Into the Dark Wilds

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Midsummer’s Eve - Ah! that day passed, some two, three days ago. I’m not sure. I think the Devil’s Spice and spirits are still lingering in my vanquished body enough to put me in a perpetual state of intoxication. But I know that I must write of that night. The spectacle! The brilliance of it! I had no idea what my master planned for me, but I know he’d been designing those hours of my unveiling with the plans of a skilled architect.

  The maids that often breeze about Boheme, the ones that still leave me with a jealous streak to see them fawn over my lover, bathed me in the hours before the revelers began to take to the streets. I was a queen, not a slave to these trivial young women. The fragrant oils, the kisses, the delicate touch of their hands on my skin, such exhilaration I’ve never known. One slight maid, so in awe of me, washed my feet with her tongue. Shivering in reply, that tongue moved slowly up my legs until it found how wet I was in my center. There, lapping at the warm door, pushing way inside, the girl and I met in a soft orgasmic wave, an interlude of just a few brief minutes before my bath resumed.

  The costume Boheme had made for me was of golden silk that shimmered as my gold hair shimmers, as my cheeks and breasts and loins, dusted with gold, shimmered in even the dimmest light. The gossamer robe was meant only to enhance the public image of me—as if I were some goddess that had just descended from on high to bless the world with wisdom. When the procession in the streets would first begin, it would be subdued enough for something this pompous and promising; but as the night wore on, I knew that I’d fling the garment aside in preference for my natural state—since it is that natural state of physical and sexual grace that I preach about to my adoring audience of admirers.

  I was still in awe of what I’d already generated around me despite what my visions had seen. And when I first stepped out in the sultry summer evening, dressed in this ethereal gown, I felt as if I were joining a party of the wicked for the night, but I didn’t realize how much that party was in honor of me.

  I rode in a cart pulled by massive horses like a chariot from ancient times, that chariot gilded in gold. At my sides in that cart were two glorious specimens of manhood clothed in loin cloths that bulged at their crotches. We threw confections to the crowd in the streets that surrounded the cart, and to the watchers who viewed us from the sidelines. Then these two men and I made love, the pawing and caressing visible to everyone. In a seductive dance I lured them in, all of them, the two fortunate ones in the cart and those without, and even the guards who surrounded us fending off those that were too eager to get to me.

  We rode from the palace steps to the Gardens of Turoth where the orgy would commence once the goddess of the night had blessed the festivities. Of course the goddess this year was me. And of course I began the revelry by taking the first cock of the night right there in front of the throng. One man held me down, while the other worked me, then they changed places so that for nearly a half hour we gave the world the show that it had been waiting for. My body went off somewhere in the middle of it. I don’t remember exactly what took place. I only have the film of it posted on the wires to remember it by, that film giving me a clue as to how I looked with the most virile of men using me as I was meant to be.

  Once the orgiastic feast between the three of us finished, I rode the chariot alone, deep into the gardens, dancing to tunes of instruments and the voices of flesh satisfying flesh. My nakedness was paraded before the eyes of thousands who had sought their first glimpse of the purveyor of sexual truth. I didn’t deny them anything. They’d sought me out and loved me, while I knew in my heart I was no better than any of them. I’d simply been stripped to my core in a way few people ever know. Groveling there, forced to reside in that abject territory, I’d seen the reality of myself and encountered the truth.

  Others will follow me into the future. I saw them dance with me just nights ago in the wooded glade and the meadow and along the manicured garden paths and in the field where those seriously into their body’s delight drank and laughed and made love in lusty abandon for nearly two days.

  The crowd drew lots to partake of my loins. Though I’m no more worthy than any other woman, Boheme knew that the revolution of lust that we’d begun was best served by my willingness to serve those that loved me.

  Only now am I coming back into my senses. Sometimes I’d rather throw off my reason altogether and remain in the debauchery. (They tell me it still goes on, this mid-summer feast, and might well continue for the remainder of the month. If it lasts that long I’ll have to join them in the gardens again.) But I know that I have much yet to write, much left in my visions to speak about, and all my faculties will be required for that task.

  Chapter Nine

  Cigar smoke poured into the anteroom where I waited for my turn, so thick I almost choked. I couldn’t imagine what that other room would be like where all this poison was produced. I’d been told this was a general auction, my fellow slaves in the bordello knew all about the auctions, and this obviously wasn’t the cultured kind where the best flesh was put up for sale. After just five months in Sergei’s service I was surprised that I was no longer considered prime. Indian advised me that it had nothing to do with being “prime flesh”, it was pure and simple a business move. Cece told me not to worry, it really didn’t matter how I was sold, or where the transaction took place. “All auctions are exercises in humiliation.”

  “You’ll think yourself as useless as a dog on the street by the time you’re finished,” she said, drawing her pink painted lips into a sly smirk. “Then of course some of us like being treated that way, don’t we?”

  Cece knew my darker purpose for being in the sex trade. She was one who only liked conventional sex, unless she wanted to be punished; then she’d do something to piss off her master, Darian, and he’d go off on her with a vengeance. About every six weeks she’d have one hellish night with him in one of the third floor rooms. Two days later she’d come back smiling. That was all she could tolerate of the hard stuff.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to be treated like a dog, but I didn’t think there was anything I could go through worse than the trials I’d already survived. What concerned me was the suddenness of Sergei’s decision. One day I’m his slave, the next told to report to the general auction. When I saw my master in the hallway of the bordello the night Kiri informed me, I tried to find out just what had happened. He gave me one rare smile and said, “It’s strictly business, Chloe, nothing else.”

  Just a few weeks after my infamous mutiny, I wondered if that had anything to do with it; but by the expression on his face, I decided not to even bother asking. Once that punishment was over, and I’d returned to my regular routine, nothing had been said. My favorite cohorts in the trade told me there were rumors that Sergei was in financial troubles and needed to bail out of several contracts, mine being one. My first feeling was rejection, but then, rejected by what? There was no affection between us, never would be. I suppose however, I felt as if I belonged to him.

  Waiting for my turn in the auction room I had lots of time to think. At that moment I felt more like a slave than I ever had, since the choice in the matter seemed taken from my hands. Even though I knew the possibility always loomed over my head, I never anticipated or believed it would happen. My life those several months had been more fulfilled than I’d ever experienced. There was little that daunted me in the bordello and certainly not in my job at the paper. My ongoing war with Gatov was destined never to cease, but that had become almost as ritualized as my nights as a whore. What this change signaled had me scared. It wasn’t the auction, the humiliation, none of that mattered as much as the potential for altering the lovely balance of sex and living, which now seemed second nature.

  “Chloe Duchet!” A gruff voice woke me from my thoughts.

  Looking up, I eyed the smoking, bald-headed man at the auction room door as did the three other women waiting with me. None of us knew whether to be relieved when our name was called or not. Though hearing mine, I knew I
was glad to get the waiting over with. I tried telling myself that this was a good thing for me; being sold enriched my contract, which was never bad. Some slaves made a bundle at these auctions when the bidding turned into a battle. That was why I tried my best to look as sumptuous and alluring as I knew how, considering that I was wearing a slave robe. Unfortunately the long-sleeved black dress with neat ties at the breasts, cunt and ass was not the most flattering, but then that wasn’t exactly its purpose. The ties were undone only when the audience paid for the privilege of seeing the slave’s assets. Nothing in the sex trades was done that didn’t bring money into someone’s hands, even if it wasn’t always mine.

  The lights on the stage were so blinding that there was no way I could see the faces before me. I sensed a room full of haggling men, by the low dull roar I knew the room was large. They barked numbers that made no sense to me, and then some all-out war broke loose and an official sounding voice was required to quiet the crowd. After the room settled into that same dull roar, I was ordered to step to a two foot high platform, helped there by the man that escorted me. At least his hands were warm and protective while I climbed the few steps.

  So high above the men below, I might have felt like a princess in my position, but all I could think of was the likelihood that I’d topple over if the smoke got any thicker inside my head.

  At one point my attendant poked my side and whispered for me to undo the tie at my breasts. That undone, the material fell away and my breasts were exposed. Asked to turn around, I followed the same instructions when it was time to bare my ass, and then later my cunt. Each step in the unveiling caused my body to shake a little more. For all the exposure I’d had in my months as a slave, Cece was right, this was different. Anonymous, sleazy and hot. “You’ll think yourself a useless dog…” The lights, like furnaces scorched my skin.

  The first words I could clearly understand were uttered when the exposure was complete. “Begin bids,” a big voice boomed over the noise, and I waited breathlessly for the rapid fire bidding to begin. But then, before anything else could be said, before the crowd could make their pleas for me, a second voice, strong and clear from far back in the room roared out, “125,000!”

  A deafening hush followed.

  Then there was a collective, “ahhhhh,” and then the clamor of noisy chatter resumed. Feeling a tug at my dress, I looked down to see the attendant motioning me off the platform; the auction for me was over.

  The sparse room where I waited was cold. I’d redone the ties to my dress, thinking that might be some protection against the draft that came in through the window. Still I shivered. When I was finally summoned, I followed the attendant as he walked down a dank hallway to the exchange room. Sergei was already signing the papers, standing in front of a desk transferring ownership rights to the man who sat there. I couldn’t see my new master at first. Anxiety clawing in my throat, my head pounding with a dull ache, I was surprised how this transition was affecting me, when I’d tried to remain so aloof. In my mind I figured my life would go on as before, nights and weekends in the bordello, just a new man to answer to; and yet my intuition told me something different. I know I wouldn’t have been so scared if that weren’t true, if an extraordinary change wasn’t taking place.

  When Sergei moved aside, I expected some finishing remark between us to end the stint of our shared lives, but seeing the face on the other side of the desk, my eyes were instantly fixed on them, and I could look no where else. I was aware that Sergei brushed by me on his way out the door, that there was a jumble of activity as the officials prepared for the transfer and my signature. Against the backdrop of that commotion, I felt a tightness in my body, as if I were, to the accompaniment of spooky music, walking down a dark corridor with someone staring at my back.

  My mind could not compute what had just taken place. Could not, for all its struggle to make sense of it, understand why Gatov, not Max Gatov my boss, but Gatov from the antiquities shop was sitting in the seat as my new master.

  “Sign here, Duchet,” the magistrate said. The attendant’s hand went to my rump to me push me forward, since it was obvious that I couldn’t move on my own volition.

  “Sign?” I looked about bewildered while I took the pen in hand.

  “Here.” Someone pointed out the place.

  I scrawled my signature on the line, and then stood back, my eyes returning to the man from whom I’d stolen Rowena’s diary.

  “This is a proxy purchase,” I was told by the magistrate sitting next to Gatov. I must have looked confused because he went on to explain. “Mr. Gatov is acting on behalf of his son, Maximillian Gatov. I believe you know him already?”

  “Max? Max Gatov?” I whispered.

  Gatov behind the desk nodded. “You’ve been eyed by him for sometime.”

  Gatov. The man I sparred with daily, whose venom poured out on me in an unending stream, who threatened me when I challenged him, who held my job over my head with a knife ready to cut it loose? Max Gatov who I despised as much as he despised me? But with whom I was beginning to think some regard had been generated in the midst of our endless battle? That Gatov was the son of this man? And that Gatov had purchased my contract?

  I felt as though I just opened my soul for the world to see, and its blood, its precious fluid was pooling up at my feet.

  “Why didn’t he come himself?” I asked.

  “Because he runs a newspaper office,” Gatov the father replied.

  Was that meant to remind me I was not at my own job that afternoon, or was it just a simple answer to my question?

  “I think everything is in order, Ms. Duchet,” the man next to my new master’s father informed me. “You have anything else for this slave?” He turned to Gatov.

  “No, I believe that will be enough. My son will contact her as he wishes.”

  While I continued to stand before the desk, I watched the man push away from his chair and rise. Shaking the magistrate’s hand he left the room, while my eyes were fixed on his exit the whole time.

  “You’re free to go,” the magistrate told me.

  “Free, that’s it?”

  “Simpler than the initiation, isn’t it?” he made small talk with a smile.

  “Yes, yes it is,” I agreed. My head was swimming still, as if I’d taken a dozen shots of spirits. With a deep breath and a quick smile at the official, for he had other slaves to process through that afternoon, I left the room, choosing to walk a dozen blocks in the cold afternoon drizzle before I grabbed the trolley to take me home.

  I’d told Gatov, my boss, that I had personal business, a doctor’s visit, when I asked for the day off to attend my auction. The fact that he knew what I was really doing stung me hard. I could only assume that he knew even more, a whole lot more. He knew what his father had told him about my research at the shop. And he no doubt knew of my choice for the sex trades from its inception. Information traded between master and master put them all in the same fraternity, this one the Bach Consortium to which they both belonged. Slaves trades between members in the guild could be as easily executed as mine had been.

  The fact that there had been no bidding war, not even one man trying to top the generous bid, suggested that Max Gatov had his purchase arranged from the start.

  And the fact that he didn’t attend suggested that this was just another in a long line of measures he’d used to gain control over me. However he wasn’t content to control my body, he wanted my mind and everything from my soul to the toes of my feet.

  Arriving at my apartment, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling. The chain attached to the bare light-bulb there swayed with a current of air passing through the room high above me.

  Did they know I’d taken Rowena’s journal from the shop? Did they know everything? In the back of my mind I was hoping that this was all a dream and I’d awaken with it all undone. Hours later, thinking there might be some solace for me in the journal, I opened it once again.

  9/22 - We traveled ab
out the French countryside and are now in Cannes. I’d never seen such sights and Boheme is like a tour guide showing me everything. The vacation is exhilarating, taking me away from the long days I spent doing the important work of a prophetess and visionary slave. Being made public, though my identity and the particulars about my life are still masked in mystery, there’s been more demand for me. The press and my audience know they can get to me through Boheme and were constantly after him wanting private sessions for everything from sex to personal readings of the future. I wasn’t sure that was how my gift worked. That I could simply turn on some spigot and everything that there is to know about an individual will pour out. I’m afraid that if I’m put on the spot, I’ll fail miserably and be accused of being a charlatan. About the visions I’ve seen, I am no charlatan. I tell the truth as my eyes see it. And I know enough not to cloud that truth with questionable practices that don’t seem natural to me.

  Boheme, sensing my fears, decided that after the carnival, a holiday would serve us well. I can still send my articles to the papers if they need more material to run. With that in mind, a few weeks ago we slipped out of the house to a waiting vehicle and were driven to the train station where we disappeared into Boheme’s private car. That is why I haven’t written in the journal for so many days. When I discovered that I’d forgotten to pack this treasured piece, I raised a fit with my master; and after he admonished me because I wouldn’t make due with a substitute, the dear man had these precious pages sent to me.

  We spend our days on the beach at Cannes warming in the sun. We sip fresh fruit drinks in the daytime and brandy at night. Some evenings we dance to the sounds of local musicians, and eat the most fascinating food until we’ve stuffed ourselves. The only sexual activity I’ve engaged in is with Boheme, my master, lover and dear confidante. He’s become almost jealous of me, wanting my passions all to himself. I confess that I love being loved this way. My heart wells up with feelings so rich, so rare and precious to me.