Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (2 page)

There were no more words for a long time.

I liked to imagine that he chose the cat o’ nine tails as he knew it was my favourite implement too. I wasn’t certain if I only enjoyed it so much because I wanted to please and immolate his desires. I like to think there was more to it than that.

In the near darkness, watching shadows as my lover brandished the weapon, an echo of the ancient castigatory tool, I sensed the ghosts of all the tough naval men whose bodies had quivered in front of such punishment. I imagined people from Trinidad and Tobago, people who shared my blood and carried my genes through the ages, stubborn but terrified when faced with this instrument of state justice. This whip was a killer. And here was I, this insignificant girl, willingly tied to a bed, my whole body yearning the touch of the cat’s claws. There was comfort in how small I was, how twisted my desires seemed, and, most of all, I was in awe and amazed at my own complete trust in my lover.

My trust was like an entity on its own, something delicate and beautiful like a butterfly’s wings, something which you’re always warned not to touch, just to admire the pretty colours.

My lover moved up and down my body, whipping every part of me, pausing a moment for my flesh to be soothed by the air, before he began the assault again, working down from the tenderness of my nipples to the most sensitive parts of my feet. The night disappeared into the sting of the leather.

But he can’t have spent the night whipping me. The cat o’ nine tails is a vicious implement; I would have been flayed. And although I was often marked after one of our nights together, the red lines always faded. I was never scarred, even though I wanted to be. Even though we both knew I wanted to be.

In truth, on that night he would not have spent more than an hour teasing and tantalizing me with his cat o’ nine tails, and the time that the leather was actually on my skin in a violent manner probably would have been less than a minute. But time is never consistent. A moment can be a drop of eternity with a skilled lover.

In the shadows, as I watched him work on my body I loved his experience, I loved his wife, I loved his girlfriends, I loved his one boyfriend, all the people who had moulded him and helped him, who had taught him how to hold a whip in the correct manner, how to hurt without hurting, how tantalizing the mind was essential to the physical pleasure. I loved them most of all for not hoarding him to themselves, for being foolish enough to let him go. I loved that he was here in this moment and he was mine. As much as any person had ever been mine.

After he completed whipping me we didn’t have normal sex. Sometimes it was too crude after the spiritual high of the giving and receiving of pain to revert to our animalistic selves and dissolve into being no more than vessels for our cock and cunt. Although there were so many other times when all we wanted to be were beasts lost to all conscious thought.

When he finished, when he knew I’d reached my limit, he put the cat away and left me tied up and alone in the room. He always left the door open as if I was a young child requiring the comfort of knowing there were other people moving about in the house, that I wasn’t left on my own with the darkness and the ghosts.

He went away and did his thing, I never knew what. I didn’t strain to hear his every movement; maybe I was supposed to? I lay still and listened to my own breathing, mentally retracing every place that I had been whipped, patiently content to await his return.

After he had done whatever he did on those nights …

Slowly savoured a glass of 1961 Chateau Latour.

Pigged out on cheap, sugary cereal straight out of the box.

Read his favourite verses from T.S. Eliot, “April is the cruellest month” etc etc.

Rushed to buy the last diamonique cat brooch on QVC.

Danced a happy jig around his lounge because he had a hot young woman tied to his bed.

Had a quick nap

Wanked over secret photos of his ex-wife

I don’t know. In this case, your guess might be as good as mine.

Afterwards, he came back to me. He untied his knots, staring at me not the ropes, gently massaging my feet and hands. Every other time except this night, he got into bed beside me and I wrapped my body around him, resting my head on his shoulder and together we’d cry, not out of sadness or happiness, just because it felt right and necessary.

This night he got into bed beside me, curled up into a foetal position, his arms hugged around his own body, and placed his head on my chest. For the first time in our relationship I felt a moment of awkwardness. What did he want from me? But it was only a brief moment. On some levels our relationship worked better without thought. I scratched one hand gently down his back and with the other stroked his hair.

‘What’s up, Daddy-o?’ I did my best approximation of a cool cat American accent.

‘I almost asked you to marry me tonight.’

‘Almost?’ The word caught in my throat.

‘I planned to. I bought you a ring.’

‘A ring?’

‘Solitaire diamond. Simple, elegant. Like you are. Or could be. Should be. In reality, the ring that would best reflect our relationship is a cock ring.’

I made a sound that wasn’t a laugh. ‘Simple? Is simple good?’ I bit down hard on my lip and tried to concentrate on not missing the significance of what he was saying. And, more immediately, to focus on not sounding like a demented parrot. I took a deep breath. ‘I thought – I think what we have is good.’

‘What do you think it is exactly that we have? What is it that is actually good?’ He didn’t sound like he wanted me to answer, but I was unable to bear the silence.

‘I think we have great sex, more than sex. Sex is too simple, simple in a bad way, too simple to describe us. It doesn’t even begin to cover the things we do together, the freedom we have with each other. We’re compatible in a way I’ve never experienced before in my life.’

‘And what had you experienced of life before me?’

My nails scratched deeper into his back. ‘I’m not sure that’s a fair question. It implies that my love for you cannot be real because I haven’t had sex with as many people as you, and that’s unfair.’

He sighed and rolled away from my touch. ‘Perhaps you’ll prefer this question. What were your first thoughts when I said I wanted to marry you?’ Again there was no question in his voice, only tiredness.

‘You didn’t say you wanted to marry me. In fact, you said you
almost
asked me to marry you, which would suggest that after a bit of thought you decided you didn’t want to commit the rest of your life to me.’ I closed my eyes and hoped that I didn’t sound as petty and as stupid to his ears as I did to my own.

‘You’re correct. It was selfish of me to mention it in this manner. This conversation does not suit us, especially after the intensity and near-perfection of what preceded it.’

I found myself wondering whether the near-perfection was what he did on his own away from me, rather than the cat o’ nine tails teasing my skin.

‘I was looking for some confirmation that I wouldn’t have been a total fool if I’d got down on one knee in the restaurant. A mere ego trip. You’re young, intelligent, beautiful. I don’t know why I thought it would be appropriate to bind you to me within an outdated, restrictive institution.’

‘I don’t think marriage is outdated or restrictive.’ I didn’t know what my views were on marriage. It wasn’t something I’d seriously considered on a personal level since the time I was a child putting the net curtains over my head, wondering what it’d be like being a beautiful, adored bride. ‘And isn’t our whole relationship about bondage?’

He turned his body to me and stroked my cheek. ‘When this thing is over between us, you’ll find a nice man to have nice sex with. You’ll live in a nice house and you’ll have nice children. One day we’ll bump into each other in the supermarket and you’ll blush and pretend you haven’t seen me. I’m older than you, I know how this works. Old fools are the worse fools, though, as they say, and I have suffered an early moment of dementia. It’s all delusion.’

I failed to follow what he was saying.

‘You think I haven’t had enough experience to be able to make the decision to spend the rest of my life with you?’ I blurted out, although I felt like I was stumbling down a path, trying to keep up with him when he was already out of sight.

‘Let’s sleep and dream ourselves into better worlds.’ His voice was so resigned.

I couldn’t accept it. The idea of marriage terrified me. I could not visualise it. But that was for a future time to work out; my driving force in this moment was to right the balance.

‘There is no world better than being here with you. You are my master. You are my man. You are my lover. If you want me to have more experience, I’ll walk out of this door now and I’ll find men and I’ll fuck their brains out and I won’t care for any of them. And then I’ll come back and tell you about all my experiences and then you’ll have to believe that I’ve chosen you as the best, as the only one I want.’

I made to get out of bed and dress. He gripped my wrist and held me in place. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

I leant over him and bit his lip as reply.

And then we disappeared into our animal selves. The sex that would have been too crude just a little earlier now devoured us.

He was inside me, part of me, I surrounded him. We were one being. One monstrous, perfect being with only one need. We moved, sweated, cried out together. One orgasm pounding through our body, the ecstasy more painful than any whip.

We clung onto each other, even as we began to separate, become aware of ourselves again as individual people. The salt of his sweat rubbed into the red rawness where the cat o’ nine tails had clawed me. I tightened the grip of my legs around his waist.

‘That thing you said,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘about fucking other men.’

‘No.’ I don’t know if I said the word or if it was only alive in my own mind.

‘Tomorrow morning. Leave. Do it.’

‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Yes, sir.’

Chapter Two - Clean

I don’t know this, but this is how I’ve always imagined it from little slips of chatter, from deep conversations, voices swirling past midnight and into my dreams.

A slim man with his back against the toilet door, staring at the screen of his mobile phone, waiting. Waiting for as long as he dared.

‘Dean? Are you all right, babe?’ A concerned feminine voice called out.

‘I’m fine, babe, it’s nothing. Just the usual thing, you know,’ he called back through the wooden door.

‘You’ve been in there a while.’

‘I know. I know. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be out soon.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ A number flashed up on his mobile. ‘I’m perfect. Be with you soon.’

‘OK.’ So much doubt in her voice, but he didn’t hear it; his mind was in another world now.

‘Hello, mistress,’ he whispered, holding the phone receiver against his face, caressing it with his other hand as if it were a woman.

‘I’m lonely, worm. Where are you?’

‘I’m in the bathroom.’

‘What would you do if I was with you now?’

He paused for a moment, searching his mind for his favourite images from the novels he’d devoured since he was a teenager. ‘I’d kneel at your feet and kiss your boots.’

‘I’m touching myself now, worm. Are you touching yourself?’

‘Yes, mistress. I am.’ He had his trousers open in the hopes that this was what she’d wanted when she sent him the text to get ready.

‘Send me a photo.’

He obeyed. His cock getting harder at the thought of this woman with the amazing deep voice that he’d never met, and had no expectations of ever seeing, looking at this image of him wanking.

The thought on its own was nearly enough to send him over the edge. When the woman started moaning and sighing he could not hold back. He didn’t even have time to grab some tissue.

‘I’ve made a bit of a mess, mistress.’ He giggled.

The woman laughed. ‘Good! I’ll contact you again soon.’

Dean held the phone against his face even after it had gone dead.

‘Babe?’

The voice was directly outside the bathroom door. It took him a moment to remember where he was, who he was supposed to be.

‘Almost finished. Be right with you.’ He hurried to clean himself and the cubicle.

He washed his hands and washed them again before he opened the door with a smile.

He looked at the pale face of the woman waiting for him, and was swarmed with something akin to guilt. But it wasn’t quite that emotion, more a sense that was what he should be feeling if he was more human, more normal.

‘I’m fine. You shouldn’t be hanging out here waiting for me. No point us both being late.’ He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

She smiled, immediately appeased by this uncommon show of affection. ‘As long as you’re all right. That’s all that matters.’

They walked together into the hall. Only a few people turned to look at them; a couple who they were friendly with gave them conspiratorial winks and big smiles. Dean joined in the singing without picking up a hymn book. The church had been his haven since his teen years. It had saved him from the world, from himself. And it would save him now, he knew it in his heart. All that needed to happen was the one thing that wasn’t happening, him wanting to be saved.

After the church service finished, he and Helena mingled among their friends. Then he stood back and watched as Helena went to welcome some unfamiliar faces. Long, blonde hair, stunning legs; even within her conservative clothes her perfect figure was clear to anyone who so much as glanced at her; Helena was beautiful enough to be a model. More important than surface appearances, she was kind and had a warmth to her manner that made everyone she spoke to feel special. So why hadn’t he proposed to her yet?

Helena possessed a fiery temper, thought it was more important to spend an hour reapplying her make-up than to arrive on time. Her driving was erratic and there had been several occasions when she’d shocked him with her stubborn irrationality. But still, why hadn’t he proposed to her yet?

Dean stared at her slender figure and thought how all his male friends considered him incredibly lucky. As if sensing his attention, Helena glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a smile. She glowed in the way women were supposed to glow after they had sex.

Why hadn’t he proposed to her?

He’d done all the right things, reached out to her when she first arrived in the country and came to the church seeking solace. He became her best friend, praying with her for God to intervene in Zimbabwe. And when God in his greater wisdom didn’t, Dean helped find work and accommodation for her and the rest of her family who followed her over. He kicked a ball about with her younger brother, discussed British Christianity with her older sister, flattered her mother, and withstood her father’s interrogation.

In so many respects Helena and he were a couple. They planned their weeks together, went to the cinema every Saturday afternoon, alternating who chose the film (he always chose one he hoped she’d like, she always chose one she knew she’d like), shopped together, cooked meals together, slouched in front of the telly together, said their nightly prayers together. And then they slept in their separate beds in their separate rented flats.

Sometimes it felt like they were the oldest virgins in the country. But in the church community their chastity was presumed and encouraged, and his work colleagues at the addiction support centre had more important things to worry about than Dean’s sex life. If they thought about it at all, he guessed they would assume as he spent so much time with Helena he had an active and private sex life. The only time he doubted his convictions was alone with a box of tissues in front of the computer screen.

He drove Helena back to his flat. On the journey, she told him which Bible study groups they were going to this week and informed him everything she’d learnt about the new family.

‘They said they’d come again next week. I’m not sure they will. But if they do, I’ll invite them around for dinner. Your house, of course, but you’ll need to dust all your bookshelves properly – you never dust properly, but it has to be your house. I’ve decided I’ll phone the council next week if my new neighbours keep it up with that noise they call music. I’ve been reasonable, you know I’ve been reasonable, but I need to sleep. It’s not fair.’ Helena sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll invite Sarah and Peter too. Another couple to provide a bit more conversation but not too many people that they feel intimidated.’

Dean nodded, although he’d lost the thread of the conversation.

At his flat they prepared their Sunday roast in comfortable silence, working in unison as they always did.

While they waited for the small joint to cook, they sat on the sofa watching the BBC news channel.

They ate at the table and Helena described a new course she was thinking of taking.

‘Do you think I could do it? Do you think I’m capable? This isn’t the time to be nice, this is the time to be honest.’ She laughed. ‘What am I talking about? Telling my wonderfully practical and unemotional Dean that he needs to be honest. You’d never lie to me, would you? So what do you think about me doing this course?’

Dean stared down at his plate. For some reason, the meat bathing in Helena’s special recipe red wine gravy made him feel sick.

He chewed the food in his mouth carefully before replying. ‘You’re capable of doing anything you set your mind to. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.’ He placed his knife and fork across his plate and took a deep breath. There was no point postponing it; this was a conversation they needed to have one day. ‘Helena, have you ever thought about marriage?’

‘Oh Dean, baby.’ She clapped her hands together and Dean thought he glimpsed the child she must have once been in the pure happiness of her face. ‘I knew you’d ask me. My father keeps saying that you’re wasting my time, I’m throwing my youth away on you, but he doesn’t understand. Neither of us is young anyway. We’re careful and responsible. Why would you rush into something so big, so important? I’m going to phone my parents right now.’

‘Hel …’ He reached out his arm for her, but she’d already rushed away from the table and was getting the mobile out of her bag.

Still it wasn’t too late. He could tell her that it hadn’t been a proposal, he could tell her that he had intended to explain how unsuitable he was as a long-term relationship prospect, that he tried but he couldn’t visualise marrying her. Instead, he silently watched her speed dial her parents and listened to one side of the ensuing phone call with a calm acceptance.

‘No, he didn’t get down on one knee.’

‘No, there was no traditional romance.’

‘But Dean isn’t about all that fake stuff.’

‘Dean is real.’

‘Dean is true.’

‘That’s why I love him so much.’

‘Yes, I’m happy. Of course, I’m happy. Soooo happy. I couldn’t be happier.’

‘I’m thinking of a big summer wedding.’

When the phone was thrust into Dean’s hand he accepted the congratulations of Helena’s mother and the rebukes of her father for not discussing and seeking permission from the head of the family before taking such an important step.

Then Helena phoned her brother, her sister, her closest friends. After the tenth phone call, Dean began to suspect she was spreading the news to everyone she knew. Some tiny part of him might have considered that Helena knew he hadn’t meant to propose, that she’d even possessed an awareness of what he’d wanted to say, and had managed to twist it into an opportunity. She was telling everyone she vaguely knew to try and convince herself that it had been a real proposal, to try and make it feel real, to make it more difficult for Dean to retract. Some tiny part of Dean might have thought along those lines, but there was another, larger part that could see no logical reason why he shouldn’t marry Helena if that’s what she wanted. The way it happened, perhaps, was the only way it could have happened, but that didn’t mean Helena wasn’t his destiny.

He continued to sit patiently through it all. His fingers itched to reach for the paper; he had a sudden yearning to read about wars and economic collapse, anything to make him feel the real problems of this world, which had nothing to do with him sitting in his small flat listening to his new fiancée tell everyone how happy she was. He hoped his smile looked genuine rather than resigned.

After the 15th phone call, before she had time to call the 16th person, Dean stood up and took Helena’s hands in his. She dropped her mobile to the floor and pulled away to retrieve it. But still, in the brief moment of physical contact, something stirred deep inside Dean. He imagined Helena wearing nothing but thigh-high boots and holding a whip.

‘Helena.’ He pronounced the name as if he’d never spoken it before. It felt like the sound originated from deep within the bowels of his soul and travelled through his whole being before it reached the air.

Helena blushed. ‘You’re excited. I’m excited. But it’s not long to wait now, babe.’

She stepped backwards and then stepped forward again and gave him an awkward hug. Dean tried to hold onto the warmth of her body a moment longer before letting go and moving away himself. The colour rose to his cheeks.

‘Perhaps I should go. We should say a prayer and then I’ll go,’ Helena said.

She dropped to her knees. An unworthy image from the internet porn he watched flashed into his head, of what women often did in those films when they were kneeling before men. Quickly he knelt beside her, but not too close. They said a prayer of thanks. Then another awkward hug and Helena left.

Dean pressed his face against the cold surface of the wall. At least she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her. He chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. He had a fiancée; a quarter of an hour ago he was thrilled imagining they might have sex for the first time, and now he was relieved that they hadn’t kissed.

So far all their kisses had been sloppy, teeth-crashing things, filled with the emotion brothers and sisters might have when they kissed each other. Not that he knew what that felt like; in his family brothers and sisters did not kiss each other, did not speak to each other.

He pushed his back against the door and took a deep breath. He would have to learn how to kiss properly. That was a good place to start. How could he expect to satisfy Helena in the way a man should satisfy his wife if he didn’t even know how to kiss her? The internet was full of advice, he was sure he could find some technique tips on there. With a clear conscience he went to his spare room and clicked his computer on.

An hour later he was sitting naked in front of his webcam giving his most private fantasies to a woman he’d only lightly flirted with online before.

‘Do you want to know a secret, little slut?’ the woman who identified herself as Crimson whispered into the computer screen.

Her webcam was set up so he could only see her mouth. The image of her lips filled his computer screen. He could see fine lines in her bright red lipstick where it cracked as she spoke.

‘Yes, please, mistress.’

‘I know who you are. I recognise you.’

Every muscle in Dean’s body froze. What if she was one of his clients? Someone he was supposed to be helping recover from their addiction. He could lose his job. But he didn’t recognise her voice. None of his clients had ever whispered the things she’d been whispering to him, though. Did people have different voices when they were being sexual? He could lose his job.

He waited. Her lips were closed and smiling; she was obviously waiting for his reaction.

‘I am honoured that you would remember seeing such a pathetic worm as me.’

She laughed. ‘I live near your church. I’ve seen you and your too-good friends milling about. I think I saw you today with a gorgeous blonde. Is she too-good, worm? I’m going to give you my address. Come and see me. Wear a coat, nothing else.’

‘When would you like me to visit you, mistress?’ His voice was quavering.

‘Now.’

Her webcam went blank, but an address appeared in the message area of the window, then she went offline. Was she preparing for his arrival? The thought excited him. He moaned into the empty air as his cock throbbed.