Between The Trees

Then her pain threshold had been tested by having her grasp a ladder rung with two electrical contacts on it, wired to a circuit box that was in turn wired to a laptop. A computer cable ran from the laptop to a motor mounted on a small cart, and attached to that motor was a thin piece of rubber hose. She was told that as long as she held onto the two contacts on the rung, the machine would continue to whip her with the hose, once every three seconds. The longer she held on, the more money she would make on her assignments. The computer was there to make sure that the whip struck her at the exact same velocity every time, and at a regular interval.

She had nodded her understanding and had stripped off the last of her clothing, leaving her naked for the examination of the men in the room as she grasped the rung, bracing herself against the ladder. To make sure the whip was able to find its mark as the session continued, her legs, hips, and shoulders had been tied to the ladder's frame. Then the camera had been turned on and the whipping program initiated.

The first bite of the whip stung the worst. The anticipation, laying there tied to the wood frame, waiting to be struck, was what had made it so bad. Once she had gotten past the first handful of blows, the endorphins had kicked in and it hadn't been so bad. At least not until the thirty-seventh shot.

She'd let go, and then immediately regretted it.

Sergei had called out her wage. Far too low. She could go further. Start the program again.

Sergei conferred with a nurse who was there to monitor Alina's health. A quick check and she was cleared. No problems.

The machine had whipped her again.

The second round she had nearly doubled the count, and her wage. As they had cleaned her marks with astringent to prevent infection, he had playfully asked if she wanted to try again a third time, and she had said, "Nein."

Sergei had explained that it was a long-term assignment requiring physical training and preparation, that she would only be called if a client matched her criteria, and that she could always decline the offer, but once she accepted and the client had confirmed, she was committed. If she tried to back out at the last minute, they would find her, kidnap her, and deliver her to the client as promised. Some clients preferred an unwilling girl.

That had set off some alarms. What had she gotten herself into? But she needed the money and wanted the experience, and they assured her she would be safe if she obeyed the rules, so she had signed the contract.

There was a three-month training program, very strict. Cardio and weights, a diet plan, and random check-ups. No tobacco, no alcohol, no drugs. They'd cleared all the bad food out of her kitchen. A nurse had come by once a week for blood tests and to check her heart, lungs, and vitals. Sergei conferred with her exercise trainer to make sure she was progressing in her work-outs, explaining that the work she would be doing was extremely physical and she needed to be in top shape.

And there were benefits. She noticed that the "lazy" weight was coming off. Her body was slimming down and firming up. She looked good and felt great. She even noticed she had a better attitude at her day job. A lot of people pay a lot of money for such a regimen, but for her, the training was free. Or so she thought.

Sergei was keeping a tab that would have to be repaid.

Then had come the first call. She had an assignment. Please respond if interested.

She'd thought about it overnight. Could she do it? Could she prostitute herself? And what would happen to her? It would be dangerous. But, that was what had attracted her to it. Plus, she owed money to Sergei and her "real" creditors. She had called Sergei and accepted.

As the woman described her adventure the man found himself beginning to drift.

Her eyes. She had what some described as "romantic eyes", dark and clear, with just a bit of eyeliner and mascara to bring them out. He hadn't noticed them before because they had been covered by the blindfold, but now, as she began to open up emotionally in her story, he could see the adventurous soul that lay behind those eyes. What he could do with a woman like her...

He imagined what it must have been like for her, to be stretched out naked while some stranger acted out his darkest desires. What had she felt? Fear? Excitement? A mix of both perhaps? And how many men had taken her that way?

The first man had been very quick, she explained, whipping her only a handful of times, then fucking her, then whipping her again. He had tried to fuck her a second time but his tool just wasn't up to the task. She'd gotten home in time to catch up on laundry and watch a little television.

The second man was better, showing more patience and experimenting with most of the things in the bag. Surprisingly, he hadn't tried to fuck her. He just wanted to play with the toys. She'd gotten plenty of experience at the end of a whip in that session.

Two men, two sessions, and she'd only been fucked once. She began to wonder if something was wrong with her. Sergei began to wonder, too. Was she screaming? Yes. Was she crying? Yes. What about acting terrified? No, she hadn't done that. Ok, do it next time and see what happens.

She had. And she hadn't even had to fake it.

The third man had snuck a small butane torch in his coat pocket and had used it to burn her. Of all the things that had been done to her up to that point, that was the worst. She felt the tremendous heat as she was cooked alive, and she could smell her skin burning. It was terrible and she had screamed horribly. She'd surrendered almost immediately, but the man had continued to torture her, holding the blowtorch against her body as her skin bubbled. For the first time, she knew true terror.

Her screaming was excessive, even for a woman being whipped, and Sergei had come. She heard yelling, then punching and grunting, and when she was released she could see where the grass had been chewed up. The torch lay abandoned on the ground but the man was nowhere to be seen.

After that, she'd been given a room at the Vinoy, with a nurse to tend to her wounds until the scabs had dropped and bandages were no longer necessary. She had asked about the contract, about how much longer she had to do the assignments. Sergei had said, "Just one more."

The first man, who had been so quick, wanted her again. Dr. Alina von Wolfsburg, remembering how quickly he had finished, figured it was an easy assignment and had agreed to do it one more time.

Cosmetics had been applied over the pink skin where the burns had cooked away her flesh, and then she had once more been blindfolded and stretched out between the trees.

"That time, you were better," she said.

"Hmm?" the man replied, snapping out of his daydream.

She smiled. "That time, you were not in such a rush. Yes, I know it was you. You were special to me. After the first time, you ask Sergei to take pictures, to make sure I was ok. You were concerned about me, yes? And that second time, you took your time and went slow, and that was the speed I wanted. You pushed me, but not too fast. It was good for me, too."

The man sat there, stunned.

"I could have quit after that, and for a while I did," she continued. "I had my degree and this job then, and did not need the money so bad. There were other calls for assignments but each time I said, 'Nein' because I did not want to do it anymore. Four times was enough. But then Sergei called me and said my special friend wanted to hire me again, so I came back, just for you."

"For me?"

She nodded.

"And the third time?" he asked.

"I come back each time only for you. The money was nothing. You were special, not like the others. I feel that you know me, not my identity of course, but what I like. What I want. You come back, so I think maybe you like to try something new, so I add a toy to the bag. Each time. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth. Each time something different to use. And you did."

A dawning realization crept over the man. He hadn't played her. She had played him. It was no coincidence that he had drawn Number Twenty-nine every time. She had selected him, and had been using him to act on her fantasies. And he had paid for the privilege! He shook his head in disbelief at his foolishness. All this time...

Clever girl.

He returned her smile. "So tell me, where did you find that pear?"

"A friend builds for the Renaissance Fair, the custom armor and metal bits for the actors. I ask him to make something for me, something secret. He says ok, but I must do something for him, too." She laughed. "I spent a lot of holidays wearing only a burlap sack with my hands and feet in the stocks, snarling at people like a witch." She made a face and giggled. "It was funny. All the men try to look at the sides, to sneak a peek at my boobs. But, of course I had done public nudity already, and worse things, too, so to me it was just a joke. And, it helped me to understand what it was like to spend all day in the stocks while people watched. My friend say I only need to do it for a few hours, but I stay all day and the next, to get the experience. Burlap is very uncomfortable, very itchy, but I wear it because the witches did. I even pee myself. Right there. Like they did." She frowned. "Not pleasant, but not as bad as being burned."

He imagined her there, clad in a simple burlap tunic, a rope tied around her waist, the sides open to curious eyes wondering if she really was naked underneath. All day like that, helpless to cover herself, just so she could be subjected to the pear by a stranger. The strength she must have to do that, to endure something like that.

And those eyes.

She smiled at him. "You are thinking of me in the stocks, yes?"

The man laughed and began to relax, studying the way the woman was completely at ease about the whole thing. That had been one of his concerns, that she would hate him for what he had done to her. That had bothered him.

Why?

He began to think. Why did he care about her?

She had just been a random girl, something to be used and discarded. Sure, he had paid good money, but did that really mean anything to him? She was a prostitute. Nothing more.

No, something more. He knew it. She was special. And he cared about her. Was he falling in love? No, check that. He was already in love. With her.

"Have dinner with me," he blurted out.

She shook her head. "No, I do not date my customers."

"Then I won't be a customer. Have dinner with me."

She laughed. He was impossible. She smiled tenderly. "You can get another girl."

"I don't want another girl. I want you. And I want you to have dinner with me."

"No. Call Sergei. He will get you another girl." Alina's eyes narrowed with thought. "Ask for Number Twelve. She is pretty. And she is younger than me. You will enjoy her."

The man leaned forward. "I don't want Twelve, or any of the other girls. I don't want Number Twenty-nine, either. I've had her seven times already," he said with a smile. "I want you. I want to know you. The courage you must have to do what you did. And the strength! My god! You're an amazing woman." The man shook his head slowly. "No, I don't want another girl. I want you. And I very much want you to have dinner with me."

Alina started to say something, then changed her mind, tapping at the desk in contemplation.

"Please," the man said.

She glanced at him, then at the clock, then back at him. "It is a long time until dinner," she said.

The man opened his mouth, trying to think of something witty to say. He was coming up deuces.

Alina saw his uncertainty and opened her desk drawer, then pulled out an old-fashioned ring of keys, some modern, some weathered.

"What's that?" the man asked.

"It is to the university's Inquisition exhibit. It is a long time until dinner, and the museum is closed."

"And you have a key," the man said.

"I am the curator," she answered, tilting her head devilishly. "I have responsibilities. I test the artifacts sometimes, to make sure that everything is in good working order." She pushed herself away from the desk, stood up, and dropped the ring of odd-shaped metal bits on the tabletop. "If you want me, forever, pick them up. Or go. And do not come back."

She had given him an ultimatum. No more teasing. No more anonymity. The man looked at the keys, then at her, then back to the keys. She was daring him to do it, to explore their sexuality together. It was one thing to torture someone you didn't know. It was quite another to do it to someone you did. And loved.

She had come back. Five times. Just for him.

All he had to do was come back once. Right now. And he would have her. Forever.

He picked up the keys.

She smiled and reached for his hand. "Come," she said seductively, "I will show you some things."

The man chuckled. God, what he was going do with such a woman...