Sips of Blood (10 page)

Evie shivered and padded her way back to her
apartment with Sade following closely behind. At the door she
stopped and looked at Sade.

"I hope to never see you again."

"I have assisted you in being rid of a
body."

"There wouldn't have been a body except...
What did you do to her?"

"Moi!
Nothing! I merely came to the
aid of someone who appeared ill." Sade brushed back a red curl from
Evie's right cheek.
"Mademoiselle
Evie." He brushed his
thumb across her deep red lips. "It is obvious you are truly a
beautiful, sensuous woman.
Une femme de petite vertu."
She
watched his lips form the sound of French poetry without
comprehension. "I could promise to never speak of your contribution
tonight if..."

"The pound of flesh."

"Literally."

Evie guided Sade into the apartment and
immediately into her bedroom, a room draped in black and red with a
standing bondage post. A wall rack and padded bondage table were to
his right. Upon the opposite wall hung an assortment of whips,
canes in a variety of materials, leather hoods, and on the aluminum
table various piercing devices.

"Mademoiselle,
the acoustics?"

"Three layers of soundproofing."

"C'est le paradis!"

"...I am in a state of the most violent agitation: I
shall not describe the night I passed: my tormented imagination
together with the physical hurt done by the monster's initial
cruelties made it one of the most dreadful I had ever gone
through."

Justine

by the

Marquis de Sade

Chapter 18

The Vault. Paddles. The Hellfire Club.
Garrett had made his way down to the meat packing district, a part
of Manhattan bustling during the day with humans cutting and
packing meat and at night with rats licking up the scraps and blood
left over from the day.

Garrett took a turn onto a dark side street.
A dim streetlamp revealed the presence of a few rats scurrying
across the blood-stained surface of the sidewalk. The rodents
didn't appear to fear him; they were busy seeking dormant flesh.
Uncomfortable with the sight, Garrett stepped down from the curb
into the street to avoid confrontation. Once past the rats he
stepped back onto the sidewalk. He wanted to find Rapture, the
fourth club on his list. Business associates had talked about their
slumming at sex clubs. Just to watch, of course, they always added.
Garrett decided to browse alone in case someone caught his
interest. He also left his chauffeured car at home, fearing it
would attract attention. If an acquaintance saw him at one of the
clubs, he could turn on his machismo attitude and join his friend
in having a drink while sharing a laugh over the scene they viewed.
He had scanned all the s/m magazines and noticed that several of
the clubs were grouped together in Chelsea and the Meat Packing
District. Rapture seemed to be the hardest to find.

No one walked the streets. It amazed him how
desolate the streets near the clubs were, since the clubs
themselves were crowded. He wondered whether an underground tunnel
existed, or whether the players never left the scenes.

An oasis of a restaurant appeared in the
midst of the sweltering silence of the summer night. A cab pulled
up in front of the restaurant, and a man and a woman stepped out.
Perhaps they would know. But he hadn't moved quickly enough,
because the couple rushed into the restaurant.

He moved closer to the restaurant and peeked
in the window. On the inside the restaurant looked like a
pretentious diner. Formica-topped tables with chrome-frame metal
chairs crowded in on each other, and at every table customers ate
their meals elbow to elbow. The young, professional couples
appeared to be dressed down in their designer jeans and
environmental T-shirts. Several people waited near the door for a
table.

Garrett mulled over whether he wanted to go
in and ask about Rapture. He didn't. He couldn't say whether his
hesitancy was because he didn't want to appear out of the loop in
the midst of a crowd that obviously thought they made up the loop,
or whether he would be embarrassed if someone did recognize the
name of the club.

The people at the table directly in front of
the window started waving at him and beckoning him to come in. He
knew they didn't want him to join them, since he couldn't have
squeezed himself in anywhere at the table. He guessed they felt as
if he were gawking at them. When he looked down at the food on the
table, he saw what he expected. Meat loaf, fried chicken, and
Salisbury steak. Old-fashioned diner food being served up as a
culinary experience.

A deep bark distracted him away from the
restaurant. A tall, baldheaded man in leather walked his Great
Dane. The dog and the man wore matching spiked collars.
If
anyone would know...

"Excuse me." Garrett approached the stranger.
The man's pale blue eyes inspected Garrett's clothing. That day
Garrett had worn his undertaker special, a plain black
single-breasted suit with a white shirt and a black and white
paisley print silk tie. "I wonder would you know where the Rapture
Club is."

The man stopped, and the Great Dane sniffed
Garrett's crotch.

"Are you a member?"

"I didn't think a person had to be."

"Only for the locked portion of the
club."

"So I can get into at least a part of the
club."

"Anyone can. Regrettably." Garrett expected
the man to sniff, but he didn't. "I should say any male with
forty-five dollars can get in. Females, of course, get in free. But
you look like you'd like that idea."

Not wanting to antagonize his source of
information, Garrett simply asked again for the location of the
club.

"You're standing in front of it."

Garrett turned around and peered at the
restaurant's window.

"You mean..."

"It's right above Ernie's."

"Ernie's. I take it that's the
restaurant."

"Yes."

"And the entrance?"

The man pointed to a fire door nestled in
between the restaurant and a packing house.

"Hard to find. There's no name on the
place."

"People usually don't need to see the name to
find it."

"This is my first time."
Brilliant
statement, Garrett.
He felt the weight of the dog's paw settle
on the tip of one of his new Ferragamo shoes. If he pulled his foot
away, the leather would definitely be scratched; however, if he
waited, his big toe might fall asleep. Brusquely he pulled his shoe
from under the dog.

"I'd better get Rin Tin Tin home. He's
getting a bit antsy."

Garrett laughed. "Rin Tin Tin?"

"That's right." The man didn't crack a smile,
but he continued. "Perhaps I'll see you later." He winked and
walked off with the dog.

Garrett went over and knocked on the fire
door. It swung open an inch and then all the way.

"Good evening." The voice sounded like a bad
impression of Marlon Brando. The body looked like Mr. America on a
double dose of steroids, and instead of glistening with oil his
body neoned in bright-colored tattoos. "Member or a guest?"

"Guest."

Immediately the man spun around and lifted a
xeroxed sheet from the table behind him.

"That will be forty-five dollars,
please."

Garrett counted out the money.

"Thank you. We have one request, actually a
list of requests." The man snickered. "We'd like you to read our
rules before climbing the stairs."

Garrett quickly scanned the short list
containing the typical sex club "do's" and "don't's": No public
intercourse. No forcing someone to play who did not want to. Always
use barriers when touching genitals. No speaking to participants of
a scene. Do not engage in loud talking or laughter when near a
scene. Do not touch members of a scene unless specifically
invited.... The only unusual suggestion indicated that a customer
could enlist a club employee's assistance in finding a willing
partner. This club may have an advantage over the others, Garrett
thought.

The edges of the cement-block stairs had
rubber grip runners. As Garrett climbed each step, he glanced at
the beige peeling walls. At the top of the staircase, burgundy
velvet drapes blocked the doorway. A thumping rhythm pulsed the
material. Cautiously he pushed the drapes aside.

Illumination dim, music loud, and a sweet
odor hiding sour sweat, all hit his senses in a flash.

As his eyes became accustomed to the lights,
he suddenly caught sight of several torture devices. The St.
Andrew's Cross to his right stood ready for a victim. A photograph
of St. Andrew hung on the wall between the two top cross beams. A
plaque next to the cross stated that, "According to Leonardo da
Vinci, the human body displays beautifully with the poser's legs
spread at a seventy-two degree angle. Enjoy!"

"Like to try it out?"

Garrett turned to see the man who had been
walking the Great Dane. His leather jacket was unzipped, revealing
a blood-red tattoo of a skull-and-crossbones on his chest. Garrett
marveled how the image looked as if it were carved from a bleeding
open wound. The brushed edges of the design gave the appearance of
bleeding flesh.

"No!"

The man moved closer to Garrett. He sniffed
the air.

"You have the smell of a sub." He pulled
Garrett's chin upward. "The pleading eyes of a submissive. And the
shallow breathing to mark you as victim."

The man started to undo Garrett's tie, but
Garrett pushed the hand away. Quickly he stepped around the man and
walked deeper into the dry ice haze filling the room in front of
him. He turned once to see whether the man followed. The man stood
stock-still, his pale blue eyes fixed on Garrett.
He's got my
number, but he's not my flavor.

Garrett moved on. Tucked away to his right he
saw a schoolroom, complete with blackboard, erasers, school bell,
dunce cap, and various-size rulers in varying thicknesses. The
handheld school bell reminded him too much of the bell the
principal in his parochial elementary school had held. The sight of
the nun had frightened six-year-old Garrett, with her towering
height and black-and-white habit that allowed only the center of
her face to peek through the wimple. That's where he first learned
not to touch himself, at least not in public, especially not in
church. He recalled the sting on his cheek caused by the pastor's
sharp cuff. An old one-piece school desk stood near a heavy-set
dominatrix. The kind of school desk he had had to lie across to
receive his punishment. As he reminisced, the dominatrix made her
sub lie across the desk. She chose the thickest ruler.

Garrett turned away and moved into the
opposite room. Here a group of people stood around a medical
examing table. Because of the crowd he couldn't see the patient;
instead he only heard a low moan or two. He moved back into the
hall and continued on.

A dungeon came up next with fake stone walls,
several inhabited cages, an occupied spinning catherine wheel, a
bondage chair, and two guillotines, one for each head. Stretched
out upon a rack lay a naked female. Her master selected a whip from
the wall and drew the whip's snakelike tendril across her flesh.
Clamps hugged her nipples, a black gag stretched across her mouth,
and her white flawless skin awaited the flushing burn of the
whip.

Garrett stood and watched as the woman
silently accepted the sting of the whip. Other males and females
gathered around. No one spoke. No one attempted to halt the
display. But, he thought, to their credit no one cheered. He backed
away from what he believed should have been a very private moment.
Tripping over traditional steel restraints, he moved on to the next
room.

Here the three mirrored walls reflected back
the spanking horse, the whipping post, and the spanking block in an
infinite series of receding reflections. The fourth wall displayed
the whips, floggers, crops, and paddles. The ceiling lights glowed
harshly down on very human-looking bodies. Beauty diminished by
wattage. A man in his late forties or early fifties stood naked in
the center of the room masturbating. Garrett noticed that the man
did wear white tube socks and high-top sneakers. His pack of Camels
caused a bulge in his left sock.

Garrett stared at his own image in the mirror
across from him. Suddenly the baldheaded man came into view behind
him. The man now had a black handkerchief tied around his neck.

"You moved through the club quickly. Didn't
find anything of interest? I can get you into the locked room.
There's something different waiting for you in the locked room."
The man spoke in a low voice. His lips hardly moved, but his words
came through clearly.

"I've seen enough."

The man smiled. A gold front tooth glinted
off the mirror's reflection. "How about some active
participation?"

"Not here," Garrett said. Not publically. He
needed
La Maîtresse's
strength, her control, her breath
softly floating across his skin as she moved to his neck.

"Blood sports."

"What?" asked Garrett.

The man reached into a pocket of his jeans
and pulled out a straight-edge razor similar to the one
Maîtresse la Présidente
used.

"You drink?"

In answer the man opened his mouth, stuck out
his long fat tongue, and licked his lips.

She wanted him to build up his blood.
Replenish all that she had taken. His blood bled only for her. But
she no longer found the taste satisfying. Not his flavor, but the
bald man desired what she had rejected.

"Back to your place?" Garrett asked.

Chapter 19

"Matilda, a bit more tarragon," Sade said as
he tasted the cooking mushrooms. "Tarragon adds an exquisite citron
liquorice flavor."