Dirty Hands

Justin panicked. At first he convinced himself that Dr. Alman had kidnapped his lover—that the newly-branded slave had been too irresistible, and that the mysterious physician had been overcome with jealousy. When the deeply outlandish nature of his suspicion finally struck him, he realized that she had left on her own, and it was then that his true agony began. He reexamined their every interaction, starting with the night they met, determined to discover when and how he had gone wrong. What had he done to drive away the only truly perfect submissive he had ever met?

It had been a boring evening in March; they were two strangers who bumped into one another at a fetish club in downtown. The club was holding a demo night. Neither of them had been impressed with the demonstrations put on thus far. He said something like, "There are no real pain slaves anymore," and she said, "Were there ever?" And he admitted that he had never known one.

And she said, "I've never met a man worthy of one."

"Surely you have," he said. And even now he could recall the scent of her. Intoxicating. He remembered the heat from her body, lithe and compact and achingly close to him and yet not quite touching him.

"Maybe I have," she said. "But not a man who was in need of one. They all have their favorites, and here's me with no one."

"Do you play here?"

"Never. They would ban me at once. You?"

He'd been terrified to admit his inexperience—to confess to his clumsy grappling with girls infinitely more knowledgeable than he, and how he hardly knew how to tie his own shoes, let alone how to bind a woman. She made him forget that when she gave him her card.

"I don't know why I even brought this," she said, showing him an embarrassed smile. "Do me a favor and don't read the front?"

Ash Clark, PhD, Department of Philosophy.

He still had the card. He carried it now—a token reminder that his no-limit submissive was also human, which he found all too easy to forget when she was crawling, licking, whimpering and growling with hunger, worshiping him like a god. When he learned that she worked at the same university he attended, it had seemed to him like fate, as though all that came after had been preordained.

It was she who suggested that he ask around the club about a mentor. Someone to teach him the ropes. No pun intended, although it seemed fitting enough; and he learned a lot in a little while. He learned about whips and ties, about those things which were considered acceptable and about what not to do. But he also learned from Ash that those things would never satisfy them. He learned to read her. The scent of her. The taste of her. The gleam in her eyes and the way her body quivered when she wanted him.

He learned that she was fearless and utterly without shame. There was nothing she would not fuck, suck, lick, eat, drink, or endure. And he thought, because he was a fool, that this was the result of their openness with one another. Because she had become his first serious foray into power exchange, he believed that all women were like her, or that they could at least become like her. It wasn't until these past few short months that he began to realize how truly special she'd been. She might have been one of a kind, and now she was gone. And he wasn't overreacting.

Ash had left a note.

Something's come up. I would give anything to be with you, but I can't. Don't look for me. I'm okay. You'll be better off without me.

The words nearly broke him.

He ought to have been angry. He ought to have felt betrayed. He ought to have hated her with every fiber of his being, but instead he hated himself. It must have been his fault somehow. He set out to discover whatever weakness within himself had caused her to hold him in such contempt and, once it was discovered, to destroy it. No longer adrift but driven by disgust for his own failings, he began to transform his life.

He soon accepted a new position at a more prestigious university, and he found that he would need all new suits to wear: in spite of having never been terribly out of shape, he found that his existing wardrobe was becoming much too tight across the shoulders, and that his waist had shrunk. It was while being fitted at a fine clothier's shop that he received an unexpected call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Townsend."

He said nothing. He recognized the voice, or if not the voice then the accent. Dead air lengthened on the call, but the mysterious woman remained silent. At last he spoke: "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"If you're still interested, we are prepared to welcome you."

"It's been a long time," he said. It had been about four months, in fact. Not that long at all, and yet whole lifetimes had passed for him.

"Certain protocols must be observed," said the mysterious woman. "You've been vetted. Only one thing remains."

"And what is that?"

"The night of March 15th and 16th," said the woman. "Clear your calendar. If you're still interested, that is."

The call ended.

On the evening of March 15, a man and a woman came to his door. He was waiting. He joined them in the back of a car. The woman disrobed and knelt between his feet, and the man watched as she sucked. When she had brought him to climax, he looked out the window and saw where they were going.

"I half expected you to blindfold me," he said.

"We have to be able to trust you, Dr. Townsend," said the man. "Where are we without trust?"

They came to a downtown high-rise. The car entered the parking garage in the basement, and the three of them exchanged the car for an express elevator that went all the way to the top. Again, Justin was surprised that no one wore any kind of mask. There were people he recognized. Men, and women also, who had power and authority in local circles. People with reputations to uphold, with much to lose if anyone were to whisper too carelessly about what they might see here. He'd learned his lesson: he said nothing further on the matter.

The evening began in an almost ordinary fashion. He was complimented on his new tailored jacket; he mingled and made inane conversation with people who seemed too boring to be members of anything sinister; he watched and feigned interest in scenes almost too tame for mainstream pornography. Was this truly the infamous Bitter Elm club? Had he cast aside his one and only truly fulfilling relationship for this?

And then a masked man appeared on stage. The masked man raised his hands to call for silence, but silence had already come: no sooner did the gathered throng behold his blood-red visage than they ceased all conversation. Justin was already holding his breath when the red-masked man pointed directly at him, accusing. Only then did the masked man speak.

"Behold!" he began, his long finger stabbing at Justin.

The devil's voice boomed, echoing through the silent hall. That word—*behold!*—might have been amusing were it not for the deadly seriousness with which the others listened, waiting with bated breath to know what would come next. Justin's mouth was dry, his heart racing painfully within him.

"This one is not known to us," said the devil. "An interloper. A trespasser!"

"Trespasser," chorused all those in attendance.

At once the crowd began to divide, abandoning him to himself at the center of the now darkening space. Spotlights shone upon him, blinding him. He recognized this as a kind of ritual pantomime, of course, and yet very real fear coursed through him. He shuddered when the red-faced demon spoke again.

"What is the punishment for such a trespass?"

"Death," came the chorus.

"Seize him!"

Half a dozen strong men did just that. Justin remained almost certain that this was simply harmless theater, and yet he couldn't say whether it was that certainty or simply fear that kept him from fighting back. The men brought him to the stage and bound him to a post, wrapping a heavy chain about his neck to hold him in place. The pain was no pantomime: the steel crushed his throat and any attempt to move threatened to choke the life from him. They next bound his hands behind his back, and one of them tore open his clothes, baring his naked chest.

The knife was also real. He could tell even before he felt its tip against his sternum. He looked into the devil's eyes, panting, and the blade pricked his skin. His blood began to trickle down his stomach.

"I do not know you, stranger," said the devil. "And so I will kill you. Unless there is any here who would redeem this man!"

Justin waited for the chorus to echo that word—*redeem!* But they did not. The moment lingered along with the knife point, his blood still dripping. He realized now, much too late, what the man had meant in the car, and why no one here bothered to wear a mask: because dead men tell no tales. It was possible that he would truly be slain this night.

"Have you any last requests?" said the devil, a wicked smile twisting his red lips.

He forced himself to look the devil in the eye. To look Death in the eye. He set his jaw and resolved to ask for nothing. Perhaps he had lived all his life a fool, but he would not die a coward. His pulse pounded in his ears, a rushing, thundering sound so loud that he almost didn't hear the other voice in the hall.

"I will," it said.

Low and soft and gentle. And filled with love and pain. The voice said, "I will redeem him."

The devil stood aside. Beyond him, standing in the empty space on the floor where Justin had stood only moments ago, was a woman. She was naked but for the shimmering red silk of a hooded cape. Her head was bowed, her eyes downcast, and her hands were raised in supplication as she made her offer.

"Allow me to take his place."

It was Ash.