Nikki Gemmell - I Take You

So ready, so ready.

‘I’ll leave you for now,’ the master says, looping the dogs’ leashes over a post by the lowest seats. Then he kisses Connie gently on the forehead, caresses her like a child being put to bed. Adjusts a surgical light so it is glaring onto her and steps away. ‘Enjoy. You are extremely lucky to have someone who allows you to be so utterly, magnificently … free.’

He is gone.

Connie hears the door shut, the panting of the dogs, the faint hum of the light. So. Utterly alone. Anonymous. Another person entirely. And waiting, wet. Within the valley of her mind; her roaring raging glittering mind. All the shaded creek pockets like crypts; the beauty and ugliness, the rawness and the want. The night feels open with possibility. How ironic this is, Connie thinks; how ironic that like so many suicides these actions can stem from nothing more than a simple desire to be good. It is the obedient, the pliant, who succumb, who always succumb. The selfish, the craven, the canny – those with the chip of ice – would never get to this point.

Yet the enthralling power of it, too. The thrilling sense of command, of being watched.

Wet, so wet, as she waits, like a spring-loaded trap ready to lock its jaws upon life. Anonymously. Entirely someone else.

Lock up your libraries if you like, but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt you can set upon the freedom of my mind

Connie can barely see through her sliver of silk. The banked seats are full. The animal anticipation. Cliff there somewhere, anonymous, hidden, but she can’t make him out. She is exposed, in the glary light, yet no one can discern who she is. She waits. A gong, a frisson of silence. Backs straightened, straining. A ringmaster strides in. He cracks his long whip either side of her and she gasps and flinches at the shock but is untouched. The audience cheer. Then the stirrups begin to move, mechanically, straightening her legs, forcing them apart in a violent V. The audience, primed, thunder their approval.

‘This act, my friends, this last act of the evening, is called … The Banker’s Wife.’ A roar of approval. ‘And to assist, we welcome to the floor a physician who deals with the most unusual, most delicious, most singular of situations – the esteemed Dr Ahmed. Normally, these requests are carried out in utmost privacy. But tonight you are extremely fortunate, for what you are about to witness is to be shared, by consent, with all of you.’ Roaring, stamping. ‘Now, is she good and ready, I wonder? Is she the banker’s wife – or the banker’s whore?’ He is working the crowd, revving them up. ‘Does she want this, I wonder? Let’s see, shall we?’ Clapping, cheering, whistling, jeering. ‘I can’t hear you. Shall we see, or shall we not?’ Roaring, and at that moment Connie realizes that they perceive it all as artifice, pretence, she is part of a theatrical show, one of many put on here, it is all an act, she can play a part. She surrenders; her body a receptacle for whatever Cliff has decided upon next.

The ringmaster holds out his whip, suddenly smiles, thinks twice, turns it around, and with great show of a drum roll nudges the handle inside Connie’s vagina. She’ll show him, draws it in, knows Cliff is watching somewhere close, aroused, his face unmoved yet profoundly moved and she writhes on that handle, grasping it in her muscles and working it, rhythmically working it, for she knows he wants her with others, always asks; other men, women, in a place like this; more than anything he wants this, he has told her often and she comes in a flood, the good wife, too quick, in her own private moment amid the spectacle of the crowd, his gift to her and hers to him.

As she collapses inward, with the sheer exquisiteness, a small man of great containment, neatness, steps from the shadows. The crowd hushes, expectant.

The next step.

‘Good evening. What you are about to witness tonight is a most unusual – but not uncommon – request.’ A naked woman steps forward, wearing nothing but a red collar with a chain looped from it, firm under her cunt, from front to back. She is holding a red velvet cushion upon which sit three small devices. The man picks up a tiny object, displays it high. ‘What you see before you is a padlock. Not quite the usual one. It has a nicely rounded shape. It is has been made by artisans, to the husband’s exact specifications.’ A glittery quiet. ‘Quite a beautiful little treasure, oh yes. A ruby surrounded by diamonds is embedded on one side’ – the audience gasp – ‘and a swirl that echoes an esteemed family crest is engraved upon the other.’ He snatches it away. ‘Ah! No peeking!’ The audience laugh in excitement. ‘It is a most singular and exhilarating form of marital binding.’ He strokes the underside of Connie’s thighs, she shivers.

‘The subject is ready and willing. For her husband. Tonight. We will be inserting two sleepers in a most intimate place; these will be the rings that will hold our pretty padlock in place. From this moment this sweet, willing, and very good wife will feel its presence at all times, reminding her constantly of her most rarefied role. Thrilling her, stimulating her, disciplining her. Whenever she sees another man she wants, she will bear down on this secret bauble, knowing it is her husband and her husband only who has the key. And yes, he will allow others, at times, at his choosing; perhaps, even, if we are so lucky, within the hallowed walls of this club. Others will be allowed to touch this … open it … bestow the thrilling gift of release. Have your way. You see, this is a man of decidedly singular and specific wants. And his wife is extremely beautiful – and wanton – and greedy.’ His finger circles Connie’s anus. Cacophonous laughter. ‘Now, where exactly is this charming little object to be placed? I wonder …’

His fingers brush across Connie’s bared and readied labia, she gasps, writhes, glancing at the menacing hole-puncher on the steel table. Of course. Dr Ahmed picks it up. The stirrups move again, forcing her into the first position that she was left in for seeming hours, forcing her still, utterly bared. Her eyes search the audience for Cliff … he must be in the shadows … somewhere near a door … discreet as always … knows it is what he wants … has requested … the logical step …

‘You will not wear underpants after tonight,’ he had whispered in the car, ‘for me, for my associates, for all of us.’ Now she knows why. ‘Do you love me, do you?’

‘Yes,’ she is murmuring now, ‘yes, yes.’

Because everything has been building to this moment, of course, this moment of the attaching of a coldly explosive little object that is to become part of her from now on, her flesh, her very existence, as much as a scar is, a pacemaker, a metal pin. Every time Connie thinks of it, its weight, its grate, its drag and its coolness, she will be reminded, thrilled, addled, snared; she will shut her eyes upon it and squeeze tight. His, his alone. Totally submissive to him. Unlocked only by him, for others of his choosing, whenever he deems it is time.

How has it come to this?

There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me’

Dr Ahmed smiles, doctor-kind and knowing, straight at Connie. Holds up a syringe. ‘To ease the pain,’ he soothes. Someone in the audience gasps. Is that her Cliff? She does not know; still she tries to find him, cannot. He cannot have abandoned her, at this crucial moment, he cannot be leaving her here. This is terrifying, she wasn’t expecting anything like it, she feels so cruelly exposed, wronged, humiliated; the spell is snapped. ‘Show us all how brave you are,’ the doctor whispers close, just to her, holding high the instrument for all to see. ‘It’s just like getting your ears pierced. Show us how much you want this.’