Fractured Crystal: Sapphires and Submission (8 page)

As she stood, her body aching in a delicious manner, her eyes fell to the drawing pad that lay on the table. It was open at one of her charcoal sketches of a bird soaring through the air and she smiled. She might as well take the pad with her: she had a suspicion that whatever it was that had blocked her from working previously was
beginning to disappear
. If Daniel’s words and behaviour had caused her any doubts the day before, they were completely gone now. Whatever happened, she was determined to be fucked at least one more time by that strange man with his huge cock before she went home.

After a hasty breakfast, she pulled together some clothes and toiletries, as well as her drawing pads and artist’s materials. She had not exactly been expecting to get laid on this holiday, and her outfits were intended for comfort rather than sexiness, but she had a suspicion that this didn’t really matter. Whatever else Daniel Logan was interested in, fashion did not appear particularly high on his agenda.

Driving towards Comrie, she could barely contain her excitement. Her evil sex was already trembling at the thought, and while she wondered just how much punishment it could take (not that it deserved any better, she mentally chided it: bad cunt! naughty pussy!) she also knew that as soon as she saw Daniel naked she would be completely and utterly his to do whatever he wanted with.

As such, she was somewhat surprised and not a little disappointed when she turned up to Comrie and found that the Land Rover was gone. Grumpily, she got out of her Toyota and walked to the front of the croft, knocking on the door and trying the handle. Where was her new friend with special benefits? Goddamit! She only had nine more days and she didn’t want to waste any more time!

The door was open and, for a few seconds after calling through, Kris stood there wondering on the wisdom (and, indeed, the etiquette) of entering a stranger’s house
—
even if that stranger had given her the best seeing to of her life the day before. It didn’t take her long to reach a decision and she entered.

Looking into the kitchen, she could see that the stove had been filled with wood that morning to provide hot water, and there were a few signs of breakfast things cleared away. “Hello! Daniel!” she cried again, but there was no sound and she went into the living room, placing her bag on the small table.

It struck her again just how Spartan the arrangements of Comrie were. Dalrigh was hardly blessed with the latest mod cons, but at least it had electricity and oil for heating and cooking, while the internal walls were plastered. The only concessions here were running water (at least she had seen running water in the kitchen, but she now wondered about bathing arrangements) and... actually, that was it.

This caused her some momentary consternation and, pretending to herself that she just needed to check that Daniel was not, indeed, upstairs, she climbed to the upper floor and consoled herself that although the bathroom was minimal it did have running water at least
—
actually, with the stove downstairs, rather hot. She looked into the bedroom where she had been taken so completely the day before, and her legs almost gave way for a moment at the memory.

Entering the room, she noticed the large wardrobe that dominated one end. She had not paid it much attention previously
—
her mind was very much focused on other things. It was large and wooden, but though simple something about it looked expensive. Curious, she pulled at the door. It was locked.

Returning downstairs and crossing between the battered old sofa and chair, she stood beside the fire and looked at the two shelves of books. She realised that she knew more or less nothing about Daniel Logan, and indeed her presence here indicated that she had been overtaken by a kind of madness. The photograph he had taken from her had not been returned to the mantelpiece and there were no other images around the room, so for the moment her best chance of forming any opinion about him would come from the literature on his shelves.

There were not many books, and all of them looked old and somewhat tatty
—
at least a few of them well-read. She recognised a few names and was surprised at the quantity of poetry seeing that there were less than forty books in total on the shelves. A couple of volumes of Romantics
—
Blake, Byron, Coleridge
—
as well as
Paradise Lost
and the works of Yeats, a few novels, most by writers she had never heard of such as Bulgakov’s
The Master and Margarita
, as well as ones that she had never got around to reading, like Fowles’s
The Magus
. There were some books of philosophy and a couple on psychology and a couple by a Russian writer that she had never heard of, Gurdjieff. Kris was hardly surprised to see that Daniel Logan’s reading tastes were
not particularly
light.

She pulled down the copy of the poetical works of Coleridge. She had always rather liked the poet and, as a student, had planned to create a series of works based on some of his poems. The book opened automatically at a page where the spine was clearly creased, and she read the opening lines:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

    Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

She looked around her. Well, Comrie was hardly a stately pleasure-dome, though her body shivered with delight at the thought of the bedroom above her. And perhaps around her were enough sunny spots of greenery where a man such as Daniel Logan could find his own bliss.

She heard a vehicle outside and quickly replaced the volume on the shelf, going back to the door. Opening it, she saw Daniel climbing out of the Land Rover and, as he looked at her, he gave a kind of wary smile, his expression ambiguous. It suddenly occurred to Kris that maybe he wished to reveal so little of himself to her because he had even more to lose than she.

“You came,” he said, walking to the doorway and pausing outside his own house, as though he was the visitor who was to be invited inside.

“Did you ever doubt it?” she asked, a little nervous.

He nodded. “Yes. Somehow I suspected that y
ou would be nothing more than a
dream
and...” he paused. “I had to go out walking this morning,
in
the hills.” He turned those strange, hazel eyes onto her again. “I’m glad you came.”

She stood to one side and let him enter his home, unable to stop a tremble as he ducked his head and walked past her, his body so much taller than her own. Fuck! She had become wet again. Damn, damn and damn again! she thought. This man could do anything he wanted with her.

Instead, she spoke up, her voice trembling a little as she attempted to hide her thoughts. “I was just admiring your book collection. Interesting.”

Daniel had stopped by her things and looked up, casting a somewhat disenchanted glance towards the shelves: “A former life,” was all he said, and instead returned his attention to her open bag. On the top of it was one of her drawing pads and he pulled it out, opening the pages and gazing at them in the low light of the room.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

She nodded, a little embarrassed. It had been a long time since she had shown anyone her drawings.

He returned his gaze to the pad. “They’re good. They remind me a little of Ernst
—
you know, the Loplop paintings?”

Kris was thrown by this and
—
forgetting everything else for the moment, crossed to stand by him, looking across his arm at the open page where the sinuous lines of one of her bird drawings did indeed look like one of the anthropomorphic birdmen of Max Ernst. The observation threw Kris out of sorts for a number of reasons: she was still struggling to relegate this strange man to some convenient pigeonhole that she could make sense of
—
whether psychopathic hi
llbilly, demonic lover, hermit
aesthete or some combination of all three. What was even more surprising than his sudden revelation of another snippet of artistic esoterica, however, was that he had immediately noticed a connection that had remained hidden to her. The thought of that made her falter with desire somewhere low down inside her.

Noticing her discomfiture, he asked: “How do you feel
—
after yesterday I mean?”

She smiled somewhat shyly. “Okay. Good I mean. Well, to tell you the truth, I’m as sore as hell, but... that’s good isn’t it?”

She wasn’t sure how to continue with that line of conversation. As much to distract herself as anything, she pulled out her phone and began to fumble with it. “You won’t get much joy from that here,” he said with a small laugh.

“The signal’s been pretty rubbish since I got here,” she told him. “It must drive you crazy.”

“Not really,” was his reply. “I paid a lot to make sure that there were no distractions here at all.”

She frowned at this, and her frown only deepened as he placed the pad back on the bag and held out his hand. “Here,” he told her. “Give it to me.”

Something about the tone of his voice made the hackles rise on her neck, the old familiar prickliness spreading across her limbs. But if he noticed her antagonism, he affected not to notice it. “Give me your phone. And your keys.”

“Why should I?” The second request made her suddenly more anxious than angry.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything with them. Just do as I say
—
please.”

Reluctantly, she passed him her phone, which he promptly switched off and placed in his jeans pocket, and fished in her own trousers for her car keys. “I’ll put your phone somewhere safe,” he informed her, calmly. “As for your keys, they’ll be here.” So saying, he crossed back to the doorway so that she could see him standing by the front door, where he placed her keys on a hook by the frame. “You can collect them any time. Just one thing. If you do take them without my saying so, then please don’t bother returning.”

Kris was aghast at this, and began to raise her voice in protest, but Daniel simply looked at her with his serious eyes, his face implacable. “What do you think gives you the right?” she asked him.

He did not reply, but instead suddenly took two steps forward so that his large, tall body was towering over her, his hands reaching out and grabbing her arms with a restrained violence that made her suddenly tremble with a mixture of fear and... something else. She looked at him, and he in turn gazed down at her, his eyes partially hidden by the shadows across his face, his lips opening beneath his beard.

“Why are you here, Kris?” he asked, ignoring her own question.

“No, wait a minute, mister!” she responded, struggling a little. He did not, however, release his grip, and she realised just how strong he was.

“Answer the question. Why are you here? Is it just for a fuck? Is that all this is to you?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Kris had stopped struggling. Her body felt limp and defenceless in his hands
—
and the effect of his body this close was confusing her immensely.

“I’ll tell you why I think you’re here.” Those eyes were glittering slightly now, and once more she found herself somewhat hypnotised by the irregular pupils, the darker one seeming even larger now, opening to swallow her whole. Daniel’s voice was very quiet. “You’re here to find out what kind of person you really are.”

With this, he let her go and she stumbled backwards, rubbing her arms. He had not particularly hurt her, but the defensive gesture gave her some modicum of security. He meanwhile, had crossed to the sofa and sat down.

“You’re free to go any time
—
but if you do, please don’t return here. Ever. You’re not a slave, not in that sense.” She stared at him, but he was not looking at her. Rather, he had once more picked up her pad and was leafing through the birdman pictures. “In the past, I would probably have drawn up some sort of contract between us, a semi-legalese document that perhaps would have given you a degree of comfort. But it’s been a long time since I did anything like this, and, in any case, I’m tired of that kind of game playing. I want something more immediate, more... real, I guess.

“Don’t worry.” Now he had returned his gaze to her, and she could tell by the deadly seriousness with which he watched her that his was being entirely honest
—
either that, or he was such an effective psychopathological liar that she never had a chance of understanding when he would ever tell her the truth. “I’m not a complete pervert. I’ve got no intention of hurting you. But I do have to find out what it is that you want. I absolutely need to push you, and I need you to trust me
—
absolutely. It’s only then that I’ll know if I can trust you.”