“That was okay, was it, Sid?” Toby said anxiously. “It’d be nice if we could shoot Slave of Love tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t be nice for us,” the woman said, groaning as she stood up. “We’ve got our lives to lead, you know.”
“We could make it a week today,” her husband said.
“They look right for the stories, I reckon,” Hale told Sid when they’d left. “I’m working on some younger models, but those two’ll do for that kind of stuff. The perves who want it don’t care.”
Sid thought it best to agree, but as he walked home he grew angrier: how could that fat bitch have given him a tickle? Working with people like her might be one of Sid’s steps to fame, but she needed him more than he needed her. “I’ll retouch you, but I won’t touch you,” he muttered, grinning. Someone like the blonde girl over the road, now—she would have been Sid’s choice of a model for Spanked and Submissive, and it wouldn’t all have been faked, either.
That got his penis going. He had to stand still for a few minutes until its tip went back to sleep, and the thought of the negatives waiting in his darkroom didn’t help. He would have her in his hands, he would be able to do what he liked with her. He had to put the idea out of his head before he felt safe to walk.
After the fog, even the dim musty hall of the house seemed like a promise of clarity. In his darkroom he watched the form of the blonde girl rise from the developing fluid, and he felt as if a fog of dissatisfaction with himself and with the session at the studio were leaving him. The photographs came clear, and for a moment he couldn’t understand why the girl’s body was composed of dots like a newspaper photograph enlarged beyond reason. Of course, it was the frosting on her bathroom window.
Having her in his flat without her knowing excited him, but not enough. Perhaps he needed her to be home so that he could watch her failure to realize he had her. He opened a packet of hamburgers and cooked himself whatever meal it was. The effort annoyed him, and so did the eating: chew, chew, chew. He switched on the television, and the little picture danced for him, oracular heads spoke. He kept glancing at the undeveloped frame of her window.
By the time she arrived home the fog was spiked with drizzle. As soon as she had switched on the light, she began to remove her clothes, but before shed taken off more than her coat she drew the curtains. Had she seen him? Was she taking pleasure in his frustration at having to imagine her undressing? But he already had her almost naked. He spread the photographs across the table, and then he lurched toward his bed to find the article about sex magic.
By themselves the photographs were only pieces of card, but what had the article said? Toby Hale had put in all the ideas he could find about images during an afternoon spent in the library. The Catholic church sometimes made an image of a demon and burned it to bring off an exorcism… Someone in Illinois killed a man by letting rain fall on his photograph… Here it was, the stuff Toby had found in a book about magic by someone with a degree from a university Sid had never heard of. The best spells are the ones you write yourself. Find the words that are truest to your secret soul. Focus your imagination, build up to the discharge of psychic energy. Chant the words that best express your desires. Toby was talking about doing that with your partner, but it had given Sid a better idea. He hurried to the window, his undecided penis hindering him a little, and shut the curtains tight.
As he returned to the table he felt uneasy: excited, furtive, ridiculous—he wasn’t sure which was uppermost. If only this could work! You never know until you try, he thought, which was the motto on the contents page of Pretty Hot. He pulled the first photograph to him. Her breasts swelled in their lacy bra, her black knickers were taut over her round bottom. He wished he could see her face. He cleared his throat, and muttered almost inaudibly: “I’m going to take your knickers down. I’m going to smack your bare bum.”
He sounded absurd. The whole situation was absurd. How could he expect it to work if he could barely hear himself? “By the time I’ve finished with you,” he said loudly, “you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
Too loud! Nobody could hear him, he told himself. Except that he could, and he sounded like a fool. As he glared at the photograph, he was sure that she was smiling. She had beaten him. He wouldn’t put it past her to have let him take the photographs because they had absolutely no effect on her. All at once he was furious. “You’ve had it now,” he shouted.
His eyes were burning. The photograph flickered, and appeared to stir. He thought her face turned up to him. If it did, it must be out of fear. His penis pulled eagerly at his fly. “All right, miss,” he shouted hoarsely. “Those knickers are coming down.”
She seemed to jerk, and he could imagine her bending reluctantly beneath the pressure of a hand on the back of her neck. Her black knickers stretched over her bottom. Then the photograph blurred as tears tried to dampen his eyes, but he could see her more clearly than ever. By God, the tears ought to be hers. “Now then,” he shouted, “you’re going to get what you’ve been asking for.”
He seized her bare arm. She tried to pulled away, shaking her head mutely, her eyes bright with apprehension. In a moment he’d trapped her legs between his thighs and pushed her across his knee, locking his left arm around her waist. Her long blonde hair trailed to the floor, concealing her face. He took hold of the waistband of her knickers and drew them slowly down, gradually revealing her round creamy buttocks. When she began to wriggle, he trapped her more firmly with his arm and legs. “Let’s see what this feels like,” he said, and slapped her hard.
He heard it. For a moment he was sure he had. He stared about his empty flat with his hot eyes. He almost went to peer between the curtains at her window, but gazed at the photograph instead. “Oh, no, miss, you won’t get away from me,” he whispered, and saw her move uneasily as he closed his eyes.
He began systematically to slap her: one on the left buttock, one on the right. After a dozen of these her bottom was turning pink and he was growing hot—his face, his penis, the palm of his hand. He could feel her warm thighs squirming between his. “You like that, do you? Let’s see how much you like.”
Two laps on the left, two on the right. A dozen pairs of those, then five on the same spot, five on the other. As her bottom grew red she tried to cover it with her hands, but he pinned her wrists together with his left hand and forcing them up to the dimple above her bottom, went to work in earnest: ten on the left buttock, ten on its twin… She was sobbing beneath her hair, her bottom was wriggling helplessly. His room had gone. There was nothing but Sid and his victim until he came violently and unexpectedly, squealing.
He didn’t see her the next day. She was gone when he wakened from a satisfied slumber, and she had drawn the curtains before he realized she was home again. She was making it easier for him to see her the way he wanted. Anticipating that during the days which followed made him feel secretly powerful, and so did Toby Hale’s suggestion when Sid rang him to confirm the Slave of Love session. “We’re short of stories for number three,” Toby said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything good and strong for us?”
“I might have,” Sid told him.
He didn’t fully realize how involving it would be until he began to write. He was dominating her not only by writing about her but also by delivering her up to the readers of the magazine. He made her into a new pupil at a boarding school for girls in their late teens. “Your here to lern disiplin. My naime is Mr Sidney and dont you forgett it.” She would wear kneesocks and a gymslip that revealed her uniform knickers whenever she bent down. “Over my nee, yung lady. Im goaing to give you a speling leson.” “Plese plese dont take my nickers down, Ill be a good gurl.” “You didnt cawl me Mr Sidney, thats two dozin extrar with the hare brush…” He felt as if the words were unlocking a secret aspect of himself, a core of unsuspected truth which gave him access to some kind of power. Was this what they meant by sex magic? It took him almost a week of evenings to savor writing the story, and he didn’t mind not seeing her all that week; it helped him see her as he was writing her. Each night as he drifted off to sleep he imagined her lying in bed sobbing, rubbing her bottom.