“Reject you! You have rejected me! And humiliated me!”
“You humiliate yourself by disobeying me!”
I had no idea what he was getting at, and I did not care. I felt that my world had shattered, that was all I knew. I no longer cared about anything, my new-found artistic abilities, Sybil Vane, Henry Wotton…none of it!
“Let me go!” I said sternly.
He did. I walked away from him, back to the house. Once I’d reached my room, immediately I tore off my dress and attired myself in Dorian’s clothing, phallus as well. And then I went downstairs to join the guests.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” I laughed, taking the Duchess’ hand in mine while her doddering husband looked on. “It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.”
Lady Narborough laughed gaily, as did most of the others in the room, for they found Dorian witty and charming, that was certain. Indeed, Dorian was at his most charming that night.
“I am so glad you decided to join us,” Lady Narborough said. “And that you are apparently recovered.”
“Yes,” Basil added. “Things were on the verge of becoming frightfully dull. No offense intended, Duchess.”
“None taken,” the Duchess assured him. “However, I would exchange the word dull for stupid.”
I squeezed her thigh, on the inside. “There is no sin except stupidity.”
“Oh, but we are so good in this country air,” Lady Narborough sighed. “Isn’t virtue worth something?”
“Anybody can be good in the country,” I assured her. “There are no temptations here. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized.”
The conversations spun like children’s tops before my eyes. My tongue was as sharp if not sharper than ever before.
About a droll politician who had recently been murdered in London, I said, “It must have been an accident. He was not clever enough to have enemies.” And as the diversity of subjects swirled in another direction, I had this to say of marriage: “Of course married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such an essential part of one’s personality.” Even ideals did not escape my pithy comments: “The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. That is the fatality of Faith, and the lesson of Romance.”
The hours wore on. My energy soared. I drank Brandy by the snifter, and yet I was drunk on something else. I was outrageous, even by comparison with myself. I even flirted with Sybil Vane, and her handsome but moronic husband, rubbing her fanny, swatting his… I felt jaded and reckless. I had them all in the palm of my hand. A shift of word here, and they laughed. A clever turn-of-phrase there, and they pondered truth. A clever enough barb and they shuddered in terror that they would next be the object of my scorn. All but one.
Lord Henry watched me the entire time, silently, as if studying an exotic and slightly repulsive bird. Even when I made him the object of my insights and insults, he resisted the urge to succumb to my charms. And when the others trundled off to bed, Lord Henry left the Duchess and I alone in the conservatory, as on the night before. This night, though, I was Dorian, no longer Dorianne—I intended to assert my masculine will.
The Duchess was as submissive as she had been active, and I soon had her squatting on my cock as I squatted on the Persian carpet and hopped about the room. She giggled outrageously and enjoyed herself immensely. And when I was through with her, I knocked on Lady Narborough’s bedroom door and screwed her while she leaned over the secretary, her titties stroked by the feathers of the writing quills.
I made the rounds that night, knocking at all doors, gaining admittance to each, fucking both women and men, upper class or servants, fucking myself into a frenzy. All doors but one.
And just as the dawn broke, and I rounded a corner on the second floor, headed for my room, who should be standing in the hallway but Lord Henry. His posture was serious. On the floor beside him, he carried a valise.
“Well. Finally you’ve shown yourself. If you’ll lower your breeches, I’ll have you too,” I said cockily.
Lord Wotton was not amused. “Get dressed!” he ordered.
I looked down at myself. My clothing was askew, my trousers in particular unbuttoned, and the head of the leather cock jutting out. I laughed loudly. “I am dressed, if not decent.”
Lord Wotton was in no mood for humor. He came at me, and I bent to avoid him, losing my balance and nearly tumbling over the bannister. He caught me up in his arms, hoisted me over his shoulder, retrieved the valise and carried me down the stairs.
Outside, a carriage awaited. He tossed me unceremoniously inside, and I scrambled for the opposite doors. In my inebriated state, though, I was not quick enough; suddenly, the horses began to trot. The carriage jerked. I was thrown back against the seat.
“Well,” I said, when I caught up with myself, “what’s this about, then? A carriage ride at dawn? Perhaps your callous soul has more romance to it than I’ve given you credit for.”
Lord Henry pulled a length of hemp from out of his pocket.
He began tying my wrists together, then my wrists to my ankles. I was too drunk to resist, but thought this the funniest thing I’d ever seen, a joke actually. I laughed uncontrollably.
I was bent over when he finished, head resting on knees. He pushed me onto my side on the seat and stuffed a large pocket handkerchief into my mouth. I lay in this cramped position. Quickly I found I was no longer amused.
I struggled to sit up, but that proved impossible. I glared at Lord Henry, and he glared back. I soon became bored and frustrated, but there was nothing I could do about this strange turn of events. I wanted to ask where we were going, but I suspected I already knew—back to London. But why was unclear.
And what was the purpose, diabolical or otherwise, that Lord Henry had in mind? It was a mystery.
After a night of carousing, I gave in to the exhaustion lurking behind the frustration and slept though most of the journey, putting the mystery aside for the time. It was just as well, for what awaited me when I awoke was something I had not anticipated.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We arrived in London to an overcast sky. Lord Henry had given the driver instructions already, apparently, since the carriage was taken ’round to the back of his house. There Lord Henry lifted me out and carried me inside. The carriage driver had obviously been paid off, and the crisp Pierre was nowhere to be seen. Rescue did not appear to be imminent.
Through the back porch, and the kitchen, then down the hallway and up the stairs; I was carried like the stolen goods of a thief in the night, although it must have been just noon.
We ended up in Lord Henry’s bedroom, which did not come as a surprise to me. He untied me bit by bit, one leg first, which I used when free to kick at him. He tied that to the post at the footboard, and the other freed leg to the other post at the bottom of the bed. Eventually my wrists were tied to the headboard, but not without much struggle on my part. The handkerchief was removed from my mouth where it had been a good three hours. I gulped in air, grateful for this respite. So much so, that minutes passed before I began to yell.
At first I cursed him madly, then ended up screaming, hoping that someone outside would hear me and see what all the fuss was about. Lord Henry paid no notice.
After a good half hour of this, while he left me alone in the bedroom, I began to realize that this room must be made of walls so thick that no one outside it could hear what went on inside. There were no windows, and I was aware that I myself heard nothing from the other side of the door. This gave me considerable pause.
Lord Henry returned several hours later, by which time I had worn myself out with struggle and frustration. The rope had been knotted so securely that my wrists and ankles might as well have been chained
. I felt to be a prisoner. Doomed.
When he finally did re-enter the bedroom, I began another tirade, which he again ignored. I watched him move about, calling him every vile name I could think of, and then, when that failed to elicit a response, my despair returned and I began to plead.
“Lord Wotton, surely you know you cannot keep me here. I am an unmarried woman. This is not proper, and you are a gentleman.”
“I believe you are contradicting yourself, Dorianne, since you said but a few moments ago that I was anything but.”
“Please! You must allow me to leave. Miss Pruit will be worried.”
“Miss Pruit has been told that you have extended you stay in the country.”
“Then the Duchess will wonder at my quick departure.”
“Not at all. She has been informed that you were called away suddenly, and that I kindly escorted you back to London. Your things will be sent by a purveyor with whom I have made arrangements—they will arrive here.”
“What is your plan?” I demanded, tired of his cat and mouse game.
“Simply this. You will stay here until you become yourself.”
His words enraged me. “How dare you, sir? Free me this instant.”
“I shall do no such thing, for I am prepared to wait as long as it takes for you to come ’round.”
“Come ’round to what? You and your desires?”
“Come ’round to yourself, Dorianne, and your natural needs, whatever those may be. If they include me, I shall be the happiest man on earth. If they do not, so be it.”
“If you may not get anything from this endeavor, then why waste the time,” I said, knowing I had him there.
Lord Henry stopped what he was doing and looked at me solemnly. “Because I do it for an emotion your terrified, embittered heart may not understand.”
For a moment I was dumbfounded. “That you should speak so to me, you, who encouraged my cynicism, who cared not that I indulged every appetite and who in fact suggested some I might not have even known I possessed, that you dare to treat me as incapable of love, you who would whip me and abandon me…”
But he was gone. I heard the key in the lock from outside.
I lay on my back with but one lamp on each side of the bed lit. Fury turned to frustration which altered to despair, then back to fury again. My emotions were a prism of colliding colors. I lost track of time. I knew I was hungry, and that I needed to urinate, but these needs were not met for a long time.
Then, suddenly, Lord Henry was in the room. He cut my clothing from my body until I was naked, including the pants with the leather phallus attached. Then he slid a bedpan beneath me, expecting me to perform in his presence. I told him I would not, yet my body betrayed me. As I peed into the pan, tears of humiliation leaked from my eyes.
“Best to grow accustomed to it,” he warned me. “Soon you’ll be defecating.”
“Never!” I assured him, knowing, though, that he spoke the truth, for I could not control certain functions.
He fed me chicken, roasted, which I spit back at him, but he was persistent, and eventually hunger got the best of me and I devoured a leg and a few peas. And then the lamps were turned down low and I was left alone again in my prison.
I slept fitfully and was forced constantly to be aware of my physical discomfort. And by morning, I was keenly aware that I would be held here at Lord Henry’s discretion. I knew it would not be a short stay. And I knew I could not convince him to free me, so I vowed to stop trying.
He came with eggs and toast with marmalade, and tea. I ate, and then he washed my naked body down and brushed my teeth.
Then he brought out the bedpan and my humiliation knew no bounds, for I shat into it and he wiped me clean. I could not bear to look him in the eye after that.
Lord Henry untied me bit by bit and turned me, so that I now laid on my stomach. And I laid like that for many hours until he came again. This time he brought something with him.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw him move the curtain aside so that the painting of Dorianne, that oddly changing portrait, was visible. Next to it he hung the picture of Dorian Gray, which was also altering gender.
“How did you find my painting?” I asked, since no one but I knew it was in the attic.
“Your diary.”
“What? Have you no limits? You read my diary?”
Lord Wotton smiled a little. “As you said, Dorianne, it is sensational.”
I gave him a scathing look and turned away.
I lay in that position for hours more, and periodically glanced at the paintings of my two selves. I began to see a terrible severing there, that I also began to recognize was imbedded deep within me. My two selves were at odds with one another, each trying to find the other side like animals searching for their mates.
The horror of that division, and the pain it caused me brought stinging hot tears to my eyes. I sank into despair, so that when Lord Henry arrived with dinner, I was sobbing.
“My life cannot be patched up!” I wailed. “There is a doom to it. Why, Henry, does one run to one’s ruin? Why has destruction such a fascination?”
Lord Henry did not answer, but between my sobs fed me a beef broth and a salad of lettuce and scallions, and dried my eyes.
As he began to untie me and turn me onto my back again, I said plaintively, “The gods hold the world on their knees. I was made for destruction. My cradle was rocked by the Fates.”
This continued until he left me alone again.
Now I could see both portraits dead on. Each was altering still, one passing the other, the male version headed to female and vice versa. As I watched them, I sobbed anew. Wherever I was headed, I knew not. My one comfort in it all was the fact that Lord Wotton came consistently. It came to me at one point that my ordeal was destined, and that Lord Henry was but the conduit which permitted me to pass on to my fate.
It took many days, although I could not say how many, to become accustomed to my fate, as though I had been born tied to this bed, and expected to be here forever. So much so that soon Lord Henry released me into the room, that I might wander freely.
Paints and inks were brought to me, and writing paper. And while I worked with one, I was thinking of the other medium.
The portraits seemed to have moved completely across the channel from whence they began, leaving two distinct pictures, much as they had begun, but the opposite portrait on the frame of the other. I wrote about them. I painted them. And then I began to write and paint my dreams and fantasies, blending them with reality as I understood it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lord Henry has locked me in his bedroom. Daily, he visits to provide me with the necessities of life. He rarely says a word. When I speak, if I am saying something that he deems truth, he listens.
I have been alone here for more days than I can count. A week. Two perhaps. Maybe three. I do not think three, but I may be wrong. Time, like much else, has lost meaning. My focus, though, is crystal clear.
To think, I brought this on myself. I find Henry diabolical, perverse in the extreme. The power he wields over me drives me insane with rage, and yet at the same time, I find myself more and more attracted to what I once viewed as repulsive in the extreme.
He is bound and determined that he will keep me locked away until I submit, until I free my mind of distracting thoughts and write and paint the truest longings in my heart. I do not know if they are directed toward him or away from him, but I know that whereas at first, in this peculiar prison, I felt completely incapable of writing such a thing, now I am eager to set down my thoughts and feelings on paper, and try to create images on canvas that convey my emotions. And write and paint I must. To keep my sanity. To keep my passion alive. To communicate to myself, and to Lord Henry, something, what I do not know. But surely, by the end of my missive, both of us will find that out.
Letter to Lord Henry Wotton
“My dear Lord Henry, or should I say Dearest? I do not know why that word
should come to me, for I hate you so. Or do I? You have, since our first acquaintance, toyed with me, like a cat weakening a mouse, almost freeing it, then, at the last moment, the claw returns and I am yet again your prisoner.
“The two paintings bespeak my torment, if nothing else. Prison life makes one see people and things as they really are. That is why it turns one to stone. Or has it? Is the stone about to crack? And what will we find within? Something soft and vulnerable, something growing? Or a thing that has already hardened into a shriveled pit?
“I wish we could talk over the many prisons of life—prisons of stone, prisons of intellect, prisons of morality. Prisons of passion. But I know this is not what you wish to hear from me. And frankly, it is not really what I wish to say.
“I humble myself before you, Lord Henry, for how can I write what follows and not be humble. I do not know if this expression will save me or kill me, but I know it is from my heart, expressed here on paper with ink, expressed on the canvasses you will see, no doubt.
“I wish to tell you a fantasy, one that leads to what I believe to be my passion. Our mutual passion, and their blending.
“We enter the boudoir together. We have been together for several days, making love with your cock in my rectum, going at it as two uninhibited, unrestrained animals might. Your essence is with me, swirling through me. I think I know you.
“I walk to the window, to place my things on a chair. Only one lamp is burning. I hear you lighting candles, and the oil wick is drowned so that we may have this more intimate glow. Two black candles now illuminate the room.
“‘Come here,’ you say.
“My back is to you. Your voice is like a cool finger down my spine. I shiver a little and turn. Your face in the candlelight is beautiful. But there is something there, something I have not seen before. Something as resolved as what I hear in your voice. I find your face and voice exciting, enticing, unnerving.
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 15
