by Leigh Clark
Title Page
LAPIZ LAZULI
The Leigh Clark Collection
By
Leigh Clark
Publisher Information
Lapiz Lazuli published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Leigh Clark 2012
The right of Leigh Clark to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Lapis Lazuli
The day’s first customers were a pair of forty-something women, sisters from the look of them, one heading for the airport after a visit—you can always tell out-of-towners by their clothes. I was still pinning on my ‘Caroline’ badge when they walked in. Nobody calls me Caroline but it’s company policy to have full names on badges—I’m Carrie to my friends,
I made their skinny macchiatos and half-listened in to them as I continued setting the counter up for the commuter rush.
“It was lovely to see you,” said the one with the city clothes. “But it will be nice to have the place to ourselves again.”
Out-of-town sister scowled. “I didn’t realise I was such a bad guest.”
“Honey, you’re not. But tonight, me and Tom … well, we want our privacy.” Town-sister played with a chunky lapis lazuli and silver ring on a chain around her neck. She looked good for her age, and happy with it.
Out-of-town smiled. “After six years, are you two still romping?”
“Six years last month and still spending as much time in bed as out of it. Look what he gave me for our anniversary.” Town sister held out the ring.
“Very … pretty.”
I could tell out-of-town was as unimpressed as me. Cheap gift or what?
“The chain’s platinum,” said townie, looking smug. “But the ring … now that’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”
She so wanted her sister to ask why, and I so wanted to hear the answer, that I nearly asked her myself.
“Why?” said out-of-town.
“Well …” town-girl leaned over the table and I had to strain my ears to hear. “I wouldn’t tell anybody else this, but I’ve always told you everything … I like a little pain with my pleasure. Know what I mean?”
Out-of-town looked puzzled, but I knew what she meant, did I ever!
“You know!” Town-sister blushed. “A little slap, a little bite, something to push you over the edge into …” She put her hand on her chest, fingers splayed, and threw her head back, panting. It was a pretty good impression of orgasm I’ll admit – very When Harry Met Sally. Now her sister blushed and laughed.
Town sister continued, “Well Tom doesn’t like to hurt me, but he sure likes to make me happy, that kind of happy. So this ring, see, with all its bumps and lumps? Well when I wear it around my neck, Tom knows that the same evening I’m going to slide it onto his finger and he’s going to press it against my …” she paused and lowered her voice even more. “… my love button, when we make love.”
Love button! It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Did people still talk like that? But I looked at that ring, with its deep blue knobbly surface and imagined how cold it must be, and how hard, and my knees became so weak I had to hang on to the counter.
The sisters left, chatting and laughing, and the morning coffee addicts began to roll in, but I didn’t forget what I’d heard.
That weekend I took Doug shopping at the Flea Market.
“What are we doing here, Carrie?” he asked, looking at the stalls. But I’d already seen what I wanted on a table laden with semi-precious stones and costume jewellery. A big ring, with a greeny-grey, nubby, softly-contoured stone that the seller told me was moss agate. It fit Doug’s middle finger perfectly.
“I’m not wearing this!” he protested, but I paid for it anyway.
That night I showed him how to push the ring against my clit as I rode him. I like a little pain with my pleasure too, quite a lot of pain in fact, and while Doug’s perfect in many ways, he’s never confident about hurting me enough. With the ring though, I could press myself down onto it, feeling its irregular shape grind and bruise my most sensitive flesh, feeling its cold hardness take on my heat and it hurt indescribably, beautifully, perfectly. I pulled my knees close into Doug’s ribs and bent down over him, forcing the pain into all the right places as he thrust and moaned underneath me, filling me with the pleasure he always knew how to give me. I kissed him deeply, pushing my tongue into his mouth as I pushed the ring into my clit, feeling his soft lips giving way beneath me as my soft flesh gave way to the harsh discipline of the ring. I came, panting, almost crying, as Doug put his hands either side of my head and pulled my hair – hard. Doug knows what I like, even if he doesn’t really understand why.
When I’d got my breath back, I slipped the ring from Doug’s finger. I washed it and slid it onto a leather thong that I hung from the bedpost – no platinum chain for me!
“See Doug,” I said. “When you see me wearing the ring around my neck, you know what you’re going to be doing that evening, don’t you?”
He grinned at me, rolled over, and fell asleep. But when I woke up the next morning, the necklace was gone and in its place was a post-it saying ‘Who said you were the only one who could wear it? Guess what you’re going to be getting tonight!’
Blood and Arrows
My phone rang. I grabbed it, “Yeah?”
“Sophie? Did you call me and hang up?”
Pause.
“Oh dear, I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Sophie? Are you all right?” It was Jane’s voice
“Of course not. I’ll come right over and help you out.”
“Is this about that weirdo, Demmy?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, but never mind. He’ll understand that you really need my support right now.” I turned to Demmy who was shaving his chest with a disposable razor, in full view of anybody passing outside. He was gorgeous, black hair, deep brown eyes, compact, heavily-muscled body which he kept fit for purpose. And in the few weeks we’d been together, he’d been an exciting and considerate lover, so why was I preparing to run out on him, just as he was sitting down in the tattooist’s chair?
“My mum, she’s hurt her ankle, fell downstairs, I’ve got to go and see she’s okay…”
He nodded glumly.
I turned back to the mobile, “Okay, I’m on my way, Mum.”
“You’d better be, and you’d better be prepared to tell me all about it, and don’t call me Mum!” Jane hung up with a giggle and I fast-walked out of the tattoo parlour to the nearest taxi rank.
Yup, tattoo parlour. The tattoo was why I was escaping.
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” Demmy had said. “Come with me, Soph, for moral support?”
I nodded, relieved he wasn’t going to have my name punctured across his bicep. A heart, he’d said. Then we got to the parlour and he took the design he’d chosen out of his back pocket and unfolded it.
It was a heart all right. A life-size copy, so realistic you thought it could throb, and full of pu
rple and red pipes. Not only that, but in the very centre, an equally life-sized arrow—not a triangular one, like we all drew as kids back when we sketched hearts and arrows in our schoolbooks, but a streamlined, leaf-shaped bit of shiny metal, buried halfway into the heart, and with wasp-like black and yellow bands around the shaft, which appeared to have been snapped off a couple of inches from the heart.
As an exercise in super-realistic art, the picture was impressive—as something I would have to gaze on each time Demmy unbuttoned his shirt it was frankly repulsive.
So I shifted my hand into my bag, called Jane on speed-dial and then hung up. I knew she’d call me back, being just out of a long-term relationship herself, and still in the ‘sitting at home, looking at old photographs and hating all men’ phase. On the way to her flat I tried to come up with a concise explanation as to why Demmy’s tattoo had squicked me out. She would want all the details in return for having been passed off as my mother.
The truth was, the closer we’d got to Valentine’s Day, the more extreme Demmy’s behaviour had become. He liked a little pain, he’d told me, that New Year’s Eve as we sat in a corner at a party, toasting each other with lukewarm Cava. It added spice to his pleasure, he said. So, when the clock struck midnight and we kissed, I twisted my hand into his curly black hair and pulled—hard. He sighed into my mouth and I felt his cock harden against my thigh as we leaned into each other. No problem, I thought.
But it was becoming an increasing problem, and as I rang Jane’s doorbell I realised why.
“It’s not about me,” I said, as I dumped my bag and grabbed the glass of wine she handed me. “It’s not personal. He doesn’t care who does it, as long as he gets the pain. I’m just the…”
“Stooge?” she asked acidly.
I winced, but she was right.
Jane was still in her pyjamas at eight in the evening on a Saturday. It looked as if she’d coasted through the day on ice-cream and a bottle or two of Bordeaux—I could tell by the state of her lapels.
“Yes. No. It’s like what he wants is the pain, but for his self-esteem it has to come with a reasonably attractive female package around it.”
She raised her eyebrow. I told her about the tattoo.
“Ugh!” Her eyes widened and then narrowed in calculation. “So it’s over then, is it?”
I said it was, although I could already feel an ache between my legs where I wanted Demmy.
“Then you’ll be on your own for Valentine’s Day, just like me! We can have a girls’ night in. I’ll get some films—Orlando Bloom for me, who do you want?”
“Paul Newman,” I said without thinking, my mind was on Demmy.
“Sophie! He’s old enough to be your grandfather!”
“Not in a film he’s not. Anyway, if you rent Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, we get a twofer – him and Robert Redford.”
I could see she wanted to tell me Redford was old enough to be my granddad too, but I started humming ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’ and she nodded slowly. There isn’t a sexier piece of film than that lucky woman on the bicycle.
So we agreed, wine, DVDs, and a Chinese take-away meal. And I spent the next seven days trying not to think about Demmy.
We’d started the New Year with a bang—in my flat, as I didn’t know him well enough to go to his place. The only New Year’s resolution I’d made was that I wanted more. I was kneeling astride him on the sofa at the time, his large hands around my ribs, lifting me effortlessly so that I slid up and down his shaft. I was as limp as a rag doll—I’d already come twice and apart from Demmy’s breathing, the only sound was the slick wetness of my cunt engulfing him, giving him up, engulfing him, as I moved towards my third climax.
Into the silence, Demmy said, “Scratch me.”
I tried to focus my pleasure-blind eyes on him. What was he on about?
He lowered me, took one hand from my ribs, and used it move my hand from his shoulder onto his chest. As his hand fell away, my nails dragged gently down his skin. He groaned. I got the message.
As he began to lift and lower me again, I let my fingers trail upwards as I rose, and then clawed them down his chest and belly as I descended.
“More,” he said.
“More!” I yelled, as I got closer to orgasm. He plunged me up and down, I tore at his flesh, and together we came.
More.
Oh yes. Demmy, born Demitrious, could cope with a lot more. He was Greek, and, like many Greeks, a stoic. He could endure, would endure, and even craved endurance.
January 3. I bit his neck as he fucked me, upright, in a doorway in Camden Town, after we’d eaten at a Greek restaurant belonging to his cousin Stavros.
January 5. He gave me a present. A tiny kidskin flogger—white leather with a silver gilt handle—it looked like the kind of thing Cinderella’s coachman might have used on the white mouse ponies. I used it on Demmy as he fucked me, flogging his buttocks in time to his thrusts above me. It was fun, and not only was it fun, it increased the force of his movements until I came—a win-win scenario.
January 11. Demmy gave me another present. A bat, called a paddle, he told me. It was matte black and had airholes in it, which, he said, increased the flesh contact and made it sting more. The thing looked like it could have fallen off a Mach 4 superjet. The noise it made connecting to his flesh was like that of a cleaver chunking through meat. I didn’t like it. Demmy did. So I used it that night and decided I would manage to lose it before he visited me again. It wasn’t until I was burying it deep in the rubbish sack—who wanted the neighbours to spot it and wonder—that I realised that this gift had been given to me but it wasn’t for me. It was for Demmy. He was giving presents to himself. I was just the intermediary.
January 23. A lovely day, we saw a film; a romantic comedy in fact, drank coffee in a new coffee shop and went home to bed. We made love and fell asleep. When I woke up Demmy wasn’t in bed. I rolled over. He was poking around in my underwear drawer.
“Here, Sophie,” he said, handing me a pair of thick winter stockings. “Tie me to the bed with these.”
It was faintly kinky, which I didn’t mind, and I obliged, giggling a bit as I crawled across his prone, naked body to fasten his wrists to the bed head. But then he wanted the bonds tighter and tighter. I tried, but I couldn’t tie them tight enough to please him, even though his flesh above the bonds was white through lack of blood. Then I climbed on top and rode him, using my right hand to stroke my clitoris and my left to pinch my nipples until I came. But there was something wrong—Demmy wasn’t completely involved in the game. When he’d come too, I offered to untie him, but he shook his head.
“It’s fine, I’ll stay like this a while,” he said.
So I actually drifted off into sleep again, with Demmy trussed up beside me. But after he’d gone I thought about it all again. The important thing for Demmy hadn’t been me, or sex, or even the idea of doing something mildly exotic—the only thing that had really mattered to him was the tightness of his bonds, the pain. And because I hadn’t been able to hurt him enough, he hadn’t enjoyed the sex as much as I had.
For the next week or so, I’d engineered things so that there was no chance for Demmy to ask me to do anything extreme. He was loving and attentive and kind, and everything was great. Or was it? By 30 January it was almost as if those masochistic episodes had never happened, but it was taking a lot of my energy to keep it that way. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to invest so much time and effort in preventing Demmy from expressing his preferences—it was like hiding all the booze every time a former drunk came to the house.
So when, on 7 February, he asked me to go to the tattoo parlour with him, to get the outline of a tattoo inked in, so that he could have the colour applied a week later, it was a make or break moment for us. And we broke.
On 14 February, while the
girls around me in my department were chattering about the cards they’d received (and lying, I was pretty sure) and hoping that their other half would send flowers to the office so that the world could see how much they were valued, I was considering whether to have won-ton or Singapore noodles with my Paul Newman. Hardly the world’s most romantic decision.
Jane had advanced from pyjamas to a sweatshirt and jeans, which I took to be good news, until I realised she’d only got dressed because she had to go to the shops and rent the DVDs and buy wine. I went out for the Chinese, while she cleared the coffee table and got ready for our Valentine’s feast.
By nine o’clock, I knew I couldn’t stick it any more. It wasn’t the films, or the cheap wine, or even the fact that we were two women alone on the most romantic day of the year. It was that Jane kept up a constant running commentary about her ex and how they’d spent each Valentine’s Day, Christmas, Easter and New Year. I told her I was getting a migraine and that I’d be better off at home in bed with an icepack on my forehead. She waved from the sofa as I left, but her eyes were glued to Orlando Bloom shooting arrows into orcs and I don’t think she really noticed my departure.
Orlando’s arrows reminded me of Demmy. I wondered how he was getting on. A tattoo that size would take hours to finish, I assumed. Even though I’d sent him a nice email saying that I didn’t think it was working out between us, I thought it would be okay to head over to the tattoo parlour and see how things were going—the act of a mate, rather than a lover.
I got there around ten. There was just one guy inside, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and looking as if he was bored out of his skull.
“I was looking for someone,” I said.
“Yeah?” He had a nice smile, and sandy hair that looked as if it would flop in his eyes when he bent over somebody’s body to tattoo them, and his arms were covered in Celtic tattoos. “So is everybody, today.”