by Aya DeAniege
The painting was huge, almost as tall as I was and just a little longer than Nathaniel.
In the painting, there was an obvious chaos. Women were fleeing men, several of them plucked up and about to be carried off by men in armour. Ancient buildings in the background. I could go on about the brush strokes of the piece or how it took years of studying art for me to truly appreciate the piece. It doesn't feel right, though. For all I am, capturing the beauty of paintings done by true artists is beyond me.
“The Rape of the Sabine Women," Nathaniel said. "This painting is over five hundred years old. I purchased it from someone who purchased it from someone else. The museum it was in at the time of the collapse was lit on fire. You can see the damage just under the edge of the frame there. I had it professionally restored, cost me a great deal of money."
“They lit museums on fire?” I asked.
“Museums, libraries, anything with any cultural link to the past. The governments of the world spent vast fortunes keeping the heritage pieces safe. Vaults were created to keep the artwork. This one was found in the France vault, named after the country the vault was built in. These vaults were once bomb shelters. No common person knew the location. Tens or even hundreds of them are still lost."
I tried to comprehend the idea.
After the collapse, vaults were filled with the art works and rare books of the older eras. Even now, only about a quarter of those vaults have been rediscovered. When a vault was found in the early days of our country, the rich people bid on the pieces.
During the riots in later years, when vaults were discovered accidentally amongst the slums, the government took control of the contents and placed them in the care of archivists. To preserve the masterpieces of centuries past, for the generations of the future.
“There are pieces like this all over the estate,” Nathaniel said, tugging me away from the terrifying scene.
Imagery from that period is always so terrifying to me. There's something that has always nagged at me about the paintings. I could appreciate the style, the details of the pieces, but somehow the subject matter always seemed frightening.
Nathaniel liked the period. He spent millions building his collection over the years. I think he knew the effect the paintings had on other people, like that damned chandelier in the main hall.
And the statue of the little devil raping a dog in the guest bathroom.
He led me through the hallways. I got lost trying to memorize my way back. By the time we arrived outside my door, I was feeling awkward like I was a teenager again, on my first date.
I turned slightly towards my door, then back to Nathaniel, uncertain where to go from there. Nathaniel hesitated, his arm sliding out of mine. Ever so slowly, he took my hands in his own and lifted them to his mouth. I watched as he pressed his lips against my knuckles.
The heat of his lips against the backs of my hands made me think of other places I'd like his lips to touch.
“If you want love and gentleness, kindness and slow sex, this is what you wear,” he said quietly, lowering my hands. “Kisses and dinners. You can't always choose which to wear, but sometimes. If I feel like something else, I will send you back to change.
“I enjoyed tonight. It's hard to find someone I can watch movies with. Most people want to ask questions and make comments throughout and that just infuriates me."
“I didn't like the movie at all,” I said as I shook my head. “It was terrible. Yet the quality of the sound and images were better than anything we get in the slums. Why couldn't the plot have the same quality?”
“A B-rated movie tends to have that quality to it. You watch it for the crap," Nathaniel said. "Next week I'll pick out a movie with a better plot. Mr. Wrightworth thought it was a historical documentary. That's all they showed in his neighbourhood. The poor man was terrified zombies would break into the estate at night. Don't tell him that I told you that.
“I can't imagine growing up without real movies.”
There were ten movies we were allowed to watch in my slum. I didn't learn until years later that they were considered Hollywood classics. They aren't bad movies. They're quite good in a way. After memorizing them, however, things got boring. Especially since I wasn't interested in any of the genres shown.
“We had movies,” I said. “But they were boring and stupid.”
“Classics are not boring and stupid.”
“Classics?” I asked.
“What your slum watched,” Nathaniel muttered. “Did you like anything about the movie?”
“I liked that it wasn't realistic,” I said with a shrug.
“I can work with that,” he responded with a smile. “I'm glad that you at least found something enjoyable about the night.”
“I also liked the popcorn," I said quickly. "Not sure I like the soda with that alcohol, though. I think it was the soda."
“And the company?” Nathaniel asked.
“That was a little weird," I said. "I'm used to sitting in folding chairs while I watch a movie, with people on either side whispering the lines of the movie as it goes. It's a very public display. So sitting there watching a new movie with just you, that made me feel out of place. Which was more awkward than when I was bent over the bench earlier today."
“Have you ever been bent over a bench before?” Nathaniel asked.
“Well, when I was accused of stealing, they bent me over a table when they gave me the scar,” I said, reaching absently for my shoulder. “That was different, though. I was being punished for something I didn't do. Whereas you were doing what I asked of you.”
Nathaniel smiled just slightly. He reached out and caressed my jaw. As his fingers trailed down to my chin, I leaned forward, trying to follow those fingers. He lifted my chin up and stopped moving his hand. I found myself staring up into his eyes as that smile widened.
He closed the distance between us and captured my lips. The kiss was lingering and all consuming. Everything else melted away, and there was only that. A rich, handsome man was kissing me. He wasn't bad to talk to either, but at that moment, it was really the wet heat between my legs that dictated the absolute lack of thought as his tongue delved into my mouth.
When Nathaniel pulled away, I wavered on my feet, wanting more.
“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself,” he said as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Darling.”
Chapter Nine
On Saturday I slept in. Shortly after I woke up, Nathaniel sent someone to take me to the gym. I worked out on my own because he was 'out.'
Nathaniel didn't answer to me, so I didn't expect him to tell me where he was going or when he would be leaving. The days when he left me to work on my own in the gym were the loneliest times. I was used to being surrounded by people. Even if they didn't see me or touch me, there had always been someone there during my life.
To have an entire gym to myself was the most frightening feeling.
Nathaniel didn't return until that evening. I even ate alone in my room. After his return, we played a game, and he apologized for leaving me alone all day.
I suppose my anxiety was across my face, how could it not have been?
From that day forward, whenever Nathaniel left the estate, Patrick was assigned to me. The young man was quite brilliant. He had taken a contract with Nathaniel, not for money, but for an education the likes of which only rich folk can get.
Patrick was to wear the collar and leash at all times. Otherwise, his outfits were chosen by Nathaniel but were never to cover less than ankle to throat to wrist. No one was allowed to touch Patrick, except if his health was in jeopardy.
Why does he get to wear purple?
That Saturday night Nathaniel and I played a board game, though week-to-week it varied. I wasn't very good at video games at first, and Nathaniel must have known that I wouldn't have enjoyed losing games constantly. The board games were amazing amounts of fun, given the fact that I had never played these games before, and they had simple rules
that anyone could understand.
Sunday morning Nathaniel called me for breakfast. Normally breakfast was eaten in private. That day we had it in a sunroom at the back of the estate filled with plants. I didn't know it at the time, but the sun room was right beside the kitchen, and those plants weren't just for show. They filled the air with a lovely mingling of scents. Herbs were mostly what were growing, a few tomato plants as well.
Breakfast was waffles and whipped cream with many kinds of berries—some that I knew were not in season but tasted fresh as the day they were picked. I tried not to eat a great deal of the food, knowing by then that overindulging in rich people foods would upset my stomach.
Even to this day, I love waffles for breakfast. I don't even need all the fixings. Just waffles and real butter, and I'm happy as could be for the rest of the morning.
During breakfast, Nathaniel dropped the news on me that Mr. Wrightworth was on his way. The meetings were supposed to be random, I understood that, but I didn't want to see him right then.
I had no choice in the matter, however.
So after breakfast, I was taken to the room at the front of the estate with the wicker furniture. I took the same seat I had taken almost a week before and waited patiently. Mr. Wrightworth came in and sat across from me, on the loveseat that Nathaniel had occupied during that first meeting. He was dressed in a suit very similar to the one he had worn the week before, with the same purple tie. Or at the very least, a tie that looked the same as the other one.
Is he the one who claims everything with the colour, or was he claimed by the owner of the colour?
“How have you been?” Mr. Wrightworth asked.
“Fine,” I said quickly.
“You're playing with your dress,” he murmured in response, his hazel eyes travelling up my skirt, to my eyes as I stared at him. “I'm a part of the community, anything you say to me will not be reflected back on you.”
“Stuff ... and stuff,” I said hesitantly. “You know, it happens.”
“Darling,” Mr. Wrightworth said, sitting forward. “What has happened since I dropped you off?”
Mr. Wrightworth had a habit of saying one word, then moving or shifting slightly. He would hesitate and make eye contact before continuing, to make certain that he had the attention of the person he was speaking to. It always seemed to make the commands he gave seem less harsh.
I told him what had happened, hesitating here and there. The man had a way of talking anytime I hesitated. He would wind the story around and get the information out of me anyhow. At the end of my conversation with Mr. Wrightworth, he sat back in the loveseat.
“Just so I'm clear,” Mr. Wrightworth murmured. “Nathaniel told you that your family didn't care that you were gone?”
“I don't recall if those were his exact words,” I responded, rubbing at my eyes.
I felt like crying because I didn't feel like sharing what I had shared. Mr. Wrightworth watched me as I rubbed at one eye idly. When I dropped my hand, his eyes followed the hand before they flowed back up to my face.
“And he told you that I'm gay,” he growled.
“And that I can't wear purple.”
“I agree with him there, wearing the wrong shade of purple is dangerous. Wearing purple at all could be seen as a comment because most people are stupid and can't tell the safe shades from the dangerous one.”
“So it's not all purple, just one shade?” I asked.
“It is, yes,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “I need you to stay here for a few minutes while I go deal with something.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
I saw the twist of his lips a moment before his face turned into an emotionless mask. Mr. Wrightworth left without saying anything more.
I sat still as could be, my eyes wandering over the room.
Each time Mr. Wrightworth and I would meet, we would do so in that room. When I think back, all the meetings pile on top of one another, and it's difficult to distinguish one from another. I tried after each meeting with him to write down everything that I recalled, but it seemed to slip through my fingers as I wrote.
There were several times when I was left alone and would look around the room, taking it all in.
That room never seemed to change. The rest of the estate did. The artwork came and went, being traded at the drop of a hat. But everything in that room remained the same. The wicker furniture, the rugs, the bar in the corner.
The only thing that ever changed was the alcohol in the bar.
There were no clocks in the room, and I didn't have a watch, so I have no idea how long I sat there waiting that day. Mr. Wrightworth returned eventually, with Patrick following along behind. The head of the Program sat across from me once more, then looked up at Patrick with all the annoyance he could muster.
His eyes were cold, like Nathaniel's.
“A scotch for me, get the lady some wine. Something citrous and fruity.”
“As Master pleases,” Patrick said before he headed for the bar.
Patrick had just set a glass of wine in front of me when Nathaniel walked in looking rather ruffled. His hair, which usually had a wild quality to it, had taken on a mussed up appearance which didn't look like he had done that on purpose.
For once the man looked disarranged.
He sat beside me, where Mr. Wrightworth had the week before. The moment he sat down, Nathaniel's entire focus was on Mr. Wrightworth. He seemed to ignore Patrick as a glass of scotch was set in front of Mr. Wrightworth. For his part, Mr. Wrightworth almost looked bored.
“You said to her that her family gave her brother no trouble for turning her into the Program for a death contract,” Mr. Wrightworth said, bringing the scotch to his lips.
He locked eyes on me, then looked pointedly at the wine glass on the table in front of me.
“I'm not allowed to drink alcohol without his permission.”
“Nate,” Mr. Wrightworth said in a tone that sent a chill down my back.
“This would be a part of the addendum,” Nathaniel said quietly to me. “If Mr. Wrightworth says you can drink, you may.”
I picked up my wine glass and sipped the white wine as Mr. Wrightworth watched me. Having never had wine before, I didn't expect it to taste so bright. It almost had a smooth quality to it that I couldn't quite put words to.
With each new food or drink I had, I tried to write down what it was called and how it tasted to me. I was being introduced to so many new things. It was hard to keep track of what I did and didn't like without that list.
I wholeheartedly enjoyed white wine.
There was silence as I set the glass back on the table.
“Hearing those words, what do you think an outside observer would believe?” Mr. Wrightworth asked Nathaniel. “No, don't answer, because I know you don't see the problem. If you were smart enough to see the problem, you would have corrected it already. The problem being that, had she made it to the meeting and spoken those words out loud, no less than six Doms would have leaped at the chance of stripping you down and beating you before the congregation.
“You are on thin ice as it is with this blank contract. That is why I am here. That is why I need to do these random meetings.”
“I haven't broken any of the rules we set out during the first meeting,” Nathaniel said quietly, apparently un-phased by Mr. Wrightworth's verbal assault.
“Mind-fuck,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
“How is that a mind-fuck?” Nathaniel asked.
“Did you offer any proof?” Mr. Wrightworth asked. “Did you say anything else to her on the subject? Because what I heard is that a man said to a woman—after removing her from her family—that her family doesn't want or care for her. That is characteristic of psychological abuse, which we are trying to work into the terms of mind-fucking.”
“I am obviously missing the part where it's abusive to tell the truth,” Nathaniel muttered.
Mr. Wrightworth looked to my wine glass, then to me agai
n.
“I didn't think he was lying about it,” I said, not picking up the wine glass.
How much I drank was not going to be dictated by another person. I wanted to enjoy the flavour, not gulp down the wine.
“That's not the point," Mr. Wrightworth said. "An abusive person will separate that person from everyone else they know. They will build walls between those you once knew to keep you under control. They will feed you lies about your friends and family, saying they don't care for you, that they never have. To make you rely only on them."
“Oh,” Nathaniel said, dragging out the word just slightly.
“Now you see,” Mr. Wrightworth said, shifting his focus to Nathaniel. “You need to show her the video.”
“I'm not going to show her the video,” Nathaniel said.
“She needs to know the truth of the matter, not from your words, but from what happened. The only way to correct this is to show her what happened, to make her watch the video."
“I don't agree that she should have to watch the video," Nathaniel said. "When you made ... him watch the tapes of his mother betraying him, it broke something inside of him. Hearing it is one thing, being forced to watch it is quite another. I won't make her sit through what they did and didn't say."
“Then you at least have to give her access,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “So that, should she ever desire it, she can view the videos. You have to give her the exact way to find the videos you saw. The ones that made you believe what you told her.”
“That's a Pandora's box.”
“I don't care what you think it is. I want her to see the tapes. I'd rather she did. And don't you ever do it again."
“Fine, I will give her access,” Nathaniel muttered. “I was planning on it, but I wanted her more acclimatized to everything.”
“Good,” Mr. Wrightworth said, turning his attention suddenly to my wine glass.
I picked up the glass and took a sip under his watchful eyes. There was silence over the room until I set the glass back on the table.
