I felt the thumb against my cheek. But my mind had gone white. 'Elliott, look at me,' he said. Steady, Elliott. Look at the nice man. Deep-set grey eyes, full of vigour, easy humour. 'Let's hear what kind of voice our proud young postulant has,' he said, barely moving his lips as though thinking as he spoke. He was close enough to kiss. 'Keep your eyes on me and tell me very sincerely that you are sorry for the disgrace you brought on yourself.' Elliott Slater is lost.
'Well?' 'I'm sorry, Master,' I heard myself say softly. Not bad for somebody who had died five minutes ago. But it was like reinhabiting the situation, so to speak, and he must have known that, the bastard, it was awful to look right at him and say it, to keep seeing her dark shadow, smelling that perfume. Flicker in his eyes, quiver of the eyelids. 'I'll handle him, Richard--' she said just a little bit sharply. I shut my eyes for a second. Do I want her to win this argument? What do I want to happen, and what does it matter what I want! 'We'll compromise,' he said, his hand still firm as he held my face. He was studying me like I was a scientific specimen. 'We'll say only three days hard work cleaning the lavatories and then to Lisa, the Perfectionist, as she desires.' 'Richard!' she whispered. I could feel her anger like it was heat. And this was my individual trainer, this shadowy lady, this was the future, and three days in the lavatories to think about it if I could still think. 'You're a very fortunate young man, Elliott,' Richard, the trainer continued. I was visibly trembling. Why try to hide it anymore? '
The Perfectionist has first pick of all the slaves and those she chooses are the finest artists of The Club. But in the future, you might hope and pray for more punishment in the lavatories if she finds fault.' She had stepped in front of me, but still I didn't dare to take my eyes off his. Yet I could see she was delicate all over, and her dark wavy hair was more a mantle than a veil. Big dark eyes boring into me. And there was something else about her, something palpable that I couldn't define. I don't believe people have auras, that they give off vibrations. Yet there seemed to emanate from her some primitive force. I could feel her. I'd been feeling her all along. Like a sound was coming from her that was too low for the brain to consciously hear. As the trainer gave the order in a louder voice, 'Three days cleaning the lavatories,' she reached out and took my head in both hands. I felt something so unfamiliar at her touch that I would have looked at her even if it hadn't been exactly what she was forcing me to do. It was like an electrical connection. She was lovely all right, her face exquisitely honed and shadowed, her red mouth just a little petulant and her eyes staring straight at me with the faintest touch of innocence in them, seeming not to see me looking back at her at all. My mind was blank again. I couldn't be tortured by her, belong to her! Have that fragile creature hold me powerless. But my cock had gone from fourth gear into overdrive. And surely she saw that. She wouldn't miss anything, not her.
She let me go. I saw the goons in white leather coming for me and I couldn't think even enough to panic. They lifted me, swung me up heels over head. Sheer astonishment, beyond panic -- they'd done it, damn it -- seeing nothing, and then the wide, smooth leather cuffs closing on my ankles and my weight being let down on the hook. The grease pen cut into my back -- I lost track of the letters which seemed a failure somehow -- and I found myself desperately trying to stop the swaying of my body as the blood rushed to my head. Then I did panic. I went completely screwy. But it didn't make any difference because I was completely helpless hanging there and nobody could tell. The rack creaked, started rolling and we went with it. It was as simple and excruciating as that. The trainer's voice rang out, explaining that the punished postulants would work and sleep under the most uncomfortable of