Читать онлайн «Bondage»

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?”