IN THE NEXT WEEK YOU WILL CEASE TO WORK WITH LONG-STREET. YOU WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO C86 COMPUTER COMPLEX. ONCE THAT HAS HAPPENED, YOU WILL ALWAYS CARRY THIS SOFTWARE WITH YOU DURING YOUR DUTY HOURS. THERE MUST BE NO MISTAKE ABOUT THIS. THE SOFTWARE MUST ALWAYS BE WITH YOU. AT SOME POINT IN THE NEXT MONTH, THE CODE PHRASE 'LOOK TO THE SKIES' WILL APPEAR ON YOUR WORKSTATION MONITOR. THE MOMENT THE CODE HAS BEEN DISPLAYED, YOU WILL LOAD THE SOFTWARE CONTAINED ON THIS DISK AND DIRECTFEED TO VIRGINIA BEACH ON THE 771-36971-2458-666 1-LINE INTERFACE. WHEN THIS TASK HAS BEEN COMPLETED, YOU WILL RECEIVE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Harry Carlisle mumbled something in his sleep. Cynthia quickly closed the file and turned off the laptop. At least the instructions were not something that needed instant attention. She slid quietly back into bed. Harry mumbled again. He turned over and, without opening his eyes, reached out and placed a hand on her stomach. She wriggled close to him. There was security in the warmth of his body.
Winters
"You and I are going on a journey of discovery together to the dark of your soul. I will be both your mistress and your guide and I will expect your absolute obedience. I will take you to places that you have only imagined and didn't think could exist. I will take you even farther than that, beyond your petty fears and inhibitions, to a place where you will see visions of yourself that you will hardly recognize. Do you understand me?"
"I think so… mistress."
The tip of the leather crop moved slowly down the length of his spine. "You don't think. You are my slave and you merely obey. Repeat that."
"I don't think. I am your slave and I merely obey, mistress."
The tip of the leather crop had reached the top of his buttocks. Although its touch was as light as a feather, the skin beneath it crawled. It had to be in anticipation of the cruelties that would undoubtedly come later. Anticipation was half the experience. He knew she was well aware of that. The whip tapped against his flesh, emphasizing the point.
"Obedience is everything. As we go along, you will discover that our relationship is controlled by rules, and the punishments that I shall inflict on you when you break them. My word is the law, and you mean nothing. I require just two things from you. You obey me absolutely, and you pay me for the privilege. I don't even have to like you. I merely tolerate. Now do you understand me?"
"I understand you, mistress."
Winters was naked and completely helpless. His arms were stretched above his head and secured at the wrists by thick leather straps with chrome buckles. There was a second, wider strap around his waist, cinching him tight to the polished mahogany post in the center of the room. It was the need to be helpless that had really brought him to this place and caused him to strip and abase himself in front of a strange young whore in an exotic costume. It was a release of tensions and frustration, but the pain and the ritual somehow made it something for which he was not responsible. He did not do anything – it was all done to him. It was as she said: he paid and obeyed. The pleasure and the punishment were one. The flesh lusted and was mortified. The sin was paid for even as it was committed. Jesus could surely go along with that. There were times in the night, however, when he was not sure that Jesus was quite so accommodating.
The walls of the room were mirrored. If he turned his head in either direction he could see multiple images of himself bound to the whipping post and the woman standing arrogantly behind him, flexing the leather crop as if she were undecided as to where oil his body to lay the first stripe. She was a figure of costume fantasy. Her legs and arms were swathed in black, form-fitting patent leather; sleek thigh-length boots with high, spiked heels; and long evening gloves that reached to her upper arms. Her torso was laced into a corset of the same material in a cruel flame red. It was cut so that it exposed her pubic hair and allowed her ample breasts to swing free each time she moved. Her wig was a high-teased black bouf with flame tips, and her stark, dramatic makeup gave her the look of a depraved, contemptuous corpse.
"There will be times when you may feel that I'm too cruel to you. There will be times when you may wonder if my punishments are too harsh, too out of proportion to your wretched little transgressions. There will be times when you'll beg for mercy."
"I wouldn't do that, mistress."
"Did I ask you to speak?"
It was all part of the game.
"I'm sorry, I – "
"I'm tired of listening to your whining, I'm going to gag you."
He watched her in the minors as she went to the equipment rack on the far wall. When she came back with the rubber ball gag, he struggled a little as she forced the gag into his mouth.
"No… please…"
His protest earned him three quick cuts of the crop. All that was part of the game, too. He might struggle and protest, but they both knew that she was doing exactly what he wanted.
When she finally released him from his bonds, he sank to the floor at the bottom of the post. He was emotionally drained, so drained, in fact, that he did not move when the phone on the wall by the soundproof door gave a soft purring ring. The whore's high heels clapped across the hardwood floor. She picked up the phone and listened. Finally she nodded and hung up.
She looked down at Winters. "You better get your clothes on. They want you down in the basement right now."
Winters was confused. "The basement?"
"The private dining room, where they get down to the really weird shit."
She hung the whip on the equipment board and opened the door. "Behave yourself."
She was gone. A bemused Winters picked himself up off the floor. It had to be the Magicians. Rogers had as good as said so. Winters had no idea what to expect. He pictured some dark Masonic Temple with ceremonies and swords, but somehow that was not quite right. The Magicians were more than just playacting businessmen. They meted out life and death. They were faceless and all-powerful.
As he took his shirt from the hanger, he caught sight of his back in the mirror. It was a mass of crisscrossing red welts. The skin was broken in a number of places, and he could see streaks of fresh blood. He quickly dressed. Guilt had started to set in, and the usual questions were beginning to nag at him. Why did he come to places like this? Why did he always have to give in to his dark impulses? The routine was always the same, and he could usually count on the guilt lasting well into the next day. But this time, the pattern was broken. As he rode down in the elevator, guilt was quickly replaced by an excited anticipation and more than a little fear. If this was really the start of his induction into the Magicians, it could well be the making of his career. He felt as if he were on his way to an examination or an audition.
The elevator doors opened, and Winters had to restrain himself from taking a quick step back. A tall bulky figure in a dark suit was waiting for him; a blue metal-flake helmet completely covered the man's head, and a black visor hid his face. "I am the Master-at-Arms," he announced ominously.
Winters force himself to step out of the elevator. "Where do we go?"
"We wait here until we are summoned."
There was an electronic distortion on the Master-at-Arms' voice, no doubt some kind of gizmo built into the helmet. The Magicians appeared to take pains to maintain their anonymity, Winters reflected. The two of them waited in front of the basement elevator for almost five minutes before a red light flashed and a tone sounded. The Master-at-Arms indicated that Winters should follow. They walked down a short corridor that led to a pair of solid double doors with Victorian brass fittings. The huge man opened them with a solemn flourish.
"Deacon Winters waits without, in answer to summons."
Another electronically distorted voice came from beyond the doors. "Let Deacon Winters enter and be recognized."