by P. J. Fox
“I mean—I didn’t mean—oh, Christ, I keep putting my foot in it.”
Belle debated pointing out that she and Ash weren’t married. Instead, she decided to ask questions. There was so much she wanted to know. Needed to know.
“Tell me more about yourself?”
Unconsciously echoing Ash, Sasha made a face. “You can’t possibly be interested.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“I don’t think I’d want to know but, then again, I’m from a different background. Which,” she continued, “I’d been meaning to mention—you speak really good English.”
“I’m American.”
As, clearly, was Sasha.
“Oh. Oh. I didn’t realize. I thought—I mean, I didn’t think, I guess you sound sort of American. Or Canadian. But I assumed you must be Indian. Like him.” Sasha blushed again.
And then Belle understood: Sasha was nervous about making a good impression on her.
Suddenly, Belle’s whole impression of the situation changed. It was like a cloud being lifted. Sasha didn’t look down on her, and didn’t see her as competition. Her comment that Belle had no reason to be jealous, while artless, was entirely sincere. She understood, better than Belle did, their relative positions. Had apparently always known, or at least assumed, that her lover was partnered. Married.
Sasha put down her cup, which rattled on the saucer. She was still nervous, but growing calmer. Probably because Belle hadn’t started shouting invective. Or crying. “But, to answer your question, I’m from Scarsdale.” She laughed, a strange noise in the quiet space. “I guess you know where that is. I’m my father’s own little Jewish American princess.
“But I…kind of discouraged them, I think. My parents, I mean. I was what my grandmother used to call boy crazy. I just, you know, didn’t want to spend my life either becoming a CPA or married to one. Or whatever. So I guess I kind of wanted to do something to piss them off. And maybe have a little fun at the same time. A club promoter I knew introduced me to this guy, who turned out to be from—I don’t know, Pakistan or some place, I get them all confused—and he said he needed women for one of his parties. You know, to make things more interesting.”
Belle listened in silence. She brought that out in some people, the compulsive need to confess. She’d expected to hear about Sasha’s sex life, not her daddy issues. But perhaps they were one in the same.
“Ten thousand dollars for two weeks’ work,” she continued. “That’s what he was offering. So of course I said yes! I mean, who wouldn’t? I had to have some blood tests and stuff but it was no big deal.”
“I see.”
“Yeah.” Sasha smiled again. She sipped her coffee again and this time, when she replaced the cup, the saucer didn’t rattle. “So we partied on this yacht for awhile, and then at some resort in a place called Ibiza, and that’s where I met your husband. He asked me if I, you know, wanted to be his girlfriend.”
“And you did?”
Sasha shrugged. “This—I know it won’t last forever. None of it. Hell, I won’t last forever. Looks fade, you know? But these parties, these men, it’s fun. Shopping sprees, trips, little gifts here and there, and all you have to do in return is have sex.”
“Do your parents know where you are?”
“Yeah.” Sasha finished her coffee, and sighed. “They do. They’re hoping I come home soon and finish my degree. Or get married.” She shook her head.
“You don’t want to?”
“Hell no! No offense, but being married sounds awful. It’s one thing to have a little fun, but it’s another to sit up all night listening to someone else’s problems. I need my beauty sleep.”
Belle absorbed this in silence. Whatever Ash liked about this woman, or at least tolerated, it wasn’t her wit. Or her compassion for others. She knew she should be offended, but she found the idea obscurely amusing. Well, if Charlotte were here, Charlotte would tell her to be offended. The thought was bittersweet.
Even so, Belle thought that, perhaps for the first time, she truly understood what Ash meant about her not having competition.
Uncurling from her spot on the couch, Sasha poured herself another cup of coffee. It was nice, sitting here like this. Belle hadn’t known precisely what drove her to invite this woman in, but she’d discovered that she truly was interested in what her lover’s lover revealed about him. Listening to Sasha, Belle was able to see Ash, not as her captor or her protector or even her lover, but as a man. A sexual being. Who wanted, who needed, to be wanted.
Ash was a superlative lover. Had Sasha taught him any of the tricks he used? Had other women—or men? Even if he’d learned them during practice, Belle owed them a debt of gratitude. Which sounded deviant, even to herself. But which she found oddly charming. The idea that these other people had contributed to her relationship.
Was he faithful in the traditional sense? Obviously no. But was sexual fidelity the only—or even most important—kind? Was it even relevant? Belle had turned this idea over in her head, fearful of what Ash’s interest in other women might mean. But after her encounter with Julianne, she’d found herself reviewing the topic in a different light.
Julianne was married; Julianne loved her husband. And yet Julianne had wanted to sleep with Belle—Belle and Ash—as almost, for lack of a better term, a gesture of friendship. And while Belle wasn’t capable of finding Julianne attractive in the way that Julianne wished, she’d discovered that she wasn’t wholly repelled by the idea.
And that a small, rebellious part of her had still been turned on. But by something else. Not the idea of her lips on Julianne’s pale flesh, but Ash’s.
She’d wanted to see him with another woman, for however brief a moment.
Her parents had been faithful to each other. At least in the sense of never having taken lovers. But they’d betrayed each other in so many ways. Neglect, indifference, contempt…all of these had been features of her childhood. She’d watched her parents stonewall each other or, even worse, snipe back and forth about every little thing. They devalued, ridiculed, and lied. Belle, caught in the middle, wasn’t treated much better.
Until she grew older, and they’d begun ignoring her entirely.
For the most part, she’d been grateful to be ignored.
Sex wasn’t what had destroyed her parents’ marriage, but an unwillingness to be married. Their interest in other people, if indeed there had been any, wasn’t what made them such wretched parents. Her father’s alcoholism and her mother’s rage were far greater problems than any lover ever could have been.
True betrayal was in the heart.
Sasha helped herself to couple of sandwiches, too, before resuming her spot.
“So you’re really not worried? About him being upset?”
Belle smiled. “No.” She, too, was relaxing, enjoying the warm and cozy space they shared. Outside, the snow was thickening into a blizzard. “It’s good for him, to be challenged. He likes to think of himself as the king of his own domain, and I suppose he is, but I like to think he benefits from the occasional reminder that his subjects have needs.”
“See,” Sasha said, her tone conspiratorial like that of a high school girlfriend at a sleepover, “you can get away with that. If I—if anyone else—said that, or anything like it, I’d be out on the street.” Popping in one of the dainty sandwiches, she licked the errant crumbs from her fingertips. “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“How did you two meet?”
Belle thought for a moment. “We met…at a party, I suppose.”
“Oh.” Sasha sighed. “I’m sure it was a glamorous party…white tie and tails, the sort billionaires go to. The yachts and things…I know they’re slumming. Nobody goes to parties like that to meet real girls. So is your father in oil? That’s what they’re all into, isn’t it?”
“Actually, the top oil producing countries in the world are Saudi Arabia and the United States. Followed closely by Russia, Iran, and China.” Be
lle had learned that in class.
“So your father is in oil.”
Belle shook her head. “No, fish.”
Sasha nodded wisely, pretending that this meant something.
“India’s principle economy is agriculture. Forestry, logging and fishing account for a fifth of its GDP. Its still the leading source of employment. Where Ash is from, in the north, the economy is based on cash crops. Principally sugar cane but wheat and rice, too.”
“And your parents didn’t mind you marrying someone—so different?”
“My parents weren’t consulted.”
Sasha laughed, genuinely delighted this time. “So what’s it like?”
Being with Ash? “He’s certainly expanded my horizons.” Belle smiled without intending to, as she thought about it. “And I don’t just mean in the bedroom. Before meeting him, I’d never eaten a plum dumpling or had skate wing or….” Or been to a party where the servitors were topless. And certain of the other guests were on offer.
“When we met I was…in a difficult place. He encouraged me to be myself, and to go after my dreams.”
“It sounds like you have a nice marriage.” Sasha, despite her protestations of non-interest, sounded wistful. “I’ve never had a man—or anyone, really—want the best for me. The men I choose…pretty much let me do as I please, I guess. Except of course in the bedroom.”
Belle sympathized. For most of her life, no one had been much interested in her, either.
“I don’t know if you relate to this or not,” Sasha said, “but I like being tied up.” She spoke slowly, as if the admission were painful. “Humiliated. Sometimes in public, sometimes in private. Growing up, I used to look at porn all the time. My parents never really paid attention to me so that was okay, but even so I was terrified that someone would find out. See the kinds of things that turned me on and know that I was a freak. Sick.
“I had no idea that these things were common fetishes, that a fetish was even a thing. That people could be paid for letting other people tie them up. That there were whole communities of people who wanted this—needed this in their lives.” She shook her head. “After the first time my parents kicked me out, I needed money so I started surfing Craigslist looking for escort gigs. I saw an ad for a paid submissive and that ended up being my first paid gig. A thousand dollars for a couple of hours’ work.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be tied up.”
“I know that—now. I don’t—I’ve never done it with anyone I loved before, though. Or even cared about. Oh, they’ve all been reasonably professional; they respect my safeword and they give good aftercare. But once the scene is over, really over, that’s that.”
“Oh.”
To Belle, bondage was about love. Not love in the sense of romantic comedies and Valentine’s Day cards, but in the sense of the force that bound the universe together. In the sense of trust—which was something that everyone needed, to survive. Her trust of Ash manifested itself in her surrender to him. Her willingness to accept him as a man and as her dominant. She’d come to him, literally, knowing that her life was in his hands. And she’d grown accustomed to him within that paradigm. Accustomed to him, and more.
Whips and chains were fun enough, she was discovering that, but an hours’ worth of whips and chains was as different from surrendering herself, her sexuality, in totum as true love was from cheap chocolate.
She thought back to the first time he’d taken her, how miserable and confused she’d been. Much like a contract bride on her wedding night. He’d bathed her after, and while the act might have looked submissive from the outside it wasn’t. Rather, he’d been claiming her as his own. Caring for her as he might a treasured pet, she supposed…but hadn’t it been more? Wasn’t it still?
Charlotte would be appalled.
If she were here, which she wasn’t.
She’d say that the truest expression of commitment was being with one woman and one woman only. Being with defined as having sex with, not being committed to. That Ash made her laugh, that he’d bought her the kiln in her studio, that he’d filled their bedroom with her favorite books, all of that would be dismissed as meaningless in the face of his other transgressions. His seeing other women. His having virtually kidnapped Belle out of a strange club in a strange city.
Charlotte would never see Belle as anything more than a captive, and Ash as anything more than a monster. Belle supposed most modern women wouldn’t. And, Belle had to admit, she and Ash certainly weren’t the couple next door. There were no role models for what they were doing, at least that Belle had ever encountered.
Charlotte didn’t understand that loving someone didn’t mean owning the rights to their body—or that love could spring from unlikely sources. Or that one person could be owned and the other, not. Whatever claim Belle had to Ash, didn’t come from her power. She had none.
But Charlotte’s views, once so revolutionary, had begun to seem antiquated. Charlotte was trapped in a world of absolutes, which left no room for the foibles of human nature. Belle often thought of Charlotte; Charlotte’s words, in her head, were the last link to her old life. Even as she’d come to realize that she was responsible for her own happiness. She didn’t need other people, including Charlotte, to approve and she didn’t need other people, including Charlotte, to choose her same life.
Belle just needed, for once, to be herself.
SIXTY-FIVE
Ash lost his virginity—in one sense, at least—to his ayah.
He’d played with other children, mostly innocently. The occasional game of doctor had produced interesting results, now and then. He, along with his friends, had discovered that mutual fondling brought a certain amount of excitement. Friends, both male and female. For although he was growing, as were they, they remained blind to the fact that they were no longer what they had been. They were innocent. Sex, such as it was, was innocent.
And what they did could hardly be termed sex.
That came later.
Ash used to stand alone in his room, looking at himself in the mirror. He’d turn this way and that, striking one pose after another. He was twelve or so, then. Young. Younger than he thought. He wasn’t tall for his age, nor was he particularly robust. Even so, his passions were awakening. Passions he scarcely understood. Sex wasn’t talked about in his home. Nothing was talked about. He worried constantly that he’d be a short, runtish child forever.
He began to examine his penis, checking it for signs of growth. And it was growing. And developing hair, as was the rest of him. He found this fascinating and, at the same time, obscurely terrifying. What was happening to him?
During one of these narcissistic sessions, he discovered that while his penis, in repose, looked magnificent enough, when excited it was delightful. Delightful and, to him, very large. He began to wonder, quite without wanting to, what his friends would think. The idea of showing it to them, of perhaps doing more than showing it to them, became increasingly appealing. An idea that, indeed, consumed his thoughts at times to the point where he grew convinced that he was a pervert. Or delusional.
He didn’t know what was normal. At that point, as sheltered as he’d been, he had only the vaguest notion of what a man might do with a woman. He’d seen shows, on occasion, and films, but nothing pornographic. In those, sex seemed to mainly consist of a lot of rolling around in a tangle of bedclothes.
He thought back to those earliest games of doctor, and was troubled.
At school, he learned about sex.
His father had remarked, obliquely, that British men were ten times more likely to be homosexual than other men. Stephanie had replied, as tactfully as possible, that she didn’t believe this to be true. Ash, at the time, had had no real notion of what the word homosexual even meant. And what had his father meant when he’d warned him against being “inducted” into a lifelong pursuit of other men?
As an adult, he’d read a study concluding that most British men were in fact bisexual. That
the vast majority of said who’d slept with a man had also slept with at least one woman. And that, indeed, even among those who’d been partnered with a man for at least two years, fully half had also been with a woman.
Most interesting of all, he’d learned that men who’d had large numbers of female partners were more likely than monogamous men to have had a homosexual experience. In other words, the law of averages: bugger enough bottoms and a few were bound to be one’s roommate’s. Which had certainly been the case at Harrow; Ash’s first sexual experience had, indeed, been with his roommate. His roommate, and an older boy.
Whatever punishments were meted out by one’s elders, there was a rule: take it like a gentleman. Each morning, over breakfast, they’d learn who had and who hadn’t. One prefect in particular had had a passion for caning. A warm, kind and trusting home-from-home environment, read one of the brochures for the school. With no hugs, though. And nothing of softness save the marching rows of identical bedspreads.
The games were the worst. Games that blended, with agonizing confusion, sex and pain. Pain felt in hundreds of hearts. Boys—and they truly were that, boys—who needed someone, anyone, to love them. Who lived lives almost completely devoid of natural physical contact. Who turned to each other, and sometimes turned on each other, not from any true desire but from desperation.
There was so much self loathing. So much pain. There were gentle boys, of course, too; boys whose time together was kind. Warm. Comforting. There was no coercion in those couplings. Some just wanted to cuddle. They missed their mothers.
Ash was not one of those boys.
He never forced anyone, although he was certainly coerced—or more than—in his younger days. He came to understand, early on, that human sexuality was fluid. That it was as much about means and opportunity as anything else. His first introduction to sex had been pleasant enough; the sixth form hadn’t been cruel. He’d instructed Ash on how to suck his cock, telling him that he was pretty, like a girl. And then he’d mounted first one boy, and then the other. And, in the coming months, had showed them how to do the same.
