herself into her painting.
There was nothing that could soothe her and allow her to escape as painting
could. At least the canvas could take her from her thoughts for awhile. X
directed the paint completely, and in turn, completely yielded to it.
Simeon had told X that she had been
chosen, in part, because she did not work in a dungeon, establishments which Compton steered clear of. They wanted a woman who was not
known as a dominatrix and who couldn’t be linked back to a dungeon. And on top
of that, Compton wanted a woman motivated not by money, but
because it was her nature. X had fit the bill. How they had determined it was
her nature, X did not know, and she hadn’t bothered to ask, but to their
assessment, she had concurred. Plus, Simeon had told her, Compton had a fondness for artists and art, had a private
collection that was remarkable and vast.
Simeon had made it seem as if X’s
lovers had supported her completely, making it appear as if she never had to
work, but this was not the case. She traded working for Anne at the gallery for
her studio space, helping the owner with bookkeeping or the scheduling of
shows. Up until her mother had passed away, (what a non-threatening way to say
it, that is; no, her mother had shriveled away) she had worked a regular job and
made a decent but not exorbitant living. X had saved and scrimped away some
money that when combined with the inheritance of her mother’s estate had
afforded her the luxury of a much needed break from the regular office routine
and a chance to pursue her painting.
Regardless of what Simeon had implied,
the truth of the matter was that X had only ever dominated a man because the
man had wanted her to—and because she had wanted to do it. Some of them, X had
loved, and for all of them, she had held at least a fondness.
Now X was receiving pay and what she
did became a ‘service.’ Maybe Compton liked to think of the money as a tribute and not
a fee, she knew, but quite simply, he was paying for a service, and X served no
one. That is what she believed.
In the space since X had been taken to Compton , she had hoped that she would not hear from
Simeon again, that perhaps Terry Compton had not enjoyed his session with her
and did not want to see her again. In reality, X expected that it was just a
matter of time before Simeon inserted himself in her life again, and one rainy
afternoon while she worked in her studio, he appeared.
Ignoring the sound of his steps
approaching her easel, X continued to paint a geometric study that was starting
to resemble a honeycomb.
From behind her, Simeon asked, “What
is it?”
“It’s nothing. A geometric.”
“Your nothing is very nice,” he said.
“You’re talented. I wondered what your work might be like.”
X put her brush down. Her hand had
started to cramp as soon as Simeon had entered.
“What do you want?”
She stood up and lit a cigarette. Her
studio mate was gone and there was no one to bother other than Simeon. As X
blew the smoke toward his face, he tried not to notice her insult. A chill was
in the air and the old radiators were creaking.
“ Compton wants to see you again.”
“It will have to wait until after
Thanksgiving. I’m going to L.A. to see my brother.”
“Fine. It can wait until you get back. We need you to
plant a bug for us.”
“In his dungeon? That should be easy
enough. You know, it would be simpler to get somebody a job as a maid and she
can plant your bugs anywhere.”
“Not in his dungeon,” he said, “in his
office. He doesn’t allow the maids into his office, he’s afraid they’ll go
through his papers, sell his information to his competitors.”
Simeon fumbled in his interior suit
pocket and then handed X a pencil. It looked identical to a regular yellow
number 2 pencil, the kind kids used to fill in test answer sheets.
“There is a bug in that pencil.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Not at all. Get it into Compton ’s office somehow.”
X
There was nothing that could soothe her and allow her to escape as painting
could. At least the canvas could take her from her thoughts for awhile. X
directed the paint completely, and in turn, completely yielded to it.
Simeon had told X that she had been
chosen, in part, because she did not work in a dungeon, establishments which Compton steered clear of. They wanted a woman who was not
known as a dominatrix and who couldn’t be linked back to a dungeon. And on top
of that, Compton wanted a woman motivated not by money, but
because it was her nature. X had fit the bill. How they had determined it was
her nature, X did not know, and she hadn’t bothered to ask, but to their
assessment, she had concurred. Plus, Simeon had told her, Compton had a fondness for artists and art, had a private
collection that was remarkable and vast.
Simeon had made it seem as if X’s
lovers had supported her completely, making it appear as if she never had to
work, but this was not the case. She traded working for Anne at the gallery for
her studio space, helping the owner with bookkeeping or the scheduling of
shows. Up until her mother had passed away, (what a non-threatening way to say
it, that is; no, her mother had shriveled away) she had worked a regular job and
made a decent but not exorbitant living. X had saved and scrimped away some
money that when combined with the inheritance of her mother’s estate had
afforded her the luxury of a much needed break from the regular office routine
and a chance to pursue her painting.
Regardless of what Simeon had implied,
the truth of the matter was that X had only ever dominated a man because the
man had wanted her to—and because she had wanted to do it. Some of them, X had
loved, and for all of them, she had held at least a fondness.
Now X was receiving pay and what she
did became a ‘service.’ Maybe Compton liked to think of the money as a tribute and not
a fee, she knew, but quite simply, he was paying for a service, and X served no
one. That is what she believed.
In the space since X had been taken to Compton , she had hoped that she would not hear from
Simeon again, that perhaps Terry Compton had not enjoyed his session with her
and did not want to see her again. In reality, X expected that it was just a
matter of time before Simeon inserted himself in her life again, and one rainy
afternoon while she worked in her studio, he appeared.
Ignoring the sound of his steps
approaching her easel, X continued to paint a geometric study that was starting
to resemble a honeycomb.
From behind her, Simeon asked, “What
is it?”
“It’s nothing. A geometric.”
“Your nothing is very nice,” he said.
“You’re talented. I wondered what your work might be like.”
X put her brush down. Her hand had
started to cramp as soon as Simeon had entered.
“What do you want?”
She stood up and lit a cigarette. Her
studio mate was gone and there was no one to bother other than Simeon. As X
blew the smoke toward his face, he tried not to notice her insult. A chill was
in the air and the old radiators were creaking.
“ Compton wants to see you again.”
“It will have to wait until after
Thanksgiving. I’m going to L.A. to see my brother.”
“Fine. It can wait until you get back. We need you to
plant a bug for us.”
“In his dungeon? That should be easy
enough. You know, it would be simpler to get somebody a job as a maid and she
can plant your bugs anywhere.”
“Not in his dungeon,” he said, “in his
office. He doesn’t allow the maids into his office, he’s afraid they’ll go
through his papers, sell his information to his competitors.”
Simeon fumbled in his interior suit
pocket and then handed X a pencil. It looked identical to a regular yellow
number 2 pencil, the kind kids used to fill in test answer sheets.
“There is a bug in that pencil.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Not at all. Get it into Compton ’s office somehow.”
X
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