The Silver Chain

by Primula Bond

  There are other aromas. Surely Gustav didn’t sleep in here last night? Is that why the bed is rumpled? Would he sleep in the bed of a woman he claims to loathe?

  But the stark image that rises as I stare at the bed is of the two of them clinched together. Margot and Gustav making the beast with two backs, her thighs open, gripping him like a lioness, riding on top of him. Her back is to me. I’m guessing she had long black hair. Or maybe she always wore that leather mask when having sex. But Gustav’s long legs are kicking out underneath her as she straddles him, as she brandishes the long black riding crop above her head and smacks it down onto whatever part of him she can reach, whipping him into a frenzy.

  Jealousy stabs so hard that I clutch my side in pain. Each time I take a breath, my breasts heave and my nipples prod at the tight seam of the corset. My movements have slowed down, as if I’m wading through molasses. I stand there in the swaying fractured light, watching my nipples flip over the edge and stiffen as they meet the cold air. I lick my finger and rub each one, making them wet and cold with saliva. As I start to pinch them my body sets up an answering, heavy pulse. The corset squeezes the breath out of me until my ears sing.

  He’ll be back soon. I should unlace myself. But before I do, why not use these clothes to test him, once and for all? Why not see if Gustav has been telling the truth? See if it’s true that he wants her erased from this house and from his life?

  I start to spin about in front of the mirror, lurching on my weakened ankle until I am dizzy. I come to rest in a raunchy pose. The corset squeezes me like a fist. This is no fancy dress. This is the uniform of a professional whore trained to give and withstand pain.

  My hair is still pinned into the kind of severe cornet that Crystal would favour. My face is dead white, my lips colourless and my eyes are hard and staring. The corset makes me look war-like, yet debauched. Gustav’s warrior princess. Let’s pile it on. I pick up a thick leather dog collar studded with spikes, and buckle that round my neck.

  His reaction when he sees me will be the proof I need. This is my one chance to get rid of Margot for good. Replace her with my own irresistible self. I allow myself to preen in the alien outfit. Big breasts, waist pulled in unnaturally tiny. Face deathly pale. What would Crystal say? What would cousin Polly say if she could see me cavorting like a burlesque dancer in another woman’s bedroom?

  I am naked beneath the basque, my nipples dark red and sparking painfully with the cold, my white thighs pressed together in fake modesty. I look like Rapunzel, the prostitute staring out of the photographs of the Parisian brothel.

  The wind rattles the window above me. I prowl about the room looking for more fetish gear. When I move I swivel my hips stiffly, all the natural suppleness reined in. I pull on a pair of elbow-length lace opera gloves. And there’s another pair of long rubber gloves arranged on the bed. Not gloves. It’s a pair of black leggings.

  I have to roll these on like stockings. The stranger in the mirror looks like me but moves and acts like someone else. Now I can’t get them off. They are stuck fast. My own nervous sweat makes a kind of glue. Too late I realise she would have used talcum powder or Vaseline or something to stop them sticking. The rubber squeaks and pinches, forming a kind of membrane.

  Instead of shedding my skin, I am acquiring a new one. What does that make me? A snake? A chameleon? A butterfly regressing into its chrysalis? The reincarnation of Margot?

  The crotch of the trousers is cut out. At the back, my buttocks are totally exposed. Like wearing skin-tight cowboy chaps. I continue to stamp around the room because moving is easier. The front and back openings of the trousers are linked by a rubber thong which runs like chicken wire between the two and starts to chafe me.

  Now I am a mannequin in a specialist magazine. I’m the conquering dominatrix.

  I touch myself down there and flinch. It’s sensitive as a scald. The squeezed lips are turning a livid dark pink while the rubber twangs at the little hairs.

  Why didn’t I go the full Hollywood wax? Polly swears by its clean nakedness.

  One more item to go. A pair of patent thigh boots are practically doing the can-can to attract my attention. I pull these on over the leggings with great difficulty. My ankle protests as I try the teetering heels, but I ignore it. Walking is virtually a sex act in itself. I try tripping along like a geisha, then loping mannishly with splayed legs. Whichever way I walk the tight thong shaves away at me. There is no slack. Each time it cuts, the string slices into the soft groove.

  The window rattles again. I have no idea what the time is. The chalet seems shrouded in permanent semi-darkness today. The cold air on my breasts and shoulders is a mean contrast with the salty sweat steaming up inside the rubber.

  One thing missing. I root through the make-up scattered all over the dressing table, paint on some grey glittering eye shadow then choose a dark purple lipstick the colour of a bruise. I twist back the black lid, the lipstick’s knob-head emerging crudely.

  I smear it over my mouth, breath clouding the mirror. My hand is shaking so much I veer over the edges, making my mouth big and uneven as if I’ve been punched. I touch some stripes of colour onto the soreness throbbing below. It feels so good, the cool stickiness running over me like a tongue. I’m painting myself like a savage going into battle.

  What would Margot think, seeing me in her bedchamber, dressed up as her, smearing myself with the same lipstick that once coloured her mouth?

  And then I hear the rattle and bump of a car driving up the rocky road below me, and the slamming of a door.

  Holy shit. Oh, help. Help!

  There is nowhere to hide. I’ll skulk in here but he’ll find me soon enough. There’s nowhere to run. Because I can’t run. This gear is so tight it is threatening to cut off my circulation. I can only stand here and brazen it out.

  Gustav’s boots march into the hall and into the salon. His footsteps, the jangle of his keys, the clearing of his throat, everything echoes round the chalet.

  ‘Serena? Where are you lurking?’

  He marches into the kitchen quarters. Is Dickson back, too? Are they discussing sauces and marinades and spits?

  Yet again I wish that Crystal was here. She would know what to do.

  I tweak and wrench at the rubber, panting with fear and humiliation. All I can do is stick to the plan. The test, remember? I want him to find me like this. I need to know what he will say, what he will do. I stand with my legs apart and my hands on my hips.

  I’ve been expecting you, Mr Bond.

  And then his feet on the stairs, clump, clump, various doors unlocking down the corridor. Another pause. I scrabble frantically at the trousers. In the mirror my face is still that deadly shade of white, the green eyes a sickly flicker as if there is a pilot light where my pupils should be. These pouting lips are the colour of crushed blueberries.

  At last the footsteps stampede up the spiral stairs.

  ‘Margot?’

  An anguished sob escapes my throat. ‘No, no, no. It’s me!’

  ‘Serena! Thank God! Serena!’ Gustav bangs open the metal door so hard that it takes a chunk of plaster off the wall. He stammers out my name, over and over, then stops dead.

  It’s been said so many times. But Gustav Levi really does look as if he’s seen a ghost, what little colour he had in his cheeks draining totally away. His eyes sink back into their sockets. His hands drop down limply by his sides, his fingers twitching as if he has just been shot.

  ‘But what the bloody hell are you doing in here?’

  I suddenly feel stupid. And very, very sorry. I try to speak but it’s as if someone has gagged me. The lipstick glues my mouth. I know I’ve done something very, very wrong. Either I grovel, or I brazen it out. And in these clothes, there’s only one way to behave. Like the woman he just shouted for. Like their owner.

  Legs akimbo, hands on hips. Toss my head. Look down my nose at him.

  ‘Looks like you caught me playing dress up.’

  My
voice is rough, as if I haven’t used it for a long time.

  The atmosphere in the space between us crackles with menace.

  ‘This isn’t a game. When will you learn? I thought this room was empty. This vile crap should be long gone.’

  His eyes are wide and staring, his black hair sticking to his forehead, and he’s breathing hard as if he’s run all the way up the hill from the lake. His nostrils flare like a cornered animal’s. I notice he’s shaved himself clean this morning. It makes him look stern and hard. He’s stretching the silver chain taut between his fists.

  I look down at myself, the skintight rubber. The nipples poking out like missiles. Lipstick messy all over my mouth. Back at his horrified expression. My body as a weapon.

  Margot’s body.

  ‘I don’t believe you want it gone. It was all laid out here, awaiting the mistress of the house.’ I point at the clothes, the bed, the whips. ‘It’s the same equipment she uses in that film, right?’

  His eyes snap with livid red fire. He seems to have grown in height and width. He’s filling the space between us. ‘Who told you that was her in the film?’

  ‘Crystal told me. She also told me that house in Baker Street is where you used to live. No. Don’t be angry with her. She’s a good friend to you. I peppered her with questions, and she told me about Margot, what she did for kicks. But what I need to know is, why is this stuff all still here, Gustav?’ My voice is shaking. ‘Is this a trick? Am I some kind of bait to get her back?’

  I sway on my high heels, and the movement rouses him.

  ‘Just take that filthy rubbish off,’ he hisses, taking one long step towards me. His fists are still clenched. ‘You have no idea how ridiculous you look.’

  His black brows are over his eyes like shades. Deep grooves gash the sides of his mouth. I don’t think ‘ridiculous’ covers it. Horror, dismay, disdain are closer to the mark.

  ‘I would if I could, but it’s welded onto me.’

  ‘Take it off, Serena, or so help me! What’s happened to that sweet, smart kid?’

  Without realising what I’m doing I snatch the black whip off the hook, watch in sick delight as his face contorts.

  ‘Maybe she’s not all she seems! Maybe she’s all twisted up inside. Maybe she’s been, what did Crystal call it, so badly neglected she’s beyond redemption!’

  Gustav eyes the whip. Clenches his fists. ‘This isn’t you talking, Serena.’

  ‘How do you know what’s going on inside here?’ I bash at my head with the handle of the whip. ‘You’ve known me for five minutes. Just tell me the truth for once. Put me out of my misery. Does seeing me dressed in her clothes turn you on? Would you like me to thrash you? I’m not a fool, Gustav. I know you don’t want me. But do you still want her?’

  Those black eyes of his, boring into me. A black mist descending over us both. He struggles to get a grip on what’s going on here. Is he daring me to challenge him, or is he too shocked to move? Have I overstepped the mark? I grasp the post of the bed for support. I’m forced to move like a stripper. Something wicked and dark is sliding through my veins. Is it her he sees, or is it me?

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’

  He wrenches the whip out of my hand. Then he pulls off one lace glove, hooks the silver chain onto my bracelet and ties it quickly around the brass bed post.

  ‘Bend over, you little slut. If the only way is to thrash this gibberish out of you then so be it. Again and again, until you beg for mercy.’

  ‘Let me go! It’s me. It’s Serena! When will you learn that I’m not your precious Margot?’

  ‘Don’t you dare mention that name!’

  He shoves me between my shoulder blades so that my face is squashed into the satin eiderdown. Kicks my legs apart, and before I can take a breath he’s brought the whip down on my exposed buttocks, so swift, so sharp that I can only gasp in shock.

  ‘That feels good, doesn’t it? Admit it!’ His voice is low and guttural like a dog.

  I twist on the bed, yank at the silver chain. ‘Yes, alright, yes! It feels fucking great! Do it again! I’m a bad girl! Whip me again!’

  The whip fizzes through the air, quivering like an arrow before it makes contact with a fresh piece of my still tender butt. The heat of it spreads through me, probing me and again, so weird, there comes after it, in a kind of calming wake, a sense of cleanliness and peace.

  Is this how Margot’s clients felt? A sense of penance and absolution, like those Venetian nuns felt? Or was it a perverted, kinky, never-sated addiction?

  Gustav doesn’t speak but thwacks the whip down on me once, twice, three times more, watching me twist and groan with each smack.

  ‘Enough, Serena? Have those demons fled?’

  ‘Demons?’

  I hear him smack the whip down on the palm of his hand. ‘Whatever or whoever possessed you to come into this room and dress up like that. But it has to stop. The whipping. It all has to stop.’

  But as soon as the whipping stops, the clothes start suffocating me again. I struggle round onto my elbows.

  ‘Yes, yes, all gone. But Gustav, please–’

  He pushes me back onto the eiderdown and unwraps the silver chain from the bed post. He seems calm, spookily so, but he hasn’t finished with me yet. He links the chain to the other wrist, then runs it between the two posts above the pillows so that both my arms are wrenched up over my head.

  ‘I told you I’d had enough so you can let me go now!’ I kick out furiously, but every movement makes the boots tighten on my sore ankle, the rubber snag on my skin, the whalebones dig into my ribs. Excitement knots with panic behind my navel.

  He shakes his head, breathing hard, then swipes everything off the dressing table onto the floor, perfume bottles smashing and releasing sprays of musky, overpowering fragrance, necklaces and bracelets and earrings clattering and breaking, diamonds and pearls flying off their strings.

  There’s a flash of lightning through one of the skylights above us, the yellow light illuminating the yellow fury in his eyes. Another flash shows me the pair of scissors he is now brandishing like a dagger.

  I scream and wriggle, the silver chain biting into my wrists. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

  He flings the whip down on the bed then he’s over by the metal rail, cutting all the garments hanging there until they’re reduced to rags of leather and lace. Then he rips one of the sheets from under me and throws it onto the floor, bundles the clothes, the jewellery, the broken perfume bottles, everything onto the sheet.

  ‘They’re killing me! These clothes. I can’t breathe, Gustav!’

  He straightens, panting hard, then he kneels on the bed, pulls my hair off my face, yanking my head up close to his.

  ‘Can I trust you to stop this now?’ He flips at the collection of whips hanging on hooks above the bed, knocking them off one by one. ‘Has Serena come back to me?’

  I nod dumbly. He bends each whip over his knee and snaps it in two.

  Then he’s at my feet, yanking the boots off and throwing them onto the pile, ignoring my squeals of pain when he lets my sore ankle drop. He pins my legs down under his knees and tugs at the rubber trousers. But now he can see that they are welded on. The body heat has made superglue of my sweat. He can’t even get a grip. His fingers just slip off. My blood is sluggish as it struggles to circulate. My nipples burn. I am deranged with lack of oxygen. Every laboured breath makes the corset tighter.

  Pain has finally overtaken pleasure.

  The emotions inside me are like unravelling wire wool. Fear at the anger in his voice and the tightness of the silver chain imprisoning me on Margot’s bed. Submission, because he’s caught me doing something wrong and he’s enraged. Relief, because he’s here, taking charge. Lust, because there’s animal fire in his eyes. Creeping despair, because I don’t know who he sees.

  He starts to cut one rubber leg then the other, slicing as if he’s ribboning courgettes. Thunder crashes the clouds together, percussion drumming in the
sky. My ribs are pushing uselessly against the corset to get air into my lungs. The bed seems to be bucking. The room jumps every time lightning strikes.

  I stop straining against the silver chain, even though it’s biting into my wrists. I let my arms rest on the crumpled pillows under my head while the rubber, the thong, the whalebones work my body to a froth. I lie still because there’s no juice left.

  There’s a glint of metal in the air, and then he starts cutting again. The scissors run across my stomach. I go rigid as the cold blade snips against my skin, travels up my ribs, my spine, back over my breasts and hips until the corset falls away at last. As my body expands and settles back into its proper contours and air fills my lungs again, the tattered ribbons of black rubber fall round me like strips of dead skin.

  ‘I promise all the nonsense is finished, Gustav,’ I whisper, yanking at the silver chain imprisoning my wrists. My nakedness feels too exposed. I try to close my legs. ‘But you need to let me go.’

  ‘Never!’

  Gustav is hunched over me, pale and angular, his mouth slightly open, teeth glinting. He looks like he’s ready to sever my jugular. He reaches under my neck and starts to unbuckle the dog collar, but then he stops. His eyes hold that impenetrable blackness again, his Halloween look. The only sign of life is the beating pulse in his neck.

  No wonder. He has a naked girl spread-eagled and helpless beneath him. If he’s all man, as Crystal assured me, this will be one temptation too far.

  He leaves the collar on. I come to my senses and start to wriggle and kick. Quick as a flash he tugs me further down the bed so that I’m right underneath him. The silver chain goes taut and I can’t move my arms at all. My bare breasts curve into the air, rising with my frantic breathing. The rigid red points of my nipples are impossible to ignore.