Kathe Koja
Bondage
Kathe Koja lives in the Detroit area with her husband, artist Rick Lieder, and her son. Her Bram Stoker Award-winning debut novel,The Cipher, appeared in 1991, since when she has publishedBad Brains, Skin, Strange Angels andFamished, plus the short story collectionExtremities.
Her short fiction (including several collaborations with Barry N. Malzberg) has appeared in such magazines and anthologies as Omni, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Dark Voices 3, 5 and6, Still Dead: Book of the Dead 2, A Whisper of Blood, Little Deaths, The Year’s Best Horror Stories andBest New Horror 3 and 5.
According to the author, “My own sense is that ‘Bondage’ is as close to a pure morality play as anything I’ve done.”
She was shaped like sculpture: high bones, high forehead, long fingers silver-cool against his skin as they lay side by side in the deep four-poster, princess-bed draped in lace and gauze and “Don’t ever buy me a ring,” she said; those fingers on his belly, up and down, up and down, tickling in his navel, playing with his balls. “I don’t like them.”
Even her voice, as calm and sure as metal. “Why not?” he said.
“They’re just — ” Fingertips, nipping at his thighs. “They’re bondage gear.”
“Bondage, sure. Like a wedding band, right?”
And her shrug, half a smile, one-elbow rise to reach for her drink: that long white back, faint skeleton trail of bones and “What do you know about bondage?” her smile wider now, canine flash. “B & D, S & M. You ever do that, any of that?”
Have you? “No,” he said. “I’m not into pain.”
“It’s not about pain,” she said, “or anyway it doesn’t have to be. Bondage anddiscipline,” tapping his chest for emphasis. “Who’s on top.” She drank what was left in the glass, set it back on the floor, climbed atop him so her breasts were inches from his mouth. “Like now,” she said.
Her taste of perfume, of faintest salt: long legs hooked high above his hips, strong and growing stronger, wilder as she rode him, head straining back, back, as if she would twist that long white body into a circle, bend it like sculpture, like metal and stone and when he came it was too soon, fast and over and she was looking at him and almost smiling, lips spread to show those little pointed teeth.
“Not so bad, was it?” she said. “Woman superior?”
“But that’s not the same thing,” he said, still breathless. “Not the same thing at all.”
Next day’s dinner, some Tex-Mex place she loved: plastic cacti, the waiters in ten-gallon hats and reaching for her bag beneath the table, reaching and: a box, gift box embossed black-on-black, SECRET PLEASURES and “Here,” she said with half a smile. “For you.”
“What’s this for?” he said.
“No reason. - Go on, open it,” and he did, something soft and limp inside and, curious, he unfolded that softness, spread it flat on the table between them: supple white leather oval, no true eyes, gill-slit where the mouth should be and “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” she said. Tangle of black strings, one black grommet on each side, simple as desire itself. “Do you like it?”
“Where’d you get this?” The box in hand again, examination and “From a sex store,” she said, “downtown. Thumb cuffs and cock rings, nipple clamps. Piercing jewelry.” Touching the mask. “And these.”
And a server there to refill their water glasses, frank stare at the mask on the table: “What’s that?” Eighteen, nineteen years old, faint drift of acne across his forehead beneath the ludicrous hat. “For Halloween?”
“No,” she said before he could speak, “no, it’s for sex. A sex toy,” and the boy laughed a little, hasty to fill the glasses and be gone and “Why’d you have to say that?” he said, annoyed. At the work station see the boy with another server, their tandem turn to stare and she laughed, reached to take the mask and place it back inside the box.
“No reason,” she said. “Just part of the game.”
And later in bed, kisses and nipping fingers, playful hands on his thighs but he was waiting, he knew it would come and: reaching for her glass she retrieved as well the box, SECRET PLEASURES and the featureless face within, white face waiting for flesh to fill it, carry it, make it move and “Go on,” she said, “I bought it for you, put it on.”
“I will if you will.”
“You first,” and she helped him adjust it, tie the dangle of strings so the mask lay comfortably close, leather so soft it might have been a second skin: Who am I? wiped clean of all expression, no mouth to sulk or smile and “Mmmmm,” her hands now on his face, petting, stroking the mask. “You should see how you look.”
“I look like nothing,” he said. Strange to feel the movement of muscles when he spoke, feel his lips against the mask like some alien skin. “Everyman.”
“The bogey-man,” and she laughed, leaning back, back against the pillows, cheekbone flush and reaching, reaching to bring his face to her breasts: “Your turn,” she said. “Your turn to be on top.”
It grew hot, inside the mask; he didn’t mind.
“Your turn.” Raining outside, monotony of thunder and she crabby in quilts, ugly nightgown and “Your turn,” he said again, dangling the mask by its strings: caul from some secret birth, some unborn self and “Go on,” he said, feeling his hardon press his trousers as facial bones might press the mask: a slight straining, the pressure of rising heat and the mask did not fit her quite as well, hung slightly beneath her chin but he tightened the strings again — “Ow,” more annoyance than real pain, her voice softer somehow because dampered, muffled by the slit which did not completely meet her lips. “It’s too tight,” faint her voice but he left it that way, no portion of her features visible, nothing but faceless white.
“Lie down,” he said.
“Oh, not here,” yet without true complaint, she was not attending, she was feeling the mask with her fingers, curious to press against cheekbones and chin and “You know I tried this on before,” more than half to herself. “But not so — ”
“Lie down,” he said; he was already naked. Thunder like the echo of a beating heart, giant’s heart in rhythm with his own; pulse of blood and rain on the roof, a clutch of claws, her body bent obedient on the landscape of the quilts: and afterwards, half-turned from him: “You hurt me,” she said, touching herself, pale hands between her legs. “Don’t be so rough.”
The mask on the floor like a self discarded; no one; anyone. Everyman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”
The next time he lay below her, masked and silent: don’t move, that was the game,no matter what don’t move: clamped thighs, her juddering breasts and she bit him, bright teeth in the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise: nipping and pinching with her nails, scratches on his chest, his back and he had to fight not to shift or move, not to push her away, to lay absolutely still even as he came, sweep of red pleasure and she above in reckless motion, hair sweat-wild and tumbled, panting as if she had no air and “Oh, yes,” collapsing down to lie beside him, one leg stretched companionably across his two, thigh high on his hip and without moving anything but his fingers he pinched her, quick and brutal on her inner thigh and in perfect reflex she slapped him, very hard, across the face, both sound and impact deadened by the presence of the mask.
Neither spoke.