A Wayward Game (5 page)

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good.” I stand
up, and gently nudge his backside with the spike of my heel. “Now
get up.”

He stands, a
little awkwardly given his bound wrists. His eyes, when he looks at
me, are slightly unfocussed, confused almost. The sensation of the
wax, the flickering candlelight, and a prone position: all of these
things might give rise to an almost meditative or prayerful frame
of mind, that powerful and transformative state in which religious
experiences are felt and magic is worked. An intense state,
certainly, but not necessarily conducive to sexual passion: when I
look down at his cock, I see that it has become flaccid again.

“Oh dear,” I
say, and my hand creeps down to his groin. “You appear to be
somewhat fatigued. Am I boring you, by any chance?”

“No, Mistress,”
he says, swallowing.

“This really is
most unsatisfactory,” I say, cradling his balls in my hand. “I must
say, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry,
Mistress.”

“You will be.”
I squeeze his balls, rather hard, and he whimpers. “Bend over.”

He obeys,
leaning over from the waist and placing his hands on his knees. I
take a small switch from a hook on the wall, and swat his backside
with five quick strokes. The blows are not hard, but they leave
five pink stripes across his buttocks. He groans, and then – to my
surprise – giggles.

“Is something
funny?” I ask.

“No,
Mistress.”

“Then stop
laughing. And stand up straight.”

He straightens
his back. I put the switch down, go to stand behind him, and slip
my hand around to the front of his body. My fingers begin to stroke
his cock, and I feel it stir and stiffen at my touch.

“Good boy,” I
say. “I want you nice and hard like this. Because that’s what
you’re here for, isn’t it? For my pleasure.”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good.” I slide
my hand back around to his buttock, and give it a little slap.
“Now, close your eyes, and don’t open them until I tell you
to.”

I take his
hands in mine and lead him into the centre of the room, where a
scarlet chaise longue stands midway between two full-length mirrors
that hang on opposite walls, facing each other. Our reflected
images slip into view, and beyond them images of images, a myriad
of reflections. I stop just short of the chaise longue, and unzip
my skirt. It falls to the floor with a rustle, and I see my naked
behind reflected in the mirror. The pulse of excitement between my
legs quickens, and I lean forward and gently kiss Neil’s lips.

“Open your eyes
now,” I say.

He opens his
eyes, and I see them flicker across to the mirror and take in his
back, the streaks of dried wax, and my bare backside. A faint smile
crosses his lips.

“Do you see how
beautiful you are now?” I ask. I reach down for his cock and stroke
it again, and find it large and firm.

“Yes,
Mistress.”

I pull down my
corset so that my breasts are exposed, and pushed up by the
underwiring. I look at them in the mirror, at the round white
globes of flesh surmounted by rosy nipples. They skim the hair on
his chest as I move my body closer to his, and I feel his cock
pushing against my upper thigh. We kiss: a long, deep, needy kiss.
I pull away, feeling a little breathless, and sit down on the edge
of the chaise longue, parting my legs.

“Kneel,” I
say.

He sinks down
onto his knees between my splayed legs, and looks up at me. His
hands are still bound in front of him, and he holds them up, almost
as if he is begging. The chain connecting the cuffs gleams wickedly
in the candlelight.

“Now,” I say,
“I want you to please me with your tongue.”

He leans closer
to me, until I feel his breath tickling the skin of my inner thighs
and the delicate flesh around my cunt. I see his tongue flit out
from between his lips, and watch as it slips inside me. And then I
feel
it there, running softly over every ridge and crease,
gently exploring me. The knot of pleasure in my groin tightens, and
I close my eyes and let my head tip back. His tongue slides deeper,
until it reaches the most sensitive part of my body. He lets it
rest there for a moment, and then begins to move it in small
circles and with tiny flicks, exciting me more, until my pleasure
is coiled up inside me like a spring, tightening and compressing.
His tongue moves faster, harder, and I feel my body begin to tip
over the edge toward orgasm. I pull away sharply, gasping, and look
down at him. His mouth is wet with me, and his eyes are bright and
hungry. His cock, urgent and throbbing, stands out from his
body.

“Good,” I say,
and stand up so that I tower above him. “Very good. In fact, I
think you deserve a little reward. Stand up.”

He clambers to
his feet, and I reach forward and press the safety catch on the
cuffs, so that they fall from his wrists. He gently rubs the flesh
there, and I lean forward and kiss him again, tasting myself on his
lips. Then I reach for the condom that is lying on the chaise
longue, and hand it to him.

“Put it on,” I
say.

He blushes a
little, but obediently tears open the packet and rolls the condom
down over his shaft. I watch him, and then turn and straddle the
chaise longue so that I am facing away from him. I put my hands
down on the soft leather seat, spread my legs wider, and arch my
back. I see myself in the mirror: long brown hair, long legs, pale
haunches. I see my cunt, slick with desire and split like a ripe
fig. I look at Neil, and our eyes meet in the mirror.

“Now fuck me,”
I say, “and look at yourself in the mirror while you’re doing it.
See for yourself how perfect you are.”

He moves closer
to me, and I feel his skin against my skin, his groin against my
buttocks. I watch in the mirror as he guides his cock inside me
with his hand, and then I feel it there, slipping inside me, moving
deeper. I feel my own body opening up around him, and feel little
pulses of sensation spread across my groin and up into my womb. He
moves slowly at first, almost shyly, peering into the mirror at the
riot of colour on his back, at his thrusting buttocks, and his
balls swinging back and forth between his legs. His expression is
somewhere between ecstasy and embarrassment; part of him, I know,
does not want to look at these things. It is the same part of him,
perhaps, that does not live in his body, and views it as a
treacherous vessel, something to be distrusted and denied. It is
the part of him that does not approve of what he does with me in
this room, and wishes that he were safely back in his old, cosseted
life, back in a time when these dark paths remained unexplored.

But gradually
pleasure softens his face. A light gleam of sweat breaks out on his
forehead, and his eyes flicker shut as he thrusts harder and
faster, giving in to his body’s urgent demands. He begins to moan
softly, giving the occasional choked sob of desire. I look into the
mirror and admire his body, his face, his swaying balls. Could he
ever see himself the way I see him, and understand what he does to
me? Would it change anything, if he could?

My own pleasure
builds to a peak as he thrusts, and I find that I’m gasping,
perspiring. “Open your eyes,” I murmur, and it sounds not like a
command now, but a plea; my voice is breathless and cracked with
yearning. His eyelids flutter open, and our eyes meet in the glass
for a long, strange moment, in which something – something too
fleeting and intense to be captured in words, or interpreted –
passes between us. Then an orgasm rips through my body, exploding
in every nerve and vein, and I cry out. My body jolts and my eyes
close, and a moment later I hear him groan as he plunges deep
inside me and comes.

We stay as we
are for a long moment, with our bodies bound together, and I savour
the feeling of him inside me. But he withdraws all too soon,
leaving me spent, empty, and strangely sad. I look into the mirror,
seeking something from him – some reassurance, perhaps. But his
eyes are downcast, and I don’t know what or who he is thinking of,
or even if he is thinking of anything at all.

Later, after I
have peeled the dried wax off his back, we take a bath together.
The weather has turned again, as it so often does in Britain in the
summer, and the night is almost cold. The small bathroom fills with
steam as we lie back together in the old-fashioned porcelain tub.
He sits between my legs, leaning back against me, resting his head
on my shoulder, and he looks dreamy and lost in thought. The sounds
of the city – blaring car horns, distant music, loud voices in the
street below – drift up to us, heralding a normality to which we
know we must return, whether we want to or not.

We are quiet,
as we often are in the aftermath of sex. It is as though, once our
games are over, we return to being what we essentially are: two
slight acquaintances who have never troubled ourselves to get to
know each other very well, and are as a consequence somewhat shy
and constrained in each other’s company. This is only to be
expected, of course. We have never done the things that most
couples do, like going on dates or enjoying long conversations over
dinner or drinks. That, for us, was never the point. When we met,
Neil was in no mood for another close relationship; he wanted only
an affair, a distraction from a crumbling marriage. I, with my own
accumulation of private sorrows, was happy to oblige. We were
satisfied with our arrangement at the time, and I wonder why it no
longer seems like enough.

“How do you
feel now?” I ask, desperate to reach across the chasm of silence
that separates us.

His eyes open,
and he stirs and stretches his limbs, and smiles.

“Very calm and
quiet,” he says. “The world seems very distant; it always does,
afterwards. When we’re together in that room, everything else just
fades into the background. That’s how it feels, anyway.”

“Does it seem
unreal? What we do together?”

“Not unreal,
no. On a certain level, it’s about as real as anything could be;
the sensation is, anyway. But it’s very far from normality, isn’t
it? A very wayward game.”

“What is
normality, though?”

He considers
for a moment. “Well, to me it’s just the business of being alive.
Getting out of bed, going out to work, doing all the things that
people have always had to do. The life you choose to live, I
suppose.”

“The life you
choose, or the life that’s chosen for you?”

“Most of it you
choose. There’s no one else to blame. You can’t point the finger at
your parents, or your boss, or the world. That’s the coward’s way
out.” He closes his eyes, and smiles a little sadly. “You see it
all the time in my line of work. You wouldn’t believe how many
people are adamant that, whatever has happened and whatever they’ve
done, it’s all somebody else’s fault. It’s childish. If you want
freedom, you have to accept a certain amount of responsibility
too.”

He sounds
exactly like a policeman, a pillar of common sense and
respectability, and I smile.

“Man is born
free, but he is everywhere in chains,” I quote.

“Very
appropriate.” He smiles, and turns to look at me. “What’s brought
all this on?”

“Nothing in
particular. It’s just that I sometimes wonder how much control
anyone really has. It’s all very well to say that petty thieves and
small-time crooks should take responsibility for their actions.
They usually have to when they’re caught, anyway. And all the while
the big criminals – the businessmen who squander millions, the
politicians who are corrupt – have the money and connections to get
away with it. It hardly seems fair, does it?”

I am thinking
of James Sallow who, if I am right, managed – quite literally – to
get away with murder.

“Well, no
system of law enforcement is perfect. Personally, I’m a great
believer in the law being equal for everyone, and I’d be surprised
if any of my colleagues were not of the same opinion. If money and
status can buy special treatment, it’s not with the approval of
ordinary police officers. Really, though, corruption and
favouritism are less common than people think. I’m not personally
aware of any huge conspiracies going on beneath the surface. Of
course, there are always conspiracy theorists, simply because
reality can be boring. People love a good mystery.” He lifts one
leg out of the water, and extends it, toes pointed; soap slithers
down his skin. “Are you thinking about Diane Meath-Jones, by any
chance?”

I smile. That
he has guessed this is not due to any extraordinary perception on
his part, but because he knows how significant the case is to
me.

“Of course,” I
say. “Actually, I’m thinking about James Sallow in particular. I do
wonder if his money didn’t buy him special treatment.”

“I don’t think
it did, no.”

“Maybe not, but
I’ll tell you this: I don’t trust that man. A man like that, who’s
driven and privileged and arrogant – that’s a dangerous man.”

“Or just an
unpleasant man, perhaps,” Neil says, and yawns. “Either way, it’s
hardly evidence.”

“Maybe not.
There
is
evidence against him, though.”

“A spot of
Diane’s blood mixed with his DNA, in the holiday cottage where
they’d just spent the weekend together. That doesn’t amount to
much. Diane might have cut her finger, or had a nosebleed. It would
never stand up in court.”

“What about the
cadaver dogs? They alerted in the cottage.”

“The dogs’
reliability can be disputed. Even if it were established beyond
doubt, what does it prove? That a corpse had been in the house? It
doesn’t necessarily suggest that it was Diane’s body. And without
that body – without further, clinching evidence – such indications
are legally useless.”