Page 52 of Fire Under Glass
A few leaves whipped the air—autumn colored ones, prematurely grabbing at the wind, giving off the scent of the approaching season. My body replied with the sensuousness of fall so prevalent inside the air. It greeted me warmly, though, as if to suggest that some great change was on its way.
Stepping off the bike while still enjoying the vibration buzzing through me, I stared at the cabin wonderingly, trying to decide what I was seeing. Even with my expert architectural eyes, it took some minutes to understand that though this was a hand-made, rough-hewn cabin, it had been recently built by someone with an intelligent sense of design and a good deal of skill to put such ideas into form.
It was a simple structure built of stained cedar siding, though the trim about the windows and doors was executed in intricately carved patterns—just enough to soften the otherwise stern exterior. Most spectacular was a sunset of wood bursting over the front door like an open fan. And the door was hand-carved with a deer, a bear and fish drawn out of the massive wood.
“Karl and Susan Joyce,” KC said. He’d knocked on the door and waited.
“Your friends?”
He nodded.
With no answer, we scooted off the front porch, and rounded the side of the house where the land had been cleared and a summer garden sat laden with its harvest. My legs seemed to grab the earth, feeling the feral land drawing them down. The sensation settled my nervous insides.
A moment later, Karl Joyce appeared from around the far end of the house.
“Ha! I thought I heard the bike.” He grasped KC warmly, then pulled him along, ignoring me, while I padded on behind them as the two began to talk.
Karl reminded me of Davis—though he was even cruder in appearance than that rugged Renaissance Lord. His body was brawny and muscled, and his face tempestuous, with hot cerulean eyes that pierced like those of a falcon. One glance at me, I had to lower my eyes. With his reddish beard and unruly hair that skimmed his shoulders, Karl Joyce looked suitably attired in peasant’s clothes—leather britches—much less sleek than KC’s—a rough muslin shirt, and hefty work boots. Noting his appearance, physique and attitude, I had a feeling the Old World ventures of the summer had not yet ended.
We moved together across the well-kept yard—everything about the place was as neat as a pin. The house sat by itself unadorned, except for a small green lawn around the back, and a meadow of grasses in front leading down toward the forest. Lining the edges of the vegetable garden, there were brilliant flowerbeds. And behind the house at the edge of the woods was Karl Joyce’s workshop.
I followed the pair inside the workshop, dutifully. Still, not one word of introduction from KC. But by then, I figured that there was some reason for this curious slight, so I kept quiet.
“You’ve enlarged it,” KC exclaimed seeing the sizable rectangular workspace—again, a rough-hewn, hand-built building. This one had worktables on two sides, racks and bins of raw leather pieces along one wall, as well as a number of leather and woodworking tools.
Karl’s occupation was easily obvious, though none of this was explained to me. I stuck close to KC and kept silent, listening to Karl’s lengthy dissertation about his work and how much his business had increased over the last two years—he had hundreds of orders for fetish gear—he said that derisively, scoffing at the aficionados of S&M who haunted the sex clubs for scenes.
He also made more normal leather clothes—pants, vests and cowboy chaps, as well as bridles and saddles. His leather tooling was astoundingly intricate—that of a fine craftsman who understood his media.
What KC wanted were costumes for the theatre.
“Karl,” KC suddenly stopped him at a convenient moment and turned to me. “This is Gail.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t seem to care.
“She’s a sub, but not like Susan,” my boyfriend added.
Karl didn’t bother to say hello or shake my hand, but went on to discuss me with KC as though he were observing a new hound. “She was at your Renaissance Faire?” he asked.
“Got a good dose of submissive lore.”
“So, you’re training her?”
“She was trained once.”
“And she’s yours now?”
“No, Karl, I don’t own her.”
The fellow shrugged, almost smiling. “Let’s get a beer.”
My status as a persona non grata remained unchanged throughout the afternoon. KC and Karl drank beer and discussed their lives with a degree of mutual respect common among friends. Nothing more was mentioned about Susan; I wondered where she was. I might have been bored by the visit except that Karl Joyce’s house was such a marvel of architectural wonder that I found my eye regularly confronted by some interesting angle or aspect of its design and would gaze in fascinated wonder.
The great room was a large open space with exposed beams, a high ceiling and more intricate carvings in the woodwork. A dozen times, I stopped myself from asking who was responsible for this marvel. I marveled in silence, while I sat some distance from both men. I’d taken the only chair offered me; one so far from the two men that I felt exiled in my corner alone.
“Hi! My love!” A woman’s honey-coated voice abruptly stirred me from my thoughtless musing, and I turned to see a sensuous brunette no more than five feet tall appear in the kitchen doorway. She was in a rush, smiling brightly, as she quickly fixed an inch-wide leather collar around her necks. Moving quickly to her husband’s side, she slumped to the floor at his feet.
This was Susan, I assumed, though we weren’t introduced. If I’d been put-off, even a little frightened of her husband’s boorish behavior, she was a comforting sight on which my eyes could rest easy. Susan Joyce smoldered. Her skin was sun-drenched, a tawny brown, her eyes warm cinnamon, and her hair was pulled back off her face, fixed in a long dark braid that nearly reached her ass. I thought her the most erotic being I’d ever seen—not because she was pretty or even beautiful in the classic sense, but because she bloomed with energy, which seemed to billow from her voluptuous form, and her eyes, and full-lipped mouth, and the pose of reverence she adopted while sitting at her husband’s feet. It might have been my own rumbling body responding to her lush perfection, or, perhaps, she was truly this delightful. Had I had the chance, I might have melted into her, kissed her cheek and found warmth in her arms. This simple vision stunned me, and I found it hard to take my eyes from her.