by Suzy K Quinn
‘I liked it, but I was humiliated. You took away control from me. You brought me to a place where I couldn’t say no, and then you told me something that made me vulnerable.’
‘But you were never truly vulnerable,’ says Marc. ‘And you could have said no at any time.’
‘But you made me feel vulnerable,’ I say.
‘Sophia,’ says Marc. ‘I’m teaching you how to open yourself up. To show yourself to hundreds, thousands of people. Because I truly believe you have the potential to reach millions of people.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ says Marc.
The moon is high and silver over London, and I think for the first time what an amazing thing it is to have all this architecture and all these people in one place.
‘But Marc, how can you talk about me being open, when you’re not open yourself?’
‘As an actor, I’m open,’ he says simply. ‘Even if in my personal life, I find it difficult, I’m open when I perform.’
‘But ... I saw a movie of you when you were younger,’ I say. ‘There was something in your eyes, in your expression, that was much more vulnerable. It drew me in, more so than in your darker movies.’
Marc frowns. ‘That was before. When someone else was in charge of me. Now I’m in charge of my own life, and so shoot me if the darkest depths of my soul aren’t on screen for all to see. I give enough. I give plenty. I have the awards to show for it.’
Suddenly, there’s a flash of something white, like lightning, but there’s no rain or thunder. The sky is clear.
Marc pulls me away from the railing. He throws the cashmere coat over my head and hauls me towards the elevator.
Chapter 50
‘Paparazzi,’ he says, bundling me through the gold doors. ‘They were on the ground. Which means they didn’t get anything. But it also means they’re outside.’
He jabs the lift button and the doors slide closed. As the elevator descends, he paces back and forth. ‘Christ, those parasites. Always at the worst moments.’
The lift opens on the floor below, and I see soft red carpet and a hallway of closed doors.
‘In here,’ he barks, opening one of the doors. There’s a giant four poster bed inside, made of dark wood. The bed is so high that there are wooden steps leading up to it.
Stretching along one of the walls is a bookcase made of rosewood, filled with books. A complete collection of Dickens novels run along one of the shelves, but to my surprise, the books look brand new. Untouched.
‘The windows in this room are one way,’ Marc explains. ‘No one can see in.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t stay with you in here. Not after what I promised you in the limo.’
‘Maybe you needs a lesson in self control,’ I say, with a smile.
‘There’s no maybe with you around,’ says Marc, lifting me onto the bed. He runs a hand languidly down my body. ‘Tell me you don’t want me to do anything. Tell me to leave. Tell me to stop.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t want you to stop.’
‘In the limo you said you didn’t want anything to happen tonight.’
‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind.’
Marc’s eyes turn dangerous. ‘Wait there.’
I pull myself further up the bed and rest on the over-sized cream pillows.
‘Is this your bedroom?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes,’ he says, going to a wooden wardrobe that stretches from floor to ceiling. He opens the door and reaches up to a high shelf inside.
‘Do you bring girls up here often?’ I ask, forcing a smile.
He pauses, mid-stretch. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, and I feel deflated.
‘How many times?’ I ask.
‘A few,’ he answers, taking down a pair of leather slippers.
‘What are they for?’ I ask.
‘Turn over.’
I stare at him in disbelief. First the cane, now the slipper. ‘You’re really taking this teacher thing seriously,’ I say.
‘Don’t talk back,’ says Marc, climbing the steps onto the bed and flipping me over. He undoes my jeans and pulls them down.
Once again, I feel fresh air on my buttocks, but I can’t see where Marc is, which is pleasantly torturous. I hear whooshing sounds as he takes off his t-shirt and jeans.
‘Marc?’
I feel myself sliding over the bed as he pulls me towards him. My legs bump over his naked thighs and suddenly I’m bent over his bare knee. I can felt the heat of his torso against my side and the tension of his skin.
‘Marc, what are you -’
He smacks me hard with the soul of the slipper.
I’m stunned. It feels good in a ‘pain is pleasure’ sort of way, and when he hits me a second time I cry out.
‘I won’t fuck you,’ Marc whispers. ‘I made a promise.’ He lifts me onto the bed, resting me stomach down on the duvet. ‘But it feels good, doesn’t it? Being spanked.’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘With you it does.’
I moan again as he smacks me with the slipper.
‘Turn around,’ he orders. I do, and find myself face to face with Marc’s bare chest. There are scars on it – little ones, like the ones on his knuckles.
‘Give me your hand,’ he says. ‘Now undo my trousers.’
Finally. I get to touch him. I unbutton and unzip him. Then I lean down and take him into my mouth.
I expect him to try and stop me, but instead he lets out a little moan.
I keep going, up, down, up, down, and I can feel the tension building in him. He moans again, and I move faster, bringing my hand around him and tightening it.
He grips my wrist. ‘Stop,’ he pants. ‘Too close.’ He lifts my chin away and sits back on the bed, getting his breath back.
‘What was too close?’ I ask.
‘Me. To you. A few more seconds and I would have come.’
‘What’s so bad about that?’ I ask. ‘I want you to. I want to share with you -’
Marc shakes his head. ‘What you want from me, I can never give you.’
‘What are you saying? That you’ll never come with me?’ I ask. ‘I don’t understand. Why not?’
Marc pushes himself back in his trousers. ‘I don’t want to lose control in that way. Not ever.’
‘But you were saying acting is all about being vulnerable. And you’re the most amazing actor.’
‘Acting is all about being in control,’ says Marc, climbing down from the bed. ‘Every performance, I show my soul, but I’m in perfect control. You – stay in here tonight. There’s an en suite, towels, whatever you need. I’ll make sure it’s safe before you leave tomorrow. I’ll be leaving first thing. Have Rodney bring you whatever you need.’
‘Aren’t you staying in here with me?’
Marc shakes his head. ‘It’ll be safer if I stay in the next room.’
He leaves the room and closes the door.
I lie on the huge Alice in Wonderland bed, the feather duvet folding me in softness, and think about what just happened.
Part of me feels good that I can have an effect on Marc. Part of me feels sad that I can’t be as close to him as I want. To make him feel as good as he makes me feel.
I watch the silver moon outside the tinted window. It must be gone midnight. Thoughts turn around my mind, some good, some bad.
I get up, drink water from the bathroom tap and splash some on my face. The en suite is just as grand as the bedroom, with a huge, round swimming-tub bath and two different sinks to choose from.
I think about Marc in the next room. It’s a little chilly in my underwear, so I put on my jumper and creep to the bedroom door. It opens with a loud creaking sound, and I stop dead, listening. Then I poke my head out into the hallway.
The door next to my bedroom is slightly ajar, and I guess this must be where Marc is sleeping.
I creep towards the door, pushing it open little by little. Inside I see another giant bed. It’s not as high as the one in my room and it’s not a four poster, but it�
��s still pretty big.
There’s a sleeping figure on top of the duvet. I see Marc’s beautiful profile. He’s fully clothed in his black t-shirt and jeans, and lying on his back, his chest barely moving. His brown hair falls softly back onto the pillow, and there’s the tiniest of frown lines either side of his nose.
I creep closer, my heart pounding at the sight of him.
Marc’s chest moves more quickly as I approach, and I can smell him and see the pores on his skin. It’s amazing to be this close. To be allowed to look at the details of his handsome face in the flesh, see light brown stubble growing through his cheeks.
He’s all straight lines, I realise. Straight nose, straight jaw, straight teeth. The only curves are the quirks of his lips and eye lids, the curved lines either side of his mouth, and the round hollows of his cheeks. His lips are parted, just slightly, and I’m desperate to lean down and kiss them.
I crawl onto the bed, listening to his breathing. I’m tempted just to rest beside him and put one of his arms around me, but that would be too easy.
Instead, I gently climb over his body and sit with my legs either side of him. We’re both still clothed, but I begin to move back and forth.
I feel him hardening beneath me, and my heart beats faster. Should I be doing this? I know the answer. I have a reality check, all of a sudden, and realise I have crept into Marc Blackwell’s bedroom and am now sitting on top of him. But his growing hardness keeps me moving.
Marc begins to moan in his sleep, and I feel myself smile.
What if he says someone else’s name? I think suddenly. But it feels so good, moving on top of him like this, and watching his eyelids flicker with pleasure.
I move faster and faster, and Marc moans louder.
I see his eyelids flutter and suddenly I’m staring into his blue eyes, still moving back and forth.
‘Oh god,’ he shouts, ‘Oh Sophia. Oh god. Don’t.’
‘I don’t want to stop,’ I say. ‘All I want is to make you feel the way you make me feel.’
‘No.’ Marc shakes his head and grits his teeth. He throws me onto the bed, and for a moment I think he’s really mad at me. But suddenly he’s reaching into my panties and thrusting his fingers back and forth inside.
He pulls a condom from the bedside draw and struggles out of his trousers. Then he puts the condom on, and pulls off my underwear.
He gets on his knees between my legs and slides himself inside me. It’s a tight fit, and he only gets around halfway in. I feel the fullness, and as he moves back and forth he touches all the right places.
‘Oh, Marc,’ I moan.
He moves further and further inside, and I stuff a knuckle into my mouth to stop myself crying out.
‘Don’t pull out,’ I beg.
He shakes his head. ‘Right now, I couldn’t if I wanted to.’
He keeps going and going until my world explodes into stars, and I feel like I’ve been dipped into a warm bath.
Marc moans and keeps moving.
‘Please Marc, stop,’ I say. But he won’t.
At first, the feeling is too intense. Having him push against me after I’ve just come – I’m too tender and soft. But then the pleasure begins to build again and I hear myself crying out.
I see sweat on Marc’s forehead, and feel his hand gripping and squeezing my buttocks. I come again, and as I do I feel Marc push right into me, going deeper than I ever thought possible.
‘Oh god, Sophia,’ he shouts. I feel the base of him beating against me, and then he wraps his body around mine, strong limbs holding me tightly.
Did he just come?
No. He’s still hard.
I lie under him, feeling safe and warm and protected, and wonder what just happened. Because something changed in him – I know it.
Marc rolls me against him so we’re side to side, him still inside me, hard and throbbing. He’s breathing heavily as he slides himself out of me. Then he pulls the cover over us, wraps his arms around me, and I fall into a deep sleep.
Chapter 51
When I wake up the next morning, Marc is watching me, elbow propped on the pillow.
‘Morning,’ I mutter sleepily, feeling shy. He doesn’t look angry. I wonder how well he remembers last night.
‘Morning,’ he says quietly, not taking his eyes off me.
‘I thought you had to leave early,’ I say.
‘I do,’ he says, climbing out of the bed. He leaves the room and returns fully dressed – black suit, black shirt and a black suit jacket over his arm.
‘Rodney will bring you breakfast.’ He throws on his suit jacket and heads for the door.
‘Marc, about last night -’
‘Things got out of hand,’ says Marc, his hand on the door. With that, he leaves the room.
What’s going on? I pull the thick, feathery duvet over myself, feeling tired and hurt, and longing for him to come back.
When I hear the front door click and his car drive away, I rub my eyes and climb out of bed. In the corner of the room, I notice two cardboard boxes, stacked up.
They look out of place in Marc’s bare home, and I find myself heading towards them. I want to find out more about this man I’m caught up with, and since he’s not telling me much ...
The first box is full of books – but not stiff and new like the ones in the Alice in Wonderland bedroom. These are old, scuffed up and clearly very well read. I see Oliver Twist and Far From the Madding Crowd, amid a pile of other classics. Unlike the hardback covers on the shelf next door, these books are paperback and have colourful illustrations on the front.
There’s a small copy of Romeo and Juliet, with a green cover, and well worn pages. I flick it open, and see hundreds of spiky biro marks scrawled in the margins.
Marc. I run my fingers over the biro indents, feeling him through his writing. Don’t ask me why, but I know the handwriting is his. It’s so angular and hard, but with the occasional artistic flourish. The notes are all about the play – his interpretations.
I read, ‘He loves her in this scene, but doesn’t know it.’ I put the book to my chest for a moment. Then I realise where I am, and that Rodney could walk in at any moment.
I return the book to the box. Then, gingerly, I lift the first box up and look in the one underneath.
Inside are framed photographs of a woman.
I gasp, and nearly drop the first box. Gently, I put it down and peer closer at the photographs. The woman is brown-haired and very pretty, and as I look closer, I see she has Marc’s nose and high forehead.
In one picture, she’s in a squalid looking house with beer cans propped on sofa arms and window ledges, smiling as she holds a brown-haired baby in her arms. It’s an English house – I can tell from the fireplace. Small. Probably terraced. A normal family home.
At the bottom of the box are unframed photos. One is of the same brown-haired woman, smiling, but with a sad look in her eyes. She has a blonde baby in her arms, and wears a pink dress. She stands beside a tall, angry looking man, and a brown-haired toddler sits at their feet.
It’s a family photo, but what a family – no one looks happy. There’s a tension to the scene that’s obvious to anyone with feelings.
I turn the picture over and see, in faded biro: The Blackwell Family, Joan, Mike, Marc and Emily.
The brown-haired woman is Marc’s mother. But why are her pictures shut away like this, in a box? Marc said he was at this townhouse a lot. Why aren’t the pictures of his mother up on the walls?
Carefully, I put everything back in place, my mind in a whirl. I dress and head to the kitchen, smelling coffee and fresh pastries.
Rodney is in the kitchen, wiping the marble surfaces with a look of deadly determination on his face. He looks up when I come in.
‘Oh! Sophia.’ He throws the cloth in the sink and washes his hands. ‘Let me fix you breakfast.’
‘You don’t have to,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’
‘No, Marc gave me strict orders.’ He
brings a bowl of Bircher porridge, topped with fresh pomegranate seeds and toasted granola. ‘There are pastries too,’ he says, opening the oven and bringing out a tray of maple pin wheels. ‘And coffee.’
He pours me a cup. I’d prefer hot chocolate, but this coffee smells delicious.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘This looks great.’
Rodney beams. ‘It’s nice having guests -’ He stops himself. Does that mean Marc often brings women back here? I don’t like that thought at all.
‘Is Marc a nice person to work for?’ I ask.
‘The best employer I’ve ever had,’ says Rodney. ‘The kindest and most generous. And he’s never, ever made me feel like his inferior. We’re equals. You’d have to go a long way in London to find someone like that. I guess it’s because he grew up without all this.’ He waves his hand around.
‘Did he?’ I ask, taking a sip of coffee, and thinking about the photos. ‘The way he is, I thought there might be money somewhere in the family.’
‘Not at all,’ says Rodney. ‘All his money, he earned himself. He grew up in a normal terraced house in London.’
‘Oh?’ I put my elbows on the breakfast bar, intrigued.
Rodney nods. ‘His mother died when he was very young, poor thing. He idolises her. And then when she passed away, his father took him and his sister to America. He’d already seen Marc’s talent for acting, and thought he could make him a superstar.’
‘Poor Marc.’ I shake my head. ‘My mother died when I was young, too.’ I wonder, for a moment, if that’s why Marc feels a connection to me. ‘May I ask ... how did she die?’
Rodney picks up a tea towel and swipes at a cobweb on the window. ‘If you ever find out, let me know. Marc’s lips are sealed on that subject. I wouldn’t bring it up, if I were you.’
‘Right.’ I take another sip of coffee.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ says Rodney. ‘It must have been hard for you too.’
‘At times,’ I admit. ‘You envy the other children, growing up. There’s always a part of you that feels missing. And for me, I had to look after my father too – he went through some dark times after Mum died.’