Taken

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Margaret got up and began to pace. Yes, difficult. How to sort it all out? What to do? Where to go? Her own fantasy was so powerful, it did not seem powerful enough as mere fantasy.

And somehow Claretta, prescient and patient, knew this. "You said that you felt 'unfulfilled.'"

"Yes."She who desires and acts not, breeds pestilence.

"You went to the Rose and Thorn, hoping that - "

"Yes."

"That scene you were looking at – the bound woman and the two men in uniform. You identified with that."

Margaret took in a deep breath. "Close. Very close. But, ... "

Margaret's voice trailed off, and she hung her head as Claretta nodded in understanding. And then, after a sufficient silence she said: "There is another place, my dear."

Margaret shivered as she managed to raise her head once more, looking at her with wide, dark eyes.

*** Ten ***

It was late Friday afternoon, and Samael arrived at her office building. She left with her briefcase and a garment bag. Samael was at the reception desk, dressed in his charcoal gray outfit, but with a white scarf to conceal his steel collar. They took the elevator together, and he escorted her to the sedan waiting out front. Opening the trunk, he gently took her things and placed them there. Then he went to open the back passenger door for her. The windows were covered, and the interior lit. Lady Claretta was waiting, wrapped in her silver fur.

"Good evening, my dear."

"Good evening."

Samael now took his place behind the wheel. Claretta leaned forward. "Hold, Samael." Her voice was firm. She then leaned back and looked into Margaret's eyes. "Last chance. You are certain you wish to take this journey?"

Margaret waited, three breaths. She had no doubts, but she wanted to be able to say it without a hint of hesitation: "Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

Claretta looked over at Samael, who was waiting for her signal. She nodded, and he started the engine and drove off.

"You remember all that I have told you?"

"Pretty much," Margaret replied. "What's the safeword again?"

"Mercy." Margaret nodded, remembering the peculiar system – once and the sentence following was to be taken literally, three times to stop the scene immediately. Claretta continued: "Remember, my dear, with regard to what happens tonight, all is not as it appears." She now handed Margaret a mask. It would cover her forehead, temples and cheeks, and the upper part of her nose, and was painted mother-of-pearl with occasional specks of various colors. "You know what you shall be called?" Claretta asked her.

"Yes, I'll be called - "

She raised a hand to stop her. "Please do not tell me here. Call it a superstition of mine. Wait until we are there. It will have more power then."

"Power?"

"The power to transform," Claretta affirmed, "to bring forth light from shadow. Or, at least, to begin to do so."

Margaret nodded. More mystery. She hoped it would be worth it.

They reached the mansion at dusk. Two guards, clad in black uniforms with red trim and white gloves, checked them through the massive iron gate. The estate was remote, and the grounds enormous. Several cars were already parked, their masked occupants leaving them to go inside. Scurrying about were several attendants, all male, all wearing bright white shirts and jodhpurs with jet-black riding boots, gloves and stocking masks which completely obscured their faces. The mansion itself was completely white with shuttered windows, the outdoor lighting giving it an ominous glow.

Both passenger doors opened at once, each lady greeted silently by an attendant. Claretta, now wearing a purple mask, explained that Margaret would need to change, and the garment bag was removed from the trunk. Margaret's attendant motioned for her to follow him, and she did.

The walls inside the mansion were also bright white, as were the thick curtains over all of the windows. The floor was carpeted a blood-red, and all of the furniture was a shiny obsidian black, like the attendants' leather boots. Margaret's attendant escorted her to a small changing room on the first floor, handing her the garment bag. She thanked him, and he gave a quick bow and left. Taking off her mask for a moment, she looked about. There was a small upholstered bench, a chair, and a coat stand; a full-length mirror covered the door, and there was even a sink and towels. She hung up her garment bag and proceeded to change. Margaret had selected her outfit with care – a red dress, light blue scarf, and black high-heeled shoes. When she was ready, she stepped out and walked down the hall to the entryway. There an attendant bowed his head and motioned for her to enter the great ballroom.

Several people were already gathered there, the bright hues of their masks a remarkable contrast to the tricolor decor scheme. Most were dressed as if for a black-and-white party, while others like Margaret and Claretta dressed in the colors that suited them. Samael had removed his white scarf, and wore a mask that matched the dark charcoal of his suit. He stood close at hand to Claretta, still in her fur, who was talking to a couple – she in a peach mask with red circles on the cheeks, and a black dress with white trim, he in a black mask with white eyebrows, wearing a tuxedo. As Margaret walked over to them, an attendant offered an iced tea from his tray, and she graciously accepted.

"You look magnificent, my dear!" Claretta complimented.

"Thank you," she smiled.

Claretta introduced the couple, Largo and his wife Aria, who extended a hand to her. "And you are called?"

Margaret took her hand and said: "Miranda."

Aria squeezed her hand. "Welcome, Miranda."

"Yes, welcome," a baritone voice proclaimed. Margaret turned to see their host, a huge man, well over six feet with broad shoulders, shaved head, arched eyebrows and impeccable goatee. He wore a black kimono, and at either side was a woman wearing a black balaclava mask and floor-length white cape. The man lifted both hands with their long, pointed nails. "Welcome to the Lair!" He then introduced his two female attendants – Sabine on his right, Lucrece on his left. Each curtseyed in response. "And I am called Tarquin. Now, if you will excuse me, I must steal Lady Claretta from you."

Claretta joined Tarquin as they glided into another room, with Samael and the two cloaked women following them. Margaret remained with Largo and Aria. She noticed a raised platform nearby, with a large tilting table and a smaller one covered with a red cloth.

"So," Aria inquired, "where did you meet Claretta?"

"At the Rose and Thorn," she answered.

"Have you been a member there long?"

"Oh, I'm not a member. Just came with some friends, just the one time."

"And straight from there to here," Aria remarked, then let out a laugh. "Youare a brave soul!"

Margaret decided to turn attention away from her. "How long have you two been here?"

"Three years now," Largo said. "We don't attend as often as many – "

Suddenly, Tarquin reappeared and clapped his hands three times, silencing the room. "And now," he intoned, "ladies and gentlemen, for tonight's entertainment, ... "

Three women in strapless latex leotards and matching boots burst in – Lady Claretta in purple, Sabine and Lucrece in red, all three masked as before. They rushed to Aria and carried her screaming to the staged area. Three male attendants immediately grabbed Largo, who struggled in protest. The other guests cheered and clapped as Aria was secured to the table. Sabine and Lucrece stood on either side of the table to hold it steady, while Claretta stood in front of her. She whipped the red cloth off of the small table, revealing three strap-on dildoes and a large knife. Claretta held out her hand, and the knife was handed to her. Slowly and artistically, she cut away Aria's dress, then her cami top, and then her panties. Largo, pinned into a chair, struggled in vain as he cried out for the three to leave his beloved alone. Then each woman took a strap-on, fastened it to their bodies, and took turns ravishing their helpless victim to the roar of the crowd, as Margaret looked on in silence, stunned and awed, shaking as she resisted the urge to intervene, half-hoping to hear the word Mercy, unable to look away as Aria released a guttural cry, back and neck arched, mouth wide open, fingers curled.

The audience applauded when the ravishment was done. Claretta went off the stage to another room, as Sabine and Lucrece gently removed the limp Aria from the table. The three attendants who restrained Largo now gave him a towel and a drink. Margaret stood in a corner, arms wrapped about her, as she saw the others chatting and smiling about the spectacle they just saw – and enjoyed. But it wasn't their enjoyment that disturbed her. It was hers.

Claretta emerged, changed into a simple dress, a white towel to mop perspiration from her body. The ballroom applauded her performance, and she accepted handshakes and congratulations. It was already late, and people started to leave.

And there, in another corner, Aria was wrapped in a white robe – and the arms of her beloved Largo. They giggled and snuggled as Margaret approached them. Aria noticed, and smiled at her.

"Yes, Miranda," she assured her, "I'm all right. Never been better." Largo grinned as he caressed his wife's arm.

"You staged this?"

"Tarquin staged it," Largo said. "We gave him the particulars."

"Whenever we come up with a new fantasy," Aria continued, "we come to him. We weren't even sure this would be the night he'd pull this off. Or that Claretta would be joining in."

"An added treat!" Largo murmured with a grin.

They held one another close, all smiles. Margaret staggered backwards, then regained composure and walked to Claretta, talking with Tarquin as Samael stood by holding her fur. Tarquin's eyes met Margaret's and he gave a bow before gliding off.

"You're quite all right, my dear?" Claretta inquired.

"Yes," she said, "I'll be fine."

"I did warn you, did I not? All is not as it appears."

Margaret felt herself again. Yes, she was right. It looked cruel, yet it brought joy. It was one couple's fantasy, and the delight of all here who shared similar desires. And most of all, it was desire acted upon, cleansing and healing.

Claretta gestured, and Samael draped the fur over her shoulders. It was time to leave.

The ride back was mostly silent, yet punctuated here and there with questions and explanations.

"Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?" Claretta inquired.

Margaret nodded. "I didn't think I would, but ... it was exciting."

Claretta smirked. "Indeed it was!"

Margaret turned to her. "Are all these ravishment scenes done at parties, with an audience?"

"Oh, no. Most are private. Either way, Tarquin is most adept at helping to arrange them."

Margaret registered that fact in her head, and turned to the window.

Claretta then invited her: "Do let me know if you'd ever like to visit the Lair again."

"I will," Margaret replied. Then she turned to Claretta and said: "I would."

*** Eleven ***

Margaret indeed went back to the Lair again, this time to attend a class on rope bondage. The instructor, a man with a salt-and-pepper goatee called Omar, asked for a volunteer, and she found herself slowly raising her hand. He smiled from beneath his mask, green with white markings, and thanked her for coming up. One by one he demonstrated different methods of restraint, different types of rope, different ways of tying wrists and ankles together. The rope glided over her like a serpent, and his fingers felt like feathers. Afterwards, during the social hour, she took time to meet some of the members and ask them questions – not too personal, but focused enough to give her insight.

Shortly after that, Claretta called her. "Tarquin would like to know if you'd consider formally joining the Lair."

Margaret thought her heart stopped. "What's involved?"

"An interview, payment of dues, and signing a statement. I can tell you more in detail, if you'd like."

Margaret agreed, and they arranged to meet for tea. Claretta explained the strict protocol of the Lair, and went over the membership agreement. After that, she set up an appointment for the formal interview at Tarquin's mansion.

The interview room had black walls and floor, a dark red ceiling, and stark white furniture. There was one chair for Margaret, and three tall chairs around a semicircular table. Then the Troika entered. Tarquin took the center chair. Claretta sat on his left. To his right was a stout black man with gray hair and magenta mask, whom Tarquin introduced as Jonas.

"We are here to consider," Tarquin intoned, "your application and nomination for membership. I understand that you have discussed the matter with Lady Claretta."

"Yes, that's correct."

"You therefore understand," Jonas inquired, "why we are such an exclusive club, and the necessity of our protocols to protect members' anonymity."

"I do."

Tarquin held out his hands. "Please reiterate," he told her, then folded his hands in front of his face.

"I'm aware," she explained, "that some in law enforcement do not look too kindly towards a club where explicit sexual activity takes place. There is also preventing blackmail and harassment. And Lady Claretta explained to me that some in the larger SM community don't fully appreciate or understand ravishment."

"Yes," Claretta murmured, "they will often say: 'Your kink is not my kink, but your kink is okay' – but how often it is observed more in breach than actual practice."

Tarquin turned to Claretta and nodded, then looked back at Margaret. "Your own interest in ravishment?"

At first, she felt the familiar twinge of discomfort, but as she spoke, her speech and posture became more and more relaxed: "I've fantasized about this since I was a teenager. I've wondered why, and recently I've found myself wanting to explore this more fully, more deeply. I believe the Lair is where I can best do this, among like-minded souls."

Now Jonas leaned in closer. "Do you look forward to performing a scene?"

"I believe that it's not obligatory to perform a scene, either privately or at a party."

"But it is obligatory to contribute – "

"On a volunteer basis, yes," she stated. "Assisting with classes, or providing aftercare for ravishees. And I'm perfectly willing to contribute my fair share in that regard. But I also understand that there's no quota or other strict requirement. In fact, I'm surprised at how modest the membership fee is, given this mansion and the grounds."

That made Tarquin's eyebrows pop up. Claretta leaned towards his ear, quietly explaining Margaret's aptitude for business. He grinned from ear to ear. "You are quite right, Miranda. This estate is my private property. I am financially independent, and can afford to subsidize the Lair's activities in a most generous fashion."

"I see," she replied politely. "I hope I've not given offense."

"Not at all," he assured her. "You mentioned wanting to explore your interest more deeply. Could you elaborate, please?"

"Well, comparing different fantasies. Seeing how people ... stage them, act them out. I guess that, most important, is learning that I'm not alone."

There was a minute of silence before Tarquin turned first to Claretta, then to Jonas, asking each if they had any further questions. They indicated no, and Tarquin turned back to Margaret. "If you would mind stepping outside, Miranda."

She nodded, rose and left the room. An attendant was waiting outside, and he escorted her back to the ballroom. Margaret could feel her skin tingling as the attendant stepped behind the bar and waited. She ordered a tomato juice, and paced over the thickly carpeted floor as she waited, ... waited, ... took the glass of juice from the bar, ... waited, ... sipped, ... waited, ...

At last, another attendant came, followed closely by Sabine and Lucrece. In one hand, he held a black lacquered wood tray, with a white card. Margaret swallowed, held her breath, reached over, lifted the card, and turned it over. There in red calligraphy was a single word:

WELCOME!

She smiled as she let out a sigh, and the attendant bowed and left. Now Sabine and Lucrece approached, one holding the membership agreement on a clipboard, the other holding a silver pen. Margaret took the pen and signed it.

*** Twelve ***

Thirteen breaths. That's how long it took for the priest to respond to her confession. "Thirty-three Hail Marys. Go and sin no more." And then the door on the other side of the grille quickly closed.

Margaret now became a regular at the Lair. Along with classes and scenes, there was the circle for "ravishees" – those like her with fantasies and desires to be ravished. She learned from listening that, as Lady Claretta said, these were complex fantasies indeed, with no two the same. For some, it was about yielding responsibility for their own desires, and with it the shame they'd learned; for others, it was about wanting to be desired beyond reason; still others sought the intensity of the moment; and for many, there was more than one motif. Yet even in their complexity, there was still the appeal of the primal, the basic, the elemental.

She agreed to provide aftercare for a man who was ravished by two of Tarquin's male attendants. He sat wrapped in a black blanket, sipping espresso, unusually calm. He had done this to reclaim a sense of power, as the scene was governed on his own terms. Just knowing he could stop it, at any time – therein lay the power.

She had thought of skipping Lady Claretta's class on enforced servitude and play punishment, but then changed her mind and decided to sit through it. Claretta was not only wise and practical, but wonderfully entertaining, many of the anecdotes she shared garnering much laughter from the appreciative audience.

On another night, several scenes were staged in upstairs rooms. A woman in a bridal dress, gagged and tied to a bed, being molested by a man and a woman. A man on his knees, hands tied behind his back, kneeling before a woman with a dildo, who grabs his hair and forces him to service her. A naked and blindfolded woman, crying out to her unseen captor, a chain from the ceiling holding her manacled hands in front of her face, while a half-dressed man paced about her, growling, then pouncing, as she screamed – and Margaret watched in fascination.

The cycle went on. Mundane life. Going to the Lair. Confessing her sins. The mundane. The Lair. Confession. The mundane. The Lair. Confession.

The confessions became less and less frequent. She began to question what good they were, and many other things about the Church, God, what was moral or sinful. Here was a church that had turned a blind eye to their own priests violating children, now telling her she could not even be curious about her own desires. And the repetition of it all, a repetition which seemed more and more to have lost its meaning. Hail Marys, Our Fathers, go and sin no more ... sin no more ... no more. In time, confession and Mass were no longer part of her life. God still was – but a god no longer confined to the walls of a cathedral, or the pronouncements of priests.

One day, her two lives unexpectedly touched. She was having lunch with Sheri, who offered to take her back to the Rose and Thorn.

"No, thanks," Margaret said calmly.

"Not your thing, huh?"

"Not exactly."

"So," Sheri wondered, "what is your thing?"

Margaret hesitated for a minute. "I did find another club."

"Really! Which one?"

She swallowed hard. "You probably haven't heard of it."

"Oh, Ronny and I know about all the kinky places in the area. Club Marquis, the Barracks, Samois, Tarquin's Lair – "