The Gift of Shame

by Sophie Hope-Walker

  Gasping with the relief of his mouth’s bondage, Martinez smiled on Helen. ‘You are so beautiful, mistress.’

  The title, spoken so fervently, shocked Helen. Was that how he saw her? A dominant woman able to deal with him as she chose? Standing there she knew her eyes were filled with fire but her mind was full of doubts. She felt she was to be tested by this man far more than she had ever been with Jeffrey. For a moment she yearned for the simplicity of submission just as Martinez’s eyes begged her now. She was to find the hesitation fatal as the doubts flooded in to quench the fires that had so recently been lit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told Martinez. ‘I cannot be your mistress.’

  His eyes clouded with disappointment. Martinez pleaded, ‘Please, mistress, I am helpless before you – you give me your pain.’

  Turning away from the oppressive eyes, Helen shook her head. ‘I cannot hurt you. I do not love you.’

  A warm laugh startled Helen and, turning, she was in time to see Carla stepping through a door which had previously seemed merely a panel of mirror set into the wall. ‘Well said!’ Carla was smiling as she came forward to embrace the surprised Helen. ‘Isn’t it fortunate that I do love you?’

  ‘Were you watching me?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Of course I was. Why else should I arrange your temptation?’ Carla smiled. ‘You fulfilled my every expectation. I have always maintained that the submissive mind, given time, makes the best master. Jeffrey disagreed but you have proved me right and him wrong. Congratulations.’

  ‘Jeffrey saw?’

  ‘Everything!’ cried Carla then, leaving Helen to absorb this, Carla’s eye lighted on Tsai. ‘You, however, have disappointed me. Why were my orders not carried out?’

  As Tsai stood trembling and incoherent, Helen stepped forward. ‘What orders?’

  Carla turned to Helen, her eyes lit with delight. ‘But your punishment, darling. Tonight I shall prove to you just how highly I regard you. We shall, all of us, hear your confessions and then pass judgement. Even Carlos.’ Carla smiled, moving to stroke the helpless man’s face. ‘Won’t you, darling?’ she asked before bringing a resounding slap to his cheek. ‘Say you love me.’

  ‘I love you,’ murmured Martinez.

  ‘Good!’ Carla turned to Tsai. ‘You will bring Helen before my tribunal at precisely seven tonight. She will be prepared as I ordered and you will also be required to present yourself as a penitent. I trust I am understood?’

  Tsai dipped her head and let out a sigh of acknowledgement as Carla, bestowing a dazzling smile on them all, swept from the room.

  Looking to Tsai, Helen found herself shaking. Whether it was fear or excitement was impossible to know. Within her were two quite separate emotions which were equally difficult to recognise. There was only one thing of which she could be sure. Tonight, whatever was to happen, would resolve her emotional conflict one way or the other. Shivering, she felt the breath of change settling about her like the first chill of winter.

  Looking at the result of Tsai’s skilful labours in the mirror, Helen felt a little bewildered. After Carla’s departure from the peculiarly exotic stateroom Tsai had indicated that they should complete Helen’s preparation for the coming evening’s events in her own cabin, which was where they now stood.

  Helen had imagined that her ‘preparation’ for Carla’s punishment would result in her being dressed in something fetishistic and submissive – leather and, possibly, chains. The exotic make-up Tsai had applied had done nothing to diminish this expectation, and so it was with some surprise that she now looked into the mirror and saw herself dressed in a crisp, white peasant blouse and a knee-length skirt which flounced out from the waist. Barefoot and bare-legged, she looked like nothing so much as an Italian peasant girl about to attend a village dance.

  ‘This is it?’ she asked of Tsai.

  Tsai nodded. ‘It is Madame Carla’s instructions precisely.’

  It was unexpected but also subtly exciting. She wore nothing but the blouse and the skirt and so, although presentable, she also felt deliciously vulnerable. Adjusting the top she saw how its cotton laced neckline could be loosened and simply pulled down to reveal her breasts, while the skirt needed only to be lifted to leave her, essentially, naked.

  Tsai, by contrast, looked severely formal in her white and gold oriental dress. Feeling her heart fluttering in her breast like an agitated live bird, Helen smiled. ‘So …’ she said, ‘… what happens next?’

  ‘Mister Jeffrey will come to fetch you and escort you to the party,’ Tsai hissed urgently. ‘All the stewards are confined below so I must serve the evening meal.’

  Remembering the veritable squad of stewards that normally attended the yacht’s guests, Helen was surprised. ‘All by yourself?’

  With a secretive smile Tsai beamed, ‘Not by myself alone. I shall have a French maid to assist me.’

  Judging from the delighted light in Tsai’s eye, Helen was able to judge that the French maid was also to be something of a surprise. Turning to look at the healthy peasant girl in the mirror she could also see that, thankfully, it was not to be her. ‘Do we have a French maid on board?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes!’ hissed an excited Tsai.

  Sensing there were other intriguing elements yet to be revealed about the forthcoming night, Helen was about to insist on being told more about them when the stateroom door opened and a Caribbean pirate entered!

  It took a moment for Helen to absorb that the tall figure dressed in an elaborately ruffled shirt, a thick black leather belt securing his wide-bottomed black trousers tucked into knee-high black boots, was Jeffrey, his face half disguised by the eye patch he wore over his left eye.

  He looked magnificently threatening and Helen felt a comprehensive rush of excitement in looking at him.

  Jeffrey dismissed Tsai from the room and then turned to the trembling Helen who, nervously excited, attempted to cover her rising excitement with an essayed humour. ‘I might have guessed it was to be fancy dress,’ she said on a nervous laugh.

  Still silent, Jeffrey stood, hands on hips, in theatrical parody of a pantomime pirate but his voice bore no trace of humour as he spoke. ‘Bare your breasts,’ he told her.

  Trembling with excitement at this peremptory order Helen challengingly held Jeffrey’s gaze as she reached first one hand and then the other to slowly draw the crisp cotton top down to her waist. As she did so she realised that the half sleeves restricted her arm movement, so imposing a subtle bondage to the action. Her breasts naked, she squared her shoulders to present herself more flatteringly, all the while looking challengingly at him. The memory of everything this man had taught her to enjoy – things no other man had ever dared hint at – flooded in on her. All the dominant conflicts she had experienced standing before the helpless, submissive Martinez, fled before her overwhelming excitement at recovering the experience of surrender to Jeffrey.

  His next words confirmed her most delightful fantasy. ‘On your knees,’ he said, his voice sure and certain.

  Careful to flounce out the skirt to its fullest, Helen sank gracefully to her knees before the figure of the man her racing mind told her was, truly, a pirate confronting a captive princess. Raising her eyes to his as he came forward to stand over her kneeling, bare-breasted figure, she, unasked, raised her hands to place them on her head – a gesture which indicated her total submission. At the same time, she was consciously aware that it presented her breasts even more prominently.

  ‘I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are,’ he told her, his words flushing away any last residual restraint she might have nurtured.

  ‘I am what you want me to be,’ she murmured, feeling the anguish of their locked eyes.

  Jeffrey smiled and came forward to take her head in his hand and press it against the groin of his trousers – where her cheek felt his excitement already stirring. ‘You couldn’t possibly know what I want of you,’ he said through an excited growl.

  ‘Anything,’ s
he pledged urgently.

  ‘Remember that,’ he said, ‘because tonight may be difficult for you.’

  Moving her head so that she could look up at him towering over her, she whispered, ‘If you’re there, nothing is going to be difficult and nothing …’ she added, ‘… impossible.’

  His face wreathed in a delighted smile, Jeffrey reached down to gently raise her from her kneeling position to stand expectantly before him. ‘It’s almost a shame to share you while I’m feeling like this. It seems ages since we last made love.’ As he spoke he carefully rearranged the peasant blouse to cover her breasts.

  Emboldened by this implicit declaration of love, she smiled. ‘Is that what’s to be done with me tonight? Am I to be “made love” to?’ The flicker of doubt crossing his face only increased her excitement. ‘I was led to believe I was to be punished.’

  ‘Do you deserve to be punished?’ Jeffrey asked.

  Helen felt a lava-like rush of heat which emerged from her throat in one word. ‘Terribly,’ she murmured.

  His voice throbbing, he asked, ‘And you’re mine?’

  With a curious feeling that she, though dedicating herself to his will, had the initiative, she nodded before challenging him directly. ‘I ask only that you don’t disappoint me,’ she murmured.

  Helen watched him struggle between an obvious desire to take her where they stood and the promise of the unknown night ahead, before reluctantly and resignedly deciding to honour their hosts. ‘They’re waiting for us,’ he said, ushering her to the door.

  Together they moved silently through the curiously quiet but vibrantly alive ship, and mounted the stairs until they stood together for a moment on the threshold of the dining salon. From inside came the sound of sonorous music as Jeffrey took her by the shoulders and turned her towards him.

  ‘Whatever happens tonight,’ he said, ‘remember I love you.’

  His words encompassed her soul with the warm glow of security and the certain knowledge that tonight they would be making memories that would last them a lifetime. As they came into the dining salon she felt invulnerable. Nothing could harm her now.

  18

  HELEN STEPPED INTO the heady atmosphere of the candle-lit salon to be immediately confronted by the turned back of a towering French maid. Standing over six foot in seven-inch platform heels, it wasn’t until the startling apparition turned towards her in greeting that she discerned, somewhere under layers of make-up and sweeping fake eyelashes and moustache, the more familiar shape of Martinez. It was some moments before she understood she was being offered a glass of champagne from the silver tray in the ‘maid’s’ hand. Taking the offered glass and almost laughing out loud at ‘her’ wobbly attempt at a curtsey, Martinez’s bulk moved aside to reveal the much more sobering figure of Carla.

  Her rounded figure was emphasised by a red and green leather basque drawn about an incredibly small waist from which stemmed rounded hips and thighs, making her legs incredibly long. A high leather collar about her throat was ablaze with an encrustation of diamonds and emeralds which dazzled in the candlelight as the devastating figure swayed forward to greet them. She was almost on them before Helen quailed at the sight of the riding crop which Carla was playfully slapping into the open palm of one hand.

  ‘Jeffrey,’ she mewed. ‘You look so authentic! Absolutely terrifying!’

  Helen might have used the same adjective to describe Carla as the famous eyes centred on her. ‘And Helen! You look ravishing, my dear. Almost good enough to eat!’

  As they exchanged cheek kisses Helen saw over Carla’s shoulder the grinning figure of Qito, dressed in a vaguely Middle Eastern robe and turban that might have been meant to present him as a simulated sultan or as if he had been caught on his way to take a bath. Qito was there to take her hand to his lips the moment she was freed of Carla’s embrace. ‘Tonight is to be the first viewing of our collaboration,’ Qito told her.

  Having all but forgotten the real point of their isolation on the island, Helen’s interest immediately quickened. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed?’ she asked as he led her towards an easel which was still covered with a shroud of canvas. ‘Can I take a peek?’

  Qito shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘For the moment we must not detract from Carla.’

  Helen saw that Carla had assumed proprietorial rights over Jeffrey and was standing, arm in arm with him, talking to a flamboyant parody of Carmen Miranda, complete with fruit bowl headdress.

  Momentarily unable to discern who might be under this extravagant disguise she turned to ask Qito.

  ‘Jimmy!’ he cried with delight. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Carla’s ever-present little hairdresser.’

  ‘He makes a very authentic woman,’ said Helen, adding, without thinking, ‘Is he gay?’

  Qito laughed. ‘He’s whatever Carla wants him to be.’ Qito pulled her into a confidential whisper. ‘I’m planning to throw him overboard later tonight and I’m counting on your assistance.’

  At that moment they were distracted by the raised voice of Tsai. Helen turned to see the diminutive Tsai shrilly berating the French maid who had, it seemed, tottered once too often on his high heels and spilled a tray of drinks. ‘Stupid!’ Tsai was yelling at the trembling man who stood at least a foot higher than her. ‘You are a very stupid maid and, if that happens again, I shall have to beat you most severely!’

  Martinez had dropped to his knees before the seemingly furious Tsai and was begging her forgiveness as Helen turned to Qito. ‘Can Tsai talk to him like that?’

  ‘Tsai occupies a very special place on this boat. Tonight she speaks for Carla.’

  There was a sudden explosion of energy from the direction of ‘Carmen Miranda’. Jimmy was suddenly on his feet, waving his hips in an impersonation of the forties Latin singer/dancer, and, noisily rattling maracas, danced around the still-kneeling Martinez singing one of Carmen Miranda’s best known songs. ‘Aye-ayeaye I like you very much …’ while Carla, joining in, added an incredible sexuality to the scene.

  It was just then that Helen caught sight of Jeffrey’s eyes. He had taken a chair, his long leather boots crossed one over the other, while his stare was fixed, eyes soft and unsmiling, on Carla in her fetishistic costume. The message in his eyes struck home to Helen with a clarity she found startling. Jeffrey, unguarded, wore the expression of a puppy being teased with a chocolate biscuit. That the ‘biscuit’ was Carla and not herself sent a stab of jealousy racing through her. Propelled forward by a determination to claim those eyes for herself, she came to stand directly before Jeffrey. As he looked on her, smiling, she spoke. ‘Do you want her?’ she asked.

  ‘Carla?’ he mused, as if he thought she might have meant ‘Carmen Miranda’.

  Nodding, Helen could only wonder why she was provoking a situation she wasn’t sure she could handle. Was it possible she could extend her masochism to encompass watching Jeffrey with Carla? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it was important that his eyes were on her and not Carla. Aware that she had placed herself in a ridiculous position she was grateful when, still sitting, he gestured her forward.

  Standing over him, acutely conscious that he could no longer see the display behind her, she thrilled to feel his hands running up under her skirt to caress her thighs. ‘There are many beautiful, highly desirable, women in the world and Carla is one of them. A man would have to be dead not to respond to her, but he would have to be a fool not to know what is truly important – and you are important to me.’

  Helen was still trying to frame a response while cursing herself for the weakness his caressing hands were inducing in her, when she heard Carla’s voice ringing out above the music. ‘The painting, everybody, is about to be unveiled!’

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ Jeffrey murmured as, standing, he put his arm about her waist and led her to the veiled canvas.

  Carla’s flaring eyes fixed on Helen in a way that caused her stomach to clench. ‘We are privileged to be the first to see Qi
to’s latest oeuvre – a work he has told me he considers among his best to date and, of course, inspired by the lovely Helen.’

  The words, while sounding like compliments, carried, to Helen, a sub-text of threat in which she found a curious satisfaction.

  ‘And here it is,’ said Carla, dramatically throwing back the cover to reveal the canvas.

  For a moment there was a stunned silence. Glowing out of the canvas was a riot of colour which momentarily stunned the senses and obscured the central figure of a woman, eyes wild and threatening as if proclaiming herself to be a creature of this world but somehow above it, challenging onlookers to gaze anywhere but at her eyes. The power Qito had created from colours and canvas was astonishing. This feral woman was both beautiful and terrifying.

  ‘Great God!’ cried Jeffrey into the silence. ‘She is beautiful!’

  Startled that Jeffrey should have spoken of her as if in the third person, Helen looked to see that he was transfixed by her image in precisely the same manner she had resented when he had, earlier, looked on Carla. There was a message in this but, for the moment, she found it difficult to decode from her own internal tumult.

  As cries of congratulation and applause broke out, Helen turned back to see that Carla had come to stand directly before her. ‘Congratulations,’ Carla smiled as she leant forward and cupped Helen’s chin in her hand to place an open-mouthed kiss on her lips. Leaning back, Carla looked directly into Helen’s startled eyes. ‘Any woman that can inspire Qito as you did deserves our thanks, but should also remember that those who play with the gods play a dangerous game. The world may see a creative work of genius wrought from paints and canvas but I see a tribute of love from my man to another woman. Such aspiration has a terrible price.’ So saying, Carla released her hold on Helen’s chin and turned away to join the small group, Jeffrey among them, about the easel.

  Qito came to Helen’s side. ‘Did I do you justice?’ he asked.

  Astonished to find tears welling, Helen turned to him and put her arms about his neck. ‘Carla hates me,’ she blurted into his ear.