“Good.” He took a deep breath, wanting to direct the conversation away from talk of what was behind his mask. “Go back to the game,” he said.
“Where was I?”
“Riding the lucky sonofabitch.”
“Horses. Dogs. Monkeys. Men make good animals. Women too sometimes.”
“Women got to play?”
“Not in here. I’m very old-fashioned about things like that. In Romania a woman never played cards.”
“Romania. That’s where you’re from?”
“Yes. A little village called Ravbac, where I don’t think any woman had ever had pleasure with a man.”
“Is that why you left?”
“One of many reasons. I ran away when I was barely twelve. Came to this country when I was fifteen. Made my first picture a year later.”
“What was it called?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s forgotten.”
“So finish telling me — ”
” — about riding the men. What else is there to say? It was the best game in the world. Especially for an exhibitionist, like myself. You too.”
“What about me?”
“You’ve done it in front of people. Surely. Don’t tell me you haven’t. I won’t believe you.”
What the hell? This woman had him all figured out. Pinned. Like a butterfly. There didn’t seem to be much purpose in denying it.
“Yes, I’ve had a few public moments at private parties.”
“Are you good?”
“It depends on the girl.”
She smiled. “I think you’d be wonderful, with the right audience,” she said.
Her hand dropped from his cheek, and she started to walk back across the room, weaving between imaginary obstacles as she picked up her erotic tale.
“Some nights, I would simply walk naked amongst the tables while the men played. They weren’t allowed to look at me. If they looked, I would thrash them. And I mean thrash. I had a whip for that. I still have it. The Teroarea. The Terror. So … that was one of the rules. No looking at the prize, no matter what it did to tempt them.” She laughed. “You can imagine, I had a hundred ways. Once I had a little bell, hooked through the hood of my clitoris. Tinkling as I walked. Somebody looked, I remember. And oh they suffered.”
She was at the mantelpiece now, reaching up and under the fireplace and took a long, silver-handled switch from its hiding place. She tested it on the air, and it whined like a vengeful mosquito. “This is the Teroarea. I had it made by a man in Paris, who specialized in such things. My name is chased into the handle.” She passed her thumb over the letters: “Katya Lupescu, it says. Actually it says more. It says: ‘This is her instrument, to make fools suffer.’ I regret having that written there, really.”
“Why?”
“Because a man who takes pleasure in being given pain is not a fool. He’s simply following his instincts. Where’s the foolishness in that?”
“You’re big on pleasure,” Todd said.
She didn’t seem to understand what he meant; she cocked her head, puzzled.
“You talk about it a lot.”
“Twice I’ve mentioned it,” she said. “But it’s been in my mind a little more than that.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be coy,” she said, a little sternly. “Or I’ll beat you.”
“I might not like that.”
“Oh, you would.”
“Really … ” he said, with just a touch of anxiety in his voice. He could not imagine having that thing, her Terror, give him pleasure, however expertly it was wielded.
“It can be gentle, if I want it to be.”
“That?” he said. “Gentle?”
“Oh yes.” She made a scooping motion with her free hand. “If I have a man’s sex in my palm, here.” He got an instant, and uncannily sharp picture of what she had in mind. Her victim on all fours, and that scooping motion of hers; the taking up of his cock and balls, ready for her. Completely vulnerable; completely humiliated. He’d never let a woman do anything like that to him, however much she promised it was to give him pleasure.
“I can see you’re not convinced,” she said, “even when I don’t have your face to look at. So you’ll just have to take it on trust. I could touch men with this and they’d shoot like sixteen-year-olds. Even Valentino.”