by Wendy Leigh
As if she senses my thoughts, she gives me a glare, then carries on with her monologue.
“In a bizarre way, the spanking scene that followed—perhaps because it was more predictable, more familiar to me—didn’t throw me off balance in the same way that the scene with the ruler did, simply because the ruler and the way in which Robert wielded it, the monologue he conducted while he punished me, were a novel experience for me.
“But I didn’t leap up and stalk out of the dungeon, as Murray had always been deathly afraid I might do if the scene were too heavy for me. Instead, I just surrendered to the experience and the caning that followed, harsh and heavy as it was—accepted everything, and actually even enjoyed it, so much so that when Robert fucked me with what the Italians call brio, I didn’t have to fake coming but enjoyed a real and genuine orgasm. And afterward I was so fulfilled, so satiated, that I almost forgot that Murray had instructed me to conclude the session with my own special talent, sword swallowing.”
She clears her throat and goes on, “You wanted to learn more about the art of submission, Miranda. The information that I’m about to impart to you may be beneficial to you later in life, and I urge you to listen to it very carefully,” she says, and I want to puke.
“I mastered the talent of sword swallowing when I was relatively young, from an Arab prince, the father of one of the other students at Les Orchidées who took me under his wing, so to speak. Sword swallowing, cupcake, is not something to be taken lightly. Nor is the process by which I became proficient in the oral arts. Not on my knees, I must hasten to add, but on my back, with my head hung over the edge of the bed, and my mouth open. In that position, a man can insert his cock into a woman’s throat far more deeply than if she is in any other position.
“Of course, if a woman pleasures a man orally from that position which is so beneficial to him, it can, at first, be very hard on her, not literally but figuratively,” she says, and gives a little laugh at her pun.
I don’t laugh with her because I’m livid that she thinks that she can teach me anything about giving head. Because if I’m confident about anything, it’s about that.
She cuts into my thoughts and goes on, “The first few times I gave a man oral sex when on my back, with my head hanging over the side of the bed, I felt as if I might easily choke. But as time went on, I became more than skillful at controlling my gag reflexes. Which is, of course, why, when I asked Robert to enact a strangulation fantasy on me, I was able to endure it without gagging,” she says, and I give a start that she has mentioned the strangulation fantasy that she used as blackmail fodder on her wedding night with Robert.
I can tell that she expects me to ask her about that night, about the movie she had secretly made of it, about her subsequent threats to Robert, just so that she can justify what she did to him.
“So then what happened, Georgiana?” I say, as dispassionately as I can manage.
She flicks a lock of hair from her eyes and then opens them up very wide.
“Why, Miranda, I really had no idea that your memory was this bad,” she says with a sneer. “I told you all about it just a short while ago.”
I flush with anger but keep silent.
“Well, let me refresh your memory for you. After I cleaned Robert up,” she goes on, and enunciates each syllable as clearly as is humanly possible, “and he managed to compose himself again . . .”
Bitch, to rub her power over Robert right in my face!
“He helped me to my feet, like the true gentleman he is, reached into his wallet, and slid out a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar notes, as casually as if I’d asked for a Kleenex and he was passing one to me,” she says.
And I flash back to how he’d flung the Double Eagle at me as if it were worth eight bucks, not eight million, and I feel a sudden rush of pleasure at the memory of his devil-may-care attitude toward his fortune.
“When I say Robert handed a thousand dollars to me, Miranda, to be accurate, what I really mean is that he tried to hand it to me, but I sidestepped him and didn’t take it. Easy to do, when Murray had prepared me so painstakingly for Robert to shower money on me, and coached me extensively on refusing it,” she says, and I don’t know whom I hate more, her or Murray.
“And then I said the line Murray told me to say: ‘No, sir, I did this at the behest of my Master, not for money.’ ”
Her voice ripples with pride at her own theatrical performance, and I want to slap her. “And what did Robert do then?”
“Tried to push it on me, but Murray prepared me for that in advance, only too well, and so I reacted with high drama, flung Robert’s money on the dungeon floor, burst into floods of tears, and ran out of the room,” she says.
“But how did you manage to burst into tears to order, Georgiana?”
She picks up a cat-o’-nine-tails and trails it up my left arm and down again, then up again, and I stiffen.
“Silly Miranda! Crying on demand is easy as pie! Ever since I was five years old and nanny tried to make me eat prunes when I didn’t want to, I was always able to turn on the waterworks at the drop of a hat,” she says, and I can’t help but note the irony that it’s taken me almost my whole lifetime to be able to cry, to be able to lose control and let the tears flow, but she has always been able to do it at will.
“Then what, Georgiana?” I say.
“Then the game was on for real,” she says, and if I could have killed her at that moment I would have, then and there, on the spot.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“After I fled the dungeon, I ran out of Le Château like a bat out of hell, and into the cab Murray had on standby all evening for me, then to JFK, from where I flew to London and safety,” she goes on.
“And you didn’t look back for even a second,” I say bitterly.
“That’s not true. Not true at all. I couldn’t get Robert out of my mind, not in the taxi to the airport, not on the plane to London, not in my waking hours, and not in my dreams,” she says, and I wish I had asked her a different question.
“So you were in London all those months when he was searching for you?” I say.
“Every single second. Much safer than in the US, where he might have found me more easily,” she says.
“And how did you know that Robert was searching for you so desperately, while all along you were hiding away in London?”
“Murray,” she says, and twists her signet ring so that the crest is facing up.
For a moment we stare at each other in silence.
Then she sits up straight and adds, “One thing I will swear is that through it all, the entire time Robert searched for me and I listened to all the reports Murray gave me about him, I never once gloated that he was devoting so much energy to finding me, nor did I ever laugh at him.”
I wish she hadn’t said that, because I know that if Robert ever reads her book—her grand excuse for an apology, an explanation, whatever the fuck it ends up as—the one thing he would never, ever forgive is if she ever laughed at him during that time.
“I’ll bet Murray laughed at Robert, though,” I say.
She shakes her head adamantly.
“Did Shakespeare laugh at King Lear? Did Michelangelo laugh at David? Of course not.”
“Meaning that Murray considered his plot to be a work of art?” I say.
“You’re not as stupid as I thought you were, my little lambkin,” Georgiana says slowly, and I could kick myself for showing my hand to her when I know full well that it will be far better for me if she continues to underestimate me.
“So he was proud of what he did to Robert?” I say, the color in my cheeks rising.
“Proud doesn’t really cut it, Miranda. Mesmerized is more like it. You see, Murray knew that he was playing a dangerous game, and that if it went wrong, he’d lose everything,” she says.
“Everything?” I say.
“His share of Robert’s fortune, his power over him and, of course, over me,” she says.
“If Murray lived, of course,” I say.
“But he was alive during the whole search, then did a disappearing act after his Mafia cohorts discovered that he cooked the books. He hasn’t been heard from since, so I’ll wager that they found him after all,” she says.
“Tell me more about Murray’s plot,” I say.
And she visibly relaxes.
“You see, Miranda, Murray’s genius was to understand one thing about Robert, the deepest, most essential part of him: his chivalry,” she says.
Someone else once said that Robert was chivalrous . . .
But I don’t want to think of that, don’t want to remember . . .
“And he judged correctly that Robert’s chivalry would render his search for Pamela even more vital to him, because Robert wasn’t just searching for Pamela, the submissive of his dreams. His ultimate goal, his Holy Grail, was to rescue her from a fate worse than death: an existence with the evil man who claimed he owned her,” she says.
“Like a knight in shining armor who rescues a damsel in distress, then ravishes her, and she loves it,” I say, in a faraway voice.
“Miranda?”
“Just something I once said about Robert many years ago, long before I met him. He reminded me of a swashbuckling pirate or a glamorous highwayman,” I say, wishing with all my heart and soul that I could turn back the clock to the night when Lindy and I watched the documentary about Robert, and the joy of meeting him and loving him was all ahead of me.
“Not to worry,” Georgiana says, pulling me back to my surroundings. “I don’t intend to belabor WM and pour salt on that particular wound . . .”
“It was all on tape, wasn’t it?” I say, as the horror courses through me that she heard the tape of Robert hypnotizing me and then shepherding me toward my discovery of my childhood trauma. She knows all about it in every horrific detail.
She nods and pats my hand. “I’ll stop at very little to get what I want. But one thing I will stop at is anything that will hurt a child, particularly one who was abused in the past. And in this context, Miranda, I consider you to be a hurt and damaged child.”
Of course! Charlotte, her daughter, locked away in an institution for life. The genesis of the Georgiana Hartwell Foundation!
“Which reminds me: I want to devote a chapter in my autobiography to the foundation, my charitable work and how—as soon as I became romantically involved with him—Robert was responsible for giving me the opportunity to do good, to launch my foundation and help millions of children throughout the world who suffered as my Charlotte does. Without him none of that would have been possible. And so I want to record my profound thanks to him for what he wrought on my behalf,” she says.
Then she smiles her enchanting Lady Georgiana Hartwell smile and changes the subject. “So no more mention of William Masters. Let’s talk about the romance of the signet ring, instead,” she says.
“The ring you left on the dungeon mantel, and that Murray gave to Tamara. Robert’s only way to discover Pamela’s identity?” I say.
“Exactly! The infamous ring,” she says.
“Which you left in the dungeon on purpose? And then Murray gave it to Tamara?” I say.
“Only in the fanciful story, which he concocted for Robert’s benefit. When all the time he had sequestered my signet ring in his office drawer,” she says.
“So Robert scoured America to find the ring—and Tamara, who supposedly owned it—all for nothing,” I say indignantly.
“Yes, but didn’t he have a brilliant time while he was doing it!” she says, and I flush with fury.
“How can you say that, Georgiana? He almost lost his mind searching for Pamela!” I say.
“Meanwhile, he was having sessions with some of the world’s most beautiful and willing submissives . . .”
“Yes, but he wasn’t enjoying it,” I say.
And Georgiana laughs her glass-shattering laugh.
“You really are far more naive than you look, aren’t you, cupcake?” she says, and I remind myself again how much I hate her. “Robert loved every minute of it. And learned three times as much about S&M and submissive women than most men will learn in a lifetime,” she says.
And despite the circumstances I’m in, despite the fact that it’s Georgiana talking about it, when I hear her evoke Robert’s expertise as a dominant, his sure touch, his confidence, it sends a thrill through me.
Then a new thought rips through my mind.
“How did you know that Robert was taking sessions in S&M parlors all over the West Coast during his search for Pamela?”
“Murray. He kept constant tabs on Robert. After all, Robert was his meal ticket, his pension, so why wouldn’t he get his detective to shadow him? Apart from which, Robert kept in touch with Murray on a regular basis, so Murray had inside information on when and where he was traveling, which fantasy parlors he planned to visit, and he knew that Robert’s quest to find me burned within him stronger than ever,” she says.
“Until one day, it didn’t . . .” I say, keen to remind her that she wasn’t quite as irresistible as she imagines she was.
She frowns, clearly aware of my suppressed glee.
“After everything Robert invested in the search—the energy, expense, and sheer time—it’s a miracle that he carried on searching for me for as long as he did,” she says finally, and tosses her head.
“Yes, but isn’t that just because of his chivalrous nature, his quest to save you from . . . that man?” I say.
“Possibly,” she says, and draws each syllable out, so the word sounds longer and stronger.
“And then what happened?”
“Robert ended his search in LA. Which is where Murray arranged for one of his girls, then working in LA, to give Robert what he sought so desperately for so long—Tamara and the signet ring,” she says.
“And that’s where you came in,” I say, then gird myself to hear the story of her triumphant reunion with Robert, of their romantic engagement and fairy-tale marriage.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I don’t know how much longer I can listen to this; I don’t know how much more I can take! Hour after hour of Georgiana putting her romantic memories of Robert on tape, waxing sentimental over him and gushing about their supposed romance like some breathless, love-struck teenager.
And all in such cat-with-the-cream tones, so oblivious to my feelings for Robert, my love for him, and his for me. But if he discovers that Georgiana kidnapped me and is still alive, that I knew it but hid the truth from him, will his love for me survive? I doubt it . . .
I push that thought out of my mind and settle back and ask Georgiana one of the questions foremost in my mind.
“But when I listened to everything you told me about your life with Robert once he found you again, and proposed marriage to you, you sound as if you were so happy, so much in love with him. Yet you went ahead and blackmailed him.”
She nods, her eyes big and serious.
“And I’ll regret it to my dying day,” she says.
“So why did you do what you did on your wedding night?”
She pauses for a long moment.
“I was being blackmailed myself,” she says finally, then adds, “I can’t reveal the identity of my blackmailer to you, nor can it be included in my autobiography. But more than anything else, I need Robert to learn the story behind the blackmail, the wrong that was done me, and how the blackmailer used it to his advantage. It’s late, but I’ll tell you every detail tomorrow.”
I visibly relax, but she goes on, “A brief overview for you, just so that you can get a feel for the tragedy, the drama: Simon Watford didn’t just rape me in a variety of ways. He also had someone there to film my rape from every angle. And my
blackmailer got his hands on a copy of that film and threatened to post it on the Internet unless I blackmailed Robert and took him for everything he had. The threat of public humiliation in the face of the world, and the private shame and humiliation about the part I played in Murray’s deception, gave me no choice. Moreover, it was made eminently clear to me that if I refused to bow to the blackmailer’s demands, I’d be at the bottom of the East River, with rocks in my pocket, drowned. And so I gave in.”
I am almost inclined to believe Georgiana’s story, as it seems to me that her blackmailer, like Murray’s murderer, must be a mobster who secretly owned shares in Le Château. After all, I’d always heard that the sex business is notorious for Mafia infiltration.
With a catch in her voice, she goes on, “As it is, what I did naturally caused me to lose Robert’s trust. Any man would have found my actions unforgivable, but I knew that for Robert it would be far, far worse. I betrayed his trust, and that, for him, would have been anathema,” she says, while I feel myself pale.
“I’m sure that as a result of what I did to him, he won’t ever trust another woman again, not even you,” she says, and I flinch at the irony.
“You see, Miranda, he was such a little boy when his father killed himself. And you know that he found the body,” she says.
I didn’t, and hearing it shocks me to the core. “Poor, poor Robert! I had no idea.”
“He was just seven years old when he found his father’s body, his throat cut and blood streaming everywhere. But of course that was never made public,” she says.
“So he told you all about it himself?” I say. However appalled and saddened I am at her revelation, I can’t repress the stab of jealousy I feel at the thought that Robert might have confided his childhood trauma to her, and not to me.
“No,” she says, “Murray did.”
My jaw drops.
“You see, the moment it hit him that he’d caught as big a fish as Robert in his net, Murray ordered his detective to uncover every single thing he could about Robert,” she says, and the story falls into place for me.
