Read Online Surrender to Mr. X by Rosa Mundi - Free Book Online Page B

abondaged Barbie doll staring back. Then like a sulky child I took offense. Not at what had been done to me, the stripping away of individuality, but because I was attached to an ordinary dog lead of the kind anyone could buy in a pet shop. They had no right to treat a nursery school teacher like this. Alden obviously had all the money in the world. Wasn’t I worth better than that? How could he skimp on the dungeon paraphernalia? I struggled, but with legs and arms held fast and the corset only comfortable if I lay still, my leeway was only an inch or two in any direction. “That’s enough!” I tried to say, but what came out was mewing. The ball gag muffled language. And I had lost interest in sex: anticipation can devour itself and be reborn as boredom. I felt very, very cross with Alden.
    A sudden unexpected sensation up my cunt: another chocolate, I assumed, my mouth being too much hassle to get at or into. And then two more, pushing the others higher: my interest in sex returned. Whatever was in the chocolates was quick acting, and lasted I estimated about ten minutes, but time was hard to assess, as if it wasn’t conforming to type but doing something that would interest Einstein.
    The pattern of lights changed: I focused on the mirror above, vaulted with repeated me dolls. I was alone in the room. The door was open. Anyone could see in. There was no sign of Alden or Lam. Perhaps Ray might come down and see. I wouldn’t want that. On the other hand he might rescue me. I was conscioussuddenly of a tingling at the pulse point in my wrists, my ankles, under my breasts, which intensified and fell away at the same time as a pulsing humming sound began, rising and falling in volume—the hertz waves again, I thought, translated into sound. If I struggled the pitch changed. I tested it out a little. I had a vision of myself as part of some atrocious mechanized disharmony devised by avant-garde composer of evil genius: in other words, from first principles, Alden. It occurred to me that the tingling sensations came from areas where they place the pads if you get your electrocardiogram done. All this had been an elaborate feint, a cover for nothing more than wiring me up for hospital monitoring: I was nothing but raw recording fodder, to be subsumed into
Thelemy: The Silence of the Senses
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    Turn the page of the eidetic memory: here’s the digest. Whatever’s in the chocolates has worn off. I am beginning to feel stiff. The ball in my mouth is making my lips sore. I take refuge in thought. The Abbey of Thélème, Rabelais’ creation, around 1530. “How the Thelemites were governed: and of their manner of living.” The one governance: Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law—Fay ce que vouldras. A rule asking to be taken in vain by its adherents, for Rabelais’ folk of the Thelemite community were “free, well-born, well-bred and conversant in honest companies, and have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them to virtuous actions, and withdraws them fromvice.” Ironically, it became the motto of Sir Francis Dashwood’s Hellfire Club in the caves under his High Wycombe estate two hundred years later, where all kinds of sinister doings went on. Another century or so and “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law” became the call to arms of voluptuary and black magician Aleister Crowley, the self-styled Beast 666, born 1875, died 1947, who claimed that the Golden Dawn could be won through the focused attention of the base and depraved into their own voluptuary satisfactions. The thoughts become dangerous. I switch my mind to more immediate considerations.
    How long am I to lie here? Supposing they never come back? Of course they will. My whereabouts are known, I came in a black cab. I can be traced back. Just to loosen the corset would be a comfort. It is crushingly tight. How did the Victorians live with these things? A