was right. I have too many questions; they seem to be multiplying exponentially in my brain like a viral disease. My body relinquishes all pretence of flesh and bone as the insistent palms morph me into soft clay. What could I do now, anyway? Would I once again be prevented from leaving? I don’t even know where I am. My breath becomes shallow as I consider both the consequences of being here and the reality of trying to escape. Is that what I really want? Deep down I know I don’t want to leave, I’m just scared of exploring what he has planned for me, as I always am — at first. Damn him for doing this to me; for forcing me to reach for a conclusion that seems impossible. Am I honestly this weak? All the values I have clung to so desperately in life, those that have given me stability and meaning and worth. And I am throwing them out the window for one careless, fanciful weekend? Is that all it will be? Or is this truly valuable research?
My mind implodes with the weight of my moral dilemmas until only numbness remains. My body becomes limp, there is no resistance left. I am a mere jellyfish awaiting the next current to reveal my future path. Exhausted mentally and emotionally, and now physically pliable, just as he wants me to be, I’m sure, I allow the blackness to surround my mind and let the futile desperation in my thoughts dissipate.
Flashes of memories flitter within my dreamlike state. Happy memories: my babies, birthday parties, smiling faces, my son telling me he loves me eight hundred million, billion, zillion times more than the universe, and my daughter explaining why she will live with me forever and ever and that is why she must marry me and only me. The memories of my children flood through my subconscious one after the other. Simple times, uncomplicated times, but why does Robert appear somewhat forlorn, disengaged, in these visions of our family unit? I hadn’t noticed before. These pictures make up so much of who I am, minute by minute, day by day. Yet, why does it feel like there is still something missing? Why does his body language reflect that something is also missing for him?
My internal arguments and debates are spiralling out of control. Jeremy has talked before about the possibility of me exploring my secret, dark fantasy, the one that provided the basis for my thesis all those years ago, the one I have never truly acknowledged as my own, except very briefly to him. Am I brave enough? I could never go there with anyone but Jeremy, and he is handing this experience to me on a personal and professional platter. What if I say no when it is exactly what I have always longed to experience, just to know and understand once and for all? Is fantasy just fantasy and should it be left that way, or is there a need and desire to act on it, to experience it first-hand? My mind seems a little fuzzy, meandering, and no longer able to accommodate the complexity of my thoughts as I surrender to the masseur’s magic hands.
The sound of rolling wheels restores me to full consciousness and it is only then that I realise I am moving; lying down, but moving nonetheless. I struggle and attempt to raise my jellylike limbs off the table. They are so relaxed and heavy from the massage it’s almost impossible. I try again.
‘Please lie still, we won’t be long.’
‘What? Where are we going?’ My voice sounds raspy and the words can barely leave my mouth.
I realise I must have dozed off … for minutes? hours? Surely not? We come to a stop.
‘Madame. You are awake, may I help you?’ A female voice speaks to me.
‘Ah … yes, thank you.’ My natural politeness kicks in.
‘Can you tell me how long have I been asleep?’ Hands raise me gently to a sitting position. A robe, not the same one as before — this is more velvety and feels heavier — is placed over my shoulders. I notice it has no arms, or at least my arms are not threaded through any sleeves. It feels smooth against the silkiness of my skin, with no remnants of the massage oil’s stickiness.
No answer. Has everyone I encounter been told not to answer my questions?
‘Would madame like some tea?’
Oh, tea, that’s a surprise.
‘Yes, madame would.’ The words pop out of my mouth a little too harshly. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ I remember my manners.
‘Could you please tell me where Jeremy — I mean, Dr Quinn, is?’ Nothing. I have no idea if he is with me or not, but I don’t sense that he is, if that makes any sense.
‘Jeremy?’ I try again.
‘Please answer me if you are here. We need to talk. Please?’ My voice sounding more anguished with each word.
Typical, just when I need to speak to him, he has vanished.
Hot tea is carefully placed in my hand and smells delicious. It calms me and distracts me from my rising nerves. I embrace the infusion in the air, scenting camomile, with a hint of vanilla perhaps. I taste a little at a time so I don’t burn my lips. Perfect. The tiny cup feels like a heavy weight in my hands given the relaxed state of my muscles. As I finish the remainder, I feel bands around my wrists. The cup is taken away from me, giving me the opportunity to explore further. It feels like leather with a small jingly thing rattling above and below. They are a couple of inches long and fit quite snugly around each wrist. Shit!
‘Jeremy!’
Silence surrounds me.
I try to find where they are buckled, but can’t seem to locate an opening. Don’t tell me these, too, have been tailor-made. I feel my pulse quicken. I scan my body mentally to locate any other foreign objects and sure enough, there are also two, slightly larger versions around my ankles. Oh god, I go weak at the knees. In sheer defiance I quickly attempt to find an opening or buckle to remove. There is nothing. This happened when I was asleep?
I’m startled to feel that another band is being swiftly placed around my neck; there is a strange sound as it is tightened into position. I’m momentarily stunned, finding it difficult to breathe as I adjust to the constricted feeling. It too, has a jingly metal component, one on the front and one on the back. I freeze. This is it. This is what Jeremy was talking about. Wanting to play harder, push the boundaries.
What does he want to experience with me like this? More importantly, what does he want me to experience like this? Okay, I think to try and calm myself down, it is not as if I didn’t know this was coming in some way and here it is. It is apparently going to happen very soon. Oh, dear. The adrenaline pounding through my heart and pumping through my veins is more pronounced now than it was when I jumped out of the plane. The physicality of my emotions is as fascinating as it is astounding. So real, so intense, so vital. Am I prepared to stop now, when my response is this intriguing?
What are the alternatives? I could speak. I could scream. Perhaps that is what I should do, right here, right now … but I don’t. I remind myself that I did exactly that at the dinner to no purpose whatsoever, and thank goodness he completely ignored me then because the sexual tension was exceptionally gratifying in the longer term. I literally feel carnal energy shooting through my body at the memories. Ah yes, it was definitely worth fighting through my own fear to achieve such phenomenal rewards.
This must be part of his master plan. He has certainly succeeded in sending me into hyperventilating overdrive and nothing has even happened except for an exquisite massage and leather straps bound to my body. I love and hate that he can do this to me, make me feel and experience things I never believed possible. It makes me feel as if every beat of my heart is meaningful to my life. I will do this for him, for myself and for his research. I will be strong for him and maybe, just maybe, it may help set me free. From whom, from what I wonder … possibly, from myself …
Am I willing to discover
