Free Eat Me by Linda Jaivin Page A

the back of her mind and sat down to open her mail. Nothing wildly exciting: a telephone bill, a catalogue from DJs, a letter from her parents and a postcard from Fiona in Darwin. The last reminded her of her own letter, and she fished it out of her bag. She tore open the envelope. That missive would go no further than a discreet file in her desk drawer. What she saw caused her face to pale and her heart to skip a beat. She dropped it to the floor and put her hands over her mouth, which, behind her stretched fingers, had formed a large ‘O’. She double-checked the envelope. Yes, it was clearly made out to Fiona in Darwin. But the letter inside began:
    Dear Bronwyn,
    It was nice to see you again in Canberra and catch up with what you are doing. I was very intrigued by your thesis on the valorisation of gender identity in contemporary Aboriginal theatre and dance...

THE FIFTH SCARF
    The woman in the red corset smooths on her elbow-length black kid-leather gloves. Her dark hair flows like warm chocolate over the plump vanilla scoops of her shoulders. The corset pushes up her breasts, exposing them nearly to the nipples. Turning with a coquettish flounce of her tutu, she bends at the waist to study herself in the mirror that is propped up on the floor. She reaches for lipstick the colour of raspberries and freshens the bow of her lips. She is aware that she is displaying her firm round buttocks to advantage. Red suspenders stripe the immaculate white flesh, and sheer black stockings encircle the pale fullness of her thighs. Her stilettos further elongate her legs, heightening the dramatic effect. Her sex is barely covered by the black lace g-string. Widening her stance, she lowers her head to look back from between her legs. Her hair hangs down in a lustrous curtain to the floor. Yes. Just as she had expected. Those big green eyes, with their thick fringe of lashes, are welded to her. They say, come to me, love me, tease me, fuck me now.
    Beg me, darling. I’d like that.
    A white lace curtain flutters in the cool mountain breeze. The silk fringe on the lampshade undulates in the draught. The dusky rouge lampshade is pure Victorian, like everything else in this history-encrusted room. Although it is only mid-afternoon, the room seems to exist in a perpetual gloaming. The densely forested slopes outside the window glow a soft eucalypt blue. Shafts of slanting light play sensuously with the patterns of the lacy bedspread and warm the threadbare colours of the woven rugs scattered over the wooden floor. A fire glows and crackles in the small fireplace, licking even more intricate rivulets of light and shade over the scene.
    Wait a minute. If it’s cold enough to have a fire going, then it’s too cold to open the window. One or the other. Let’s take the fire. Forget the breeze.
    Drawing herself up again, she inspects the fire. With a poker she gently stirs the logs; under her precise touch, the flames leap up with the alacrity of desire. Concealing her emotion, she shifts her gaze to the naked slave on the bed. She’s been there a while now, and has been very good, too. She hasn’t even needed to be gagged.
    Sashaying over to the bed, she spreadeagles the willing, wide-eyed creature and ties her by her beautiful hands and perfect feet to the bedposts with silk scarves. Placing a gloved hand on her slave’s instep, she notes with satisfaction how her whole body jumps as though jolted by an electric current. Then, moving her hand up to encircle the slave’s ankle with her fingers, the mistress lowers her lips down onto the big toe, which still smells faintly of ylang-ylang and sandalwood oil from the bath. She flicks the top of the toe with the tip of her tongue and then takes it into her mouth and sucks on it. Planting rows of tiny kisses all the way down the foot, she continues up the leg to the knee, where she rests her head. Her right hand lies casually on her slave’s stomach; the left