The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels

SCRATCH by Nikki Dillon

The Devil is a lot of things to me and my four housemates: he’s our boyfriend, our employer, and our master. For the rest of the world, he’s a fashion photographer known as Scratch – a middle-aged man with deformed eyes and a few unusual physical abnormalities, which may or may not be the product of plastic surgery. His signature appears on the upper right-hand corner of each of his photos, in lurid red. It’s blood, according to Scratch. He develops only thirteen prints of every picture and, supposedly, burns the negatives in an occult ritual involving goats.

We’ve never seen a goat around here, though there was a Doberman chained up in the basement – with Gregory – for three or four days last February. Gregory never complains about anything, but the dog whined and barked incessantly. Scratch gave it away to one of the production assistants.

Most people assume that the Devil thing’s a gimmick. And it works. One of his early photos sold last week in London, at an auction, for half a million bucks. As usual, Scratch will give a chunk of that money to controversial theatre troupes and undiscovered artists. His detractors say he needs the tax break.

Those of us who sleep with him know why he gives away his cash.

Money is what attracts us.

We’re his slaves.

Scratch shoots photos for fashion spreads and slick magazine ads. Designer suits. Designer handbags. Designer lingerie. Financial success has ruined his reputation. Last year, before his retrospective at the Whitney, there was an article in the New York Times about him. It quoted an anonymous curator who called Scratch “a third-rate photographer turned con-man”.

In any case, I believe Scratch is who he claims to be. I’ve stroked the two stubby hard lumps on his scalp. Covered by his thinning hair, they’re located half an inch behind his pointed ears. I’ve had my neck scratched by his claws and my foot stepped on by one of his cloven hooves. It sure feels real to me.

The five of us live with Scratch here in Milan, Italy, where his photography studio is based. He owns this four-storey building – a squat, ochre-coloured structure on the waterfront by the navigli, canals. The neighborhood, once working class, is in vogue with fashion insiders. Gregory thinks it’s so hip and romantic. The rest of us are less convinced. I admit I liked the place when I first arrived here last November. The cobblestoned streets were covered in a thick fog, then, and I couldn’t see too clearly. Also, I was more or less delirious.

I had an idea that I was going to get rich,

When it comes to money, I am stupid.

Before Scratch took me to Milan, I’d lived in New York City for nine years. There, I’d led the humbling, wretched existence of an aspiring novelist. I’d been marginally employed as a freelance copywriter for a publishing company that specialized in coloring books. My wages were laughable, so low that I took perverse pride in them. I’d cite the figure to well-dressed, overpaid acquaintances. I enjoyed their stunned reaction.

“How do you survive in New York?” they’d gasp, sounding horrified.

“I guess I have a masochistic streak”, I’d say, joking. (It seemed funny, then.) By the time I turned thirty, I’d developed the self-deprecating and slightly paranoid personality of an outsider. My career had showed some early promise, as the saying goes, but was failing to materialize. Mysteriously, one by one, my friends had been absorbed by the middle class. They joined up with that amorphous group, Professionals. I could no longer follow their conversation; it was filled with jargon. As far as I was concerned, they did vague things, in conference rooms, that concerned computers, the law, and television. They owned houses and apartments, furniture, and matching plates. They acquired husbands, wives and children. I saw how they eyed my second-hand clothes, and watched me count out dimes from my change purse to pay for drinks. They’d invite me over to their four-bedroom colonial houses in the suburbs to feed me what I thought of as a “pity dinner”. In my apartment, I dined on toast and instant soup.

By the time I met Scratch, I’d written two “literary” novels: Miracle at the 23rd Street Laundromat and Odor of the Swamp.

Needless to say, I couldn’t sell them for my life.

Four days after I hooked up with him, Scratch handed my landlady a cheque from a Swiss bank and removed me from my roach-infested, one-room apartment on West 121st Street, where drug dealers convened on one street corner and drunken vagrants on another. He hired three handsome moving men to pack up my belongings and ship them to Milan. They called me “Ms. Bellamy”, and they handled my chipped coffee mugs and paperbacks as if they were priceless, wrapping every object, including my sneakers, in a sheet of newspaper, cushioned by shreds of white Styrofoam which they referred to as “the snow”.

The day before we left New York, Scratch took me shopping at Barney’s, the trendoid department store. It was cold out, so he bought me a red vinyl baseball cap with fleece-lined earflaps. Now I keep it on the windowledge in the studio, in my office alcove, next to the futon mattress which I unfold at night to sleep on. I don’t wear it much, and I never wanted it in the first place.

It cost Scratch $248.00.

It’s a number I remember, because it was my weekly salary at Dunn and Bradworth Publishing Co.

Fucking price tag. It impressed me.

I work for Scratch eight hours a day, seven days a week. My desk is a card table equipped with a portable computer in an alcove. I’m separated from the photography studio by a wall of rectangular glass bricks. Back in New York, Scratch and I made a deal to produce a book which would wind up on the bestseller list, or even lead to a lucrative Hollywood movie option. In exchange for room, board, a one-way plane ticket and that useless shopping trip to Barney’s, Scratch commissioned me to write a book based on his character. I’m supposed to be his first official, authorized biographer, with exclusive access to his correspondence and private papers.

Unfortunately, the book I’m writing sucks.

It’s a fictionalized biography, or what Scratch calls “bio-fic”. The working title is I, Satan. But Scratch refuses to tell me anything about himself. So I have to take wild guesses and tell lies.

When I objected to doing that, Scratch lost his temper. “Don’t be an idiot!” he yelled, stamping the floor with the heel of his motorcycle boot. “Make it up. That’s what you’re here for, stupid girl.” It was one of the few times I’ve seen him lose control. Usually, he keeps his voice low. Scratch often smiles when he’s angry.

My relationship with him is fairly twisted.

I expected that, I guess.

“Candles are in”, Scratch told the four of us this morning. He looked up from the latest edition of Italian Vogue. We were all sitting at the long dining table, eating our usual breakfast of bread and water. Some of us – including me – were allowed to have a cup of instant coffee. Katrina, the Austrian dancer, was feasting on scrambled eggs and a slice of toast with butter. The rest of us, half-starving, were trying not to watch her eat. My mouth was watering, and I knew that, when she performed for Scratch last night, he’d liked her choreography, for a change. Probably, she’d gotten laid in some way which was pleasurable instead of humiliating or painful. That’s part of the reward when he approves.

By now, most of us prefer the food.

“Children!” Scratch was saying. We don’t have any candles, do we?” He was sounding mighty anxious.

None of us looked at him. We all stared down at our plates, like we were fascinated by the geometric pattern on the ceramic pottery, and concentrated on swallowing and chewing.

“Alexandra, dear?” he said,

My heart sinks when he calls my name. I have no idea why he drags me into these discussions. I could care less about what’s “hot”.

“Yes, sir?” I said, trying to sound interested, instead of scared. I’m scared of Scratch. I wish I weren’t. But I am.

“Alex, don’t you think we need some candles in this house? After all, we’re the fashion vanguard. Aren’t we?” He looked stricken. The thought of being less than “cutting-edge” terrifies Scratch. At heart, he’s a wimp. That doesn’t change the power dynamics much.

“Please look at me, Alexandra. I’m tired of the back of your head. That’s better, honey. If candles are in a mainstream glossy like Vogue… what does that say to you?”

“I dunno, sir. Not my area. I’m arts and letters. Remember, sir?” I tried to sneer at him, to show a grain of irreverence. I do that every now and then, as a mark of self-respect. Usually, I’m as subservient as possible. We all are. That’s the job.

“Can’t it only mean one thing, Alex? Aren’t we a step behind the trend? Or, even… Oh, no! Have we missed the trend, my slavegirl? Are candles over, do you think?”

I bit my lip. If I said “Yes”, he’d punish Gregory.

But if I said “No”, he’d punish me.

I tried to hedge. “Candles”, I said in a tone that I hoped was deeply contemplative, as if I were mulling over a Zen koan. “Candles.”

That’s the way we’ve all learned to talk to Scratch. We repeat whatever he says. He might walk into the studio and announce, “Platform shoes.” And we’ll all try to seem surprised and look at one another, frowning and nodding like we’d never heard of platform shoes before. Each of us will say “Platforms”, with as much passion as we can muster. After a minute or so, you just hear this chorus of “Platforms, platforms.” Or neck scarves, or slave bracelets, or tattoos, or whatever.

It works, sometimes.

Anyway, all he did this morning was to send Gregory out to Dolce and Gabbana’s new housewares shop on Via della Spiga to buy four dozen scented candles. Gregory was delighted. Scratch hadn’t let him out of the basement for a month. He’s been down there since the Rust Incident.

The studio has a pungent odor at the moment, because Scratch recently bought a year’s supply of herbal oils. The house is filled with black ironwork lanterns, floor pillows, pottery and tiles. Scratch redecorates the whole place twice a year.

This season, the key word is “Morocco”.

If you’re Scratch, Morocco means black ironwork lanterns, floor pillows, pottery, and – on the floors and walls – Moroccan tiles.

If you’re Scratch, Morocco means blue, yellow and rust. That’s the colour scheme. It’s Morocco. Morocco’s “in”.

The glass inside the lanterns casts splotches of coloured light onto the tiled floors.

That light is blue, yellow and red.

Red glass. Red. Not rust.

If you’re Scratch, that mistake is very bad.

If you’re Gregory, it’s a disaster.

“Rust,” Scratch told us at breakfast one day last month. It was our first Moroccan morning – right after the Moroccan redecoration project had been completed. We were eating bread served on handmade Moroccan pottery. In a mood of celebration which turned out to be premature, we were sipping tea from handpainted Moroccan mugs.

Scratch turned to each of us and addressed us, mournfully, in turn. “Rust, Matthew,” he said. “Katrina, slavegirl, rust. Rust, Tomas, my dear young slaveboy. Alex. Sweetslave. Rust?”

“Rust,” I answered, in my most consoling tone.

“Rust, rust,” we all began to murmur.

The only one who didn’t say anything was Gregory. He sat there, biting his lips and getting pale.

Gregory has a degree in architecture. Interior decoration is his area.

We tried saying “rust” for a while, but our voices got softer and softer. It wasn’t working, and we knew it.

Gregory got up from the table and went down into the basement. Scratch followed. The rest of us trembled and kept quiet.

Gregory screamed all morning long. I couldn’t get a word written. There was no place to hide. He could be heard on every floor. By eleven o’clock, we were all in tears. Even the models and the hairdressers, who don’t usually give a shit about anyone. We had to put on our headphones and turn the volume on our CD Walkmans up to ten.

At noon, the screaming stopped. Scratch came upstairs and strolled into the studio. His face was flushed. He threw himself down on the yellow leather couch and began to inspect his claws, which are painted blue. He put one in his mouth and chewed on it, sighing contentedly.

We took our CD Walkmans off and got to work.

Gregory cried for hours afterwards. We each took turns sneaking down the back stairs to see him. He had a black eye and his chest and back were covered with blood. A piece of his left nipple was missing. Scratch had torn out his nipple ring. Aside from that, he looked all right. It wasn’t half as bad as the time Gregory stuck his nose into the fashion end of things and advised Scratch to shave off his goatee.

I untied Gregory’s hands and tried to put some disinfectant on his tit, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured me, “I’ll be okay.”

I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose.

“I wish I hadn’t let him down like that”, he said. “His approval means a lot to me, Alex. I respect him.”

I left him to himself, since I had half a chapter to finish before sunset – and I was still recovering from the night before, when I hadn’t met my deadline. We all gave up on Gregory a long time ago. Getting punished can be confusing, but Gregory actually likes Scratch. That’s what’s so pathetic.

Then again, Gregory’s under more pressure than some of us. Architecture and design are more important to Scratch than anything in print. I never get more than bruises and bloody welts. Tomas, the Brazilian painter who lives on the ground floor, gets whipped regularly, too. Katrina, the dancer from Vienna, claims she gets a sharpened stick up her ass, but we doubt the veracity of that. Even Scratch has limits.

Matthew, an American sculptor who lives on the top floor, in the penthouse, has had his arms and face cut up with razor blades half a dozen times. Apparently, he was letting people do that to him before he got here. Out of all of us, I’d say Matthew gets along best with Scratch. Not counting the fashion people, obviously. They don’t live with us. They’re only at the studio during the day, from ten to six.

No one knows what Scratch does to them. Whatever it is, it doesn’t happen on the premises. The models and the makeup artists, the production assistants and the stylists have all got their own apartments. When it comes to fashion, Scratch makes housecalls.

I was an easy mark for Scratch. Since adolescence, I’ve had a weakness for melodrama and bad men: guys who everyone knows will be unfaithful, the ones who radiate danger, talk you into selling heroin, or ask you to sleep with their best friends so they can watch.

I got interested in Scratch’s grainy old black-and-white photographs long before I ever knew him personally, around the time I moved to New York City from Pittsburgh after college. I loved the crooked camera angles. I loved the sweatstains and the smeared mascara. I loved the hint of perversion and decay. In the old days, Scratch wasn’t selling anything. Aside from that, his work’s unchanged. What he’s best known for now are the magazine ads which, as he puts it, “push the buttons, just so far”. Like the series he did for Ferragosto shoes, with the cop, the nun, and a pair of slingback sandals. He won an award for that one.

About Scratch himself, I’d only heard rumours. I’d been told that he was wanted by the FBI for pandering, and that he had Mafia connections. What intrigued me, though, were the reports that he gave money to the arts. Stories floated around about artists and writers who’d had chance encounters with Scratch. They’d described their projects to him. He’d given them money, based on the “concept”, in advance.

I met Scratch in SoHo the night after my thirtieth birthday. I was in a crowded bar on Prince Street. I saw him from across the room and didn’t recognize him. The newspapers keep running a retouched photo of him, so I didn’t know exactly what he looked like. Even though he was wearing dark glasses, and he was wrinkled and balding, some part of me must have understood that it was him. An excited shiver ran through me when I looked in his direction. I walked across the room and stood a few paces away from him, at the bar. He was flanked by a tall, sun-tanned couple, dressed identically in velvet, They were too gorgeous to be considered human.

When I heard the gorgeous woman call the older guy “Scratch”, I knew what I had to do. I was ready for it. I took three long strides – as slinkily as possible – in the direction of the Devil.

I undid a couple of my shirt buttons.

No results. He kept on talking to the Gorgeous Creatures.

I propped one high-heeled boot on the rung of a bar stool.

Still, nothing.

I hiked my skirt up and ran my hand along my thigh.

Scratch glanced in my direction.

Suggestively, I ran the tip of my tongue across my upper lip.

Bingo.

A moment later, he moved to the empty bar stool right beside me, making that Darth Vader wheezing sound I’d read about. He huddled over his beer, hunching his shoulders with his head down, so that I couldn’t see his face. He searched his pockets, took out a velvet ski cap, and put it on, pulling it down low over his forehead.

He was acting like he didn’t want to be recognized. It’s the same game Scratch always plays.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, coming up behind him. “May I ask you something?”

He pushed his sunglasses down on his nose.

“Yes, dear?” he said. “Ask.”

I looked straight into those eyes, the long-lashed eyes that resemble a cow’s – dark brown, without a pupil or an iris. I’d read descriptions of them in People magazine.

I leaned forward and whispered in his hairy pointed ear. “Are you Scratch, the fashion photographer?”

“Why do you ask that, darling?” he whispered back, so that I felt his breath on my neck. “If I were, what difference would it make?”

“Well, sir, you’d get a decent blow job out of it, for one thing.”

He smiled, wanly. “In that case, my dear, old Scratch would be inclined to answer yes.”

I grabbed him by the arm and led him to the men’s room. A guy was pissing in there. He nodded “hi” at us. We nodded back while we walked into a stall. I sat down on the lid of the toilet. Scratch undid his pants and pulled out a flaccid dick. I licked its shaft twice, slowly.

Limp.

I gave his head a tongue kiss.

Nothing.

I slurped his whole worm down my throat.

Bingo. An erection.

I proceeded to treat Scratch to a lengthy session of deep-throating. I nearly gagged twice, but both times I kept it to myself, recovered quickly, and bounced right back in there. By the time Scratch started to whimper, tears were running down my face and my chin was full of drool. I slugged back a tablespoonful of cum.

For the record, Scratch’s cock is a hammerhead, bulbous at the end, and I’d say about five inches when erect.

“Haven’t I seen you on TV?” Scratch asked me, when I stood up. He was zipping up his fly. “You’re an actress, aren’t you?”

I rolled my eyes at this old line. Scratch didn’t notice, luckily. “No, sir, I’m not an actress.”

“What a shame. You could be one, you know. You belong among the world’s young beauties.”

What he meant was, he liked the way I sucked his cock.

“Thank you, sir. You’re exaggerating.”

“No, dear. Beauty has nothing to do with what you look like. It’s all lighting and cosmetics.”

“Oh.” Full of flattery, Scratch is. What a guy.

“Are you a dancer, then? A video artist? Let me guess.”

“I’m an emerging writer, sir.”

“An unknown author,” he sighed. “How pitiful. Most unfortunate. Not much money in that these days.”

“You said it, sir”, I agreed. I unlatched the stall door and walked over to the sink. Scratch stood beside me, while I washed my hands and face. At the urinals across the room, two guys pretended to ignore us.

“Unless, of course, you have a marketable concept.” He held the door open for me. “Do you, child? What’s your name?”

“Alexandra Bellamy. Call me Alex if you want, sir.”

“Do you have a marketable concept, young Alex who sucks off strangers in the men’s room?”

“You bet I have a concept. And, sir, I’m anxious to sell it.”

“I thought you might be. Shall we go someplace quiet to discuss it?”

“Sure thing, sir. Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Scratch came to a stop in the middle of the hallway and extended his hand, formally. I shook it, checking to see if his fingers were covered with fur, like I’d read, but he was wearing velvet gloves.

(“Velvet! Sad news, young friends. It’s history. I’m thinking nylon. Aren’t you, my little sweetslaves?”)

He looked down at his heavy silver wristwatch. “My club should be open for another hour or two. Shall we?”

We made our way past the tables. I felt totally at ease. It was as if I’d just jumped out of an airplane and discovered I could fly.

I wasn’t scared of Scratch. Not yet.

As we approached the exit, I turned towards the bar and saw the tall couple in dark sunglasses watching us, a crestfallen expression on their perfect faces.

“Go to hell, Gorgeous Creatures,” I thought. Scratch would rather fuck me.

“Hey, old dude. Are you who I think you are?” said a voice when we stepped outside into the crisp November air. Three guys in tattered overcoats were gathered together, looking hopeful.

Scratch narrowed his eyes. “That depends. Who do you think?”

One, who seemed to be their spokesperson, stepped forward. “You’re the most innovative cultural force in the Western world,” he said. He had bleached blonde hair which fell into his eyes. His face was partially hidden by black beard stubble.

Scratch took off his sunglasses. He gave the supplicant a thorough looking-over. It took him all of two seconds. Then he put his sunglasses back on.

“Dude, my name is Sand Dune”, said the doomed young man, hurriedly. A stream of words poured forth as he pitched his concept to the Devil. “I’m a performance artist from LA and I’ve got a devoted cult following and now I’d like to compromise myself and whatever artistic values I have left. I don’t want to shake the establishment up any more because I’m tired and I’m hungry and more importantly I want a car, so I’d rather be fistfucked and eat shit in exchange for money, Hey, dude? You listening? Lemme introduce my company to you. This hunky little dude to my right is Nathan Smoke of the Smoke Brothers acrobatic team. He’s got a washboard stomach, see that? The fox on my left is Jimmy Bob, a transvestite clown from Louisiana. He never insults anyone, anymore. Guys n’ gals both love him. You’ll find the three of us can be very, very entertaining. We’re cutting edge, but not offensive. We push the buttons just so far. You read me, old dude? Our act is up your alley. It’s a circus act, featuring the simulated crucifixion of audience members. I thought it, uh, it might, um, you know…” Here, Sand Dune faltered. Scratch was ignoring him. He’d taken out a portable telephone from his briefcase, and was speaking into the receiver.

“158 Prince Street”, he said into the phone.

“Dude, you interested?” finished Sand Dune, unhappily.

“Not today”, he said dismissively, as if poor Sand Dune were a street vendor trying to sell him a plastic watch. Scratch put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the corner.

A limousine, painted violet and with its windows darkened, pulled up at the curb. An overweight, middle-aged man in violet jeans and a matching jacket got out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door. Scratch ushered me in, and I slid gracefully onto violet seats, with a lot of legroom. A violet carpet lined the floor.

(“Matthew, Katrina! Oh, Tomas, honey, do come up here, I implore you. Forget that ghastly painting, this is urgent. I need input. Violet? Finished. Yes or no? Answer me, someone! Today, please! Style marches on!”)

As the driver closed the door to the limo, Sand Dune and company rushed towards the car. Sand Dune managed to stuff a Xeroxed flyer in Scratch’s gloved hands before the door slammed.

“Please step back from the curb”, the driver ordered, gruffly.

Sand Dune had no chance. I didn’t know how long I could keep him but, for the moment, Scratch was mine.

I was proud of myself. I’d been servile, and I’d seduced him. I thought I’d beaten out the competition.

I was so naïve in those days.

As if Scratch were selective, and didn’t choose his slaves by chance.

The door to Scratch’s private club, on Tenth Avenue, was unmarked. Inside, it was almost completely dark. A single spotlight was set into the shiny marble floor. Black candles shaped like lilies floated in oval pools of water, set into shiny marble tabletops. In the dim light, I felt invisible: loose, carefree, and ready to take chances.

A waiter in a white jacket led us to a corner table. He wheeled over a tray with an icebucket on it, uncorked a bottle of champagne and filled our long-stemmed glasses.

“So tell me, pet,” Scratch said, “what’s your proposal?”

“Well, sir. I’d like to write a book that would sell. Non-fiction. A biography. Yours.”

As I was talking, it occurred to me that maybe I should have made my proposal first, and offered him a blowjob afterwards. I had never prostituted myself before. I wasn’t sure how it worked.

Scratch seemed to sense my insecurity. He covered my hand with his, and patted it reassuringly. He had removed his gloves. Coarse fur, like the hair on a horse’s mane, scraped my skin. He began to scratch my forearm, lightly, with one of his thick, hooked claws. He lifted my hand to his mouth, and kissed it. Suddenly, he bit my knuckles, hard.

I winced.

He gripped my hand with both his hairy paws and bore down with his sharp front teeth.

Groaning in protest, I tried to pull my hand away. I stood up, knocking over my champagne glass. It shattered on the floor. Alerted by the sound, a waiter turned towards us. When he saw who it was, he looked away.

“Let go!” I said.

He relaxed his grip.

I pulled my hand back and rubbed it. It was numb and bumpy, covered with his teethmarks.

“Pain”, said Scratch. “Alexandra, pain.”

“Pain”, I repeated.

I understood immediately.

I’m smart about some things. I sat back down.

Scratch studied me a moment. “It’s a job requirement. The artists whom I sponsor all know pain. Don’t you, Alex?”

I didn’t answer.

“And if not, dear,” he said tenderly, “would you like to? Alex who shows off her slender thighs in bar rooms? Alex who eats rice and beans? Alex whose telephone has been shut off? Pretty Alex, who is a disappointment to her parents? Talented Alex, who pulls out her grey hairs? Lovely Alex, who – much to her surprise – is over thirty? Cocksucking Alex, who is so charming and such a failure? In some sense, haven’t you been seeking pain and degradation all your life?”

I couldn’t answer. He knew things about me which I’d never told anyone. It was as if he’d held up a mirror and shown me a reflection of myself. Had he set some kind of trap, devised specially for me? For the first time, I was frightened

“Shit”, I said weakly. “Sir. You hit a nerve.”

“Does that surprise you?” Scratch turned a cigarette slowly between his shaggy thumb and index finger.

“Well, sir. Yes.”

“Scare you?”

“I admit it does, sir.”

“You feel manipulated? Humiliated? Exposed?”

“Uh, yeah. I do.”

Scratch rubbed his hands together, gleefully. “How nice for you, darling. And darling, how nice for me! I’m touching nerves and pushing buttons! That’s my area, you see.”

“But do you know me, somehow, sir? Me? Alexandra Bellamy?”

Scratch chuckled. “What a question! Cocksucking Alexandra! I’m ashamed!”

“Have we met before? What… what’s going on? Please tell me, Scratch.”

“Have we met? Do I know you? As if you were different, or original or important! Is there some scrap of dignity left to protect inside the young whore’s body, after all?”

“I’m… I’m confused.”

“I can see that”, murmured Scratch. “I find your innocence most arousing.” He leaned back in his chair.

“I want to hurt you, Alexandra Bellamy. Think it over.”

I sat, smoking, and watching a metal clock above our table as its violet hands moved, in quivering spasms, counting seconds.

At around four o’clock that morning, I had my skirt pulled up and the Devil’s well-greased dick inside my ass. He kept pulling it all the way out and shoving it all the way back in me. I’d had a virgin asshole until that morning and, frankly, the first time wasn’t fun. I’d spent an abortive twenty minutes screaming “Stop, please stop!” until I got the hang of it.

Ah, pain.

One pleasant aspect about having my anus split in two was that I barely noticed that I was being beaten. Scratch hit me, repeatedly, with a patent leather belt from Donna Karan’s spring mens wear collection. I didn’t give a shit about that, or anything else. All I could think of was my asshole.

That’s the trick to pain, really. It helps you break things down into essentials.

“Well?” said Scratch, stretching out on the rumpled velvet quilt in his hotel room and switching the channel to MTV.

I took a deep breath.

“Hello, Alex! Are you with me?” He snapped his fingers.

“Um, sir,” I said. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I would have liked to call a doctor.

“Are you with me? Yes or no? You’ve had your trial run, whore. Now I need a final answer.”

I looked up at the violet ceiling and closed my eyes. “Sir,” I said, “I’m in. Do whatever the fuck to me you want.”

“That’s nice, Alex. I’m so glad you feel that way. That’s what I like to hear.”

I dragged myself into the bathroom and shut the door. I didn’t want Scratch to hear me crying. I wasn’t happy. My initiation had been traumatic. I climbed inside the bathtub and, tearfully, examined my rear end.

I turned the tap on.

Water hurt.

I wondered what my ex-girlfriend, Becca, would have thought if she could have seen me that way, with my back covered with red marks, cleaning out my shitsmeared butt-hole. She would have kissed my forehead and made me some herbal tea. Perhaps we would have discussed our three favourite old topics: commitment, intimacy, and communication.

Those were the things which Becca had wanted our relationship to be based on.

What was the basis of my relationship to Scratch?

Submission, sex and money.

Three real words in exchange for three small loads of crap.

The second floor of Scratch’s house in Milan serves as his photo studio. With its bright overhead lights and sense of emptiness, it reminds me of a high school gym. It’s minimally furnished, with metal desks, a leather couch, a table, and a row of cabinets to hold our “toys” and magazines. Outside the darkroom, rolls of film hang from a clothesline, drying. There are five floor-to-ceiling windows, with thirty square panels of glass inside each one. I tend to count the panels of glass, from one to 150, over and over again while I’m being punished.

Tonight is like every other night. It’s six o’clock. The models, the hairdressers, the stylists, the production assistants and the lighting technicians have gone home. We’re all alone with Scratch inside his building – it’s just me and the four artists. Every night he comes to us, looks over what we did, and gives us his review.

Right now, he’s reading the chapter I wrote for him today. He’s lying on the yellow couch. He looks morose. I can already tell he doesn’t like it. Why should he? It’s such bullshit. The book’s supposed to be about him, but I don’t know what I’m talking about. I have no facts, not even basic information like where Scratch was born, or where he went to school, or when he began to use a camera. Aside from “candles”, and “platforms”, I have nothing.

“Oh, Alex”, says Scratch, sadly. He puts down the sheaf of paper on the Moroccan tile floor. His hand dangles languidly off the couch. “Who or what is this about? You’ve come up with a crude caricature of me. Surely, you don’t see me like this, do you, pet? As a silly, self-involved, egotistic fashion person? Surely, darling, you’ve failed to convey the nature of my… power.” He strokes the pages with his furry fingertips, tracing circles with his blue claws.

“Maybe so, sir”, I concede. In fact, my take on Scratch gets more and more vague as time goes on. My opinions, my beliefs – everything is getting weaker. Living with Scratch, I’m disconnected from the outside world. He pays our rent and provides our meals. Usually, they consist of bread and water, but, if you’re being rewarded, the spread can be lavish. Four times a year – winter, fall, spring and summer – he gives us each a stack of mail order catalogues. We check off the books and magazines we want to read, the CDs we want to hear, the clothing we want to wear. Deliveries arrive from the United States, six weeks later, in shapeless brown packages which we tear open eagerly, like presents on Christmas morning.

Scratch pushes up the sleeve of his blue and rust striped T-shirt and runs his thumb across his dragon tattoo (a leftover from last spring, when “dragon” was the word). For a moment he’s absorbed in thought.

“Honesty!” Scratch pronounces, suddenly. He hands me back the sheaf of pages.

“Sir?”

“Alexandra, honesty.”

“Yes, sir. Honesty.”

“This wasn’t honest, Alex. Was it?”

“No, sir. It was not.”

“Wicked slavegirl. You’re a liar.”

Annoyed, I forget myself – and lose my fear. “Fuck it, Scratch,” I blurt out, recklessly. “I’m just doing what you told me to. You said to make it up! I asked for facts and information and you…”

A terrible, angry smile appears on Scratch’s time-worn face. My moment of rebellion vanishes.

“Sorry, sir. Forgive me. Can I take that back, sir, please?”

“Impudent, dishonest Alex,” he hisses. “You shall regret those words! Undress.”

I unzip my shirtjacket. (Shirtjacket, yes? Yes!) and shrug it off. I unsnap my rust bra. I slip out of my yellow panties and my yellow maxiskirt. (Maxiskirt? Indeed!) I pull off my boots of soft, blue suede. (Suede! The Eternal Return!)

Naked, I walk through the empty room. As I pass the window, a group of male models from the agency across the street glances up at me with passing curiosity. They’ve seen the routine at Scratch’s studio, many times.

When I reach the round wooden conference table in the centre of the room, I clamber onto it, using a chair as a footstep, and lie down. I rest my forehead against the smooth surface of polished wood.

“Head up!” Scratch wheezes.

Lifting my chin, I begin to count the 150 glass panels in the windows. One, two, three, four… I hear Scratch’s motorcycle boots click against the tile floor. He walks to the file cabinet and opens the drawer where we keep our five tubes of lubricant, and our shared instruments of torture.

I hear him riffle through the contents of the drawer. I count faster. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

He shuts the drawer, crosses the room, and stops behind me. Fifteen, sixteen…

“Hands behind back, slave. Must I remind you every time?”

I start to shiver.

“Slavegirl,” says Scratch, “have you been dishonest?”

“Yes, sir. Right, sir. Oh, yes, sir. Yes, I have.”

“Dishonest Alex! Repeat after me. I, Alexandra Bellamy, am a lazy parasite who contributes nothing to society.”

“I, Alexandra Bellamy, am a lazy parasite”, I repeat.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…

Before he hurts me, Scratch keeps me waiting. I don’t know what’s going on behind my back. I don’t know what he’s holding in his hands.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…

I count, to help the time pass more quickly while I’m waiting for my pain.

I need it, now.

We all do.

Our nerves and buttons work the same.