However, when the map began to suffer too much damage, the owner of the bar stopped the games and the idea was suspended until after the turn of the 21st century.
I listened to the entire story of this unusual game as it was told by a man I saw once and never again. He was a guest in Dominick’s penthouse, attending a gathering of my owner’s sadist friends. There were nearly a dozen men in the room who’d heard tales about some strange happenings of interest to this peculiar crowd.
I’m quite certain that I was not supposed to have heard this story, but I’m guessing that Dominick may have forgotten where I was. He’d been in a pissy mood that night, and after I’d crossed him with a grouchy attitude of my own, I wound up in a corner, heavily shackled and gagged. Although I couldn’t speak, I could easily listen to the intriguing story in my quiet and unobtrusive corner.
After telling about the map and the wartime game of darts, Dominick’s visitor went on to tell of the night when he and several of his friends had begged the bar owner to let them use the map again. Obviously the bar had changed hands over the years, but the story of the game had been passed down as part of the tavern’s lore. Since these few well sauced men were good paying customers, the owner finally relented to their request.
The target was determined as it had been in the past, when one player closed his eyes and aimed his dart, then the game then went on as usual with a winner and several losers. Afterwards, the evening continued with the usual round of drinks, back-slapping and off-color jokes about females—who would know that the females they verbally demeaned were not just your typical wives and girlfriends but sex slaves these men owned in the same way they did all their other possessions.
Before the men went their separate ways that night, two of them took time to notice exactly where the target of the map game had been. A few days later, they were out for the evening—with their slaves in tow—and wandered in the direction of that target. They initially assumed that the building crudely illustrated on the map had disintegrated over time, and were thus quite surprised to discover the abandoned factory was still intact, of a fashion, though it was in a state of disrepair. It appeared to have been a decent sized business in its time, so it warranted mention on that map. Driven by curiosity, the small party looked around the site, venturing into the rundown factory and finding a surprising fascination with the place.
From their first sight of the building, a seed was planted in their minds and something powerful stirred them all, including the two females. As they toured the old place, the two complained of spooky feelings, spine-tingling chills, and the uncanny sensation that they were being watched by disembodied spirits. Although the two men scoffed at the idea, the experience became so curiously arousing, so sexually titillating that one of the women laid herself out against a piece of machinery left on the site, inviting the attention of the sadists. Delighted by her spirit of adventure, the men did their job without hesitation, drawing out whips, floggers, ropes and other devices they used to torture the willing female. Quite a scene of sadistic depravity unfolded that went on long into the night. Well after midnight, the abused female was led limping from the building, a weary but sated exhaustion infecting them all. The four swore that the old factory was magic.
Some time later the two men told their story to their friends at the tavern and suggested that they try the map game again. Of course, they faced much ridicule for the silly scheme, especially the notion that the place was haunted by spooks or controlled by some demonic force, but they did get their friends to give the game another try, if only to prove that the party of four had probably been drinking too much in the first place.
That was pretty much the end of the man’s story.
However, I learned later that a second game of ‘map’ darts was played in the country tavern, one that set in motion a night as wild as the first one in the old factory. This time there were nearly a dozen couples there to witness a spectacular exhibition in an old barn; a structure that had survived years of neglect, although it had apparently been renovated at one time and was not quite as derelict as the factory. To up the excitement of the night, the players turned the occasion into a formally organized masquerade ball with simple costumes and feather masks.
I know all this because Dominick and I were there that night.
He was dressed in leather pants and a coal back t-shirt, I in a long, flowing and nearly transparent gown of brilliant white. When we arrived, the festivities were already underway, with the unbridled cries of beaten women and sexual passion filling the air. Guard dogs, huge mastiffs, roamed the barn and the grounds nearby to guard against unwanted intruders hoping to satisfy their curiosity.
As soon as we arrived, I could feel the panic clutching at my throat. “Dear god, Dominick, what is this!”
“It’s where we’ll spend the evening,” he came back evenly.
“But I-uh…”
“Hush, girl,” the tenor of his voice rattled my bones. “You have nothing to fear with me.”
Right. Nothing to fear.
I tried to remain calm, but it wasn’t easy. Strangely, though, all my nagging fears only seemed to breed my physical desire. Late at night, on feral earth, with coyotes howling in the distance and huge mastiffs restively pacing the grounds, I was shivering with anticipation and fright like I hadn’t felt since early in my slavery.
Instinct and intuition seemed to rule the night. I was so wrapped up in the spirit of the event that it was easy to be influenced by the ferocious atmosphere. I sent my mind to a holding cell and gave my being to the elements of terror. Of course, I was suspect of any claims of real magic—a rational person just can’t think that way and be taken seriously. But things happened that night that would disturb me forever. I saw a woman ravished and taken away on horseback. A stray coyote slipped through the scene unnoticed—except by me. I witnessed terror in my body I’d never known before when, suddenly, I found myself tied to the barn wall and was attacked by a shape that seemed to shift in substance before my eyes so that I could not tell if it were just a man wearing a hood, or some form of primal beast. Since I was too scared to face my attacker with open eyes, I closed my eyes while I was savagely fucked. But in that incomparable moment, the orgasmic shuddering that assailed me came from every part of my body, as if my entire body was being used by the gods.
I know it sounds insane, but I am reporting exactly how I experienced that awesome attack. Hands raked across my flesh, burning lips seared mine. The being raped me with a large and powerful cock that was as thick and heavy as any that had been thrust into my pussy. I could only lay back, resting my body against the rough barn wall and endure the rough taking.
When it was over and I was taken down, I discovered that the white transparent dress had been torn to shreds, and my body was scratched as if I’d been screwed by a wild beast.
Sometimes I believe that we’ve brainwashed ourselves into seeing the miraculous and the bizarre; that we trick our eyes and convince ourselves that weird things are transpiring when we’re under the influence of the labyrinth. That might be true. But sometimes the evidence of supernatural things seems too weighty to discount. Maybe we want to believe so badly in these mysteries that we shift the universe with our own thoughts. But maybe there is something else at play as well. I like to take the events as they are, let them unfold, give myself to the experience and not question. When it’s over I’ll come to my own conclusions.
Although I have several times tried to discuss my experience with Dominick, he flatly refuses to discuss the labyrinth or anything that happens there.
“You do yourself a disservice analyzing. Let it go, Lana,” he told me after one of the weekends.
“But I don’t want to let it go!” I snapped.
He gazed at me severely. “Well, that’s too bad. Discuss it with your alter-ego, because you won’t with me.”
At the times, the man can cast me off so cruelly that you’d think he hates me. I know better; it’s just Do
minick exercising the dominant prerogative to keep me squarely in check.
Having never been given an outlet to discuss my feelings about these weekends—save a few furtive conversations with some of the other women—I’ve come to my opinions with very little input from other players. I’ve weighed the evidence and given the subject a thorough study. In fact, one labyrinth weekend I deliberately stayed as sane as possible just so that I could take it in like an observer, not a participant. Of course, Dominick couldn’t know this, so I had to pretend to be involved when it was me that was being fucked or brutalized. However, I was able to distance myself enough that weekend to form some lasting impressions and give substance to my claims of mystical activity.
Again, I saw the unexpected—either my eyes saw what was real, or they were deceived by some clever stratagem.
Players disappeared like ghosts. Strangers arose never to be seen again. And even the faces and bodies of those I knew well seemed to shift in shape and size and character so that I thought they are morphing into completely different people. I saw Jewell as a high-priestess in a coven of witches, and Kathryn as an exotic dancer, and Kylie as a madwoman screeching like a hellcat and running with wolves—only to have all three return to normal in an instant. You say, it’s just my own imagination, except that I’ve heard all three women recount incidences when they felt as if their bodies had been changed, the molecules and atoms altered by sex and fear and the forces of the labyrinth. We’ve all thought it was drugs, only to find ourselves a transformed siren one minute, totally sane and lucid the next.
If it is not drugs, then what is responsible?
As I said, I have my opinions. For me they are the truth as I see it.
I have, however, had to scale back my empirical investigation. During the weekend where I deliberately distanced myself from the action, I thought I’d done a good job in my deception. Obviously, not good enough. The day after the event, Dominick caught me unawares with the comment: “You may think you fooled me, girl, but I know what you did this weekend.” His eyes narrowed as they often did when he was sternly making a point. “Don’t to it again.”
Here I thought he was so busy with other matters—other women. He must have had a third eye on me the entire time.
Five years after the labyrinth was born, after many savage weekends of blissful depravity within that spooky realm, I found myself again restless—a deeper feeling than what unsettled me five years before.
If slavery were a suit of clothes, it no longer fit my body like the snug glove it once was.
I lived with a grating feeling of dissatisfaction for some months, until I finally accepted that I wanted out of my agreement with Dominick. Part of me knew that I was wasting my time dwelling on that thought, but I could not stop myself from long hours contemplating my choices—few as they were. Dominick had always assured me that my slavery was a permanent condition, one that would never change. He’d even made threats to sell me from time to time—I think just to keep me in line. Never once had he wavered, never was there even an inkling that my life could be different in substance from what it was. I’m sure I could have changed jobs, found a new apartment or a new activity that would mix up my days, cured the restlessness for a month or two. I could have suggested a vacation, which I had in the past, and suddenly found myself in the lap of luxury half way around the world. Not a bad result. But still not the freedom I craved.
I wanted my liberty, the right to refuse a man sex—including the man I loved; to never again have orders whispered in my ear, ones I’d be forced to obey; to never be called in the middle of the night to unlock my door for a client, or have my quiet weekend at home turned into one I spent on my back giving pleasure to horny men.
I wanted the right to say no.
Sadly, how to make that happen, was unclear to me, and very likely not possible.
With relatively no options available, I finally got bold one evening in the penthouse and stated my case to Dominick in simple terms. “I want my freedom,” I told him bluntly. “I think it’s time.”
I was sitting on the side of the bed after we’d had sex. He was on his feet.
The statement stopped him dead in his tracks like few things might, and he looked back at me bewildered, his brow furrowed. “Freedom? Freedom?” He repeated the word, mocking me with his tone of voice.
“Yes, you heard me. If there is any way I can earn my freedom, I would beg you to allow me the option of making it real.”
He studied me, as I’d often seen him do. That in itself was daunting. This large and powerful man still had the power to make me quake deep, to desire his cock again when he’d only just fucked me. I could have seen myself slipping to my knees in a pose of worship as he considered what I’d just said. But no feeling, no desire seemed more important to me than the desire for freedom that I’d so simply stated.
He said nothing for the longest time, and I finally jumped back in, “Is it possible? Is there any way…?”
“No. Absolutely not,” he cut me off. “You’re my slave. And right now you’re lucky I don’t force you into two weeks groveling on your belly just to remind you of that fact. I could even put you on the auction block. There are a lot of options I could choose, but giving you your freedom is not one. You’d better hope that just telling me about your personal angst doesn’t piss me off enough to do something rash.”
I nodded meekly, knowing that I’d done all I could do. The rest was up to him, though it seemed that I had my answer.
That was where I found myself some months later when the silent Dominick slipped into my apartment, using his key, while I waited anxiously for him to appear. Our brief discussion about my freedom had long since skipped my mind, though I know that the feelings, the hunger for my release had not in any way waned.
When Dominick finally arrived at the door of my bedroom, he was still sipping his drink, swirling the ice so it clinked lightly against the side of the glass.
“You’re awake,” he peered in at me and offered up a smile more winsome than it was cheering.
“Yes, and waiting for you.”
He was deep in thought and not moving an inch from where he stood. Whatever he wanted to say would have to wait until he was ready to say it, and no manner of prompting him would make him move any faster. Thus I waited patiently, squirming a bit under the covers so he could see that I was ready for him to make his move. I was clearly horny, which was pretty typical of nights when he stalked my apartment before finally coming to bed. He liked me aroused and ready. But sex was not the first thing on his mind.
“Several weeks ago, Lana, you told me that you wanted your freedom.”
“Yes, yes, I did.” This was not what I expected to hear, and my voice quavered, no different than my entire body. He’d chosen not to take me down with a good thrashing, or lock me in a cage or closet or do something else to re-instill my submission. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t just biding his time, waiting for the right moment and that moment had finally arrived.
“Well, there may be a way,” he said, and he took another sip of his drink.
“What!” I sat up and stared at him stunned.
He smiled bigger now. “You never believed I would say that.”
“You’re right about that. But what has…”
“What has changed my mind?” He finally approached the bed and sat down. “I guess it’s pretty typical actually. There’s a woman who’s caught my eye.”
“Oh?” I didn’t know whether to be glad about this or jealous.
“I want you to help me seduce her. She’s been West’s task so far, but his roughness is not creating the attitude that I desire. He’s boorish at times, even a little clumsy. I think a softer seduction would be a good thing at this point.”
“You can’t seduce her yourself?”
“I’m sure I could. But I’d rather have you soothe the waters, Lana. I want your imprint on the girl’s soul. That way I’ll have the best of you both, and I lose nothing.”<
br />
My body to flush excitedly. “You’re serious?”
“I am. Have I ever lied to you?”
“No, not really.”
“After Evie’s last visit to the labyrinth she’s balking at returning. The scenes in the barracks stirred her up even more than we expected they would. I want you to convince her that attending is what she has to do in order to have what she desires.”
“And that is you?”
“Yes.” He waited for this to sink in, then added, “I want you to set up an interview for the magazine, which would be perfectly appropriate since she’s an up and coming young dancer. It might be somewhat of a shock when she first sees that you were one of the women in the barracks’ attic, but I’m sure you can finesse your way through a plausible explanation.”
“Evie? That Evie?” I looked at him dumbfounded.
“Yes, that Evie.”
“Oh my!”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, not really. I just would have imagined…a different woman.”
“I’m a man of surprises,” he said, and he ruffled my hair with his hand and then kissed me tenderly on the mouth as if I was the love of his life.
“But what do I tell her? What do I say?”
“I’ll leave that as your next challenge, slave. If you want your freedom badly enough, you’ll figure out a way to seduce her back into our world. Just remember, there is a time frame in play here. It must be accomplished by the end of the next labyrinth convocation.”
“And when is that?”
He chuckled. “Have you ever been privy to that bit of information before the fact?”
Labyrinth Page 13
