Lament

by Stewart, Lynsey M.

  The music slowly stopped. My body doing the same, like a puppet master had stopped pulling my strings and I was pliable only through him, my body dense and falling to the floor.

  ‘Place your hands on the barre.’

  I parted my lips to let out the gasp. ‘My class, Alex. They’ll be arriving soon.’

  ‘I said place your hands on the barre.’

  He was measured now. His voice low. Heat surging through it. I could feel his gaze across my skin, a branding, a confirmation that he was in full control of the moment even though the shake in his hands told me something different. Our eyes met in the mirror. He lifted his head up, rolled his shoulders and finally gave me his permission to take him on. I leant further over the barre and his thin gasp told me this was what he wanted.

  Submission.

  Complete dedication.

  At his mercy.

  I wondered if the control was the only way he could justify this to himself, that this was what he needed tonight and he could throw away the shackles of his grief.

  ‘I understand you,’ I said, dropping my eyes to see the shadow of him behind me. ‘You’re fighting with yourself. Don’t.’

  ‘What are you fighting?’

  ‘Fear,’ I replied.

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Of being hurt,’ I said. ‘You want my body. That’s all. Anything else would be too much.’

  ‘You know what I want?’

  ‘Yes. To clear the demons,’ I replied.

  ‘I want to fuck.’

  ‘Don’t you want to connect more deeply?’ I asked, shaking my head. ‘Haven’t you missed it? Or is it just the feel of a woman’s body underneath your fingers that you need?’

  ‘What if it is? A quick, rampant, dirty need.’

  ‘I hope it’s more,’ I replied. ‘But you’re not in a place where you can admit that yet.’

  ‘Take off your wrap.’

  My fingers immediately fell to the knot at my hip. The thin layer of transparent fabric falling to the floor, exposing me to him. My nipples had pebbled through the tight fabric, failing to hide my arousal to him, unsure if I wanted to. I felt his stare burrowing his eyes undressing my body. He came closer, his fingers flexing beside him like they were second-guessing what to do next. He clutched my hip, dragging his fingers across the fabric, down my waist, across my stomach until he held my pussy in his hand. He squeezed and pulled, my wet and aching arousal becoming obvious in the mirror in front of us.

  ‘I want to be rough. I can only give you rough.’

  ‘Take what you need.’

  ‘I’m not taking,’ he grunted.

  ‘Do what you need to do.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take,’ I repeated, pressing myself into his hardness.

  ‘Give yourself to me,’ he growled, jaw clenched. ‘Give yourself or I walk away.’

  I moved my hand to his, where he was still squeezing my pussy, clasping us together. I rested my head against his chest and gasped as he kissed the exposed flesh of my neck. His fingers swiftly pulled my skirt and leotard to one side, exposing me. They were harsh and needy in their onslaught, but I was ready for him.

  ‘Jesus. So fucking wet,’ he rasped. ‘Does someone else make you this wet or is it just me?’

  I wanted to laugh. I wanted to tell him that there hadn’t been time for anyone else, that he alone occupied my waking thoughts and my nighttime dreams.

  ‘You’re not answering, and I don’t care, because this,’ he clutched me, ‘is mine.’ I felt my wetness spread across his fingers as he slipped them through my folds. ‘Have you been like this since church?’

  ‘Yes,’ I gasped.

  ‘Did you want me to bind you there?’ he asked. ‘Bend you over the altar and fuck you like a bad girl?’ His dirty words. What they were doing to me. We both knew that would never happen, but I was enjoying the fantasy. The thick probing to the back of me told me that he did too.

  I’d opened the bay windows for the first time, letting in the warmth. The wind was breezy and the sheer panels at the window were billowing and twisting in the flurry of air. He pulled one of the drapes towards me, caught it in his hands, twirling it to form a tight band. Taking my hands, he held them against my back, wrapping the fabric around my wrists.

  ‘Tell me you want this,’ he said against my ear. ‘Give me permission.’

  I nodded slowly, turned my head to him, caught the look in his eyes that told me he would take great care, wouldn’t let anything harm me, wouldn’t allow himself to push me too far. I felt more wraps around my wrists, the fabric soft, much thicker than rope. It felt like my arms were cushioned rather than held but the effect of being bound to him was more than I could take. It was aerial acrobatics, twisting and turning, Alexander catching me. I was balancing in his arms and he was holding me in place like an anchor.

  ‘You’re making me feel again,’ he said as he kissed my neck. My bones felt like they were dripping, my shoulders and skin joining them in a pool of liquid on the floor. Everything inside was screaming for him to change his devotion down to my breasts, back to my pussy. My core was tightening, my heart pumping with a new-found purpose. I wanted to picture him naked and closed my eyes to help aid the process. Imagining him hard and bare as he slipped his cock between my seam, still red and reeling from the pull of the strong knots, made me want to fall to the floor. He did something to me, something I recognised but couldn’t place. A need I had but didn’t know was as vital to me as breathing in air.

  ‘I want to take my time with this cunt,’ he said hoarsely, his fingers reaching, spreading, opening me to him. He slipped a finger inside, just one, no more, but the pressure was perfect, the flicks magnificent. I was ready to fall, the drapes pulling me back. ‘Give me your orgasm. Come on my fingers and fucking soak me.’

  I could hear voices outside, my class starting to file in, chattering to friends, hanging up coats.

  ‘Alex,’ I breathed, his finger stroking, the burn of my orgasm starting to pulse to life. ‘I can’t let my students see me like this.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he replied, adding a finger to circle my clit.

  The thunderous pulsing increased, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts, feelings, colours and need, until release poured through me, a race of liberation finally expelled. I collapsed forward, my body balancing on the barre, the tight pull of the drapes on my wrists centering me. Alex didn’t let go of his grip to my waist, letting me find the strength in my legs again.

  ‘That was fucking perfection,’ he growled against my ear, slowly untwirling the fabric from both wrists. The lightweight piece falling back to the window, creased and crushed, still displaying the markings of being twisted around my arms. He placed a kiss on each wrist, knelt behind me, stroked the sensitive skin with his fingers.

  The door to class opened slowly, a slight reservation behind it.

  ‘It’s getting rowdy out here, Nat. Are you ready to start?’ my grandmother asked, watching with concern as I pushed myself up from the barre. Her eyes shot to Alex, who stood and folded his arms, one hand rubbing his shoulder in failed distraction.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied softly, still trying to catch my breath. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds to recover from whatever it is that’s going on in here.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I said, running my hand across my neck as she closed the door behind her.

  Alex watched me, his confidence slipping. ‘Are you OK? Did I…go too far?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, not wanting to lose him but trying to reassemble my thoughts. ‘Not at all. It’s just I’ve…got to teach a class. I can’t think clearly.’

  His features creased with something, concern, regret, I wasn’t sure. He stepped backwards to his cello, started putting it away before the door swung open and my students started to file through. Throwing the case across his back, he glanced at me fleetingly before leaving, my body still breathless, my hand pressed to my neck as I tried
to make sense of what had just happened between us.

  And what it meant from here.

  17

  Nat

  ‘Are you happy to lock up tonight?’ my grandmother asked as she entered the office. ‘Tess can give me a ride home.’

  I looked up, not fully listening to her. Preoccupied.

  ‘Yes,’ I said as she frowned. ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re miles away…I watched some of your class this evening and you were sloppy.’

  ‘I’ll make it up next time.’

  ‘Ever since Mr Burnett arrived with his cello this afternoon, you’ve been in a fog.’ She lifted her eyebrow and gave me a disapproving look. ‘Is there something I need to know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, trying and failing to sound innocent.

  ‘He left this for you.’

  She handed me an envelope with Nat written across the front. I eyed it cautiously, like it would blow open and spill the details of Shibari like confetti across the desk, raising that eyebrow of hers to the ceiling.

  ‘It’s probably payment.’

  ‘He set up a direct debit.’

  ‘Oh…yes. You’re right,’ I said, ignoring her disapproving stare.

  Searching for a suitable deflection, I spotted the photo of May on the wall. ‘While we’re here, you still haven’t answered my suspicions that you might just be the Grief Fairy–’

  ‘Stop changing the subject,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Is it you?’

  A deep sigh reverberated around the room.

  ‘No, sweetheart. I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not your Grief Fairy.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

  She laughed as I narrowed my stare.

  ‘Believe what you want. You always do.’

  ‘You have the heart to be behind it.’

  ‘But not the body,’ she replied before pointing to the envelope. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Open it.’ She thumped the end of her walking stick on the floor and I knew I wasn’t getting out of this. I slid my finger underneath the envelope, taking great care to avoid her gaze.

  Checking the contents were safe first, I pulled out the card.

  ‘It’s an invitation to a performance next Saturday. He must be playing new music. There’s a party afterwards. Cocktails and canapés at the Royal Albert Hall.’

  ‘A date?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I groaned. ‘He’ll be performing.’ She looked at me suspiciously. Folded her arms. ‘I’ve seen him before. At the Barbican a few months ago. I love his playing. He’s raw and full of emotion. It’s really generous of him to do this.’

  ‘Nat, you’re a sensible woman, aren’t you?’ I nodded as she continued. ‘I don’t need to worry that you’re letting your heart rule your head, do I?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied confidently, when really, I let the words descend to my stomach.

  ‘He’s lost his wife,’ she said softly. ‘That’s a lot to navigate. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied, standing to give her a hug. ‘Thanks for looking out for me.’

  ‘Always, sweetheart. I’ll see you at home.’

  I stared at the invitation on my desk, excited that I would be seeing him play again, thrilled that I would finally hear the music he’d said I’d inspired.

  Cocktails and canapés.

  I needed a dress.

  Taking my phone out of my bag, I found the number I was looking for.

  ‘Marc? Hi! I’m good, how are you? Great! Yes, I know I need to book a haircut. Yes, I know the upkeep of a pixie cut is ridiculous, but there’s something else. Can I ask you a really huge favour?’

  * * *

  ‘So, let me get this straight. There’s a Grieving Tree in a forest and you post letters to a Grief Fairy who answers them a few days later?’ Marc said, complete confusion across his face.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it a beautiful idea?’

  ‘No wonder you all go stark raving mad in the countryside. I mean, what the frickin’ hell?’ He was tidying up my pixie cut ready for the concert, fingers flicking the strands. I had the day off from On Pointe and had headed to London for some pampering and to meet Marc’s girlfriend, Lacey. She was a student at the London College of Fashion. I’d seen photographs of her collections on Marc’s social media. One of them was inspired by bondage and BDSM, and her designs gave me an idea for a dress I wanted her to create with Alexander in mind.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late,’ Lacey said as she dropped her bags and kissed Marc mid cut. She was wearing a black catsuit with a bondage-inspired chest piece that crossed over her body like a metallic snake. One side of her hair was white blond, the other a deep black. A goth pixie. She was stunning and obviously smitten with Marc.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you at last,’ she said into the mirror. We’d been communicating through social media and telephone calls for the last three days. I’d found some images on Pinterest of dresses that were almost what I had in my head. Lacey was immediately excited and agreed to create something beautiful on what would be an extremely tight timescale.

  ‘I’m so thankful you’re doing this,’ I replied. ‘I thought of you immediately. I loved your last collection.’

  ‘So, tell me,’ she said, kneeling beside me. ‘Your man, is he into Shibari?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I spluttered.

  ‘You’ve thrown her off guard,’ Marc laughed. ‘We’ve gone from grief fairies to fetishes.’

  ‘Grief fairies? Is that his fetish?’

  ‘No!’

  I explained the Grieving Tree to Lacey. She looked to be in serious awe. This was totally her thing. She had just suggested an overnight camping trip to catch the Grief Fairy in action when Marc reminded her that she had an irrational fear of canvas.

  ‘Who are your main suspects?’ she asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘Number one is Grandma,’ Marc replied, holding up his thumb.

  ‘I don’t know. She’s much frailer than when you last saw her, and she’s denied it.’

  ‘Denial means nothing,’ he replied. ‘The woman has a heart of gold and a posture to die for.’

  ‘What does her posture have to do with it?’ Lacey laughed.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just something hairdressers notice.’

  ‘I think it’s May’s family, the little dancer who died a few years ago. It fits. They’re a family looking for a reprieve from grief. Plus, she loved foxes. That must be a clue.’

  ‘It’s very possible,’ Lacey mumbled with a pin between her teeth. She started pulling out pieces of grey rope from her bag.

  ‘But there’s also Maggie, Alex’s housekeeper. She reacted strangely when I started asking questions. It could be her. Maybe she’s doing it for Eli,’ I said, lifting a shoulder.

  ‘I think we’re missing out on life,’ Lacey said to Marc. ‘Let’s move to the sticks and chase down clues.’

  ‘Tempting.’ He smirked. ‘But whose bloody hair would I cut in a sleepy village in Cambridgeshire?’

  ‘Nat’s,’ she replied, sticking out her tongue.

  ‘Another letter was left for me yesterday,’ I said, leaning into the mirror as Marc dusted the hairs off my neck.

  ‘Oh my God. Read it out!’ Lacey squealed.

  ‘I asked them how they could feel so passionate about doing something that’s surrounded by darkness. Writing letters to children who grieve can’t be easy. But they seem dedicated, committing to something like this is a big ask.’

  ‘They need committing,’ Marc said. ‘What was the response?’

  ‘They said, ‘‘On the contrary, what I do is surrounded by light.’’’

  ‘That’s magical,’ Lacey replied. ‘Like Disneyland but – not.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Marc deadpanned.

  Lacey rolled her eyes and stood up. ‘I love it. It’s helping people. The person replying to
the letters must have a good heart.’

  ‘I’ll admit, it’s weirdly comforting telling a stranger everything. All my dark thoughts and weak moments. All the growth and movement I’ve made. I feel like I’m sharing my recovery, but I don’t have to worry about someone making judgements or panicking about my emotional health. It allows me to be completely honest.’

  ‘Like a confession,’ Lacey replied, holding my arms out and studying my body. ‘Except the anonymity of the confessional booth is replaced by the letter.’

  ‘Same principles, I guess,’ Marc said behind her.

  ‘But the more letters I write, the more I feel like they know me better than I know myself.’

  ‘I need to know who it is! Promise you’ll call me as soon as you find out,’ Lacey said as Marc burst out laughing. She threw a cotton reel at him.

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you measured. Do you like the colour?’ Lacey held up a roll of light grey fabric, almost silvery as it caught the overhead spotlights.

  ‘It’s exactly what I wanted.’

  She started draping the fabric around my body, building the bodice structure around me, placing ropes and braids at my shoulders and breasts. ‘I need to do all the placements first. Make sure the knots are perfect, and then I can pin it to the fabric,’ Lacey said before cocking her head. ‘You know, whenever I’m asked to design a dress there’s always a purpose.’ She held her finger against her bottom lip. ‘What are you hoping for when you wear it?’

  I thought about it for a second, looking at myself in the mirror. ‘I want him to really see me. I want him to know that I’m…giving him my consent.’

  She smiled knowingly. I didn’t need to say any more.

  ‘This will be a beautiful dress that happens to have elements of Shibari. No one will know it’s designed with the art in mind.’ She stood back, studied me. ‘Or the man.’ She winked.

  ‘Just a dress,’ I said.

  ‘Just a dress. Just a fucking amazing dress.’

  18