Edge Play X (12 page)

X looked across the room and saw
Compton and Steinberg in front of one of her paintings. The small orbs of light
above them accentuated every contour, furrow, and groove of the men’s faces,
making the men seem both surreal and idiosyncratic as they stood there, each
with a drink in hand and immersed in a quiet conversation.

“Maybe he’ll buy something,” Anne
said, and the thought of Compton owning one of her paintings nauseated X.

She went outside to have a cigarette.
The sun, by then, was gone. A few of her friends were outside discussing
Compton’s appearance, one of them saying that Anne had called the newspaper and
that a reporter was on his way. X tried not to discuss it, which her friends
mistook as modesty.

Once X was back inside, Anne took her
arm and led her over to Compton and Steinberg.
Compton
looked
X
up and down,
surveying her black dress and peep-toe heels, noticing as her long earrings
caught and reflected the light. He thought then that he should get her some
earrings, some antique diamond ones perhaps.

“Mr. Compton,” Anne began, “this is
the artist. I thought you would like to meet her,” Anne cast her eyes at X
briefly, “especially since you are purchasing all her paintings.” Anne had a
giant smile on her face.

Compton held out his hand and X took
it, and the pair shook hands gently. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. “Your work is
stunning. Like you.”

X was unable to think. Thoughts would
not come over the rage within her. The idea of him owning all of the paintings
angered X as well as horrified her. Later, she realized that she should have
refused to sell them, but at that moment, X felt as if a huge wave had engulfed
her and that she was stumbling in the rough surf trying to regain her balance
and catch her breath.

“You are going to be a well recognized
artist,” Compton said, “I have no doubt of it.”

X responded, “I would rather be a
talented artist than a recognized one,” and Anne seemed surprised and
embarrassed by her remark.

Her only thoughts were on how much she
hated Compton. What was before a sturdy dislike had proceeded to hate. The last
time she had seen him, the man had had the nerve to try to pay her thousands of
dollars to take off her clothing for him as if she were a stripper or some kind
of whore. She didn’t want him to buy anything that belonged to her, whether it
was her body or her paintings.

The reporter had finally arrived and
he snapped a photo of X with Compton, Steinberg, and Anne. X faked a smile,
sure it would look insincere in the photo.

Compton spoke to Anne, “David here
will arrange to have the paintings picked up and for the payment.” Then he
shook Anne’s hand and with that they were both gone.
 

As soon as they left, Anne could not
contain herself any longer.

“Can you believe it! It’s going to
make the major papers you know—Compton is a well respected collector and
doesn’t add lightly to his collection. Other galleries, big ones, are going to
want your pieces now. You won’t forget where you started, will you?” she said,
gushing.

Up until that point, X’s work had
appeared in a few galleries and she had won a small handful of awards.
Foolishly maybe, she spent more energy on the actual paintings than she had on
trying to establish her name. It was difficult for her to comprehend or
anticipate the implications of Compton’s purchase. X had been bought.

“And the best part is,” Anne
continued, “Compton insisted that he paid 25 percent more for your paintings
and that he covered my commission fee. He didn’t want any one else to have
one.”

All that work that she had put into
those pieces—they were more than pigments on canvases, they represented the sum
of her experiences, her artistic vision,
the
crux of
her life work.

It angered her, having this pathetic
bootlicker buying her paintings because he wanted something. Wanted what?
Control? To impress her with the status and fame his purchase would inevitably
invite? X felt that she might cry or put her fist through the wall but
restrained herself.

Anne left X to go talk with the
reporter, and word of Compton’s purchase spread throughout the room. People
came over to X to congratulate her. Somehow in the last few minutes X had risen
in their view of her; X had instantly gained their respect and esteem.
 

As soon as X was able, she returned to
her apartment, and with focus and determination threw each and every flower
Compton had sent her into the dumpster behind her building.

10.

Compton’s purchase of X’s paintings
had made news in not only the regional newspaper but also in several national
papers and magazines.
Suddenly, far-way gallery owners were
contacting Anne and asking to carry X’s work.
In an instant, X had gone
from an unknown, struggling painter to a sought after one gaining in fame, all
because of the seal of approval that she had received from Compton.

Magazines called her for interviews,
which X declined, an act which only seemed to add to her allure. One paper even
featured her name subtitled with the question,
The next great artist?
X allowed Anne to handle all the business,
unable to cope not just with all the new attention but also with the means by
which she had attained it.

Another few weeks passed and Simeon
told X that Compton wanted to see her again. This time Simeon had called X on
her cell.

She told him, “Agent Simeon, I hope
that you understand that I am not getting any information from him.”

Simeon responded, “The bug you planted
has gotten us more information than we could have hoped. And we have reason to
believe that Compton is going to ask you to accompany him on one of his
upcoming business trips. You will be able to report on his business
associates—he always likes to show off his lady friends to his business
partners.”

X built up the courage to ask Simeon a
question that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to.
 

“Agent Simeon, what would happen if he
loses interest in me?”

“X, he isn’t losing interest. Trust
me.”

“But what would happen?”

“The car will get you on Saturday.”

At that point, a fear expanded and
exploded. She wondered, would she disappear regardless after her usefulness had
been exhausted? Maybe Simeon and his men would feel that the best route in
dealing with X would be to dispose of her, remove any evidence of the role she
had played with Compton after she had served her purpose. She remembered what
Simeon had said,
Lots of people disappear
every year, a whole multitude of them
. Maybe that was her ultimate fate.

Compton wanted to see her again,
wanted her to hurt him. But X knew that it wasn’t just about the pain—a person
can inflict plenty of pain on themselves. No, Compton wanted X to do it, and
she knew that he enjoyed it
.
Before, she had
wanted to punish Compton for his wealth, for the possibility that he had taken
another person’s life. It had been about justice. But now she wanted to cause
him pain because the thought of him suffering gave her such pleasure, its sweet
velvet indulgence.
 

X couldn’t keep her mind off the fact
that she truly wanted to cause Compton discomfort, to humiliate him and insult
him, having become preoccupied with the desire ever since Compton had purchased
her paintings. The worst punishment, of course, would have been to ignore him,
but Simeon had made it clear that if X did not follow his orders that awful
things would happen, and she took the man at his word.
 

Before Compton, X had dominated men,
in part, because she enjoyed the pleasure they derived from their submission.
But since she had met Compton, her pleasure was garnered not from the man’s
pleasure but from his pain, his humiliation, his pathetic need.
Shit
, X thought every time she dwelled
on the shift that had occurred
,
I’m becoming a real sadist
.

She wondered if this viciousness had
always been a part of her that had simply awakened when Simeon and Compton had
entered her life or if their presence had engendered this new urge. If the men
were the catalyst that had sparked this dormant part of her, what did it
matter? The end result was the same. X had changed. Her motivations had
shifted.

Either way, she was going to have to
run, she decided. But first, she was going to hurt Terry Compton.

11.

This time, when X entered the dungeon,
Compton was not on his little chair.
 
Instead, she found him behind the bar, fixing himself a drink. X had
arrived earlier than he had expected and had surprised him. Compton was
half-naked again, wearing only his cuffs and leather codpiece that exposed his
ass. He greeted X with a wide, shit-eating grin.

“Wipe that grin off your face and put
your drink onto the bar. Do not take one little sip from it.”

Compton obeyed.

Next, X commanded, “Go over to that
wall and prepare yourself. I am going to strike you until I draw blood.”

Over at the bondage cross, X clipped
Compton’s cuffed hands and wrists to the x-shaped contraption so that his back
faced her and his right cheek pressed against the wall.
 
X brought out what appeared to be a type of
paddle but that was really just a small oak handle with a treaded rubber loop
at the end, an implement that would move with each blow and dig into the skin
bit by bit, she knew.

X hit him with it right in the middle
of his back, and a little pathetic yelp escaped him.
 
X whacked him again, this time on his bare
ass.
 
She continued striking him on his
back and watched with growing satisfaction as his back reddened.
 
Soon, she knew, the implement would draw
blood.
 
She paused.

“I want to tell you something, you
little fuck, I don’t appreciate it that you bought all my paintings.
 
I want them back.”

Compton spoke, his voice fragile.
 
“I’m sorry, X, but I’m not giving them back.”

X repeated striking him until the
stratum of his epidermis was broken and the cells began to break and push the
slightest bit of blood to the surface. It was a ragged injury, wide and messy
like a road-burn.

X continued, relentlessly, until a
sufficient number of blood vessels had broken and thin red lines began to roll
down Compton’s lower back and then down over the cheeks of his ass, the thin
streamers of blood unfurling as they mixed with his perspiration. From a slim
cylindrical container, X filled her palm with fine sea salt, and after throwing
a smidgen over her shoulder to atone for what she was about to do, she flung
the salt onto his wounds and then licked the last of it from the lines of her
hand. As a guttural sound escaped Compton, his nerves screaming at the
suffering that was occurring at a cellular level, the rupturing torture of it,
X felt a shiver of satisfaction jolt through her body.

X leaned in close to him, “If you want
to see me again, you’ll give them back,” she said as she released his bonds and
told him to turn around.

Amazed at the amount of pain he was
enduring, X decided to vary her approach. There was little evidence of
Compton’s discomfort. So, dexterously, X unsnapped his codpiece and slid a
metal ring over his penis, a ring that had little sharp points inside it and a
little dial that allowed it to be tightened, a screw which X turned as Compton winced.
If only she could have witnessed a tear in his eye, she might have been
satisfied.

“Please let me show them to you,
Domina
,” Compton said.

X picked up her paddle and tossed it
back into her bag. It hit the rest of her gear with a clank.

“Where are they?”

“In my private gallery,” he answered.

X walked to the back wall and pulled
off a collar and leash. When she returned to Compton, she buckled the collar
around his neck, clipped on the leash, and then removed a crop from her bag.

“Get on your hands and knees because
we’re going for a walk.”

As they reached the door of the
dungeon, Compton said, “I will need to have Steinberg unlock the gallery.
Please let me stand up and use the intercom.”

“Fine.”

Compton stood up and gave Steinberg
his order, then got back onto his knees. X opened the heavy dungeon door, one
that looked like it came from a Spanish estate, all thick wood and beautifully
carved. He scuttled in front of her and out into the long hallway.

X had never been through more of the
house than the stairs and short section of hallway that Steinberg led her down
each visit. The inside of his home, equally as opulent as the exterior, gleamed
from every surface. The floors, lined with white marble, were bordered on each
side by strips of green onyx marble veined with delicate spider webs of red and
white crystallizations; the hand-glazed walls to the sides of them bore
paintings and warm sconce lighting. As X walked behind Compton, smacking him
with the crop on the ass as they went down the hall, her gaze was transfixed by
the long tunnel of the hallway, so clean and free of dirt as to be almost
sterile, hospital-like perhaps, and certainly unwelcoming. Finally, they
stopped in front of the bronze doors of an elevator.