Carrion: A Story of Passion (4 page)

"Yep, see you later." He sounded distracted, or in company.

There was a small moment before he switched off the phone and I found myself blurting out, "By the way, it's my birthday." But I'm sure he didn’t hear.

I collected the keys from reception and started to walk towards the tube station. On the way I found myself pulled into a small bakery by the temptation of a cup of tea and a slice of 'birthday' cake. It was also a chance to phone mum. I didn’t know why but I hadn’t wanted to speak to her whilst I was at Alexander’s.

The phone rang several times before she answered it.

"Hello, mum," I said in my most happy voice.

"Charlotte! Oh, I'd started to get worried. Where have you been? I thought you might have called."

"I went away for a few days and then work’s been really busy," I offered lamely.

"Did you get my card?"

"Yes, thanks. That's why I'm ringing, to say thank you," I lied.

"That's alright, sweetie. I thought it better than sending you something you might not like."

I had no idea what she sent me but I guessed it was vouchers.

"Are you doing anything nice for your birthday?" I knew that what she was really asking me was whether or not I had managed to get myself a date for the evening.

"No, not really." I sighed. "Monday's not really the best day to get people out and about."

"No, I suppose not," she said, obviously running out of things to say. I could almost hear her panic welling as she searched around for something else to say. Anything. Anything that might disprove that we had drifted apart in the last year and were now little more than strangers.

"How's work?" she asked.

"Well, you know - busy." I had tried to explain what I did but she has refused to understand, waving it away with the stock comment,

"Oh, it's all above my head, sweetie. We're just so proud of you, you know."

"Yeah, mum, I know." I stabbed the cake with my fork.

She hesitated before asking her next stock question. “Have you met anyone nice yet?”

“No, mum!” I sighed. “No one special. Look, sorry, I've got to go, my bus is coming. I'll talk later, yeah?"

"Okay, sweetie. Well have a nice relaxing evening then. Love you. Look after yourself."

"Yep. Love you too."

All the way home, I thought about why I hadn’t told mum about meeting Alexander. I try to work out who he is to me. More importantly, who I am to him.

Chapter Three: The Academy

Alexander had left early for a business meeting in Paris. He had packed the night before with his usual efficiency and snuck out whilst I still slept. It was the first time I had woken to find him gone, and even though I knew it was just a temporary measure, it lodged in me the unshakeable fear that one day, he would be gone for good.

I relied on routine to get me on the tube, coffee in hand. It was only a ten-minute journey to the office, but it was ten minutes of extreme survival so that by the time you arrived, you felt like you’d undergone some kind of intense mental and physical workout.

I looked at my reflection in the tube window, hoping that the high collared kitty-bow blouse would adequately hide the shadows of the bruises, which had faded over the week. Alexander hadn’t mentioned them, but I had caught the look of intellectual curiosity in his eye when we had made love earlier in the week. His fingers had lingered over them momentarily, almost as if he had been surprised to see them. My period had prevented any further scrutiny as I headed to bed in pyjamas and a clear attitude that my body was off limits to anybody other than Mother Nature – despite Alexander’s sour mood.

He had left no messages of love in his absence. No cute post-it-notes to the fridge wishing away the hours. That wasn’t Alexander’s style. And as much as I wished it were, I was glad that it wasn’t. I spent the rest of my journey both courting and pushing away the image of Alexander in some Parisian brothel – it was a thought that brought about an equal measure of insane jealousy and desire.

After reaching my stop, I elbowed my way through the body of suits and watched the descending escalator with an idle curiosity. London was full of pretty people. Every eye-full promised something alluring or curious. I had made it a game to imagine them interwoven into one of Alexander’s films. No narrative, just a photographic still of them and me doing something wicked, or divine. Sometimes, one of my subjects would cast a look back at me that suggested they’d read my thoughts – or maybe that they too were playing the, ‘How I’d fuck you’ game. When it happened – when that connection was made, something ran between us that made us more than human. Then they were gone. Replaced by another.

The rain had fallen heavily enough to create a general sense of well-rehearsed chaos. I dodged umbrella spikes and disorientated head-dippers and finally made it to the office feeling miserable and wishing I was in Paris with Alexander.

Curiously, Marcia arrived at the office in an usually deconstructed state. I scanned over her signs of unravelment; the scraped back hair, the lack of make-up, the flat shoes, and came to the conclusion that she was either ill, or sad. If I had been interested then I would have asked, but I wasn’t. There were plenty of people who were happy to take part in her pantomime, which apparently consisted mainly of the stage directions, ‘quiver lips, sigh heavily, and shed quiet tears publically.’ I watched it play out in front of me all morning with the same idle curiosity at seeing a Barbie doll cry.

By eleven o clock, unable to stand the farce any longer, I picked up my coat and made an escape in the direction of the indie coffee store that was sandwiched between a vinyl record store and an old-school barbershop. Unlike the Starbucks under our offices, I was unlikely to bump into any of my colleagues and be forced to chatter.

Putting my order in, I slipped my hand into my coat pocket to fish for change and my fingers found the hard edge of a postcard, which I knew had not been there prior to this morning. I tried to keep composure as I settled the transaction, despite my heart fluttering in anticipation of some whimsical love note. I challenged myself to wait, but the pull of hope was too strong and I resisted for as long as a single burning mouthful of latte before the note lay in front of me. I was to be disappointed. The whole thing was a sterile print of letters: some commercial card. As I read it, my first reaction was to stifle a disbelieving laugh. Then amusement turned to anger – and then melted into something else – something unable to be fully articulated. It was a feeling somewhere between humiliation and elated liberty, between shame and empowerment. I read the card several times over, trying to translate a message behind it until I finally came to accept that everything being communicated was on the surface of the card – no more, no less. It wasn’t a dare, or a curiosity, but a simple directive sent from Paris.

Mistress Arabella.

The London Academy of Punishment & Desire

COVENT GARDEN: London

15 Flowermarket Lane

Learn to administer and receive pleasure beyond your darkest fantasy

Workshops for singles or couples.

www.mistressarabellasacademy.co.uk

Scrawled across the top in Alexander’s handwriting was the simple information

Charlotte, 2.30 Wednesday.

I flipped the card over and placed it on the table, lest anyone near me should read it. I wondered how obvious my blush was. This wasn’t me – it wasn’t the kind of thing I did.
What would happen if anybody found out?
Alexander’s measured voice, cut through my thoughts – why would anybody know?

I snuck another look at the card and felt my heart quicken with a mixture of excitement and fear – maybe also revulsion. I looked at my watch. It was already midday.
What would happen if I didn’t go?
I packed hurriedly. I needed fresh air, a walk – maybe a
bottle
of wine. My hand trembled as I reached out for the card.

Sunglasses on, collar up I knocked on the door. I was being ridiculous. A parody of some secret agent on a children’s cartoon. There was nothing to suggest to the outside world what the building was, or what went on behind its walls. It was simply a typical London door in a typical London street. The only hint at anything daring about the place was that the door had been painted an unashamed shade of red. I rang the buzzer. I didn’t need to introduce myself. A female voice came over the speaker, sounding as natural as a friendly invite in for tea – and that was exactly what it was. I headed up the stairs towards a daintily decorated parlour room. Afternoon tea was set out at a table, at which sat Mistress Arabella.

She too was nothing like I had conjured in my imagination. Contrary to the mental image I had created, she was not wearing leather or PVC or any of the other aggressive costume; just a simple white blouse and fitted high-waisted black skirt. She could have been any other pretty office worker. She saw my bemused smile and cocked her eyebrow,

“Not quite what you were expecting?” she asked, laughing.

I let out a big sigh of relief and giggled. “No, not quite.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Please, sit and take tea.”

I took of my coat and dumped my workbag, accepting her invite with hands that still trembled slightly. When the pretty china teacup rattled in its saucer, Arabella smiled reassuringly.

“There’s nothing to be nervous of here, Charlotte. You’re perfectly safe. In fact you’re more than safe.” Arabella’s gaze fell onto my neck and I understood that like an expert in her field, she read the faded bruises. “It’s where I teach
you
to take control.”

Her comments were surprising considering what I knew of Alexander’s dominant nature. But then, in reality, I barely knew him. I blushed. The times I had spent with Alexander had been fuelled mainly by wine and candlelight. The evening with Celia and the making of
Bohemia
had been the result of nothing more than having momentarily fallen through the rabbit hole into Wonderland. It had been the substance of a dream. My fingers traced the bruises on my neck.
What exactly had happened that evening?
I had refused to fully acknowledge the fear – or the desire the incident had triggered in me – that shattering collision of death and life that had ripped through my body and left me in a place on the other side of la petit mort. All I knew is that since that night, my mind had replayed the scene over and over, catching me at unexpected moments with recollections played out, or in fragments, and with each image, my body responded against my will and the world somehow, magically had become laced with a shimmering veil that made everything more beautiful or sublime – even the ugly.

“Please, help yourself to cake.”

Arabella’s invite drew me back from my drifting.  I smiled and offered thanks but didn’t take the cake – my appetite had fled.

“So Alexander made the appointment for you?” she asked in a tone that only just covered a certain amount of disapproval.

“Yes. I … I guess he must have done.”

I pulled the card from my pocket and put it on the table.

“And you have talked about this?” Her question was more rhetorical than it suggested. Arabella was clearly a skilled reader of people.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh – and how does that make you feel?”

Suddenly, I’m not so sure what I was here for and I’m confused by how the session is playing out – I feel tricked into some kind of counselling session.

“Well I don’t know,” I flustered, embarrassed and strangely defensive. “I guess Alexander thought it might make for an interesting gift.”

“For whom?”

I went to offer the obvious and then stopped. The conversation closed and there was an awkward silence. Arabella stood.

“I guess we should get started then.”

I eyed up my coat and bag, but I was too embarrassed to put an end to the situation. I scolded myself internally for being so compliant. I followed Arabella deeper into the house and its secrets. We arrived at a dressing room, which was classically and luxuriously furnished. Everything was cream, and gold, and French blue. Crystal shimmered everywhere, creating a slightly dizzying effect.

“Are you comfortable here, Charlotte?”

I looked around and nodded. I couldn’t imagine being hurt in such a pretty world.  A large mirror was covered with a dust cloth and a chair sat in front of it, resting a large pink and black box. I knew from the similar boxes that sat in the bottom of Alexander’s wardrobe, that the box contains a selection of expensive underwear.

“Today, Charlotte, it is about helping you to adjust to ideas. Nobody is going to ask you to go beyond your own limitations.”

I smile at the thought that maybe I want to go way beyond my own limitations.

*

It was Thursday afternoon, and I was back at Mistress Arabella’s London Academy of Punishment and Desire. Yesterday afternoon still felt like a bizarre daydream, and as I stood on the doorstep once more, I had the strange feeling of standing outside of a portal to a different, secret dimension. Our session had been brief, just over an hour from start to finish. It had mainly involved Arabella dressing me and asking me to watch my transformation in the large French mirror. I admit, part of me was disappointed that after all the nervous fear and build up, the limits we courted were a corset and a lace mask – which admittedly gave me the look of some exotic sex goddess – the costume of a character I was clearly intended to play.

Today, I refused Arabella’s offer of tea and cake, which I think was expected. Arabella had a very specific lesson plan in mind. I walked through to the French room carelessly, comfortable that I was safe. I made small talk about the weather and the tube, which is why I didn’t see the young man at first. I turned my head and gasped. My conversation was cut dead – replaced by a blush.  Arabella was amused by my reaction and she fought the smile that flirted on her lips.

“Charlotte, meet Daniel.”

He was about the same age as me, give or take a year, and he was knelt on the floor, his hands held behind his back tied with a large black, satin ribbon. He was blindfolded and naked. My eyes drank in his muscular body. Right in front of me the, ‘How I’d Fuck You’ Game had come to life.

Daniel didn’t move. I wasn’t sure what the socially polite form of greeting was in this situation, so I relied on convention.

“It’s nice to meet you, Daniel.”

“I’ve refused him permission to speak this afternoon,” Arabella informed me. “Actually, he’s on mute – he’s not aloud to make a sound. Not . a . sound.”

“Oh,” I offered.

“You approve?”

I blustered a laugh. “Well… yes! He’s very…” I nodded my head and smiled, searching for a word that didn’t betray my instantly sparked interest. “…pretty.”

“Pretty,” Arabella repeated, letting the word dissolve into the air.

She approached him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Please sit, Charlotte.” She instructed me to the chair that sat opposite the bound Daniel. “I’m going to leave you both to get acquainted for a few minutes. Charlotte, I don’t want you to take your eyes off him for a moment.”

There was little danger of that. I was like a child enraptured by the discovery of a pretty insect.

“And remember, he’s not got permission to make a sound – and you do not have permission to touch.”

She arched her eyebrow and I couldn’t help but think maybe she had just issued an invite to play as soon as her back was turned. I listened to her heels click down the parquet floor in the direction of the Salon. I turned back to Daniel and watched as the muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. He was undeniably handsome, and I could tell from that minute muscle movement, that under the blindfold, his eyes twinkled.