Carrion: A Story of Passion (5 page)

“So, Daniel,” I whispered, leaning forward. “This is all a little weird for me. I’m sort of new at all of this.” I winced and admonished myself for sounding like such a prat. I fell back into the chair and explored his body with my eyes, starting at his bent kneecaps, then over his thighs and to the dark thatch of hair that half concealed his manhood. I looked at his flaccid cock curiously, thinking that I hadn’t ever taken the time to just sit and look at one before. In my head, they were attached to ideas of movement and force. Seeing Daniel’s cock just hanging there with all that latent energy, sent a ripple of excitement through the base of my spine. I wondered what action of mine it would take to suddenly spring that piston into action.

I leaned forward, looked up over his muscled chest and over his sharp jaw line, but my eyes refused to give up their prize for long. What would happen if I just reached out my fingers and let them…?

“I thought I said, no touching, Charlotte.” Arabella’s clipped schoolmistress voice came from the doorway, leaving me to question how long she’d actually been standing there, watching me.

“I wasn’t going to… I mean, I didn’t… sorry.”

“Untie his mask.”

Eager to make up for my poor manners, I stood up and stepped behind him.

“Stand in front of him. Make yourself tall,” Arabella instructed.

I reached around, somewhat awkwardly and untied his mask. Daniel’s eyes, blinked with the sudden onslaught of light and bodily proximity, and then he tilted his head towards me. His blue eyes danced beneath his dark eyelashes giving the effect of a devout worshipper at the feet of an idol.

“Doesn’t he look small and insignificant? Arabella’s voice travelled across the room with a playful tone. “Undo the buttons of your blouse. Let him see what he is not worthy of possessing.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, surprised at the rapidity of the situation. Clumsily I undid the top button and scrabbled for the second.

“Slow down,” she whispered in my ear. She had moved impossibly silent across the floor. My eyes fell to the look of expectation on Daniel’s face. He clearly desired to see beneath my clothes, and I had the power to show him. I also understood that I had the power to deny him. With the last button undone, I turned back to Arabella to await my next instruction.

“Now slap him – hit him hard across the cheek,” she offered.

Daniel’s bottom lip disappeared and I watched as his teeth pulled at it with anticipation. A smile flitted through his eyes.

“Hit him?” I croaked. My throat thickened with desire.

Arabella’s voice was barely a whisper in my ear. “Punish him for looking at you. How dare he look at you like that – like he could have you if he but clicked his fingers.”

I raised my hand but it felt disconnected and unreal. “But…” I stopped and inhaled deeply. I’d never hit somebody before – not ever – not even in childhood. Being an only child, the daily acceptable level of sibling violence had never blurred the boundaries.

The sound of Daniel’s voice startled me. “Please mistress, punish me.”

Arabella struck out the palm of her hand reminding me of a striking cobra. “How dare you speak in front of me, slave.” The crack of skin against his cheek sent shivers through me and I felt the pulse of blood rushing to my sex. Daniel recoiled from the slap, and adjusted his jaw. Clearly, the slap had produced some level of pain, and yet, his cock stirred, and sprang to attention.

Arabella looked down at it disapprovingly. “Really? So little resolve? So little control?” She grabbed him by the hair and held his head back so that his neck strained painfully. “You really are very pathetic.”

Daniel turned his face away from her and a look, which might have been read as shame, flitted across his pretty cheekbones. Arabella turned her attention towards me and explained, “Daniel is a new initiate – he’s still little more than a puppy still in training.” She let go of his head roughly, nearly throwing him off balance.

My eyes roamed over the muscles of his shoulders, and the quivering girth of his thighs, and then there was his cock, which ill disciplined or not, was far from pathetic.

I felt my lips thicken, my eyes widen, my whole body opening and responding to the sight of him.

“Hit him.” Arabella commanded.

And I did. My hand slapped into the hard contours of his cheek, leaving a stinging, spreading web of jangled nerves up my hand. His head snapped to the side with the force of the blow – an angry red mark spread over his cheek. As if sensing my concern at the sight of the physical harm I had inflicted, Arabella said, “It will soon fade – as if none of this has ever happened. Once more, please, Charlotte. With the other hand. And this time, use your right to cradle his balls. Give them a gentle squeeze on impact.”

I blushed and glanced down at his straining cock before using my left right hand to cup the velvet pouch in my hand. I looked into his eyes, determined to feel no embarrassment about such intimacy with a complete stranger. I focused on the sensation of the soft furred skin against my palm, and the feeling of his balls held within. I slid my palm around, relishing the sensation of their sliding movement. They tightened with the slightest pressure. I raised my hand, slapped and squeezed simultaneously, causing Daniel to emit a soft deep groan from the base of his throat. His cock strained forward.

“See how the blending of pleasure and pain creates a unique effect,” Arabella said, cupping Daniel’s head tenderly between her hands. She moved her hand down over his torso and took his cock in her hand, stroking it backwards and forwards along the shaft with almost clinical precision. The other hand she had clamped firmly over his mouth and nose – stopping him from making a sound and restricting the amount of oxygen to his lungs. As Daniel writhed against the bondage and Arabella’s carefully administered hands, which allowed him small intermittent respites of air, I watched on with fascination. Every nerve of my body was awake to the slightest stimulant of sight or touch.

Arabella sensed Daniel’s mounting orgasm and abruptly stopped, interrupting his rhythmic journey towards release with a sharp slap across his buttocks. It did nothing to calm his erection – if anything it left the poor boy in even more torment. Arabella stooped down, picked up the blindfold off the floor and tied it back around Daniels eyes, signalling his job was done.

“Right. Get dressed, Charlotte. Lesson is over for today.”

Instinctively, I looked at my watch; disappointed that Arabella had cut our session short. She continued, “Alexander has scheduled a weekly appointment, so I’ll see you same day, same time next week.” As she offered these clipped directives she turned to the jug and water bowl, and undertook the washing of her hands with efficient professionalism.

I looked at Arabella, then to Daniel and then back to her. My cheeks were flushed; my sex was slick and ached with excruciating need. All I wanted to do was push Daniel to the floor and fuck him hard until we were both satisfied.

“But…” I protested.

She looked at me sympathetically. “Sorry, Charlotte, I understand, but I really don’t think Alexander would approve of that kind of extra-curricular without his permission, do you?”

I gasped in indignation. That wasn’t Alexander’s place to decide.

“Besides, Daniel is a slave, not a whore.” Arabella said before leaving the room to take a call that had come in on the land phone.

I looked down on Daniel and wondered how long his mistress would keep him tormented. Where was the line when play became cruelty? Was there a line? Reluctantly, I did up my buttons and readjusted my skirt. I let my hands linger longer than necessary as they stroked the fabric over my thighs. My sex was a tightening bud, desperate for the slightest touch. As I walked, every footstep teased me more, until by the time I reached the door, tears of frustration slipped down my cheek.

Arabella didn’t stop her conversation but seeing me leave, offered me a smile and a cheery wave. I wondered if she realised what ravaging storm was raging through my body.

At Alexander’s, I sat on the sofa. My legs primly set in front of me. I waited for his arrival, measuring the endless anticipation by the tick of the old grandfather clock. The passing of the day did little to calm the heat of my sex, and tempted as I was to go to bed and gift myself, Arabella’s lesson had been well learned. So I sat with patience and sufferance until the room turned dark and finally, I heard Alexander’s key in the lock.

No sooner had he put down his case and taken of his coat, then I dragged him to the bedroom where I fucked him like he were nothing more than one hard, all consuming cock, whilst I imagined Daniel’s beautiful masked face.

Chapter Four: Taxidermy

After work, I meet Alexander in Starbucks. By the time I arrive, he has nearly finished his coffee so I don't bother ordering, even though after the day I’ve had with Lucy, a good shot of caffeine would be appreciated. I would tell Alexander about it but he’s made it quite clear that the moment-by-moment intricacies of my life in the office are of no interest to him. He never talks about his work and I’m not expected to talk about mine.

Our taxidermy class is this evening and we have to be at the
The Olde Curiosity Shoppe
for seven-thirty, leaving us just over an hour to get something to eat. We head towards Covent Garden with the plan of stopping off at a little Italian place on the way where we can grab a quick bowl of pasta and down a rough bottle of red.

On Shaftsbury Avenue, we pass an astrology shop and I stop, pulling Alexander over to the window. The blue shop front is painted with the signs of the Zodiac in yellow. It's hardly inconspicuous, but strangely I've never noticed it before, despite having walked this way many times. There's a chalkboard outside with a tarot illustration and notice of a fifteen-pound special deal. I glance down at my watch and see that I really don't have time to act on the whim. The shop doorbell tinkles and a woman comes out in a waft of incense and mystical music. Alexander is already walking away, my arm stretched out behind him.

“Come on, we’re cutting it late if we want to eat.”

I skip after him. I'm only looking for someone to say that Alexander and I are meant to be. If she’d turned around and said the opposite, I would have felt sore about losing fifteen quid.
‘It’s only a five minute walk from the office anyway,’
I reason.
‘I could come one lunchtime.
’

We are the first people in the Italian and the host is overly keen to make us welcome. He ushers us to one of the red and white checked tables, pulling out a seat for me. Alexander waves away the leatherette menu book and orders us two bowls of Whore’s Pasta and a bottle of Chianti, which comes quaintly wrapped in rattan. The pasta is on our table in less than ten minutes.

"Is there any chance that you can book this Friday and Monday off?" he asks.

I look up at him and grin. "Why?"

"Answer my question first!" He's smiling in a way that tells me he is concocting wicked plans.

"It's a bit late notice, but I don’t think it will be a problem. My targets are already met and Lucy is heading off to the States tomorrow, so the office is going to be on play mode."

"Great."

"Why?" I ask again.

"Surprises."

"I hate surprises!" I say.

"No you don't."

He's right, I don't hate surprises.

We eat the rest of our dinner mostly in efficient silence. The wine is rough and Alexander grimaces his way through the first glass. By the second glass, the wine tastes considerably better. He doesn’t bother to ask for a bill, he drops fifty pound in notes onto the table and starts to put on his coat. The host hurries after us but we are already gone.

We turn down a left alley and then down a right. There are a collection of small independent coffee shops, a few books shops and a gallery selling ethnic art and then, there at the end of the row, is
'The Olde Curiosity Shoppe’
, a perfect simulacrum of Dickens' imagination. It is painted black and overlaid with hand-painted signs and symbols, tendrils of flowers and skulls. The window is decorated with flowing script, denoting the types of wares; Juvenalia, Erotica, Naturalia, Fossils & Minerals, Taxidermy, Entomology, Skeletons.

A bell tinkles above the door. The room is womb-red and lined with dark wooden and glass shop counters and display units. Everywhere you look, there is something to test the mind. The walls are covered in masks and framed butterfly specimens, along with a hundred other things. A flying sheepdog with leather waxed wings twirls on the warm eddies of the heating. In the cabinets are miniature dolls, and carved dildos, fossils and preserved animal specimens. There is a whole shelf of human skulls and jars and jars of pickled 'things'. A stuffed Leopard sits on guard by the counter. Someone has jauntily placed a Fez on its head.

"Mr Hughes!" The man behind the counter steps out and takes Alexander by the hand, pumping a hard greeting whilst patting his shoulder with the other. Obviously Alexander is a well-known acquaintance.

"This is Quentin," Alexander introduces.

Quentin is probably in his mid twenties, not much older than us, but he looks like a gentleman of fifty with his full ginger beard, and tweed waistcoat, from which a pipe pokes out from the pocket. He is wearing britches and riding boots. Despite all the freakish curiosities surrounding us, it is me that feels wildly out of place in my black work suit. Quentin doesn't seem to notice the disconnect and he holds out his bear-paw to shake my hand.

"And this is Charlotte," Alexander says, smiling with a look of pride.

"Enchante, Charlotte. Most welcome. Most welcome." Quentin’s dark green eyes sparkle and I understand that he is probably a very attractive man. A theory that is confirmed when the beaded curtain parts and a pretty young woman comes through from the back. She is dressed in full rockability skirts and tattoo sleeves. Her dark hair is pinned up and crowned with a bright red ribbon. Her eyeliner has been painted on by a skilled hand.

"My wife, Emeline," Quentin informs me.

I think how paradoxically quaint and socially radical it is to already be married. Emeline offers a small wave. "Hi, Alexander." She smiles flirtatiously. "I guess you guys are here for the taxidermy lesson. Come on up, almost everybody else has already arrived. They're quite excited." Alexander guides me by a hand in the base of my back. As he passes Quentin, I overhear him say in a low voice, "I may have a little something you might be interested in. I'll be in touch."

We travel up a narrow staircase that is flanked on either side by Tudor style portraits, only they aren’t of people but of ducks and rhinos and other animals all dressed up like lords and ladies. I think one of them would look great in Alexander’s flat and make a mental note to come by and buy one as a gift. We enter a space that had most likely once been several rooms but had now been opened up to provide a useful space. The grey, unwaxed floorboards are decorated with a few tired looking Afghan rugs. In the middle of the room is a large worn pine table that could quite believably have come from an old autopsy theatre. A small excited, eclectic collection of people is gathered around the table discussing the various animal carcasses heaped unceremoniously in the middle of it.

Emeline is to be our teacher for the evening. She is engaging and funny, and before we know it, our group of strangers are giggling classmates. The evening starts with a short lecture on the history of taxidermy and Emeline walks us around the room to the various stations that have been set up with examples. We gaze curiously at ducks dressed as portly gentlemen and fantastical Frankenstein creatures made from the seemingly random parts of several animals. The final stop is a piece by the infamous Walter Potter, titled ‘The Rabbits’ School’ which is eerily evocative of a reception class. With great animation, Emeline tells us how privileged we are to be seeing it so close up and how it is on special loan from a fellow member of the society. It is very valuable and we are told we must resist the temptation to touch.

We return to the table where Emeline deftly demonstrates the basic process of taxidermy. She works on a frog, which is apparently more challenging because of the nature of their skin. In Emeline’s hands it looks easy – she peels away the skin almost as easily as skinning an onion. She offers an amusing and instructive commentary, reassuring her tutees that it is, “…really is quite easy once you’re focused. The trick is to remember that you are an artist – and the animal is your muse. The muse is yours to shape and mould – to create into an artifice designed only for the pleasure of your own appetite and imagination, whether it is humour, nostalgia, or something all together darker.”

Her eyes flit fleetingly towards Alexander. I cannot tell whether it was a conscious communication or not. He is stood with his arms folded and his chin cupped in his fingers. He is concentrating hard, watching Emeline’s hands working quickly and precisely as she moulds her muse into an amusing figure of Toady of Toady Hall, complete with pipe and tweed waistcoat. I stifle the comment that it reminds me of her husband, Quentin. Enthusiastic appreciation ripples around the table and Emeline takes a comic bow before instructing us to select our corpse. The room falls weirdly quiet. There is no mad scrambling like there would have been in our school days. It's as if everybody is nervous to make the first move: afraid of looking too hungry.

"Come on Alexander, it's not like you to shy away," Emeline teases.

He winks at her and flashes her a disarming smile that would have made any other girl blush. Not Emeline. All at once I'm insanely jealous. I look her up and down wondering just how well she knows him. He removes his jacket and rolls up his crisp white sleeves. His eyes pour over the pile of beast corpses before he reaches forward and picks up the stoat. If it feels unpleasant to hold death in his hands, he doesn’t show it. He holds the stoat up so that it is level with his face and declares the creature, “cute!” much to everyone’s amusement. With the taboo broken, the rest of the group select their projects until the only choice left is between a mouse and a sparrow. It’s not that I have held back through fear – I felt compelled to wait until only the final remains were left.

Whilst everyone has been claiming their prize, I have been fingering through the basket of accessories at the centre of the table, looking for inspiration. 

I choose the mouse after selecting a small ballerina tutu and a gold crown. I am reminded of a soft toy I had as a child.

There is a babble of excited chatter as each of the students explore their partner’s choices. They turn to Emeline expectantly, waiting for permission to start. Somehow it feels as if permission is needed. 

“You can begin. There’s a box of gloves on the table, but I encourage you to do it with bare hands. Latex may be more sanitary, but personally I find it completely reduces the delicious sensation of skin on skin.” She flicks her skilfully arched eyebrow up and bites her lip seductively. “There’s a help sheet to your right. Give me a shout if you need assistance.” She strides towards the antique gramophone in the corner of the room and places the needle down onto an old crackly vinyl of classical music that I can’t identify. “You’ll be surprised how quiet is will get once you get started,” she explains.

Quentin comes in to the room carrying a tray of half-filled wine glasses, which Emeline takes from him and places down on a desk by the window. “Feel free to take a break for a drink when you wish.” Eventually everyone settles. I look around the table, fascinated as much by everyone’s approach as by the task itself. I turn to whisper to Alexander, but he is bent over, scalpel in hand, splicing with intense concentration. Now is not a good time to disturb him.

I return my attention to my own muse. I'm face to face with my dead mouse, and even though it's only a mouse, there is something vast and complex about this moment; something so profound that my hand starts to tremble. I look down on the gleaming scalpel held between my fingers. It feels both familiar and alien. I'm about to cross some unwritten boundary: about to commit some terrible crime against order and normalcy – and the feeling is delicious. I am looking at Death and I’m mocking him: daring him, right here, to his face. I'm going to take decay and rot and steal it from the compost heap of the life-and-death cycle; I'm going to cheat Death with a tutu and a crown - in the same way that I am going to cheat Death by disguising myself. Like some trickery of Carnivale, I'll be so many different masks and costume changes that Death won't ever catch me. I'm going to fuck the beautiful and the weird, and the cold and the fire. I'm going to drink and dance and feel. Most of all I'm going to feel, because now I understand that as soon as we stop feeling, we're already dead.

And all these unpolished thoughts are streaming through my head whilst I look down at the blade in my hand, and I think about Lucy and her clackity-clack red-plastic mouth, and I think about my mother in her awful synthetic chintz blouses, and I think about Marcia and her fake nails and hair and soul, and I realise that David, my ridiculously stupid boss, has been right all along, they're all a bunch of Muppets!

All this time, Alexander has been watching me, and I know that he sees it - my awakening, and it's making him hard as fuck. A smile twists the corner of his mouth. His eyes glitter. I breathe deeply and my blink rests for a moment, shutting out the sight of it all. Emeline places a comforting hand on my arm, mistaking this moment for fear or revulsion or nerves, but it's none of those things; it's the divinity of knowledge, and I don't think I'll ever be able to walk into that bloody office again.

I open my eyes, smile and

cut.

On the way home in the cab, Alexander asks if he can pass our film on to Quentin. “He has contacts with 'special purveyors' of such material,” Alexander informs me.

All this time I’ve half-expected it to be already uploaded onto some Internet porn site.

"They'll pay well for the rights; I mean we're talking several thousands here, not just a couple of hundred pounds."