BDSM Library - Story: Golden Ball, Chapter: Part 1

The Golden Ball

THE GOLDEN BALL

…Oh, blest are they who beheld these last years and breathed their autumnal air full of rot and corruption! But twice blest is he who suffered the touch of their knowing, sinful flesh...

– From a medieval manuscript kept at the abbey of St. Colomannus.

One cold evening in late October, 1785, an open coach rattled along the dark and narrow Parisian streets, its wheels disturbing the chilly fog that crept over the flagstones. The sun had already set, and in the deepening twilight the coach’s passengers appeared from a distance as three black wraiths, whose hazy silhouettes were almost indistinguishable from the gloomy background.

Despite the sinister appearances, the travelers were quite harmless: they were merely young women who wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks, as much for the sake of anonymity, as for protection against the freezing mist. Completing the disguises, their faces were half-hidden by deep hoods.

The girls kept their heads together, conversing in low tones.

"—But Isabelle," said one of the girls, the tallest of the trio, "How are we supposed to get inside? Is there a password?"

The girl to whom this remark was addressed laughed huskily. It was amazing how this deep soprano voice could issue from such a compact body.

"Oh, Charlotte, you worry too much. They’ll let us in, you’ll see. I told you I have connections, and besides, they need someone like us."

Charlotte did not look reassured in the least.

Isabelle turned to the third girl, the shortest of the three, and also the one with the most obviously female figure – even an oversized man’s cloak could not obscure the shape of her impressive chest.

"And how about you, Florence? You seem awfully quiet…"

"I am scared," said the third girl, looking straight ahead.

Isabelle smiled indulgently. "Of course you are scared. I remember when I was in your shoes… ugh!"

"Well, I feel nervous, too," confessed Charlotte.

"You? Nervous?" exclaimed Isabelle, genuinely surprised, "But I thought you've done it before!"

"Of course I’ve done it before!" replied Charlotte, inadvertently raising her voice. She immediately looked behind at the wide back of their driver; there was no way he could’ve heard her above the thundering hoof beats but it was better to take no chances. "Of course I’ve done it before," Charlotte continued quietly, "But not in these circumstances!"

"Believe me, you forget circumstances after the first five minutes, and then it’s no different than the usual routine. There is no reason to fear but, on the other hand, do not expect too much, either!"

"Thank you, oh the wise one!" scowled Charlotte. "Is there anything in life that this advice does not apply to?"

Isabelle smiled. "Still, I hope you’ll find what you are looking for, Charlotte. And you, Florence, I am sure you’ll lose what you came to lose..."

Half an hour later the company arrived at its destination, the town mansion of a certain prominent Comte. Isabelle, who was entertaining the company with the newest bawdy song about the Queen, stopped in mid-verse and turned to the driver.

"You may leave us here, Jacques. We’ll find our own way home."

The carriage came to a halt near an ornate wrought-iron fence. The girls filed out, and the carriage rattled away, its rhythmic thumps slowly receding with distance. Led by Isabelle, the girls approached the gate and knocked.

Not a soul was in sight. The house seemed abandoned by the inhabitants; it towered above the three small figures like a ghostly hulk, empty, forbidding, with not a single spark of light visible through the dead windows. Then something stirred in the garden among wilting autumn flowers and gray shrubbery: an elderly servant was shuffling slowly toward the entrance. He stopped on the other side and peered at the visitors through the thick bars.

"What do you want?" the old man asked in a sharp, unfriendly voice.

"We are here for the masquerade," replied Isabelle on behalf of everyone.

"You are mistaken. There is no masquerade today. Now go back!"

"Right," said Isabelle but did not budge.

The servant stared at the girls for a long time without saying anything. At last, he turned back and began to shuffle away. Charlotte and Florence looked at Isabelle but she was calm and showed no intention to leave. Just before he was about to disappear again inside the house, the man stopped and turned around.

"Do you understand what kind of masquerade this is?" he asked, his expression no longer hostile.

Isabelle only smiled.

"In this case, please follow me."

The girls were led through the garden toward a side entrance, then up a staircase, and along a drafty corridor illuminated by smoky torchlight. The old man stopped just before the corridor made a sharp turn.

"I am not allowed to pass beyond this point. Go forward until you reach the end; there will be a red door on your right. It's a powder room; use it if you need to prepare yourselves. Once you are ready, go out the second door into the next corridor and find a green door. Farewell."

Left without a guide, the girls continued on, meeting no one on the way. The powder room was empty as well, smelling of dampness but warm enough to take off the cloaks. The girls looked around, found a large wall mirror, and, as is custom with women everywhere, immediately planted themselves in front of it.

Charlotte brushed her blond hair and twisted it into a long braid that reached down to her waist. She was tall and slender, an acknowledged beauty, whose delicate face with big blue eyes, was as perfect as a painting. Men dropped what they were doing and stared at her, stunned and wounded, as she passed them without notice. She had one flaw though, which, in her mind, almost outweighed her other charms. Her breasts, in keeping with the rest of her thin figure, were rather small; they were pretty in a girlish way but, to Charlotte’s eternal anguish, not womanly.

Isabelle wasn't so much grooming herself as striking sentimental poses. She was a year older than Charlotte and, in theory, not as beautiful; yet men flocked to Isabelle, attracted to her female magnetism as bees to honey. She had dark eyes, thin aquiline nose, and large passionate mouth with full lips perfect for a kiss; her black curls fell freely over her shoulders. She had dusky skin; it was rumored that Isabelle's real father was a Spanish don.

Florence watched her two friends and mentors, trying to mimic their quick, sure movements. At seventeen, she was the youngest of the three; baby fat was still evident in her face and all over her body. She was red-haired and freckled; short but despite her young age, quite well-developed. Her hips were wide and pleasantly round; but Florence’s most outstanding attribute was her friends' envy and her own pride – soft, heavy breasts with pretty pink nipples.

It took a while, but at last the girls were satisfied with their looks. They quickly put on their masks, which were simple narrow dominos – hiding one’s face was not the point of this masquerade. Last look in the mirror, and the girls were ready for what was waiting for them.

Next corridor turned out to be an opulent enfilade of rooms with marble floors and gilded ceilings. Exquisite paintings and Gobelins decorated the walls. On the opposite side the enfilade terminated in a double portal, painted clover green; one could hear muted sounds of revelry behind it. There was no question; this was the green door that the old servant was talking about. Suddenly shy, the girls slowly crossed the distance to the door and opened it.

They found themselves in a grand hall, spacious and brightly lit, with the windows tightly shuttered. An invisible orchestra, its musicians hidden behind a curtain, was playing a merry tune. It looked like everyone had already arrived; the hall was full of people, nearly fifty of them, spread around the floor either in pairs, or in small groups. There were rather more men than women but it didn't seem to inconvenience anyone. Majority of the guests were either lying, or sitting, or standing on their hands and knees; only a few, mostly men, stood upright. Everyone wore a masque, usually quite simple but sometimes very elaborate; some of these were real works of art, imaginative and gorgeous. Other than the masques, no one wore any clothes.

Charlotte surveyed nude bodies writhing in ecstasy at her feet. "Well, ladies, I suppose this is our cue to undress." The girls removed their dresses, skirts, and corsets and threw them in a heap near the door; then, keeping together for company, started walking toward the middle of the floor.

For Florence, being naked in front of everyone felt awkward, uncomfortable, and weirdly exciting. She looked at her friends to see if they shared her feelings but they appeared not to be bothered by their nudity in the least. Isabelle was watching a large cluster of young men, trying to catch their eye. She was breathing fast and moistened her lips from time to time; her nostrils flared as if they caught a scent. A strange, predatory half-smile flickered on her face. Charlotte, too, wore a predatory expression, but a different one. She was turning her head from side, scanning the room, looking at each man in turn; coldly rejecting most, noting a few. "Is she looking for someone she knows," wondered Florence, "Or is she simply—”?

Slap! Crash! Next instant, Florence was sitting on the floor, sparks dancing before her eyes. She winced, more from embarrassment than from pain; thanks to her inattention, she bumped into one of the revelers.

"Mademoiselle," boomed a male voice above her, "Pardon my expression but – ouch!!!"

The stranger wore a bird masque, a remarkable piece of work complete with feathers and prodigious red beak. Florence had never seen such a beak on any real bird: it was long and straight, and bright red; its tip terminated in a knob that was moist and muskily fragrant. Below the mask the man was – oh, God! – very obviously naked.

Against her will, Florence's eyes traveled down the stranger’s body. He was not tall or muscular but his deficiencies were more than compensated by the extraordinary thing that stood erect under his stomach: it was so enormous that Florence couldn't help but stare. The thing’s size, proportion, and color were quite similar to the masque’s beak; its tip, which was only a foot away from Florence’s face, was also moist and fragrant.

Suddenly Florence remembered herself. She blushed and looked away quickly.

The man laughed. "It's quite all right to look; in fact, you flatter me." He indulgently patted the girl’s on the back. "I am known as Maurice. And what is your name, oh lovely vision?"

"Florence," whispered the girl.

"What a charming name! I haven’t seen you before; did you come here alone?"

Florence turned to her friends but they were no longer near. Isabelle was a dozen paces ahead, on her knees and in the middle of a circle of young impatient roosters; she was going at them energetically with her hands and mouth, giving a part of her attention to every one. Charlotte made her way to the opposite wall, where, in a semi-private nook partially shielded by furniture, she was being embraced by an older gentleman.

"I see that your friends are busy,” noted the stranger. "But do not be alarmed. You are in good hands."

He bent down and touched the girl’s bare breasts. "Did I mention that you are very beautiful?" he asked, while his finger was tracing circles around her nipple. "Now, be a good girl. Lie on you back and spread your pretty legs."

Florence reddened even more but obeyed.

"Just a little more… yes, that’s perfect! " Maurice looked at the girl who lied wide open before him. His eyes took in her puffy, pillow-like breasts, her soft stomach, and below it, her secret cave framed by flaming red hair. He peered closer and whistled in surprise; then, without looking away, he extended his hand and grabbed a young man who at that moment was going past the couple. "Hey, Viscount, will you look at this!"

Now two strangers were staring at Florence’s open pussy, and she felt herself blush all over again.

The expression on the Viscount’s face was pure astonishment. "My God," he sputtered, "can this be true? A real virgin in a place like this?"

"Yes, my friend. I can hardly believe it myself."

The men lowered themselves onto their haunches on either side of the girl. "Do not worry, Mademoiselle," said Maurice earnestly; looking Florence straight in the eyes, while his hands had began their explorations. "I will be extremely gentle…"

When the girls met again, it was nearly morning. Some guests had already left; others, exhausted, lay in heaps around the floor; the party was almost over, and the girls gathered near one of the entrances to rest and to compare notes. Isabelle sat on a cushion, her back against the wall, legs carelessly spread apart. Next to her was Florence, who assumed a more modest position; Charlotte was sprawling on her side across from them. The girls were still very much naked; even their masques were now long gone, discarded and forgotten hours ago.

"So, how did you like the fucking?" asked Isabelle.

" Isabelle!" exclaimed Florence, scandalized.

"Oh, come on, don’t be a prude. It’s just a word. A word can’t be worse than the action, can it?"

"I suppose so," said Florence uncertainly.

"And you were fucking like a pro. In fact—" Isabelle’s eyes narrowed, "—I wonder if you are as innocent as you pretend. I was watching you. Five minutes into the room, and you manage to snare Maurice de Croissac himself, the best phallus in the whole of France! How did you do that?"

Florence beamed, pleased with the implied compliment. "You can say I simply ran into him," she giggled.

Isabelle gave Florence a puzzled stare. At length she gave up and turned to Charlotte.

"And how was your hunt?" Isabelle asked the blond girl. "Whom did you catch there? Was it a Count? A Duke? A Marshal of France?"

Charlotte smiled mischievously but said nothing.

"Ladies, talk to me!" pressed Isabelle. "This was your first orgy; how did you like it?"

"Not bad," answered Charlotte, " Good selection here; many opportunities. Saves time, too – it would take me forever to meet these men one by one."

"It was a bit painful and uncomfortable at first," said Florence, "But then…" She smiled at the memories.

"But I noticed something about men," Florence continued after a pause. "They are so easily exhausted! And even worse, once they are done with you, they lose all interest."

"Thanks for sharing your discovery," scoffed Charlotte.

"Yes, this is the nature of men." sagely intoned Isabelle. "They poke you, then they forget you. This is why you don’t fuck just one. You need to have many of them – a whole herd, the more the merrier – so when you exhaust one you immediately go to the next."

"No matter how many of them there are, they all want the same thing!" lashed out Charlotte, "They want stick their dicks in you and move them in and out until they spout their disgusting goo! Even the best of them think of their own satisfaction first."

If Isabelle was taken aback by her friend’s unexpected vehemence she did not show it. She gave Charlotte a mock-compassionate look. "Disgusting goo, eh? I see. You exalted Count made you drink his cum. You poor baby. But don't worry, you can get used to the taste. Trust me: I must've drunk a pint of the stuff today."

"Yes, I saw the chaps lining up next to you," nodded Charlotte listlessly.

Isabelle thought a little. "Well, if you tired of boys we can make a little trip to the Isle of Lesbos."

"Oh, I’ve tried that too."

"And?"

"That’s even worse. Why do I need to look someone else's cunt and boobs if I’ve already got my own set!"

"Ladies, please watch your language!" begged Florence.

"I can see you point, Charlotte," admitted Isabelle. "I like fucking but it does get... how shall I say it? It does get repetitive."

"The word you are looking for is boring!" cried Charlotte. "Boring, boring, boring! And disgusting!"

"Good evening, ladies, or shall I say good morning?" said a new female voice, deep and clear like chiming of bells.

Startled by an unexpected intrusion, the girls looked up. A woman stood next to them, a spectacular mature beauty in her early forties. She was not one of the guests; and she wasn’t nude but wore a lacy, corseted dress made of rich red fabric and cut low to show off the ample bosom. Her neck was decorated by a sparkling diamond necklace and her fingers glittered with rubies and emeralds.

"Nice to see you again, Isabelle," the woman said, "And this, if I am not mistaken, must be Charlotte and young Florence."

Isabelle jumped to her feet. "Oh, Comtesse! I did not see you approach us until you spoke!"

"That’s quite all right; I meant to do that," smiled the woman.

"This is our hostess," Isabelle explained to her friends, who got up as well and gave their regards.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't join you here today," said the Comtesse, "I had urgent business at court. But once I was free I had to come and see how my guests were doing. Charlotte, Florence, this is your first orgy, isn’t it? Thank you for taking a chance and attending this little affair; we are always in need of the new blood—" the Comtesse noticed red stains on Florence's inner thighs and added smoothly, "—as it were."

"How is the Comte?" asked Isabelle politely.

"He is upstairs, sound asleep. At his age, he needs his naps." The Comtesse made an indefinite gesture. A new thought occurred to her; she instantly forgot about her husband. She eyed the girls critically. Yes, they were curious, discontented, and open to new ideas; it could work.

"Pardon me, ladies, but I couldn't help but overhear the last part of your conversation," she said to them.

Isabelle shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, there is no need to apologize for the coarse words," the Comtesse said quickly, "I am no stranger to them myself. It is the substance of your complaints that I find remarkable."

She paused for effect. "So you are no longer satisfied with lovemaking? No man is good enough for you? Such shocking cynicism! but what else can you expect from modern youth? Why, when I was your age I worshipped man's flesh! and I didn't get that jaded until I was, well let's see—" she smiled "—about three or four years older than you."

The girls, who were bracing for a scolding harangue, visibly relaxed and returned the smile.

"So what did you do then, Madame?" asked Charlotte eagerly.

"Please, no 'Madame' between us! Well, the first thing I did was to marry a rich old man and to acquire resources to pursue other avenues. For instance, have you found a certain small room adjacent to this hall?"

"You mean the one with whips, chains, and other such things?" asked Isabelle.

"Yes, that’s the one. It’s a gathering place for the followers of that mad Marquis, who is now languishing in Bastille for having the audacity to preach what others practice."

"Yes, we spent time in that room. Not Florence though: she got scared."

"And how did you like it?"

"It was—" started Isabelle.

"It was interesting," interrupted her Charlotte. " They had us hog-tied, then subjected to mildly painful and some humiliating ordeals—"

"I hear a 'but' in your voice…"

"Yes. It got boring after a while. See, Isabelle agrees with me. It had no real danger, no excitement… All in all, it was just a game."

"My, you are quick," marveled the Comtesse, "It took me a whole year to come to the same conclusion."

"So there is no hope," said Charlotte glumly.

The older woman put a hand on the girl’s naked shoulder. "There is hope," she told her quietly. "There exists a method for achieving great satisfaction. It’s not widely known because, though it’s easy to do, it’s hard to do right; but people had been employing it for centuries. Listen to this."

She was silent for a spell, collecting her thoughts. The girls waited patiently. At last, the Comtesse took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Two are the vessels of pleasure that any man can see and touch, " she recited in an eerily hypnotizing, singsong voice. "These are the goblet of bitter grape and the womb of a beautiful maiden. Pleasant they are indeed and will serve ye well enough, yet both are but a bleak shadow of the heavenly libations tasted by the wise ones. Behold the garden of unearthly delights that are stronger than wine and sweeter than love, harken to the harps and lutes that play divine music beyond the mortal ken! Happy is he who had made his way hither for he had found bliss. But beware o traveler! Many had tried to reach the garden but few succeeded, for the path is narrow and obscure and its stones sharp. Do not seek the aid of magical talismans, nor of rare elixirs; they will not avail thee but will lead thee astray. Yet despair not, for the true road is hidden in plain sight! Whether thou be man or maiden, rich or poor, saint or sinner, the way is open to all; indeed, it is the poor sinner who, unwittingly and against his will, makes the trek most often. Follow me and I shall teach you the way…"

"…And so on, and so forth," said the Comtesse a different tone. "I can quote this all day, you know."

"Please tell us about this method!" Charlotte cried impatiently.

"Yes, yes, what is it?" joined her Isabelle.

"I am dying of curiosity!" added Florence.

The older woman shook her head. "I'm afraid you will think me mad."

It took the girls good five minutes to coax the answer out of the Comtesse. At last, she broke down and gathered them in a tight circle. She whispered, making swift explanatory gestures, and when she was finished, the girls just stared at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"You are in shock and yet you do not flee. That's a good sign," remarked the woman.

"And I thought I’ve heard everything!" exhaled Isabelle, who was the first to regain the power of speech.

"So, to achieve this heavenly bliss of yours, " slowly said Charlotte, "All you have to do is to hang yourself by the neck until you pass out?"

"That’s a pretty good summary," agreed the Comtesse.

Charlotte thought a little. "Hmm. Makes sense."

"It does? Why do you say that?"

"It’s just something I saw once. Two summers ago I was visiting my native town and saw a quadruple hanging. It was a gang of robbers, four handsome young men. They hung them in the main square; but before they strung them up they ripped all their clothes off..."

"Just like in the old days, huh," mused the Comtesse. "I thought the King forbade naked hanging."

"Where I am from they do it anyway," replied the girl. She continued. "I was near the gallows and could see everything clearly; once the boys started to dangle, I saw their rods grow to an enormous size. They swung back and forth, jerking around and stabbing the air with their cocks. Before long they were squirting so hard that one of the drops flew all the way to me and landed on my cheek – a lucky catch, my grandmother said."

Florence nodded energetically, "I remember, my Nanny once told me that hanged men have carnal intercourse with she-devils. I never understood what she meant, until now. Well, if hanged men make love to she-devils, then hanged women do it with he-devils," she added reasonably.

"Fucking with devils?" chuckled Isabelle, "That suits me perfectly. I am sure devils are much better lovers than mere mortals."

"Nanny also said," went on Florence, "that after the she-devil is done with her man she takes his soul. Now, everyone knows that when people die the soul flies out of their mouths; but not so with hanged men. Their throats are closed, so the she-devil has to pull their souls out of the opposite orifice. I always wondered, what if they hang a girl? Then the devil has a choice of two holes…"

"If I am ever executed by hanging," declared Isabelle, "My soul will go out of my cunt." She giggled. "That’s where it resides anyway!"

"Yes, it’s certainly true for a famous slut like you," laughed Charlotte. Isabelle gave her a mock-injured look.

Florence was horrified. "Please don’t blaspheme!"

"Oh, you and your silly beliefs," dismissed her Isabelle. " Try and read modern philosophers. All this talk about souls and devils is nothing more than superstition; if people really do enjoy swinging in the noose it must be due to various body humours and gases."

Smiling but saying nothing, the Comtesse listened to the girls’ banter. She had them just where she wanted; now, to give them a little push…

"It was great talking to you, ladies," she said aloud. "I have to go. A pity I missed the orgy but oh well. As you know, I have other ways of satisfying myself and that’s what I intend to do now. Have a wonderful day and even better night."

She turned as if to leave. Unexpectedly, it was Florence who called her first. "Madame, wait! Please wait! I’d like to learn more about this mysterious garden! Will you show it to me?"

"A garden of delights…" said Charlotte wistfully. She touched a certain spot on her cheek and straightened. "My lady, with your permission I’d like to join you."

Isabelle looked from one of her friends to the other and shrugged. "I don’t believe in this fairy tale about mystic gardens. But on the other hand, I tried all other perversions in the world, so why not this one? Count me in!"

"In this case, follow me," said Comtesse.

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out a key, which she used to unlock an unremarkable side door. She paused on the threshold, turned, and beckoned. Florence made a move to get the clothes but her friends pulled her after them.

"What do you need a dress for? Let’s go!"

The four of them descended a circular stairway, so narrow and tight that it could only be negotiated in a single file. The mistress of the house led the way, her shoes making rhythmic click-clicks and her long skirts trailing behind carelessly. In one hand she carried a two-candle candelabrum that provided feeble and unsteady light. The girls did their best to follow the older woman. The stone steps were cool on their bare feet but not uncomfortably so; still they had to tread cautiously, as the stairs were slippery with tiny drops of dew. Soon, the Comtesse was so far ahead that the girls had lost the sight of her around several bends; yet they could still see the light below and hear her voice, which in this small space was loud though somewhat distorted by stony echoes.

"You must be wondering how I learned about the erotic properties of hanging," the Comtesse was saying. "Well, it started when my childhood friend joined a convent… Have you heard about the order of St. Colomannus? No, I am sure you haven’t – it’s small and obscure, fewer than fifty nuns in the whole Europe. The remarkable thing about this order is that its members for centuries have been secretly practicing self-asphyxiation. They called it mortification of flesh, which it was, in a sense. Of course, the spirit was another matter but the Church hierarchy had never wised up to it. One evening, ten years ago, my friend came to visit; one thing led to another, and before I knew it, her hands were around my neck. That night she showed me the ropes, so to speak. Afterwards, we spent many pleasant hours hanging together until she was transferred to the Spanish chapter of the order. She told me that in Madrid the nuns prefer garrotte to the gallows; that’s something I haven’t tried yet… Anyway, remember that manuscript I was quoting from? It was written two hundred years ago by a prioress of St. Colomannus as a guide for novices. Yes, a woman wrote this thing for other women! Never mind the use of 'he', it’s just a figure of speech. And what a great treatise! Despite the flowery language it’s very practical and has plenty of good advice but it explains some basic mysteries, too. I learned a lot from it. For example, the good prioress tells us that, although erotic effects of asphyxiation are better visible on a male body, we girls feel them much stronger. She explains it by the differences in male an female natures: where a man strives to penetrate, a woman seeks to submit; and what submission could be more complete than when you give yourself to the loving embrace of a tight noose… Oh dear, I am chattering… am I boring you? It’s not going to be much longer because we are almost there."

And so they were. The stairway led into cobwebbed cellar that terminated in a row of rusty iron doors, which looked as though they haven't been used in decades. The Comtesse took out the same key she used before, unlocked one of the doors, and pushed it with all her strength. The door swung back on its corroded hinges with a bone-chilling whine.

"Welcome to my grim dungeon!" exclaimed the Comtesse.

What she called a dungeon was actually a large underground chamber, not grim at all but on the contrary, quite comfortable. It was clean, well lit, dry, and pleasantly warm thanks to a cozy fireplace built into the opposite wall. There was no furniture but the floor was strewn with layers of soft rugs, and the Comtesse immediately kicked off her shoes. After the hard cold stone under their feet the girls, too, were relieved to feel the rich softness of Persian weave.

"I love this place!" exclaimed Florence. She made a step, looked around, and gasped. "Oh my God! Who is that?"

One corner of the chamber was a cage, closed off with a thin but sturdy iron latticework. Inside it, on a rickety little stool, sat a stern-looking old man attired in the traditional painter's garb. Next to him was an easel with stretched blank canvass; a palette rested on his lap; and on all sides he was surrounded by arrays of brushes, pots of pigment, charcoal, and other attributes of his art.

"Oh, hello, Jean-Honoré" said the Comtesse, "You are earlier than usual today."

The man stood up and bowed.

"This is Monsieur Fragonard, a painter of some renown," explained the Comtesse, "I employ him to paint the events in this room. Florence, I like your modesty but you don’t have to hide your charms from Monsieur Fragonard: being a painter, he is quite used to the sight of naked girls."

"Is he… imprisoned?" asked Charlotte.

"Of course not! You can’t see it from this angle but there is a door behind him that leads straight to the garden. He is free to leave any time. What he cannot do is to come into this part of the room. No matter what happens, he cannot interfere – hence the cage! Now give him no more of your attention but please turn around and look over there."

The girls peered obediently in the direction that the Comtesse was pointing. There was not much to see there yet: the far side of the chamber was hidden behind a ceiling-high, wall-to-wall curtain. A few energetic strides, and the Comtesse stood right next to it. The woman could hardly contain herself; her face was shining; she almost danced with impatience and excitement.

She grabbed a handful of heavy velvet. "Behold my Bliss Machine!" she cried and with a dramatic gesture threw the curtain open.

Now that the place could be seen in its entirety, it became clear that in a previous life it was a small private theater. The curtain revealed a raised wooden stage complete with a prompter’s booth and the remains of old decorations; once upon a time this stage was used to perform plays; now, however, it was occupied by a baffling apparatus.

This hulking, insane-looking contraption reached halfway to the distant ceiling, yet it was more wide than it was tall. It was hard to make out its basic shape, as the thing was a sprawling, unbelievably complicated jumble of parts – the springs, the gears, the axles, the belts, the water vessels of various shapes and sizes connected by the glass tubes that joined, divided, and crossed each other at crazy angles. The machine was topped by six long, knobby metal rods that extended forward, spreading out fan-like, which made them look like six digits of an enormous skeletal hand. Each rod carried a system of pulleys and winches with large reels of fine rope attached at the tips; the reels were partially unwound, so the rope was hanging freely from the height, long enough to reach the ground and coil on the floor.

"You are looking at the one and only device for controlled asphyxiation, " said the Comtesse. "If you like, you can call it mechanical gallows. There is only one such machine in the world and I happened to own it. I wish I could tell more people about it; even though it accommodates six bodies, most of the time I use it alone. I always try to get my lovers to join me, but so far only a few took me on my offer… and, believe it or not, the ladies are much braver in this respect than most men… Anyway, let me show you how this thing works!"

She led her guests onto the stage. The girls carefully approached the looming machinery, which up close seemed even less comprehensible than at a distance.

"The machine is powered by running water, " said the Comtesse. "Do you see that huge copper cylinder near the top?" she pointed, "It’s the water barrel, which has to be filled before you start. For this purpose, one is supposed to use this hydraulic pump over here, but I just get my servants to haul buckets up a ladder. Once the barrel is full, the machine is ready to go. You pull a trigger mechanism, the barrel is unstoppered, and the water starts to flow. On its way down it rotates the drum."

The Comtesse tapped on the gleaming metal surface of a vertically mounted disk. It boomed in response, exactly like a real drum. "It's hollow inside," she explained. "Let me show you what it contains."

She opened a wooden screen and reached deep inside the mechanism. "Aha! Got it!" She pulled her hand out to show what she caught. Between her thumb and middle finger she held a white, walnut-sized ball – a faultless sphere carved out of the hardest African ivory and carefully polished.

"There are sixty-six of these balls in the drum, all perfectly identical" said the Comtesse. "After the drum makes two or three revolutions, a hole opens in its side and six balls fall through. These balls are guided by a system of grooves and pipes to six hidden levers, one for each crane. Now, if a lever is locked, the ball simply rolls past and eventually returns to the drum; nothing happens. This is why if you intend to use a crane you unlock its lever first."

The Comtesse led the girls to the rear of the stage and made them stand on all fours. "This is what a lever looks like," she pointed. By now, Charlotte's eyes were glazed over and Florence was barely suppressing a yawn. But Isabelle, who was mechanicaly inclined, burned with interest.

"I think I see what happens here!" she exclaimed excitedly. "A ball lands into a slot on one end of the lever and pushes that end down. The lever releases this gear over here, which... umm... lifts the noose somehow?"

"Very good! Yes, the released gear, through a system of pulleys, belts, and other gears, causes the running water to turn the block on top of a crane. The rope is wounded on the block, and whoever is standing under the crane is lifted into the air! But look at the other end of the lever. Do you see why it is shaped like a cup?"

"Not particularly."

"Simple. The cup serves as a counterweight. Right after the lever switches into the 'hanging' position the water starts to drip into the cup until it outweighs the ivory ball. Then the lever goes back to the horizontal position, the rope is unwound, and the hanging body is lowered to the floor! You can even choose how long you hang by regulating the speed of water with this dial."

"Amazing," remarked Charlotte in a dry, ironic tone.

"Well, it is an ingenious machine," answered the Comtesse levelly. "It was designed by one of my former lovers, who was a Navy engineer and a man of unusual sexual tastes. I am sorry to say that he killed himself in one of his mad experiments: somehow, he made lightning flow through his genitals and it proved too much even for him. But I see you are getting impatient, so how about a little demonstration?"

Florence instantly perked up. "A demonstration?"

"Yes, yes, certainly!" put in Charlotte.

The Comtesse hurried back to the front. She unlocked a lever and made an adjustment to the time dial, then stood under one of the cranes. Bending gracefully, she picked up an end of the coiled rope, quickly made a competent noose, and put it on her neck.

"Oh, how I love the feel of soft rope against my skin!" she crooned to herself, tightening the knot.

She seemed to recall the existence of her guests. "Ladies, do you see that chain?" she asked them. "It’s the trigger. Now, which one of you will give me a favor of pulling it?"

No one moved.

"Fine, I’ll do it myself!"

There was the sudden rush of water and a loud banging of balls inside the drums. A few seconds later the banging stopped.

"Like a clockwork!" exclaimed the Comtesse. "The drum had stopped turning, and now… did you hear that knock? That was my ball falling into its place. So the next step is… aha! there goes the rope! But I have to wait before I hang: it takes time to remove all this slack. Oh how I love this delicious anticipation; it make me hot already! And now, look closely; I am about to go up. Sweet suffocation, here I come!"

The rope tugged at her neck, squeezing and stretching it; she was forced to stand on her toes for a second or two, then she was hoisted up in the air. She sluggishly swung back and forth, turned this way and that; her bare feet dangled just inches above the floor, and the long train of her skirt swept the floorboards in time with the lazy rhythm of her swaying. The noose made her head tilt sharply to the side messing up her hair. The Comtesse did not look like she was enjoying the experience: her eyes were tightly shut, teeth clenched, mouth frozen in a grimace of pained consternation, and the veins on her throat bulged blue. She never moved a limb, but her face was getting progressively redder until it was had assumed a scary, unnatural shade of scarlet; at one point she tried to take a breath but all it got her was a convulsion and a slightly more energetic swaying.

Something clicked inside the apparatus, and the rope started to pay out. The woman was lowered to the ground. When her feet touched the floor, the noose was instantly undone and the rope fell freely next to her body. She staggered but stood on her own for several heartbeats; then her knees buckled and she collapsed into a heap.

"Oh my God, the Comtesse is dying!" cried Florence.

The girls moved to help. Florence had laid the seemingly unconscious woman on the back while Isabelle and Charlotte fumbled with the dress laces. The Comtesse's face was almost as red as it has been when she was strangling in the noose but now that feverish redness spread to her chest and shoulders. Her breath was raspy, shallow, and much too rapid; she opened her mouth as if to say something but the only sound that came out of her throat was a piteous moan.

"She is getting worse!" panicked Florence.

"No, no! I am alright," croaked the lying woman without opening her eyes.

"Don't you see?... I am... coming..."

She placed her left hand between her legs and began to rub herself shamelessly. Sweat poured down her temples. Her moans grew louder, and now the air was full of sharp feminine odor. She shuddered, arched her back, and made a piercing cry that echoed from the walls. Then she relaxed with a content smile.

"I've seen a woman come before," muttered Isabelle, "I should've recognized the signs."

Charlotte whistled and gave the Comtesse an incredulous stare, "All this, after hanging for twenty seconds? I am quite impressed!"

"Oh, this was nothing," The older woman shrugged dismissively. "I wasn’t swinging long enough to climax properly, so I had to finish myself by hand afterwards. But if I remained in the noose for a minute or more I would have had an orgasm right in the air! Or two orgasms, or three… I doubt you'd notice that – all you'd see would be a few slight convulsions of my legs and stomach and perhaps some moisture around the pussy – but for me the experience would've been a hundred times more enjoyable."

"Do you suppose it will be the same for us?" asked Florence.

"Certainly, if you do it right."

"Then I say let us hang without delay!" declared the girl. She looked at her friends’ faces, "I think I speak for everyone here."

Isabelle nodded vigorously and made the thumb-under-the-chin noose sign. "Yes, and let us hang ten times as long!" exclaimed Charlotte with unexpected passion.

The Comtesse was taken aback. "Ladies, you have to be careful! Subjecting yourself to this for too long is not safe!"

"Safe?" repeated Isabelle contemptuously. "Ha! Who wants to be safe?"

"There has to be danger, or there is no excitement," explained Florence, "Take me, for example. I came to the orgy being afraid of, but hoping for, a gang of rogues who would treat me like a dirty whore. It made me tingle to imagine the debauchery. But what I saw instead was a congregation of civil gentlemen who were so courteous that their lovemaking felt much like a marriage bed…"

"…In other words, boring," interrupted Charlotte. "Please Comtesse, this may be our last chance to escape boredom!"

The woman smiled tolerantly. "Ah, the impetuousness of youth. I was just like that myself, years ago. Did you know that after I hung myself the first time it took the nuns a whole night to revive me?"

The girls begged in unison, "Please, Madame, please."

"Well, I can see you point," conceded the Comtesse, "Still, hanging for too long is not a good idea. It could kill you; or worse, it could cripple you for life. But, if you really want danger and excitement, there is another, clean way."

The Comtesse opened a hidden compartment in the machine and produced a small mahogany box. Inside, resting on a black velvet pillow laid a shiny ball, a twin to the ivory balls inside the drum, except that it was made of brightly polished, reddish-yellow metal.

"This is the golden ball," said Comtesse, "It is the same size as the other balls, only much, much heavier. If you mix it with the others, and it happens to fall onto a lever, no amount of water can outweigh it. Thus, the noose will never be lowered, and the unlucky girl will remain hanging until she dies. Do you want to do this?"

The girls’ eyes lit up.

"Ooh, a death lottery! I like it!" said Isabelle.

"Definitely not boring," agreed Charlotte.

Florence hesitated. "I’d love to do it but I would hate to lose one of you."

"How sweet," responded Charlotte with only a tiny trace of sarcasm in her voice.

"Don’t worry about me," said Isabelle merrily, "I plan to end my life on the scaffold anyway. So, are you in?"

Florence nodded. "We are ready," said Charlotte addressing the Comtesse.

"Very well." The Comtesse removed an ivory ball from the drum and tossed it in a corner. Next, she replaced it with the golden ball and turned to the girls. "I have to say that I haven't used the golden ball myself: the older you get, the less brave you become. But you had inspired me; I decided to join you." She waited for the applause to die down. "Now, for the final preparations."

She picked up a small basket and distributed its contents – soft leather strips, four inches wide. "Wrap this around your necks before you hang – I neglected it in my haste; now I have to wear collars to hide this ugly red imprint."

While the girls did that, the Comtesse sat on the floor tying four nooses. She straightened. "All’s ready. Ladies, come here and put on these on. Place the knots behind you right ear. Later on you can experiment with other positions but now you’ll have to listen to me."

She paced in front of the three noosed girls like an officer in front the troops. "There is something that I have to teach you about hanging." She extended her hand and touched Florence's throat tracing her finger from the chin down to the breastbone. "Your delicate necks are not used to such stretching," she said to her and to the others. "There will be pain but you must ignore it. It will go away soon. Conserve your strength. Do not try to reach the floor and do not try to inhale: it is futile and will only cause you to expend your energy. Do not fight the noose. The noose is your friend and your lover, let it embrace you gently and hold you tight. And above all, do not panic! Fear chases away joy and invites misery; so empty your mind and do not be afraid, or you will not enter the Garden."

The Comtesse looked at the girls, who stared back at her, eyes wide as saucers. She laughed at their expressions. "Did I scare you? Trust me, it’s not so bad. Oh, how I envy you! To hang for the first time… to experience these indescribable sensations for the first time… But enough words. Let’s swing!"

She stepped to the vacant spot next to Florence, lifted the fourth noose from the floor, and put it on. Now they all stood in a row facing the front of the stage – three nude girls and a sumptuously dressed but barefoot older woman.

"One, two, three... Pull!"

Four winches started to turn.

Florence was watching the rope as a rabbit watches an approaching snake. She was visibly trembling.

"Got cold feet, little girl?" sneered at her Isabelle, "It's not too late for you to get out of here and go play with dolls."

"Shut up, Isabelle," said Charlotte in a quiet but unsteady voice. "You're just trying to cover your own nervousness."

Florence attempted an indignant look but her heart wasn’t in it. "I am just a bit cold, that's all," she protested, "It only looks like I am afr—"

She was interrupted by the noose. As the shortest of the four, Florence was lifted off the ground first; an instant later it was Isabelle’s turn, with the Comtesse quickly following. The tall Charlotte was the last whose feet were separated from the floor. Four short gulps, one after another, escaped four closing throats. The only sounds one could hear after that were merrily tinkling of running water, busy scratching of charcoal on paper, and soft creaking of iron beams burdened with the weight of four swaying bodies.

The Comtesse quickly settled into the familiar routine. She knew what to do now: clench the teeth to prevent yourself from biting your tongue but let the other muscles relax; let the rope have it way with your neck; watch the pretty colored spots before your eyes and wait for the glorious feeling of drunkenness; then climax as hard as you can until you are embraced by sweet blackness. It was hard to think about anything outside her own body but she had to see how her charges were doing.

The woman opened her eyes and moved the pupils to the side. She no longer had the freedom to turn her head but from a corner of an eye she could see her gallows mates. It was a pandemonium. The inexperienced girls were twisting, flailing their limbs, and trying to grab the rope; they swayed wildly, shaking the whole structure; they often hit or scratched themselves and each other. Isabelle was the worst of the lot: she applied herself to the gallows dance with the same manic energy she applied to anything else she did.

"They move too much," thought the Comtesse hazily. "I should've bound their arms and legs." She closed her eyes and threw herself into the rising waters of the ocean of joy. Swimming in its dark waves, drowning in pleasure, she altogether forgot about the girls.

After a while, everyone quieted down. Isabelle still made various figures of unspeakable indecency; but Charlotte and Florence only jerked their legs as though trying to kick their invisible demon lovers. One by one the girls went limp, and a careful observer could see that their pussies were now dripping a viscous liquid. The Comtesse, who was adept at keeping herself aware while strangling, lost consciousness the last.

Four female bodies stood on air in a neat line like soldiers on parade: arms stretched along the sides, feet slightly apart, heads tilted in the same exact angle and direction as though they were making some kind of a bizarre salute. Occasional sudden spasms or tremors did not subtract from the tranquility of the scene. At last, the time was up. Loud knocks – one, two, three of them – came from the inside of the machine. Three winches started to turn, and three nerveless bodies began their slow descent toward land of the living. The fourth winch, however, did not even budge. Water continued to pour into the now useless cup until it overflowed, creating little waterfall.

The golden ball had claimed its sacrifice.

The next tableau was immortalized in a well-known, anonymous painting titled "Bad Luck." Three pleasure-seekers were spread on the floor in random yet lasciviously picturesque poses; they were unconscious and seemingly asleep. Above them floated the body of the fourth, who too seemed to be sleeping but really was strangled to death – gone beyond all help, never to breathe again, never to open her eyes. Death smoothed her features almost to the point of puffiness. Her breasts and stomach were touched by soft light that made the skin glow with unearthly whiteness; but owning to suffocation, her face was dark. She simply hung there with neither want nor care, beautiful and inert at the same time, like a personification of Murdered Innocence; and her expression reflected both the pain and the satisfaction she experienced while dying.

At last, someone stirred. Young Florence was the first who had come to her senses. When she managed to focus her eyes she gasped: the first thing she saw were the soles of two bare feet suspended right above her face. She crawled away from under them and lifted her head to look at the lifeless form… then gave out an abrupt hysteric shriek followed by a wail of despair.

Poor unlucky Charlotte was always complaining about boredom. Now, swaying peacefully at the end of a noose, she would never be bored again.

EPILOGUE

Florence and Isabelle were devastated and they never stopped mourning their friend. Nevertheless, the very next week they returned to the Comtesse’s house and once again put on the nooses. They continued to come week after week and with time, they became quite adept at using the Bliss Machine.

And they were no longer quite so alone. The girls had many acquaintances, some of which were willing to try new thing. Thus, Florence and Isabelle, together with the Comtesse, became the core of a secret club that was named, naturally, "Société de la Boule d'or." The society was very democratic: its members counted among themselves nobles and commoners, young maidens and respectable matrons, and even, just for laughs, a few men.

They gathered in the same underground theater that housed the Bliss Machine. The Comtesse, who was always presiding over these meetings, invariably opened the night by choosing a man, ordering him to strip naked in front of the whole assembly, and stringing him up by his neck. Watching a man's cock grow in size immensely while its owner floundered in the air was a favorite warm-up show for the ladies.

Next item on the agenda was the pledge ceremony for the new members. The ceremony was extremely simple: all aspiring members who came forward were required to repeat the words of the oath while they stood on chairs with nooses around their necks. At the end of the ceremony the chairs were removed.

This done, the company entertained itself by setting up a grand debate (which, at the time, was considered a fashionable party amusement.) The Comtesse would choose a relevant topic, like "Who has more enjoyable time on the gallows, a skinny girl or a heavier, curvaceous woman?" or "Can a wife use asphyxiation as a way to alleviate her husband's impotence?" The debaters presented their case and the winners were decided by a general vote. The punishment for the losers was hanging, and that was also the reward for the winning side.

As time went by, the topics of the debates were becoming more and more political. This was happening at Isabelle’s instigation. Isabelle read pamphlets and was full of modern ideas; she participated in each political debate, and no matter the issue at hand, always delivered an impassioned tirade against monarchy full of violent threats. After every such diatribe, she would be "arrested" and mock-tried, the "trials" invariably ending with her conviction for treason and humiliating hanging.

After that was over, it was free for all, as the women waited for their turn on the Bliss Machine. Even though the Society was named after the Golden Ball the thing itself was not often deployed: it was not easy to get the Society leaders to allow it, Florence being the most adamant. Yet there were plenty of volunteers seeking the ultimate excitement, and over time the golden ball claimed the lives of several members. Some of these were quite important – a General's wife, a daughter of a foreign Ambassador – but the Comtesse had connections in places so high that the scandals were suppressed. The gatherings went on and grew in size, until even six cranes were not enough to accommodate all who wanted to hang in a single night. A new, bigger Bliss Machine had been commissioned; it featured long crossbeam with seventeen hooks. When each of these hooks was occupied by a naked, quivering, pink and purple body, the scene called to mind the insides of a butcher shop.

These weekly games continued in their happy innocence, but then History intervened. The Revolution, which all talked about but no one truly expected, was suddenly real. The King was overthrown and later beheaded, and a new, cruel Republic was born. At first, the regular Society meetings were not much affected, but after a while the members began to disappear one by one. Without any warning or explanation they simply stopped coming. In the end only a handful of members would show up for a meeting, and the club was officially disbanded.

Two months after that the Comtesse was arrested. Her connections could not save her now: she was thrown in jail where she was tortured for two weeks. A Revolutionary tribunal judged her to the Enemy of the People and sentenced her to death. Next morning the Comtesse was guillotined on Place de la Concorde. Her headless trunk was thrown into a ditch together with fifty other corpses of men and women executed that day. Even then the poor woman's torments did not end: after the fall of darkness all her clothes were stolen and her still beautiful body unspeakably violated by a gang of night creeps.

Isabelle welcomed the Revolution with an open heart. Disguised as a boy, she took part is street battles and often gave fiery speeches to the crowds, and on one such occasion she was noticed by Marat. She quickly became his lover, and then the lover of all the important Jacobins, and although she never sought to promote herself, she was offered a choice of positions at the service of the Republic. Isabelle refused them all, only asking permission to perform executions: apparently, it was her dream career all along. By a sordid stroke of fortune it was Isabelle who was forced to decapitate the Comtesse. Isabelle hugged her friend and mentor and cried a lot, but the duty to the Republic was above all personal concerns. After it was over Isabelle picked up the severed head and, to the consternation of her assistants, kissed the dead lips.

Next day, Isabelle resigned her post and demanded to be sent to the provinces. Her request was granted and she spent the next three months fighting Vendée as a common soldier. One moonless night she blundered off the path, got lost, and was captured by the rebels. To them she looked more like a frightened young girl than a warrior and they almost let her go, but one of the rebel commanders, a former Parisian, recognized in her the feared Jacobin executioner and Marat's lover. Isabelle was beaten severely, raped by dozens of men, and then, half-dead but still barely conscious, strung up from a nearest tree. A note was pinned to the pitiful tatters that were the remains of her clothes; it read, "I hang because I was a Republican whore."

Florence had the foresight to flee the country before the worst of Terror. She spent a year in Austria, then another two years in Poland and Russia, and ended her travels in Istanbul, where she converted to Islam and was given a new name, Fatima. She married a rich and important Pasha who loved her so much that he forgave her lack of virginity. She made their conjugal bed a very happy place: French woman will always remain French, even when she is a Mohammedan.

Their bliss did not last. One year after the wedding, the Pasha was accused of a conspiracy to assassinate the Sultan. He and his young wife were seized and thrown into dungeon. After a quick but painful interrogation Florence-Fatima was told that she would be executed in the morning; with tears in her eyes she begged for a civilized manner of death but all her pleas fell of deaf ears. At the first crack of dawn she was taken to a closed courtyard. The Sultan and his Viziers were present for the entertainment, and her husband was forced to watch too, how Fatima was stripped naked, lifted bodily by two large Janissaries, and slowly impaled on a greased wooden stake. She lived for hours afterwards and was conscious long enough to see the Pasha’s other wives share her fate, and then the Pasha himself join them on his own stake.

Charlotte was long dead by then. "Bad Luck," was the title of the painting that depicted her death, but perhaps bad luck was not Charlotte’s. Her friends were spared that night only to meet horrible ends years later; and before they died, they all had time to remember and envy her. In truth, Charlotte was the luckiest of them all.

October 2006 – March 2007