Vow of Silence (18 page)

“I understand that. I do not understand that you want to see
more of this woman who destroyed your career.”

“She was a child, Lin. She didn’t destroy my career.
Circumstances at the time warranted that I step down from my positions and I
chose to follow a different path.”

“You’re a sex worker, George, a high-paid prostitute! You
were a psychiatrist, a respected professional at the top of your field.”

“Stop talking. I love you. Nothing will change that. I need
some air. I’ll be back in a few hours to take you to the airport.”

As I pass through the threshold, pulling the door closed
behind me, I hear her voice, still strong with anger, but fading with defeat,
“Everything has changed, George. The minute you walked through that door,
everything changed.”

Gigi

“The sooner you accept your fate, the better off you will
be.” I awaken to Lenka towering over me. I bolt upright, feeling better sitting
rather than lying when he is in the room.

He turns to pace anxiously, and it is strange to see such a
powerful man trapped by nervousness. He falls over me, holding himself up with
his hands on either side of my head. I can feel his breath on my face and it
smells sweetly scented with anise, perhaps licorice or ouzo. “Learn to love me,
be my wife.”

“I’m not marrying you.”

“Then you will be my slave, forced to my will. It can be a
good life or a hard life for you. The choice is yours.”

“What does my father have on you that you would be willing
to do this?”

“Your father offers me protection.”

“You? Need protection?” The thought is laughable.

A nurse enters the room and he drops his face lower, making
us seem like lovers instead of the truth—whatever that is—at the moment I feel
threatened. He lowers his mouth and kisses me unexpectedly. I don’t struggle or
offer any indication to the nurse that I need help. I don’t understand why I
don’t.

His kiss is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced
before—gentle but determined, with an underlying promise of cruelty or passion.
He leaves me trembling…and quite speechless.

Wanda is my nurse’s name. She is as short as she is wide, a
black woman originally from the Deep South, she busies herself as she prepares
to check my vitals. Only after Lenka leaves the room does she say anything at
all. “Aren’t you a lucky woman? That man is as hot as asphalt in mid-August.”

I gape at the empty doorway, expecting him to return, but of
course he doesn’t. Wanda chatters incessantly and the only thing I hear clearly
is that I am to be released tomorrow. “Of course you’ll have to come back for
therapy every other day, and you may need surgery on those vocal cords in the
future—”

I burst into tears.

“Isn’t this good news?”

I shake my head.

“Too soon,” I gasp, straining my voice. It hurts unbearably.
How can I explain how afraid I am of leaving the hospital? God. Lenka. My
parents. All are threats I don’t possibly have the strength to deal with.
I
need to talk to George.

George

Lin has been gone for over a week and hasn’t called. I won’t
call her. I can’t even say that I regret walking away from the ridiculous fight
we were having, though I wish she’d been there when I returned. I can only
assume she took a taxi to the airport.

Preparing for the grand opening party at Bedlam has been a
salvation. I can always count on the club.

When my phone rings, I am surprised to hear Gigi’s voice. I
can tell she is straining to make herself heard. Her voice is a ruin of what it
once was. “They’re discharging me.”

“So soon?”

“My therapy can be completed as an outpatient.”

“So you are going home? Wow.”

“I can’t go back to my old apartment. At least not until
they capture whoever did this to me. I’m terrified he knows where I live. And I
can’t stay with my parents, that would be too unbearable. I’m going to check
into a hotel, but they won’t discharge me to a taxi. Will you pick me up?”

“Of course.”

The actual discharge is a nightmare. The paperwork is never
done on time.

“Is everything okay?” I ask Gigi.

It is obvious she is nervous. Every time the elevator bell
chimes, her eyes dart to see who is exiting.

She assures me everything is fine, but I don’t believe her.
By chance I notice today’s newspaper lying next to her bed, and the headline
leaves me stunned.

GRUESOME MURDER-SUICIDE SCENE DISCOVERED

The bodies of Diego Aparicio and his niece Isabella Aparicio,
both of Juarez, Mexico, were discovered in an abandoned warehouse scheduled for
demolition, the result of what appears to be a murder-suicide although there
are no leads as to what led to this tragic event.

Lifting the newspaper, I ask, “This was your father’s
gardener?”

“Yes, and his niece.”

“He found her—and killed her?”

Gigi shakes her head and is obviously paler than moments
ago. Her voice is a rough whisper when she declares, “I don’t believe that.”

“What do you think happened?”

Again, she shakes her head and shrugs. I notice her hands
are shaking. It’s obvious she’s terrified. It’s just as obvious that I’m going
to invite her to stay in my guest room.

I’m an idiot.
The thought drifts through my mind a
dozen times, but my arguments are stronger. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d
sheltered someone who was hiding from danger. I live in a gated community, and
the security measures Thomas added when he and his brother were hiding out are
still in place. My house is probably the safest abode in California.

I wait until I have her settled into my car before I ask,
“Would you like to stay at my house for a while? At least until the freak that
did this to you is found? Or we can find you a new apartment with high
security?”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Gigi, we’re friends. What we do for friends is never a
burden.”

Once I have her settled at my house and have given her the
grand tour, skipping the basement, I am relieved to see Gigi finally start to
relax. “Can I get you something? A glass of wine?”

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” It is going to be
hard to get used to hearing her ruined voice.

I lead her out to the pool garden and immediately realize my
mistake, not because she is uncomfortable, but because I am. I didn’t realize
how much I’ve come to think of this walled courtyard as Lin’s domain. This is
her favorite place, and it seems like she should be sitting here with us.

She isn’t going to react well to learning Gigi is staying
here.

I toy with the idea of not telling her. Surely in three
weeks time Gigi will be settled in a new place, and the past will finally be
put to rest.

“Why did you become my friend?” Gigi stares at her
wineglass.

“You intrigued me.”

“Because I cut myself and wasn’t ashamed of my scars?”

“Your scars were trophies. Or so it seemed at the time.”

She considers that. After a moment she meets my gaze and
agrees. “I can see that, although I wouldn’t have been able to at the time. I
was marking my survival. Instead of notching a bedpost, I notched myself.”

“The scars weren’t an outward acknowledgement of inner
turmoil, they were sexual encounters?”

“More or less.”

I’m completely disappointed and try to hide the fact behind
a sip of wine.

“The first time I met a stranger for sex he choked me out
and left me lying in an alley. I was so happy I was still alive that I cut
myself, so that the scar would remind me how lucky I was.”

Taking her hand, I push back one of her long sleeves and
turn her palm up so I can see if the scars that travel from wrist to elbow
remain visible after so many years. They are still white but not as shiny as
they once were. I count a hundred distinct evenly spaced scars. I take her
other hand and do the same.

“Two hundred men?” I see the teenager in my mind.

She amends, “Strangers.”

“And they all choked you out?”

“Choked me, beat me, sodomized me, burned me. I was always
glad to escape with my life.”

“Have you stopped cutting yourself?”

She laughs. “I ran out of arm skin years ago. I didn’t want
to ruin my legs. I always thought I had great legs.”

A single glass of wine quickly becomes two empty bottles on
the table.

“Was it a compulsion?”

“Scarring myself?”

“No, the dangerous liaisons.”

“I wanted to know what it felt like to be under someone’s
complete control. I wanted to know how it felt to understand that my next
breath was dependent upon their will.”

“I wish the community would have been more open then. There
are places teens can go now to understand their feelings.”

“Alternative Sex Centers? Do you really think they could
have helped me?” Gigi laughs hysterically, laughing until she can barely
breathe. She slaps her leg, takes a drink of her wine and chokes on it. She is
weeping when she says, “You do know that they have to preach abstinence until
adulthood, right? Because kids don’t have sex. Kids really don’t have
masochistic tendencies? Or sadistic leanings. Tell me you believe that.”

“The centers provide counseling. They offer advice.”

“Was that what you thought you were doing for me? Did you
see a future masochist in my young eyes?”

“I don’t think there was ever any doubt you were a
masochist, but I think there’s more to your story than deviant sexual
orientation. You’ve been destroying yourself little by little for too long for
there not to be.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

By now I am thinking it is either time to strip her where
she sits or take a shower, drink some coffee and manage to get to work on time.
I am really worried about Gigi. The more I learn, the more troubling her
situation becomes. Now is not the time to consider entering into a relationship
with her. “You aren’t going to stop, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“I want you to meet someone.”

“Someone?”

“One of my Dominants. I want you to do a scene with him. I
want you to have an alternative to the dangerous activities you’ve been seeking.”

“At Lewd Larry’s?” She laughs. “Nothing a professional is
allowed to do to me is going to be worth my time, George. You have to realize
that.”

“I didn’t say a session during normal business hours. And
the club isn’t called Lewd Larry’s now. I renamed it Bedlam. It’s darker and
moodier than Lewd Larry’s used to be.”

“Darker and moodier? I’m intrigued. Will there be pain?”

“As much as you can handle. I think if you can find an
outlet—perhaps someone who can safely administer the kind of pain and fear you
crave—you could break this dangerous cycle.”

“And what’s your Dominant alias, George? Do you have one, or
are you just referred to as the High Master?”

I know she’s making fun of me, of the club, but I answer her
anyway. “Doctor Psycho.”

Gigi

It’s a chilly night and I duck deeper into the wool jacket I
pulled on as an afterthought. Bedlam looms ahead, its neon sign a beacon to the
lost and lonely, the deviants seeking refuge from the mundane. George promises
me I can find relief from the agony that sends me blindly seeking pain among
strangers.
The man I’m meeting tonight is a stranger.
We both agree I am
on a path of self-destruction I won’t return from if I continue the patterns I
have.
This meeting was arranged by George. It will be safe, sane,
consensual.
I see him leaning nonchalantly in the shadows of the building.
I assume he considers himself well-hidden but I am attuned to George.
Coconspirator, enemy, savior. He wouldn’t send me into a dangerous situation.

I don’t approach him, preferring to allow him to believe he
is still well-hidden as I enter the club. Loud music pounds at me from all
directions. Naked dancers trapped inside Lucite boxes gyrate maniacally. Most
of the dancers are clad in leather or latex, and I stand out like a sore thumb.

“Gigi Marconi?” A man approaches with his hand outstretched,
looking like a Marine recruit poster model. His hair is buzzed close to his
head and from the way his t-shirt hugs his body, I think even his muscles have
muscles.
Dear Lord.
A mental breakdown is in order as soon as I’m done
here. I never expected the guy I was going to meet would be hot! Smoking hot!
Holy
crap. Forget trying to scare me, just fuck me!

I feel my face redden as I shake his hand.

“I’m Matthew Farris.”

I try to pull my hand from his, but he holds it tightly.

Silently, he pulls me through a door I hadn’t noticed in the
wall beside us. A long, dimly lit hallway stretches away from the dance floor.
The walls throb but the song is no longer recognizable. I assume it is too late
to turn back now. Cast in shadows, I try to appear confident, nonchalant.

“Doctor Psycho took the liberty of explaining your
situation. I want to assure you that I will do everything I can to make certain
you leave here satisfied. However, if you start to feel panicked we can stop
the scene at any time.”

I struggle for inner calm. I fight the urge to flee,
instinct clenching my gut and insisting I run for it. I don’t need
this
anymore. I learned my lesson. Really! Adrenaline floods into every muscle,
demanding I go. Now!

I make the mistake of looking up at the same time he utters,
“Relax.”

In the darkness his eyes glow ferally. Matthew Farris
appears to be in his element. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel like prey.
Quarried.

He commands me to relax. He lifts a blindfold into my field
of vision. I back away, shaking my head. In my mind I see the crowbar coming at
my head as I collide into the wall behind me. He lifts the leather close enough
for me to smell it. I feel my mind snapping. I feel myself sway, but he
steadies me. He whispers close to my ear as the blind closes over my eyes. “I
won’t hurt you any more than you want me to.”

He’s going to hurt me. That’s the plan. That’s why I’m
here. Because I need this. Sure, I’m scared. I’m terrified. Who wouldn’t be
after coming face-to-face with God?

“We need to take precautions. Doctor Psycho told me that it
would be very dangerous to your condition if you were to scream. You understand
that it would be damaging for you to try to use your voice in any way?” He
turns me to face him and I feel his lips kiss the tracheostomy scar at the base
of my throat. I know he waits for an affirmative response. I nod.
How am I
supposed to not scream?

His hand wraps around the back of my neck, raising
gooseflesh, raising expectations of pain, but yields only a gentle massage. Out
of nowhere—pain. It almost takes me to my knees but I don’t scream. I don’t
make a sound.

“Very good, Gigi.”

He removes the blindfold and shows me the electric prodder
he just jolted me with. “You need punishment as much as normal people need air,
don’t you, sweetheart?”

I whisper, “Yes Sir,” letting him hear for the first time
the graveled ruin of my voice.

“That’s why you almost allowed a stranger to kill you?
Seeking the high that comes with pain?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

I stare at him bug-eyed.

“I think you were chasing death. Hoping for it.”

I shake my head, but he’s already guessed the truth.

“Don’t bother denying it. Do you want to die still?” He
crowds into me, trapping me between the radiant heat of his chest and the cool,
solid wall.

“No.” I am suddenly very afraid of the man in front of me.
He has a face of an angel and the body of a warrior. He could woo me or kill me
should he choose to do so…and I would let him. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I’m not the same as I was—before.”

“Yes, you are and that’s exactly why you are here. Because
George knows as soon as you are able to you will be seeking another stranger on
the internet to do horrible things to you.”

“I won’t,” I promise, but I think we both know it is a lie.

I’m not sure why I follow him onto an elevator, or why when
he steps out and I see that he has exited onto the building’s roof that I
follow. Curiosity? Need? A lingering death wish?

I don’t believe for a second that he intends to kill me.

The sky is dark and the cold wind whips through my hair. I
dare not think how high we are. Fear wraps tight tendrils around my lungs. The
sound of traffic below seems muffled and distorted. My knees buckle and I reel
unsteadily, fearing plummeting to my death, before regaining my balance.

“It’s a beautiful night.”

He wants to make small talk?

He takes my hand and pulls me closer to the roof’s edge. I
don’t look down. I don’t look up. Instead I focus on the base of his throat.

He pushes my jacket open and pulls the fabric down off my
shoulders. “Take this off. Let me see you.”

I don’t know why I obey but I do and drop the coat to the
ground. I feel his hands slide down the front of my blouse and the buttons seem
to fly open at his touch. Magic or skill? I don’t look at his hand when he cups
my breast through the thin, lacy fabric of my bra.

His hand is warm, making me very aware of how quickly I’m
growing cold.

“Strip, bitch!” Farris’ barked command shakes me from head
to toe. And yet I obey without question, my unbuttoned blouse sliding easily
off my shoulders. I reach behind my back to unzip my short linen skirt, olive
green to match the blouse. I feel the wrinkles in my skirt as I skim it slowly
over my hips. I was properly attired for a day at the office or a business
luncheon. Now, a little too late, I realize I still wear pantyhose over panties
and very businessy low-heeled shoes. Sexy I’m not, and I wonder why, or if, I
purposely sabotaged this meeting by forgetting all about the fetish wear still
draped and waiting over a chair at home.

I tug at the elastic top of the hosiery, pulling them down
over my hips. He squats before me and runs his hands over the bare skin of my
thighs. My hands stall, balled in the silk hosiery still tangled just below my
knees.

“Tell me about your dark fantasies, Gigi.” His warm breath
falls in an unbearable caress over my bare thighs.

“I don’t want you to pleasure me.”

“Pleasure?” He chuckles. “Is that why you think I’m kneeling?
You think I’m going to lick your pussy?”

I don’t like being made fun of, but I fully intend to finish
the job I started. Stepping out of my shoes, I tug off the pantyhose. I
straighten again and slide two fingers beneath the elastic of my panties to take
them off as well, but his hands close over each of mine, effectively trapping
them at my sides.

“I’m. Going. To. Hurt. You. Now.” Each word spreads more
heat over my thighs, making me tremble in anticipation. I squeeze my eyes
tightly closed, not believing my body is betraying me. Heat builds in my
uterus, a throbbing need shooting through my veins. This can’t be happening. I
will not come. Not over words.

He runs his stubbled cheek over my thigh, ending with his
face buried against my crotch, and he inhales loudly, saying, “You smell so
fucking good.”

Without missing a beat, he taps the prodder on my ass,
shocking me.

I jerk and make a pained sound in my throat but I don’t
scream. Screaming isn’t a possibility—my vocal cords are ruined—but trying to
scream would ruin any chance of ever having surgery repair what’s left of them.

He zaps me again, and I’m not sure how I’m left still
standing.

He reaches his tongue out to find the clitoris hidden
beneath the soft cotton fabric of my panties. He closes his mouth around the
sensitive nub and sucks, soaking the fabric through.

“Please, I don’t want to feel any pleasure.”

His tongue is merciless. “Why do you need punished?”

“I didn’t say I need punished.”

“But that’s why you seek out men willing to hurt you, isn’t
it? What sin are you trying to atone for?”

“Did George put you up to this? Asking me these questions?”

Matthew pulls on the bud of my clitoris, sucking,
licking—demanding.

“No!” I gasp as my body responds to him. This can’t happen
again, I refuse to let this happen. I. Will. Not. Come.

A hand closes around the nape of my neck and my mind breaks
in two. Matthew and I aren’t alone on this roof, and the new fears of who and
why only push me over the edge faster. I come and come against Matthew’s
tongue. As I slump forward, spent, with four hands supporting me, I want to
curl into a ball and die. I feel every morning-after emotion known to
females—cheap, used, remorseful. I can’t think about what just happened. Or
why.

And then I hear a woman’s voice whispering in my ear. “Go
ahead, honey, tell him your secret. What sin makes you want to die?”

I imagine my mother on the roof. “No.”

Turning my head, I try to see who is behind me but Farris
zaps the top of my foot with the electric prodder. “I didn’t give you
permission to look at Mistress Morgana.”

Who?

Whoever she is, she licks and sucks the side of my throat
and the sensation sends shards of need down my spine. I smell clove-flavored
tobacco just before her lips touch mine. I am repulsed and turned-on at the
same time. I’ve never kissed a girl. She nibbles at my lips playfully and my
head rears away in reflex. I feel the grimace my mouth makes before I can stop
myself. I do not expect laughter in answer to such insult, but she does laugh.
“You don’t like my kisses?”

“No.” I whimper, struggling to free my mouth. She traps my
hands when I try to push her away. She licks my tears from my cheeks as Farris
draws my panties away, exposing me fully.

“Shhh, baby,” the woman whispers close to my ear. “Relax.”

Farris stands and the woman passes him a flogger. He fans
suede thongs over my shoulder in a soft caress. “Don’t be afraid.”

Afraid? Not a chance. I don’t know what I am feeling, but
fear isn’t on the list. The first blow is like lightning, ripping across my
hip. The next blow is light. A rhythmical shower of soft, thuddy blows follow.
I soon memorize the pattern as each slap lands—left, right, left, right. The
pattern flows evenly from shoulder to thigh, then reversing to travel thigh to
shoulder. A warmth builds, and a strange, languid weight fills my limbs.

The slap of the leather thongs increases in intensity,
offering a little sting, but the rhythm remains the same.

Morgana’s hands close over my breasts, massaging then
focusing fully on the nipples. I react by pulling away. It is too much, too
confusing, having two touching me—one causing pain that isn’t really pain, and
the other creating pleasure that isn’t really pleasure. I try to twist away
from both of them.

“Stay still,” Farris commands.

Morgana zaps me with the prodder and I jerk away from the
pain. She zaps me again and again, touching the tongs of the prodder to the
tops of my thighs, moving closer and closer to my mons. “Like that?”

“Yes.” Tears fall over my cheeks.

I get the odd sensation that these two have worked as a team
before. They are too attuned to each other’s moves to have not worked together before.
Between them, they generate a powerful idiom of pleasure and pain.

Why didn’t I ever seek out a professional? Someone who knew
what they were doing? It might have made more sense…except—it’s too safe, too
sane—they won’t really hurt me. They might cause me temporary pain, but this
isn’t real.
This is just a day at the office for them.

Morgana squeezes a nipple painfully and my eyes refocus. My
body refocuses too, and the slaps of the flogger aren’t nearly as kind. Loud
thud, sting. Morgana’s pincer fingertips. And the jolt of the prodder when I
least expect it. I cry out. It is too much.

In response, Morgana draws swirling circles around my
breasts, the gentleness a stark contrast to the pain. Her touch brings such
sweetness to the scene.

I don’t want this.

I don’t want to feel anything good.

I spit in her face and she reacts predictably. I find myself
flat on my back and looking up. Did she leg sweep me?

It happened so quickly, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am lying on my back on a bed of
gravel—I’m naked and cold, shivering—and Morgana steps over me, her feet on
either side of my ribs, to look down at me. “I think it’s time you learn your place.
On your hands and knees, dog.”

Dog?

I seem to remember George talking about some of the fetish
play. I’m not into games. I don’t want to role-play. “I’m not your dog.”

Morgana smiles wickedly and presses the prodder against my
shaved mons. I jerk and curse, trying to scurry out of the way, but I am
blocked by Farris when I collide with his legs.