Edge Play X (7 page)

“You have a
pathetically small penis,” she said, giving her assessment, “even when you are
erect.” After scooping another ice cube from her glass, X ran it along
Compton’s short shaft, hoping that his erection would retreat, but it did not.
Instead, he let out a groan of pleasure from within his sphere.

“And while
I’m at it, I might as well tell you that even though you are a moderately
handsome man, and in that I mean that you are not disgusting, your mustache is
absolutely atrocious. You look like you have a caterpillar crawling on your
lip. It disgusts me.”

X dunked
the fingers of her right hand into the drink and let the clinging drops of
alcohol and tonic drip onto his penis. The muscles of his abdomen clenched as
the liquid touched him. The alcohol wouldn’t burn him, she knew. Other times,
she had put wine or vodka onto a man’s penis and then licked it off.
 
The woman placed her glass onto the floor.

“Let’s see
what you have here, get an exact measurement. There isn’t really much to see,”
X said, placing the wooden ruler along the underside of his penis.
Compton
’s member had a slight
curve to it, making it turn up a little at the tip as if it wanted to stare back
up at him, and because of this X had to push the head of it next to the ruler
in order to get an accurate measurement.

“Your penis
is four-and-one-half inches,” she reported. X gave it a quick whack with her
ruler and he yelped in pain. “That’s sad, really. I feel sorry for you. I guess
there are some things that money can’t buy.”

“Forgive
me, Mistress,” he said.

His
statement irritated her. “You have no short-term memory, do you?”

“Forgive
me,
Domina
.”

“I thought a
man like you would be more intelligent, really, an assumption that was clearly
in error.”

X walked to
the pegboard in the back and pulled off a restraining device. On this device,
five metal rings were connected by a leather strap, and then with it in her
right hand and Compton’s penis in the other, X slid the contraption over his
member, pushing each ring over the
glans
until the
back ring had reached the whole way to his base, and once there, she pulled his
testicles through the hoop with a slight but not incredible amount of
gentleness.
 

“How
fitting a man like you owns the Gates of Hell. I saw all your gear and toys.
Looks like you bought one of everything.”

Compton
’s penis actually looked rather nice adorned with
the metal rings and leather. X appreciated the juxtaposition of different
mediums, of leather and steel, of flesh and metal.
 

She decided
to unlock the head cage and release him. As soon as he was free from it, he
looked down at his penis and its rings that encircled it.

“Kiss my
boots and thank me for putting that onto your pathetic penis,” X said.

Compton
dropped onto his knees and started giving little
kisses to each of her boots.

“Thank you,
Domina
, for this wonderful adornment.”

She allowed
him to continue his kisses for a few more moments before taking a few steps
back and out of the cage.

“May I
speak, X?”

“What do
you have to say?”

Compton
averted his eyes to the floor as he asked, “Is
there anywhere else you would like to be kissed?”

The woman,
sublime, entered the cage and bent over next to him, picking up the nipple
clamp and releasing his cuffs before tossing these into her bag.

“Go over
there and stand with your nose against the wall,” she commanded, and he obeyed.

She went
over to him. As she stood directly behind him she whispered, “There is
something that you need to understand, Worm. I’m not a whore. I might never
fuck you. If you want somebody to fuck you or you want to eat some pussy, I’m
sure there are plenty of women just waiting to throw themselves at a wealthy
man. I am your
Domina
, not your lover.”

“Forgive
me,” he said.

“I didn’t
tell you to speak!”

“May I
speak, X?”

“What is it
now?”

“Please
allow me to masturbate,” he said.

X laughed.
“Why should I? Do it after I leave.”

“I’ll pay
you. A tribute for the goddess.”

“You are
already paying me to be here,” X said.

“I’ll give
you more.”

“To
whack-off?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A thousand
dollars.”

X stepped
away from him and considered, remembering the image of the money on her kitchen
counter.

“Make it
five.”

“Of course,”
he said. “Please allow me to go behind the bar.”

“Fine. Do
it.”

Compton
left her, naked as he was, and went behind the bar
where he kneeled down, opening a safe, she supposed, and then he returned with
fifty $100 bills in a simple white business envelope which he handed to her. X
pulled out the bills and counted them as he watched before placing them back
into the envelope, licking it, sealing it, and burying it deep within her bag
of gear.

“Get onto
your knees and I will sit here and watch as you do so.”

X sat onto
the simple wooden chair where
Compton
had been sitting when
she arrived.
Compton
spit into his hand and
started to rub his penis, moving his hand repeatedly over the metal rings that
encased it.

He looked
over at her briefly, and she scolded him, “Do not look at me, do not think of
me,” and as soon as the words had been spoken, Compton moaned and came onto the
floor in front of him, the genetic material of one of the wealthiest men in the
world dropping onto the radiant-heated wood floor below, splattering to the
ground like
Onan’s
seed in Genesis.

“Get onto
your hands and knees,” X said, and he obeyed. “Do not move until I am gone.”

She put on
her coat and picked up her bag, then went to the intercom and said into it, “I
am ready to go to the car,” and soon after, X was gone.

5.

For the three weeks since X had seen
Compton
, it had become her habit to go to her studio in
the afternoons. The only relief she could find was at the small studio space
that sat above a gallery owned and run her friend Anne, a space which she
shared with another artist, a German sculptor who had been out of the country
for the last several months. It was an open space with lots of light and wide
plank floors, a space conducive to creative energy.

X threw herself into her painting.
There was nothing that could soothe her and allow her to escape as painting
could. At least the canvas could take her from her thoughts for awhile. X
directed the paint completely, and in turn, completely yielded to it.

Simeon had told X that she had been
chosen, in part, because she did not work in a dungeon, establishments which
Compton
steered clear of. They wanted a woman who was not
known as a dominatrix and who couldn’t be linked back to a dungeon. And on top
of that,
Compton
wanted a woman motivated not by money, but
because it was her nature. X had fit the bill. How they had determined it was
her nature, X did not know, and she hadn’t bothered to ask, but to their
assessment, she had concurred. Plus, Simeon had told her,
Compton
had a fondness for artists and art, had a private
collection that was remarkable and vast.

Simeon had made it seem as if X’s
lovers had supported her completely, making it appear as if she never had to
work, but this was not the case. She traded working for Anne at the gallery for
her studio space, helping the owner with bookkeeping or the scheduling of
shows. Up until her mother had passed away, (what a non-threatening way to say
it, that is; no, her mother had shriveled away) she had worked a regular job and
made a decent but not exorbitant living. X had saved and scrimped away some
money that when combined with the inheritance of her mother’s estate had
afforded her the luxury of a much needed break from the regular office routine
and a chance to pursue her painting.

Regardless of what Simeon had implied,
the truth of the matter was that X had only ever dominated a man because the
man had wanted her to—and because she had wanted to do it. Some of them, X had
loved, and for all of them, she had held at least a fondness.
 

Now X was receiving pay and what she
did became a ‘service.’ Maybe
Compton
liked to think of the money as a tribute and not
a fee, she knew, but quite simply, he was paying for a service, and X served no
one. That is what she believed.

In the space since X had been taken to
Compton
, she had hoped that she would not hear from
Simeon again, that perhaps Terry Compton had not enjoyed his session with her
and did not want to see her again. In reality, X expected that it was just a
matter of time before Simeon inserted himself in her life again, and one rainy
afternoon while she worked in her studio, he appeared.

Ignoring the sound of his steps
approaching her easel, X continued to paint a geometric study that was starting
to resemble a honeycomb.

From behind her, Simeon asked, “What
is it?”

“It’s nothing. A geometric.”

“Your nothing is very nice,” he said.
“You’re talented. I wondered what your work might be like.”

X put her brush down. Her hand had
started to cramp as soon as Simeon had entered.

“What do you want?”

She stood up and lit a cigarette. Her
studio mate was gone and there was no one to bother other than Simeon. As X
blew the smoke toward his face, he tried not to notice her insult. A chill was
in the air and the old radiators were creaking.

“
Compton
wants to see you again.”

“It will have to wait until after
Thanksgiving. I’m going to
L.A.
to see my brother.”

“Fine.
It can wait until you get back. We need you to
plant a bug for us.”

“In his dungeon? That should be easy
enough. You know, it would be simpler to get somebody a job as a maid and she
can plant your bugs anywhere.”

“Not in his dungeon,” he said, “in his
office. He doesn’t allow the maids into his office, he’s afraid they’ll go
through his papers, sell his information to his competitors.”

Simeon fumbled in his interior suit
pocket and then handed X a pencil. It looked identical to a regular yellow
number 2 pencil, the kind kids used to fill in test answer sheets.

“There is a bug in that pencil.”

“You must be kidding.”

“Not at all. Get it into
Compton
’s office somehow.”

X examined the pencil. “And how am I
supposed to do that?”

“Figure it out,” he said. “You’re
smart enough, aren’t you?”

X resisted the urge to fling the
pencil across the room and instead set it down next to her paintbrush.

Simeon handed X a manila envelope. She
opened it and pulled out a thick stash of cash and a small digital camera.

“That’s the money from
Compton
for the last time. Steinberg gave it to our
access person to give to you. Although from what I understand,
Compton
gave you a little extra last time.”

“How do you know that?”

Simeon didn’t answer, and X realized
that he probably had that knowledge because the dungeon was bugged. If that
were the case, they would have heard everything she said to him, known everything
that had gone on between them. For all she knew, she had even been video
recorded.

In her hand, she held the five
thousand dollars that
Compton
gave as a tribute for each session. The thick wad of cash was made of
slippery-crisp new bills. She put the money back into the envelope and put it
onto a table next to her easel. Most of her adult life she had scrimped for
money and now X was running out of places to hide it.
 

As X turned on and inspected the
digital camera, she considered and then decided against taking a photo of Agent
Simeon before asking him what he intended for her to do with the device.

“We need you to take some photos of
Compton
in his dungeon. He can’t be wearing his
blindfold, he has to be identifiable.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“We considered that. We thought that
perhaps you could put tape over his eyes.”

“You’re so clever,” X said snidely.
“And then what will Mr. Simeon do with the photos? Give them to
Compton
to use in his Christmas card?”