I stand up, taking her hips with me, and slam into her from behind, making her elbows give. In the next instant I have her trapped against the tiles, my chest to her back, her breasts crushed with each unforgiving pound of my cock inside her cunt. I own her. Right now, I make Haydee mine.
My fingers in her mouth hold her steady. My fingers on her clit make her shudder as she releases. I know she has reached her limit. So I pull out, spin her around and guide her to her knees, and then stroke my cock above her parted lips, watching my come spurt all over her chin.
I am lost. I am enraptured with this woman. I have never wanted something to work so much before.
And as she closes her eyes, a look of pure abandon on her soft features, her tongue darting out hungrily and licking my release, I think maybe this just might.
I am demanding. I know this. I am a hard task master. I revel in the debauchery, my longing for control too hard to deny. It is through the defilement that I find peace. It is through the domination that I find freedom. But as I look down at her glorious upturned face, her eyes flicking open and staring up at me with such trust, such hunger, I realise none of that would mean a thing, if Haydee were not happy.
“What makes you happy, Haydee?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer as so many pets would by saying, “You, master.” She doesn’t make a big show of thinking up an answer that would appease.
She looks me in the eye and says one word.
I should have guessed it. Her fantasy told me everything I need to know about this woman. Everything sexual that is.
“Safety,” she says, her tone steady. Her voice strong. The word a benediction, not just a desire.
“Has there been times when you have not felt safe?” I ask.
Her head tips down immediately, her eyes to the floor in a Haydee reply that says, “No. Not going there.”
I don’t allow it. I kneel down in front of her and tip her face up to mine with one finger under her chin.
“Answer me,” I demand.
She searches my face, looking for the challenge, gauging my resolve. Slowly her shoulders droop in defeat.
It is not a look I like to see on her, but I will not allow her to circumvent this.
“I have feared for my safety before,” she whispers.
It’s an incomplete answer. I could press for more. More honesty. More details. More pain. But I do not wish to hurt Haydee in that fashion. If there is pain, there always needs to be pleasure. This would lack the latter, I fear.
“It’s all right,” I reassure her. “For now, know you are safe.”
Her face comes up and tears well in her dark eyes. A reaction that steals my breath, steals my resolve. Steals everything from me. I reach forward and wrap my arms around her, pull her close to me, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath to breath. I stroke a hand down her back and hold her, while her body trembles and her breathing finally evens out.
I don’t know what has happened to Haydee in the past. We all have one. No one who chooses this lifestyle does it simply because they are bored. She needs something. As I need something. We just have to work that need out for each other. Find it. Provide it. Protect it.
I want so badly for this woman to discover mine.
The water begins to turn cold and we finally emerge from our cocoon. Haydee walks carefully, I have used her very well. I dry her off with an overlarge towel, taking care to not rub too hard against areas that have been chafed. Seeing tiny indentations of my fingers on her hips, that will surely turn to bruises, excites me. Likewise, when she returns the favour, seeing my arousal sends a heated blush over her golden skin. So tempting I lean forward and kiss her collarbone, following the creep of colour until my lips claim hers.
I put everything into the moment. I tease and tempt and tantalise with my lips and teeth and tongue. I give her my complete focus, my utter devotion through my lips on hers. I kiss her until she is once again limp in my arms and we are almost too late to make our reservation.
It is with a dawning sense of familiarity that I feel surprise when I see Haydee slip into a long, elegant black cloak at the front door. With nothing but the deep red teddy on underneath it. Her high heeled shoes are red. The stockings black. She is a femme fatale on my arm as we walk out of the house towards my car.
Before I settle her in the passenger seat, I turn her towards me and adjust the collar of her coat, making sure the chain is visible through the opening.
“This looks good on you,” I say, and watch her give me a knowing smile. “Tomorrow, I want you lying back on my bed in nothing but this.”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
I cock one back at her in reply.
“Ten o’clock,” I say. “And you’ll be spending the night.”
Her head comes down in a barely there nod of acceptance. A small part of me rushes to point out that I am asking too much too soon. But I can’t seem to stop. I can’t seem to see anything further than this dazzling woman before me. And I realise, I don’t care.
It’s dangerous and unforgivable. Twenty-five years I’ve lived by certain rules. But, as though some sort of hourglass is counting down the minutes until the end of time, I am frantic. Frantic for Haydee. Frantic for something I can’t even put into words.
The restaurant is bustling when we arrive fifteen minutes late. I recognise a few politicians, a local councilman, and a couple of high ranking public servants. They all recognise me. I chose Angelo’s intentionally. If I want to make a statement that cannot be missed then this restaurant is the best venue to achieve it.
The maitre d’ asks for Haydee’s coat. She just smiles serenely, and shakes her head denying him the pleasure. My chest swells. We haven’t talked about the rules when out in public, but I have a feeling Haydee will again be a natural.
We’re shown to our seats and I wait until Haydee is settled before I take mine. The smell of garlic and tomatoes and basil wafts on the air. Conversation is a low hum in the background. Haydee reads the menu, but I quickly take it from her hands. She tilts her head, a soft smile tipping up the edges of her delightful mouth. I may have to take that again later tonight.
“I’ll order,” I say. She nods, stretching that long neck invitingly. “You’re a natural at this, Haydee,” I comment, taking a sip of the wine the waiter had poured not long after we arrived. “But when we’re alone like this you may talk. I like to hear your voice.”
Her whole body stills. I’m unsure if she likes this concession. Maybe to her it isn’t one.
“As soon as we have company,” I add, “you are not permitted to say a word, unless I direct it.”
“Of course,” she whispers.
“Of course, what?” I counter.
The smile returns. “Of course, sir,” she corrects in that husky voice that curls something deep inside me.
My sweet Haydee likes the game, and clearly that game extends to public settings.
“Where do you work?” I ask. I haven’t performed a Query Person check on her in our system. If she has any convictions, I do not know. It is an oversight I’ll correct tomorrow.
“I teach,” she says. “At the Wilson Home.”
“On the North Shore?” The Wilson Home is a private establishment for children with severe disabilities. A more selfless role I could not have imagined.
She nods her head in answer. Even when given the opportunity to talk, Haydee chooses silence.
The more she reveals, the more I can’t help thinking she is perfect. But perfection and I have not gone hand in hand in the past. It makes it difficult to believe this is real.
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m dreaming it all, like some comatose patient attached to machinery, kept alive because their loved ones can’t say goodbye.
A vision immediately appears before my eyes, taking me from the pleasantly lit restaurant, taking me away from the miraculous creature sitting opposite me. White sheets. White walls. And the green screen of a heart monitor. The sound of slow, mechanical breathing
fills my head. I realise, when a soft hand lands on my wrist, grounding me, that the noise I hear is my own laboured breaths.
I slam the door closed on my mental filing cabinet and shake Haydee’s hand off, reaching for my glass of wine. It’s not Scotch, but it will have to do for now.
Haydee watches, concern etched in her soft eyes.
Ask, I think.
Don’t ask, I immediately correct.
Haydee offers a smile and slips her stockinged foot between my legs, ingenious toes start massaging my cock.
We don’t make it home. I take her in the bathroom at the back of Angelo’s between the dinner and the dessert. It might not be under the stars, but there’s still time.
Chapter Six
“Free and safe.”
Monday arrives with all its usual rush of business. It’s well past noon by the time I can spare a minute to check on Haydee’s legal status. I’m calm when I enter her name in the system. Not because I have faith in Haydee’s innocence, as such; I’ve been a police officer too long to be blinded by appearances. But because this is just another part of my job. How many times have I checked up on a status of a suspect? How many times have I delved into a pet’s criminal history to ascertain their impact on my professional standing?
Too many. Haydee is just one more.
But when I hit enter, I realise I’m fooling myself. Haydee was never just “one more.”
Her name comes back clean. No prior arrests. No outstanding warrants. Nothing but a speeding ticket when she was seventeen. I stare at her name on the screen. At her date of birth confirming she is almost too young for me. At her visa requests and international travel history.
Ten years she was in England. Returning home only once during that period. Ten years is a long time. Why did she return after such a lengthy stay? There’s something there, but it’s not until well past six in the evening that I have time again to devote any attention to it.
My contact at the Department of Internal Affairs will have left for the day, so I use what I can in our system. It’s limited, as far as international travel for New Zealanders is concerned. But I manage to pin down a flag in our access to Interpol. It’s not attached to Haydee’s name, but her name is attached to the file. And the file is classified.
I could try Interpol itself, but instead I delve deeper into our local governmental computer systems and locate an address in London that Haydee used as an overseas contact. Anything else and I’ll have to either wait for my acquaintance at the Department of Internal Affairs to arrive at his office tomorrow or try Interpol itself.
I already know Interpol will be a bust. If a case of theirs is classified, then chances are it involves terrorism. Terrorism makes the authorities very nervous and my enquiring about a lover would not sit well.
No, my only chance is her former home in England, and as luck would have it, I have a contact there that could work.
I stand up from my desk and check that Christine has indeed left for the day, then take a moment to consider my options. This is more invasive than I have ever been with a sub before. I take my role seriously. Their care and needs are paramount in my mind. Haydee is no different in that regard. What she needs, even if she is unaware that she may need it, I will give. But this, what I’m about to do, I fear is my need. Not Haydee’s.
Will it make a difference if I discover her secrets? Will not discovering them mean I fail to provide what she may need? What if whatever secret lurks in her past affects our present?
I can’t lose Haydee and so my mind is made up.
I settle myself into my seat and flick through my Rolodex. I pull out the card I need and then enter the international number into my telephone. It’s now close to seven in the evening here, which means it will be close to seven in the morning there. If I know Gerald, he’ll already be at work.
The line is unusually clear when the call is connected. The number I have is not a direct dial, so I end up going to the station’s main desk. A woman answers, her accent throwing me for a second. Haydee hadn’t picked one up, she sounds delightfully Kiwi.
“This is Superintendent Ethan Keen, from South Auckland Police in New Zealand,” I say. “May I please speak with Chief Superintendent Gerald Minns?”
There is a long pause, and I picture the woman translating my words into a recognisable form of English. It takes her ten seconds to come back with a reply. Equally as foreign to my ears.
But in the next instant I’m transferred through to another line, which I take it to mean she finally understood my request. Three rings later and my friend picks up.
“Ethan! This is a surprise. How long has it been?” Gerald says. “Four years?”
“Possibly five,” I counter, a smile evident in my voice. “The conference in Hawaii,” I add.
“That was some bloody conference, wasn’t it? I think it took me a solid week to recover.”
“That’s because your lot was outnumbered four to one by the Antipodes.”
“Yes, but we’re not counting the Australians, are we?”
“Who does?” I offer.
He chuckles for a few seconds and then cuts to the chase. “What can I do you for?”
I pause to gather my thoughts. I could be honest; Gerald understands my world. But the classification of the Interpol file has me treading carefully. I just don’t know how far this reaches yet.
“I’m looking into a New Zealander who recently returned from ten years living in London,” I say. “I need to know if you have anything on her that could shed further light.”
“What’s the name and DOB, then?”
I rattle off Haydee’s full name and grimace as I read her date of birth. God, she’s young. Only eight years older than Lara. Thankfully, I was still very young myself when we had Lara. It helps to dull the sting, but only marginally.
“Hmmm,” Gerald says several seconds later. “Her name does come up.”
My stomach drops. I lean back in my chair and swivel until I can see the clouds outside my window.
“Any convictions?” I force myself to ask. If she had been convicted of a crime, it must have been minor. There was no indication she was kicked out of England on anything I’ve found so far.
Gerald lets out a long sigh. I can picture him taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Tell me this,” he says. “Has she been hurt?”
The question throws me completely. I lean forward and stare at the floor, my mind racing.
“Why would you say that?” I demand.
“Has she?” he presses.
“You mean physically?”
“Well,” he says, hedging. “Is she in trouble?”
“Jesus, Gerald. Give me something to go on here.”
“Her file has been suppressed, Ethan. I can’t give you details.”
“Suppressed?” Not many cases are subject to name suppression. Usually it’s invoked for the victim’s protection.
Safety. When Haydee feels safe, she feels happy.
“Gerald,” I say. “She’s not in trouble, but I need to know what I’m dealing with here. Was she hurt when she lived in the UK?”
“If she’s not in trouble, why are you looking into her?” he argues.
“It’s my responsibility,” I say automatically.
“Keeping her safe?” he shoots back, no doubt already putting it all together.
Silence ensues for a good few seconds. Neither of us willing to back down.
“Her name is attached to a classified Interpol file,” I offer, instead of the myriad demands coursing through my head.
“Look, I can’t give you specifics,” he finally counters. “Anything I say could have been learnt through the case file and not from national news. But if I were to offer you anything, it would be a tag-line. The tag-line was well used in all the main rags throughout this country. It was a big deal. I think it was The Sun who coined the term.”
“And the term is?”
“Harassing
Hoorah,” he says, not making any sense. “It was a benchmark case,” he adds. “Brought about changes to one of our most controversial laws.”
“When?” I demand.
“Well, I can’t tell you when the case was, because that would be breaking suppression. But I can tell when the law was changed.”
I wait patiently, but patience is not my friend right now. I almost open my mouth to yell at my old friend, when he speaks.
“2012, Ethan. The law was changed in 2012. A lot of people have Haydee Armstrong to thank for it. They just don’t know her name.”
We hang up not long after that. Having exhausted small talk and any attempts to lighten the conversation so our relationship doesn’t come out of this encounter too scathed. I already know it will be a long time before Gerald takes a call from me again. He pushed the limits to tell me what he could, and even then it wasn’t nearly enough.
I find the law half an hour later. The Protection from Harassment Act 2012. Prior to that date stalking was not considered an illegal offence in the UK. It was considered harassment, and would usually result in a six month sentence if the evidence was exceptionally strong. Post 2012, stalking causing a fear of violence could gain the stalker a maximum sentence of five years behind bars.
Forty minutes later I discover why the law changed. A primary school teacher in Redding was stalked by a colleague for two years. Details are more difficult to obtain. Name suppression was given early on in the case, but the location had already slipped out, causing Haydee to change schools and start all over again. I uncover more on whistle-blowing sites, some of which were prosecuted and had to withdraw half of what they’d published.
But I find enough. I find Haydee. And a dark world of manipulative behaviour that led my precious goddess into fear. Fear for her life. Fear for her sanity. The type of fear that changes someone. The stalker received a three year sentence, that’s how bad the details of the case were.
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