by Primula Bond
He’s stroking my bottom now. Slowly, resting his hand there, as if measuring his own hand print. And then with no other prelude, no warning, he slaps me there.
I can’t see anything but before I’ve had time to compute what’s happening I hear the rush of air as his arm goes up. I stutter with confusion but he slaps me hard on the butt, thrusting me forwards with the force of it, making me yelp. The yelp obviously fires him up, because he slaps again, on the same spot, and this time I can hear the sound of his palm landing on my flesh, the sizzling slap, and with it the stinging heat from the blow, and it sends a shaft of twisted pleasure through me.
That sharp whisk of air, then a handprint of fire on my buttock as it lands. The stinging goes deeper this time, radiates away from the original soreness, burns inside me, makes me twitch, I can even feel myself closing up tightly. The tentacles of pain touch me everywhere. I twitch and groan, unable to control my own reflexes now.
This is like someone else being punished in a muffled dream. So different from whipping myself feebly in that cheap hotel bedroom behind the Piazza San Marco.
‘I’ve got your whip right here, Serena. Ready?’
‘Yes! Give it to me!’ I struggle at the chain round my wrists, but that just makes it tighter, the silver chain biting into my wrists.
I hear him testing the whip on the palm of his hand for a moment. Then it comes down on my other buttock and the pain daggers straight up me.
This could be on camera. Who knows, who cares? Everyone can see me lifting myself off the cushions and flopping down again. He laughs softly, whips me again, that quick, vicious whip lashing down again and again. I’m floating somewhere near the ceiling observing what is happening below. I can see myself stretched out like a sacrifice at the mercy of this tall, strong man who could easily finish me off if he wanted to.
But he’s not killing me. He’s curing me.
I’ve heard of people who like to be whipped. Men, mostly. Judges, politicians. Rumour had it that my tutor liked it. Until I saw those nuns doing it, before I tried it on myself, I had no idea what pleasure could there be in submitting to horrible pain. Why would you beg to be punished for some made-up crime, just to feed a fantasy? What pleasure could there possibly be in wanting to be hurt so much it would make you come? What was so sexy about smacking and being subjected to that kind of humiliation?
Well, trying it myself was nothing on this. The answer is blowing in the wind. Being handed to me by Gustav Levi. I am smarting with the lashes, my skin no doubt striped with thin red welts. I strain at the silver chain binding my wrists, trying to understand this degrading, nasty thrill releasing me from all that stress, the dark memories, trying to understand why the helplessness is turning me on so much, poking little fiery sparks of pleasure right up there between my legs.
Wishing it had always been this simple.
Another slap, stinging and hot on my rump, a bite sizzling through me. And the strange thing is that I was waiting for it, and I welcome it. I want him to do it again, I want the shock of the slap itself, and the lovely after-glow. The turn on isn’t just the heat and the pain, it’s the anticipation, how it’s going to feel, not quite knowing, here it is, the cold on my skin, the brand of five fingers, of the whip, then the hot smack, the blood and heat zoning in on one place to try to cure it.
And every time the blow falls, another piece of the ugly jigsaw smashes.
He is silent behind me, above me. He smacks the other cheek hard and this time the heat is prodding and probing everywhere, fingers of fire and pleasure feeling me all over, inside and out.
Once this is over I want him. Around me. Inside me. It’s not the spanking I’m addicted to. It’s him.
The rain is battering at the windows again. I want thunder and lightning. The elemental terror to add to the thrill of what he’s doing to me, marking my white skin with his red marks of pain. His creature, branded.
There’s something else above me now, not a hand, something flat and round comes slapping down on my bottom. I let out a kind of gabble of laughter. My confused mind tries to identify the instrument. A wooden spoon. Surely he’s not hitting me with something he was using to stir the peppercorn sauce earlier?
I lift my bottom up in the air like Crystal did in the film. The wooden spoon swipes down again, landing accurately, on a different, pain-free spot each time.
Now I hear it clattering to the floor. Something flicks in the air with a whispering crack, like he’s a circus master. A tie, or a rope. I cower, trembling with cold and anticipation. Every inch of my bottom is sore and tender. He brushes whatever it is, a ribbon, over the backs of my knees and down to the soles of my feet while I wait for the first hit. It flicks across my buttocks, comes down once, twice. It doesn’t hurt any more. It sets me alight. There are spasms inside me now, deep between my legs, hungry spasms of pleasure and wanting.
He knows it. Because now he’s pushing my legs open again, and bringing something up between them, right into me. It’s a ribbon, and he starts to rub it on me. The friction is unbearable, rough and sweet at the same time, like rubbing flint on flint to make a fire. I bury my head in the cushion, taking in short gasps of breath, loving the lightheadedness. It’s like hyperventilating a free, natural high. My already acute senses make everything bright and exaggerated, like a cartoon.
‘My little dish of delight just lying there,’ Gustav growls to himself. At last. A really bestial timbre in his voice. ‘So why am I always denying myself?’
I wriggle eagerly. I want him so badly it hurts. The movement sucks the ribbon right up into me, and it rubs against the little bud that’s jutting out, burning and begging for attention. He sees me writhe and makes the ribbon taut, rubbing it cruelly, harder and faster against my clitoris, and that’s it. A couple of swipes and I explode, instantly, bucking crazily against the ribbon as all that pent-up frustration and anger pumps out. I rub against the ribbon, the cushions, the sofa, my bottom jerking frantically. I’m aware of how it will look on film, but I don’t care.
I lie there limply until my senses reassemble and I start to feel acutely self-conscious. The dying spasms mock me, because they won’t go away. I’m restless, wracked with brazen sexual desire. Oh, God, I want him in me, now.
Where is he?
Suddenly the storm is back, doing its best to shake the house down, break the windows, tear off all the tiles. Breaking the spell. Gustav is pulling off my blindfold now. He unties the silver chain, sits me up. He even rearranges the long velvet skirt over my knees.
He thumps down beside me. The flames reflected in his lustful eyes leap up in their candelabra and candle sticks, sending shadows careering around the room. His handsome face is shaded into canine planes and angles. This could be it.
The Adam’s apple juts in his throat as he swallows. He leans closer, his eyes half closed, his face right up to my cheek. His nostrils flare as he breathes in the scent and sweat on my skin. His fingers come up and frame my jaw, and then he turns my head sideways, stretching my throat. His breath rasps hot, burning hot, on my neck. My pulse beats frantically as if hammering to get out. His mouth slides down under my ear, his lips dry at first, then getting wet as they linger over the spot. The tip of his tongue touches my pulse, like a little arrow.
He’s gripping my arms unnecessarily hard. Can’t he see that I’m not going anywhere? I’m his. I stretch out my hand and slide it up his thigh. Something tells me to move slowly and quietly. We are both panting hard, our breath mingling. I turn to him, push my hands onto the burgeoning hardness.
‘I’m here for the taking, Gustav. All clean and new. Don’t you want me?’
‘Right now?’ His teeth graze on my neck, his mouth moving against my skin. ‘More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.’
‘We fit so well together.’ I press harder, to show him I want him. ‘We’re all alone. You’re the boss. What’s stopping us?’
The final crash of thunder is so timely it’s as if someone is sitting out on
the terrace with a bank of sound effects. But it’s broken the spell. I shouldn’t have spoken. I should have just touched him, made him putty in my hands. Because my words have snapped him out of his reverie. He picks up the little whip and flings it across the room.
‘She is. Rearing her ugly head, just when I thought I’d banished her for good.’
The whip skitters against a glass lamp beside the fire and we both watch as the lamp wavers, totters, and then smashes onto the floor.
The silence is thick and suffocating. I daren’t break it.
‘I thought you and I were the same.’ He rubs his black hair so that it stands up in furious spikes. ‘Both been down a dark path. But I got it wrong. You lived your life as best you could, a lovely, healthy, feminine child who couldn’t extricate herself. But I’m an adult who should have known better. I should have got out before it damaged everyone.’
‘Who is this “she” who’s done a number on you, Gustav?’ I try to unfold his fingers from the fist. ‘Is it your ex-wife that’s freaked you out?’
‘Margot is her name.’ He jumps up and goes to pour himself more wine, kicking out at the little whip. ‘Still contaminating everything.’
‘Forget her. I’m here. You’ve saved me, Gustav. Histrionic, but true.’ I stretch my arms out. That woman’s name has scared me stiff. I have to reach him before he slips through my fingers. ‘Let me count the ways. The exhibition. This house. What you’ve shown me. What you did to me just then. It’s saved me from all the shit. So let me help you.’
‘I can’t let you. Watching you submitting to whatever I dealt you just then, the catharsis, the release, that was thrilling. But it’s had the opposite effect on me.’
He can’t even look at me directly now. Through the mirror he stares at me as if from the bottom of a deep well.
‘It’s my job to make you feel better.’ I gulp back the tears. ‘Let me please you in return.’
The silver chain hangs loosely between us. He draws it taut, like a surgical scar.
‘I can’t let you near me with that thing.’ He tips more red wine from a crystal decanter into two big goblets. The muscle is working furiously in his jaw.
‘Not the whip, then. How about simple tender loving care?’ I shrink back into the sofa. ‘Or perhaps you just want to be left alone?’
He shakes his head, handing a full goblet to me. He doesn’t come closer. I take a sip, spilling a little on my leg. She’s in here, alright. She’s a shadow sliding in between us. The rain spits against the window, filling the long, heavy silence.
Margot is her name.
‘If you want to help me, there is another way,’ he bursts out, putting the glass down suddenly. ‘Come to Switzerland. We’ll get out of the city, breathe in some Alpine air.’ His eyes flash back to life. ‘I haven’t been back there for more than five years. It’s time to clear the house. Tackle those lingering ghosts. You can be my mascot.’
‘There are ghosts in Switzerland? What about right here in Mayfair?’ I glance about at the flickering candles, the huge yawning fireplace. The man standing there, tapping his foot as he waits for my answer.
‘She’s not here, Serena. If this house is haunted, they’re not my ghosts. The day I met you in the square was the day I completed the purchase.’
‘But you look as if you’ve lived here for centuries!’ I think of the mournful portrait hanging on the landing. The glittering, fully stocked kitchen. The old furniture so at home in my bedroom.
‘Like a wizened old vampire, you mean?’ The etched lines in his face disappear as he smiles slightly. I can do that to him. I know it now. I can make him smile whenever I like. ‘Nope. The new owner.’
‘We are the same, you see?’ I raise my glass to him before draining it. ‘Both wiping our slates clean.’
‘This house is my clean slate, yes. But there’s unfinished business in Lugano.’ He takes my empty glass from me. ‘Let’s go wrap it up.’
‘So I’m a removal man now, am I?’ I’m deliciously woozy now. ‘Just one thing. If we go ghost-busting in Switzerland, what happens about my exhibition?’
‘It’ll take care of itself for the time being. Crystal can oversee any sales. And I’ve arranged some media interviews for you for when we get back. They’re clamouring for you, girl. So what do you say? Will you come on another voyage of discovery with me?’
He runs his finger up and down the goblet, waiting anxiously for my reply.
‘The two of us in your luxury retreat? Fur rugs and deep dark forests! What’s not to like?’ I stand up stiffly. I make sure he gets a good eyeful of my burning, red striped butt before the dress drops softly over my legs. ‘Maybe we can get in some skiing while we’re there if I can bend ze knees?’
‘There’s no snow so close to the lake,’ he replies sharply, kicking at a log coming loose from the fire.
‘Listen, Levi, whatever’s eating you is not my fault!’ I step over and lift my hand as if to strike him. He catches it in midair. ‘Perhaps you should go to Lake Lugano on your own.’
‘You’re my lucky charm, Serena. You’re coming with me.’ We really are like weighing scales. The crosser I get, the calmer he becomes. He frames my face with his warm hand, tipping it up to his. ‘Anyhow, Dickson has your passport. He’ll fly us over tomorrow and open up the house. If that suits?’
‘Your wish is my command. But there’s just one problem.’ I pick at the silver chain. ‘The sleeping arrangements. There’s this “he” who fancies himself as a shrink. I thought he was a Halloween spectre when I first saw him, but it turns out he’s real.’
He smiles slowly, holding my hands now. ‘Go on.’
‘He’s my Pygmalion.’ I go on, keeping my voice low. ‘He’s very rich and he’s sculpted me into a successful snapper. He’s a bit mean and moody sometimes but he has these amazing fingers and dark flashing eyes, and this annoyingly mesmeric mouth.’
He puts his finger on mine to hush me and I nibble it in between my lips. Gustav pulls me closer as I suck the tip. Further down his sexy hardness is pressing urgently through his jeans, nudging at my dress. I hook my thigh around his for a moment. That tango stance again. I push his finger out of my mouth.
‘He’s touched me intimately, you know, with this very finger. But you see, doctor, that’s where I get really confused. Offended, actually. Because he still doesn’t fancy me enough to go any further. He gets hard. I’ve felt his erection. I’ve even sucked him off. But still he rejects me.’
He smiles quietly and unclips the chain.
‘Oh, Miss Folkes. I told you in the beginning. Poco a poco.’
‘There’s nothing little about you, Levi. Oh, just loosen up and come to bed with me!’
‘Patience, princess.’ He marches me to the door. ‘This is the famine before the feast.’
‘You can trust me.’ I wind my fingers through my hair flirtatiously. ‘I’ll be gentle with you!’
He laughs softly and takes something from behind the big vase full of winter roses on the mantelpiece. It’s a mini disc from a camcorder. He waggles it in his fingers. ‘I’ve seen what you’re like when you’re on fire, my lovely. You’re every boy’s wet dream.’
‘Give that to me!’ I yelp, failing dismally to snatch it as he dangles it high above my head.
‘Not on your life. This is another bargaining tool. Or maybe I’ll save it for private screenings. You see? It’s not you, as they say. It’s me. I can’t be trusted.’
I stomp sulkily into the hall, praying he’ll follow me and reassure me. But he doesn’t.
‘I’ll get that film off you.’ I turn at the bottom of the stairs, sweep into a sarcastic curtsey like the principal ballerina before the curtain falls over Swan Lake. ‘And I’ll have you in my bed before the week is out, Signor Levi, by fair means or foul. Just you wait.’
ELEVEN
The car leaves the quaint squares and pretty lanes lined with chic shops where elegant inhabitants glide about their well-heeled business. I peer
through the rear window like a condemned woman as we head inland. Lugano looks right up my street. I could love a town that calls itself a city, one with palm trees, Riva boats and jazz festivals in the summer, and skiing, cable cars and lakeside restaurants in the winter.
‘The guide book says dolce far niente is one of the mottos of Lugano, did you know? All of Italy thinks like that, actually. I think it means “so sweet doing nothing”.’
‘For lucky buggers on holiday, maybe. And technically we’re still in Switzerland.’
The mountain-fringed lake drops away behind us, glittering with wintry sunlight.
‘Why can’t we linger a little longer? What’s the rush?’
‘Boss said to bring you straight here, Miss.’
The car labours doggedly up a narrow road squeezed on either side by colossal boulders. It turns under a high brick archway smothered in ivy, bumps over the cobblestones into the middle of a deserted yard, and stops. For a moment there is no sound but the ticking of the engine and the sharp whistle of the wind.
Dickson shifts round heavily, his broad shoulders and back making the leather seats creak.
‘The chalet’s still locked up and it’ll be freezing up there. I have to get into town for some supplies.’
‘Charming welcome. If I’d known nobody would be here I’d have asked you to leave me in Lugano to have a look around. At least I’d have some other human beings for company!’
I glare past the empty yard to the backdrop of navy blue mountains. I’d feel differently if Gustav was here with me. The city looks enchanting enough but those projections of rock dragging their bony knuckles against the heavy sky seem menacing rather than majestic. They promise avalanches to be buried in and ravines down which to plummet. Grist to the mill of experienced, show-off skiers like Gustav no doubt, but alien to dreamers like me growing up in the soft rain and undulating fields of Devon.