In a rare volume of the works of Aubrey Beardsley she had purchased, Irene stumbled upon an illicit yet extremely erotic illustration with which she became strangely obsessed. In the drawing, a slender lady robed in a long, Victorian-era dress, with the gown’s sleeves falling off her shoulders, grasped the dress between her breast with her delicate right hand and wielded a whip in her left hand. A slender young man with just a white sheet draped around his thighs kneeled down in deference to the older woman. The whip was poised, ready to strike a blow on the tender backside of the submissive young male. Irene was not sure if the original illustration showed the young fellow’s face, but his features were indistinguishable in this print. His thin body and full head of coal black hair reminded Irene so much of Glenn.
Maybe Beardsley purposely omitted the boy’s face so the observer could feel the power the woman wields over the young man. To Irene, this image represented her dark and tainted view of herself. Yes, here is Irene beating the lying, cheating Glenn to a bloody pulp. While the general society believed that the Victorian era was pervasively prudish, pockets of deviant behavior flourished in the streets of England. Perhaps the repression during the Victorian age had the same effect that Prohibition had on America; the more alcohol was banned, the harder people tried to get it.
The most shocking yet titillating of Irene’s readings described flogging establishments that existed in London in the 1800s. The men who visited these elite bordellos did not turn up to have sex with the women; instead, they came to be spanked and whipped. Most of the gentlemen were wealthy aristocrats. Sometimes, girls apprenticed to become accomplished flagellants, learning how to employ the birch rod with the utmost skill and grace. Theresa Berkely, who ran a high-class flagellation house, was very imaginative in her approach to her role as “governess,” or “dominatrix,” and used a variety of tools to inflict painful pleasure upon her patrons. Berkely was purported to have invented a “flogging machine,” a clumsy apparatus to which the receiver of the whipping could be strapped. This device was named the “Berkely Horse.” These readings were about the only thing that inspired Irene to smile and laugh. What strange stuff, she thought. Yet, she could not get her fill of this erotic material.
On one level, Irene felt these things were perverse, aberrant, and downright sick. Nonetheless, she repeatedly asked herself why she was attracted to such abnormal behavior. English noblemen, and even some noblewomen, frequented these flogging establishments, finding great pleasure in their experiences. Is there pleasure in pain? Maybe for some. Maybe for her. Maybe inflicting pain upon a man would give pleasure to Irene. She knew she could get no pleasure from regular sexual relationships, nor did she want to try. She was not sure why she was frigid, but expected it was from the trauma of Glenn and the abortion. Alternatively, maybe it was the underlying boredom, despair, and emptiness that often plague the rich. It was nice to be able to buy whatever your heart desires, but the final question always remained: To what end?
Irene did not hate men. She was just not attracted to them in a romantic way anymore. If some men derived pleasure from being whipped, then by fulfilling that desire, a woman is still providing sexual satisfaction to her partner, just not in the normal way. This thinking justified Irene’s descent into this bizarre world.
* * * * *
The discovery of the Aubrey Beardsley print was Irene’s first baby step into the secret life she had now lived for many years. It was comical to her when the men offered to pay her. She always refused the money and told the submissive men to go out and buy something nice for their wives or girlfriends. The last thing Irene needed was money, particularly not for something from which she also derived great pleasure.
Understandably, Sam had had several affairs, but Irene knew that it was Sam’s secretary, Lola, who was the love of his life. Lola got flustered and sounded guilty when Irene called Sam’s office. Poor little fool. Of course, Irene knew about Sam’s relationship with Lola, and Irene, in fact, condoned it. Sam was a good man, and he deserved to have his needs met. Irene and Sam stayed married for appearances’ sake only. A divorce would detract from their prominent families’ impeccable reputations.
* * * * *
When Irene looked out the window of her hotel suite, she was astounded to see that it was already dark. She must have been musing about her past for several hours. Famished, she called down to room service to bring her a meal.
It had been quite some time since she had met a man suitable for flogging. The main reason she liked this hotel was that men from all over the country came here for conferences and were, for the most part, married fellows who needed a little spice in their lives. Irene also liked the fact that most of the guys lived far away and did not want to start a relationship with her. That was exactly the way she wanted it; anonymity was important to both Irene and the men she dominated.
After she ate, she showered, got dressed, and went down to the bar, the place where she usually met her partners. This evening, she noticed a man gawking at her, the same chump she caught staring at her the previous night. She remembered having dismissed him with a glance of scorn. On second thought, he was not bad looking, but he certainly was not polished. Irene did not care for men who stared. They gave her the creeps. She glanced away from Lionel, but the next thing she knew, he was asking the bartender to send over her favorite drink. The bartender knew Irene well and poured a glass of Scotch whisky for her, telling her that the man sitting at the other end of the bar had bought her that round. She scrutinized Lionel and mouthed a stern, “No thank you.”
Lionel continued to drink his bourbon while Irene paid for her own Scotch. Both were getting reasonably inebriated. As she gave Lionel the once-over, she thought she might just be able to ignore his indelicacy. She knew from the way that he had been eyeballing her that he may sense what she was all about.
Finally, Lionel moved closer to Irene and introduced himself. Irene, calm and unruffled, said nothing while Lionel nattered on nervously. Both of them were sloshed by now, and Irene self-assuredly leaned over near Lionel’s ear, whispering, “Have you ever had a woman whip you?”
Lionel, caught off guard, questioned whether he had heard her correctly. “What did you say?” he asked apprehensively.
Irene refused to repeat it. She said with irritation, “You heard me.”
Stumbling over his words, Lionel, attempting to be suave, replied, “Never. But I would love to try.”
Irene slowly looked Lionel up and down. He’ll do, she thought. She asked him when he was going home, and he muttered, “In two days.”
“How would you like a beating before then?”
On one level, Lionel was afraid of this woman. He did not know her, and maybe she was a killer. Yet he wasted no time to respond that he would like that very much.
“Good,” Irene said. I am in the penthouse suite and expect to see you there tomorrow night at 9:00 p.m. If you don’t show up at that time precisely, don’t bother coming at all.”
Was this really happening to him? “I will be there. By the way, what is your name?”
“To you, I am Mistress Irena. That’s all you need to know.”
Lionel could not concentrate on the meetings the next day. He was fantasizing about the beautiful woman he had met the previous night, a spitting image of Bettie Page. That evening there was going to be a farewell banquet for the conference participants, as most people would be leaving by the afternoon of the next day.
With booze flowing and inhibitions lowering, many attendees coupled up after dinner. Leanne Abney, one of the secretaries who traveled to the conventions with her boss, had a fondness for Lionel and always sought him out after the closing banquet. When she went up to him this time, though, he said he was going to bed early because he was taking off in the morning. Disappointed, Leanne spied Marty Jackson standing alone and went over immediately to cozy up to him. Most of the men knew that Leanne was a slut. Marty and Leanne disappeared down the corridor, heading for Leanne’s room.
Lionel knew he could not be late to see Mistress Irena, so he rushed back up to his room to shower and change. He was nervous but eager. Never in his life had he had such an opportunity, and he didn’t want to miss this chance.
The penthouse had its own private elevator, and Lionel was the only person on it. When he arrived at Irene’s door, she called from another room, “It’s open. Come in. I’ll only be a minute. Pour yourself a drink.”
The penthouse suite was beyond description. His dinky room on the eighth floor looked like a dump compared to this one. He went over to the fully equipped bar and poured himself two quick shots of bourbon.
Soon, Mistress Irena called him into another huge parlor. He was dumbfounded when he saw her. Wearing a form-fitting black corset-like garment, black fishnet stockings, high black leather boots with stiletto heels, long black satin gloves, and a black masquerade sequined mask, she looked like a heroine from fantasy comics. Around her neck was a black velvet ribbon choker, dripping with rubies in the shape of droplets of blood. Her persona was completely different: uncompromising, severe, and formidable.
She hissed at Lionel in harsh tones. “I am going to speak, and I do not want you to say a word. As of now, you are under my control. If you cry out in pain, the lashes will get harder. Before I begin, you have a chance to back out. Do you want to proceed?”
Lionel did not answer because she had told him he was not to speak.
“Answer me, you mute. Say ‘yes’ if you want to go forward, or ‘no’ if you want to stop now.”
Lionel replied, “Yes.”
Mistress Irena told Lionel to strip naked and kneel on the floor facing away from her. She continued, “Listen carefully. Although I am tough, I am not a cruel sadist. If the lashes become unbearable, you can let me know by using the word “Red.” When I hear you say “Red,” I will stop immediately. This is your first time, so do not try to be a hero. I will not think less of you if the pain becomes intolerable. Are you sure you understand?”
Lionel was beginning to feel humiliated kneeling there completely nude. “Now tell me what your safety word is, clown,” Mistress Irena demanded.
“Red,” Lionel replied.
“Fine, we are ready to begin. Kneel upright,” Mistress Irena barked at Lionel.
Lionel straightened up quickly, gritting his teeth as he waited for the first blow. In an instant, Mistress Irena raised her whip and dealt a stinging strike. Lionel cringed with pain but managed to remain straight, as Mistress instructed. The whip whizzed through the air with no pauses between the “cracks.” Burning red welts swelled on Lionel’s back.
Time stood still as Lionel moved from consciousness of pain to the stark white realm beyond agony. He could not see, hear, or feel. When Lionel finally opened his eyes, he recognized he was lying on the floor in a hotel room, alone. Weak and disoriented, Lionel, the wounded antelope, struggled to his feet. His whole body throbbed unremittingly. He staggered over to the sofa, and then collapsed.
When he awakened, it was already morning, and Mistress Irena was gone. Lionel pieced together the events of the night before and still wondered if it was all a dream. He limped to the bathroom, gradually becoming aware of the burning wounds on his back. Showering made the pain even more excruciating. What had he done, and why had he let himself partake in this experience. Was he crazy? Was he a pervert? He had not even had sex with this woman. In spite of the present agony, he remembered the whipping arousing him more than any sexual relations he had ever had in his life. It may be sick, but he wanted more. Why had Mistress Irena left him there alone? Would he ever see her again?
As Lionel was heading toward the door to go back down to his own room, he caught sight of a handwritten note on the elegant mirrored mezza luna foyer table. Maybe Mistress Irena did have something to say to him after all.
“Dear Lionel, You were a brave soul, and I hope you achieved satisfaction from our session. However, I must warn you not to fall for me. If you are planning to be in this area again, you can write a note to my post office box, and I will try to meet you. No strings attached.”
Lionel couldn’t believe that Mistress Irena wanted to see him again. She was so beautiful, so strong, so demanding, yet he must have pleased her. Even if he didn’t have business meetings to attend, he would pretend he did just so he could see her. She would be his passage to Heaven; his atonement for his transgressions. Saying a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” was such an insubstantial penance. It was no wonder Catholics return to the same sins over and over again.
Lionel wanted to be more like the monks who offered their flagellation to God as repentance for their wickedness. Although he was suffering from the whipping he had received at the hands of Mistress Irena, Lionel felt as if he was walking on air. He had a new purpose in life, something that would satisfy him, and he was going to pursue it to the fullest.
* * * * *
Three years had passed since this first session with Irene, but in spite of Mistress Irena’s warning about becoming attached, Lionel had fallen in love with her. She, on the other hand, was not capable of loving any man, a fact that Lionel did not realize. He believed that as she continued to meet with him, she would one day love him in return. Lionel had convinced himself that Addy was mentally ill on the day she married him, so he could easily obtain an annulment for his marriage to her. Having a brother who is a monsignor would help his cause; Lionel would then be free to marry Irene.
He was particularly excited about the upcoming visit with Irene because she had invited him to her private ski lodge hidden in the mountains near Fairplay, Colorado. Their other meetings had been at hotels, so Mistress Irena had to practice some restraint. Lionel suspected that, after three years, Mistress considered him ready to experience full submission in what might turn out to be a real dungeon setting.
Addy had noticed that every time Lionel traveled to Colorado for business, he was distracted and on edge. One of the many good things about these trips was that he paid no attention to Addy while he was preoccupied with upcoming trips. When Lionel was in this state of mind, he didn’t scrutinize the children’s actions nor did he pinch Addy for sex.
Lionel was scheduled to leave for Colorado the day after Christmas and return some time after the New Year. Addy thought it rather odd that business meetings would take place during the holidays; but, of course, she didn’t care. She, Helena and the kids would have a ball at the farm.