Henry's Gift

Unimaginative predictability of the cliché made me snicker, and despite the better judgment I popped the cassette inside the VCR player. I turned on TV, sat in the chair and pressed Fast Forward button. I listened to the tape running with gaining speed for a while, before I finally pressed the Play button. By this time, my entire body tingled with curiosity. While still in the car, an idea of Henry giving me the tapes of some museum or other, maybe even a pottery related National Geographic program entertained my mind. The title on the cassette had shot down that hope and fired up another one. I felt excited, uncomfortable, even embarrassed and most of all, there was an anticipation of dread to overcome my entire body, as if standing on the edge of abyss, ready to plunge into the unknown. 

‘Turn and face the strange…’ Bowie’s haunting voice echoed in my mind for a few seconds, only to be quenched out by the high-pitched scream of woman in pain. 

My eyes popped open at the sight of a small, ivory white, hourglass shaped body, its back turned towards the camera. Her hair was only a couple of inches long, black and ruffled in a crazy mess as if somebody had run through it in a passionate fury. Her buttocks and thighs were of a violent pink color, crisscrossed with bloody gashes, and every few seconds, the creature clothed in black leather on the side of the screen brought a whip of too many tentacles to be counted while swishing back and forth, onto the pattern of it’s ‘canvas’, adding another gash or two, making the small body jerk desperately. The tortured woman stood straight up, her hands pulled up high in the air and spread into a wide V with wrists firmly secured to the posts on each side of her. The legs were spread wide, restrained with metal shackles at the bottom of the same posts. Her head bobbed forward whenever she was not assaulted with the whip and her body looked like a giant X. 

For a moment, I could not tell whether the assaulter was a man or a woman. Black leather cap was covering the entire head, and despite the long and thin ponytail cascading down the back, I suspected it might be a man. Nowadays, one cannot really establish the gender solely on the evidence of the hair length. I thought it was a man, as I could not fathom a woman being this cruel to another woman. Then, the figure turned towards the camera as if to look at the curious spectator and I could see a pair of huge breasts protruding through the holes on the upper part of the leather vest. Only now did I notice the high-heeled boots and feminine curves of her arse. The head mask sported openings for eyes and mouth. The tongue shot out of the mouth hole, wildly waging up and down at me. She grabbed one of her own breasts and, still holding the whip, crudely massaged it, all the while keeping an eye on the camera, tongue saluting in my direction. The bloodied woman, now in the background wept loudly, her head flowing back and forth as if it was a buoy on the ocean waves, broken by a soft summer breeze. 

The woman in the leather outfit now slipped one hand down her stomach and started rubbing herself between the legs. ‘Hello, lover!; she said in a smoky voice and the crudeness of the scene jerked me out of a trans-like state. I found myself sitting on the very edge of the armchair, my mouth open as if waiting to catch a fly, my eyes wide and bulging to the limit. I closed my mouth and was hit by a sharp sting of whiskey. As I looked at my hands, I realized I was literally squeezing an empty crystal glass as if trying to squash it with my fingers. I had just downed a double whiskey in one long gulp without even realizing. 

I slumped back in a chair, grabbed the remote and pressed Stop button. The room was plunged into silence, but the screaming and whimpering that I had heard only seconds before still echoed in my head. 

I got out of the armchair and wobbled my way to the VCR. I ejected the tape with trembling hands. Plopping it back into its case and dropping it to the floor, I reached for the other tape. 

Did I really want to see more? It was disgusting and perverted. I knew things like this happened, after all, I was not a child. I even fantasized about it somewhat. But I didn’t know it could be this brutal and realistic. Why did this disgust excite me so? Why did the perversion to which I had just been a witness excite me to the point where I realized my pants were constraining my cock and I felt the need to unzip and relieve my manhood of its restrains. 

So I found myself standing in the middle of the study, feeling my mind turning into the direction that I did not want it to turn to, nevertheless, excitement rising in my head and my pants. I was brought up in a conservative way, as I supposed most people are. I had never come across any true violence, sexual or otherwise. Years earlier, I remembered, when kids were still very small, Claire and I saw a porn video together. It was just your standard cock sucking, pussy eating and all in all juicy fuck film, but that night, I was so turned on that I made love to my wife in a very rough way, making her weep in fear and astonishment. I know I did not hurt her physically, but the side of me which she had never seen before seemed to unnerve her. I was ashamed and apologetic afterwards and I believe she understood. After that, the only time I would watch porn was on my own. If I needed to relieve myself, I would either do it in the bathroom, or by paying a visit to whomever I was seeing at the time. I have to admit that on a couple of occasions, I have even used the services of escorts. 

And of course, there was that thing with Donna. 

However, this was different. The sight of the grail body wiggling under the brutality of its tormentor excited me beyond belief. 

I poured myself another drink before gathering the courage to take a peep at the other video. I did not bother to read the title. This time, I managed to watch more of the film. I fast-forwarded, watched for a while. Fast forwarded again and watched some more. I got through 2-hour film in about 30 minutes. My mind was continuously assaulted by images of weeping and screaming men and women, being whipped and spanked; broken skin, bleeding gashes, tears mixed with runny make up and sweat. Incredulously, those same sounds of pain-induced horror were music to my ears. A woman tied to an overhead pulley sat on a wooden pony with weights strapped to her ankles, the pointy edge cruelly pushing between her labium; a man handcuffed to the bed was wildly fucked by a woman using a strap-on, who was - not surprisingly - again dressed in black leather; a young man was tied to a metal X stand, his nipples pierced with safety pins, his testicles tied with a rope so tight, they looked like two oversized marbles, almost black from the lack of blood circulation, making my own hand reach between my legs , cupping my balls through the pants, as if afraid the pain from the screen would surface in my own body at any moment; another woman in the same position had her breasts roped just as tight, and they looked like two small, deep purple desert bowls glued to her body. 
The last image that I remember seeing that night was of a skinny, long-legged man, again tied to an X stand, being brutally whipped across the chest, stomach and front of the thighs. As the camera zoomed in on his wailing face, to my horror, I realized that the acne spotted visage could not have been more than 15 or 18 years old. 

Bloody hell! I actually yelled and shot out of the armchair. I forgot all about the remote control and ran to the VCR player, wildly punching the Stop and then Eject buttons. I was sweating profusely. My knees buckled and I could barely support my weight, preventing myself from falling over like a drunken fool. 

I carefully put the videos in the back of my desk drawer, took a shower, ignoring the hard on twitching between my legs and crawled under the covers of my bed. I wished Claire were at home. I wished we could talk about the insignificant events that happened to us during the day. I wanted to hear her gossip about neighbors and discus the trivial events in our children’s lives, which she was so good at blowing completely out of proportion. I wished my cock was not hard and my hands did not itch to grab it and wank it into oblivious pleasure until I blew my load off right there, in our warm bed. I wished for many things that evening, but eventuality of the circumstances made me get out of bed, return to the bathroom and do what my body wanted and despite my mind wishing I did not, while the still frames of images that I had seen that evening flashed behind my tightly shut eyes. 

The following Monday, as my secretary brought in a stack of mail, most of which was already opened; I noticed a khaki green envelope, smaller than your standard one. Christmas was just around the corner and many envelopes that found their way to my desk at this time of the year were of motley colors, but for some reason, this particular one drew my attention. When I held it in my hand, I noticed a sticker with Henry’s address in the upper left corner. I smiled, the bugger sent me a Christmas card, how thoughtful. 

I opened the envelope and extracted a card that was undoubtedly Henry’s own work of beautiful snowy hills in watercolors. As I opened it, something fell out and landed at my feet. It was a plain white business card. I picked it up and on under the name Terry, there was a pager number, underneath that, in bold red letters it said: WE’LL BOND YOU WITH PLEASURE.

The awkward discreetness made me snicker and I turned to Henry’s card. Christmas present for you. Don’t worry about the cost. Call Terry. Ask for Evie, you won’t be disappointed. 

It took me a good couple of weeks into the New Year before I finally gathered enough courage to send a page to Terry. Videos, pictures and conversation with Henry weighed heavily on my mind throughout the holidays and I could not think of much else. I found myself dialing Terry’s number more than once, but then I chickened out, slammed the receiver down and tried to rationalize with myself that this was probably not a good idea. 

However, the can of worms was opened. Or was it Pandora’s box? Simply, my curiosity has been stirred beyond the point of return and finally, the day came when I completed dialing the number and it has taken three long hours for Terry to finally return my call. We chatted for a while, and I had a feeling that he was testing the ground so to speak. When I mentioned Henry’s name he knew immediately who I was talking about, and for some reason, I had a feeling that Henry’s art did not have all that much to do with the recognition. Terry asked me quite a few personal questions and as before, I wanted to slam the phone down, forgetting about the whole thing. But, now I was actually talking to the man and there was no going back. 

Questions came as an avalanche, and sometimes I did not even have the time to think of the answer properly before it spilled out of my mouth. 

Which dungeon did I normally use? Dungeon? Oh, none, this will be my first time.

Did I want to dominate or be dominated? Neither. I just wanted to watch.

Would anybody else be accompanying me? No, I will be alone.

Was I a copper? No, I was not.

Did I have any preferences of what the dominatrix was to wear? In my nervousness I laughed and said, pink and green polka dotted dress.

Was I serious about the dress? No. Anything would be fine. 

Did I have any specific preferences about the punishment to be administered? No.

Did I have any specific preferences about the sexual acts to be performed? No.