I realise that this is the first time I have seen her without make-up. It seems strangely perverse to view her like this, imperfectly groomed, an uninvited intimacy between women such as ourselves.
My breathing quickens at the thought.
With her head tipped back and held there, her throat forcibly exposed, she could appear almost vulnerable to one who didn’t know better – a machine with its circuits bared. She is beautiful, of course, in an angular sort of a way. That cruel mouth is rigid, closed defiantly against my gaze. The eyes say nothing.
Idly, as I sip at my glass of wine at the other side of the room, I wonder about her heritage: Northern European; Soviet; Germanic perhaps? I imagine her ancestors to have come from somewhere cold and picturesque with a deceptively violent past. The air is hot around us, uncomfortably so, room wide and dark except for the flickering striplight above her head, into which she is forced to stare. She waits, and does not struggle against her restraints now. They are made of old, cracked leather, strapped tightly enough to the wooden frame that they pucker the skin of her wrists when she clenches her fists a little, a small shiver (which she hides, of course) running to her fingertips as she does so. The veins at the backs of her hands swell. Her long fingers tremble just once before she can stop them.
Something inside me jolts deliciously at this, so inhale hard, take another sip of wine, and pretend not to have noticed. I remain at the other end of the room still, feigning detachment, exactly as she is. Our competition is unspoken. Her face has been positioned so that she is, for the moment, unable to turn and look at me. For this I am grateful. There is power in my invisibility, and in the rising apprehension that she tries, with ailing success, to hide.
She swallows, and a tiny spasm runs down her throat, neck straining at the exertion, head locked in position by its frame. A double blink now, almost imperceptible. Her chest rises and falls with slow, deliberate breaths, nipples hard as pebbles. The dark blue vest she wears is made from thin cotton, utilitarian and unfussy like the matching briefs. These are the layers that nobody sees. For planned encounters, I imagine her in painted face with lace and underwiring, stockings perhaps. Her private, unprepared self has been captured here. Her feet are bare. She is pinned and framed like a butterfly caught in mid-flight.
Yet even here, now, bound to her seat, waiting in silence, she retains the poise and composure of her profession. Her legs are held slightly apart, ankles and thighs strapped firmly to the sturdy oak legs of the chair, her feet pressed flat against the cold tiles of the floor. The muscles are tight in her face. She remains cooly defiant, as impeccably expressionless as she has ever been, but one eyelid twitches, just once, and she swallows again.
My body tingles, every nerve aroused by this momentary display of humanity.
She has returned to the stillness, to the hard and dispassionate expression, but the thought that she is afraid beneath the tough, taut surface makes my pulse gallop. I lick my lips. Her hair is the colour of refrigerated butter, the kind that must be left to melt before it becomes soft enough to spread. I imagine touching that hair, the fine texture of fresh web slipping between my fingers, then grabbing, twisting, pulling until it hurts. How much pain would it take to force a reaction, I wonder?
I stay at my end of the room with my glass of wine, aware that – for now – the anticipation is affecting her more deeply than any imminent torture. She hears me light a cigarette. I know that she is now thinking about the possibilities of fire, waiting for me to approach and take a long breath of sweet white smoke, mocking her with it, exhale dramatically into her face, and explore the smooth, unbroken contours of her body – inner arms, midriff, thighs perhaps – with the burning tip of my cigarette. I do not move. I stay in my corner and watch her dwell upon these thoughts. I take another drag of smoke. She waits.
Her skin is milk, and my fingers ache to touch. Jewels of sweat have formed on her forehead. They betray every tremor as she tries to remain unmoved by her circumstances. Each breath is shorter now, forced, almost a silent sobbing from deep in her chest. Nonchalantly, I think about circling my hands around the stretched curve of her throat, the pads of my thumbs together between chin and collarbone, pressing until I feel the futile push of protest from the muscles in her neck, tensing hard, forcing her to speak, to gasp, to beg.
I tell myself to have patience. In the shadowed corner, I drop my cigarette to the floor and grind it to crumbs and powder beneath my thin metal heel.
Her pale eyes remain wide, staring up at nothing. For a moment, there is a droplet at the corner, something that could almost be a teardrop escaping, darting down over her cheek before vanishing into the soft hollow beneath her ear.
For a moment, this overwhelms me, steals my breath, turns me on with an exquisite and involuntary tremble at the very core of my sex.
I imagine my tongue on her skin, the musky taste of salt and sweat, and wonder if that pitiless mouth would become warm and yielding beneath my kiss. Her hips would be smooth against my palms, flesh soft as I slide my fingers down, slip them underneath the elastic of those navy cotton briefs, feeling the slight bristle of trimmed hair, the deep pulse and swell as I touch her hard little clitoris for the first time and circle it, lightly at first, the storm surge as I delve, that pulpy soft skin so slick and soaking, so hot against my fingertips…
And she is wet by now, of that I am certain. I stand at my corner and watch her as she waits. In this profession, the flutters of terror and uncertainty come with their own inescapable excitement. She feels it, just as I do.
I imagine how her face would be at that moment: flushed; pained; muscles contracted. As the sensation built, layer upon layer, brimming to the surface, I would be cruel, stroking her delicate clit, circling, fingertip firm in its slippery orbit, other hand on that stubborn face, feeling her mouth as it tried to close, my fingers between her lips, pushing, forcing. Her reluctant shivers would drive me further, the thrill of that malleable body trapped in my grip. I would rub harder, faster. My hand would be drenched now, exploring unwilled tides that flowed between the tight petals of skin. She would resist. Every muscle would tighten. I would feel it beneath my fingertips. It would build and build, my breath hot and soft against her cheek, my hand against her clit, until that moment – the moment when her stiff resolve would suddenly be broken by the agony and indignity of orgasm – that familiar thump, thump, thump of pulsing cunt against dripping wet fingers. She would cry out perhaps, a helpless, wordless, primal sound that is neither a gasp nor a scream. Her limbs would strain at their restraints, twisting, bucking, dry leather creaking against the force of each violent quake. My fingertip would continue to dance on the hard little nub of her clit, drenched, yet relentless, forcing spasm after spasm through her tightly-strapped body. That guttural moan would erupt from inside her chest with every wave, sodden crotch grinding desperately against my hand. Her hungry lips will close on nothingness.
Not yet though.
All is quiet. I clear my mind of these possibilities and let the taste of wine roll on my tongue. Bound to her chair in the silence, she sits and waits, pondering, just as I am, what her fate may be. The striplight fizzes and blinks. She steadies her breathing, aware that I am watching. Her eyes tell me nothing.
It is time. I set my wine glass down on the table and cross the floor. My footsteps ring across the tiles, metal on stone. I approach slowly and stand above her. She is able to look into my face for the first time, the cool arrogance of her smile deceived by the fear that creeps in at the corners of her mouth.
“You,” she says, attempting a convincing deadpan.
We are ready to begin.