by Heidi James
‘This road is usually so busy, full of traffic. S’weird to see it so quiet.’
‘I know. Like an alternate reality.’ Cora moves faster now. She leads him past the empty offices and closed shops. She turns off Bishopsgate into a side street, towards the shelter of a doorway. She turns and leans against the wooden door. A fire escape.
‘You know your way around,’ he says. She says nothing, just looks at him, her face blank, unreadable in the dark.
He steps in close and strokes her. His moves follow the usual order: first kissing, then stroking breasts, moving down the body towards her bottom and then trying to lift the skirt. She’s seen it all before. It’s a ritual, a dull routine. ABC. Meanwhile she is expected to return kisses, arch her back and moan, all while rubbing and stroking his penis. None of this will do for what Cora needs. What Cora must have. Now.
She sinks to the ground, grit and cigarette butts pressing into her knees. She unzips his trousers, looking up at him. He is staring down at her, his mouth hanging open. He can’t believe his luck. She takes his cock in her mouth and holding him by the hips she pulls him deep into her throat. She is ravenous. He groans and lets his head drop onto his chest. His eyes closed, he rocks his hips back and forth.
‘Mmmm, you are not what I expected. Oh God. Oh God. You are something else.’
He rests his hands on her head and strokes her hair. He is sharing a gentle, consensual encounter with her. But she requires something else. She stands and faces the wall, pulling up her skirt and tugging her knickers over to one side.
‘Fuck me hard. Now.’
He pushes himself into her, grunting, holding her hips. She barely feels a thing. She is female, she is receptive, well-practiced. He slides in and out. She can hear him, grunting and breathing over her shoulder. She pushes back against him. There is a freedom in fucking a stranger: you can be yourself, uninhibited. You can demand that they service your needs because you will never have to see them again, knowing that they’ve seen the sickest part of you.
‘Please,’ she says, ‘Do it harder.’ He responds, banging harder against her body, pushing her up against the wall.
‘Harder,’ she demands. ‘Harder. Pull my hair.’
He pauses for a moment and then does as she asks, but carefully, restrained. He takes a handful of her hair and tugs it, playful. Acting.
‘You’re kinky. I like it, baby.’
Her need overwhelms her, pours out of her like fluid spewing up and out, hot and vengeful. She wants revenge against herself. She wants to feel his fist in her cunt, in her face, in her arse. She wants him to kick her in the guts. She begs him: ‘Hurt me. Please. Hit me. Punch me.’ She thinks of her family, all cosy in their snug, clean beds. ‘Please Chris. Hit me.’
‘I’m not that kind of man, baby. Let me make you come.’ He reaches around to touch her clit, and rubs at her, confident he can make her feel good. ‘Is that good, Cora? Is that good?’ He keeps thrusting and rubbing, his breathing coming in hot spurts. ‘I’m close, I’m really close. Come with me. Come with me.’
Cora pulls away and drops to her knees again.
‘Oh yeah,’ Chris moans. ‘Let me come in your mouth.’
Cora puts his cock back in her mouth and bites down on the smooth skin. She bites hard. Chris screams and shoves her away from him. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ He checks himself to see if she has drawn blood. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
‘Hit me,’ Cora says. ‘I deserve it. Hit me back.’ She stands up straight as he does up his trousers, watching her all the while. ‘Come on, Chris, I’m a sick whore. Hit me back. Please.’ She is breathless, almost dizzy.
He shakes his head, his eyes wide. ‘You’re fucking sick you are. You’re mental. You need help. Jesus Christ.’ He pushes her again and almost runs to the main road, looking back to check she isn’t behind him. She watches him go, his taste in her mouth, before straightening her clothes and moving in the same direction towards the street. She looks up and down the road. There’s no trace of him, he has gone. Only a small group of smokers stand out on the pavement. Cora wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and hails a black cab. Something must be done.
I remember you marching towards me, head to toe in black. Black leather boots, black long coat, black scarf wrapped around your neck, black hat. Your cigarette held like a weapon, stabbing at the air, your arm swinging forwards and back. I thought to myself, she’s like an entire regiment in one person coming towards me. You were surefooted, even in the deep snow. I was waiting for you, my breath coming in smoky gusts, leaning against the station entrance. We were going to a New Year’s Eve party in York. We were taking the train so we could both relax, snooze and read the papers all the way there. I’d brought along a bottle of red wine and some plastic cups: at the time I thought it was a romantic gesture.
It seemed as if the entire world was weighed down by light. And silence. The snow revealing something terrible. Something usually hidden in the dirt and the bustle of the ordinary. Sometimes it is best to remain in the dark. Not knowing. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Isn’t that what they say? Cora?
We took a taxi to our friends’ place and they showed us to our room at the top of the house. A neat, plain spare room. You said it was a good room. A pale striped counterpane covered the double bed, a small jug of water and two glasses were on the side table, next to a small pile of National Geographic magazines. You pointed to them and raised an eyebrow ‘What a good hostess!’ and slumped down onto the bed. You stretched and arched your back. I came over and, leaning on my knuckles, kissed you. You laughed and whispered ‘not now, they’re waiting for us’, even as you locked your legs around my waist and pressed your warm body against mine. Then you rolled out from under me, laughing, teasing, brushing against my erection, and went to stand at the window.
The window looked out onto their back garden, and their neighbours’ gardens. Long rectangles of grass and paving, ponds and bird tables, rickety sheds, BBQs and lawn furniture lay forgotten under the snow. Everything was forgotten, concealed, by my aching need for you at that moment. But you’d gone, standing there in front of me, I could see you’d drifted away into thoughts that excluded me, as if I were concealed by the snow.
In the kitchen, you helped with the food. You’d changed into a red dress with thin straps, even in high heels it skimmed the floor, a red full-length column. You weren’t wearing a bra, I noticed. You wore your engagement ring and the gold stud earrings I’d bought you for Valentine’s Day. I watched you arrange hunks of cheese and bunches of grapes on a board with piles of biscuits. You chatted easily with Josie, the hostess, the wife of an old school friend of mine, as she cut up carrots and cucumber into fingers. You’d always liked her. You said she wasn’t ordinary, she wasn’t a walking cliché. You’d darkened your eyes with make-up but your cheeks were pink from the heat and your glass of wine. You were gorgeous. At some point you looked up and saw me watching and called me over to help: you said something like ‘stop gawping and start chopping’ and I came over and stood next to you, your perfume filling my head as I clumsily tried to slice the vegetables. I was intoxicated by you, by the way you laughed and shook your hair back from your shoulders. By the way you bit into a tomato without spoiling your lipstick, the points of bone at the base of your throat.
You danced all night long. Sometimes with me, sometimes alone. You smiled to yourself, sipping from your glass of champagne. The house was crowded with guests; moving from the kitchen to the sitting room to the dining room was a challenge. People stood on the stairs, shouting and laughing over the music. I lost sight of you at one point and thought nothing of it, stood chatting and laughing with Matt, my old friend, Josie’s husband. Then I saw you again, this time leaning against the kitchen window, looking out, one hand pressed against the glass, one hand holding a cigarette, smoking, watching the fireworks from another party in the street. The red dress fa
lling around your body. You’ve not worn it since. You say it no longer fits, that the children put paid to all that. It is in the dressing up trunk in Jessica’s bedroom, my grandfather’s old steamer truck stamped with his initials and now containing a profusion of different people for the children to try on: a soldier, a nurse, a princess, a pirate, a red Indian and a younger, happier version of you.
I grabbed you at one point and, drunk, slid my hand inside your dress, my fingers grazing a nipple. You leaned closer to me and kissed me with an open mouth. Then you were dancing again, whirling around in flashes of red. The rented disco lights pulsed against the pushed-back furniture and clumsy dancing bodies; empty glasses collected on the mantelpiece and plates of half-eaten food were piled on the bookshelves. The forgotten Christmas tree wilted in the corner. I watched you, my fingertips still warm from your breast. I needed a drink and pushed through to the kitchen and past Josie and Matt arguing in the corner, trying not to be heard. Always the perfect hosts. I pulled another bottle of champagne from the fridge; they didn’t notice me. You smiled as I filled your glass, I didn’t mention the argument being hissed out in the other room. I knew you’d say it was none of our business.
Then the music was switched off and the TV switched on. Everyone piled into the room; Josie appeared and handed out party poppers and streamers, smiling. Matt stood in the doorway watching. The countdown began and we all joined in and shouted ten, nine, eight, seven, six... You squeezed my hand and kissed me and I cupped your face and said ‘Happy New Year, my darling’. We were excited like small children, like we still believed in a magical renewal, that the new year promised something special for us. Then we were swept up and moved on by the crowd of shouting and laughing friends. Grabbed from behind, I turned to find Matt and hugged him. You clutching your glass, as you smiled and kissed and hugged everyone that you passed. Streamers and party poppers exploded, someone lit sparklers. Other people separated us, but I could see you, on the other side of the room, smiling and enjoying yourself.
He kissed you, there in the crowded room. Everyone was kissing, calling ‘Happy New Year!’ as the chimes of Big Ben sounded out from the TV, everyone shaking hands, hugging, I kissed Josie and others, of course. I saw him kiss you again, his hand in the small of your back, holding you to him, the full length of your body pressed against his, your lovely breasts warm against his chest, I saw the tip of your tongue push forward into his mouth. You kissed him, really kissed him and then you pulled away and laughed. Josie saw it too. I looked over at her and she was watching you both.
We woke late of course, with hangovers, and went downstairs to find Josie already up and throwing paper plates of food into a black plastic sack. Matt was still in bed. You kissed her on the cheek and made coffee. He didn’t wake while we put the house back in order. Slept through the rattle of empty bottles being piled up outside the front door. Josie made bacon sandwiches for us all and we sat quietly in the kitchen, too tired, too hungover to talk much. You smoked a cigarette. We’d already packed our bag. The red dress was folded away with your high-heeled sandals and my shirt and tie. We left, Josie seeing us off from her front door and we walked to the train station in the cold. The pavement was still icy and you held my arm as we walked. You said, ‘How odd that Josie didn’t wake Matt up to at least say goodbye...’ and I nodded and said nothing. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.
The chairs in the waiting room are surprisingly comfortable. Cora sits in the corner, unobtrusive, but as she is the only client there she can’t hide. The receptionist let her in with a smile. Her voice was immediately recognisable from their phone conversation the day before. The consulting rooms are housed in a converted flat. She climbed three flights of stairs to the top of the building before knocking on the door. The waiting room is small with a black leather sofa and several straight-backed chairs. There are no plants, and blinds at the window are drawn against the daylight, but a pile of magazines is neatly placed on a coffee table. Classical music plays in the background. The receptionist sits behind a cheap black-ash desk, answering the telephone and shuffling papers. When Cora arrived, the receptionist handed her a questionnaire on a clipboard with a biro. Diligently she answers every question. She has come for help after all.
A bell rings and the receptionist looks up at Cora. ‘She’s ready to see you now. If you go through that door and into the room opposite, she’ll meet you there. OK?’
Cora stands and places the clipboard on the chair before stepping towards the door.
‘You need to take the questionnaire.’ The receptionist is absolutely professional: everything must be done correctly. Cora stops, turns and apologises, her cheeks flush, she picks up the clipboard and hurries out of the room. Nerves unbuckle her limbs, she almost falls over, her knees give way. Cora leans back against the white wall, sweat lines her brow, her hair clings to her face as if she has just emerged from a plunge underwater. She breathes to steady herself, pulls her bag over her shoulder and tucks the clipboard under her arm. She must take the next step. She knocks on the door and enters.
The room is tiny and painted magnolia. A framed picture of a woman in high heels decorates one wall. Another door in the opposite wall is shut but represents another space.
‘Come in, hi, I’m Joyce. Take a seat.’ The woman sits on a sofa, her legs crossed. She is wearing a plain black dress revealing her cleavage and shiny stiletto shoes. She is plump, her arms and legs rounded with good meat. Her face is lacquered with make-up, but discreetly: she wears only a little eye shadow and lip-gloss, nothing too obvious, nothing that could scare Cora away. Her hair is red and curly and bounces loose around her shoulders. Cora sits on the sofa, pressed against the arm, as far away from the woman as is polite.
She found the number easily enough. Typed in the key words on the Internet. She wasn’t particularly discerning, picking the first one she found in the area. Not too near, not too far. With parking. There was no mention of prices on the website or the exact address, but the receptionist had given all the information over the phone including recommending a gift of £150.00, cash only. Cora wondered if that meant the price was negotiable but didn’t dare ask. She went to the bank on her way there and took the money from the joint savings account. Before he notices it has gone she’ll find a way to replace it. He won’t check it. Not for months. He can’t see what’s under his nose. It’s essential she gets treatment: she is sick and must be cured.
‘Some of my clients think of me as their therapist. It’s not what most people imagine here. You’re entirely safe and secure. Think of it as your private space.’ Joyce takes the clipboard from Cora and reads it through quickly. Well practiced, she can glean the information she needs in seconds, like a doctor examining the shadows of an x-ray. Symptoms and the cure required are instantly revealed to the professional. Cora sits pressing her knees together, crisply outlined in her summer dress. Her muscles are tensed; her palms are damp. She half expects the woman to reach forward and press the glands in her neck, palpating under the jaw for abnormalities. Cora respects doctors, dentists, teachers: experts of any kind. She will gladly entrust herself to their capable attentions. They know better than she does.
‘So. Tell me why you’ve come to see me.’ The woman’s voice is deep, almost masculine.
‘I want to be punished. I can’t do it myself. I want the pain I’ve caused others. I want to suffer.’
‘That’s not a problem. Do you have any idea how you’d like this pain administered?’
‘No. Not really. I want you to hurt me.’
‘Well, we have the usual whips and floggers. We have electrics here that give small controlled shocks; we have a suspension rack, a bondage table. There’s nipple torture for example. There’s suturing, I can sew up your vagina, or pierce your skin with surgical needles.’
Cora begins to liquefy like wax; she is malleable, half solid, half liquid. ‘I really don’t know. You decide.’
&nbs
p; ‘OK. For instance, would you like humiliation along with punishment? I mean name calling, etc. that kind of thing.’
‘No, don’t speak. I just want to feel my body again. Just physical.’
‘Right, well. Can you be marked?’
Cora nods. What difference does any of it make now? None of this matters. She has slipped through the cracks. She must make amends. She has entered another universe, hygienically sealed off, quarantined. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. The outside world continues buying and selling, loving and hating. Moving forwards, in a straight line, one-way traffic.
‘Well, it takes practice. I’ve had clients who’ve been coming for years, and it takes time to be able to take the deeper SM work. I’ve been training some slaves for a very long time.’ Cora opens her mouth to speak. ‘I realise you aren’t a slave. Trust me, I’ve seen all sorts. We’ll begin slowly. Any questions?’
‘I don’t think so. You understand I want to suffer. I want you to punish me because I’m too cowardly to do it myself. I don’t want a game. I don’t want you to dress up or talk like the people in those films.’ Cora is exhilarated by her own honesty. Her skin constricts in tight goose pimples, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Her flesh responds to her voice.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to wear something to heighten the experience? Most people do you know.’ Joyce sits forward, tapping her fingers on the clipboard.
‘No. Just as you are, please. I don’t want dressing up. I’m not a child. I don’t want to play. Please.’