The Virgin
Page 37
“Do I at least get points for trying to make you laugh?” Kyrie asked, looking wide-eyed and hopeful.
“Two.”
“Two what?”
“I’m giving you two points for trying to make me laugh.”
“How many points do I need to win?”
“What game are we playing?” Elle asked, turning the steam up on her iron. She had a wrinkle that would not give.
“The ‘Let’s Be Friends’ game.”
“I don’t need any friends.”
“We all need friends,” Kyrie said. “We’d go crazy without friends.”
“You’re already crazy,” Elle reminded her. “And so am I.”
“Is it true you’re hiding from your abusive boyfriend?” Kyrie asked, and Elle stood up straight and stared Kyrie down. Daniel might have had The Ouch, but long ago Elle had perfected her own scary stare she used on the other submissives in Kingsley’s circle. The second one of them crossed a line, stepped out of bounds, or even worse, in Elle’s opinion, whined, she gave that Sub a stare so intense it had inspired tears. She gave Kyrie that same stare now.
“Are you a virgin?” Elle asked.
“What?” Kyrie blinked at her in confusion.
“If we’re having a personal conversation, it’s going to be two-sided. Are you a virgin?”
“Yes,” Kyrie said.
“I thought so.”
“What does that mean?” Kyrie demanded.
“It means that you are innocent. You have never let yourself be sexually vulnerable to someone. Since you are a virgin you cannot begin to imagine what my life was like before I came here. We will be speaking entirely different languages. I could tell you the truth about who I am and what brought me here and none of it will make any sense to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think I knew how to get candle wax off your habit?” Elle asked.
“I don’t know. You said it was, what? A recreational hazard. Recreation means play. You used to play with candle wax.”
“I did. Any guesses how or why?”
“Not really. Candle wax doesn’t seem all that fun.”
“You don’t run with the same crowd that I do then. Used to run with,” she corrected.
“Sounds like an interesting crowd. The candle wax gang.”
“We were. I guess.” Elle sighed and folded her now-perfectly flat tablecloth.
“Do you miss it? Your old life?” Kyrie walked around her ironing board and pulled herself up onto the counter. Her feet, shod in black old lady shoes, kicked against the doors. Without the habit, Kyrie would look like a bored teenage girl sitting on a kitchen counter.
“Yes and no,” Elle said. “I miss parts of it.”
“What do you miss?” Kyrie asked.
Elle looked her straight in the eyes.
“Sex.”
She hoped that would finally shut Kyrie up.
“Is it as much fun as it sounds?” Kyrie asked.
“Oh my God, I can’t get rid of you, can I?” Elle asked, ready to break a window and run for it if necessary.
“You can’t.” Kyrie grinned ear to ear. “I haven’t had this much fun since I came here. You are really grumpy, and I like it. Say something grumpy to me again.”
“You must be a masochist.”
“A what?”
“A masochist. Someone who takes pleasure from pain and humiliation.”
“Well...I did join a convent.”
“Good point,” Elle conceded. “Look, you seem very nice.”
“I am very nice. I am the nicest person I know.”
“You’re a real Polly-fucking-Anna, aren’t you?”
“I am. Also, Polly Fucking Anna would make a great name for a lesbian porno.”
Elle glared at her.
“Oh, scary face,” Kyrie said.
“Stop,” Elle said. “Please, just stop what you’re doing here.”
“What am I doing?” Kyrie asked, still smiling.
“You are clearly a girl on a mission to make friends with the poor abused little laundress who ran away from her big bad boyfriend. I don’t know if your priest told you to do it or Mother Prioress or my own mother even, but I don’t care. I don’t need a buddy. I don’t need a friend. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything you have to give me. I’m fine.”
Kyrie’s smile faded and it was as if the sun had set five hours early.
“My oldest sister’s husband beat her to death,” Kyrie said. “Two years ago. They had a three-year-old little girl who watched the whole thing happen.”
Elle felt the bottom of her stomach drop out of her like a trap door had opened under her and everything but her body fell through.
“Kyrie...I’m sorry.”
“Someone told me you’d run away from your boyfriend who used to beat you,” Kyrie said. “If that’s true then I wanted to say I’m happy you got away from him before he killed you. I really miss my sister.”
Elle reached down and pulled a fistful of white linen napkins from the basket.
“I’m very sorry about your sister. If it makes you feel any better at all, my situation is nothing like hers was. I’m not here because I had an abusive boyfriend. I left him for other reasons. It’s...it’s complicated.”
“So, he never hit you?”
“Two.”
“Two what?”
“I’m giving you two points for trying to make me laugh.”
“How many points do I need to win?”
“What game are we playing?” Elle asked, turning the steam up on her iron. She had a wrinkle that would not give.
“The ‘Let’s Be Friends’ game.”
“I don’t need any friends.”
“We all need friends,” Kyrie said. “We’d go crazy without friends.”
“You’re already crazy,” Elle reminded her. “And so am I.”
“Is it true you’re hiding from your abusive boyfriend?” Kyrie asked, and Elle stood up straight and stared Kyrie down. Daniel might have had The Ouch, but long ago Elle had perfected her own scary stare she used on the other submissives in Kingsley’s circle. The second one of them crossed a line, stepped out of bounds, or even worse, in Elle’s opinion, whined, she gave that Sub a stare so intense it had inspired tears. She gave Kyrie that same stare now.
“Are you a virgin?” Elle asked.
“What?” Kyrie blinked at her in confusion.
“If we’re having a personal conversation, it’s going to be two-sided. Are you a virgin?”
“Yes,” Kyrie said.
“I thought so.”
“What does that mean?” Kyrie demanded.
“It means that you are innocent. You have never let yourself be sexually vulnerable to someone. Since you are a virgin you cannot begin to imagine what my life was like before I came here. We will be speaking entirely different languages. I could tell you the truth about who I am and what brought me here and none of it will make any sense to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think I knew how to get candle wax off your habit?” Elle asked.
“I don’t know. You said it was, what? A recreational hazard. Recreation means play. You used to play with candle wax.”
“I did. Any guesses how or why?”
“Not really. Candle wax doesn’t seem all that fun.”
“You don’t run with the same crowd that I do then. Used to run with,” she corrected.
“Sounds like an interesting crowd. The candle wax gang.”
“We were. I guess.” Elle sighed and folded her now-perfectly flat tablecloth.
“Do you miss it? Your old life?” Kyrie walked around her ironing board and pulled herself up onto the counter. Her feet, shod in black old lady shoes, kicked against the doors. Without the habit, Kyrie would look like a bored teenage girl sitting on a kitchen counter.
“Yes and no,” Elle said. “I miss parts of it.”
“What do you miss?” Kyrie asked.
Elle looked her straight in the eyes.
“Sex.”
She hoped that would finally shut Kyrie up.
“Is it as much fun as it sounds?” Kyrie asked.
“Oh my God, I can’t get rid of you, can I?” Elle asked, ready to break a window and run for it if necessary.
“You can’t.” Kyrie grinned ear to ear. “I haven’t had this much fun since I came here. You are really grumpy, and I like it. Say something grumpy to me again.”
“You must be a masochist.”
“A what?”
“A masochist. Someone who takes pleasure from pain and humiliation.”
“Well...I did join a convent.”
“Good point,” Elle conceded. “Look, you seem very nice.”
“I am very nice. I am the nicest person I know.”
“You’re a real Polly-fucking-Anna, aren’t you?”
“I am. Also, Polly Fucking Anna would make a great name for a lesbian porno.”
Elle glared at her.
“Oh, scary face,” Kyrie said.
“Stop,” Elle said. “Please, just stop what you’re doing here.”
“What am I doing?” Kyrie asked, still smiling.
“You are clearly a girl on a mission to make friends with the poor abused little laundress who ran away from her big bad boyfriend. I don’t know if your priest told you to do it or Mother Prioress or my own mother even, but I don’t care. I don’t need a buddy. I don’t need a friend. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything you have to give me. I’m fine.”
Kyrie’s smile faded and it was as if the sun had set five hours early.
“My oldest sister’s husband beat her to death,” Kyrie said. “Two years ago. They had a three-year-old little girl who watched the whole thing happen.”
Elle felt the bottom of her stomach drop out of her like a trap door had opened under her and everything but her body fell through.
“Kyrie...I’m sorry.”
“Someone told me you’d run away from your boyfriend who used to beat you,” Kyrie said. “If that’s true then I wanted to say I’m happy you got away from him before he killed you. I really miss my sister.”
Elle reached down and pulled a fistful of white linen napkins from the basket.
“I’m very sorry about your sister. If it makes you feel any better at all, my situation is nothing like hers was. I’m not here because I had an abusive boyfriend. I left him for other reasons. It’s...it’s complicated.”
“So, he never hit you?”
