Page 49 of Fire Under Glass
And yet, once the ordeal began, my nerves eased and the Old World spirit of my captivity took over. As I’d done on many occasions in the last week, I lived two lives: a real one, and this other one that belonged to another reality. I knew this one wouldn’t last; but as long as it did, I would enjoy myself. I was so terribly frightened of what would happen when the faire was over that I didn’t want to spend a single moment wrestling with those thoughts.
I survived the post, and then a few sessions with the players, taking me to task for tiny errs in behavior. In the middle of the day, I’d be called aside and abruptly spanked in some out-of-the-way corner. No sex, even though I wouldn’t have minded. I wondered if KC might have had something to do with this lack of sexual advances.
“Did you tell them not to screw me?” I finally asked him.
“Who?”
“Jack, Philip, Trevor.”
“Getting your ass spanked but no sex, huh?” He snickered.
“If I have to put up with the spanking, I just thought…”
“No, I didn’t make them swear off your cunt. You must have just deserved the licking you got on the strength of your bad behavior,” he quipped rather happily. “Bottom a little sore?”
“Yes,” I scowled—though not all that seriously.
That night he did me well—in the ass, as though reminding me who was in charge—even though there was no confusion in my mind before we began.
As the faire continued, I had more randy sessions with our jocular male members—and finally two quick fucks, which delighted me thoroughly. I reported them to KC, who listened attentively to the accounts of my sessions. He was interestingly aloof when I was done, and said very little. Not once during the faire, however, was I called on to present myself for a public chastisement at one of the dinnertime rituals. Was I just lucky? Or again, was KC playing the puppeteer, pulling strings so this show would go exactly as he devised.
The three weeks were nearly at an end, putting me into a curious melancholy. I don’t know what more I wanted from this Renaissance Faire. I was actually weary and looking forward to the end—but what next? I had no life, but what I had with KC. Could I just keep running around the countryside with no purpose at all? And what would happen when KC returned to Chicago and his theatre? He had a job, I had nothing. My fear of the future made me emotionalize strangely the last few days of the faire. I didn’t want to talk to anyone—including KC—though I found that my sullen even brusque attitude suited me just fine. I kept to myself, dilly-dallied about doing whatever I pleased. Though I looked busy, I don’t really know what I did. Since I’d never had any official position in the company, I’d floated around doing whatever was needed. But this aimless pursuit seemed almost pointless now, as my cohorts all had their assigned tasks and I only seemed to get in their way.
KC didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm—at least so I knew. He was getting ready to strike the sets and put the woods back into their natural order. With so much to do, I left him alone and we saw little of each other.
Maybe everyone was a little testy. There seemed to be an upswing in punishments. The last several days, the male members were more easily roused to take out their agitation on a convenient ass. I had mine spanked twice in the same day—not a half-hour apart. This on top of being spanked late the day before. These sessions served some purpose, taking the edge off my own dull mood, though they were not the rip-roaring jovial episodes I’d enjoyed earlier during the faire. And they certainly didn’t get rid of my burgeoning sexual energy.
By the time KC was ready for bed at night, he was almost too tired to fuck. Even a few aggressively randy attempts to engage him fell flat.
KC didn’t respond to my unsettled mood, however, until I rattled off a few chaffed responses to his questions while I was in the middle of getting dinner with Gretchen and Connie. I did have my arms loaded with a pot of steamy soup, which he could have helped me carry. Instead, he left me to take care of the load myself while still drilling me on the whereabouts of his stage crew. “Hell, I didn’t know,” I told him, annoyed that he would even ask. He scowled at my reply, and took off.
Later, he asked about clothes that I was suppose to have laundered that afternoon. “No, I hadn’t gotten to them,” I said, sounding snippy.
“Something wrong?” he wondered, having finally stopped long enough to address my swirling pot of agitated energy.
“No,” I almost snapped the response. My body was afire. Damn! I wanted to tackle him to the ground—and on any other occasion I might have. But this didn’t seem to be the time.
“I don’t believe you, Gail. If something is wrong…”
“Something is not wrong…” I swore… though I changed my abrupt reply mid-sentence with my voice turning unusually sweet, “just a little tired.” I blew him a kiss.
“You’d better be telling the truth…” he advised.
“Or what?” I had a feeling there was a threat attached to this warning and I almost wanted more confrontation just so I could end up venting what was rattling inside me. It seemed as though KC and I hadn’t had any real conversation about substantive things in so many weeks, that we’d forgotten the way our relationship worked.
“Lies do not become you, Maid Galen.” He never called me by the name Davis conferred on me at the collaring.
I think he thought it silly. Why now?
“Why would I lie?”
“Something is on your mind. And you will spit it out. Maybe not now, but you will soon.” He left me feeling as though the Sword of Damocles was hanging over my head, any moment about to come crashing through me.
That night, KC and I ate at separate tables, which shouldn’t have been a problem, except that I felt a gaping void between us—one widening each moment that ticked by without making amends. This was our next to the last evening meal as a company, and it evolved into one raucous blowout. I learned later that the ‘last night’ debauchery was as predictable as all the other ceremonies of this crazy affair.
It began with a general display of six sassy asses—the most I’d ever seen at one of these ritual accountings. As Davis rapped his gavel and the ceremony started, KC stood at the side of the dining tent, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at me enough to have me frightened. But when the six were called to the front, I was not one of them. I breathed a sigh of relief, but then wasn’t so sure that I shouldn’t be even more wary. Something about this scene—and his mood—was suspiciously peculiar; though I wasn’t certain what bothered me so much.
The spanking ritual that followed was one hell of a bawdy show. A little drunken feast with six bared behinds, flesh jiggling as it reddened with repeated punishment, and lots of lewd groping. I wondered if the affair would suddenly break free into a full-fledged orgy. For those participating, the spectacle turned into a wonderfully gleeful release. Even my wench sisterhood was having a terrific time with their red asses waving at their men for more. Seemed only KC and I—yards apart—were not affected by the raucous lechery. He appeared stone cold sober—even though I’d seen him down at least three beers. I’d had my share of wine, but I was sober, too.