“Martin Stevenson. Yeah, I know. What do you know about this guy?”
“Not much. Name, age, occupation.”
“Track him down, Katherine.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Yes, you can. Go and see him. Think of some cover story. Try and get the truth out of him.”
“If he wasn’t telling the truth to the police, he won’t tell it to me.”
“He might. You might trip him up or something. You won’t know until you’ve tried. Go and see him, Katherine. If you don’t, I will, and that’ll be much worse.”
Frieda’s voice tells me that she’ll tolerate no dissent on this issue. I sigh, and nod.
“God, you must hate me sometimes,” she says, in a kinder voice. “I know what a bitch I can be. But I’ll tell you one thing, Katherine: in a world that’s ruled by bastards, any woman who wants to stay sane has to be a bitch sometimes. And it’s like I said: there’s just you. Nobody else can do this. You couldn’t help Diane when she was alive, but you can help her now. Don’t let her down.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say weakly.
We sit staring at the Mere for what seems like hours. A light drizzle falls, covering our hair and clothes with a fine mist. The wood, more than ever, seems a haunted place, a place with secrets, and I’m relieved when Frieda finally gets up and we begin to walk away. We make our way back to the car in silence, and all I can hear above our footsteps is the distant caw of a bird and the wind ruffling the trees.
~
Frieda leaves early the next morning. I go with her to Paddington, and we stand on the concourse waiting for her platform to be announced. I think of her travelling across the open, empty miles of countryside, and for a moment I wish that I too could escape and get away from this city of death. But then I think of Neil, who is coming to see me this evening, and I know that I want only to be here.
“Remember,” Frieda says, “go to see Martin Stevenson. And tell me what you dig up, even if it doesn’t amount to much.”
“I will.”
“Look after yourself, too.” She steps back, and looks at me critically. “You look well, Katherine. Better than you did before.”
“I feel better than before.”
“Is there someone else? You can tell me, you know. It’s been years since – well, since Diane. I wouldn’t think you were betraying her or anything.”
“There is someone.” I think of Neil, and of whatever is happening between us. “I don’t know how serious it is yet. It’s complicated, you know.”
“Another woman?”
“No. A man.”
“Well, you’ve certainly got very inclusive tastes, I’ll say that for you.” The platform number flashes up on the electronic display board, and there’s a flurry of movement as passengers pick up their luggage and begin to walk towards it. Frieda gives me a quick, rather shy hug, and then grabs her suitcase. “Well, there’s no reason why you should feel sad forever. Di wouldn’t have wanted that for you.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted it for you, either.”
“Maybe not, but it can’t be helped. I’m her mother, even if she’s gone. Nothing changes that, and I wouldn’t want it to change.” For a moment, she almost smiles. “You know what, Katherine? James Sallow may have the money and power and friends in high places, and all of those things. But you know what we’ve got that he doesn’t? Love, and loyalty. And maybe I sound like a sap, but I think if there’s just one thing that gives us the edge over him, it’s that.”
“I hope you’re right, Frieda.”
“I hope so, too.” She turns towards the ticket barriers. “Goodbye, Katherine. I’ll speak to you soon.”
I watch as she makes her way through the heaving crowd of commuters, slips through the ticket barrier, and disappears. She doesn’t look back, and it seems to me that Frieda has stopped looking back for good, or at least for now. All her energy and thoughts are focussed on the future, and she won’t stop until she knows the truth, or she’s dead. Working together, perhaps we’ll find a way to break the deadlock; and perhaps, too, we’ll tread on some important toes. And with that thought comes another: that somehow, in some way, this entire situation is coming to a head. Soon, I think, this storm is going to break.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Neil kneels on the rug, naked, arms raised above his head and spread wide. Two leather cuffs encircle his wrists, and chains connect them to hooks in the ceiling. A ball gag sits between his lips, held in place by a strap that circles around his head. He looks vulnerable and beautiful; looking at him, I feel an urgent wrench of desire. I kneel in front of him, looking into his eyes. I reach out and stroke his jaw, feeling the slight roughness there, the beginnings of a beard. He leans towards my touch, and his eyes close, and then open again. His breathing is harsh and heavy in the quiet room.
“Do you trust me?” I ask, smiling.
He nods, and gives a small grunt.
I hold out my hand, palm up. Two small metal clips, attached to each other by a thin silver chain, gleam in the dusky light.
“Nipple clamps,” I say. “Do you want to try them on?”
He pauses, and then nods.
I gently rub his left nipple with my thumb, stimulating it, feeling it harden beneath my touch. His eyes close once more, and he turns his head slightly to the side. I take one of the clamps, position it over his nipple, and release it so that it nips the delicate flesh there, pinching it together. He gives a little moan.
“Does it hurt too much?” I ask.
He moans again, but shakes his head.
“Good,” I say. “Because I would never really hurt you. This is all about pleasure. You know, don’t you, that your pleasure gives pleasure to me.”
He opens his eyes, looks at me, and nods.
“And I command you to feel pleasure. Feel as much pleasure as you can.” I kiss his cheek. “And if it gets too much, if you want me to stop, give three small grunts together. That’s all it will take.”
He nods again, and gives a little whimper.
I reach out and gently caress his other nipple, and then attach the other clamp to it. The silver clips pinch his flesh together, and he moans and stirs. The chain between the clamps swings slightly as he moves.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
He nods, his eyes tightly closed.
I begin to stroke his cock, fondling him along his shaft and allowing my fingers to linger over the head. I move my hand to his balls, enjoying the feel of them against my fingers and palm. He gives a little whine of pleasure, and the leather cuffs around his wrists creak as he stirs and sways.
“Do you want more?” I ask.
He nods again, his eyes still closed. I reach out and take something from the table.
“Open your eyes,” I say.
He obeys, and his eyes widen slightly when he sees what I’m holding: a leather cuff, a little like a handcuff, but smaller.
“Do you know what this is for?” I ask.
He nods.
“And do you want it?”
He nods again, and I sit back on my haunches, reach for his balls, and gently pull them down. He gasps, and then sighs as I put the cuff around his scrotum and tighten it. He murmurs something into his gag as the cuff closes around his flesh.
“Is it too tight?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Good.” I lean forward and kiss his cheek. “It doesn’t have to be very tight. Just tight enough to remind you where you belong, and who you belong to. I don’t want you to forget that, ever.”
A small D-ring is attached to the testicle cuff, and I fasten another small chain to it, and then clip it to the chain that hangs between the nipple clamps. Then I sit back on my haunches again, and look at him. His balls are pulled down by the cuff and, with the skin stretched back, his cock seems larger. The chains gleam against his pale skin. He moans, and a small trickle of saliva runs down his chin.
“Yes,” I say. “This is how I l
ike you. Tied up so that you can’t move. So that I’ve got you right where I want you.”
I kiss him again, and run my hand through his hair. He is breathing heavily, and I feel his breath tickling the skin on my neck. I move my hand down his back, and run it over his buttock. He leans towards me slightly, and the chains binding him to the ceiling jangle. Then I pull away, get up, and go to stand behind him.
A flogger hangs from a hook on the wall. I take it down, and the leather tails brush against my thigh, dancing against my skin and sparking a deep tug of desire in my groin. I hear a slight catch in Neil’s breath as I move the flogger so that the tails run lightly across his back and buttocks, tickling him. He moves slightly, leaning forward a little so that his backside sticks out.
“You like that, don’t you?” I say, smiling.
He gives a little moan, which tells me that he does.
I let the flogger dance gently against his skin for a moment, and then flick it and bring it down, quite lightly, on his back. He whimpers, very quietly, and sways slightly, so that the chains running from his wrists to the ceiling clink again, making a silvery-sweet sound. I slide the flogger over to the other side of his back, and see the skin turning pink where I struck him. The sight is maddeningly erotic, and I feel a twist of pleasure deep inside my body. My clitoris gives a small throb, and I feel it hardening.
I bring the flogger back, and then flick it again, so that the tails hit the other side of his back. He sways again, and the chains rattle. I strike again, harder, and again, building up the speed and intensity of the blows. I begin to strike his buttocks, and again see his skin turn pink, and he sighs and squirms in his restraints, leaning further forward, presenting his backside to me. Occasionally he lets out a stifled little groan through the ball gag, and the muted sound increases my excitement. I hit him a little harder, pausing to dance the flogger over his skin, knowing the maddening contrast between the light tickle and the hard slap. I vary my rhythm, teasing him, and he makes a small sound of longing in his throat.
Eventually I let the flogger fall to the floor, and move around so that I’m standing in front of him, facing him. He looks up at me, and his eyes seethe with yearning. A thin stream of drool runs from the corner of his mouth, and his cock is enormous, hard and throbbing. I sink to my knees, and my fingers reach out and stroke his erection. He moans. I move closer, parting my legs slightly so that his cock slides between my thighs, and the tip slips into my cunt and nudges against my clitoris. I sigh, and begin to move my pelvis back and forth, stroking myself against him, feeling my pleasure swell and become overpowering. Neil gives a sob of desire, craving release, but the cuff bearing down on his balls delays his orgasm, drawing out the experience. We rock backwards and forwards, stimulating ourselves and each other, and I feel the coldness of his chains growing warm between our skin, and the nipple clamps digging into my own flesh. Then, as I begin to feel my body betray me, tipping me over the edge toward orgasm, I pull away. Neil gives a frustrated moan.
“Do you want to come?” I breathe.
He nods.
“Shall I take this off?” I ask, touching the testicle cuff.
He nods again, his eyes filled with pleading.
“I’ll only do that if you promise that you won’t come until I tell you that you can. And only if you promise that these,” – I gently cup his balls in my palm – “are mine. Whether they’re cuffed or not, they belong to me. I don’t want you to forget that. Do you promise?”
He nods. I unfasten the cuff, and it falls away from his body. He sighs, and pulls slightly against his restraints. His cock, smeared with my wetness, stands out, immense and throbbing. I reach for a condom, rip open the packet, and carefully roll it over his cock. I turn so that I’m facing away from him, and slip down onto all fours, so that my splayed thighs brush against his. His cock presses against my buttocks, searching, hungry, and I glance back at him.
“Now fuck me, hard,” I say. “But remember, don’t come. Not until I tell you that you can.”
I push my hips back, and feel his cock slide against the entrance to my vagina. He pushes against me, trying to enter me, but it’s difficult for him in this position; he can’t make use of his hand to guide his cock. He tries again, and slips out of me altogether. He makes a small sound of frustration, and I push my hips back further and lift my pelvis higher. He thrusts again, and glides into me with a small cry of triumph. I feel my body opening up around him, feel a knot of pleasure between my legs tighten and twist as he presses up into the core of my body. We begin to move together, hard and fast, every thrust heightening our pleasure. But I make him wait – make myself wait – holding back, resisting the urgent wishes of our bodies. And then I can take no more of this torture, and I arch my back and thrust against him, hard.
“Now. Now,” I cry, and the tension in my body shatters into a thousand pieces, like a glass smashing, as I come. I feel my limbs jerk convulsively, and then hear Neil’s muffled cry as he comes, and the jangle of the chains; and then there’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, and mine.
~
Later, while we’re lying together on the bed, I hold him gently, almost as a mother might cradle her child. His mood is soft and dreamy in the aftermath of sex. A trickle of perspiration runs down his temple. It is July now, and the days are hot, thick, and dusty; many evenings, clouds pile up on the horizon, heralding a storm. I suddenly yearn for open countryside, for wide moors and mountains. I think of Frieda, sitting on the train as it carries her back to the cool hills of Wales. I think of what it must be like for Neil during the day, when he is at his office in Scotland Yard. I have never been to his workplace, but I can imagine what it is like: shelves piled high with files, a fan whirring in the background, and Neil sitting quietly, immersed in his work, his mind taken up with the details of some investigation – a welcome respite, perhaps, from the urgent question of his marriage and inharmonious home. And also, perhaps, a respite from the question of me. Am I just his guilty pleasure, or do these stolen hours really mean something to him?
Some questions are so big that we can’t bear to ask them, even of ourselves. We dread hearing the answers, perhaps, even though knowing them might save us.
I am almost relieved when Neil begins to surface from his quiet dreamtime, and when grey normality opens up around us once more. I go into the kitchen and pour us some wine, and Neil goes to the bathroom. I hear water splashing in the sink, a cupboard opening and closing: the sounds of routine and domesticity, all the things I once disdained and now, suddenly, yearn for.
When I come back into the bedroom I find that the room is in near-darkness, the lamp switched off, and the curtain slightly open. Grimy orange light from the street outside shines through the gap. I make out Neil’s silhouette; he is standing just in front of the curtain, peering through the crack. He turns his head slightly as I come into the room, and makes a small gesture with his hand – a gesture that I take to mean “Get away” or “Stand back”.
“Turn off the hall light,” he whispers.
I put the wine down and do as he says, too startled to ask any questions. He continues to peer out into the dark street, his tension etched into the strong lines of his face and his taut shoulders. I step farther into the room, until I’m standing just behind him.
“What is it?” I murmur.
“Nothing, probably,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of what?”
“There’s someone standing out there, Katherine.”
“Out on the street? So what?”
“I saw him earlier, when I arrived. He’s standing in the shop doorway just across the road. He must have been there for the past two hours or so.”
I remain silent for a moment, while a thrill of trepidation runs through my body.
“Are you sure?” I ask at last.
“I didn’t pay much attention when I first saw him; I just assumed that he was waiting for someone, something like that. But he’
s been waiting a hell of a long time, if that’s so.” He takes a step back, and beckons to me. “Look. Carefully, now – just glance around the edge of the curtain. See him?”
My eyes come to rest on the doorway of the shop on the opposite side of the road, a rather down-at-heel place that sells oriental fabric, saris, and belly-dancing costumes. It is dark at this hour, and security shutters cover the door and windows. The man standing there has his hands in his pockets, and is not looking directly up at my windows; indeed, he seems to be studiously avoiding doing so. But there is, in his bearing and attitude, a suggestion of patient, attentive waiting, and of watching. He is keeping his head down, and I cannot see his face, but I glimpse close-cut blond hair, broad shoulders, and a sharp nose.
“Do you recognise him?” Neil asks, his voice quiet.
“No. I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” I hear a slight quaver in my voice. “Are you sure he’s watching me?”
“He’s certainly watching this building, and no one else is here tonight. I suppose he could be a burglar, casing the joint; there must be some valuable things in that shop down on the ground floor. But I can’t see it. I don’t think a burglar would spend so much time just standing there looking; he’d move in when he had a chance, check things out in more detail.” He gently takes the edge of the curtain from my fingers, and carefully puts it back into place. “I don’t think he noticed us looking, anyway. Turn the light back on; best act normally. We don’t want him to know we’ve seen him. We’ll have another look later on.”
I turn on the light switch, and golden light floods the room. I look across at Neil. His face is pale, his expression grave. He takes a sip of wine, and sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Are you quite sure about this?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned. I pick up my own glass and swallow some wine, grateful for the warmth and courage it brings. “I really can’t think why anyone would be watching me.”
A Wayward Game Page 12