Chapter 40: Another Gate to Pass

What is it about addictions, Angique mused, sitting in a cab on her way to a supplier of fine lace and satin. Some people resist them effortlessly while others tumble at the touch of a feather. They say you have to have the right personality to trigger it, or the right circumstances. Others suppose it is a failure of the will. They say addicted people are just weak losers. Angique wondered. People who say that might very well have addictions themselves, she supposed — to guns, often, or to movies with Jean-Claude van Damme. Ah well, she thought, chuckling, most of them are certainly addicted to sitting on overstuffed couches, judging the world and their neighbors while guzzling beer.

Maybe Alicia should look at herself more objectively. But it wasn't often that the girl looked at herself objectively, was it? No, Angique thought, and that was exactly why she got so easily addicted.

Alicia loved to escape — she was an escape artist actually. That's why she was at the Club so often. She fled things that made her feel uncomfortable, like guilt and sorrow, failure and loneliness. She also ran from stressful commitments, especially since the betrayal of her husband. It was a loss heaped upon many losses that went back to her childhood: the rejection of her mother, the cold dismissal by her father, the callous rape by her brother ≠— and the death of the only family member that truly loved her, her sister.

Angique had read somewhere that escapists are prime targets for addiction. Some flee into booze or drugs, others into Star Trek. Alicia fled into sex. Not sex as an expression of love, but sex as a route to distraction; it was a surrender of the mind to the body.

Angique hadn't known this when she first met Alicia, but she'd sensed it. She was no psychologist or therapist; the only thing she knew was what the girl craved. Which of course happened to be exactly what she wanted her for.

Angique was no altruist; she had her own load of baggage, which had turned her into a predator, always hunting for girls like Alicia. Funny thing was that this time she ended up being the victim as well — she fell in love with the girl. The irony made her chuckle.

Alicia was perfect, Angique admitted — well, perfectly flawed, many people would say. The girl looked to escape from a boring life that offered nothing but loss and defeat; she was sex-addicted and had been a submissive victim since childhood. So when she first saw this mysterious, leather clad woman dominating her leashed girls, pegs fell into sockets. It released new but familiar feelings — like déjà-vu's entering her mind from unexpected directions, hooking her.

Like the typical addict she was, Alicia was sensitive to hypnotism. She more than once remarked that she only fell for Angique's outrageous demands because the woman's sweet voice and green eyes hypnotized her. Angique did not agree; Alicia had hypnotized herself.

Certainly, Angique had helped her along. As every religious leader knows, there is a strong hypnotizing effect in repeated rituals. It was why Angique insisted on strict rules for the girls who visited Villa. They always had to undress at the entrance, oil their naked and shaven bodies and kneel in a minutely described submissive position. They had to do this every time in exactly the same sequence, knowing that any deviation — however small — would result in physical punishment.

The hypnotizing effect of these rituals spread just as easily as the oil they rubbed into their skin. At first there was just the immediate arousal of exposing their body, but soon their cunts already started to flow when they opened the first button of their dress or the zipper of their skirt. And then the effect started reaching back to the moment they pressed the buttons of the elevator taking them up to Villa — or even further back to their leaving home to go to the Club.

Soon the act of shaving her pubic hair was enough to flip the proverbial switches in Alicia's head — or the scent of the lather she used. And by the time she smelled the perfumed oil her fingers spread on her skin, the ritual's repetition and anticipation had her already on the brink of a premature orgasm. She often had to struggle not to explode when her knees touched the tiles of the Villa's floor. She was a helpless piece of shivering jello the moment her bare tits kissed the marble and she raised her ass in the exactly prescribed way. The cool breeze invading her exposed openings were the apotheoses of a ritual decent into breathtaking, submissive bliss.

Sure, Alicia was hypnotized each and every time she visited Angique, but not by her supposed Mistress. She did it to herself — and she did it gladly.

After months of repeated rituals, corrective discipline and mind shattering orgasms, Alicia was firmly addicted to the state of sexual submission she'd put herself into. Angique was certain that by now the girl must be convinced that becoming Angique's slave was her destiny. But if so, what took the girl so long to accept her true existence? Why this constant running off, this flight from what she so obviously needed and wanted? Angique sighed as her cab crawled through rush hour traffic. She thought she knew why, but then again: who knows for sure?

She supposed that Alicia, like a true addict, had her 'clear' moments — especially when she was away from Angique and the soothing comfort of her rituals. But instead of finding solace in those clear moments, Alicia found failure and disappointment. By and by she must have learned to hate those moments, as they never brought what they were meant to do. They should feel liberating, but they didn't. They were supposed to be glimpses of a 'normal' and 'healthy' life, but whenever she tried to hang on to them, she failed. No wonder her already low self-esteem turned into self-disgust, which was the ideal frame of mind to welcome punishment and humiliation. It was a self-propelling wheel, fed by idle hope and certain defeat.

And yet, she kept running back to them.

Someone other than Angique would have long since given up on the girl. But she hadn't. She kept nudging Alicia on, even if she balked and fled at each new challenging step. Angique had allowed the girl to drag her through deep valleys of despair whenever she ran off ≠ — but she'd had no choice, had she? Living without Alicia was worse than living with her — or rather, it was impossible.

Remembering the first time the girl's tongue touched her dirty boot Angique had known that Alicia's panic hadn't been all she'd felt. When the girl was ordered to undress in public for the first time, there had been flares of shame and yet, her pussy had started to flow. When Brynn's tongue touched her clit the very first time, she'd fled in panic — but it wasn't caused by fear; it was triggered by the shameful awareness that she loved it.

And when the first lick of a riding crop set her skin on fire, she cried out in pain, Angique remembered, but she also stuck out her treacherous ass for more.

Any other lover might have misunderstood Alicia — like Gina misunderstood, and Carmela. Softer or more naïve lovers shied away from the consequences of Alicia's secret cravings. They tried to comfort the girl and smother her with their love — and it only disappointed Alicia. She hung on to their 'normalcy' for a while, but she cheated on them at the first opportunity. She might tell them that living with them was heaven, but to her it was a secret hell; just as the hell she found with Angique deep down felt like heaven to her — so why was it so hard for her to admit who she really was and live with it?

Angique was convinced that Alicia had tried to reconcile her conflicting worlds. She knew she'd run to Sarah to find comfort after another heart breaking episode with Angique, and she had lured the poor woman into dominating her. But she found out that Sarah was merely going through the motions; she was too sweet to really hurt the girl. Alicia also had her hopes up with Carmela. The woman had a dominant nature, but was obviously not interested enough to satisfy her lover's needs. She'd even ridiculed Alicia's needs. Finally the girl had tried to seduce Anna into an SM-like relationship, only to discover that the woman used her to get back at Angique.

And of course there had been the damn priest. Alicia must have been desperate to go to the fat bastard for advice. The pious scumbag must have known her family-background — the sleazy brother, the sanctimonious mother and a father who treated her like trash. He must have known about her fragility. God, it had been great to rape the asshole, showing the girl what a jerk he really was.

By now, Angique thought, Alicia must realize that there is no hope for compromise; there is only one choice left for her. Either she kicks her habit or goes all the way. Angique wondered if her latest return meant surrender — or if it would just prove to be another casual round-trip into tourist's paradise?

She sighed, pulling her jacket closer to her body.

Alicia woke up, finding herself afloat in a sea of hurt — a true sea with swells of deep, throbbing ache. Like a sea, it was all encompassing, making her sway slowly on the chain she hung from. There seemed to be no focusing point; just a weightless sensation, leaving her dizzy. Her neck hurt from being pulled back by her tied hair, her shoulders ached from having her arms bound on her back. There was a strain in her upper legs from being spread wide open for hours now. But most of all: a million tiny piranha-teeth seemed to bite the flesh of her whipped ass, her thighs and cunt.

Alicia scanned the room from her lofty altitude, slowly spinning left to right and back. Angique must have left; no one was around. She hung at the center of Villa's big room, right beside the fireplace. The afternoon light found its way through the tall windows; specks of dust danced in its beams. So many memories were here, so many experiences tying her to the place.

Was it home? The thought made her chuckle with irony. She must be crazy. Oh sure, she had to be insane to end up like this and even thanking the woman for it. She'd thanked for each blow, even shaking her head no when asked if it had been enough. Her silly heart had raced when Angique allowed her to lick her to orgasm — a cloud of arousal had taken her breath away.

Yes, Alicia knew she was crazy, but oddly enough the notion calmed her. There was no rage, no panic, nothing — just the certainty that there were no alternatives; she was where she belonged. She'd been punished, as she deserved. All responsibility had been taken away from her — for once there was no guilt, no shame. And, most elating of all, Angique had taken her back.

She had no idea how long she'd been asleep or even if it had been sleep at all. The overload of pain must have caused her to faint. The tying up by itself had not been bad; Angique had whispered sweet things while kissing her and caressing her body, all the while expertly looping and twisting the silk cords — tying off her tits and thighs, while pulling hard on the slip knots. It all went smooth and quick; there had been no time to fear claustrophobia; she'd even felt comfortable.

The tight ropes hugged her like an outside skeleton — the bones of a corset. They held her together, gripping her, protecting her. It was a cage to feel save in. There had been nothing she could do, especially after the ball gagged her into silence. It made her feel — free? How utterly ridiculous — could one find freedom in being tied up? But it had been how she felt. It still was. There was nothing she could do, so there was nothing to worry about; nothing to be held responsible for — no mistakes, no confusions, nothing. Just nothing.

Maybe 'nothing' was what she needed? Her days outside, on her own, had been hell. After fleeing from the priest's porch — holding her torn blouse closed, smelling his piss, feeling the slime on her face congeal — she'd stayed in her house, in her bed for days. Paula tried to reach her, but she'd ignored her calls — even the ringing of her doorbell. There had been an important business deadline; she'd let it slip and never responded to e-mails or phone calls. She felt destroyed. Even the last spark of her hard won energy had been snuffed. She'd at last proved to be what she'd always known she was: zilch, nada, nothing.

Ignoring her growling stomach she'd just lain there, looking at her ceiling; too afraid to close her eyes and see her demons gloating — or hear their gleeful mirth. After a while she'd started touching the lily brand on her hip, running a fingertip around its familiar pattern — always the same route, counting the rounds, feeling the magical spell of repetition.

On the morning of day three she had an epiphany — or at least she thought she had. She felt like the proverbial hermit, fasting in his grotto way out into the desert. The unbearable lightness of her head was caused by lack of food, no doubt, but her vision was clear enough to make her decide.

The decision hadn't been too difficult once she realized that she only had a choice between one hell and another. There was the hell she'd always lived in. She suddenly saw that she'd only preferred that hell because it had always been there; she'd grown up in it, hadn't she?

And then there was the hell Angique offered — the hell she'd wanted to escape from, over and over again, to return to her homegrown evil — but it never stopped pulling at her, did it?

That morning she wondered what 'home' really meant, other than a place of disappointment, betrayal and abuse. Why had she ever considered that being the fuck toy of Carmela or Gina's bird of paradise was part of that home, part of 'real' reality? Why did she ever think the dogged loyalty to Rita might save her? Was it to belong? Was it to prove something — anything? Or just plain stubbornness? Whatever did she think? Did she ever think? Did she think too much?

Living with Angique had its own brand of hell for sure, but she suddenly saw a difference, a real difference. It was a revelation — a shift in thought, the one where 'up' suddenly is 'down', where black is white. Everything she ever thought seemed to be jerked into its reverse.

What she saw was simple, really. She saw that she'd never fled from Angique; she'd always fled to her. Maybe fear and panic caused her to leave the woman, but she'd never felt safer at home than with her; to the contrary. She felt unhappy in her demon-ridden life — an unhappiness she'd never ever felt with Angique. Every time she'd left the woman it had been because she feared losing herself in the thrill and the exhilaration that overwhelmed her. She panicked. But now she realized that this precious 'self' she might lose was nothing but the result of her repressed upbringing — it wasn't 'hers' at all; never had been.

Her mind might often have balked at the outrageous moments she shared with Angique, but her body always knew better. Returning to Angique was the true flight back; Villa was her true home. Her so-called 'real life' was no more than an ongoing depression. When at home, she felt homesickness for Villa; at Villa she never felt a yearning for home.

Alicia knew her sexuality was a caged animal aching to get out; it lived inside her, always rattling at its bars. She'd maybe always known that, but never acknowledged it ≠— too scared to even look. When things got unbearable, the animal escaped — and she'd pretended not to look, not to know. But it had always been she herself who'd thrown the animal the key of her cage, so it could escape. She never took responsibility for doing that, so she could always deny that she did. She'd allowed herself to become two persons, both irrational, both denying each other — but both unhappy.