she wondered? Was there something more than the lure of easy money? An unsatisfied curiosity? An irresistible fascination with that mysterious fortress perched on the hilltop and its enigmatic occupant?

Most of what Alexa knew about Evelyn Vaughn was based on rumours and dubious tabloid speculations. She was the daughter of the real estate magnate Edward Vaughn. Smart and educated, she held a seat on the board of her father's company and was one of its largest shareholders, but was otherwise little involved in its day to day operations. She was already very wealthy and had little need nor incentive to work. Instead she chose to lead the life of a hedonist, dedicating herself to the pursuit of pleasures, both of the mind and of the flesh. Her interests were unconventional, which invariably attracted scandal and controversy. It was known that over many years she had assembled a vast collection of erotic art, which she prominently displayed in her house for the benefit of her guests. Her library was stocked with works of libertine and pornographic literature. Rumours began spreading, uttered in whispered tones at dinner soirées and exclusive cocktail receptions, soon amplified by endless repetitions and fertile imaginations. Evelyn was said to have an almost insatiable sexual appetite. People claimed that she hosted orgies in her hilltop mansion, attended by powerful people in business and politics; that her house was fitted with secret sound proofed rooms where she could act out her most depraved phantasies; that she had people in her employ, trained in the arts of pleasuring, and that she used to satisfy her every needs.

In spite of her prudishness, or maybe because of it, Alexa found such debauchery strangely titillating. It offered such a stark contrast to her own sex life which tended to be fairly conventional: single partner, male, standard positions, occasional orgasms. She tried to picture herself at one of Evelyn's gatherings, wondering what it would feel like to be touched by complete strangers; to feel their hands on her naked body, caressing her, invading her most intimate parts. She imagined the sweet sensation of their tongues, warm and moist, tracing her every curve, exploring her mounds and crevices, teasing her until she writhed in ecstasy.

Alexa was becoming uncomfortably aroused. Almost unwittingly, she grabbed her backpack and positioned it between her folded legs, pressing it against her crotch with her heels. Then she leaned back on her hands and started moving her hips up and down in a slow grinding motion. She was wearing tight leggings, and through the thin fabric she could feel the coarse material of the pack rubbing her in all the right places. Her imagination was fired up now. A constant stream of images raced through her mind, a confused mosaic of delicious vulgarity. She heard moans echoing around her, smelled the scent of sex and sweat. She kept grinding for several minutes, with increasing urgency, until she could hold off no longer. She spun around, settling on all fours, her legs parted wide, and began riding her pack in long, languorous strokes. She sighed and moaned as she felt herself inching closer to her peak, adjusting her pace as she neared the edge, not wanting to come too quickly.

As she was about to orgasm, she raised her head and found herself looking again through the foliage at Evelyn's house, that forbidden fortress, beckoning seductively from the other side of the valley. Something had changed she thought, suddenly distracted. The light in the upper floor window had been switched off. She cursed in frustration, grabbed her binoculars and crawled out of the bush. She scanned the grounds for a few minutes and before long she saw the front door open and a tall, elegantly dressed woman emerge. She stood briefly under the arch by the entrance while the liveried driver hurried to the car and opened the rear door for her. Then she briskly floated down the steps and disappeared into the back of the limousine.

Alexa watched as car made its way down the short gravel road, slowing down a little as the heavy gate swung open ominously, and engaged on the access road that led into the valley. She followed the glow of the headlights zigzagging down the hill, heard the distant roar of the engine carried over to her by the light breeze, until the car reached the main road and its red tail lights faded into the night.

Alexa quickly stowed away her binoculars and grabbed her flashlight, slipped on her backpack and started making her way down the hill. Her long brown hair, tied casually in a pony tail, bobbed on her shoulders as she jogged behind the trembling cone of her flashlight. She was wearing a dark runner's outfit: leggings, a tight long sleeved top, jacket and sneakers. She stumbled over rocks and tree roots until she found herself by the edge of a shallow river. She followed its bank, looking for a way across, until she saw a makeshift stone path cutting through the water. It was made of large, evenly spaced rocks lying sufficiently close together so that she could jump from one rock to the next until she reached the opposite bank. Once she was back on firm ground she switched off her flashlight. The ground rose again, steeply at first but then flattening out. She followed the curve of the hill, staying low, away from road, until she stood at the foot of the perimeter fence. There, she squatted down to catch her breath.

The air was cooler now. Above her head, stars were twinkling in the black dome of sky. She looked up and studied the fence. It consisted of closely spaced wrought-iron pickets, about three meters high, sunk into a low stone wall, each topped by a kind of gilded spire. She opened her backpack and withdrew a thick foam camping mattress. She unrolled it and flattened it out on the grass. Then she held on to one end and tossed the other over the fence. She needed several attempts until it was positioned properly, hanging securely like a protective cover over the pointed tips of the fence pickets. When she was satisfied she stepped back a few steps and hurled her backpack in a steep arc over the fence. She heard it land on the other side with a dull thud. Then she removed her shoes and socks, and climbed up, using only her hands and feet. She had a slight frame, almost petite, and her body was lithe and athletic. She reached the top without breaking a sweat and sat straddling the foam mattress. She took one final look around to check the coast was clear, then jumped and landed on the soft grass. She was now inside the property.

A tremor of apprehension rippled through her body. She could feel her pulse quicken, all her senses were on high alert. She retrieved her backpack and dashed across the lawn to the back of the house. Adjacent to the rear wall was a shed used as a garage for Evelyn's luxury cars. Its roof sloped up to the wall, meeting it just below an unlit window on the first floor. A rain gutter ran along the eaves to a pipe that descended straight into the ground. It was almost too easy. Alexa climbed up the pipe until she could grab the gutter with both hands. She pulled on it a few times to make sure it would carry her weight. Then, in a single fluid motion, she heaved herself onto the roof. She clambered up the steep incline to the wall, tiptoeing over wobbling shingles. There she squatted down and pressed her head against the window, hands cupped around her face.

She could see a large bed set against a wall to one side. It was covered with a thick bed spread, crisp and immaculate, and strewn with pillows, arranged more for lounging than for sleeping. On the opposite wall was a small fireplace with two armchairs, both oddly turned towards the bed, silent witnesses to the lewd acts that she knew must routinely play out on its sheets. Alexa realised she was looking at Evelyn's bedroom, and she smiled at the happy coincidence, for she knew this was the very room where the Countess' painting was to be found.

Feeling calmer now, she fished out her tool set. Using a glass cutter, she carved a twenty centimetre hole into one of the window panes, carefully reached through it with her forearm and unlocked the window from inside. It swung open noiselessly. She slipped into the room, felt her feet sink into soft carpet. She drew the curtains and began sweeping the room with her flashlight. As the beam wandered over Evelyn's bed, she noticed the leather shackles bolted into the sturdy bedposts. She pulled on the chains a few times, playfully. Her curiosity piqued, she pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. To her amazement, it revealed a range of dildos of varying shapes and sizes. She picked one up and touched its cold metal surface. It was smaller than the others, barely the size of a finger, and Alexa briefly wondered if it had a some special use. Then she returned it carefully and closed the drawer. She let the beam wander further, searchingly, over the far wall, and suddenly she saw it, hanging over a small wooden cabinet. It was smaller than she had expected, about sixty centimetres wide and forty centimetres tall.

She moved closer to examine the painting in more detail. Monks in cassocks with oversize, swollen penises; nuns that looked more like eighteenth century noble ladies, pale and plump, with legs eagerly spread; curled flames in the shape of the devil rising through the church windows. It looked farcical somehow, she thought, but at the same time strangely unsettling.

Suddenly a strange uneasiness crept over her, a chill, the indistinct sense that there was somebody else in the room, watching her. The floor boards creaked, close behind her, and she felt a warm breath on her neck. It happened quickly. Before she could turn around, a strong arm locked around her waist. A towel was pushed against her mouth and nose. The sharp, acrid smell cut her breath away and almost at once she began to feel dizzy. Alexa struggled, but she felt weak, so weak. Stars were dancing in front of her eyes. Then everything went black.

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When Alexa opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was candle light. Long shadows were dancing eerily on the wall. She smelled the scent of burned wax, heard the soft hissing and crackling of tiny flames. She turned her head. More candles, held in brass chandeliers and standing on shelves amid pools of molten wax. "Where the hell am I?" she thought.

The room looked like a cellar. She could see exposed brick walls, a low ceiling traversed by wooden beams and a heavy door. There was no furniture except for the table she was lying on and a stool in a corner. She tried to sit up and look around, but something was pinning her down. She looked up along her arms, and saw that her wrists were held in thick leather shackles. She pulled on them reflexively, and heard the dry rattle of chains binding them to the table. She tried to push herself up with her feet, but found that her legs would not move.

She was becoming agitated now. She raised her head and looked down at herself. To her horror she discovered that she was stark naked. Candlelight was shimmering on her bare skin. She instinctively tried to close her legs but found that her ankles, like her wrists, were shackled to the table with her legs spread wide open. "This can't be real," she thought in disbelief, "I must be trapped in some horrible dream." With all her strength she pulled on the restraints. She twisted and turned her body, her small, perky breasts bobbing in futile attempts to pull herself free. She screamed for help, but her cries were met only with silence. Before long she let herself sink back resignedly, panting from her exertions.

Suddenly she glimpsed movement from the corner of her eyes. She looked up and saw somebody floating upside down, directly above her. For a few seconds her mind reeled in confusion, until she realised that she was looking at her own reflection in a life size mirror mounted on the ceiling. She gasped in shock as she caught a full frontal view of herself, lying spread-eagle on the table, legs splayed obscenely with her sex in full view. She noticed that her pubic hair had been shaven clean off. Her knees were bent outward slightly, causing her labia to part invitingly. In her entire life she had never felt so humiliated. She could feel tears of shame welling up.

Suddenly she heard footsteps coming closer. The door opened and two women entered the room. Alexa recognised the tall woman she had seen earlier leaving the property in her limousine. The other was shorter, wearing glasses and dressed in a kind of nurse's uniform.