Chapter One

 

I stroll about the capacious study of Mrs. Carlotta Fenwick. Just as with my drive into her estate, the room impresses. Sections of deep crimson silk-like wall covering are paneled by beautifully carved strips of walnut. One wall is comprised of floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with what I judge to be seventeenth and eighteenth century volumes. The titles are in a half dozen different languages, most in Latin I assume, but a rather worn manuscript plainly authored by the Marquis de Sade is in French. A decorative brass metal grating encapsulates the priceless collection. Though hinged to open for access, a quick and furtive pull finds it to be locked.

The furniture is masculine... large, heavy and covered with well-padded black leather. Luxurious drapes frame a window, which overlooks a floral garden. The plantings are breathtaking but unnatural in uniformity and arrangement. Each floral section grows to exactly the same height and in precisely straight rows. Two young girls work on hands and knees, trimming and pruning. As they pick and cut, it is evident that they have been assigned the arduous task of assuring that mother nature does not interfere with Mrs. Fenwick's demands for orderliness.

An ancient globe sits on a pedestal behind and to the right of Mrs. Fenwick's desk. The faded parchment covering implies that it is an original, probably fabricated hundred's of years before by Portuguese cartographers.

My eyes scan to the right of the globe. A highly polished glass case framed in matching walnut contains an array of various aged metal devices. A bright halogen light within the case assures that the contents will not go unnoticed. I approach and question if this collection personifies my interview candidate, for a small sign in fine calligraphy suggests the implements are the tools of Torquemada, the inquisitor.

Thumbscrews and another items designed to puncture, stretch, twist, squeeze and excoriate human flesh surround a larger more notable object obviously designed to be worn about the waist and between the thighs. I judge it to be intended for the male and various attachments in the groin area bring a shiver. A length of chain is connected and lies to the side neatly piled in loops. I envision that the wearer of such a device would be well bound and that the inquisitor would sit nearby holding the chain. Tugging on the length would cause the attachments to close. What cannot be determined, however, is whether such action merely squeezes the gonads in mounting anguish or whether the intent is slow castration. Whatever the purpose, the fact that such a device finds a place of prominence in Mrs. Fenwick's study emblematizes the reason for my visit.

The theme of the magazine for which I write celebrates the emancipation of the female. A lifestyle monthly, a British friend once described it as 'fuel for the flaming dominant lesbian'. We had met socially at the end of the workday and we were into our third drink at the time he suggested such a moniker. He was intending to be humorous, but I made a note to keep him away from my Editor at the upcoming office Christmas party.

 

"We've balanced our editorial content with articles very complimentary to the male gender," I countered.

"Encouraging wives to liberate the feminine side of their 'entrapped' husbands by way of lipstick, rouge and panty hose is not necessarily complimentary...no matter how good some men appear in women's garments," he replied over a laugh.

And I suppose he had a point. The article convincing wives to encourage, even insist, that their husband occasionally submit to some form of cross-dressing was well received. I often wondered about the true gender preference of our typical reader. The publisher deliberately avoided doing readership surveys. We portrayed our publication as mainstream and targeted at independent, high-income women with successful careers. Our advertisers were blue chip companies selling such things as gourmet foods, kits for faux antique furniture, collectibles and baking goods. No one wanted to apprize them as to what uses our readers put things like the exotically flavored whipped cream often featured in full page ads. Or how easily that replica of an Edwardian ottoman, well advertised in the July issue, could be converted to more 'practical' use by way of strategically placed eyebolts.

So the publisher's official position concerning our readers has been 'don't ask, don't tell'.

My Editor was gushing when she received an affirmative reply to her letter suggesting that our magazine would be honored to publish an interview describing the lifestyle of one of the world's wealthiest widows. And from what I have initially seen of Mrs. Fenwick's curious collection of books and artifacts, I believe our readers will be pleased to peruse her story.

So here I am getting an introductory 'feel' for the 29 year old beauty. Though known to be reclusive there have been occasional snapshots of her found in society page coverage of charitable functions. The grainy photos hint at a young woman with very pleasing features.

Upon arrival a dour head maid greeted me at the door and suggested that Mrs. Fenwick would be present shortly. I am glad to have time to review my preliminary notes and research.

But as I sit before a huge desk my eyes catch an odd contraption to my right, in the corner next to the Torquemada display. A brass pole runs from the floor to the ceiling. It is highly polished with three decorative but strong hooks interrupting the smooth surface. The first is some six feet from the floor, the second some seven feet and the third a foot above that. Lying on the floor is a curious piece of metal surrounding the bottom of the pole with a phallic looking cylinder protruding outward and then curving upwards toward the ceiling. It appears to be a rather stout penis with a rubber tip. Attached by way of a slim hose is a rubber bulb designed to be squeezed for the pumping of air...I assume into the penis tip. It is similar to that used in a doctor's office for determining blood pressure. I arise to look closer and find that the entire device can be slid up and down the length of the pole. On the back a threaded bolt with a wing nut indicates that it can be tightened, obviously to hold it at different levels on the pipe. I look up to see thin wires and plugs hanging loosely from a wall outlet near the second hook. I have similar gauge wires in my living room connecting speakers to my stereo.

Unlike the other rather deviant items, this is not historic or in any way an antique. The rubber appears pliable and has the odor of new tires. A slight sheen indicates the tip has recently been moistened...probably by lubricant. Markings on the back of the pole suggest the sliding device has many times been tightened about its circumference.

 

I return to the chair, not wishing to be caught snooping, though there has been no attempt to disguise or hide the peculiar contraption.

My curiosity runs wild yet I force myself to return to reviewing my notes.

The most noteworthy items in the file are the obituaries of Mr. Fenwick. Known as a 'trust baby', who never worked a day, articles from mainstream newspapers label his demise at age 42 as accidental. The local weekly, owned by the Fenwick Trust, termed his death untimely and most unfortunate but had no details. As I thumb deeper into the pile, the quality of the reporting diminishes and the level of sordidness rises. A tabloid headline suggests that Mr. Fenwick hung himself but within the narrative there is an admission that the sealed coroner's report leaves much room for speculation.

One fact I glean from all the speculation is that he was a cancer survivor, having successfully undergone surgery just the year before his death. Curious that after enduring the ordeal of fighting off the insidious disease he would chose to take his own life, if in fact that was the case.

Society page gossip concerning Mrs. Fenwick flourishes within just weeks of Mr. Fenwick's funereal. The unknown beauty was raised in South America and was only married for two years. A widow at age 25, she was termed intriguing in some articles, a woman of mystery yet unfathomable strength in others. The latter seemed to be a 'puff' piece, which I assume was planted by the minions at the powerful 'Trust'. One headline declared her to be 'The World's Richest Widow' in a particularly unsavory supermarket tabloid. 'Nude photos inside' the by-line cleverly suggested in bold print. But the photos were not of Mrs. Fenwick.

I quickly conclude that there is a paucity of information on Mrs. Fenwick before her marriage and the stuff published afterwards is suspect. There are no background data that could be considered as derived from a first hand source and much speculation and innuendo has accumulated. I am heartened to think that my article will break new ground.

I utilize a corner of the vast desk to organize my material. For the first time I notice a copy of my magazine, 'Woman's Lair', partially covered by today's newspaper. I briefly pull it out from under. I am content to realize that Mrs. Fenwick is aware of our efforts. It is last month's issue and it brings a smile. A well-documented article on feeding estrogen to frisky husbands splashes under our subtitle 'The Magazine Celebrating the Dominion of Femininity'.

I slide it back smiling with the thought of the impact the article had...even within our office. We came across a factual story where a woman began slipping some of her estrogen pills into her husband's coffee, suspecting that he was running loose. Only the wife later found that his libido diminished to the point that she not only found a need to begin having an affair with the plumber but also discovered the delight of cuckolding her husband in his own bed.

The article concluded with the suggestion that other women may find alternative uses for the ubiquitous female hormone.

Well, I think to myself, Mrs. Fenwick certainly has a taste for our editorial content with that story. I must be sure to tell her that everything we print is factual and double and triple checked for accuracy.

I look up with a start as the door opens, glad not to have been caught rifling anything on the desk. A nurse enters. She is enormous not only in height but also across the chest. Her white uniform does little to hide the size of her breasts, which seem to be thrust into the room by the muscles of her broad shoulders. She is blonde but her hair is primly tucked under a nurse's cap. Her lips part to display white and even teeth. Her blue eyes accentuate an appealing smile.

I rise from my seat expecting to introduce myself. She speaks but her words are not heard. I am completely distracted, staring at the naked figure following her. It is a male, his head completely covered by a black latex mask. A very thick and high collar is tightly secured around his neck and otherwise he wears nothing. The man is a few inches shorter than the nurse and without body hair, making him appear very young. Perhaps he is indeed young and as my eyes scan downward I am further shocked to see the nurse leads him by a thin cord connected to his scrotum.

He walks gingerly but with a curious degree of alacrity. Though blinded by the latex mask he deftly follows the tugs on the leash, obviously accustomed to being so led about. His penis is semi-erect and pointing forward. He is large.

The nurse's words are finally processed by my overwhelmed cerebrum. She has a pleasant Swedish accent.

"Mrs. Fenwick is on her way."

I do not know what to do or say other than return to my seat and thank her. It is evident that I do not need to introduce myself and the nurse is very business like, putting off any thoughts of small talk.

I sit and watch as she moves to my right, picks up a small stool near the glass case and places it before the brass pole. As the man shuffles by I notice that his wrists are cuffed and loosely connected together behind his back by a chain threaded through a formidable ring deeply embedded into his skin just above the crevice of his buttocks. A small disk hangs from a piercing on his left hip. He wears ankle cuffs but they are not connected.

More tugs and the sightless male not only steps up onto the stool but knows to turn toward the middle of the room. In a fluid series of maneuvers the nurse slips a fat ring on the back of the thick neck collar over the middle hook on the brass pole. Then she leans down and grasps the device encircling the pole and slides it upwards.

"Spread for me."