Straw and Kabul
They fell into an easy rhythm in the thatched cottage. Food appeared at the door each morning. Prize carried water and cleaned the well furnished rooms. He fed and watered the mare in the small stable though the odor of damp straw riddled him with fear. He knelt at Gordy's side as he read or worked at his desk.
They moved to the bedroom up the polished wooden stairs. Gordy slept in the bed. Prize slept on the hearth. Gordy demanded much and Prize gave more. He kissed Gordy's thighs and opened his lips each morning to accept Gordy's erection. That was his goal. He made the tea. He lay supine and relaxed as Gordy sipped brandy from the hollow of his throat. His bruises faded from purple to yellow. He waited until he was called. He was teased and examined. He relieved his straining cock if Gordy sent him out to do so. He started a kitchen garden. He feared the locked armoire that stood by the front window; the one Gordy opened with a large key and spent too much time touching the objects that lay within. And he feared the day Gordy applied those objects. He became an object in Gordy's cottage. He was not beaten nor slapped.
He was not loved.
* * *
Gordy sat tipped back in his chair by the blue kitchen door and watched as Prize turned the soil, planted, weeded, watered bucket by bucket from the well, and smiled as the tender shoots broke through the dark earth. The sun glistened on Prize's skin. His skin turned from marble to ale. His muscles hardened. He put on a bit of weight. His pubic hair grew soft and fine. At evening he came to the sitting room washed and fresh. He clicked the shackle to his ankle and sat cross legged on the rug. He waited while Gordy ate his dinner at the sturdy table. He crawled to eat from his hand, his hands clasp in the small of his back. Gordy kept his word and did not rape Prize. And Gordy felt ennui grow.
The morning started badly. The solicitor's papers in the basket sent up by Nanny Grey held nothing but tedium. Gordy threw them aside. He tried to clear his head by watching Prize at the well filling buckets for the garden. At first the sight of his strong shoulders moving under the collarless cotton smock intrigued Gordy, but his interest drifted. He gazed at the sky and saw darkening clouds gathering. He felt himself anger that Prize drew water when rain was imminent. He returned to the cottage and tried to put his mind to his papers again, but the words swam. He picked up a slim volume of poetry, but the verses fell flat. He walked the room laying his hand on this object or that, but nothing pleased him. He listened to the sounds of Prize working in his garden, but the sound of the shovel turning the soil rubbed his nerves raw.
The tea was cold. There was dust on the sideboard. The rug looked faded. The food Prize placed before him was dull. Gordy was tired of eating from hampers. He left the food untouched and moved to the sofa and picked up his book and tossed it back down. He called Prize to him.
"Pour me a sherry." Gordy looked at his writing desk and the papers strewn across it. Prize handed him his drink. Gordy set it aside without tasting it. Prize waited. "What are you waiting for?" His harsh voice caused Prize to step back suddenly and reach under his shirt for the drawstring of the thin cotton paints he wore. The gestured caused Gordy to jump toward him in anger. He knocked his glass from the table and sherry spilled on the cuff of his trousers and boot. "Look what you did." Prize reached forward with the hem of his shirt to sop up the liquid. "We have napkins and cloths for that. Don't you have any sense?" Prize stopped, dead still. He looked questioningly at Gordy and moved to pick up the napkin next to the uneaten lunch. "Did I tell you to do that?"
Prize looked at him in startled confusion, "But?"
That one word broke the dam in Gordy. The papers unread, the isolation, the cold food, the bit of dust, and flat poetry. "But!" He lunged at Prize and grabbed him by the back of his neck. "But!" He pushed Prize across the room to the armoire. "You say but to me."
In his fear and confusion, Prize resisted. Gordy felt his anger boil over. The armoire unlocked and the doors flung open. Gordy reached inside and pulled out the collar with the iron disk. He thrust it into Prize's face. "Remember this?"
Prize remembered it well and the sight of it struck to the heart of his fears. He nodded. The collar clicked quickly around his neck. The iron disk cold on the hollow of his throat. The cold spread to the place in his memory where Brutal, Cruel, Miss Liz, and the straw-strewn cell resided. Prize stepped backwards and landed sprawled on the floor. He tried to wriggle away, but Gordy grabbed him by the loose shirt and pulled him back to the armoire and drew out a riding crop. He slashed once, catching Prize on the back of the shoulder as he tried to escape. He drew blood, a thin line of red seeped through the cloth as both men held still in stunned silence. Outside a lark started its song. It was an act without thought or plan. It was graceless. Gordy threw the crop from himself as if to distance himself from the act. Prize touched the wound on his back. He looked up at Gordy and extended his blood smeared hand.
The gesture was simple, but Gordy took it as an accusation and his anger and frustration returned fiercer and hotter than before. The bloodied hand pushed him in opposition of his inclination. He never used his crop on the mare. Yet he bloodied Prize without plan or thought. He left him kneeling stunned on the floor and turned to the armoire and withdrew a pair of manacles.
"Give me your wrists." Prize did and the irons clicked in place. His whole body sagged in resignation and fear. Gordy wrapped his hands around the chain and pulled. "Stand up, you stupid whore." Prize moved shakily to his feet and looked into Gordy's eyes. "Don't look at me like that. What did you expect?" Gordy pulled forth a fat, leather-sheathed dildo and pushed it in Prize's face. He pressed it to Prize's mouth. "Take it. Open your mouth and take it." Prize pressed his lips together and turned his head. "Do you want me to shove it up your ass?"
Prize shook his head and parted his lips. "Please, no." Nothing more. He looked with despair directly into Gordy's eyes and parted his lips.
"Easy, isn't it." Gordy dropped the dildo. It made a dull sound as it hit the floor and rolled a few degrees to the left.
One more reach into the armoire produced a chain and shackle. "Come." And Prize took a few awkward steps; Gordy pulled him through the doorway to the front garden, over the drive, to the well where he stumbled. Gordy grasped the back of his neck again and propelled him forward toward the stable. The shackle chain chimed merrily. "Move."
Prize tried but his knees were pudding. Every muscle in his body recoiled from moving. He wanted to break free and run. His mind held him tighter than the chains. He staggered like a drunk towards the dark interior of the stable. Gordy pushed him into the first stall and sent him sprawling into the straw. The mare in her stall snorted in surprise. Prize scuttled away to place his back to the rough wall. His loosened pants trucked down to his knees by his retreat. Gordy advanced on him. Prize raised his wrists to cover his face. His body wanted to bring the iron manacles down on the crown of Gordy's head. To split his skull but his mind cringed and the wrists and hands moved to protect his own face and head. His pants were yanked off and the shackle snapped on. The chain looped around the base of a support beam and locked in place.
Gordy glowered down at him and surveyed the scene. The shirt was drawn up exposing one buttock. The shoulder with the spreading red stain turned toward him. The turned face filled with anguish. "Don't say a word. Don't look at me." Averted eyes.
Gordy took the mare from her stall and saddled her. He slipped her bridle over her head and slipped the bit into her mouth. He stroked her neck to stay the trembling in his hands and said something soft and led her from the stable. He didn't look back at the half-naked man in the straw.
The mare cantered easily down the grade. Two cows lifted their heads to contemplate the passing horse and chew their cud. Tiny puffs of dust hung in the air at her passing. A hawk circled on the updrafts caused by the darkening clouds. A tidy cottage came into view beyond the bend and a small copse of laurel at the bottom of the hill. Nanny Grey stood at the gate, a hamper of food on her arm. Her husband stood in the stable yard harnessing the pony to its cart.
