Eighty Days Yellow (24 page)

Marcus let out a low moan, a guttural marriage of pain and pleasure escaping from his lips as Lauralynn entered his arsehole, spearing his most obscene opening with her rod, pumping back and forth like a piston.

She caught my eyes, held my stare.

‘Fuck him,’ she said.

I was both aroused and enraged. I wanted Lauralynn to fuck me, not this pitiful, moaning man on her bed. I should have been the one with my legs spread in front of her, not him.

I grabbed onto his blindfold and pushed him onto my shaft, choked him with the head of my cock. ‘That’s how it feels!’ I wanted to yell. ‘Do you like that, huh, you weak shit of a man?’

I could hear him beginning to gag and released my hold on his head, but he did not release his hold on my cock, continuing to drive the dildo as far as he could into his throat.

Lauralynn, at the other end, reached forward and grabbed my shoulders, ramming into his arse as she did so with one almighty final push.

He ripped his mouth off my cock and came with a scream, spurts of white semen shooting out from his head and onto the towel, narrowly missing my skirt. Lauralynn delicately released herself from the tight grip of his sphincter and watched as he collapsed on the bed in a heap. She leaned down and removed the blindfold, giving his head an affectionate stroke.

‘Good boy,’ she said. ‘Did you like that?’

‘Oh, yes, mistress.’

‘Mistresses,’ she said firmly, emphasising the plural.

I frowned, then followed her into the bathroom, leaving Marcus to recover.

‘So, Summer Zahova,’ she said to me with a smirk as she unbuckled her harness, ‘not so submissive after all, eh?’

Two hours later, I was home again, curled up on my bed and staring out of my window at the decidedly unpanoramic vista of the brick-walled building next door, as if I could glean some wisdom from the ever-present certainty of brick and mortar.

The Kiwi recruiter whom Lauralynn had recommended had left a message on my voicemail to discuss arranging an audition for the position in New York. I hadn’t actually applied. Lauralynn must have forwarded my details to her anyway, right after I’d left.

I had wanted to visit New York for as long as I could remember, and I’d dreamed of getting a big break like this for years, but I was only just beginning to feel at home in London, creating a life that I fitted into at last, albeit still a confused one, what with Dominik and now Lauralynn.

I didn’t know who I was any more, or who I wanted to be. The only thing I was certain of was my violin, my beautiful Bailly, and even that didn’t seem entirely mine. I’d never be able to hold it without thinking of Dominik.

My violin case stood in the corner, its presence now not just a joy but an accusation.

I felt terribly guilty about my adventure with Lauralynn. The only thing Dominik had asked of me was that I be honest with him, and I hadn’t, or at least, I consciously planned not to be. How would I ever tell him about my experience with Lauralynn’s slave and the strap-on? It was such a departure from everything he knew of me. He would think that he hadn’t known me at all.

My shift was due to start in a couple of hours, and I couldn’t afford to be distracted. I knew I hadn’t been my usual cheerful and bright self for the past few weeks, caught up as I had been with all the happenings in my personal life. I had been given an informal warning a few weeks ago, the day after the last recital at Dominik’s, and the event had left me feeling so mixed up that I had dropped and shattered a couple of glasses and evidently given someone the wrong change, as at closing time, the till was down twenty pounds and it had been me, mainly, working the register that day.

To brighten my mood, I pulled on my trainers and workout gear, and went for a jog, running from my house down to Tower Bridge and then along the Thames path, cutting over the Millennium Bridge to complete the circuit on the other side. Today I was listening to something American, to help me make my decision, the latest album by the Black Keys. They were one of Chris’s favourite bands. Chris and I had met in the front row of their concert at the Hackney Empire, during my first week in London.

I called Chris when I got in from my run, just to hear the sound of his voice, but he didn’t answer. I hadn’t seen him since Charlotte’s party, and the deeper I got into the fetish world, the more I worried that I’d never be able to bridge the gap, to marry the two sides of my life together, and manage to keep our friendship alive without having to hide from him the parts of my life I thought he would disapprove of.

The run had helped soothe my mind a little, but I was still a touch frazzled when I arrived at work. I tried to switch off, to cut everything out of my focus besides the steady hum of the coffee machine, the clack, clack as I flicked the attachment that held the coffee grinds into place, then the soft whine of the milk frothing in the milk jug.

It didn’t take long for my peculiar power of self-hypnosis to kick in, so I was completely consumed by a long queue of tickets for flat whites and lattes, when the group of men came in and sat down without waiting to be seated. Bankers or sales consultants, I guessed, when I finally did notice them, by their sharp suits and air of arrogance.

‘Summer, can you give us a hand, please?’

I broke out of my dreaming, realising that one of the other waiters was still on his break and my boss was stuck taking a bill payment from another table. He gestured over at the table of newcomers and I put the coffee orders on hold for a moment, just to take them their menus. A couple of them were already boozed, I noted, alerted to the fact by their loud guffaws and sweaty faces. A bucket of champagne in the office, maybe, to kick off the celebration for winning a big deal.

The apparent leader of the group grabbed my wrist as I turned to leave the table.

‘Hey, darling, it’s our friend here’s birthday,’ he said, gesturing at a sober and embarrassed-looking man across the table. ‘Maybe you could get us a little special somethin’, if you know what I mean?’

I discreetly pulled my arm out of his grasp and gave him my sweetest smile. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Your waiter will be along in a few minutes to tell you all about our specials.’

I began to back away. My coffee orders were no doubt piling up, and most people were pretty impatient about getting their caffeine hit, especially if it was to take away.

‘Oh, no,’ he replied, ‘why don’t you stay and tell us about the specials, darling?’

The birthday boy noticed my embarrassment and tried to intercept.

‘She’s not on our table,’ he hissed to his drunk friend. ‘Give the poor girl a break.’

The sound of his voice set off a dim echo of memory, struggling to surface in the recesses of my mind.

Then it hit me. Birthday Boy was the anonymous person who had flogged me at the fetish club in East London that I had visited alone, after the first time I’d played naked for Dominik. I’d recognise that voice anywhere, the sound had been immortalised in my mind for ever along with the rest of the experience, which at that time had still been so new to me.

A look of recognition passed across his face at the same moment that I felt it pass over mine and we exchanged glances, holding our gaze for a moment too long, alerting his companion to the fact that we were not strangers.

‘Hang on a minute. Do you two know each other?’

He had really raised his voice now, and the other diners had quietened in response to the scene unfolding in front of them, though they were politely trying not to stare.

The colour of Birthday Boy’s face turned a deep, vivid red and the other man flinched, perhaps having just been kicked under the table.

‘Rob, shut it.’

Rob did exactly the opposite, angered now by my apparent defiance.

‘Oh, I got it!’ he cried, slapping his meaty palm down onto the table so hard that his fork bounced into the air. ‘You’re the girl from that weirdo club we went to! Nice arse you got there, baby.’

He flailed his hand out to cop a feel and I ducked away before he made contact, knocking his arm aside in the process. His heavy cufflink caught on the cloth covering the next table and he jerked back, pulling the cloth with him, so that the bottle of wine that had been resting precariously on top tipped over, tumbling directly into the lap of the woman sitting adjacent.

It was red wine and, judging by the elegant outfit of the diner now covered in it, pricey. She leaped out of her chair in shock, and I took this new distraction as an opportunity to disappear, escorting her into the bathroom so that she could dab at her clothes.

I hid in the bathroom for as long as I could, and the woman was very nice about it.

‘Wasn’t your fault,’ she said, glumly soaping up her shirt. ‘I know that guy through work. He’s a total cunt.’

Not so refined after all, then, I thought, giving the woman another look over.

My boss had been headed for the table just as I rushed for the bathroom, and I knew that he would have the situation under control, but likely in line with the ethos that ‘The customer is always right’. At the very least, he’d surely have credited the wine from the bill of the woman with her clothes ruined, and probably the meals too, easily in the region of a couple of hundred pounds.

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk my way out of this one.

I headed out to face the music just as the men were leaving, Rob looking very pleased with himself, and my manager gritting his teeth in an expression of politeness masking a mood like thunder.

‘Summer,’ said my boss, after they’d gone, ‘come here.’ He gestured to the office staffroom.

‘Look,’ he continued, once we were inside, ‘what you do in your private life is your business, and I know that guy was an arsehole . . .’ I opened my mouth to speak but he held up his hand to stop me ‘. . . but when your private life becomes public, in my restaurant, then that is my business. I just can’t have you working here any more, Summer.’

‘But it wasn’t my fault! He tried to grab me. What did you expect me to do?’

‘Well, maybe if you were a little more . . . discreet . . . this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘What do you mean, discreet?’

‘Like I said, Summer, what you get up to outside of work is your affair, not mine, but be careful, won’t you? You’re going to get yourself into trouble.’

‘Losing my job isn’t trouble?’

‘I’m sorry, really.’

I picked up my bag and walked straight out through the door.

Dammit! That fucking bastard and his fat, clumsy hands. Now I was screwed. I’d already had one extension on the rent, and I knew that I was getting the bedsit at a knockdown price anyway. I didn’t want to give the landlord any more reason to replace me. Another late payment might be the final straw.

Shit.

I couldn’t call Chris, as then I’d have to tell him what had happened, and I didn’t want to give him any more reason to disapprove of my lifestyle. I could call my parents in New Zealand, but I didn’t want them to worry; besides, I’d already told them how well I was doing here, so they wouldn’t nag me to come home again. Charlotte might help, I supposed, but I was too proud to ask her for money, and I had a sense that she might somehow use the fact of my troubled finances against me. There was the job in New York, with a guaranteed salary, but I’d have to ace the audition first, and I knew the competition would be fierce.

That only left Dominik.

I wasn’t going to ask him for a loan – never – but I desperately wanted to see him. His voice would soothe my worries, help me think my way out of this. My every sinew was taut, my muscles tensed to breaking point, my mind racing with anxiety. Nothing could relieve me of this pressure better than Dominik taking over my mind and my body, fucking me with that absurd combination of fury and gentleness that made me feel so relaxed and alive.

I didn’t know if I could face him, though, with the episode with Lauralynn so fresh in my mind.

I’d have to come clean, talk to him. There was nothing else for it. The thought made me sick to my stomach, but it was either that or stew over it for ever, and I couldn’t have guilt stand in the way of my violin and me. If the music stopped flowing, I would simply cease to exist.

I made the short journey home from my now former workplace, had a quick shower and grabbed some clothes, something suitable for campus and something that would make Dominik feel like I was his. I put on the same outfit that I had worn for him last time, jeans and a T-shirt, a pair of ballet pumps and my lighter daytime lipstick. I hoped it would remind him of our last time together, when I had given myself to him entirely.

I fired up my laptop to Google universities in North London and found a literature course at one, with Dominik listed as the professor. I figured there’d be a list of classes somewhere on the noticeboard in the arts faculty, as there had been at the College of Music. I would find him.

It took me a while to locate the right place, but eventually I did, just as his lecture was beginning.

It was a popular course, full of women, many of them very attractive, their eyes fairly glazing over with lust as Dominik cleared his throat and began to speak. I felt a keen pang of jealousy stab me and took a seat at the front, directly in his line of vision. I wanted to stand and shout, ‘He’s mine!’ but I didn’t, and I knew that he didn’t belong to me any more than I belonged to him, or any more than anyone ever truly owns another person.

It took a few moments for him to notice me, sidetracked as he was by the task at hand, giving the lecture. When he saw me, his eyes flashed for a moment – was it anger? Lust? – and then his features relaxed and he carried on as if I didn’t exist. I hadn’t read the book that he was discussing, but nonetheless I followed the rhythm of his words, the musicality of his language. He was like a conductor, starting softly, working up to a crescendo, then falling gently down again. No wonder his classes were popular. He glanced back at me every now and again, and when he did, I made no movement in response, sitting mute, but hoping that he would remember the last time I had dressed this way, worn this lipstick, and he’d chosen a darker colour and painted it onto my nipples and cunt lips, marked me, made me his.