"Wear the white wrist gloves," he'd said. "Another dull party," I'd thought.
I knew the routine, inside and out (and inside, and out): I would wax and oil down and lotion and rouge and preen, till I was a perfectly-polished piece of eye candy, which he would display for the other partners in his practice.
And whatever his one small fetish-y request... (always made sweetly yet with a firm undertone)
...This time it was little girl's party gloves. Another time, it was towering stilettos with ribbon ankle ties. The time before that, he asked that I go bra-less, my breasts showing clearly through the thin silk dress I wore to the summer garden party. Whatever the request was, it would be a part of the ego-display for his friends and their stodgy mustached matron-wives.
(None of whom seemed to care that he had become downright unseemly -- taking up with a young tart and ostentatiously blowing his portfolio. But then again, aforementioned young tart elicited the first sparkle his eyes had held in the decade since he was widowed, beginning with a chance meeting over her credit card rejection in a Whole Foods checkout line.
And sparkling again, two hours later during the massage the tart's foot performed over the crotch of his trousers under the dinner table at Spago, before ever revealing her last name.
Frankly, I figured it for a fair trade, since I take far more from him than he does from me. My credit cards don't get rejected anywhere anymore, and his eyes get to sparkle a couple of times a month.
There were only the two before William, anyway: the clumsy fumblings of a schoolmate who "wanted to watch movies" in the basement after after mommy and daddy went to bed, and then a drunken college boy who never called back. I don't miss what I don't know, I suppose.)
So I'd dressed in a proper skirt and sweater, heels, hair, jewelry. All Sloane up, and mustn't forget the gloves. William came for me with a mischievous look, and insisted on putting a mask over my face. He led me away from the house, and ignored my sweet inquiries.
He offered me some Champagne in the town car, and though the glass was a bother with the mask and gloves on, I managed to find my way to the bottom of three of them. We rode for quite a while. I remember his hand on my knee in the car. After a time, I didn't recognize the city's lights. I've deduced there was something in it, in the wine... because I can't account for the glitches and memory lapses soon after.
Nor can I account for the DVD, a copy of which remains in the player in our room, ready to be brought to life on the enormous screen in the wall at any moment -- flashes of me wearing less, then less, then nothing but the gloves.
The scenes fill the room with skin and movement and moaning -- and of course, the white. When he turns it on now, these days after, I pretend to pale and squirm in shame. But I'm actually watching like a hawk, hoping to spot a second of something... anything to jog my memory.
Other than the soreness, of course. I won't forget that. My lips were crushed and swollen and bitten. My nipples are red and purple around the pink, round bruises from what I can only assume were mouths and fingers.
My knees were chafed raw the next morning, and there was an unusual abrasion on my lower back, as if I'd been on a wooden table. I can't see it properly in the mirror, and William won't answer me when I ask for the details.
My scalp was tender, as if my hair had been repeatedly pulled in great handfuls. There are cuts and finally-healing welts across my bottom, thin and well-defined and regularly-shaped as if from an electric cord.
There are half-moon marks in my hips and on my inner thighs, but of the sort a man's short fingernails cannot create, and they cannot have been my own (the gloves, you see).
Still, the only clear voice on the video is my own, and the muffled male grunts or occasional directions ordered from off-screen. If another woman was in attendance, she kept herself off the record.
There is a bite-mark on my shoulder, as though an animal intended to hold me in place while I was mounted.
All of my holes are sore. It still hurts to go to the bathroom, two days on. And... that... is one of the things I know happened for sure, because it can be seen in the video, clearly a side view. Without a doubt it's me, because the sheer pink panties I began the evening with are around one ankle, in the frame.
Before that are sequences where hands are slathering me with oil, and fingers are pushing into me, plunging, opening, rubbing. And in the close-up shot where a thick prick penetrates me, I can clearly recognize the tiny freckle that has been on my left hip since I was born.
I never saw any bit that looks or sounds like William. Except, toward the end of the video, where my tiny gloved hands are wrapped obscenely around two enormous cocks (the sort one only sees in "Barnyard Hussies #4" or on the dildo packages at the sex shop), competing to get at my face, my white-cottoned fingertips not meeting around the girth as I stroke them both, eye-to-leaking-eye, my head lolling back and forth wantonly, whimpering as my tongue and lips try to service both...
(Watching that scene, I never seem able to make eye contact with myself, so uncomfortable is it, so out-of-body to watch myself being used. I focus instead on the strap of my bra, which I can see has been cut with some sort of implement. Now, in the warm cocoon of my bedroom, I observe this all with forensic curiosity.) ...when one of the cock-owners lifts me off the floor to fuck my ass again, as the other pulls my drool-covered and semen-glazed mouth onto him. And right as the two faceless torsos are slapping at me and spewing into me at either end, if one knows where to listen, one can vaguely hear William's voice, over the grunting and slurping. I believe he says, "My good girl."
I won't be sure until I see it again.