Taken

Annie finally came back, plopping down on the couch. Margaret now came into the living room, and sat down across from her.

"What?" Annie snapped.

Margaret put down her mug of tea. "What does feminism mean to you? In just a few words, what is feminism?"

Annie did a double-take. "Wow! Um, ... Justice. For women. Justice for women."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Abortion rights. Lesbian rights."

"Those are two ways. But what if a woman doesn't want to have an abortion, or be a lesbian?"

"Then she doesn't have to. The point is that she should have the choice."

"If you don't like abortion, then don't have one."

"Right."

"And if you don't like lesbians, then don't be one."

"And just leave them alone."

"And if you don't like porn – "

"Hold on!" Annie raised her voice. "That's a different thing completely."

"How?"

"Pornography isn't just images and writing. It's the core of patriarchal attitudes towards women – that we're just things, objects for men's pleasure."

"You're saying that, wherever there is oppression of women, there is pornography, and vice versa."

"Exactly."

"So what if you have a society where women are oppressed, but there is no pornography?" Annie didn't respond, so Margaret continued: "Societies in the Pacific islands, for example."

"That's not the same thing!"

"You said," Margaret went on, "that pornography was at the heart of women's oppression, that they go hand in hand. Now, if you can have a sexist society without pornography, then maybe you can have – "

"Pornography without sexism? Yeah, right!"

"Why not?"

"Because porn is degrading and abusive to women by definition."

"Really? Does that mean gay male porn isn't really porn? I mean, there are no women, so – "

Annie growled, slammed her fists into the sofa, and jumped up. "You don't get, Aunt Margaret! You just don't get it!"

Margaret stood to look her in the eye. "You're right. I don't get it. It doesn't make sense to me. So help me to understand."

"How?"

"By reading and listening toall sides of the issue, instead of just repeating what you've been told."

Annie folded her arms. "You telling me you think porn's agood thing?"

"Not necessarily. I'm saying it could be more complicated than that."

"Well, maybeyou should look at all sides of the issue, too."

Margaret gave a nod. "Fair enough. We'll both look at it, and keep in touch. Deal?"

Annie gave a smirk and held out a hand. "Deal," she agreed, and they shook on it.

*** Sixteen ***

She reviewed the remaining details and confirmed them with Tarquin as he requested. When all was ready, she gave Ari the phone number for the cottage, simply explaining that she could be reached there for emergencies on most weekends, until further notice. Then she packed an overnight bag and drove there after work on a Friday.

Seeing the pictures was one thing. Being in the space was another. The interior was warm and cozy. The living room had a working fireplace, and the eat-in kitchen was bright and clean. She opened the back door, looked at the porch light, and flicked the switch to test it. Leaving this light on was her signal. She went upstairs to the two bedrooms and bathroom, and chose the room with the four-poster bed. Changing into a flannel shirt and sweat pants, she lit a fire in the fireplace, turned on the stereo to play classical music, made some tea, and curled up with a good book on the living room couch. When she was ready for bed, she changed into cotton camisole and panties, and crawled under the covers.

She never expected it to happen during the first weekend – that would be too obvious. At least she had a chance to relax and become accustomed to the new surroundings. Her new routine fell into place - weekdays at work, weeknights at home, weekends at the cottage. Occasionally, she would spend Friday nights at the Lair, and one weekend she went away to a family gathering. The weeks went by, then a month, then two months, well into three, and the tension became unbearable. Especially since she had chosen to refrain from masturbating during the wait. Finally, she approached Tarquin at a Lair party.

"Do you wish to cancel the arrangements?" he asked her.

"No! I want them to happen. Actually happen!"

"And theyshall happen," he assured her. "At the proper time."

"But when is the 'proper time'?" she pressed.

Tarquin looked straight at her. "The time that is right for both you and your ravisher. Be patient, Miranda. Be patient."

She tried to be, but it was hard. The waiting reminded her of that time in college, waiting for Brent to take her.

The Monday after that meeting, she came home, and the phone rang. The voice on the other end was low and measured. "Miranda?"

She straightened up. "Who is this?"

"Tarquin tells me that you are growing impatient with me."

Her eyes turned to the window. "Are you my ravisher?"

"I will be," the voice replied, "when the time is right."

"I'm just worried that you're not really into this."

"I am, I assure you. Your fantasy is most intriguing. And I am very ... taken ... with you."

Margaret tried to speak, but found it hard to find the words for a minute. "When can I expect – "

"If I tell you," he interrupted, "then it wouldn't be a surprise, as you wished. Rest assured. The time will come."

There was a click on the other end. Margaret walked closer to the window. Had he been watching her? She wondered. It was spooky to think of that – and thrilling, even flattering. Her heart hammered so hard, it almost threw her off balance. She went into her bedroom, aching for relief.

The next day, she swam laps in the pool, then spent time floating weightless. The peace, the coolness, the sound of the water mixed with remembering his reassuring words, balanced with her anticipation. Yes, she thought, be patient.

*** Seventeen ***

She arrived at the cottage late Saturday morning, having spent Friday night with friends enjoying the symphony. It had been a while since she'd been to a concert, and it was just what she needed. She took a hot bath, had a late lunch, and relaxed in the living room until about half past six, going upstairs to bed.

Half-awake, she thought she heard a noise downstairs. She got out of bed, put on her slippers and bathrobe, and crept downstairs, turning on the lights as she went. The living room was silent. The kitchen was empty. Quarter to eight on the clock. Trembling, she checked the back door. Still locked, no sign that anyone had come in. Back in the living room, she looked about some more, arms folded over herself, shivering half with fear and half with excitement. All for nothing – and she'd probably never get any sleep! And to top it off, she had to pee. She strode up the stairs into the bathroom, took off her robe, and used the toilet. After washing and drying her hands, she took the robe off the hook and was about to put it back on. Wait a minute, why was she bothering? She carried it in one hand as she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Without warning, an arm gripped her waist, a glove over her face, and a familiar mysterious voice whispered in her ear: "Tiger, tiger, burning bright!"

As soon as she screamed, she was on her knees. Her ravisher brought her face down to the floor, and began to caress her crotch through her panties with his free gloved hand. She inhaled deeply between her cries, taking in the scent of his leather. He whispered into her ear, groping and stroking her before dragging her into the bedroom. She found herself helpless, her hands tied to one of the bed posts, then her ankles bound together. Dressed head to toe in black, the ravisher displayed a large Bowie knife. She forgot how to breathe. As the cold metal slid under her panties, she squealed, and he pulled up the blade to slice through the cotton. Her panties came off quickly, followed by her top, and once again his hands explored her as he whispered in his low, gravelly voice ... poetry.

Her eyes were open, yet she never saw him undo his pants, only felt the head of his sheathed cock rubbing against her, bringing her closer and closer to arousal despite her gasping: "No! No! No!" She ached, feeling herself approaching climax, arching her back as she tried to convey in her repeated no's that she couldn't stand the teasing. And then he went into her, and her no became a quaking, incomprehensible moan. The ravisher laughed, whispering his delight that her body took pleasure, wrapping his arms about her as he thrust and gyrated, bringing her to one breathless climax after another until he groaned and pushed with relief. She panted and went limp, eyes closed, feeling the touch of his gloves ever so gently gracing the surface of her still simmering skin.

The ravisher went away, leaving her naked and tethered to the bedpost. Would he leave her there, tied and helpless? She tried to position herself to look at the clock, see how long he'd been gone. Maybe he expected her to escape, so that he could capture her again? She tried to reach the knot on the rope with her teeth, to pull it loose and free her hands. Then he came back, a dark scarf in his hands which he brought to her eyes. She shook her head and tried to struggle, but he straddled over her to hold her still and fastened the scarf about her head. Her squeals earned her a soft cloth in her mouth, and she continued to groan as her ravisher climbed off her and teased her more with his leather-clad hands and feather-soft voice. Then he lay next to her, and she could feel he was naked. His fingers went to her crotch, and she could feel her heart exploding, her breath scorching her lungs, her skin prickle with the fire of want, and then her being entered, then vacated, then entered again, while her ravisher murmured a sonnet she could not recognize in the overwhelming sensations. And then he took her again, pushing into her from behind, one hand's fingers woven into her hair and pulling her head still as his mouth worked on her neck, the other roaming over the front of her body with generous time against her mons and clit, and she came so violently that her mouth opened wide, the gag fell out, and a cry rose from deep within her, sounding like an attempt at no but releasing a long-denied yes.

She barely remembered what happened soon after. She knew the soft leather ran over her back as she lay face down, her face nestled between her upper arms, the scent of her own passion entering her breath. Then she was left alone again, floating in sensation so that she could not think. She didn't want to think, only feel. Her muscles ached wonderfully, her skin wet, her ears roaring with the sound of the pulse in her arms, and all she could feel of the outside was a draft coming through the open bedroom door.

Her ravisher came back, rolling her on her back. She felt and tasted his calfskin glove, with hints of herself, against her lips, as his other hand went over the rest of her. She shook her head, attempting to say no, but only managing a squeal. "Shall I take you again?" he whispered, over and over, as she wriggled in faux resistance. She tried not to smile, biting her lower lip, only to have him tenderly pry open her mouth. He crawled on top of her, his member rubbing between her thighs, his still unseen face by hear ear, whispering once more: "Shall I take you again, ... as you have taken me?" She found herself panting and whimpering showing resistance while wanting yet again to be taken, feeling his hands running from her elbows, over her drenched armpits, across the sides of her chest, resting on her hips until he took her again, her head pressing against the pillow as he enjoyed her flesh, kissing her all over, holding her still at her hips, fucking her without mercy or malice, taking her, ravishing her, embracing and transmuting and returning her power and desire mixed with his own, until she lay still and silent again.

When she awoke, her blindfold was off. The ravisher was dressed and masked again. She tried to speak, but could only gasp, and he held a finger to her lips, then untied her hands. Gently, he draped the sheet over her body and folded her arms across her torso. He brought his hidden face to her ear. "You're all right?" She nodded, her mouth twitching into a smile. He brought his fingertips to her eyelids, and brushed them closed. She lay still, hearing the soft sound of his rubber-soled shoes tread out of the room and down the stairs, as she drifted at last into sleep.

*** Eighteen ***

Margaret woke late Sunday morning, exhausted yet fulfilled, finally fulfilled. She remembered how he touched her, how he took control, how he voiced his own desire for her in ways she never imagined. He had ravished her in every way, taken her as she wished to be taken. She'd been taken, and cherished. She'd been held captive, and liberated. She'd released control, and gained even more. She'd fulfilled a base desire, and felt transcendent.

On the table in the kitchen, she found a pair of black leather gloves, with distinctive markings stitched on the backs. She held them to her nose, taking in the medley of scents. Yes, these were what he wore.

The phone rang, and she picked it up. "Hello?"

That voice again. "How are you, Miranda?"

She couldn't help grinning. "I'm fine, thank you. You left something on the kitchen table."

"Those are yours to keep," he told her. "I have another pair."

"That's very sweet."

"No regrets?" the ravisher asked.

"No," she answered. "No regrets."

"Good," he replied, his voice becoming more gentle, more natural. "I would hate to disappoint a lady such as you."

She suppressed a giggle. "And what type of lady do you think I am?"

"What indeed!" he whispered, then recited to her: "What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? And what dread feet?"

Four breaths of silence, and then he hung up.

After cleaning and packing, Margaret drove back home for the last time. Or, would it be? Perhaps she would use the cottage again. She had thought this would be just once, to act upon the desire and get it out of her system, but she could not help wondering about the face beneath that mask, the hands within the gloves, touching her skin and heart, twisting spirit and sinew both with caress and verse. The anonymity helped to keep her fantasy exciting. Now it brought a new sense of wondering. Driving home, she found a new desire, more subtle, seeking to be fulfilled.

*** Nineteen ***

She told few people about her weekend – who could she tell? Tarquin was a must, along with thanks for all of his arrangements. Claretta also received an email. Later that week, she spoke with Sheri over lunch, who grinned from ear to ear as she listened to the whispered tale. Ari, meanwhile, was going crazy trying to figure what had made his boss grin and beam so brightly.

The next Wednesday, she decided to go to eight-minute dating one more time. For every man who sat with her, she asked two simple questions: recite a love poem, and tell me how you like to have sex. They were all totally taken aback, completely caught off guard, and a couple asked her: "Why? What does that tell you about me?"

She had thought about it before going into the event, so she knew her answer: "I want to know that you have an imagination, and that you're not afraid to use it. Yes, I want a stable, loving relationship – ultimately. But not boring."

The gloves remained with her, in her purse. Sometimes she took them out at night, enjoying the feel of them, running her fingertip over the intricate stitching, bringing them to her nose. And when she went to the next Lair party, she chose to tuck the gloves into her belt.

She met Aria and Largo again, who had come back from a recent vacation. Isolde was there, too, and they chatted for a while. Then there came a man she hadn't seen, with red hair and a black mask with bright orange streaks.

"Interesting accessory," he noted, pointing to the gloves.

"A keepsake," she explained simply, then extended her hand. "Miranda."

"Darius," he replied, taking her hand and gently kissing it, bringing a smile to her face.

"Your voice seems a little familiar," she commented, "but I can't place the design of your mask. Have you been a member long?"

"Quite a while," he said, "but I haven't been to a party for some time."

Their conversation was interrupted by Tarquin announcing that the planned entertainment had been postponed, but that they had a number of guests and new members to the club, and that people were encouraged to socialize. The room then returned to normal, and a couple noticed Darius and rushed to greet him. He excused himself, but pleasantly expressed his hope that they could talk some more. Margaret went off to talk to one of the newcomers, a nervous young woman called Angelina.

"Are you a guest here?"

"Uh huh. Just curious."

"Well," Margaret offered, "if you have any questions, feel free to ask."

"Actually, I do," Angelina told her, "but I really don't like being in big crowds like this."

Margaret nodded. "I'm sure we could find a place where you'd be more comfortable." With that, she led her to one of the attendants, who in turn directed them to an available room.

The night went quickly, and she said good-byes to various friends before going to her car. Then she heard someone call out her name, and turned about. It was Darius.

"Oh, hello again."

He approached her slowly. "We never had a chance to talk. Perhaps you could give me a call?"

It was unusual for members of the club to approach one another like this, and she hesitated in her response. He handed her a calling card, his hand in a black leather glove with distinctive markings stitched on the back. Still looking at the card, she slowly raised one hand to her side – yes, her gloves were still there. Looking into his eyes, she took the card. Darius smiled, obviously pleased, and departed for his car.

Margaret called him a few nights later, recognizing his voice on the phone. "Darius?"

"This must be Miranda!"

"Yes!" she laughed. "How are you?"

"Very well," he remarked. "I know Tarquin said that you didn't want to know who – "

"It's all right," she assured him. "I didn't want to know beforehand. But, ... this is fine." She rolled her eyes. Damn, she thought, I sound like a doe-eyed schoolgirl. Then she grinned to herself. Oh, what the Hell! "In fact, I'd been wondering who that masked man was."

He chuckled. "I guess I left an impression on you."

"You did. I wasn't expecting you to recite poetry during the scene."

"Well," he said softly, "I was inspired."

That caught her off-guard. "By ... "

"First off, your choice of a startword. That piqued my curiosity. Made me refresh my memory of Blake."

"Yes, I remember."

"Is that your favorite poet?"

"One of them, yes. Yours?"

"I'm more partial to John Donne."

"Oh!" she cried out. "'Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee'!"

"It's his love sonnets I truly enjoy. They're fantastic! You see such a command of language, conveying sublime passion."

He began to recite some lines for her, and the conversation went on and on into the night – poetry, music, psychology, sexuality. Darius had come into ravishment reluctantly, attending a bondage class at the Lair some two years ago, and finding the excitement and intensity intoxicating. But, especially thrilling for him was in planning and executing more challenging scenes, such as hers.

And finally, as midnight approached, she found the courage to ask: "Would you like to meet for dinner?"

"I'd like that very much!" he chimed. "There's a French bistro on the south side of town."