by Various
Still, my thoughts went again and again to Killian, and more specifically to the items I’d seen him buy: a coil of rope; a packet of fence posts. What was he going to do with that ancient inner tube? Why would he linger so longingly over the barbed wire?
Why did I care?
Opposites attract for a reason. But, while I’d thought that I could ramp up the action in bed with Todd, and he’d thought that he could convince me to peel off at least one layer of sequin-studded vintage, perhaps at heart we were so busy trying to fix one another we’d missed the signs that things weren’t ever going to work. An American plug ain’t never going to fit a European outlet.
I learned that when I fried my hairdryer in Paris.
Todd didn’t agree when I told him I was worried about our future.
‘We’re the same,’ he insisted. ‘You take the old and make it beautiful. I take a broken smile and fix it.’
He was trying. He was working to make me see why we connected. But all the smiles he fixed ended up looking exactly the same. I’d peruse the files of his Before and After shots, and feel depressed for the lost gap between two front teeth, for the slightly overlapping canine that now rested perfectly in the exact spot where it should.
I looked around our spotless apartment. Dust-free. Clutter-free. Personality-free.
We were nothing alike.
At the next estate sale in Holmby Hills, I paid little attention to the rows of platform high heels, or the caftans with the intricate beadwork, or even the basket overflowing with Bakelite bangles. Because there he was, as I’d somehow known he’d be. Against all of my intelligence, and with only a care to the most basic animal instincts, I watched from a distance as he hefted a length of silver chains.
He left without making a purchase. I did as well, following his truck – a Ford, as dark red, shiny and well cared for as it must have been on the first day out, fifty years before. Feeling like a new recruit on Dragnet, I followed his truck down Sunset Boulevard, through millionaire-land to Melrose, tailing him as best I could. I had a copy of the LA Weekly folded on my front seat, with different garage sales and estate sales circled. Did he have the same bible with him?
He must have, because I found myself parking half a block behind him on Rose, in a much lower-class area, but one known for unexpected finds. I walked as inconspicuously as possible to the area of items spread out on sheets on the crisp dried grass, and on card tables on the stained cement driveway, watching as he caressed a leather belt missing its buckle.
My mind did a quick inventory of the items I’d seen him buy, and suddenly I realised what he must be doing. He locked eyes with me, right as I thought: Dungeon. He’s outfitting a dungeon. Using only second-hand tools and toys. Items one might never suspect for X-rated activities. My cheeks burned the same red as the deflated India rubber ball lolling on a nearby table.
I turned away, but he caught hold of my wrist and held me.
‘I’ll show you mine,’ Killian said, ‘if you’ll show me yours.’
‘What do you mean?’ my voice was husky.
‘You want to see the treasures I’ve found, don’t you?’
I nodded. I couldn’t help myself.
‘I’ll show you mine,’ he repeated, and now I nodded. We didn’t leave just then. He stood in line and paid for his purchases, haggling over the amount for the padlock with no key. Pointing out the fact that the belt was broken, what use could this strip of leather have now that the buckle had broken off?
But I knew. I knew in that heart-racing flash, like I knew in the moment when I pulled the blazer out of the rack at the thrift store that I was holding a Genuine, Made-in-Italy Armani. He was going to use that belt on my ass. Fuck the buckle, he had all he needed in that strip of leather, which the frazzled housewife sold to him for fifty cents.
I followed his Ford to a bungalow on Mesa. Walked through the gate to see that the yard was filled with odds and ends, a roll of wire, a claw-foot tub. Generally, I would have wanted to spend hours poking around, but the man was opening up his garage, and a glint of brass caught my eye.
He’d done precisely what I’d thought. Created a dungeon from spare parts. The Frankenstein of dungeons, in a way, yet beautiful in the starkness. A bit of a bed here, a length of chain there, all refurbished. One man’s trash, I thought, as he started to help me out of my jacket.
‘A buck fifty,’ I told him, ‘at a flea market in Athens.’
He slipped off his own leather jacket, and grinned. ‘Seventeen, at a little shop in Soho eight years ago.’
He touched the silver links around my throat, the heavy man’s Navy ring dangling from the centre. ‘The chain was free,’ I said softly. ‘Broken, but I fixed the clasp. The ring was five dollars. I’ve had it since high school.’
‘Worth more than one hundred now, right?’
I nodded, then ran my fingers over the face of his watch.
‘Timex. Was my father’s. Engraved on the back with the date I was born.’
I locked eyes with him. This was the reason I collected old items. Because of the stories, or rather because of the histories. My pocket watch, in my bag, had belonged to my grandfather. If you popped open the back, there was a faded black-and-white photo taken on my grandparents’ honeymoon. Todd had given me a Rolex to replace it, annoyed that I would go digging through my bag whenever I wanted to know the time, not aware of the pleasure that flat circle of gold gave me whenever I held the timepiece in my palm.
With Todd, I always felt as if I were caught in a 30-day trial mode, and I occasionally wanted to remind him that, unlike his brand-new Sony flat screen, I did not come with a money-back warranty. This exchange I was having with the stranger would have horrified him. Todd always liked to tell people what things cost – but only to dazzle them the dollar figure. He’d never have understood bragging about a bargain.
‘Your dress.’
‘Five fifty,’ I started, thinking he wanted me to tell him the price.
‘No, I mean, take it off.’
And now I felt those flutters inside. The ones that had been missing for so long. The closest similar sensation I’d felt lately was when I’d snagged something super at a thrift store, finding a jewel among the junk.
‘You’re the one who snapped up the record player, aren’t you?’
I gave him a wicked grin. ‘Only needs thirty-seven cents in order to stay balanced.’
‘Most people pay a lot more for the same goal. Especially in this town.’
And then we were silent, because we were kissing. His hands on my arms, sliding up to my shoulders, then down to my wrists and tightening. I had on my slip, and my garters and stack-heeled shoes. He was still fully dressed in jeans and a black retro shirt. Polyester with dart points at the collar. Something my English teacher would have worn back when I was in high school, looking geeky and confused by modern fashion. But, on Killian, the shirt looked good.
He looked better out of it, both of us working simultaneously to undress in the garage. Yet, while I peeled off everything, he kept on his jeans and the threadbare concert T-shirt – Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols – he’d had beneath the long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t say a word then, just moved, pushing me up against the makeshift rack, those brass curlicues of the former headboard providing the anchoring for the chain he used on my wrists. He bound me standing up, back towards him, wrists over my head, and I felt the cool metal with my cheek, with my breasts, with my pussy. Felt the cold concrete floor with my bare feet. Felt lost and found in a second, when I heard the music start to play.
Bessie Smith.
On vinyl.
His mouth on my neck, his voice in my ear. ‘Just listen to that sound. That magic scratching sound at the start, needle digging into the grooves. Doesn’t vinyl always bring you back?’
And I could have come right then, because he’d put into words what I’d tried to show Todd. He’d explained the whole reason, the definition, the purpose. Why I adored su
rrounding myself with relics from days gone by. But you can go forwards even when you go back. You can dress vintage and have your eye on the future. I could see what the next step was, what awaited me.
Killian could see it, too.
He was on me, then. Stroking my ass and thighs with a length of leather. A belt without a buckle. Whispering to me softly, right up against my ear, ‘Do you need a safe word?’
No. No safe word. Because I was turning my back on safety. On all things antiseptic and mouthwash fresh. I was breathing in deep to smell old oil cans and grease and tools and truck parts. Feeling the way I always do when I find a forlorn item at a thrift store or a garage sale. Cradling that discarded sweater or tool or toy and thinking, ‘I’ll find a new home for you.’
His mouth against my neck, his breath on my ear. ‘Give me a safe word, Fiona, so I’ll know when to stop.’
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I shook my head. ‘You’ll know,’ I said, the way I was sure he’d known about me in One Man’s Trash, eyes on me instead of on the sofa. The way I was sure he’d known at the Rose Bowl, fingering those heavy silver chains and imagining them holding my wrists tight. The way I was sure this leather belt was intended for my ass.
He didn’t fight me. He didn’t argue. He stood back and swung, and the fire of the pain flickered through me, but the pleasure cooled me down one beat later. Without speaking, he struck a second time. A third. A fourth. I clenched my thighs together and felt a drop of liquid coat my nether-lips. I hadn’t been this turned on in ages, maybe not ever. I wanted him to continue to thrash me, wanted him to peel me down.
‘You take it,’ he said, and I could tell he was admiring my stance. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew what he was thinking. That he liked the way I kept my back straight, the way I didn’t flinch, letting the pain work through me rather than defeat me. Letting the pain transform me, stripping off my outer layers. Showing off who I really was inside.
I thought of the way the brass headboard had looked at the auction. Realised that this man had retooled the metal, that he’d polished away the roughness, that he’d seen the beauty beneath and brought that pure metal glow to the surface.
Do that to me, I wanted to beg, but I didn’t need to. I didn’t have to say the words.
He struck again, then again. I felt my teeth nearly piercing the soft flesh of my full lower lip, but I did not cry out.
His hand snuck between my legs. He touched the wetness waiting. Then he pressed against me, so I could feel how hard he was, even through his jeans. So I could see that we were a pair, not mismatched candlesticks like me and Todd – one old and tarnished, one new from Target. But two of a kind. So hard to come by in the world of thrift, where everything has been separated, where items are chipped and repaired poorly with the wrong kind of glue. Killian and I were the same.
He backed off for a moment. He wasn’t done.
The belt struck my ass three times in row, hard, and now I rattled my wrists in the chains, hearing the music of metal on metal, aware that my movement didn’t bother Killian. He seemed spurred on by the motion, striking harder now, faster. I shut my eyes. I lowered my head. I’d have lines tomorrow. I’d have marks. But I didn’t care. There was no past. No future worries.
I was home again. Home once more.
He dropped the belt when I would have begged. When the word was on my lips. He dropped the leather to the cold concrete floor and ripped open his jeans. I felt his cock against me, his skin against the fiery skin of my ass, and then I felt him pressing inside me.
I couldn’t remember ever needing to be fucked like that. Wanting, yearning so hard that I almost came from the very first thrust. But I held back, my eyes still shut tight, my whole body welcoming Killian with each stroke.
He fucked me the way I’d imagined from the start. So hard and powerful that my breath caught in my throat, that my heart seemed to pound in my ears. He reached one hand around my waist and set his fingers against the split of my body. His middle finger thrummed against my clit and when he came, I came with him. Lids shut so tightly, I was seeing stars: silver like the metal around my wrists, like the chrome of his eyes.
Laughing to myself that I still didn’t know his last name.
‘That’s got to be a first.’
‘What has?’
‘You finally escaped from one of those sales empty-handed,’ Todd sneered, his hand hovering between the three different remotes decorating the surface of his brand-new coffee table.
I looked at him and thought, You broke my record player. He’d said the movers had dropped the box. But somehow I knew. Somehow I understood. This whole time he’d thought he could wear me down and glue on a fresh surface, the same way he fixed all those broken smiles.
I put my hand in my back pocket, feeling for the stiff paper business card: Killian Curie, Custom Refurbisher – Antiques and furniture. And people.
‘I didn’t,’ I said softly as I made my way up the pristine cream-coloured carpet to the bedroom to pack.
Alison Tyler is the author of the Black Lace and Cheek novels Learning to Love It, Sticky Fingers, Sweet Thing, Rumours, Strictly Confidential, Something About Workmen, Tiffany Twisted, With or Without You and Melt with You.
Perfect Timing
Kristina Wright
SHE SHOULD HAVE called before she drove over to the university. Charlotte tapped her nails on the steering wheel as Henry’s phone rang. She hoped he wasn’t in a meeting. Or teaching a class. She had been so preoccupied with getting her weekly reports finished and getting out of the library that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind to make sure he was available.
Finally, after four rings he answered.
‘I’m in the faculty parking lot. Last row by the trees,’ she said, by way of a greeting. ‘Can you meet me?’
He sighed, but there was a hint amusement in his voice. ‘I’m in the middle of student advisement meetings.’
Neither his reluctance nor the overcast sky would deter her. ‘Can’t you take an early lunch break? Please?’
‘You make it difficult for me to refuse,’ he said, his voice low and intimate. She imagined him standing in his office, looking out of the window for her car. ‘It’s hard to think about you down there in the car wearing a dress –’
‘Skirt.’
‘Wearing a skirt, likely with no panties …’
‘No panties,’ she acknowledged.
He sighed again, the resigned sound of a man who knew a woman would not be put off. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Hurry. Otherwise, I might have to come up there and seduce you in your office.’
‘Been there, done that, love,’ he chuckled. ‘Probably not the best idea with students coming in and out today.’
‘Well then, you should get down here before I’m tempted. I have to get back to the library soon.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, obediently.
Charlotte grinned, triumphant. ‘I promise I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘You always do.’
Charlotte closed her phone and rested her head on the seat. Rain threatened at any moment and the wind whipped the blossoms from the trees and shrubs that ringed the campus, scattering them on the wind like spring snowflakes. Birds chased each other from tree to tree, mating season in full swing despite the inclement weather. A fat raindrop plopped on the windshield and Charlotte glanced towards Henry’s grey building, debating whether she should pick him up at the kerb. But, no, that might draw attention to them, and the last thing she wanted was an audience. Thankfully, it was spring break and most of the students and faculty weren’t on campus.
‘April showers bring May flowers,’ she whispered as a bushy-tailed brown squirrel pursued another up a tree trunk and raindrops splattered across her field of vision.
She shifted impatiently and pressed the soft fabric of her skirt between her thighs. She was wet already, wet from the anticipation of making love to Henry in the parking lo
t. She’d had a thirty-minute drive from the library to think about what she would do to him once she got here. It had never really been a question of whether he would join her; he had promised that, whenever she called, he would come. Quite literally, she mused.
The control made her feel a little giddy with feminine power – but it was the anticipation of having Henry buried inside her in mere moments while the rest of the campus went on about their morning that was an arousing, panty-dampening thought. If she had been wearing panties, that is.
Even sooner than he had promised, Henry slipped into the passenger seat of her car, slightly out of breath from his mad dash through the light rain. Water spots darkened his sage green shirt and his brown hair stood up in wet spikes where he had dragged his fingers through it, accentuating the flecks of silver at his temples. ‘Ten o’clock in the morning is a bit early for lunch, don’t you think?’
‘But, if I waited until lunchtime, someone would be sure to see us.’
‘Good point,’ he said. He leaned over to cup her face in his damp palm and give her a kiss. ‘And I am getting hungry. It’s been weeks since I had your luscious body against me.’
Charlotte inched up her skirt to bare an expanse of stocking-clad thigh. ‘Would you like to see what’s on the menu today?’
Henry loosened his tie. ‘Oh, I think I’ll just have the special.’
She angled over the gearstick and into his lap. It was no small feat, given the length of her skirt and the tight fit of the narrow bucket seat but, within moments, she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her hips.
‘This would be better with me on the bottom,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think it would work.’
Henry slid his hands under her bunched skirt and fingered the lace tops of her sheer black stockings. ‘You could probably get me to do anything you want right now,’ he said, stroking the bare skin above the lacy bands of nylon. ‘You look like the clichéd sexy librarian. Nice touch. Just for me?’