Other Colors Ch. 19-20

None of that mattered to me. I treated each one like the gift of the magi. And for that matter, I suspect l'enfant Jésus might've enjoyed his myrrh a lot more if he'd been able to play with the gift wrap. Eight folds. Three strips of Scotch tape. A grosgrain ribbon of watered silk. A crisp rosette bow to finish. I kept my seams symmetrical, my cuts clean. My creases were keen as a razor blade. You could cut yourself if you weren't careful.

I stood at the vanity, staring blankly into the mirror. It had been nearly thirty minutes since he hung up on me, and I'd spent every moment of it obsessing over what precisely he meant by 'be ready'. I clenched my teeth, tugging a comb through my hair. Shower and shave. Moisturizer and makeup. Curl hair. Curl eyelashes. Pluck, polish, perfume.

I sank into a slipper chair, my heart fluttering like a hummingbird's. There's a disturbingly neat overlap between the two—between wrapping a gift for someone, and grooming yourself for the bedroom. You can take such pains in the preparation. You can make every detail exquisite, almost flawless. In the end, he's just going to tear all your hard work to pieces. But that's the whole point, isn't it, Penny?The pièce de résistance? What's underneath is all that matters... With another shudder, I remembered Magritte's La philosophie dans le boudoir.

I plucked a vial of polish from the drawer, and brushed a smooth coat of crimson onto my toes. Mind you, I still had my apprehensions. I still felt immensely ambivalent about being his plaything. But looking at me then, right there in that moment, I doubt you'd ever suspect it. Already, the illusion was almost complete.

I'd stained my lips mauve, and painted two black penumbras over my eyelids. I'd scented my wrists, throat, and ankles with eau de parfum from a sapphire bottle, leaving the air around me redolent with jasmine, neroli and rose. The blush, as always, was redundant, but with the help of a little snow-white concealer, I turned my skin into porcelain for him, erasing every minute blemish and bump on my body. Portrait of Madame X. Impossibly pretty. Impossibly pale. I sighed.

I'd been so angry at him when he called. Even after, painting my nails at his behest, I was far from convinced I'd forgiven him. But he was on his way now, expected any minute. By necessity, all the righteous ire in my eyes had been snuffed out by panic; by a tempestuous and pent-up desire for release, lapping like storm waves on the inside of my chest. He really hadn't allowed me time to fret over the injustice of it. With just thirty-six hundred seconds, he really hadn't allowed me time to do much of anything.

I blew a cool stream of air across my toes, hurrying them along. I needed them dry. I needed to dress. My hands were trembling as I drew open the armoire.

There were things we'd said to each other; things that were just now returning to me, haunting me as I sifted through the drawers and the dangling dresses for a pair of panties, and a brassiere. He'd warned me over the phone that he wouldn't hold back any longer. I'd told him not to. I told him that he and his demons didn't scare me. I wasn't lying to him. I'd meant every word of it. But it's much easier to wear a brave face from a full five thousand kilometers away. Perhaps that's why I needed my face heavily painted that night—simply to disguise the fear.

I let my towel fall to the floor. It was far from lost on me that the dress he'd had Jules deliver to my door was white lace, silk, and apart from its length, vaguely bridal. I stole a glance at the clock on the nightstand. They say it took Duchamp nine years to finish The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even. I doubt it took even nine minutes for the bachelors to finish stripping their bride.

The clock kept ticking. With a grimace, I slipped into the dress, contorting my shoulders to grab ahold of the zipper, and finished up by tying a ribbon of black silk through my hair. I turned once more toward the mirror, and tugged the bow off to one side. In spite of myself, I felt my lips start to tighten, and curl. His giftwrap was far from flawless, but even in its foibles and its imperfections, there was no denying it—the girl in the mirror was still hauntingly sexy. And besides... I tilted my head, still unconvinced that the graceful gamine gazing back was really me. I doubt he'll take too terribly long to unwrap it.

I lingered a moment more with my reflection, remembering a different Magritte altogether. Les Liaisons Dangeureux—de Laclos, de Sade... I glanced to Dmitri's Dickinson, still lying open where I'd tossed it a half hour earlier. I wondered, in some twisted, alternative universe, what lewd and libertine paintings those verses of hers might have inspired. Anticipiation / Algolagnia. My pulse outpaced the clock, and I felt my breath begin to grow shallow.

It was time—a little past it, actually—and I'd still yet to decide where to wait for him. The foyer, I figured, would just seem too eager. Already I was essentially his pet. I didn't need him tripping over me right behind the front door. I didn't need to be scratching and whimpering at the window as his car rolled up the drive. But I couldn't bring myself to go back to his study either, nor to the glasshouse. Over the past two days, those two environs in particular had all but sapped me of my sanity. His bedroom, peut-être? I sneered at myself. As if you could be any more obvious. As if I didn't look desperate enough already. The truth was, even if I'd wanted to wait in his boudoir, reposed over his bed like some quivering Mata Hari, I couldn't. It hadn't quite occurred to me until that moment, but I had absolutely no clue where he slept.

Fine, then. The front parlor. I snatched up the Dickinson from the nightstand. Beside the fire. All

poised, and placid. I smirked timorously. I'll read, and I'll make him interrupt me. I tiptoed over toward the door. He'll think I didn't hear him come in. He'll think I hardly missed him at all.

I crept out into the corridor, trying my best to ignore the way my shoulders were already shaking, and how my balance seemed a little less steady with each step. 'Be ready.' His last command echoed darkly in my head. I crossed my arms, descending the stairs as swiftly as I could without breaking my neck. Nu Descendant un Escalier n°2. Slipstream on a staircase. Is that where the bride went once they stripped her bare?

My shoes clicked shrilly on the steps, and at the bottom I made a beeline for the parlor. The room was dark, but the fire was burning. I paused a moment at the threshold just to catch my breath. I'm not sure I'd exhaled since abandoning the bedroom mirror. I stood there, staring out into the shadows, listening to the logs crackle, and pop. Still panting a little, I crossed my arms, and tiptoed onward toward the flames.

Through some unholy miracle, I made it through the darkness to a little upholstered chair by the fire without crashing into anything. I sat down slowly, crossing my legs. I opened the book with no intention whatsoever to read it. I frowned at my knees. I wasn't quite satisfied. I wanted to look absolutely impeccable when he first caught sight of me; a living tableau of Pietro Magni's La Leggitrice.

'But does a lady cross her legs, Penelope?' My brow furrowed deeper as my mother's upbraiding voice invaded my head. I cursed her, and uncrossed them. Then, I re-crossed them, and after eight seconds more, uncrossed them again. My fidgeting became convulsive. I altered my posture endlessly, shifting it to-and-fro by infinitesimal degrees. I fiddled and fretted with each individual strand of my hair. I took turns smoothing out the creases in my dress, and tugging at its neckline, hoping to keep each one of its edges in precisely the right window between prudish, and implicitly pornographic. Finally, still less than half-satisfied, I forced myself to settle, and lifted the book once more to my nose.

"What are you reading?"

Jesus Christ! I jolted upright, clasping a hand to my mouth to stifle my shriek, and nearly knocked the chair off balance. The book fell splayed to the floor.

"Dmitri..." I panted his name, stunned, "My God. You scared me half to death."

He stood behind me, buried somewhere in the shadows. Even squinting, I could barely make out his silhouette. But I saw his eyes. They reflected the flames, piercing through the darkness like a pair of burning, blue will-o'-the-wisps. I shivered. I could have walked right past him there, and never even known. He stepped closer to the fire, prodding the logs with the iron I'd used to shatter Marie's window, and sent a shower of orange sparks up the flue. He turned slowly, pointing its charred tip to where my book had fallen on the floor.

"Pick it up."

I felt my heat quicken. I know he meant the gesture to be menacing, but I'm not sure he realized just how much he was scaring me. 'I won't hold back any longer...' Once more, his warning returned to addle me. 'Even if I wanted to, I'm not convinced that I could.'

Well. I quivered, reaching down between my ankles to where the Dickinson had dropped. He's certainly not holding back now, is he? He set the iron aside, half of his face glowing titian in the firelight, the other half still masked in shadow.

"Good girl," he growled at me, and nodded. "Now bring it here."

I bit my lip, and began to stand, but he stopped me; his eyes still flashing in the firelight.

"No," his voice was low and rasping, little more than a rumbling whisper, "Crawl."

Crawl? My eyes widened, and my skin went scarlet. Like? Like, on the floor? Come on, he's kidding. I knitted my brow, ninety-nine percent certain that he couldn't be serious. There's no way. There's not a chance in hell he really expects me to do this.

It took less than a full glimpse at him, though, to send every one of my doubts up in smoke. I sank my teeth into the inside of my cheek. He wasn't kidding. There was a chance in hell. And he absolutely was serious. He stood stone still. He was waiting.

Very slowly, and without ever breaking my gaze, I slipped out of the chair, and onto the floor. My skin seared beneath a layer of lace. The rug bristled against palms, and knees, and

along the freshly shaved blades of my shins. Christina's World. Crawling her way through waves wheat. I wonder. How long did Wyeth leave her out there? Literally, I was mortified. With every inch, I could feel another little piece of me perish, withering away beneath his wolfish glare. At the rate I was going, I doubted there'd be anything of me left by the time I reached him. I'd be a husk of myself; all razed, wrecked, and ruined.

But then when I'd come a little more than halfway, something changed. I saw a smile flicker across his lips—not a smirk, nor a leer, but an actual smile. It was such a little, fleeting thing, but a thing nonetheless that I dearly needed. It was his tell. It was the hairline chink in his dark and frost-laden armor. Whatever cruel and unrevealed intentions he might have for me, he couldn't hide it. He was happy. He was genuinely happy to see me. Maybe ecstatic. Maybe enthralled. 'From the Old English, þræl, Penny. To put in moral or mental bondage. To enslave...'

I moved toward him, sliding the book along beneath my palm. My hips swayed. My spine sinuated. By a subtle swelling within his slacks, I could tell how much it pleased him to see me this way. And while it didn't allay my terror in the least, I'll confess: it turned me on a little, being able to watch what my degradation was doing to him.

I stopped crawling just shy of his shoes. They were damp along the edges, and still kissed here and there with stipples of melted snow. I narrowed my eyes. He couldn't have been watching me very long. I glanced up, my head just barely above his knees. The fire would have dried them out.

"My Penny. Mon piaf," he growled, and fell to one knee in front of me. "You haven't any idea," he stroked my face with the back of his hand, and a chill burned its way through every nerve in my body, "you haven't any idea at all how I've missed you, Miss Foster."

Au contraire, Monsieur. I imagine I do. I closed my eyes, melting a little more as he grazed my ear, tracing out my ribbon, and tucking away a loose thread of hair. His lips were so close to mine. Already, I could taste him—his musk interlaced with the redolent heat of his breath. I sighed. I wanted so badly for him to kiss me. I had to keep my mouth closed, for fear I might start to salivate if let me languish much longer. He stole the book from beneath my palm. I tried not to whimper as he pulled away, and stood.

"Kneel," his voice was strict, but strangely warm.

'Et ecce: at the evening sacrifice, I rose from my debasement...' It's blasphemous, I know, but being told to kneel, I couldn't help but be reminded of mass. The blood. The body. Mouth open, my child. Now swallow. I did as he told me. I knelt, and felt my skin begin to glow brighter. It was only the third time I'd been on my knees in front of him—once when he'd cut his hand fixing the window, and again the very moment we met. Still, I'd yet to go down on him. Frankly, it seemed a little odd me, though not especially upsetting. I was at eye-level now. I watched his inseam swell just a little bit tighter. I wonder. I wonder if this is the moment. I bit my lip, trying not to stare as he silently fanned through the pages. I wonder how he might taste...

"You read this while I was away?"

Nervously, I nodded.

"You read my notes?"

I nodded again.

"I'm disappointed," he scolded me wryly, and snapped it shut. "You shouldn't fill your head with such filth."

I tried to drop my eyes, ill at ease with his teasing, but he caught me by the chin, and raised it up to face him. He wouldn't allow me to look away.

"Did you learn something, at least, Miss Foster?"

His eyes flashed as he brushed his thumb across my lower lip. I had to fight the instinctive urge to taste it—to slip some part of him inside my mouth. Orale fixierung. Why don't the Germans have a komposita for that?

I murmured, my lips softly grazing the edge of his thumb, "Miss Dickinson was a masochist, sir."

The flames crackled in the fireplace, and a dark shadow played across his face.

"Meaning?"

Anticipation / algolagnia. 'Her master stabs her more...'

"She liked it," I breathed, giving in, and dragging my tongue along the rough edge of his thumb, "when her master made her suffer."

His jaw twitched, but he didn't stop me.

"You were telling the truth," his eyes softened slightly as he lowered my jaw. "You did everything that I asked. Didn't you?"

I closed my eyes, and gave an aspen nod. You didn't give me much choice, sir.

"You frustrated yourself," he left my lips open, "how many times for me, Penny?"

Too many. My throat tightened, and a warm chill rippled through my skin as he slid his hand across my cheek. Entirely too many. The tension was still inside me. I could feel it—dormant, but undiminished. Each time I'd touched myself for him, the coil wound tighter, choking me, constricting until I could barely breathe. Now that he was here, touching me with his own hands, it was only matter of time before the entire spindle either unraveled, or snapped.

"Three," I nuzzled against his palm, "Just like you told me, sir."

He leered, and loosed his tie, "Did you come?"

The word made me quiver. Do you really have to ask? I gazed between his fingers to the strained, gray wool overlying his fly. Had he freed himself, it might have spanned the whole space between us—pointing at me, passing judgement. J'accuse. He waited. He watched me. I saw him shrug off his jacket, and unfasten his cuffs, all without severing his stare.

"You'll understand why I'm asking, Miss Foster," he turned slowly toward the fire, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. "I abstained while I was away from you."

Abstained? A deep crease cut across my brow.

"I just want to know," he stepped behind me, and lifted my hair from my shoulders; unlacing the black ribbon from behind my ears, and winding it loosely around his palm, "whether you were suffering alongside me. So I will ask again." He sank once more to one knee. I think my skin was paler than the lace overlying it, "Did you, Penny? Or did you not?"

I tried to answer. I wanted to—I wanted to vaunt how abused I'd been in his absence, how I'd almost martyred myself to obey him. But like tasting a tincture of curare, terror had completely paralyzed my tongue. But my terror wasn't entirely pure. It was tainted; contaminated by a blue curiosity in the silk ribbon he held behind me, and far more than the faintest, fatal traces of arousal. Almost imperceptibly, I shook my head. He sighed, and let his hands slide down from my shoulders, clasping my wrists in his hands.

"Listen closely," his words burned against my ear. "I'm going to bind your hands, Penny. I won't untie them until you come."

Slowly, firmly, he drew my wrists together, and a fine, ten thousand hertz tremor moved through me. My entire body seemed to vibrate, and purr. He wrapped the ribbon around them. He did it so quickly. I felt my face flush, and half of my million arrector pili muscles tighten up as the silk snaked over my skin. He wrapped them once, and then twice.

"...Three times," he whispered sharply, and cinched his knot. "You'll come for me—once for each time that you touched yourself."

Three times? My heart quit beating. Three? Three? I didn't believe him. Really, I didn't believe it was even possible, and if he tried to make it so, I think I was all but certain I'd die before he was done with me. On sheer, self-preservative instinct, I shook my head. I whimpered, and thrashed against him. He held me fast, clasping a hand over my mouth, and waited for me to exhaust myself in the struggle. I'd like to think it took a little longer than he expected, but by and by, it was inevitable. He broke me, and with my panting still muffled by his palm, I fell still.

Looking back, I suppose the humiliation of that moment was probably worse than the fear. He'd bound my hands. I'd allowed it. And now, until he chose to make me otherwise, I was weak. I was vulnerable. I was helpless as a sparrow with clipped wings. Vorobyshek i Volk. Mon Piaf...

He didn't even need both arms to control me. I struggled more. I whimpered, and writhed. It didn't make a difference. He kept taunting me with the twin contradictions of his touch, caressing my face like a lover with one hand. With the other, he held me silent and still; just one, unyielding squeeze away from asphyxiation. I really don't think I'm indulging in histrionics. It's true. He could have strangled me then and there if he'd wanted. Easily. And I couldn't have done a blessed thing to stop him.

"Tell me," he didn't quite kiss me, but let his lips track over the vein-stricken edge of my neck, "do you remember the color of your painting, Penny?"

My painting? I turned my eyes to him, or I tried to anyhow. His hold on me dearly limited my options.

"The color of your chapel? The color of fire?" he spun my face gently toward the flames. "Do you remember what happens when you say it?"

It stops. Everything stops. It flooded back to me all at once; the color he'd given me just before stripping me bare, and spanking me black and blue in his study. Mais oui, mon maître. Je me souviens. I stared into the smoldering embers of the fire. I could feel him behind me, hard as stone between my tied and trembling hands. Pillar of salt, Penny. Do not look back. I laced my fingers around him in a blasphemous inversion of Durer's Betende Hände, and with my lips still sealed over, made a pitiable attempt to nod.