“That’s harsh.” Lydia nodded and looked out through the window at the approaching rain clouds.
“He was in the second violins. We were the only newbies. God, it was awkward. And then we went on tour to Scandinavia and…”
Vanessa broke off, remembering. Late Saturday night in the Tivoli Gardens after playing a concert there. He had dared her to go on this horrible white-knuckle ride, laughing at her, betting with his friends that she wouldn’t do it. She had gone on the damn thing and staggered off, green and dizzy.
“You’re going to throw up. Hey, come on. Come and sit down.”
His arm around her, so heavy and yet so gentle, as he’d walked her to a secluded part of the garden.
“I’m a twat sometimes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dared you.”
How she had stared at him.
“That was never an apology, was it? From the great Dafydd ap Hughes? Or has that thing driven me insane?” Her voice was wobbly.
He had found a bench behind some rose bushes and sat with her, his arm still around her, lifting her chin up with one huge hand.
“You don’t get it, do you? Now your horny horn player is safely in Belfast, I’ve got a clear run at you. I want you. I’m going to get you. You might as well give in now.”
And, too shocked to even think of putting up any resistance, she had let him kiss her, then and there. His stubble had scraped her face and he had felt giant beside her, so big she hadn’t been able to see around the sides of him, but it had been a kiss unlike anything she’d ever had from Shaun. It had hooked her.
Six months later, they were married.
“We got together,” she said abruptly.
Lydia raised her eyebrows.
“You know how it is. These things happen,” said Vanessa dismissively. “He’s a powerful man. Charismatic. Even at twenty-two. We got married and it was all fine for a while, but…”
“But?”
“He wanted kids. I didn’t,” she said flatly.
“Oh dear. And you hadn’t discussed it before you got married?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“Crazy, I know. I assumed that, if he ever wanted them, that day was a long way off. Most men wait till they’re at least in their thirties these days, don’t they? But he started pestering me about it on our first wedding anniversary. I was horrified. Twenty-three years old, loving orchestral life, all the travel, all the music…I wasn’t ready. And I told him so.”
“And that was that? You got divorced?”
“If only.”
She didn’t think she could talk about it even now. She hid her face in the vast circular rim of the coffee cup so that Lydia might not see the look in her eyes.
“He was difficult about it?”
“Very.” She put the cup down and sighed. “Look, I don’t want to go into specifics, but it got very nasty. Lots of fights. He flushed my pills down the loo and tried to… God, if my mother hadn’t called round when she did…”
“He tried to rape you?”
“Yeah. That was when it really hit home for me. I’d married a monster. I left with my mother and never went back. But he stalked me for a couple of years, even so.”
She noticed that her hands were shaking. Saying the words had been strange—frightening but liberating as well. It was as if she hadn’t believed that it had happened until she’d said it out loud. Yes, it had happened. She hadn’t imagined it, like Dafydd had tried to persuade her. He was a controlling bastard who would stop at nothing, even rape, to get her where he wanted her.
“Oh God, that’s horrible. Really horrible. Didn’t you go to the police?”
“And charge him with what? Throwing away a pack of pills?”
“Wasn’t he violent, though?”
“No, he never actually hit me. He was too clever for that. He knew how to hurt me, though. He played on all my insecurities, day after day, until my self-esteem shrivelled to nothing.”
“Emotional abuse.”
“Yes, but this was twenty years ago, Lyd. Nobody believed in that kind of thing back then. If a man didn’t beat you black and blue, he wasn’t an abuser. Stalking laws were next to useless too. Thank Christ for him getting that gig in America or I’d still be a nervous wreck today. Probably in some institution or other.”
“Jesus. It’s awful. He can’t come and join our orchestra. Couldn’t we tell the trustees about all this?”
“Oh, come on, Lydia. It’s my word against his, basically. And everyone thinks Dafydd’s a hell of a guy.”
“They got the hell bit right. So, you haven’t told Ben. Are you going to?”
“Oh God, it’s a mess. What can I tell him? Shit, I’m so worried Dafydd will go after him. I just don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“He can’t do anything you don’t want him to,” said Lydia. “If he does, you can report him. I’ll spread the word around the violins.”
“No, don’t. I don’t want the orchestra torn apart by tribe wars. A lot of the violinists are his old friends anyway.”
“Okay, okay. What if I mention it to Karl-Heinz? He’s the conductor. He ought to know about potential personal problems in his crew.”
“Well, mention it if you want. I guess.” Vanessa pushed away her half-drunk coffee. “This is giving me the jitters.”
“I don’t think it’s the coffee, to be fair. And you must tell Ben. He deserves to know. He loves you and cares for you—he’d be gutted if you kept this from him.” She looked up suddenly. “Oh! Does Milan know him?”
“No, it was all before Milan’s time.”
“Well, I’m going to mention it to Karl-Heinz. He’s taking me to a lunchtime concert at St Martin’s tomorrow. I’ll tell him then.”
“Fine.” Vanessa’s phone bleeped and she took it out of her purse, biting her lip when she saw who the text was from. “Oh, it’s Ben. I think I’m going to call him. See if I can go round to his place later.”
“You do that. Let him be kind to you. You need it.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Chapter Five
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
Lydia and von Ritter stepped out of St Martin’s and surveyed the expanse of Trafalgar Square before them, Nelson’s Column rising to the sky in its centre.
“Yes, thank you for telling me,” he said. “I’ll keep my eye on him. You lose one troublesome violinist and you gain another, it seems.”
“I hope you don’t include me in that category. Troublesome violinists.” She smiled up at him, but he looked stern, taking her hand before she could head down the steps.
“Actually, I do,” he said, turning her to face him. “You’re the most troublesome of all.”
“Oh?” Her heart began to bump in its cavity, the combination of mild fear and thrill that kept drawing her towards him. “I thought I was quite innocuous.”
“They give me a headache. But you trouble my heart, Lydia.”
“Oh. Gosh.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
“I want you. I want you to stop seeing Milan Kaspar.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to do that.”
He held her gaze for a few moments, then released her wrist.
“I know,” he said. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“No, you don’t,” she said softly. “Do you think I’m a slut?”
A different look came into his eyes at that, a light of excitement. The corner of his lips twitched.
“Yes,” he said throatily, and he stroked her cheek. “I do think you are a slut. What about you? What do you think?”
“I know I am. I want sex and I’ve got two men to give it to me. I’m a slut and I love it. I’m completely unrepentant, you know.”
“You aren’t the girl I used to know, Lydia. All this male attention is going to your head, isn’t it? I think your attitude needs adjusting.”
“Oh, and who’s going to adjust it for me?”
She stepped in closer to hi
m, ignoring the steady stream of classical music buffs leaving the church around them. Their thighs brushed together. Von Ritter, it seemed, was getting a most inconvenient erection.
“You’re asking for it,” he whispered.
He took her hand and marched her down the steps.
“Where are we going?” she asked, giggling, as they set off at a brisk trot up Charing Cross Road.
“You will see.”
Soon enough they had branched off into Soho, walking past fetishwear and adult bookshops, not yet lit up in their shades of neon pink and blue. Afternoon trade was just picking up and the little corner boutique into which von Ritter led Lydia contained a few browsers and buyers, none of whom—thankfully—seemed to recognise the conductor. This had been far from the case in St Martin’s, where every neck had craned around to take a good look at him.
“Afternoon, squire,” said the man behind the counter, who seemed to know von Ritter. “Need any help?”
“I may require your back room, if you don’t mind,” he said. Von Ritter’s voice was so clear and distinct it made everyone in the shop look over at them.
What for? Lydia wanted to ask, but she didn’t want everyone in the shop knowing the answer. She already felt hot with excited shame to be standing here in the first place.
“That’s no problem. What were you thinking of buying?”
“I need a good odourless lubricant, a medium-sized butt plug and a set of Ben Wa balls. The kind that make a jingling sound.”
Now he really had everyone’s attention. Lydia felt like curling up into a ball and rolling behind a shelf.
“Right you are. Just step behind the curtain and I’ll bring you the goods.”
Lydia couldn’t get behind that curtain quick enough. Half a dozen pairs of beady eyes followed her progress. And they all knew what she was in for.
She clenched her pussy, trying to ignore the streams of juice flooding her knickers.
“You are okay with this?” Von Ritter murmured while they waited in the little fitting room. “I won’t do anything in front of him. Unless you want me to.”
“You’re a fiend,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed I could die.”
“Then you can’t be a real slut, can you? A real slut wouldn’t care.”
“Oh, hush, I don’t believe in real sluts and all that. There’s nothing wrong in enjoying lots of sex.”
“Oh, don’t spoil it. I know, I agree, but it’s fun to pretend, right?”
She nodded, peering through the curtain as the sales clerk took items from the shelves.
“Right. I’m a slut and you’re teaching me a lesson.”
“Damn right,” he growled.
The man appeared with an armful of different plugs and lubricants, plus one pretty velvet case in which lay the ben wa balls.
“Okay, if you want to choose what you want and then come out and pay for it. The lady can stay in here.”
Von Ritter went to the counter. Lydia peeped through the curtain, seeing him make his selections and hand over the money. Some of the other customers took a keen interest in this process, occasionally casting a glance over to the curtained alcove where they knew she waited. It was better than theatre for them, it seemed.
Von Ritter put all his purchases in a brown paper bag then came to join her again.
“Now then,” he said. “This is serious. You are a little slut who likes to have all her holes filled, so that’s what you’re going to get.”
“But not like this!” she pretended to protest. “This isn’t the way I like it. I like to have a man…”
“A man? Don’t you mean ‘men’?” he said severely.
She turned her toes inward and stared down at them.
“Sometimes,” she mumbled.
He handed her the velvet box.
“These are for your cunt,” he said. “Push them inside and hold them tight. It’s good exercise for your muscles.”
“You want me to…just like that?”
“Just like that,” he said uncompromisingly. “No, don’t turn around. I want to watch.”
Lydia took the silver balls from the box. They made a faint musical sound when she held them in her palm. If she walked around with them in, wasn’t that going to make things a tad obvious?
“They’re…noisy,” she said.
“So is London. Nobody will hear. Well…” He paused and smiled rakishly. “Perhaps.”
She held her skirt up with one hand and slid her other, holding one of the balls, inside her knickers. It was easy enough to push it inside, because she was slippery-wet enough for it to just glide up there, but holding it might be a challenge. She repeated the process with the second ball. Now her pussy felt full, the spheres cold and intrusive inside her.
“Tighten those muscles,” said von Ritter with a smile. “Do you think you can hold them in?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “What if one slips out?”
“You’ll be punished.”
“Oh dear.” She clamped her thighs together and squeezed for all she was worth. “I don’t know if I can walk around like this.”
“You’ll have to try. Now for the real challenge. Lift your skirt and take down your knickers. No, bend over first. That’s right.”
“I don’t want the butt plug,” she moaned.
“That’s too bad.”
She wanted it really. If she was serious, she only had to say her safe word—Paganini. But she liked to put on a show of reluctance. It made everything so much more piquant.
She almost changed her mind, though, when von Ritter started applying lubricant around the tight ring between her exposed bottom cheeks. Trying to hold her vaginal muscles around the ben wa balls while he poked and rubbed around her little pucker was quite a challenge. She felt that, somewhere along the line, she was going to get mixed up with which bits to tense and which bits to loosen.
“Now, hold very still,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic. “We know that little sluts like you need to have their bottoms stuffed, don’t we? They enjoy bending over and accepting anything up inside their tight back passage. You’re no exception, are you, Lydia? You like to take it up the ass.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I do.”
She couldn’t work out how to relax her sphincter whilst clinging to the vaginal balls. It was too difficult. So when the tip of the plug nudged up against her, she flinched and tried to wriggle away.
But von Ritter had a hand on her hip and he kept her in position, pushing inexorably until the plug was one inch in, then two.
She tried to keep quiet, knowing that people outside the booth would be able to hear them, but the effort defeated her and, by the time the third inch of the plug had entered her, its widest part stinging and stretching, she let out a desperate moan.
“Oh oh oh.”
“What’s the matter?” Von Ritter sounded amused.
“I can’t, I can’t. The balls.”
“You can. This is exactly what you need, little slut. Don’t try to deny it.”
“I can’t,” she repeated, but he pushed the plug in to the hilt and patted it, adding two sound smacks to each bottom cheek for good measure.
These, she was sure, would have been heard all around the shop, especially judging by the low chuckles audible beyond the curtain.
“Now then, you are full. Pull up your panties.”
Lydia stood straight and pulled them up tight, relieved to have this thin barrier against the possible disastrous loss of the balls. She still had to keep herself clenched and alert, though, and it would be impossible to forget that she was occupied this way.
Von Ritter paused to kiss her, settling her skirt back down as he did so, then he pulled aside the curtain as if preparing the way for a great actress en route to her stage.
She shrank back, dreading the knowing looks that would surround her, but von Ritter reached out and grasped her wrist, making her stumble out into the shop.
Her cunt and bottom were clenc
hed tight against their intruders, so as not to lose them, and it made her walk a little awkwardly. She stared at the floor and beat as quick a path to the door as she possibly could.
“No returns on those, I’m afraid,” called the salesman, amid general laughter.
Outside on the pavement, von Ritter took her arm and helped her along while she trotted alongside him in a curious, thighs-clamped, tippy-toe kind of dash.
“How does it feel?” he asked, heading towards the nearest Tube station.
“Very awkward,” she griped, still envisaging a terrible accident involving the balls sliding out of her knicker elastic and rolling into the road while the crowds looked on.
“That’s good,” he said. “Keep grinding against them. I want you to feel the size and shape of them inside you.”
Lydia wanted to ask when he was going to let her feel a cock shape inside her—his cock. But that would just lead to the same conversation. ‘When I’m ready’.
She felt the size and shape of them all the way down the escalator into the hot enclosure of the Tube station. Dry winds rushed from the tunnel and threatened to lift her skirt, but she kept her hands on the material, dreading that the little flange of the butt plug would be visible through her knickers.
Von Ritter, seeing what she was doing, put a hand on her bottom and pressed, discreetly but devastatingly, against the plug. He rubbed slowly and rhythmically until the train arrived and she had to sit down on the damn thing.
“Where are we going now?” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably on the seat and keeping her legs tightly crossed.
They didn’t seem to be heading towards Karl-Heinz’s apartment.
“You’ll see,” he said.
“How long do I have to wear these?”
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