Forever Bound. Elizabeth Coldwell

can do it,’ Diana offered, and my spine stiffened when I heard my name.

      ‘OK,’ I said, feeling the other sopranos sneer. ‘I’d love to.’

      We all changed our scores. I sang for Madeline and when my voice rang out over the rest of the choir, she smiled. I’d done it. She’d noticed me. We made a connection in that moment, eye to eye, mouth to ear. That moment changed everything.

      I stuck around after rehearsal, trying to work up the courage to congratulate Madeline on such a glorious piece. The thought of actually talking to her made me so nervous I had to run to the bathroom. When I returned, my fellow choristers were gone, but I heard two raised voices coming from the room where the church stored choir robes and old furniture, stuff like that. I knew those voices.

      Madeline was shouting, ‘Take it! I don’t want it any more!’

      ‘I bought all that for us,’ Diana cried. ‘If there is no us, I don’t want it either.’

      I couldn’t help wondering what they were fighting over. My curiosity got the best of me, I suppose, because I came so close to the door I wound up pressing it open with my chest.

      Madeline and Diana both looked up when the door squeaked. There was nowhere to hide. They’d seen me.

      Diana shook her head and stormed past me, yelling, ‘Keep it all or burn it. What do I care?’

      I hoped Madeline wasn’t mad at me for breaking up their spat. Some people really got off on arguing. But she didn’t seem upset. She stared right through me, standing perfectly still except for her thumb, which rolled a silver ring in circles around her middle finger.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to tell you how much I love your music.’

      She looked up and jolted a bit, like she was surprised to see me there. ‘Oh. Thank you.’

      ‘It’s an honour to be given a solo.’

      ‘Good.’ Madeline looked frazzled and frail, and I wished I could do something about that. When she looked at me, I felt like she was staring at a painting, not a person. Finally, she shook her head and her hair exploded around her face. ‘I’m sorry. Where are my manners? It’s very nice to meet you.’

      She extended her hand and I whispered, ‘Eva.’ There was more silver than flesh on her fingers, but her palm was smooth and cool. Mine was clammy, but she didn’t react. ‘I always look forward to our Christmas concert because I know I’ll get to see you again.’

      At first, she didn’t react except to nod slowly. Even when she said thank you, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me.

      ‘The Christmas songs you write for us are magnificent,’ I said, still hoping to get some reaction. Most women would have given up by now, but Madeline was worth the persistence.

      I thought she might say thank you again, but instead she dropped one hand into a bag and pulled out a length of thick black rope. ‘Have you ever been tied up?’

      That question threw me for a loop, but I answered truthfully. ‘Well … yes.’

      ‘In a church?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh. Well … no.’

      ‘Come here,’ she said, wriggling one silver-ringed finger at me. ‘Take off your clothes and get up on this desk.’

      I’d thought maybe I hadn’t communicated how much of a crush I had on her, but she obviously knew. She knew I’d do anything to make her happy, especially when she wore her melancholy like a veil. I stepped out of my frumpy corduroy pants.

      ‘Festive,’ Madeline said as I tore off my holly-patterned turtleneck. I felt a little silly, wearing cheery Christmas clothes while Madeline was draped in grey. I felt a lot less silly once I was naked. There’s something very serious about nudity, especially when you’re in a church.

      ‘Use “yellow light” for slow down, “red light” to stop,’ she instructed as I climbed up on the big wooden desk. ‘You know it’s not smart to give yourself to strangers, don’t you?’

      ‘You don’t feel like a stranger,’ I told her. ‘Your music’s already inside me.’

      She didn’t smile, not with her mouth, but a flash of light blazed across her eyes. She told me what to do: sit with both feet up on the desk. Bring my heels in nice and close to my butt cheeks. Place my wrists next to my ankles.

      I did everything she asked without question, and I waited patiently as she sorted through the lengths of silky black rope. When they met my skin, I shuddered internally. It felt so good, not only the sensation of rope on flesh, but the knowledge that Madeline was looking at my naked body and thinking about where to tie, where to create those bonds.

      She started by securing my wrists to my ankles, then wrapping that lovely rope around my calf, around my thigh, keeping my knees bent. But how to keep my legs apart? I’m sure that’s what she was thinking, because the next thing she did was tie another rope around my lower thigh and weave it behind my shoulder, then down my other arm to secure it just above the knee. Now my legs were open for her, and the more I leaned back, the wider they spread.

      ‘Can you move?’ she asked.

      ‘No.’ I really couldn’t. I could wriggle my fingers and my toes, but that was it. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Ahh,’ Madeline cooed, finally breaking a slight smile. ‘The pleasure is mine.’

      I wished I could see myself from her perspective: bound on a desk, legs spread wide, naked pussy drooling and exposed. Did I look too hairy? It had certainly been a while since I’d trimmed down there. And what about my breasts? The right nipple always got much harder than the left one. Would Madeline care that I was so … imperfect?

      ‘I’m glad you enjoy my music,’ Madeline said.

      ‘I’m glad you create it.’ Stupid thing to say, but it was hard to think on my feet when they were tied to my wrists. ‘Can I sing it for you?’

      She laughed and pulled a strip of black fabric from one of her break-up bags. ‘Why not?’

      I sang her setting of ‘Balulalow’ while she blindfolded me. It didn’t have the same effect without the whole choir, but the soprano line carried the melody. Strangely, I felt more naked singing for Madeline than I felt being naked, or being tied up with ropes for that matter. Music was such a brutal art. Vocal music, especially. Even when it was desperately beautiful, it still tore through your body like lightning.

      ‘Do you trust me?’ she asked when I’d finished her song.

      ‘Yes.’ No hesitation.

      ‘God only knows why,’ she said. ‘But you truly do trust me?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then drink this.’

      She held a bottle to my lip, but didn’t tilt it right away. She gave me a chance to ask what it was, but I didn’t. In this game, if you trusted your partner you didn’t question their actions or requests. You did as you were told.

      I drank, and my throat flooded with fresh water. It soothed more than just my vocal cords. That simple action told me Madeline took her duty of care seriously. She would not hurt me, though I couldn’t move or see. I already trusted her. Now I knew that trust was not misplaced.

      ‘It’s important for a singer to keep hydrated,’ she told me. ‘And never, never smoke. Do you smoke?’

      ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘That’s good. It probably costs me a thousand dollars in cigarettes to write one opus. And it’ll kill me one day. Never start, because once you start you can’t stop.’

      ‘Just like this,’ I said, hoping she’d know I meant the power exchange, domination and submission.

      Of course she understood. She chuckled