by Vina Jackson
There was a noise above me, and I glanced upwards and saw a panel in the ceiling move back on invisible hinges. A rigger kit appeared; a length of thick black rope attached at the top end to sturdy iron hoops. The trap door and rig was not part of my design, and I had been over each inch of the plans for the dungeon, and signed off on every last whip and paddle. Aurelia must have planned all this.
The rope dropped down and Vincent caught it easily in his palm.
His robe was now untied, revealing the centre length of his torso, his inner thighs and calves and the dangling spectacle of his ball sack. His cock was fully erect and swung as he moved. Aurelia was circling around us, still toying with the flogger she held, waiting for her chance to smack the leather hide against my skin.
Music began to play. The lush tones of Lana del Rey rose up around us. It was a record that Dominik had often listened to, one that I knew he favoured when he was writing a bittersweet scene, something that required a deep layer of melancholy. Sadness began to well up inside me as I remembered the games that we had played together, the elaborate lengths to which Dominik had gone to tease my senses and bring my body, heart, soul and mind right to the edge of reason. Anything else would never be the same, I realised then. Vincent only had access to my body, and perhaps a portion of my mind. Whatever pain or pleasure he and Aurelia could inflict on me would only ever be surface level. To reach the depths, I needed more. I needed love. And that was not something that I could ever get from the Ball, these manifestations of sexuality that crossed and even celebrated every boundary and taboo in existence and yet could not bind people together. Few of the Ball’s guests knew each other outside of these annual or bi-annual festivals. They barely spoke during the events themselves, they just fucked.
I was growing tired of it all.
I wanted something different, something more than sex.
My body was getting by well enough, but without music, and without Dominik, I had nothing and no one to nourish my soul.
The rope pressed against my skin. Soft, at first, but as Vincent expanded his web the bonds became tighter. My breasts had been bound into a corset that squeezed them until they were unnaturally prominent, jutting out from my chest, my nipples hard, pink and proud. My waist and thighs were circled in a harness and my arms pulled behind me, my wrists tied behind my back. He methodically bound my calves to my thighs, with my knees bent and my heels pressed against my buttocks. By the time that he had finished I was tied like a spider’s fly, ready for eating. My mind floated in a state of deep relaxation so it took me a few moments to notice that I was slowly moving, winched up inch by inch on the rig. Several points held me steady; a network of ropes linked to the bonds at my hips, shoulders, and each ankle, splaying my bent legs apart. I was flying, belly down.
I felt the whip, then. Not lashing against my limbs but rather softly caressing the parts of my skin that remained uncovered, from the soles of my feet to the tips of my nipples and down again to my bare cunt. When the rope stopped, fingers took its place. Two sets of hands. Aurelia and Vincent; squeezing, probing. I had begun responding bodily to their ministrations long ago and my pussy was soaking wet. Was she using the whip’s handle to penetrate me? My breath rasped. My throat was dry and I longed for a glass of water. I licked my lips. Something wet was pushed against my mouth and I sucked, greedily. Fingers coated with wine. Then another pair of lips pressed against mine. They were full and firm, the kiss too rough to be Aurelia’s. It was Vincent. I kissed him back.
Another rope was looped over my head and rested around my throat. It began to tighten. I shifted my shoulders, instinctively trying to bring my hands up to protect my neck but I couldn’t, my wrists were secured firmly behind my back. Dominik’s image and voice appeared again in my head. My lingering ghost. He had always teased me about playing so near the edge, but I knew that he was only half teasing. Part of him had worried about me, venturing too close to danger.
‘One day we’ll go too far,’ he’d say.
‘I hope so,’ I’d quip back.
My heart beat faster. I was dizzy. The music roared in my ears and the lyrics blurred, Lana del Rey turned into the rush of the sea on the shore heard through the trumpet of a shell held close to my ear.
I felt myself falling.
A sound escaped my lips. A croak? A scream?
For a few seconds, there was nothing, only the blackness in my mind and the echo of the music playing.
Then I heard Andrei’s voice, cutting through the noise.
‘Bring her down.’ His tone roused me.
He said nothing more. My bonds were removed rapidly and a glass of water pressed to my lips. Someone handed me a bar of chocolate. Aurelia was kneeling on the floor behind me, ready to cover me with a blanket when the ropes were pulled away.
It was nearly morning.
I slept through the day, until we returned again to port. Dreamlessly.
I glanced in the mirror one last time, tried in vain to smooth the fly-away frizz from my drying curls, packed the remaining items back into Aurelia’s beach bag, set my shoulders back, sucked in my stomach and returned to the table.
‘You look exquisite with that on,’ Aurelia murmured, eyeing me with undisguised appetite, the way she did most people, both predatory and with admiration.
Our waitress was already hovering around the table, visibly irritated by our presence, jealous of our appearance maybe. She was almost a carbon copy of the woman in charge of the reservation book, young and pert with a set of breasts that seemed unfeasibly large above her small waist, slim legs and wide hips, dark hair cropped around pointed ears and a face that settled naturally into a scowl.
We quickly ordered. Pork ribs with sweet and sour pineapple for me and marinated tuna served with mashed potatoes for Aurelia. It was not my first visit to Zaza, and I had already sampled nearly all of the cocktail flavours on the menu. I opted for a lime caipirinha.
‘Sugar?’ purred the waitress. ‘Or sweetener?’ Her tone suggested that I should choose the latter.
‘Sugar,’ I replied, and hoped as she walked away that she wouldn’t spit into our drinks.
Aurelia turned and watched her saunter towards the kitchen.
‘Nice arse,’ she observed.
‘Shame the same isn’t true for her personality.’
‘True,’ she shrugged. ‘Most people only need one or the other to get through life, I suppose.’
She may have disliked us, but to her credit, she wasn’t slow with our order. Our drinks arrived in minutes, along with a basket of warm crusty bread and fresh butter, and a bright blue ceramic bowl filled with plump green olives.
Aurelia popped an olive between her lips.
‘Cheers,’ she said, with her mouth still full.
‘Cheers,’ I responded, cautiously knocking my short, thick tumbler against the far more fragile looking white and black chocolate-coated rim of her long-stemmed martini glass filled with icy pink liquid. A strawberry bobbed precariously close to the top. I took a large gulp of my caipirinha, She downed her dubious strawberry, hot pepper and basil concoction nearly in one.
‘Now,’ she said, as soon as we had set our glasses back on the table, ‘let’s get down to it. There’s just a year to the Ball in Iceland, and much of the work has been put in motion. We need you now, for the finer details. Not right away, but within the next few weeks. I suppose the cold will be a shock,’ she added, looking around at the other patrons sitting near us, all of them in skimpy outfits, ‘but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it there. It’s a beautiful place. Stark, bleak. We’ll leave this to you, of course, but I expect that the performances will be very different from the last, to suit the atmosphere.’
I picked up a piece of bread, smeared it with a thick coating of butter and bit into it, stalling for time so I could gather my thoughts.
‘Summer?’ she said after a pause, filling the silence between us. ‘Is something wrong?’
She looked at me again, with a concerned, sea
rching expression on her face.
‘Is it Antony? I know there’s something going on between you two and if that’s bothering you, we can sort out a way to keep you apart. Send him back to London, maybe.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s not Antony.’
‘What happened with Vincent, on the boat? The rope? I’m so sorry about that. I got carried away. Andrei was furious with me . . .’ Her face flushed, and she twirled her empty glass in between her fingers.
The waitress materialised alongside the table. ‘More drinks?’ she asked.
I was about to say no, thank you, we would wait for the food, but Aurelia ordered another round of the same. At this rate, I would be stumbling back to my apartment later.
Our main courses arrived. I quickly abandoned my knife and fork and picked up a pork chop with my fingers, sucking the sweet and sour sauce from each digit greedily once I had finished gnawing every scrap of meat off the bone.
‘Tell me,’ she said, putting her knife and fork down. ‘Whatever it is that you need, I am sure we can work it out.’
The waitress appeared again to check if we had finished and Aurelia waved her away. ‘Not yet,’ she said, hovering a protective hand over the remainder of her mashed potatoes.
‘The truth is,’ I told her, ‘I’m not sure what I want to do anymore. I’ve loved my time with the Ball, I really have. And I’ll be forever grateful to you and the Network for the opportunity,’
‘You can spare me the platitudes, Summer, and just tell me how you feel. I know you’re grateful, and all that.’
She reminded me of Lauralynn, in that moment. My oldest friend, and never one for beating about the bush. I hadn’t been in touch with her or her partner Viggo since arriving in Rio, not even to let them know where I was. I felt a stab of guilt, thinking about it.
‘I think I need a break,’ I blurted out at last. ‘From everything.’
She nodded.
The waitress came back and cleared our plates away. We had both finished every last mouthful, even mopped up all of our respective sauces with bread.
‘Will you return to London, then? Or some other part of Europe? Another tour, perhaps?’
I had deliberately put my music career on hold since joining the Ball. Hadn’t been in contact with my agent or even picked up an instrument in months. I was even considering selling my Bailly, the violin that I loved most, for sentimental as well as practical reasons. It just wasn’t necessary to have that kind of money sitting in something that I wasn’t going to play. I would rather see it used by someone who would love it as much as I had than sitting in storage until it deteriorated for want of proper care.
‘No,’ I told her, ‘I don’t think I will. Go back to Europe or my music career, that is. I think I need a break from that as well.’
‘I thought joining the Ball was your break from music?’ she interrupted, a smile playing on her lips.
I sighed. ‘I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ I said, ‘and maybe I’m just being contrary. But it’s all tied up together for me. Music, playing the violin, bleak climates . . . the sort of sex that makes me lose my mind, like the erotica the Ball specialises in. I can’t have one without the other.’
‘What’s next for you then, sweet, contrary Summer?’
I watched a young boy of about ten in bright orange-and-green swimming shorts walking down the street with a beach ball under his arm. His eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses that were far too big for him. He was barefoot, and sauntered along past the restaurant as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
‘Nothing. I think I’m just going to sit on the beach and do nothing.’ I would probably have to leave Rio, because life here would eat through my savings. But I had enough in the bank, and a diminishing stream of royalties coming through from my old albums which were ticking over, so I wouldn’t have to worry about working for a few months at least. And then I would figure something out. Maybe I could learn Portuguese and work in a local juice bar.
‘The Network is willing to continue to take care of you, financially,’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ I insisted, putting my hand up. ‘You’ve done enough for me. I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary. Really.’
‘I’m not doing you a favour,’ she said. ‘We do the same for everyone. It’s pretty straightforward. Once a Ball employee, always a Ball employee. The Network is buying your discretion. Not quite to the level that you’re used to, perhaps, since you’re no longer being reimbursed for work, or working expenses. But you’ll continue to receive an annual stipend. And there’s no point arguing about that, as I have your bank details and will be making the deposits whether you like it or not. You can stay in the apartment here, so long as you look after the place. The rent was paid up front and there’s another few months on the lease. We won’t be needing it for other staff any time soon.’
‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘You’ve been so good to me.’
‘It’s been a pleasure.’ She reached over the table and squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t fall out of touch. I mean it. And any time that you want to come back, there will always be a place for you. Travelling with the Ball, or staying put, in any city that you like, we’ll find something for you to do.’
We ordered dessert, and one last round of drinks. I opted for a simple lemon sorbet, which came served with orange-flavoured, paper-thin crisps, and Aurelia chose the far more decadent devil’s food cake, a rich chocolate fondant with a firm exterior and glossy, melting-soft pudding within. She leant across the table and fed me a spoonful.
The sun was setting by the time we finished and the sky was streaked with vivid stripes of red, purple and gold. Aurelia paid the bill and we gathered our things.
‘Your dress!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll change back into my own stuff.’ My damp shorts, vest and bikini top were stuffed inside the towel in Aurelia’s beach bag, and probably still wet.
‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘We’re flying out tomorrow, and I won’t be needing a kaftan in Iceland. Besides, it suits you better than it ever did me.’
She asked for a plastic bag so I could carry my clothing home.
We embraced on the steps, and turned in opposite directions to walk to our respective lodgings. I wheeled back again, one last time to wave goodbye. Aurelia was still standing there on the step, flirting with the waitress. She had a white card in her hand, probably like the one she’d given me the first time we met, with her Network contact details written on it. Probably recruiting another dancer, I thought. Trust Aurelia to make the most of every opportunity. The Ball wouldn’t miss me. Of that I was sure. I was by no means indispensable.
She looked up and noticed me watching her, and raised her arm in a final gesture of farewell.
I carried on walking. I felt light, as though a load had been lifted from my shoulders. If I had been wearing proper shoes, and had a bra on, I would have lifted my feet quicker and run all the way home, just for the pure joy of it.
What would I do now? I could do anything that I liked. I would start to explore South America, I decided. I’d been too busy working to see any but the closest sights. I hadn’t even been up to see the statue of the Christ that overlooked the city. I was too off-put by the big crowds of tourists that swarmed there during the day, and had been too lazy to get up and go first thing in the morning when it would be quieter. I noticed a paraglider sailing past on the winds above me, coming down to land on the beach. Maybe I would hang-glide over the statue instead, see it from the air.
It was time I started taking more risks in life, the way that I used to when I was younger. I resolved to be bolder, more spontaneous, to not waste the time that I had left. I would start by walking past the juice bar and asking Raoul out on a date.
His booth was closed, the green shutters pulled down and padlocked.
Raoul could wait until tomorrow. I had all the time in the world to make the most of Brazil.
I rose uncharacteristically early and spent the day explorin
g the Tijuca National Park on foot.
‘Don’t wander from the trails,’ the taxi driver told me as he dropped me by the main gates. He threw his arms open wide. ‘There is a favela inside. You walk in the wrong place, you get shot. You should not go alone. Take a tour.’
‘I’ll be careful. Thank you.’
I tipped him and began walking up the tar-sealed road until I found a likely looking path that veered off to the side and then followed that, hoping it wouldn’t lead me to the centre of a coca plantation or a gang headquarters. Within minutes, I was surrounded by forest, lush and green. The raucous bird calls and the density of the trees blocked out any sign that I was in the middle of a city. I strained my ears for the sound of passing cars but heard nothing.
The further I walked, the rougher the path became, until I had to duck and dive through overgrown bushes to continue and was certain that wherever I was headed hadn’t seen human contact in months. My forearms were covered in long red scratches and my mouth was dry. I had only brought with me a small bottle of water that was already perilously close to empty and a packet of dehydrated bananas to snack on. But the uphill walk was stretching my legs and taxing my heart, lungs and muscles in a way that I hadn’t experienced for ages and so I ignored the danger and carried on walking.
Finally I reached the summit, and looked out. I was on the top of a mountain, and surrounded by a handful of other curious-shaped granite peaks, like a handful of worn teeth in the mouth of a giant. I thought I recognised Pedra da Gávea and Pedra Bonita, and saw humans moving across the tops like crawling insects, then swooping down as the hang-gliders took off from the summit. My blood pumped in my ears in empathy with them. The risk-taker in me loved the thought of being airborne, but in truth I had never been great with heights, and stood well back from the edge, one hand clutched onto the face of a nearby rock for support.
