Taken

Margaret snapped up, her face pale. And Sheri knew why.

"You go to the Lair?"

She worried about what Claretta and the others had warned her. Fortunately, Sheri was not like that. She reassured her, and then she asked if she had ever done a scene there.

Margaret shook her head. "You don't have to."

"Well, duh! But, do youwant to? I mean, you're going there for a reason, right?" Yes, she did. But still, she found it hard to say. Sheri folded her hands under her chin, and waited until Margaret's gaze locked into hers. Then she asked her slowly: "What do you want that brings you there?"

Margaret leaned closer. "I can't tell you right here," she whispered.

"No," Sheri said, "but you can tell someone, someplace." She unfolded her hands and leaned forward. "Margaret, you're really good about getting what you want in business. Now do the same thing with sex."

Her statement was blunt, and struck at a core issue for Margaret. She had never had a problem dealing with men in business matters. Business was business – dollars and cents, timetables, contracts, the bottom line. But with sex, relationships, romance – that was a different matter. Sometimes she envied those women who provided sex for money. It was business, up front, straightforward: "Here's what I'm willing to do, and for how much."

Margaret began to think. Her fantasy was a transaction. The currency was fulfillment and pleasure. Men did this all the time. Why not her? Yes, she could do this. Yes, she would.

*** Thirteen ***

Every spare moment Margaret had was about putting her fantasy in writing. Claretta gave her excellent advice, the most important of which was how essential "the why" of her fantasy would be. Who, what, where, when, how – those details were part of the plot, and any one could be altered. But the theme, the emotions and desires behind it – thewhy – that drove everything.

She reached inside to find the why. What was it about this that was so arousing, so compelling, so powerful? She tried to find it, mulling over the details, of how and when the fantasy came into being. Sitting at home, or in the neighborhood café, she'd be staring off somewhere while tapping her pencil on something, tap-tap-tap, only becoming so frustrated the tapping would turn into pounding. There was a why, somewhere in those shadows, ...

One Tuesday, she'd gone for a long swim in the pool. Her arms and legs felt a deep burn from doing so many laps, and she lay floating on her back, eyes closed, skin cooled, ears filling with the windlike whisper of the water's gentle motions. She'd usually just jump out of the pool, dry herself off, sitting for a while. Floating still like this was so very different for her, so contrary to what she always thought. Pools are for swimming, not lying in the water doing nothing. But she wasn't doing nothing – not exactly – she was regaining equilibrium, having worked herself up so much by swimming so many laps today that she took an opposite tack to bring things back on track. Contrary, ... opposite, ... paradox. Yes. She needed to embrace paradox – seeming contradiction which was, in fact, the union of complementary opposites to bring wholeness and balance."Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence." Her fantasy, yes, was full of contraries. Attraction and repulsion, desire and fear, control and surrender. Passion. Awe. Trust. Yes.

Margaret opened her eyes, lifted her head, arms and legs swirling to keep her body afloat, then swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out. Drying herself off, she began to think again, feel again, about her fantasy, about the why, the contraries that made the why. Yes, now it all came together.

She finished the write-up soon after, and emailed it to Tarquin. Two days later, she received an email:

Miranda:

Such a beautiful rendering!

Please give me a date and time when I might call upon you.

Tarquin

On the appointed day, Margaret took extra care to ready her condo. Fresh sheets on the bed, smoothed to a crisp surface. Kitchen spotless and bright, the sugar and salt and pepper moved from the now bare table to the nearby countertop. Books arranged, dust exiled, shades and curtains carefully arranged.

The doorbell rang. Margaret straightened her dress and her hair, and buzzed him in.

Tarquin entered, removing his hat. As Margaret put away his hat and walking stick, he looked about her condominium. "A most lovely abode."

"Thank you," she said, and they sat on the couch.

"Unfortunately," he told her, "it will not do for our purposes."

"Why not?"

"Too little distance from your neighbors. Were they to hear a suspicious ruckus and contact the authorities – "

"Yes, you're right. I hadn't thought of that."

He then removed a small photo album from his coat pocket. "I do, however, have a furnished cottage at my disposal, surrounded by wooded land, most suitable for what you seek." He handed her the album.

As Margaret flipped through the photos of the dwelling, memories came back to her of the house in which she grew up. She looked up at Tarquin and thanked him.

"And now," he continued, producing a note pad and pen, "on to other details. Timing, for one. I presume that weekends and holidays would be best?"

"Yes."

"Please arrange to stay at the cottage during those times. If, perchance, you cannot stay during a particular weekend or holiday – business trip, family – please notify me in advance, as a courtesy."

"Of course."

"Now, as to who will be your ravisher – "

Margaret cut him off bluntly: "I don't want to know that."

Tarquin raised an eyebrow. "You are certain?"

"I trust you," she asserted. "Well, Claretta trusts you, and I trust her." He smiled and nodded. "Whoever it is," she went on, "I don't want to see his face. He should wear a mask, like what your attendants wear."

"Doing so for such a prolonged period may become an uncomfortable hindrance. Would you consent to being blindfolded part of the time?"

She considered it for a moment. "All right. And gloves. He has to wear leather gloves."

He took note of that, underlining the words. "Since you will not know exactly when, or whom, this will necessitate the use of a startword."

"Startword – is that like a safeword?"

"Very much so. In this case, a word or phrase by which your ravisher may identify himself."

She looked about, trying to think of something. Going over to the bookcase, a slim volume of poetry caught her eye. She pulled it out, opened it, and found one of her favorites. Then she brought it over to Tarquin. "The first line," she told him.

He took the book, his eyes never leaving the page. "Ah, yes. A very familiar quotation. And quite appropriate, indeed." With that, he closed the book with one hand, making a low but echoingclop, and handed it back to her as he stood.

"Anything else?" she asked him.

"I believe we have covered the more essential points for this scene. We can go into more precision later."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Ravishment is one of the most primal forms of erotic play. Hence the greater need for rules and ritual, to assure your safety, and be deserving of your trust."

Margaret nodded in assent.

"There is one matter of psychology that concerns me," he went on. "You've never done any type of scene before, yet you've requested one of unusual length and intensity. Might I therefore suggest, to better prepare and acclimate yourself, that you first engage in a shorter and simpler scenario."

She felt herself shiver. "What do you mean?"

"At the mansion. Say, late Saturday morning, with one of my attendants in an upstairs room. I can suggest the particulars later, and of course you decide who shall provide aftercare."

She turned away, thinking for a moment. Yes, it made sense. She turned back, nodded in assent, and said: "But I want to approve the details first."

He grinned. "I would expect nothing less."

*** Fourteen ***

She arrived at the mansion, greeted by Sabine and Lucrece in their masks and capes. In the entryway was Isolde, an acquaintance from Lair parties, who greeted her and walked with her to the changing room.

Margaret took her time to undress, freshen up, and don her simple white cotton slip and ballet-shoe slippers. She sat on the bench, breathing deeply. This was more nerve-wracking than she'd thought! When she was finally collected, she opened the door and stepped outside.

No one else was in sight, and it made the large mansion seem twice its size, causing her to feel like a naughty child wandering where she did not belong. Up the stairs and down the hall, she saw the light coming through the door at the very end. Slowly she walked, heart pounding, skin tingling, fists clenching and releasing over and over to control her shaking. She wanted this – it was finally doing it, even so pared down, every step bringing her closer and closer to that point, ...

The room was sparse. A wrought- iron frame bed with red sheets sat in the middle. The curtains were tied back, allowing the room to be lit solely by the sun. She touched the door with just her fingertips, pushing it open, expecting it to squeak or creak, but it swung smoothly and silently. She tiptoed to the bed, and halfway there felt one gloved hand on her mouth, another taking one of her arms behind her back, a man's body pressing against her, his heavy breath on her neck and face as the ravisher forced her forward and face down on the crimson satin. She cried out and struggled as he brought her hands over her head, sitting astride her hips, binding her wrists together with red and black braided rope, tying them to the head of the bed frame. Now she lay on her back and saw her ravisher, masked with leather gloves and boots, black condom on his cock, nothing else, one soft doeskin-clad hand over her mouth, the other reaching beneath her slip, preparing her for the consummate act, as she kicked and squirmed and screamed. His erect cock caught her attention, the pubic hair trimmed close, then she saw her slip being raised, his free hand sliding upwards, now revealing her breasts, gently cupping them, pressing down, running down her stomach, pressing the bared heel of his hand against her crotch, rubbing onto her clit, sliding his thumb inside her as she arched her neck, trembling as the heat and damp grew from within her. Then the time came, and he fucked her, his gloved hands going all over her body and face, his covered face caressing her neck and shoulders, his grunts and sighs almost in rhythm with her cries, driving, taking, fondling, breathing, bringing her to climax with such suddenness that she herself could not hear herself groan or feel herself breathe, only the heat of her flesh growing flushed in its tremors like lava flowing beneath the earth.

He released her hands from the bed frame, and left her there. Margaret rolled on her side, drenched and still quivering, taking in air in slow gasps as she kept her eyes closed. She couldn't think, only feel, still immersed in the sensation and emotion.

In time, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the carpet down the hall, then in the room. "Miranda?" She turned and opened her eyes to see Isolde, with a large black towel folded over her arm. Margaret rolled over onto her back, holding up her hands, and Isolde went to undo the knots and remove the rope. Margaret resisted the urge to rub her wrists – she'd learned that would only make things worse. She sat up, Isolde handed her the towel, and she pressed it against her face, throat and upper chest as Isolde sat next to her.

"Would you like to talk?" Isolde asked her.

"Not right now," she said. It was hard to speak, and not just because she was still out of breath. "I still ... need ... maybe later."

"All right," Isolde said softly. Then she placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" She looked at her, grinned, and nodded. Isolde smiled back from under her mask. "Just need a little more time alone?" Margaret nodded again, and Isolde squeezed her hand and left the room.

Margaret sat still for a few moments, still trying to come down from the heights to which she'd been taken. Still hard to think, to even form words. She stood, wrapped the towel about her shoulders, and walked over to the window to gaze at the autumn foliage outside.

Finally, she was ready, and went downstairs. Isolde had tea and treats ready. They sat down, still silent for a while as they sipped and nibbled, until Margaret managed to speak: "I see now why Tarquin thought I should do this."

Isolde blinked and smiled. "Yes, an actual ravishment can be much more intense than you could imagine. My lover and I have done ... so many, and still I can feel almost overwhelmed."

"Almost overwhelmed," Margaret repeated. "Yes, that's right."

"Tarquin simply told me that the fantasy you have is more elaborate."

"And more demanding."

"Do you think, after this, you'd be ready?"

Margaret sat still, thinking it over. "I think so. I hope so. I just know, if I don't do this, don't get it out of my system, ... " She hesitated again, catching her breath, then recited: "She who desires and acts not, breeds pestilence."

Isolde nodded in understanding, and finished her first cup of tea. "I remember feeling the same way, for a long time. But I also wanted to be sure that I could do so without regret." She picked up the pot, pouring herself another cup, then refilling Margaret's cup as well.

"My only concern," Margaret expressed, "was that this was sex for it's own sake. But, I'm feeling like that less and less. This isn't just sex. This isn't just lust. This goes deeper. Maybe that's why I want it so much."

Isolde looked straight into her eyes. "Do you find, after today, wanting to fulfill your fantasy even more?"

Margaret didn't hesitate in her answer: "Yes."

*** Fifteen ***

She was almost done working out the details with Tarquin when her older sister called. Kate would be in town with her daughter, Annie, who had recently started college. "I should warn you," Kate told her, "she's changed a lot."

Annie had her father's curly black hair, only now it was cut short. She dressed in scruffy jeans, faded t-shirts, denim jacket, sandals and a permanent scowl of sweeping disapproval. And that was just her appearance. Kate told Margaret that she was now staunchly vegan and caffeine-free – or, more precisely, anti-carnivore and anti-caffeine; even honey and chocolate were out of the question. Margaret stocked up on food from an organic market she sometimes went to, set up the guest room for Kate and the sleeper couch for Annie. Kate and Margaret chatted like old times, while Annie spent much of the time sulking and reading. When she did talk, it was to go off on a rant about one political issue or another. Margaret tried to stay out of it, while her sister rolled her eyes and sighed.

Then there was the bookstore.

Kate had taken Annie shopping and browsing at one of the large chain bookstores downtown. When they came back, they were both stewing. Kate explained that her daughter – or "your niece," as she said to Margaret – had defaced a thirty dollar book of art photography.

"Defaced it! How? Why?"

Annie proudly held it up. She had made a sticker with a white address label and red magic marker that read: STOP KILLING WOMEN! There it was on the black cover of the book.

"It's pornography!" she declared with a scowl.

Margaret put one hand on her hip. "You mean erotica."

"Erotica's just a fancy name for high-priced porn," Anne pronounced.

"Well, whatever you call it, I think it's a stretch to say that artistic photos of nudes – "

Annie thrust the book at her. "It's worse than that! Take a look!"

Margaret sighed, took the book, and opened it. The photos showed nude and semi-nude figures in bondage, dressed in fetish wear, using floggers and riding crops and rattan canes. She shuddered, then closed the book and tossed it aside. All she could manage to say is: "I agree the subject matter is extreme."

"But that still doesn't justify vandalism," Kate chastised her.

Annie gave a dismissive sneer. "So you'd condemn the freedom riders who sat in at segregated lunch counters?"

"This isn't like that," Kate insisted.

"Then what's it like, then?"

"Trashing the lunch counter," Margaret suggested.

"Well, if the lunch counter is serving poison – "

"Then don't eat there," Margaret interrupted. "And if you don't like these pictures – "

"It's not that simple. Images like this encourage violence against women."

"How?"

"Look at them!" Annie screamed, waving her arms about. "Women bound and gagged and beaten, objectified and dehumanized! This is what desensitizes men and encourages them: 'Go ahead! Dominate women! Subjugate them! Beat them and rape them and use them, they like that!' And you think just walking away from it is going to get rid of it?"

Margaret was trying very hard to contain herself. She was getting more and more angry, and not just because her niece was yelling at her. She was getting more and more angry because this was hitting too close to home – and yet she couldn't say anything. She simply took one deep breath after another, then picked up the book and flipped through the images again. And then she noticed: "Some of these are of women dominating men."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you said this wasall aboutmen dominating and subjugatingwomen." She showed one of the pictures. "This sort of blows your theory – "

"That woman is only doing that because a man is making her."

"'Making her'? You sound like she's being forced."

"Of course she is!"

"How can you be so sure? I mean, were you there when they were taking that photo?"

Now it was Annie's turn to roll her eyes and sigh. "Oh, come on! I don't have to be!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's obvious!"

"Really? Doesn't seem so 'obvious' to me."

"She's posing! It's a fantasy! Aman's fantasy!"

"To be dominated and humiliated by a woman?"

"But only the wayhe wants. She's just a toy in his sick little mind."

"So there's no way that a woman could fantasize about dominating and controlling others, of enjoying the rush of power – "

"No."

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "You're so sure. So sure you know the heart and mind of every woman out there. So sure you know what's best for all of us."

Annie started to turn red. Kate now tried to step in and speak calmly: "Honey, we're not saying you shouldn't be offended, but two wrongs – "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, 'two wrongs don't make a right,' I know."

"No," Kate said, her voice more measured and firm, "I don't think you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be taking that tone with me."

With that, Annie grabbed her jacket and her bag and stomped out of the condo. Kate grumbled and started to go after her, but Margaret put a gentle hand on her arm and shook her head. "What am I going to do with her?" Kate asked, her forehead matching the strain in her voice.

"Be patient," Margaret insisted softly. "I've had classmates who were like her, embracing radical feminism with all this passion and indignation."

"You were kind of like that yourself."

"Oh, nowhere near like her! Let me guess, she lives in an all-women's collective of some kind?"

Kate nodded. "Shares a house with four other women. And she always makes a point of telling me that three of them are lesbians."

"She's got two choices. Either stay cloistered in a ideological commune the rest of her life, or live in the real world."

"That's what worries me. I mean, isn't there some way we can bring her back to the real world?"

Margaret tried to comfort her as best she could, until Kate said she needed to lie down. Margaret then took the book into her room and looked through it. A few months ago, she'd have never admitted to herself how much some of those images aroused and interested her. But neither Kate nor Annie would understand – Kate was too conventional, and Annie too extreme. At least Kate wasn't making an effort to oppress her. Yes, Annie was oppressing her, even if she didn't know it, all in the name of women's liberation, and it made her angry. Here she was, a competent citizen and businesswoman, and this nineteen year old ideologue was convincedshe knew better! Margaret put aside the book and went into the kitchen to brew some tea. Lady Claretta had turned her on to jasmine tea, and she found the scent and delicate flavor a soothing balm. Still, she couldn't stop thinking about Annie's arguments, and Kate's desire to have her look beyond the orthodoxies she'd swallowed whole and was regurgitating at them whenever she had the chance. Margaret remembered Professor Leone, her advisor and teacher, and a maverick among the faculty's feminist contingent. She had often debated other feminists – students, other professors, and visiting speakers – on various issues, and always pushed her students to continually question assumptions and challenge contradictions from every side, including and especially their own. Question and challenge – yes.