The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

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The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Page 14

by Sam Anthony


  Serena and Mia stared wide-eyed at the stranger in front of them.

  “Do you climax from being spanked?”

  “No, but I get very aroused. And so does Steve. By the time he enters me, he’s rock hard and I’m soaking wet. Nothing gets my juices flowing like a good spanking.”

  Rock hard! I’m definitely going to try this with Eric, thought Serena. And maybe Ollie too.

  “Where does all this take place?” Mia asked. “In the bedroom?”

  “No, he fucks me in our sex dungeon.”

  Now Serena’s and Mia’s jaws fell open simultaneously.

  Mia stuck a finger in her ear and jiggled it about. “My hearing is on the fritz. Can you say that again?”

  A picture of innocence, Fiona didn’t even blush. “I said, ‘He fucks me in our sex dungeon.’”

  Shaking her head, Mia said, “I don’t know what I’m more shocked by. You using the F-word or discovering that you’ve got a sex dungeon. A sex dungeon!”

  “Ah,” said Fiona, reaching for her drink. “It’s quite possible that I’m very very drunk, and I may regret telling you both that in the morning. You have to promise you’ll never tell anyone. Not Eric, not Ollie, not Ron the landlord, not that gossipy lady who works in the post office. No one. Understand?”

  They nodded.

  Fiona wasn’t convinced. “Promise, Serena.”

  “I promise,” she said, although she was thinking, I wonder if Eric will let me convert our wine cellar into a sex dungeon.

  “Promise, Mia.”

  “I promise,” she said, although she was thinking, Ollie is going to get such a kick out of this when I tell him. “How often do you two get up to these shenanigans?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. Much less often than we used to. It’s worrying me, to be honest. It feels as if Steve is losing interest. Perhaps we’re just getting old. Anyway, the good news is, we don’t have free will, so it’s not my fault that I get my rocks off with a little light masochism.”

  “A little light what?”

  “Masochism. Am I slurring?”

  “Shluring?”

  “Yesh.”

  “A bit.”

  “I’m still struggling to get my head around this,” said Serena. “If I have no free will – if I’m not in control of my thoughts and my decisions – it wouldn’t matter if I cheated on Eric. It wouldn’t be my fault.”

  “It wouldn’t be your fault as such, but there would still be consequences for your actions. Consequences which you’d have to live with. Wait … are you thinking about cheating on Eric?”

  “No, no. It was just an example.”

  Mia was thoughtful. “So, if thoughts pop into my head about Wayne Smith lying in a pool of his own blood with a knife sticking out of his heart, or vomiting up his innards after being poisoned, or splattered over a car roof having fallen from the top of a tall building, or …”

  “I think that’s enough examples.” Fiona was beginning to feel queasy.

  “One more. Or beaten to a bloody pulp with a baseball bat, it’s not my fault. I’m not creating those images. I have no control over the things I think. Hey, …” She smiled. “Maybe I’m not a bad person, after all.”

  Fiona patted her on the back. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 35

  Sunday 12 October, 2003

  Fairfax bedroom, 9:15 a.m.

  “Morning, love. Cup of tea?”

  Mia stirred but didn’t open her eyes. “God, yes. And a handful of painkillers while you’re at it?”

  “Sounds like you had a good night. You were very late getting in.”

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, both times you ran to the bathroom and puked your guts up, but don’t worry about it.”

  “Food poisoning, I guess.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ollie chuckled.

  Mia blinked and tried to recall what had happened the previous evening. She had a vague memory of throwing up in the sink in the early hours, but couldn’t remember anything about the walk home. In her head she went back in time until she reached memories she could be certain of. The drinking. The laughter. More drinking. Fiona calling Mandy a slut to her face and refusing to apologise, claiming it wasn’t her fault what she said because she didn’t have free will. That was it: free will. Now the memories were coming fast. Mojitos. Elephants. Wayne Smith. Sex dungeons. More mojitos. Wait … back up … sex dungeons!

  “Oh my God! You are not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “No, I can’t say. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Just say it.”

  “Nope. My lips are sealed.” Mia turned the key in an imaginary padlock in front of her face.

  “I’m not going to have to tickle you, am I?”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not fair. You know I’m defenceless against tickling. It’s my Kryptonite.”

  “To be fair, love, you’re shit at keeping secrets with or without tickling. If I simply wait here patiently for ten minutes, you’ll probably blurt it out, but … tickling is more fun.”

  He lunged towards her and she leapt out of bed and ran screaming and giggling to the bathroom.

  Ollie heard the shower running. His penis suggested joining her, but the memory of the previous night’s retching changed his mind.

  ◆◆◆

  When Mia emerged from the bathroom, showered and sheepish, she made a half-hearted attempt to begin a new topic of conversation. “Fancy going for a long walk today? I could do with some fresh air, and I’m sure Lord would appreciate it.”

  Ollie opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything Mia blurted, “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. You’ve wheedled it out of me with your cunning mind games. But you mustn’t tell a soul. Understand?”

  “I didn’t …”

  “Swear you’ll keep it a secret. Fiona would kill me if she knew I’d told you.”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet. There’s still time to change your mind.”

  “But I can’t hold it in any longer. It’s too juicy to keep to myself.”

  “Spit it out then.”

  Mia took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is going to shock you to the core.”

  “I’ll try not to pass out.”

  She took another deep breath. “Fiona and Steve have got a sex dungeon.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh, that’?”

  “I’ve known about it for years. Steve showed me once.”

  “What?”

  “It’s quite something.”

  Mia was aghast. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  “Steve asked us not to say anything.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Eric.”

  “Eric knows too?”

  “Of course.”

  “But … why didn’t you tell me? I tell you everything.”

  “Because I know how to keep a secret.”

  “But … you knew … all this time?”

  “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Why haven’t we got a sex dungeon?”

  “We haven’t got a basement.”

  “We could dig a basement. Excavate underneath the house.”

  “Would you like a sex dungeon?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Why?”

  “So, when you get on my nerves, like now, I could tie you down and beat your cute little backside raw to dispel all my pent up anger and frustration.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “What?”

  “You spanking me.”

  “Pardon? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “That time I suggested it and you said, ‘Okay, then’ and lay face down across my knees and I gave your arse one little smack and you got the giggles, so I spanked you a tiny bit harder and you called
me a ‘motherfucking, cocksucking wife-beater,’ and that was pretty much the end of that. I thought you might reciprocate, but you never did, and I didn’t dare bring it up again.”

  “Oh, that time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She put her hand to his cheek. “Oh, babe, I wish you had brought it up again. Now you’ve put the idea into my head, I think I’d rather enjoy causing you pain. I could pretend you’re Wayne fucking Smith and we’re back in the good old days of corporal punishment. Six of the best with my trusty cane would make us both happy.”

  “Cane? Who said anything about a cane? You can jolly well use your hand. If it’s going to hurt me, I want it to hurt you too.”

  “Are we really going to do this?”

  “It’s worth considering. But we’re certainly not going to even attempt it until we’ve both come up with a safe word. I have my suspicions that you could be pretty violent in the heat of passion.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “How rude. Pick a safe word then. If we’re …”

  “Adjective.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My safe word is ‘adjective’.”

  “That was fast. It was almost as if you had one picked out already.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? You never know when you’re going to need a safe word, so it’s best to be prepared in case the eventuality ever arises.”

  “What eventuality? Tell me an eventuality that’s going to require a fucking safe word.”

  “I don’t know … you could be walking down a side street in Amsterdam with an hour or so to spare before your flight home when you come across a sex club. You’ve got a few Euros left over and you can’t be arsed to exchange them back to pounds, so you pop into the sex club for a bit. It’s win-win. You’re killing time and getting rid of your pesky loose change. The sexy dominatrix who runs the club offers you an experience you’ll never forget for exactly the same amount of Euros as you’ve currently got burning a hole in your pocket. One which will last exactly the same amount of time you’d be kicking your heels for otherwise. You think, Yeah, why not? And before you know it, she’s stripped you naked and strapped you to some medieval torture device. She’s just about to start lashing you with a whip or something, when she pauses and asks you for your safe word. But you haven’t got one. It’s a disaster. She’s got this whole kinky routine worked out that lasts exactly fifty minutes. You’ve got exactly fifty minutes till you have to leave for your flight. But you can’t think of a safe word. By the time you’ve managed to come up with one, it’s too late. The moment is ruined. Your erection goes limp. You apologise to the nice lady with the whip. You trudge to the airport. A homeless man in a doorway asks you for some spare change so he can feed his dog, but you’ve given all your money to the sex worker. You can’t even buy a coffee at the airport because – for some unknown reason – your credit card is rejected. And all because you couldn’t be bothered to think of a safe word in advance.”

  “What’s the dog called?”

  “Huh?”

  “The homeless man’s dog. What’s it called?”

  “I don’t know … er … Fenna.”

  “Fenna?”

  “Yeah, it’s Dutch.”

  “I see. So why ‘adjective’?”

  “‘Adjective’ is merely my initial safe word. The one I’ll use when the sensations I’m experiencing become uncomfortable. As soon as they become painful, I’ll use my level-two safe word.”

  “Which is …?”

  “Comparative. And when the pain becomes unbearable, I’ll up it to level-three: Superlative.”

  “Is that the final level?”

  “Naturally. It’s a scale, you see. Adjective, comparative, superlative. Like hot, hotter, hottest or nasty, nastier, nastiest.”

  “I get it.”

  “What’s your safe word?”

  “I don’t have one. It’s not something I thought I’d ever need.”

  “Well, you ought to choose one quick. You never know when you could be walking down a side street in Amsterdam with an …”

  “Ouch.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s my safe word: ouch. If I’m not enjoying it, I’ll say ‘ouch’ and you’ll know it’s time to stop.”

  “Did you just think of that on the spot?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s impressive. It took me days to come up with mine.”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  Ollie grew pensive. “I wonder …”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if Steve and Fiona would let us use their sex dungeon.”

  “You can’t ask them. I categorically forbid it. If we do this, no one can ever know. No one. I couldn’t show my face at school if any of the staff or pupils ever found out Mrs Fairfax was into S&M.”

  ◆◆◆

  That night they tried it. Nothing serious. Just a little tentative spanking by candlelight.

  Neither of them enjoyed the experience.

  Ollie went first. He stripped naked and lay face-down on the bed.

  Mia’s hand hurt after three smacks, so she switched to a table-tennis bat she’d found up in the attic. Briefly forgetting she’d been university table-tennis champion three years running, she gave it her all.

  Skipping ‘adjective’ and ‘comparative’, Ollie went straight for ‘superlative’ and spent the next five minutes biting his pillow and screaming.

  Then it was Mia’s turn.

  Ollie didn’t want a repetition of the swearing incident, so he kept it light. Too light.

  After ten minutes, Mia said, ‘Ouch’. Not from pain, from boredom.

  “Should I try harder?” he said.

  “It’s not really doing it for me, to be honest. I can’t get Wayne fucking Smith out of my head.”

  Ollie blew out the candle. “I don’t know what Steve and Fiona see in this.”

  “Perhaps we’re doing it wrong.”

  “Who knows? Shall we stick to regular sex from now on?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Now?”

  “Not on a Sunday night, babe. I’m not really in the mood anymore.”

  Chapter 36

  Monday 13 October, 2003

  McDougal bedroom, 8:30 a.m.

  Eric walked into the bedroom carrying two steaming cups of coffee.

  “Morning. Sleep well?” he said.

  Serena stretched. “What time is it?”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  “Yes, then. I slept very well.”

  “I didn’t see you at all yesterday. You were so late home on Saturday night I didn’t have the heart to wake you in the morning when I was called into work. I had a young kid on the table for nearly ten hours. Cardiopulmonary bypass and everything. It looks like she’s going to pull through, but it was touch and go for a while. By the time I got home, your light was off, so I slept in the spare room.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, I grabbed something from the canteen.”

  “Something healthy?”

  “No idea. I couldn’t identify it. Probably meat rather than fish. If you put a gun to my head and forced me to guess, I’d say horse.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Do we have a gun?”

  “Actually, there’s an old Browning Hi-Power locked away in the filing cabinet in the study. Family legend has it that my grandfather took it off a dead German soldier during the war.”

  Serena swallowed. “Is it loaded?”

  “No idea. I doubt it works anymore. The thing hasn’t been fired for decades.”

  “Have you got to go in today?”

  “No. Day off. Cassandra Willoughby is on-call.”

  “I can’t believe she hasn’t retired yet. She must be a hundred and four.”

  “She’s sixty-two, and I hope you look that good when you’re her age.”

  Serena sat up to take the coffee from Eric and ‘accidentally’ let the duvet slip down to her waist. What
about how good I look now? she thought. Wouldn’t you like to ravage me, Eric? Aren’t these magnificent breasts making you hard?

  “Perhaps we could do something together today,” Eric said.

  Serena arched her back just a little. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Go for a drive? Is it warm enough for a picnic?”

  Wrong answer, thought Serena. “The forecast is for rain.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Eric sat on the bed.

  Serena took a sip of coffee. “Would you like me to ... dress up for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Serena nodded towards Eric’s crotch. “Would it help … you know ... if I was to put on a roleplay outfit? A French maid, a sexy nun, a nurse, or maybe … a schoolgirl?”

  A sheen of sweat appeared on Eric’s forehead and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “It’s worth a try, I suppose. Would you do that for me?”

  “I’d do anything for you, darling, if it gets me pregnant. Do you have a preference?”

  “Of outfit? Erm … why don’t you go out and buy a selection. We can afford it.”

  “Okay. And if we’re flush with money, how about a sex dungeon?”

  “Pardon?”

  “We could build ourselves a sex dungeon.”

  “Why?”

  “Duh! For sex.”

  “We can have sex in the bedroom.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to tie me up and have your wicked way with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not my thing.”

  “What is your thing?”

  “Serena, I’m fifty-one years old. I’m past my prime. Sex is no longer such a big part of my life. To be honest, I can take it or leave it.”

  “Well, I can’t. Sex is important to me. Having a baby is important to me. We both need to make an effort to keep our sex life going. Some people have sex into their eighties and nineties, and I intend to be one of those people.”

 

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