Bentley Little - The Association

He debated whether to leave right now or hang around and wait, but quickly decided that to leave would be not only rude but cowardly.

Besides, he might be overreacting. So Frank and Audrey were into some kinky stuff. What they did in the privacy of their own bedroom was none of his business. He glanced around the room, saw nothing else out of the ordinary: an entertainment center against one wall, the stuffed head of a moose that Frank shot hanging over the fireplace, typical middle American furniture and framed art prints adorning the remaining space.

There were only the magazines.

Contemporary Torture Play.

He waited.

She emerged from the hallway a few moments later wearing nothing but a chastity belt--a gothic-looking metal contraption that wrapped around her thighs and hips and fit snugly over her crotch and buttocks. Her face was slightly flushed, but not from shame or embarrassment.

From excitement.

Her nipples, he noticed, had been sliced off. Only scar tissue remained.

She opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue, and on it was a key.

Already he was standing, instinctively moving away. "I..." he began, but he didn't finish. He didn't know what to say.

She removed the key with thumb and forefinger, holding it out to him.

"Unlock my box," she said.

He was still backing up, though the front door was in the opposite direction. He finally found his voice. "Audrey, I don't know if you're drunk or what, but I have to tell you that I'm not interested, I'm not into this--"

She sidled next to him. "You can do anything you want to me," she whispered.

He scrambled, trying to get around her and out of the house.

"Beat me, hurt me, use my mouth for your toilet, give me a boiling oil enema or a hot Tabasco douche."

She reached for him, grabbed between his legs, but he was not aroused, and she frowned as her fingers kneaded his softness.

"What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? He pushed her hand away. "Jesus Christ!"

Outside, there was the sound of squealing brakes in the driveway, followed closely by the noise of a pickup's door slamming shut.

Barry shoved Audrey aside, the chastity belt clanking as she stumbled, and hurried out of the house.

"I want the pain!" she yelled behind him.

He hit the driveway running, and dashed past Frank, staring at the ground as he sprinted by, afraid to meet his friend's eyes. It occurred to him that he hadn't picked up the tax forms Maureen had sent him to collect, but there was no way he was going back in that house.

He ran past the empty pool site and made it halfway home before the hill became too steep and he had to stop, breathing heavily.

What was happening back at the Hodges'? There was no way Audrey could have gotten out of that contraption and back into clothes before Frank walked into the house. Was he screaming at her now, outraged at her attempted betrayal, mortified that she had exposed their kinky sex habits to an outsider? Or--and this is what made the sweat turn cold on his skin--was he not surprised, was he in on it, had he come home early on purpose, in order to join in the fun?

No, that was impossible. He hadn't planned to walk down to the Hodges'. Maureen had sent him out at the last minute to give him something to do and get him out of the house. No one could have known ahead of time that he would be there.

But Audrey had asked Maureen to come over and pick up the forms. Maybe the whole setup had been meant for her.

Just because you 're paranoid doesn 't mean they 're not after you.

He looked behind him to make sure Frank was not following in the truck, then picked up his speed and walked briskly up the road.

Maureen was still downstairs at her computer when he arrived home, and he ran a hand through his hair, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he entered her office. "Jesus," he said. "Where's that sexual harassment pamphlet?"

She looked up. "Why?"

He told her everything. From the beginning. His invitation in, the innocuous conversation about Liz, then the "tinkle" announcement, the uncomfortably long look, the chastity belt, the demand for pain.

Maureen was disbelieving at first, apparently thinking he was joking, but halfway through his story her demeanor changed, and when he finished she asked, "She actually touched you there?"

"Squee/edit."

They looked at each other, obviously unsure of what to say. Aside from Liz and Mike and Tina, Frank and Audrey were the only real friends they had here in Utah.

Maureen shook her head. "I can't believe it. Audrey?"

"Audrey. Believe it." He sat down heavily on the room's lone extra chair. "God, I miss Ray. That man was like the last bastion of sanity in this asylum."

"Maybe we should move."

He didn't respond, didn't say anything, but for the first time he conceded to himself that that might be a viable option.

The phone.

Two rings. Four. Eight.

It stopped.

Liz allowed herself to breathe again. The third time this afternoon, the sixth today.

She told herself that it could be friends, could be Tina or Moira or Audrey or Maureen, could be someone selling something, but she knew better than that. She knew who'd been trying to get a hold of her all this time, who'd been calling six or seven times a day.

The board.

Carefully, she pulled open a curtain, peeked out. The driveway was clear, and there were no people or vehicles on the road. Looks could be deceiving, though. There were bushes to hide behind, boulders that blocked sight lines. She wouldn't put anything past those bastards.

"I'm sorry, Ray," she sobbed. And not for the first time she begged her husband's forgiveness, asked him to absolve her for not listening to him all those years, not believing;

She wiped the tears away, embarrassed by her weakness though there was no one there to see it.

Outside, the sun was going down, shadows lengthening and darkening on the hill, and she shivered, letting the curtains fall. She quickly went through the house, turning on all of the lights in each of the rooms, but even with every corner of the dwelling brightly illuminated, she was still filled with fear and a bone-deep dread. She returned to the now well-lit living room where she'd started, and slowly, gingerly, as though handling something that was radioactive, picked up the telephone receiver and took it off the hook.

It was worse at night.

It was always worse at night.

She turned on the television for noise and companionship and went into the kitchen to make dinner. Before, she would have prepared a real meal--pan-blackened swordfish or chicken fajitas or turkey casserole--but now she simply melted some cheese on toast and washed it down with a can of Coke. She told herself that she would not drink tonight, she would remain sober and go to sleep clear eyed and clear-headed, but by eight o'clock there was a bottle in her hand, and by the time she rolled into bed at ten, she was pretty well hammered.

She fell asleep with all of the lights on, and both the living room and bedroom television sets blaring.

She awoke in silence to find all of the lights turned off.

The house was dark and her first panicked thought was that someone had sneaked into her home and flipped the switches to frighten her. But a quick look toward the digital alarm clock on the bed stand told her that it was not just the lights and television. The power was out.

They'd shut off her electricity.

She swung her feet off the bed, felt for the wall and guided herself over to the window, where she opened the curtains and peered out, looking down the hill where she knew there were other homes. She wanted to see only darkness, only night, but through the trees came the faint yellow sparkle of occasional porch lights.