A Wayward Game (16 page)

“I hope you’re
right, Frieda.”

“I hope so,
too.” She turns towards the ticket barriers. “Goodbye, Katherine.
I’ll speak to you soon.”

I watch as she
makes her way through the heaving crowd of commuters, slips through
the ticket barrier, and disappears. She doesn’t look back, and it
seems to me that Frieda has stopped looking back for good, or at
least for now. All her energy and thoughts are focussed on the
future, and she won’t stop until she knows the truth, or she’s
dead. Working together, perhaps we’ll find a way to break the
deadlock; and perhaps, too, we’ll tread on some important toes. And
with that thought comes another: that somehow, in some way, this
entire situation is coming to a head. Soon, I think, this storm is
going to break.

Neil kneels on
the rug, naked, arms raised above his head and spread wide. Two
leather cuffs encircle his wrists, and chains connect them to hooks
in the ceiling. A ball gag sits between his lips, held in place by
a strap that circles around his head. He looks vulnerable and
beautiful; looking at him, I feel an urgent wrench of desire. I
kneel in front of him, looking into his eyes. I reach out and
stroke his jaw, feeling the slight roughness there, the beginnings
of a beard. He leans towards my touch, and his eyes close, and then
open again. His breathing is harsh and heavy in the quiet room.

“Do you trust
me?” I ask, smiling.

He nods, and
gives a small grunt.

I hold out my
hand, palm up. Two small metal clips, attached to each other by a
thin silver chain, gleam in the dusky light.

“Nipple
clamps,” I say. “Do you want to try them on?”

He pauses, and
then nods.

I gently rub
his left nipple with my thumb, stimulating it, feeling it harden
beneath my touch. His eyes close once more, and he turns his head
slightly to the side. I take one of the clamps, position it over
his nipple, and release it so that it nips the delicate flesh
there, pinching it together. He gives a little moan.

“Does it hurt
too much?” I ask.

He moans again,
but shakes his head.

“Good,” I say.
“Because I would never really hurt you. This is all about pleasure.
You know, don’t you, that your pleasure gives pleasure to me.”

He opens his
eyes, looks at me, and nods.

“And I command
you to feel pleasure. Feel as much pleasure as you can.” I kiss his
cheek. “And if it gets too much, if you want me to stop, give three
small grunts together. That’s all it will take.”

He nods again,
and gives a little whimper.

I reach out and
gently caress his other nipple, and then attach the other clamp to
it. The silver clips pinch his flesh together, and he moans and
stirs. The chain between the clamps swings slightly as he
moves.

“Do you like
it?” I ask.

He nods, his
eyes tightly closed.

I begin to
stroke his cock, fondling him along his shaft and allowing my
fingers to linger over the head. I move my hand to his balls,
enjoying the feel of them against my fingers and palm. He gives a
little whine of pleasure, and the leather cuffs around his wrists
creak as he stirs and sways.

“Do you want
more?” I ask.

He nods again,
his eyes still closed. I reach out and take something from the
table.

“Open your
eyes,” I say.

He obeys, and
his eyes widen slightly when he sees what I’m holding: a leather
cuff, a little like a handcuff, but smaller.

“Do you know
what this is for?” I ask.

He nods.

“And do you
want it?”

He nods again,
and I sit back on my haunches, reach for his balls, and gently pull
them down. He gasps, and then sighs as I put the cuff around his
scrotum and tighten it. He murmurs something into his gag as the
cuff closes around his flesh.

“Is it too
tight?” I ask.

He shakes his
head.

“Good.” I lean
forward and kiss his cheek. “It doesn’t have to be very tight. Just
tight enough to remind you where you belong, and who you belong to.
I don’t want you to forget that, ever.”

A small D-ring
is attached to the testicle cuff, and I fasten another small chain
to it, and then clip it to the chain that hangs between the nipple
clamps. Then I sit back on my haunches again, and look at him. His
balls are pulled down by the cuff and, with the skin stretched
back, his cock seems larger. The chains gleam against his pale
skin. He moans, and a small trickle of saliva runs down his
chin.

“Yes,” I say.
“This is how I like you. Tied up so that you can’t move. So that
I’ve got you right where I want you.”

I kiss him
again, and run my hand through his hair. He is breathing heavily,
and I feel his breath tickling the skin on my neck. I move my hand
down his back, and run it over his buttock. He leans towards me
slightly, and the chains binding him to the ceiling jangle. Then I
pull away, get up, and go to stand behind him.

A flogger hangs
from a hook on the wall. I take it down, and the leather tails
brush against my thigh, dancing against my skin and sparking a deep
tug of desire in my groin. I hear a slight catch in Neil’s breath
as I move the flogger so that the tails run lightly across his back
and buttocks, tickling him. He moves slightly, leaning forward a
little so that his backside sticks out.

“You like that,
don’t you?” I say, smiling.

He gives a
little moan, which tells me that he does.

I let the
flogger dance gently against his skin for a moment, and then flick
it and bring it down, quite lightly, on his back. He whimpers, very
quietly, and sways slightly, so that the chains running from his
wrists to the ceiling clink again, making a silvery-sweet sound. I
slide the flogger over to the other side of his back, and see the
skin turning pink where I struck him. The sight is maddeningly
erotic, and I feel a twist of pleasure deep inside my body. My
clitoris gives a small throb, and I feel it hardening.

I bring the
flogger back, and then flick it again, so that the tails hit the
other side of his back. He sways again, and the chains rattle. I
strike again, harder, and again, building up the speed and
intensity of the blows. I begin to strike his buttocks, and again
see his skin turn pink, and he sighs and squirms in his restraints,
leaning further forward, presenting his backside to me.
Occasionally he lets out a stifled little groan through the ball
gag, and the muted sound increases my excitement. I hit him a
little harder, pausing to dance the flogger over his skin, knowing
the maddening contrast between the light tickle and the hard slap.
I vary my rhythm, teasing him, and he makes a small sound of
longing in his throat.

Eventually I
let the flogger fall to the floor, and move around so that I’m
standing in front of him, facing him. He looks up at me, and his
eyes seethe with yearning. A thin stream of drool runs from the
corner of his mouth, and his cock is enormous, hard and throbbing.
I sink to my knees, and my fingers reach out and stroke his
erection. He moans. I move closer, parting my legs slightly so that
his cock slides between my thighs, and the tip slips into my cunt
and nudges against my clitoris. I sigh, and begin to move my pelvis
back and forth, stroking myself against him, feeling my pleasure
swell and become overpowering. Neil gives a sob of desire, craving
release, but the cuff bearing down on his balls delays his orgasm,
drawing out the experience. We rock backwards and forwards,
stimulating ourselves and each other, and I feel the coldness of
his chains growing warm between our skin, and the nipple clamps
digging into my own flesh. Then, as I begin to feel my body betray
me, tipping me over the edge toward orgasm, I pull away. Neil gives
a frustrated moan.

“Do you want to
come?” I breathe.

He nods.

“Shall I take
this off?” I ask, touching the testicle cuff.

He nods again,
his eyes filled with pleading.

“I’ll only do
that if you promise that you won’t come until I tell you that you
can. And only if you promise that
these
,” – I gently cup his
balls in my palm – “are mine. Whether they’re cuffed or not, they
belong to me. I don’t want you to forget that. Do you promise?”

He nods. I
unfasten the cuff, and it falls away from his body. He sighs, and
pulls slightly against his restraints. His cock, smeared with my
wetness, stands out, immense and throbbing. I reach for a condom,
rip open the packet, and carefully roll it over his cock. I turn so
that I’m facing away from him, and slip down onto all fours, so
that my splayed thighs brush against his. His cock presses against
my buttocks, searching, hungry, and I glance back at him.

“Now fuck me,
hard,” I say. “But remember, don’t come. Not until I tell you that
you can.”

I push my hips
back, and feel his cock slide against the entrance to my vagina. He
pushes against me, trying to enter me, but it’s difficult for him
in this position; he can’t make use of his hand to guide his cock.
He tries again, and slips out of me altogether. He makes a small
sound of frustration, and I push my hips back further and lift my
pelvis higher. He thrusts again, and glides into me with a small
cry of triumph. I feel my body opening up around him, feel a knot
of pleasure between my legs tighten and twist as he presses up into
the core of my body. We begin to move together, hard and fast,
every thrust heightening our pleasure. But I make him wait – make
myself
wait – holding back, resisting the urgent wishes of
our bodies. And then I can take no more of this torture, and I arch
my back and thrust against him, hard.

“Now. Now,” I
cry, and the tension in my body shatters into a thousand pieces,
like a glass smashing, as I come. I feel my limbs jerk
convulsively, and then hear Neil’s muffled cry as he comes, and the
jangle of the chains; and then there’s nothing but the sound of his
heavy breathing, and mine.

Later, while
we’re lying together on the bed, I hold him gently, almost as a
mother might cradle her child. His mood is soft and dreamy in the
aftermath of sex. A trickle of perspiration runs down his temple.
It is July now, and the days are hot, thick, and dusty; many
evenings, clouds pile up on the horizon, heralding a storm. I
suddenly yearn for open countryside, for wide moors and mountains.
I think of Frieda, sitting on the train as it carries her back to
the cool hills of Wales. I think of what it must be like for Neil
during the day, when he is at his office in Scotland Yard. I have
never been to his workplace, but I can imagine what it is like:
shelves piled high with files, a fan whirring in the background,
and Neil sitting quietly, immersed in his work, his mind taken up
with the details of some investigation – a welcome respite,
perhaps, from the urgent question of his marriage and inharmonious
home. And also, perhaps, a respite from the question of
me
.
Am I just his guilty pleasure, or do these stolen hours really mean
something to him?

Some questions
are so big that we can’t bear to ask them, even of ourselves. We
dread hearing the answers, perhaps, even though knowing them might
save us.

I am almost
relieved when Neil begins to surface from his quiet dreamtime, and
when grey normality opens up around us once more. I go into the
kitchen and pour us some wine, and Neil goes to the bathroom. I
hear water splashing in the sink, a cupboard opening and closing:
the sounds of routine and domesticity, all the things I once
disdained and now, suddenly, yearn for.

When I come
back into the bedroom I find that the room is in near-darkness, the
lamp switched off, and the curtain slightly open. Grimy orange
light from the street outside shines through the gap. I make out
Neil’s silhouette; he is standing just in front of the curtain,
peering through the crack. He turns his head slightly as I come
into the room, and makes a small gesture with his hand – a gesture
that I take to mean “Get away” or “Stand back”.

“Turn off the
hall light,” he whispers.

I put the wine
down and do as he says, too startled to ask any questions. He
continues to peer out into the dark street, his tension etched into
the strong lines of his face and his taut shoulders. I step farther
into the room, until I’m standing just behind him.

“What is it?” I
murmur.

“Nothing,
probably,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of what?”

“There’s
someone standing out there, Katherine.”

“Out on the
street? So what?”

“I saw him
earlier, when I arrived. He’s standing in the shop doorway just
across the road. He must have been there for the past two hours or
so.”

I remain silent
for a moment, while a thrill of trepidation runs through my
body.

“Are you sure?”
I ask at last.

“I didn’t pay
much attention when I first saw him; I just assumed that he was
waiting for someone, something like that. But he’s been waiting a
hell of a long time, if that’s so.” He takes a step back, and
beckons to me. “Look. Carefully, now – just glance around the edge
of the curtain. See him?”

My eyes come to
rest on the doorway of the shop on the opposite side of the road, a
rather down-at-heel place that sells oriental fabric, saris, and
belly-dancing costumes. It is dark at this hour, and security
shutters cover the door and windows. The man standing there has his
hands in his pockets, and is not looking directly up at my windows;
indeed, he seems to be studiously avoiding doing so. But there is,
in his bearing and attitude, a suggestion of patient, attentive
waiting, and of watching. He is keeping his head down, and I cannot
see his face, but I glimpse close-cut blond hair, broad shoulders,
and a sharp nose.