The Mistress of Mankind
* * *Chapter III
* * *When Isbel closed her eyelids, she felt as though she was falling backwards into herself whilst the room fell forward at the same time. She forced them open, even though she was so tired and so loaded they stung.
She had returned home from her evening with Mr Lydon and topped off the many cocktails she had drunk by draining what was left of a bottle of Zafiro Añejo tequila, in an attempt to douse her searing embarrassment. She had finally given up in despair and collapsed on top of her bed, still clothed in her red dress. Kicking off her heels, she rolled onto her side and wished miserably that she could ignore the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.
The letter. It was penetrating her thoughts. She wanted to forget it for now, return to it when she sobered up, but curiosity was burning through her body. Elizabeth Barry’s love note. She rubbed at her eyes. The envelope was where she had dropped it. She stared at it and told herself over and over. Not now. Not now. But she was powerless to resist.
She propped herself up on her pillows and examined it with trembling fingertips. She opened it and slowly slid out a yellowed leaf of linen paper.
How could she possibly know if it was genuine? She could seek out someone to examine it, ask her manager to find an expert maybe, but she had promised to keep her possession of it secret. She simply had to take Mr Lydon at his word. She imagined it felt authentic. She unfolded the paper and saw delicate, faded letters in feminine flicks and curls. She held it up to her nose, dreaming that she could smell a faint perfume.
My most Sacred Master
I must confess to you, my Lord, tho’ the admission thussly be the utter ruine of my virtue, that you have inflamed in me the joy of complete and utter submission to you, as all women should be to their men.
I am sure you are aware of how very much indispos’d I am now, for all Night long for as many nights as I can recall, dreadful fancies haunt me, and drive all soft and pleasing idea’s from me; leaving me widdendreaming and desirous of your loving Command.
I must therefore confide to you mine own account of how you broke me, if only to satisfy your own libidnous curiosity and as proof of your deliciatful dominion. Alas, how can I give truthful voice to my struggle against your cruel instruction in body and mind, as even now as I think back, what first I perceived as cruel barbarism I soon discovered to be the skilful discomfit of my wilfulness.
The tearing off of my widow’s weeds first terribly vexed me. And yet I fancy my protestations only made your blood only runne hotter. Your Vigrous lingering torments of my bruinne and maidenhead, and their smart, yet still dissects and racks and grinds my heart! Imagine my despair at spending frightfully in spite of myself at the hitherto unknown pleasures racking my body!
Isabel swallowed and turned the letter over.
Oh! My divine teacher, I can never fully repay you for rapturously instructing me in the nature of love’s sacred mysteries, and the great end for which we females were created.
Are not the services of all women rendered in consenting to procure the happiness of all who apply to her? Woman’s destiny is to be wanton, like the whore-bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her. O, how these seductive words inflame my mind and captivate my soul! I am drunk as David’s sow to think of being on my knees before you again.
For pity’s sake let me see you alone soon again, for I am gut-foundered to worship your arbor vitae and deliriously draw forth your illecebrous issue. I cast surely aside all my pride, and if ye command me to be wanton wherever I go, I shall surely obey, obey, obey.
My once-haughty pride is buried and forgotten in the hot fierce pursuit of the Joy before me.
I am become Araste, your Mistress of Mankind.
Holy shit, Isabel breathed, her heart thumping wildly. She felt giddy. She hadn’t known what to expect and yet she was still caught by surprise. She held the letter up so she could see it more clearly in the light, and started to read it again.
My most Sacred Master
She decided she didn’t need to think too much about what she was doing, as her free hand moved gently over the curve of her hip, pulling up the hem of her dress. It was okay just to do. Her fingertips pushed on slowly but insistently and she shifted her thighs open to let them in and she chose not to think at all and to just keep reading. She let herself get lost in the words.
I must confess to you, my Lord …
The sun was already high over the city when she woke up. Her head was aching. Slowly, unhappily, she tugged herself out of her crumpled dress and found an old t-shirt to throw on. She shuffled through her apartment, closing the window blinds one by one.
She sat at her kitchen table cradling her head in one hand, the other clinging onto a cold cup of coffee, desperately wishing the painkillers would hurry up and start working. There was a script meeting she was meant to attend that afternoon. She should be thinking about that, not drifting back to the events of last night. She had intended to interrogate Mr Lydon thoroughly about his awful club, but all she had done was let him dissolve her own defences once more. She shuddered at the admissions he had coaxed out of her, the images he had encouraged her to picture in her minds eye.
And then, in bed … I was just drunk, she told herself. I was just drunk and feeling … well, it didn’t matter.
Her phone vibrated and she nearly jumped out her skin. Isbel hated to talk over the phone at the best of times, and was even less inclined to do so right then. But the name that flashed up startled her. It was Mr Lydon. She must have given him her private number some time last night. She fumbled for the phone and held it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Ah, good morning Isbel. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Alex. And you?” She said with a lilt, hoping it would disguise her exhaustion.
“Excellent. Although, I’m concerned about how we left things last night. I’m keen to see you again. I’ll have some time tonight this evening, if you’re able to visit me in my office. That is, if you’re free?”
“Yes, I’m free.”
“Do you know the campaign office on Pine Street?”
“No.”
“It’s number 235. Just ask for me at the front desk when you get here. Any time’s perfect.” He hung up.
Isbel sat for a long time, tapping her fingernail on the glass screen of her phone. Finally she picked it up again and dialled her agent.
“Hi Jacqueline. Yeah. Listen, I’m going to have to skip the treatment review. I’m feeling a little shitty today …”
235 Pine Street was an unremarkable grey building five stories tall, trapped between two towers of of steel and glass. The woman at the reception desk seemed to be expecting her, and she invited Isbel to take the elevator to the top floor. Walking in, she found an open plan office, islands of desks with computers in every direction. The screens were all dark. Everyone seemed to have left already. She spotted a single office with a light still on. She made her way to it and rapped lightly on the door.
“Come in.” She heard Mr Lydon’s voice on the other side.
She found him behind a vast wooden desk, his hair neatly slicked back as always. He seemed no worse for wear. He looked up from a pile of papers and peered at her through a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses.
“Hello, Isbel. Please, come in and take a seat. I’ll be finished in a moment.”
She sat and waited patiently as he continued to sign the typed letters before him. She glanced around the room. It was stark. No pictures or banners decorated the walls. It didn’t seem to her that he spent much time here. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. He pulled open a drawer and produced a battered carton of Luckys and a cheap plastic lighter.
“Do you mind if I smoke? I’m afraid it’s a vice I indulge in, after stressful days like this.”
“Um, no.” She replied. She hated cigarettes, but this was his time and his office.
He smacked the carton on his desk and lipped out one of the cigarettes. Lighting it, he blew out a long stream of white smoke.
“Would you like one?”
“No, I don’t smoke.” She said curtly.
“Yes, it’s a filthy habit.” He finally gave her a closer look.
“You’re slouching a little today. Are you not feeling well?”
“No, I’m fine.” She lied, ignoring the sick thump that remained in her belly.
“Well, I can only advise you that maintaining correct posture at all times is vital, especially when you don’t want to do it.”
Isbel pulled herself up and pressed her spine into the back of the chair, holding herself straight. She pointed her chin at him. He nodded his approval.
“Much better. Superior body language speaks to a healthy mind. Regarding that, I’ve another thought about another exercise that might benefit you. I encourage all my staff to practice it. Would you like me to tell you?”
“Yes, please.”
He puffed out again, filling the air between them with more trails of smoke that lingered in the still air, curling and drifting languidly.
“When you find yourself in company, say a large dinner group or a meeting, it’s better not to focus on any one person unless they engage you directly in conversation. If you’re not being spoken to, you should let your eyes unfocus and place your attention into the middle distance. It improves comportment and bearing. No one wishes to spend time with a loud person, a person who chats uncontrollably. I’m sure you know how irritating they can be.”
“Yes.” Isbel replied, feeling tired and worn and happy to agree with him when he was speaking so much sense. Comportment and bearing were important, she agreed.
“Now, obviously it’s just us two conversing together, so ideally you should be looking at me and sharing eye-contact, but if you’d like to try, look at a spot on the wall above me, and just unfocus your eyes. Just unfocus your eyes and concentrate on my words as you do.”
Isbel picked a spot on the salmon pink wall behind him, and let her eyes blur. It was an easy task. She breathed slowly.
“Yes, that’s good. Still and peaceful. Still and peaceful. No effort at all.” He returned to his papers and leafed through them. Minutes passed. Isbel felt her body relaxing further, and her mind began to drift. Eventually he spoke again.
“Have you had a chance to read Elizabeth’s letter?”
“No. I haven’t.” She replied.
“Oh, that’s a terrible shame. It’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. To get your impressions of it.”
She thought she could hear disappointment in his voice. He fell silent again, and she puzzled about
his inner thoughts.
“In that case, I feel like I’ve taken up enough of your time for now. That is, unless there’s anything you want to ask me?
Isbel bit at her lip.
“No, not right now.”
“Okay then. I’m afraid that I will be out of the country for a little while, so we’ll have to postpone our negotiations regarding Wilmot’s for the moment. I apologise, but I’m taking part in a conference at the American University of Paris regarding climate change and improving environmental protections.”
Isbel remained quiet, expecting him to further detail his trip. She kept her eyes on the very same spot, holding herself still like he had asked.
“Well, goodnight, Isbel.” He said.
She refocused her eyes and looked at Mr Lydon. He was like the Sphinx. She rose to her feet. When she reached the door she hesitated. She turned back around.
“There is something, actually.”
“Yes?” He looked at her.
“Um, you mentioned a name last night. Araste? I was wondering who that was.”
“Hm. Well, I really don’t know. I’ve never given it much thought. I always assumed it was simply a character in some classical play. Don’t you know? I would have thought you would have a better insight to that world than I do.”
“Oh.”
She found herself in the back seat of yet another cab, winding it’s way back uptown. Her head was swimming again. What was the purpose of all this? Had Mr Lydon just wasted her time, or had she just wasted his? Why had she decided to lie about reading the letter? Because she was scared as to what she might admit if he questioned her. She was too fragile for his skilful wordplay. That name persisted in her mind. It gnawed at her. In his words last night and again in that dreadful letter.
Araste.
She fished out her phone and dialled her manager. This time her call went straight to voicemail.
“Hi Jacqueline, it’s Isbel again. I’ve been thinking about a story I’m writing for … well, just a story, really. I was hoping you could get Tom or someone to help me out. Find some books maybe. I want to find out everything there is to know about a character named Astarte.”
A few days later, Isbel was feeling much improved. Some time alone to meditate had helped clear her mind. She had lunch with some friends and didn’t think about Mr Lydon or Wilmot’s at all. She managed to leave the envelope containing Elizabeth’s letter untouched. Jacqueline had sent over folder with some articles one of the studio interns had found regarding Astarte. There hadn’t been much to find out, but what there was she pored over intently.
Astarte, also spelled Athtart or Astart, great Goddess of the ancient Middle East and chief deity of Tyre, Byblos, Sidon, and Elat …
Isbel turned to one of the other articles, then another, and then another.
… in passing now to an examination of the Biblical references to the Goddess Astarte, who is mentioned only nine times in the Bible … the last mentioned detail is contained in a semi-historical, semi-mythological account which is the only reference to retain the old name of a temple: “Astarte of the Two Horns” …
… as to the Philistines themselves, Astarte must have been a Goddess of war as well as sexual excess and fertility …
… Astarte was called the Goddess who conceives but does not bear, meaning that she was perennially fruitful without ever losing her virginity …
According to myth, she descended to Earth as a star, landing near the city-state of Byblos in the lake of Alphaca.
The city dedicated a temple to her, wherein rites of sexual and ecstatic nature, like cultist prostitution, were central to her veneration. Statues depicted her as a beautiful naked woman. This all indicates that Astarte and her all-female priestesses were a powerful force in Phoenician society.
The robes of the women were red, symbolic of their menstrual blood, and had an overwhelming affect on the wearers. Their worship and submission to the male sexual organ placed great power onto the licentious and promiscuous sexual practices found in her temples.
Isbel was pondering all this, and what it had to do with Mr Lydon’s club, when there was a knock on her door. The cheerful building superintendent had taken in a delivery for her. It was a large brown box. Something else from Jacqueline, she thought, until she saw the return address was overseas. Paris. There was an envelope attached. She peeled it off. There was a handwritten note inside.
“I sincerely hope you have been giving serious thought to my invitation in my absence. Consider this the first of several bribes. Yours, Alex Lydon.”
Inside the box, under several layers of tissue paper, she found something the colour of blood. She held it up to examine it. It was an elaborate red leather corset, cut over the bust, inlaid with steel bones. There was a lace-up busk with silver grommets on the front. Under the cups were pleated lines that drew down to the waist, where they met a separate curve of leather, fastened together by a wide black belt. It too had a heavy silver buckle. Between her fingers she felt the material. Lambskin leather, with an inner lining of satin. She peered closely at the stitching, realising it was hand-made. It was exquisite craftsmanship. This must have been incredibly expensive, she realised. She hadn’t imagined Mr Lydon would have ever considered something like this for her. Then she remembered his questions that night, and her answers, and the import of this particular gift was suddenly clear to her. She shivered.
If it was hand-made, how could he have possibly known her exact size? But as she held it close to her waist, she realised to her dismay it was small. Too small. If I can fit into it at all, it’ll be as tight as a second skin.
The only way to be sure was to try it on. She felt a painful desire for it to fit. She carried it into her bedroom and flattened it out. She unlaced the busk entirely and unbuckled the belt. In front of her full-length mirror, she unbuttoned her shirt and unhooked her bra. She looked at herself, then looked at the corset.
She wrapped it around her back and pulled it close. She tried harder. There was just too much resistance. The leather was strong and unforgiving. Exhaling as deeply as she could, she sucked in her stomach and managed to buckle the belt at least, but only in its loosest hole. She dropped her hands and watched the rest of the corset fall open. To her dismay she was right. There was no way she would be able to lace it up over her chest.
She gripped the sides of the busk again and pulled it as close as she could manage, admiring how wonderful the dark red leather looked against her skin. She pictured it tightly laced, squeezing and lifting her breasts, rigidly training the curves of her torso. She remembered vividly just how erotic it had once felt to wear a similar garment. If she hadn’t confessed those feelings to Mr Lydon he would never have bought her such a wonderful gift. Wonderful, and tight, and erotic. Red, she realised. Red to overwhelm, and to arouse, and of arousal and … and to belong to all who claimed her. Elizabeth’s words in her mind. But it was too small. She stood and stared and agonised.
I’ll do whatever it takes to fit into this, she decided. It will only be a little effort. I wouldn’t need to lose that much weight. I’ll call up my trainer in the morning. Just some extra visits to the gym. It would be no effort at all. She smiled.