single thought in mind, he throws the bowl into the sink with a clatter and the empty carton lands in
the bin by the door. Giving her no more than a cursory glance, he watches as Honey makes her escape
through the cat flap; he has more pressing matters to attend to than a hungry cat.
20
The 11 hour flight from Las Vegas to Heathrow passed quickly. Following orders, Jake kept a
watchful eye on me. I managed to endure the flight without the need for a comforting lap to sit on or
an impromptu visit to the bathroom. I wanted for nothing other than information, and he went some
way towards giving me that. To his credit, he did give me an insight into youthful Ayden but little
about that pervading spectre that is Elise.
Jake has jumped into a taxi, leaving me homebound in the silver Rolls. Lester looks to me
expectantly, unsure of my intentions. He seems to be aware of what’s happened but says nothing.
“Where to, Mrs. Stone?”
I’m taken aback by my new title, having had no time at all to get used to it; it wraps itself around
me like a “borrowed robe.” Where am I going? I can’t go back to Elm Gardens. I am a married
woman, after all.
“Stone Heath, Lester.”
Seeming a little relieved, he turns the car in an easterly direction to Belgravia, leaving me to my
thoughts and the prospect of London drizzle; hardly a good omen.
On arrival he switches off the alarm, carries our bags to the lift and ushers me inside. It’s a little
claustrophobic but only momentary as we ascend in silence, before it glides to a halt on the second
floor. He opens the door onto the lounge area.
After reaching into a pocket, he holds out a set of keys. “Mr. Stone mentioned locked doors and
wanted you to have these, in case you feel the need to … to explore.” He chooses the word carefully,
not wanting to offend. I think I see his mouth twitch nervously.
The bunch of keys settle in my palm like a handful of iron filings; sharp and differing in size and
colour. “Thank you Lester.”
With an outstretched right arm he ushers me towards the kitchen. “My daughter has stocked the
fridge, but if you want anything you can either use the intercom or ring the bell onto the adjoining
apartment.”
I respond to his brief explanation with a frown.
“This door here.” We return to the lift and the door at the left side of it. He inserts a key and it
opens inwards. He does the same and another door opens outwards, out into a cosy apartment. “We
live here, so you won’t be alone in the building Mrs. Stone.”
I reward his assurance with an amiable smile and a nod. Ensuring privacy for all concerned, he
locks both doors.
“What about this door?” I enquire, pressing down on a locked handle to my left.
“This leads to the terrace on the roof and behind that door are the stairs to all floors, in case the lift
isn’t functioning.” I see him thawing a little, clearly taken with my curiosity. I wonder if he’s had
occasion to give a tour before.
“This is a large house Mrs. Stone. It will take some getting used to.”
I snigger and respond. “Yes, it will.”
Seeing no humour in my comment, he presses on. “If, for any reason, you require assistance you
can press zero on the intercom here.” He reaches out to the box on the wall, the size of a hardback
book. “See? Like this.”
In no more than twenty seconds, a disembodied voice comes from the box. “Yes? What can I do for
you Mrs. Stone?”
I turn to Lester for a response.
“I’m showing Mrs. Stone how to operate the intercom Bernie.”
“But thank you,” I add.
“You’re welcome Mrs. Stone. Congratulations, by the way, on your wedding.”
I lean into the mouthpiece. “Thank you Bernice. It was wonderful.” I’m tempted to add, while it
lasted, but don’t.
“We’re here if you need us for anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
Having no time for pleasantries Lester takes his finger off the button, ending the conversation,
breaking the silence with the sound of his footsteps across the marble floor. He presses buttons,
lowering shutters and switching on lamps, after all, it’s three in the morning here.
“Would you like the suitcases in the master bedroom Mrs. Stone? I can have Bernie unpack them
for you.”
“Thank you, that’s a good idea. Only, I’ll unpack. It will give me something to do.” I smile warmly.
He leaves me to my duties and my solitude in the master-less suite. Our suitcases are open on the
duvet, like dead weights. I hardly have the willpower to unpack.
Forty minutes later, clean clothes have been hung and dirty clothes placed in the wash basket; cases
have been stowed and order has been restored to the suite. It’s as if we never left, as if we never wed.
If it wasn’t for the wedding ring on my finger, I might believe it all to have been no more than a
dream. Needing some sort of reassurance, I make my way along the corridor to Ayden’s study, in
search of a single object: his digital photo frame.
With an eager hand I pick it up, but stop short of leaving when I spot a folder on his desk.
Feeling like an undercover agent, I flick through the pages … skimming and beginning to join up
the dots until a shape emerges. The document corroborates everything Ayden said about the covert
shipment to Riyadh airport. That reassures me no end.
For safe keeping, I slip it into the top drawer and trundle back to my bedroom with the photo frame
flashing into life. Having Ayden here digitally eases my loneliness. Comforted by images of our visit
to the Eternal City, I lie back on the bed, resting my head on the pillow.
There’s no trace of Ayden’s familiar cologne to ease me into a comforting repose. Wrapping
myself in Egyptian cotton sheets is fine, but they cannot embrace me with the warmth of my
husband’s arms. The digital picture frame offers some comfort and memories of Rome supersede
those of one night not so long ago, when only a few lengths of wood and my determination stood
between me and my demon. In spite of the silence and the empty space, I feel safe here. At home.
My last job is to put away our ‘toys’ in the bedside cabinet; close to hand. As I’m about to slide the
drawer shut, I spot a small item in the right hand corner. It’s an SD card.
I wonder …
Did Ayden know his detainment was imminent? Is this another one of his surprises? There’s only
one way to find out. Barefoot, I head upstairs where my laptop sits on the coffee table. This I’ve
simply got to see.
It boots up quickly and recognises the storage device. There’s only one file. It looks promising. I
adjust the screen and prepare myself for more reassurances but instead …
The video plays out; a flickering display, capturing the cruellest form of lovemaking, tainting this
pristine setting with dark, moving images. Up until a minute ago I was warm and comfortable. Now I
am freezing and numb, unsure of what I’m feeling.
The flickering candle light would be romantic in any other context, but not here. It’s doing no more
than creating shadows that move with the performers, like partners in crime. He said he’d had two
women in the basement and she sure as hell isn’t Alenka.
That leaves only one other. Her na
me leaves my lips in a hiss: Elise.
Like a scene from the crucifixion, she is standing upright, her back to the camera, blindfolded. Her
limbs are stretched and tied to the upper and lower corners of the bed frame. She is naked except for a
pair of black leather panties that appear at least one, maybe two sizes too small for her ample derriere.
Across her back are red lines, crisscrossed like a crazy road map leading to a dead end, whichever
route you take.
There is the sound of a whip slashing skin. I call out and lean back in horror, not wanting to believe
my eyes.
“Enough?” A man asks.
“No. More.”
The crack of the whip makes me jump. Still I watch and wait for the voice, my mouth agape, my
eyes on stalks.
“That’s enough, Elise.” Hearing Ayden say her name has me reeling. There I was thinking this gem
of a find was a comforting gift from Ayden. How wrong was I?
I watch as Ayden unties her hands and rubs the grazed skin with his thumbs then kneels to release
her ankles, seeming utterly repentant. Freed from her shackles, she crawls onto the vanilla bedspread
and rolls onto her back, still blindfolded, waves of hot air leaving her mouth in breathless pants.
Still the camera rolls …
A muscular shadow mounts her, straddles her hips and leans across to attach her hands to the
bedhead with unhurried movements, almost lovingly.
She is writhing on the bed, so needy for sex I can smell it in the air.
“Fuck me now,” she growls. “Fuck me hard and even if I say stop, don’t!”
I wince at the thought and hold back involuntary retching, swallowing back bile before it erupts
from my mouth.
Swiftly, he flips her onto her stomach, leaving her crossed, pinioned, her arms forming a wide kiss
above her head. He rips off her panties and pushes up her knees roughly until she is perfectly
positioned for penetration.
There is hesitation, a pause, a momentary lapse in concentration. Then …
He lunges into her, his body lurching forward and backwards, pulling her body tight against his
muscular torso. She is screaming. I’m whimpering. It’s painful to watch and torturous to endure, for
me and for her.
Make it to stop!
“I said, fuck me!” She yells, revelling in this primal act of callous copulation.
He thrusting continues at a pace; he’s slamming against her, growling with animalistic fervour, the
likes of which I have never heard. I pull back repulsed and then … something happens … I begin to
squirm on the sofa. I feel a trickle between my legs that I must clench to contain. I’m aroused.
Shocked at my reaction, I hit the space bar. Ayden is held in freeze frame. His glorious arse is there
before my eyes; muscles tightened giving the impression of a sculptured piece of polished bronze.
Even now, he’s beautiful.
With the slowest of movements, I hit the space bar with one thing in mind. To listen for sounds of
Ayden’s arousal; for that gasping, growling noise he makes when he comes. But there is none. It’s an
energetic, unsympathetic, loveless fuck that has her arching her back and moaning into the pillow,
while he pounds on towards ejaculation.
I spare myself that …
A trembling finger hits the space bar and I slam down the laptop lid, unwilling and unable to
process what I have just seen. After his revelation about Elise and his box of memories three nights
ago, I should be able to understand his motivation to do such a thing. And, anyway, it happened before
we met, didn’t it?
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would watch my husband fuck another woman; and so
brutally. That thought has left me feeling nauseous and confused. I need some quiet time to get my
head around it. If I can’t, then … then we must deal with the consequences.
With my vision clouded with tears, I trot back to the master bedroom, throw cold water over my
face to flush them out and away. I brush my teeth and slip between the sheets, my face tacky with
moisturiser. But I’m unable to settle for the presence of a single line from Pride and Prejudice echoing
in my mind.
“… handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.” It would seem so.
I close my eyes, only to find the whole video on replay. As hard as I try it’s there, irrefutable
evidence of Ayden’s sexual preference. Or was it?
In a moment of mental clarity, it occurs to me that it wasn’t a case of consenting adults engaging in
BDSM at all. Ayden is dominant, he like to run the show; he talks dirty, he’s patient, considerate …
That wasn’t the Ayden I know and I know him. What I just witnessed was something else …
This was about empowerment, her empowerment, not his. She gave the orders, she was in control. It
was not an act of cruelty as an outsider might deduce. It was driven by kindness and obligation. He
said himself he felt duty bound to give her things. This session verified the kindest and most intimate
of gifts: the gift of physical love.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks and turn to twitch out the bedside lamp, stopping only to run my
fingers over the gold leaf on The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Unable to resist it, I
open the bookmarked page and find Desire. Here, alone in Ayden’s bed, I’m reminded why this poem
is so special to me …
Ayden knew who I was when he sent me this poem. He had discussed having found me with Jake
and was already contemplating marriage. Since that day he has been taking care of me, the way he did
when I was small and he was so happy to take the leading role in our fairy-tale; to rescue me from a
wicked witch and lift me down from the highest rung of my father’s ladders, in such a princely
fashion.
I see things clearly now.
That basement, or sanctuary of sorts, was the only place he could seek forgiveness by taking it upon
himself to do what had to be done. And that was to give Elise whatever she wanted; payment in kind.
In truth, I just witnessed a grown man seeking redemption for the sins of a ten year old boy. He paid
dearly for it.
My heart aches.
I turn out the lamp with a renewed sense of purpose. I whisper into the darkness, “Goodnight
Ayden, my Prince. I love you.”
Having consoled myself with the idea that Ayden’s merciless fuck was an act of penitence, I slept
soundly, losing half of Sunday to jetlag. Not until Sunday evening did I come to terms with what I had
witnessed. Learning about Ayden and his encounter with his dark past so graphically has had a
profound effect on me. Yet, I still can’t believe he left the SD card there for me to find. Maybe he did?
How could he find the words to explain what he did for Elise in his altruistic act of atonement?
This week has played itself out like a game of cards; every new hand has trumped the previous one.
Now, with everything to play for, we must call … state our intentions or fold. I have no intentions of
folding.
This is a time for giving, not taking; I have had everything lavished upon me. It’s time to give back.
I have to try and help save the man I love. If that means facing the powers that be head on ... so be it.
Thanks to Charlotte, I will have an immaculate navy blue skirt suit, courtesy of Emporio Armani, to
slip into; so beginning my Monday morning transformation fr
om prim and proper Miss Parker to
fearless Mrs. Stone. I have arranged a meeting with the Board of ASMI for 10 a.m. and will be making
an appearance, to spell out exactly what I think they should be doing to release my husband from the
grip of MI5.
I plan on showering and dressing quickly. If I actually stop and think about what I’m doing, having
had a day to plan it, I may grind to a halt. Better to keep moving.
Charlotte jumps from her seat on seeing me approaching Ayden’s top floor office of the Stone
Building. I’ve not been here before and I’m glancing about me for clues.
“Mrs. Stone. Good morning. I have everything and everyone ready for you.” In a grand, sweeping
gesture she hands me my navy suit and tucks a file under her left arm. “Please, follow me.”
I walk swiftly behind her to the ladies’ washroom, attempting to keep up with her wide strides. I
have enough time to survey her nicely tailored, tweed suit and her sensible shoes, her neatly swept
back hair and manicured hands. She must be around fifty, give or take a couple of years; she’s a smart,
no frills professional.
We step into the undiscovered cavern that is the enormous washroom. Cream coloured marble
veined with navy blue streaks is reflected in the enormous, illuminated mirrors covering an entire
wall. It’s quite striking.
“The end cubicle is the largest for you to change into your suit,” she states, flicking open the file.
“You might want to have a read through this before you go into the boardroom.” She taps it with a
single digit.
Before I can about turn, she coughs nervously. “It may not be my place to say but I’m going to
anyway … Mr. Stone is a fine gentleman. I can state quite categorically that he has done nothing
untoward and I’m sure this misunderstanding will be cleared up quickly.” Satisfied with her
declaration, she turns away and straightens her skirt.
I take her arm. “Thank you Charlotte. I know Ayden is totally innocent of any wrong doing. I’m not
worried.” I move towards the cubicle. “And, by the way, thank you for all the organising you’ve been
doing for us this past month. I’m grateful to you.” I leave her with an amiable smile.
She beams. “It has been my pleasure Mrs. Stone. I’ve never seen Mr. Stone happier. Truly, I have
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