Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [98]
“Is there any friendly sex?” I ask.
Ada laughs as if she knows what I mean. The dark-blue eyes twinkle.
The conversation drifts to other things—vegetarianism, books, travel. (It strikes me as inconsistent that a leather fetishist should refuse to eat meat—but let that pass. Life is inconsistent.)
As we talk, two young people wander into the room. One is a slim, boyish blond young woman in jeans and a cowboy shirt, the other a smallish young man wearing a ponytail and an aviator scarf.
“My two personal slaves,” says Ada. “Roland has my initials branded into his thigh, and Lavinia has my hoop earring through her nipple. Perhaps they’ll show you later.”
Lavinia shrugs shyly; Roland smiles.
I exchange glances with Wayne, who laughs. “Hooked yet?”
“Perhaps Leila would like to meet one of the mistresses?” says Ada.
“Yes, I would.”
“Hooked,” says Wayne.
“Let’s go to the studio, then,” says Ada.
We leave the penthouse, take the elevator down to the lobby, and, personal slaves in tow, walk a few blocks in the West Village until we come to a narrow brick house that seems all garage door.
Ada opens the door with an electronic beeper. Within is a garage containing two cars and behind them another door, which leads into a mirrored waiting room.
Two young men in yarmulkes sit there, hunched over, looking down at the floor. One is twisting his payess nervously, the other leafing through a magazine called Puss n’ Boots.
Lavinia, the “personal slave,” whispers: “We get lots of religious types here. Jews and Roman Catholics particularly.”
Dear God—I would like to paint these two young men in yarmulkes waiting outside the dominatrix’s door, waiting to worship. I dare not—“not good for the Jews,” I hear my mother’s voice saying.
Ada sweeps on past the waiting room to an adjacent room, which is fitted out with a sort of massage table with holes for the face and genitals.
“This is a bondage table,” she says. “You see? From underneath, you can do things.”
She leads me to a mirrored closet, shows me a whole wardrobe of leather, rubber, fetishy shoes and boots.
“Come,” she says. “I want you to meet my star mistress, Larissa.”
We proceed down the hallway to another door, knock tentatively, whereupon a cultivated voice answers, “Wait, please.”
The two slaves hang back with Wayne; Ada takes me by the hand and says, “We two shall go in alone.”
“Come in!” sings Larissa.
Ada and I enter a darkened chamber, in which a man is tied face down on a bondage table.
He is youngish and blond like Dart and has lovely buns, wonderfully shaped calves with long muscles, and a glorious muscled back. It could be Dart lying there, his bulging cock bound in leather, his eyes blindfolded, his hands tied above his head in an attitude of supplication.
Mistress Larissa is pacing about the table, talking to him in imperious but mellifluous tones.
“What a bad boy you are to orgasm so quickly. You could never satisfy a woman that way. What do you say?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” mumbles the man.
“What is the proper punishment for your transgression?”
“I don’t know, Mistress.”
“Bad boy,” says Larissa, lashing him with her riding crop. He cries out.
“Think harder, pet,” she says, pacing, caressing the crop.
Larissa is a glorious creature—tall, dark-haired, almond-eyed, with a wonderful voice, extraordinary erect carriage, and body language that says “Touch me not.”
She is wearing her long chestnut hair in a ponytail, bound, like her victim’s cock, in leather thongs. Her longwaisted, long-legged body is clad in a black leather minidress with a laced waist and thigh-high laced-up black boots. The heels, like Ada’s, are at least six inches high. I am amazed that she can walk in them at all—but walk she does, and as elegantly as a prize Arab mare.
“The punishment?” she asks. “Or rather, the implement for the punishment?”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“What’s that, boy? Louder.”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“Mmm,” says Larissa, brandishing her leather crop. “I’m thinking. Shall it be the crop,