by Warren Adler
As for Farley Lipscomb, Fiona had characterized him as a man imprisoned by his wife's social ambitions.
Even in retrospect, she supposed she had a crush on Farley and was sending him disturbingly arousing signals. At that moment in time, she rationalized, she was in deep rebellion, performing a kind of obligatory rite of passage she supposed, for a carefully mothered and strictly indoctrinated eighteen-year-old Catholic girl.
She had, by then, discovered the hormonal rhythms of her strong sexuality. Two years before, she had lost her virginity, courtesy of her high school boyfriend on the eve of their parting for different colleges. She to Amherst. He to the University of Virginia. It had been a rather messy business, she remembered. Actually she had been the aggressor, manipulating the frightened young man to penetrate her. It turned out to be more of a feat of mechanical engineering than an act of passion. The episode ended their romance.
In time, the event had become one of those memories of happy embarrassment, a shared secret that triggered an eruption of blushes and giggles whenever she bumped into her old swain, who had become a popular weatherman for a local television station. Every time she saw him on the TV she would roar with laughter, remembering the ridiculousness of what had been meant to be a profound moment.
By the time she had declared her interest in Farley Lipscomb, she had acquired additional sexual experience and an exploratory attitude that did not rule out married men. She did not consider herself promiscuous and her choice of partners was very selective.
She thought of the activity as a kind of research into her strong libido and sensuality and, in those days, as a way to get her karma in balance with her nature. It was, of course, before the onslaught of AIDS, although well into the era of advanced birth control technology. It was a time when abstinence was still ridiculed and to be a virgin past eighteen was a sign of galloping frigidity.
In an odd way, she decided that she had inherited a strong sex drive from her father, who, was notoriously vulnerable to the blandishments of other women. She was also aware that her mother considered sexual activity as a kind of penance that had to be endured for the greater good of hearth and family.
By then, Fiona had developed healthy, uninhibited fondness for men and, despite the occasional disappointments, she managed to enjoy deeply pleasurable orgasms more often than not. Her fantasy life was rich and varied. She owned a vibrator and frequently indulged in masturbation. She conceded to herself, there might have been some guilt and shame in such bawdy self-indulgence, considering her upbringing and her mother's inhibited view of sex as a necessary evil. But that attitude soon dissipated with need, pleasure and a general feeling that being in charge of herself, body included, was also a woman's right.
At eighteen, she militantly thought of herself as an emerging modern woman who had arrived victoriously on the threshold of maturity without any of the sexual hangups of her gender. At the time, she hadn't realized that every victory had its costs.
She had begun interning in Farley's office that summer, mostly to satisfy her father's ambition for her, which was to become a lawyer, a profession she had little desire to pursue. She had no specific job, a little typing, a little filing, doing research, but mostly observing the legal profession at work.
Farley Lipscomb was enormously accommodating. He let her sit in on important conferences, where she scribbled furiously on yellow pads as if she were a bona fide member of the legal team. Nor did she have any illusions about her effect on Farley. Often, she caught him eyeballing her in a manner that was hardly platonic. That judgment led her to exacerbate the situation by choosing revealing clothes, shorter skirts and poses that were suggestive and seductive.
After all, she was eighteen. She felt then that she was the center of the universe and that the world circulated around her. Effecting an obvious reaction in men was especially exciting. To see a man like Farley Lipscomb titillated by her charms greatly enhanced her own sexual interest in him.
At that point it was merely a game, a kind of exciting taunt. She fantasized about him and masturbated while imagining him making love to her.
An explosion of lust was, of course, inevitable. He had asked her to work late one evening, allegedly to help him with a case he was preparing. It didn't take long for them to shed the sham of work.
Farley, it turned out, was a man of wide experience and practiced technique in sexual matters and, although she was an open and eager pupil, he was an amazingly adept sexual artist. For her, at the time, his blandishments opened a whole new world of pleasure.
There was another component of their relationship that seemed to justify her actions. Because of his socially obsessive wife, she had the impression that Farley was needy, especially in the sexual realm. His response certainly validated her speculation, although he deliberately eschewed any discussion of his home life. It was as if Letitia did not exist. He had, she had observed even then, a great talent for compartmentalization.
For about a month, they had taken their pleasure in clandestine and often hurried couplings on his office couch or in his leather chair and a number of times on the big shiny conference table in the firm's enormous conference room. Once they had made love in the bathroom of her parents' house during a dinner party at which Farley and his wife were guests. The danger of discovery added to the excitement.
Such risks bonded them. Together, they shared this stupendous secret. In effect, he was playing Russian roulette with his high profile life, gambling his future, his continuing and certain climb to success, by a sexual dalliance with an eighteen-year-old girl. Against his losses, if they were found out, hers would be minimal.
He had even admitted to her that she had become an addiction, that every cell in his body demanded her, that there was no getting enough of her. She was certain that the addiction was mutual.
She knew, too, that there was more to it than sex. What had started out as a kind of exciting adventure was becoming, in her mind and heart, a love affair. She was convinced that what she felt was the real thing, that what her body yearned for was psychic as well, that a profound love had entered her life.
She wondered if it was hero worship, infatuation or romantic daydreaming. She hadn't wanted it to go beyond sexual games. After all, she was nearly twenty years his junior and he was locked into marriage by ambition, connections and money. It didn't seem possible that he would throw over his wife for an eighteen-year-old girl, no matter how emotionally involved he was.
But love and inexperience, as she later learned, could conspire to create powerful wish-fulfillment possibilities. The opportunity opened in her mind. Love, she reasoned, could make anything happen. Although she was too frightened to declare herself, afraid that it might put an end to the affair, she held out the hope that the feeling was mutual. To her, at that moment in time, Farley was her life or, as they say, the sun and the stars.
She could not recall exactly when the idea emerged. In retrospect she knew he had put it there, inserted it, as a missive is put in an envelope. She could recall an exchange they had one day as they lay on the leather couch in his office in post-coital bliss.
"Will you do anything for me, Fiona?" he had asked.
"Of course."
"Anything"
"Absolutely," she replied with sincere and total commitment. She considered this consent the opportunity to prove her love and by so doing capture him forever.
"No matter how strange it seems at first?" he pressed.
"If it's important to you, I'll do anything you say," she had replied.
"Yes. It is important," he told her.
Did this mean that the feeling was mutual? Was it possible?
"Is this a game?" she asked.
She remembered that he seemed to be carefully framing an answer.
"More than just a game, Fiona," he told her.
"I'll do anything you ask, Farley," she had replied, with fervent sincerity.
"It's very important to us, Fiona," he said. "It's the way w
e'll prove how much we care, how much we trust each other."
Her heart jumped to her throat. This was pretty much what she wanted to hear and the idea spurred her excitement. She agreed without reservations. If it was important to him, it was doubly important for her. She loved this man. Her heart sang. Of course, she would do anything he wanted, anything that made him happy.
"I'll arrange everything," he told her. She wasn't certain what that meant, except that it seemed wonderful. He would be thinking of her, arranging things for them. For days before the Saturday he had designated as D-Day, she was in a constant state of excitement.
He instructed her to pick him up in her car on a street corner a few blocks from his office. She was delighted to follow his strict orders on everything. Despite the occasional risks, which he characterized as an irresistible compulsion, their trysts took place mostly in the safety of his office, where his time and whereabouts were controllable. Publicly, he treated her as any other young intern.
She knew that he was, despite the risk-taking, paranoid about Letitia discovering their affair, and Fiona cooperated with alacrity. In public, she addressed him, always, respectfully as Mr. Lipscomb. And in the presence of others he affected a pose of fatherly interest in her.
When Fiona was in Letitia's presence, she was particularly friendly to her and equally as respectful, representing herself as a naive, wide-eyed innocent. But this newly arranged assignation seemed to be an escalation of risk-taking. Perhaps he had it in mind to publicly declare himself. His words tossed repetitively in her mind: I love you, Fiona. I love you, Fiona.
As Fiona's car reached the appointed rendezvous, she didn't see him, that is, until he moved toward her car. He was wearing a peaked baseball hat and khaki workpants and toting a carry-all around one shoulder. Recognizing him finally, she opened the door and he jumped in. Although still puzzled by his action, she accepted the theatrics as part of his general plan. Besides, it seemed like exciting fun.
He directed her to a high-rise motel not far from the airport, explaining that he wanted a well-constructed place that was more soundproof than those old-fashioned one-story motels constructed years ago with paper-thin walls. The comment had aroused her curiosity, but she did not lose confidence in his trust.
As she pulled into the parking lot, he explained that he had reserved a room in the name of M. Worth from Philadelphia. He gave her an address and zip code and instructed her to pay cash for one night in advance, then to come out and give him the room number and he would meet her upstairs.
It was, she remembered, terribly exciting, wonderfully secretive and intriguing. Nor did she question his instructions, following them with obedience and dispatch, a willing conspirator. The mystery surrounding the process was arousing and, by the time they were together in the room, she found herself sexually stimulated and ready for anything he might suggest.
Anything!
She was hardly prepared for what came next. He opened the tote bag and emptied the contents on the bed. There were lengths of rope, a riding crop, a flat racquet of the kind used for paddle tennis, a leather garter belt, black silk stockings, spiked-heel shoes and what looked like a leather jock strap and another strip of leather. She wasn't sure of its purpose.
There were also some items of makeup—cherry red lipstick, black eye-liner and rouge. She was confused by the odd array of equipment and giggled nervously.
"Props," he said in response.
There were, of course, questions in her mind. But she had remained silent.
"I need this, Fiona," he said. "Still game?"
"Of course."
He told her to strip and put on the garter belt, stockings and spike-heeled shoes, which she did. Then he told her to apply the makeup, exaggerating her mouth and cheeks and putting the black eyeliner on as thick as possible. She remembered she had loved the idea. It seemed like a masquerade.
While she put on the costume, he took off his clothes and put on the leather jock strap. When she had applied the makeup to his satisfaction, she stood in the center of the room, affecting a number of what she calculated were naughty poses. He made no move to come toward her.
"Pick up the riding crop," he said.
She did. It felt smooth and light in her hand. This is fun, she remembered telling herself, acknowledging her own arousal.
"Have you any idea what is going to happen?" he asked.
"No."
Although she thought of herself as sexually experienced, she honestly had not an inkling of what he had in mind.
"If you truly care about me, you'll comply with my wishes. With enthusiasm and without reservations. Can you do that?"
She nodded enthusiastically.
"If this is what you want..." she began.
"This is what I need," he replied.
"Anything you ask, darling."
"Then let me explain what is expected of you," he told her. "I want you to treat me as your slave. I'll do anything you tell me to do. Treat me like scum, like a worthless pig. I've been bad. You must accept that. Rotten to the core. I've got to be punished and disciplined. Do you understand?"
She wasn't sure she had. Love crossed all boundaries, she remembered telling herself. Of course, she would comply.
"It's a game, right?" she had asked, hiding her astonishment.
"Can you accept such a role?"
"If it is important to you, Farley."
"It is," he assured her.
"I'll do anything you ask."
"Without reservations?"
"Yes."
"It's only a game, isn't it?" she had asked again, wanting to be reassured one more time.
"Our game."
"Then I'll play."
He flashed a smile and put his finger in her mouth. She sucked it. Then he withdrew it.
"Call me names," he told her.
She hesitated and he seemed disappointed.
"Go on," he coaxed. "Dirty names."
"You filthy pig," she said hesitantly.
"Louder. Worse than that. Terrible names. Please, Fiona."
"You ... lousy fuck."
"More."
"You slimy bastard."
"Thank you. More," he begged.
She continued. Her voice rose.
He dropped to his knees and crawled toward her.
When she recalled these events years later, she could not remember even the slightest level of protest. She was accepting, absolutely compliant to his wishes, determined to show him her understanding of his need, to prove her love and trust. As she was drawn deeper into the action, she felt more and more that it was her duty to be enthusiastic and energetic, to fully satisfy his wish to be punished and humiliated. He is doing it for me, she told herself, searching for the logic of it.
She did not ask why he needed this kind of treatment. In sharing this secret with him, she felt even closer to him, more loving. In an odd way, she was flattered by his confidence and she wanted to fulfill his expectations to the best of her ability.
He kissed her shoes, begged her to blindfold him with the leather strip. Then he asked that she write filthy words on his body with the lipstick, which she did. With his instructive and pleading encouragement she was prodded to accelerate her actions, to swat his body with the whip.
"I deserve more," he cried, urging her on. "Tell me what I am."
She found herself more and more into the game. He began to call her "mistress."
"You are filth, dung. A piece of shit."
"I am worse than that," he cried, begging her to tie him up. She tied his hands to the legs of the bed.
"Tighter," he prodded.
He was bent over, his naked buttocks jutting out. "I need to be paddled."
She took the paddle from the bed. He asked to kiss the paddle, then, as she paddled him, he counted each blow, urging her to swat him harder. Was there a moment when she felt that this was wrong, or silly, or hurtful, or all three? She would never be sure. Did she feel like she was participating in a p
erversion? She could not recall.
"I'll never do it again," he cried. "Make me do anything, anything."
It seemed, that first time, an exciting theatrical adventure, and she threw herself into it with abandon. Although her blows were heavy, she did not break his skin and she followed his instructions to paddle him until his buttocks were red. Did she love the role she was playing? Probably. It proved to be an afternoon studded with deep orgasms for both of them. Despite the subsequent guilt and self-loathing that came later, the crisis of confidence she had experienced about her "normality," she could never deny the pleasure of those moments. Never that.
Heading the car back to Washington, she noted Farley's odd serenity. He had turned to her and kissed her lips as she drove, caressing her hair. If anything struck her as strange, or even weird, it was her own sense of total acceptance. She had done what he needed and she was happy about that. He expressed his gratitude, explaining that he had shown her his absolute trust.
"This is the way I have proven to you how much I care."
Her heart jumped in her chest. He truly loves me, she told herself.
Next week, he told her, it would be her turn.
She remembered how she had thought about the idea every waking moment of her life in that week. It did not repulse her. Actually, she looked forward to it, wondering how she would react. Nor could she recall the slightest thought at the time that what she had done and what she was looking forward to doing was bizarre or perverted.
It was, she decided, a method to prove her love, to illustrate her trust in him. As he had done. Besides, it felt good. No one had come to any harm. She showed no inclination to analyze the origins, motivation or meaning of such an episode. It filled his needs and gave them bodily pleasure. And, she was certain, it brought them closer together.
On the next Saturday, the same process was repeated. He met her in the same costume that he had worn the week before, carrying the same tote bag. They checked into the motel in the same way, using the name she had used the week before and paying for the room in advance.
