Chapter Three-1

2009 Words
Chapter Three Through the hole in the floor... The girl arrives at the appointed time dressed in a navy prison shift. Despite its formless shape and drab color, Melinda Janes is still an attractive young woman. This is inborn. Her hair has been freshly washed. It shines, and as it dries, her natural curls spring to life, another odd paradox, Sydney thinks. She is no less haunted, but it is good for Sydney to see her looking less like a slave. Although, so far, the small measures taken to normalize the girl have done little to alter the her cautious and restrained mood of acquiescence. She is so unlike any woman she’s ever experienced, but is it wrong? Are Tuck and Astrid right to assume that she won’t change—can’t change? And is her life less valid because she can’t? Sydney has thought through the session carefully, what she’ll say and how she’ll say it while adopting a helpful, compassionate, but not condescending attitude. She takes a deep breath, smiles and begins. “We’re going to spend some time together, Melinda, talking about you. I want to get to know who you are so I can make an intelligent decision for you. You are free to speak your mind, say anything you like, jump in anytime. I know this might be hard, but you need to think of us as equals. Do you understand that?” “I think so,” she says. “Good. Then I’ll begin with some questions about your past… I want you to answer in depth, graphically. Say as much as you like.” She looks into the girl’s eyes, seeing if there is any sign of confusion, any lack of understanding. Without that, she continues. “My files say that you were living with Mr. Janes prior to your official agreement, could you explain that?” The girl takes a moment to frame her answer, then begins speaking in a clear and softly sensuous voice. “I was sixteen when my mother met Mr. Janes. My mother lived with men, with lots of different men and he was the last one. I think she may have liked him best of all, but I can’t be sure, because I was very young during some of her affairs. She was very happy with Samuel. He took care of her and all of her worries seemed to disappear. But then she became sick not long after we moved into Samuel’s loft. She was dying.” Sydney feels the girl’s heart swallowed in sadness. She sees the tears in her soft brown eyes. And yet, her placid expression remains unwavering. “And how were you treated?” “I was my mother’s child and usually ignored by everyone but my mother. I had a room at the top of the loft house that was all mine. When I wasn’t in school, I stayed there a lot, especially during the parties. Mama would come to me all excited about the night, dressed in wild, sexy clothes. She’d sit with me talking like we were best friends. Then she’d run off, lock the door behind her and tell me to be a good girl.” “You were locked in your room?” “She told me that she could get in lots of trouble if I were caught hanging around the party. Besides, Samuel insisted that my door be locked.” She pauses, the faint glimmer of a smirk emerging. “But I saw what was going on anyway.” “Oh? How was that?” “There were loose boards in the floor of my room that I pried away. I could see almost everything happening in the main room, and sometimes I could even get a glimpse of the ‘hideaway’—which was next door. But that room was dark most of the time and couldn’t see very well. I had to look down through the broken plaster, which blocked half of the room.” “So, what kind of things did you see?” “In the big room they were always having s*x. The women were naked, wiggling themselves over the men, who were sometimes naked, too. The women sucked their c***s. And sometimes they played spanking games. Everyone would laugh like it was enormous fun.” “Do you suppose they were on drugs?” Sydney wonders aloud. The girl looks at her quizzically. “I never saw anyone take drugs. Samuel despised the drug culture and kicked anyone out he caught with illegal trash. He’d get vicious. I asked mama why, and she said that his mother and his brother OD’d. Both died. And… he was convinced that drugs only dampened s****l energy. He even said that in front in me, long before we were together. He said he’d beat me if he ever caught me using.” “And did you… try any drugs?” “Once.” “When was that?” “I was seventeen and with my friends. Most of the buzz had worn off by the time I got home that night, but Samuel was like a trained dog. He sniffed me out, and I was so shocked when he accused me of smoking pot that I couldn’t lie fast enough to save myself.” “And he beat you?” “He dragged me into the dining room, laid me over the sideboard, and in front of his houseguests, he lifted my skirt and spanked my ass with a wooden slat. I was scared and ashamed and embarrassed. I screamed for him to stop…” “But you didn’t try to get away?” “No, you don’t fight with Samuel.” The girl’s flat monotone changes as she describes the scene. Her body posture exudes an excited energy that makes Sydney shudder. “I begged him, but he wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied that I was punished. I swore that I’d never do drugs again. I pleaded with him, but he is merciless. When he was finally satisfied, he pushed me to the floor and stared me down, looking at me like he was exploring my brain and reading my thoughts. I decided then that he was clairvoyant, gifted, that he knew things without seeing them. I had reason to fear him.” “And what did your mother say about your punishment?” “My mother was very kind to me. She nursed my bottom, which was very hurt and bruised. But she also reminded me of Samuel’s rules. ‘You break them, that’s what you get.’ ” “So, how did you feel about being treated this way? Be honest.” “It aroused me.” “It what? Aroused you… as in … sexually?” “Yes,” she states simply. The girl doesn’t have the moral judgment regarding the act that Sydney does. “I see.” After a meaningful pause, the energized air around the two settles. Sydney breathes deeply and continues. “So, back to the times you spied on the parties below your room… what other kinds of things did you see?” She fears this sounds voyeuristic, even salacious, but certainly, this line of questioning is appropriate to obtain the background information she needs. And the girl doesn’t seem to mind, since she has no agendas, no plans, perhaps no thoughts beyond the present moment. What a blessing! “I saw lots of s*x,” she says. “Men and women having intercourse?” “And women making love to other women, and sometimes men poking each other in the ass—at least that is what it looked like. Sometimes, there was a lot of smoke in the room so I couldn’t see clearly—they didn’t use drugs but they smoked like fiends.” “Including Mr. Janes?” “No. He never smoked, but he didn’t seem to mind that other people did. My mother was always smoking.” “You said that you couldn’t see into the other room very easily—what was it you called it… the ‘hideaway’?” “When the lights were low, it was nearly impossible to see anything. But I could hear what was happening. I didn’t understand the sounds at first, but I know now that they were torturing bound women with floggers and whips.” “You’re sure of that?” “Absolutely.” “But you only know that because of what you heard? You never saw the women in bondage or being beaten?” “Not in that room… except for once. Sometimes I’d see a woman bound with rope having s*x in the main room. But that wasn’t very often, and it never lasted very long.” “And the one time in the hideaway?” “That night, the lights were on, big spotlights glaring so brightly that I was drawn from bed when I saw the beams shining through the loose boards at the side of the room. I moved to the hole in the wall and a pried a piece of the plaster away to see more.” As the girl speaks, excitement gathers around her again like swarming bees. All this generates an agitated pulse between Sydney’s thighs. “I looked down at the room, seeing a woman tied to a chair. A huge man stood over her, slapping her face and her breasts, accusing her. I didn’t understand what he said. They were Dutch, mama told me later. But I knew he was accusing her of something terrible and was punishing her hard. She was beautiful in agony.” “Beautiful?” “I liked seeing her that way, seeing her wince when he raised his hand to slap her…” the girl’s eyes glaze over as the image returns to her like a rush of fresh air bathing her in the memory… “seeing her red face and her bruised breasts all contorted inside the ropes… my body was hot and squirming on itself. I think it was some sort of interrogation… the man demanded answers but was never satisfied. She sobbed, but she didn’t want him stop.” “How could tell?” “By the look in her eyes.” Sydney returns a puzzled glance. “You could see her eyes from so far away?” “Yes,” she answers, sounding a bit annoyed that Sydney would doubt her. “I could see her eyes as plain as day. She was staring my way, though I’m sure that she couldn’t see my face. Maybe she felt my excitement. She was in ecstasy. I know that now, maybe not then. But I liked what I saw and I couldn’t stop staring or feeling what I felt. She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She pauses then adds. “I wanted her pain.” “You wanted her pain?” Sydney sits back, nonplussed. “Yes.” The girl bows her head bashfully. Sydney squirms uncomfortably, aware of, but trying to ignore her physical response to the conversation. The awkward, nagging silence hangs like cloud around the room. “The woman must have seen me,” the girl finally continues. “The next day when I was at school, someone repaired the holes in my wall and the loose floorboards. And mama came to me asking a lot of strange questions. But I didn’t tell her much because I was ashamed to admit that I was spying.” “And the spying ended?” Sydney is almost grateful to hear this. “Yes.” “And how old were you then?” “I turned eighteen two days after my room was repaired.” “Tell me more about your mother, Melinda?” The girl thinks about her answer for a moment, as if there are a hundred things to say and she’s not sure where to start. “I know she liked men. She liked Samuel. And she was very pretty. Sometimes she slept in my bed… she’d fall asleep when she was drunk and I’d have to push her to the edge so I’d have a place to sleep. But I liked her face when she was sleeping; it was peaceful then, and her worries were gone, and the constant pain didn’t have to be masked by her smiles. She simply didn’t feel that angry pain when she passed out. I remember hoping that she would die, so that she would always look that lovely, that content.” “It must have been sad for you when she died?” “I think I was more scared than sad.” “Scared? Because you were staying alone with Mr. Janes?” “In a way. He told me that’s what mama wanted, so I stayed.” “You have no other relatives?” “I probably do. Mama talked about her cousins, but I had no idea where they might live. So I stayed in the loft.” “How did Mr. Janes treat you then?” “Not very different from before, but he talked to me directly, which made me uncomfortable at first.” “Why was that?” “Samuel was a very intense, very mysterious man. I never knew what he was thinking, or feeling. I didn’t understand his moods or how to please him.” “Was he still having his parties?” “Yes.” “And you were still locked in your room?” “No. He didn’t lock the door anymore, but he told me to stay upstairs.” “And did you?” “No. I crept down the stairs and peeked in the living room during the parties.” “You were curious?” “I was curious. Wouldn’t you be, if you were bored in a lonely room with nothing to do, no TV, no music? The sound of laughter and strange noises float up the stairways and nag at you until you can’t stand it anymore.” “You could have closed your door.” “Maybe, but I didn’t, because I wanted to be downstairs.” Sydney takes some time to absorb the things the girl tells her. Is it the shock or the arousal that disturbs her most? “So,” she starts again, finally deciding to ask what’s really on her mind, “when did Mr. Janes first have s*x with you?” As soon as she asks the question, she immediately wonders if her bold probing will shake the girl’s seamless composure.
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