Fire After Dark (29 page)

I open, expecting to see him standing there, but it is the porter. ‘Hello, miss,’ he says and holds out a large package sealed in brown paper. ‘I’ve been asked to deliver this. It’s urgent, apparently.’

I take it from him. ‘Thank you.’

He looks at it, curious. ‘Is it your birthday?’

‘No,’ I reply with a smile. ‘Just some things from home, I expect.’

When he’s gone, I kneel on the marble tiles of the hall and rip off the outer wrapping. Inside is a black box tied in soft black satin ribbon, a cream envelope tucked into it. I take the envelope, open it and extract the letter.

You are required to rest this morning. Your lunch will be delivered at midday and you must eat all of it by 1p. m. At 2 pm you are permitted to open this box. Further instructions await you inside.

Each letter, I realise, is more controlling than the last. Each has dictated just a little more of my actions, going beyond my sexual being and into my life as an autonomous person.

Today, even when I’m not with him, Dominic is dictating what will happen to me. And he knows that I will obey him. I have the sense that he knows exactly what I do, as though his gaze can extend beyond the sitting room and into the entire flat.

I wouldn’t put it past him to have the place wired up, and secret cameras installed.

The thought is an extraordinary one, and as soon it enters my head, I dismiss it. And yet, the idea that this new Dominic might be capable of such things stays with me.

I stare at the black box, wondering what lies inside it.

‘Oh well,’ I say, ‘there’s no point in dwelling. I’m not going to open it until two o’clock. For all I know, he might have some kind of timer in there that will tell him when the lid is lifted.’

And I don’t want to give him excuses to punish me. After all, today is the day when we will go furthest.

At the thought, a kind of cold excitement grips me. For the first time I can taste real fear inside my desire for Dominic.

Obeying my instructions, I have a quiet, restful morning. My mother phones me to see how I am and even though I think I sound perfectly normal, she picks up at once that I’m not myself.

‘Are you ill?’ she asks, worry in her voice.

‘No, Mum. Just tired. I’ve had a long week. London life does take it of out you, I find.’
Along with all the sex.

‘I can tell you’re down. Be honest. Is it Adam?’

‘Adam?’ I sound genuinely surprised. I haven’t given him a thought in days. ‘No, no, not at all. London has been the perfect cure as far as that’s concerned.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Mum sounds relieved. ‘I always thought you could do better, Beth, but I didn’t want to say so when you so obviously loved him. He was perfectly fine as a first boyfriend but I’m glad you’ll have the chance to spread your wings. You need a more worthy man than him, someone to expand your interests, broaden your experience and share your zest for life. I want my Beth to have the best man in the world to love her.’

I can’t speak. My throat has closed around a hard object blocking it, and hot tears have sprung to my eyes. They begin to drop down my cheeks and I can’t stop a stifled sob.

‘Beth?’

I try to speak but it comes out as another sob.

‘What is it?’ she cries. ‘What’s wrong, baby?’

I wipe my eyes and manage to damp down my sobs enough to speak. ‘Oh, Mum. Nothing’s wrong, really. I’m just a little homesick.’

‘Come back, darling, come and see us! We miss you too.’

‘No, Mum, there are only two weeks left in the flat. I don’t want to miss out on this opportunity.’ I sniff wetly and give a weak laugh. ‘I’m being silly! It’s just a little weep, nothing serious.’

‘Are you sure?’ She’s still anxious.

Oh Mum, I do love you. I’m still your baby girl, no matter what.
I clutch the phone tightly as though it will bring me closer to her comforting embrace and familiar motherly warmth. ‘I’m fine, I promise. And I’ll come home if I get too miserable. But I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

At exactly midday there is a knock on the door. When I open it a man in the uniform of a smart hotel or expensive restaurant is standing there holding a large tray loaded with dishes covered in silver cloches.

‘Your lunch, madam,’ he announces.

‘Thank you.’ I stand back and he brings it inside. I direct him to the kitchen and he puts the tray down, deftly dresses the table in a linen cloth he produces from somewhere, and sets it with silver cutlery, a wine glass and a tiny bud vase holding a dark red rose. Then he uncovers the dishes and lays out my lunch: an enormous char-grilled steak with tarragon butter melting over it, new potatoes speckled with fresh herbs and steamed green vegetables – broccoli, beans and wilted spinach. The aroma floats up. It looks and smells delicious and I realise how hungry I am. The waiter puts a dish of fresh raspberries with a large blob of whipped cream on the table, pours a glass of red wine for me from a small bottle he produces from a pocket, and stands back with a smile.

‘Your lunch is served, madam. The dishes will be collected this evening. Simply leave them outside.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘It looks wonderful.’

‘You’re most welcome.’

When I’ve shown him out, I return to the kitchen. The clock tells me it is ten past twelve. I sit down to my solitary lunch.

It is, as I expect, delicious, the steak pink in the centre and everything just as it should be. I have the distinct feeling I’m being given a hearty helping of all the major food groups, to ensure I have stamina for whatever is to come. I finish well before one o’clock but there is still an hour until I can open the box.

I’m definitely learning the effect of anticipation and delayed gratification. Every minute seems to tick by slowly but I don’t know whether I yearn to open the box or dread it. It sits in the hall, waiting for me, and its pull is so strong I almost feel as if Dominic himself is concealed inside.

I wander about, restless, sometimes looking from the sitting room window to the flat opposite and wondering what Dominic is doing at this very moment, and what plans he has for me today. There is no sign of life behind the darkened windows.

At two o’clock I return to the hall and stare at the black box.

Okay. It’s time.

I pull the black satin ribbons and they drop silently to the floor. I lift the lid. It’s tight-fitting and the box beneath is heavy, so it takes a little while to shake the lid free. I put it down and look inside the box. All I can see is a mass of black crumpled tissue paper and another of those cream envelopes. I open it and remove a piece of thick cream card on which is printed in black lettering:

Put on what is in here. Wear everything you find inside. Come to the boudoir at precisely 2.30 pm.

I put down the card and push back the tissue paper.

Whoa. Okay. The next level.

Inside the box is a harness, not in slippery soft silk this time, but in thick, black leather. It is not embellished with tiny ribbons but by buckles and hoops of silver metal. I lift it out. As far as I can see, it will sit over my shoulders and buckle beneath my breasts. At the back, the thin straps meet between my shoulders, and then are joined by a single straight strap to a large metal ring that sits in the centre of my upper back. The straps that go under my breasts continue round also to join the ring. It’s a simple but effective design.

I take another leather object out of the box. It looks like a large belt, and it takes me a moment to realise that it is cross between a belt and a corset – a waist cincher. It looks tiny. Am I really going to fit it?

And then there is the collar. This is the most daunting of the three: it is thick black leather, designed to cover my neck completely. It buckles at the back and at the front is a silver metal ring.

Oh my goodness.

I remember that I have to wear whatever is in the box. What else in here?

There is a pair of black stilettos, like ones I wore yesterday, and two small purple boxes. I open one. Inside are two pretty silver butterflies.

What are these? Hair clips?

I look at them carefully. Each one has little clamp behind it; when the wings of the butterfly are squeezed, the clamp opens. Suddenly I understand.

Nipple clamps.

I open the other box. Inside is a small oval of pink silicon with a silver base and a black cord. It has a tiny control beside it. I flick the switch and the little pink egg begins to vibrate.

I see.

So these are the props that will begin my journey to meet Dominic in the world he loves so much.

Time is moving swiftly. I have to get ready now.

Ten minutes later, I am wearing my harness, buckling the slender strap under my breasts. The waist cincher is buckled tightly around my middle, constraining me. I have no other underwear as there was none in the box. I have on the stilettos but my lower body is completely bare and fully exposed.

I must go. He’s going to be waiting. He’ll be cross if I’m late.

I pick up one of the butterflies. Is this going to hurt? I tug on my nipple and it springs to life under my touch as though it knows that something interesting is about to happen. I open the clamp with its pretty-looking silver fingers, and attach it to the rosy tip of my nipple. It locks on, the butterfly looking like it has landed there to suck nectar from my breasts. The sensation is tingling and not unpleasant, its grip is not as tight as I’d feared, but I have a feeling it will increase as time goes by. I pick up the other clamp and put it on in the same way. The delicate silver butterflies look incongruous next to the leather harness, but somehow it works.

Now for the egg.

I part my legs and put the little oval at my entrance. I’m already slippery there, as the time for my appointment with Dominic comes closer. Pushing with my forefinger, I press it up through the entrance and it nestles inside me, giving me a pleasant, full sensation. The black cord hangs downwards, ready for when the little egg has finished its work. I pick up the control and move the switch. The egg begins to throb and whirr inside me, though there is no noise and no outward sign of it. It is my secret internal massager.

Now how am I going to get to the boudoir? I can hardly walk through the building like this.

It’s not in the instructions but I’ll have to wear a coat. Surely Dominic can’t expect me to go outside virtually naked. I take the trench coat from the hall cupboard and slip it on. I’m decent again. Except for the thick leather collar around my neck, no one would know that under my coat I’m ready for submission. I slip the key to the flat into my pocket and go.

It is more arousing than I could ever have dreamed to walk through the building, knowing where I am going and what I am wearing. The little egg keeps up its internal throbbing as I ride down in the lift and walk across the lobby to the other lift that will take me to the seventh floor.

‘Nice surprise was it?’ the porter asks as I pass his desk.

I jump. I’m so intent on where I’m going that I haven’t even noticed him. ‘What?’

‘Your package. Nice was it?’

I stare at him, aware of the clamps around my nipples beginning to hurt just a little, the movement of the egg and that I’m almost naked. ‘Yes, thank you. Very nice. A . . . a new dress.’

‘Oh, that is nice.’

‘Well, goodbye.’ I carry on quickly, heading for the lift, desperate to be on my way. I know I have only a minute or two left until 2. 30. The lift doesn’t come at once, and I can feel my anxiety growing as I wait for it.
I’m going to be late!

At last the doors slide open and I dash inside, pressing the button for the seventh floor.

Come on, come on.

The lift climbs slowly the seventh storey and slides open again. I hurry down the corridor, awkward in my high heels and knock at the door of the boudoir, panting.

Please let me be on time.

The door does not open. I knock again and wait. Still nothing. I rap again, loudly.

Suddenly it swings open. He is there, in a long black robe. He has eyes of icy steel and his mouth is set hard. ‘You are late,’ he says briefly, and my stomach turns to liquid fear.

‘I . . . I . . .’ My lips are stiff and I’m shaking. I can hardly get the words out. ‘The lift . . .’

‘I said two thirty. There are no excuses. Come inside.’

Oh shit.
I’m frightened, my heart pounding in my chest, adrenalin prickling all over me. A voice is telling to me to run away. To tell him to get lost, I’m not playing these games any more. But I know I’ll obey. I’m too far in to climb out of all this now.

‘Take off your coat. Which, incidentally, I didn’t give permission for.’

I want to protest but I know now he wanted me to disobey him in some way. I’ve managed to make him particularly angry by being late. The coat drops off my shoulders and I’m standing there in my harness, my nipples a vivid red and now stinging hard with the pressure of the clamps and the fact that my treacherous body is responding to him, heating up and tingling. The little egg in my depths is still pressing away, revving me up with its humming caresses.

Dominic’s eyes glitter beneath his straight black brows. ‘Very good,’ he says. ‘Yes. That’s what I wanted. Now. Get on your hands and knees.’

‘Yes sir.’ I drop down as instructed. He bends down and does something at the front of my collar. As he stands up, I realise he’s attached a long leather lead to it.

‘Come.’

He walks towards the bedroom and I follow behind, crawling on my hands and knees. He doesn’t tug on the lead but I know it’s there, symbolising that I am his. In the bedroom, the lights are dimmed. A long low bench has been put at the foot of the bed. Once we are inside, he bends down again and removes my nipple clamps. It is a huge relief when they are off, but they leave the nipples elongated, throbbing and hypersensitive.