L'Ange écarlate (The Scarlet Angel)
(Les Cités intérieures -1) (Cities
of the Mind - 1)
(Les Cités intérieures -1) (Cities of the Mind - 1)
Natasha Beaulieu
(Excerpt from Part 1: Black Violence p. 12-17)
Montreal, May 23rd, 1995
Jimmy Novak was sitting on a scarlet velvet sofa and watching the guests when someone called him:
"Jimmy!"
A man in his forties, dressed in PVC trousers and jacket, sat down beside him. Even with his eyes closed Jimmy would have recognized Dek from the fresh scent of almond shampoo emanating from his short white hair.
"Hello, Dek."
"I'm glad you came!"
"Everything going well with your fetish party?"
"Super! You see the Mistress in red vinyl, near the bar?"
He was pointing out a statuesque woman; her hips were sheathed in an ultra-tight miniskirt; her waist was constricted by a corset laced in the back, which emphasized her ample breasts. Her long blond hair, or wig, gathered in a pony tail, hung down to the small of her back, brushing the whip hanging at her belt. Perched on high heels sharp enough to dig holes in the floor, she was talking with the barmaid, sipping a martini.
"That's Mistress Olga, from New York," Dek explained. "She has several celebrities among her clients."
Novak shrugged. Gossip didn't interest him.
"I'm also waiting for Mistress Irina and Master Stephan, from Los Angeles," the host went on enthusiastically. "Bondage specialists. And the Scarlet Angel, from Toronto."
"The Scarlet Angel?"
"Yes, a superb dominatrix. She just moved to Montreal."
The white-haired man leaned closer:
"I heard some clients pay her up to four hundred an hour."
"She must have a helluva nice ass! What does she do that the others don't?"
"They say she offers unique and very sophisticated services," Dek said, glancing at the door. "But if you want to know more, you can ask her yourself. She just came in. Excuse me, I have to go welcome her."***
Sitting at the bar, Novak ripped another page out of the spiral notebook he was sketching in. He knocked back his fourth whisky, took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, his head tilted back. His long black hair framed an angular face with hollow cheeks, falling down to his pale, naked and smooth torso.
Surrounded by things that stimulated him - Sisters of Mercy, black walls, red drapes, dim lighting, the musky scent of leather, cigarette smoke, gleaming latex, a whole world of available breasts, hourglass waists and round asses, Jimmy was feeling better, so much so that he began to quietly sing the lyrics of "1959." He was drawn out of his bubble by Mistress Olga, who was examining, one by one, the sketches scattered on the bar.
"You drew these?"
Jimmy took one last drag on his cigarette.
"Yep," he said, crushing the butt in the already full ashtray.
The dominatrix looked at yet another sheet. Recognizing herself, she turned her heavily made-up face toward the artist.
"How much?"
"Oh, go on, it's a gift."
By way of a thank you, Mistress Olga gave him a dangerously seductive smile, contrasting her harsh face and her unswerving gaze. She then left with a deliberate swagger to join a small group of people to whom she showed the drawing.
Jimmy glanced down at the sheets still lying on the bar. On each one he had scribbled a sketch of one of the guests. Humans. His favourite subject.
It had been a good idea to accept Dek's invitation. This party was inspiring.
And then there was the Scarlet Angel. Sitting on the sofa, which matched her red hair, she was talking with the host of the evening, who was opposite in a chair. Relatively comfortable on his bar stool, Novak kept on fidgeting while looking in that direction.
Each time the Angel moved her head, her fiery hair (or maybe it was a wig, he couldn't say), swept across her delicate oval face. Catching her gaze was hard. Her eyes, though framed by long lines of kohl black and golden shadow, were half-hidden by heavy bangs. Her nose, long and slightly down-turned made her look like a bird of prey, which Novak found very attractive. Her lips were thin and stern, but well defined and glossy with a red as scarlet as that of her hair, especially pretty when she smiled. Which happened quite rarely. She had a small, but square jaw that lent her a touch of masculinity.
A simple jumpsuit of black leather sheathed her voluptuous body to perfection. The only decorative element was a pair of small red wings on the top of the left sleeve. The Angel's legs, as long as Novak's, were hidden in laced thigh boots, with square heels barely ten centimetres high. But Jimmy was especially fascinated by the tips of her fingers, which were encased in a metal thimble with a long, sharp point.
That woman awakened a violent need for provocation in him.
He gulped down another whisky and got up from his stool.
***
Novak sat without ceremony on the left of the Scarlet Angel. Dek introduced him, but was shocked to see the young painter shake the Mistress's hand in a rather flippant manner.
"You're supposed to kiss her hand," he whispered to Jimmy.
"I would rather have a hand job."
"If I were you, I wouldn't even think of it."
Sprawled on the sofa, legs apart, Jimmy exulted in the thought he had insulted the Angel with his lack of respect. He was boiling with excitement, trying to guess how she would react. He was expecting a fierce look, or a hard slap.
He turned to the red-haired Mistress and saw that her expression was one of perfect indifference. Piqued at not having elicited any reaction, Jimmy straightened up and put a hand on the Angel's thigh. This time, she reacted brusquely, slapping her own hand on his torso. They stayed like this a few seconds, then Novak suddenly felt the fake nails pushing on his skin. He didn't budge, his black eyes fixed on his torturer, whose grey eyes showed no emotion whatsoever.
The Scarlet Angel's claws pierced the painter's flesh, and moved downward. A few guests assembled around them in a half-circle, which excited Jimmy even more. When he felt the blood trickling down his chest, he locked the Angel's wrist in his left hand and put his right hand on his own torso. Then he began to touch himself, sensually, in front of the still impassive Mistress, under the fascinated gaze of the audience.
He put his fingers where the nails had marked him, pressing his nails into the deep furrows of the wound. Thick trails of blood were now reaching down to his belt. He raised his bloody hand to his face, licked the tip of one of his fingers then put it in his mouth to suck on it.
His left hand was still holding the Scarlet Angel's wrist. He felt her stiffen. With a flash in her eyes, she freed herself, got up and suddenly disappeared into the crowd.
Ecstatic, Novak also got up from the sofa. He made his way to the washroom, where he locked himself in. Leaning against the stone wall, he stroked his torso, his belly. Frantically, he licked his bloody hands. His mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own vital fluid, he undid the buckle of his belt, unzipped his fly and took hold of his erect penis. He barely had time to masturbate, coming just as he lost consciousness.
When he came to, still leaning against the wall, sitting on the cold tiles, it took him several seconds to realize where he was and why he was covered in blood and sperm. Extremely disturbed, he did up his trousers and, not even bothering to clean up, he left the washroom.
He walked through the big room in this altered state, took his sweater from a chair and hastily put it on.
He left Dek's fetish party without saying goodbye to anyone...
© 2000 Éditions Alire & Natasha Beaulieu
To find out what happens next...
