“Where?”
Books fluttered past, pages opened like butterflies, words lifting like bees, buzzing around her head, letters spinning, cutting grooves in her flesh, lodging in her skin, some with faces, screaming obscenities, warning her to get out of the way, to hurry up, that God was coming, or had come, or was here, or was dead, or had never existed, fixing themselves to her until she was a tattooed canvas.
Time passed, speeding by then slowing to a crawl. She traced the words with her fingertips, reciting them, shivering at her own touch, her pulse quickening as she caressed her breasts, her nipples rising, swollen with blood, abandoning herself to herself, fingers dancing along over her soft belly, teasing her clit from its hidden recess, stroking her puffy pussy, her fingers delving between her lips, seeking out her depths, fragrant with the scent of desire and lust. Her body twisted until she could run her fingers over her own spine, sink her own tongue into her cunt, push her fingers into a place she had never dared consider before, crying out in passion her body went rigid with ecstasy again and again, tomorrow and the tomorrow after, the words on her fleshy canvas stretching and shifting, their voices rising like alien harmonies, clinging to her like a second skin.
“Here, Lucy, just reach out.”
“I can’t see you!”
A voice, one she should have recognized, a reminder of summer and strawberries and thunderstorms, but the words would not be overpowered, their voices rising in a din.
A cacophony of colored sound bustled around her, but still that voice called, fought through, a life line from some forgotten memory.
“Here!”
And suddenly, it had a name, this beacon of hope, anchoring her even as she became undone.
“Alice!”
“I love you!”
The mad calm filled her, soothing her, dreams of the littlest death, heart pounding, pulse racing, fighting for breath as her moans tore through her, and endless orgasm ripping through her until she fragmented again and again and again, leaving her with nothing but the most beautiful pleasure imagined.
o-O-o
She watched from the hedges, drinking in every detail with stained glass eyes; the checkerboard lawn, the twisted topiary, the colored ribbons dangling from balloon cats as they hovered upon a breezeless day, content to nap listlessly above the quiet park.
With a blink of her splintered orbs she memorized the moment before turning her attention to the small crowd gathering at the shore of the pond just behind her. Sons and daughters of pie makers and firemen. Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. Sailors and woodsmen and stable masters, none of whom knew what it was like to be invisible. They were made of laughter and unburdened with the knowledge of what lay beyond the borders of the chessboard park.
Once upon a time she’d been made of smiles and ignorance, but that had been the mirror had shattered into a thousand pieces one fateful night, her happy ending slipping through her fingers like sunbeams through dust.
“I am going to rewrite the story.”
Her whisper was fierce, her eyes intent upon the lawn as she signaled to the mock turtles who replied by letting loose a bitter winter wind across the clearing that sent the cats tumbling through the air, their owners chasing after them in a panic. With a blown kiss to her shelled friends she slipped out of the hedge and onto the giant chessboard, carefully stepping into the square normally occupied by the Queen and disappearing from sight, pages fluttering like a thousand and one butterflies in her wake.
o-O-o
Shivering, she lifted the great weight of her head and stared across the poorly lit cell. The air smelled of bitter smoke and damp stone and sweat. She breathed it all in, delighting in the unmistakable fragrance of sex hidden just beneath it all.
“Where am I now?”
She stood still, not unwilling to move, but unable, the chill of metal encasing her wrists and ankles, clinging to her face like a second skin. She found a name for them; shackles, something she’d heard of long, long ago in another lifetime.
In the distance she heard a door open, infrequently oiled hinges squealing softly, followed by footsteps and a smooth voice, then the echo of the door slamming shut, sealing all within what appeared to be a dungeon. Certainly, her small room was a cell. The wall before her was fashioned of bars of steel, the others, including the one she had to twist in order to see, were roughly carved granite. Above her, a iron rings had been embedded into the stone. She hung from one, heavy chains attached to the locked wrist band, her arms raised straight above her head, her ankles attached to similar rings fixed to the floor forcing her thighs slightly apart.
“Oh ho! It looks like my lovely prisoner has awoken from her slumbers.”
She stared through the bars, her vision aided by the a torch in the hall beyond, at a pair of men, her gaze going first to one whom was beautiful. He was handsome in a slightly androgynous manner; dressed in silk, lace at his throat and wrists, his waistcoat buttoned across a slender chest and a narrow waist. He was clean shaven and his fine gold hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Bright blue eyes glittered from beneath fine lashes.
The other was shirtless, his well-muscled torso gleaming with sweat, his skin dark, and his head devoid of hair. He smiled at her, his eyes full of desires as his gaze travelled from her face to her bare breasts and then to her naked cunt. Blushing, she turned her head away from him, her words a soft murmur of sound.
“Where am I?”
“Tsk, tsk, my sweet. It is not your place to ask questions, only to answer them.”
His voice was soft and sensual, almost a caress, and it sent shivers up and down her spine. Letting out a sigh, she tugged helplessly at her chains, much to his amusement, pleasing silently, her gaze fixed to his somehow familiar blue orbs.
“You are going nowhere until I release you.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, you tease! I am wounded.”
He gave her no other answer. Instead he produced a key and turned the lock of the cell door, allowing himself in before carefully locking it behind him, quickly producing another, more delicate key made of silver.
“This is the key to your shackles which, I assure you, will not being coming off in the near future.”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
His laughter rang through the cell like a bell.
“Do? Oh, dear God in Heaven. You are a delight. Here you hang, at our mercy, bereft of all modesty, and you wonder what we intend to do with you?”
Fear filled her belly as her imagination ran wild. Fear, and something else, something that took her entirely by surprise. Desire.
“Show her, Francois.”
She watched in fascination as the half-naked brute drew forth a finely wrought mask seemingly made of black metal.
“For you, my dear, to preserve your modesty, if not your virtue. I had this forged from Iron. A remarkable piece of work. Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy is as much as I will.”
He held it out so that she could get a closer look, taking careful note of two small holes for her nostrils, and carefully sculpted the lower half missing so that her mouth would be exposed. There was, however, no other opening. Whoever wore the mask would be without sight.
“Once on, only I will be able to remove it, my pet. Remember that well. Only I hold the key to your freedom.”
o-O-o
At first she’d counted the days. Then, when they grew too many, the weeks. After that it became months until finally, she gave up. It wasn’t a bad life she had to admit to herself. She was well fed and cared for, not unlike a favored cat. Her meals were always delivered by hand, and always by the charming and, as she remembered, very handsome Comte d'Artagan . A cage, however, not matter how comfortable, was still a cage, and it was how she spent her nights, in what she’d deduced was a bird cage suspended from the ceiling of one of his more private rooms, allowing him to show her off at his whim.
Fear and anger turned to resignation, which in turn became rebellion and then boredom. She grew used to being blind, taking walks in the garden, his hand her only guide, memorizing the grounds until she could walk the paths by herself if need be. In time, she became fond of him, looking forward to his company. He was well travelled as well as educated. His wit was quick, and he was both clever and entertaining. He treated her well, although, more than once, she had to wonder why he never once touched her. After all, she was in his power. He seemed to delight in seeing her naked, a fact he remarked upon at every opportunity, and she was never allowed to wear attire besides the mask and two pair of silver shackles he’d had custom fitted.
“Are you gay, Comte D’Artagan?” she’d queried once after listening to him play upon the harpsichord for her.
“Of course, pet! How could I not be with such delightful company at my side?”
“I mean, do you… prefer… men?”
“Ah, am I a homosexual.”
He paused for a long moment, as if mulling over the idea, before answering her.
“You wonder why I have not fucked you, pet.”
She nodded, her head turning slowly, focusing on the sound of his boots as he circled her hanging cage.
“Perhaps I await the right time. I am not, whatever else you might think of me, in the habit of raping young maidens, even ones as beautiful and available as you. If I asked you to make love to me, what would you answer?”
It was her turn to pause, her thoughts faraway, distant words, not forgotten, but certainly less fresh, came to mind.
