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The noise is coming from the basement, from the Olympics-quality gym I’ve got installed down there.
I open the door near the kitchen and head down the stairs.
The sound system is off. The lights are off. The treadmill, the elliptical, the Peloton bike—they’re all still. No one’s on the Pilates reformers or the TRX. The free weights are untouched.
The only equipment being used is a simple bench.
Alix straddles it, her back to me, her knees bent forward so her toes just touch the ground. For a heartbeat, I feel her sitting on top of me like that, grinding against my cock, driving us both toward an explosion.
But she’s not fucking the bench. Her arms fold around her belly like she’s trying to keep from puking. A blanket has slipped off her shoulders; it’s slumped on top of a black and white lump that I finally realize is the fucking stuffed animal I won for her at the fair.
She’s staring at a computer screen. It’s the only light in the room, but it’s magnified by the wall of mirrors behind the free weights, echoed and repeated until the entire gym is bathed in silver light.
Alix is watching a black-and-white movie. I already know the set. I know one of the actors. I’m certain about the plot. And the rage that detonates inside my skull almost leaves me blind.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because I can still see Alix on the screen, tied spread-eagle to a metal frame. Her chin has sunk to her chest. She’s naked, except for a length of iron chain around her waist. She’s got clips, too. A pair of them are screwed onto her nipples, tight enough to turn the tips black. Another is buried between her legs. The camera angle’s shit, but I’m sure it’s fastened to her clit. A weight hangs from it, swinging between her knees.
A man stands in front of her, facing away from the camera. His back is covered with hair, like a gorilla. Even his ass is hairy. He’s clutching a riding crop in one hand and he’s jerking off with the other. He calls to someone out of the frame. “I thought you said this one had spirit?”
A disembodied voice sounds amused. It’s Klaus Herzog. I could testify to his voice in a court of law. He says, “She does. You just have to give her the right motivation. Piss on her.”
“What?”
“Take your cock and piss on the lazy bitch.”
The gorilla guy doesn’t know what to do with the crop. He starts to put it on the ground. Changes his mind. Tucks it beneath his arm and repositions it twice when it starts to slip.
Finally, he’s figured out the mechanics most of us learned in kindergarten. He grabs his cock and pisses, doing his best to paint her from tits to twat.
The sound system is good enough to catch the splatter of liquid on plastic. There’s a drop-cloth under the metal frame, which means this horror show can only get worse.
Alix on the screen moans. She does her best to rally. Raises her chin. Opens her eyes. Stares at both men without saying a word.
Herzog’s voice again: “Some horses won’t run if you don’t give them the whip.”
The hairy cumwipe swats Alix with the crop, his wrist bent, no follow-through. He goes for her flank, like she really is some sort of animal. She flinches, but she doesn’t make a sound.
Offscreen, Herzog says, “You need to show her who’s master.”
Another pansy-ass flick.
“No,” Herzog says. “Turn this way. Use your whole arm. Put your weight behind it. Let her know who’s really boss.”
The shitbird grips the crop like it’s a live rattlesnake. His arms juts out, stiff as a board. He turns to the side like he’s sizing up a tee shot, and he pulls his arm back to get full momentum.
I could stare at the asshole’s hard-on, the dick he’s pumping even as he adjusts his stance. I could focus on the liquid poison of Herzog’s voice, coaching him to smack her clit, to follow through by dragging down the weight between her knees. I could study the look of terror on onscreen Alix’s face, the way she tries to shift her bound legs, how she tries to escape the blow she knows will come.
But I barely notice any of that, because I know this motherfucking son-of-a-bitch’s face.
“What the actual fuck?” I bellow.
Alix jumps like I’ve electrified the gym bench.
Onscreen, she screams, a ragged wail that rips open something deep inside me. Before I can think, I shoulder past her in real life, stumbling over the blanket and the goddamn stuffed bear. I slam the computer shut and heave it to the floor, hoping to hell I’m breaking the screen. As the gym plunges into darkness, I demand, “What the fuck are you doing?”
