Eighty Days White (32 page)

‘You’re a fool, Neil,’ was all I could find in myself to say, but even as I did so I regretted my words.

I was reaping what I had sown.

My heart leaped, spinning out of orbit.

‘Come here,’ I said.

He stepped towards me, timid, expectant, vulnerable. And for a moment, I wanted to be him. To know what it felt like to love someone so unconditionally. For better or worse.

I took him into my arms and we kissed.

The softness of his lips came as a shock and it dawned on me that we had never truly kissed before, with innocence and feeling. Even when we first reunited in Darwin, it had been a step along a complicated road of pain and anger and
longing. But now it felt so simple, as our tongues tentatively teased each other, our breaths melded and my hands began roaming inside his shirt, tiptoeing along the hard muscles of his firm abs.

I undressed him.

Licked, teased and playfully bit and pulled on his nipples. My eyes travelled lazily across the almost smooth avenue of his chest as I mentally bade a final farewell to Leonard and his forest of dark curls and banished him for ever from my mind.

Neil sighed. As if he knew already the next steps of our dance, the way I might take clumps of his hair and mercilessly pull on them until it brought tears to his eyes, the manic grip of my hands across his vulnerable balls and the razor shave of my teeth against the ridge of his cock, anticipating the flat of my hands raining against the soft flesh of his arsecheeks, predicting the neutral mind space he would allow himself to drop into as I added to my arsenal, flogger, paddle, leather, cat-o’-nine-tails or whatever I might have secreted away from She’s defunct dungeon. His whole soul trembled on the threshold of the unknown, yearning for the pain, the submission, accepting my will, my desires. Trembling because he had no way of knowing what would happen next and that very ignorance was part of the process, rendering him helpless so that when the next blow or the next command would come it would actually be a relief, a blessing I was granting him.

We disentangled.

I rose. Stepped out of my clothes.

Silently, Neil kneeled at my feet, looking up at my eyes like a supplicant at a church altar.

‘No,’ I said and extended my hand towards him. ‘Today you’re fucking me. And you will be on top.’

I opened my arms.

Through the darkened window pane the light of a lamp on the street outside the block of flats shone against his face and his eyes had the brightness of fireflies glinting in the night sky.

He got to his feet.

I lowered myself and took the comforting heat of his cock into my mouth until it reached the back of my throat. Neil was holding his breath.

Tonight all I wanted was to be fucked. And I harboured the faint hope that when I came, my face would be half as beautiful as the older woman’s being ploughed by the two men in the pitiful surroundings of the sex club. It wasn’t much to ask, was it? And if Neil felt it wasn’t enough, I could still spank him or rake my nails across his back later, couldn’t I?

I’d decided that the girl with the teardrop tattoo, the mixed-up Snow White of the uncertain, bifurcated path, would see life, live life, from both sides now.

I wanted it all.

The gloom of London’s winter was finally making room for the premature seeds of spring, although mornings were cold, and frost on car windscreens lasted in the shadows until at least nine against a sky of uniform blue.

Lily had returned to work at the music store in Denmark Street and was welcomed back with open arms by her erstwhile co-workers, as if she had never left. She knew it was a dead-end job and was determined not to spend her lifetime there and had enrolled in an external journalism course, which she studied at home. She had already triumphantly succeeded in her first two modules.

She was unsure whether she actually wanted to become a journalist, but was intrigued by the possibility of freelance work in publishing. The famous violinist Summer Zahova had, one recent afternoon, come to the shop seeking accessories for her instruments and they had engaged in conversation. Lily had approached her and quizzed her about the novel by Dominik that Lily had come across during her travels and that she seemed to have inspired, seeking confirmation about the actual author. Summer, with a wry smile, had indeed admitted it was by her boyfriend. The revelation was a liberation for Lily, as if the many pieces of a puzzle were finally coming together.

To reward herself for the high marks she had managed on her course, Lily had made a detour through Covent Garden on the way home to Neil’s flat and treated herself to a present in a classy store off Seven Dials. A present to herself, but also to Neil.

‘Unwrap it,’ she had demanded, mischievously clearing the table top in the kitchen and replacing the plates with a medium-sized box, wrapped in gold foil.

‘For me?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s for both of us.’

He leaned forward to pick up the box, weighing it, noting how light it was and then cautiously pulled the wrapping material away, careful not to tear it. Lily couldn’t help giggling. If it had been her opening the present, she would have been hasty and merciless, tearing the paper into a thousand shreds.

A frown crossed his face when the first glimpse of a sleek black leather handle came into view. He gripped the base of the rod firmly and eased it out of the tissue paper. Soft lengths of suede slithered from the box, snake-like, and made a faint ‘thwack’ sound as Neil theatrically swung the length of the flogger off the table.

‘Both of us, eh?’ he said. ‘You mean it’s a present for you to torture me with?’ He grinned from ear to ear.

‘Even if that were true,’ Lily replied, ‘don’t act like you won’t love it.’

‘I can’t argue with you there.’

‘Go on then, have a closer look.’

Lily fidgeted in her chair impatiently. Christmas with Neil would be a nightmare, she thought, if this were how slowly he approached every gift.

His hands fiddled with the tissue for what felt like an eternity until, finally, he pulled another flogger from the box.

‘Two?’ he asked quizzically. ‘Are you going to swing them both together like poi?’

She groaned and grabbed the two floggers by the whipping ends and turned the two handles to face him.

His face lit up like Christmas morning.

The words ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ were engraved in gold gothic font on each handle. The same font as the letter L that was engraved on his arse.

‘You’ll let me use one on you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘If it feels right, and you want to.’

Lauralynn, with whom Lily had remained on friendly terms and had become something of an accomplice in crime, invited her for afternoon tea at the Ritz on Lily’s day off, warning her to dress conservatively for the occasion. Lily had, provocatively, worn a short Burberry schoolgirl skirt that only reached halfway down to her knees, which even had Neil blushing whenever she wore it for play. With it she had a tight, white starched shirt and a tie she had borrowed from Neil’s drawer, which she thought was actually his prep school one.

Lauralynn was wearing a man’s business suit, all straight lines and rigour. She felt they looked like Laurel and Hardy when the hotel doorman bowed and doffed his hat as they passed through the revolving door and emerged into the Ritz’s teeming lobby. Heads turned, but no one ran up to them to suggest they leave. The hotel had a dress code, but they had managed to cleverly circumvent it.

Lauralynn loved to gossip and was never short of startling
news about the crowds she was involved in. Much of it was deliciously scurrilous and funny, indiscreet and witty. Lily enjoyed being with her as they exchanged confidences. Lauralynn was a trifle disappointed at the way Lily’s relationship with Neil had evolved into a game of two halves, where of common accord both took it in turns to dominate the other, switching with their mood and their inclinations.

She even revealed that once there had been a man in her life with whom she could have reached a similar compromise, but his connection to another woman of their acquaintance had prevented all his inner submissive elements from coming to the surface.

‘Who?’ Lily interrogated her thoroughly, but Lauralynn would not say.

‘Do I know him?’ Lily was intrigued, another shadow moving behind the curtain of her life.

‘You do,’ Lauralynn confirmed. ‘But I’ll never tell.’

‘You spoilsport,’ Lily protested.

Lauralynn took the last cake to her mouth while balancing the perfectly shaped porcelain teacup in her other hand, the very image of a lady. She put the cup down, looking intently at Lily, as if the news she was about to impart might not be appropriate.

‘What?’ Lily finally said.

‘She is reopening the club,’ Lauralynn said.

‘Really?’

‘In the same premises. The developers decided to get rid of the property as no planning permission was likely to be granted and the esteemed Ms Haggard convinced her pet photographer, the great Grayson, to finance a buy-out of the building.’

‘Wow.’

So many memories came rushing back, as Lily considered the news.

‘You still haven’t made contact with her again,’ Lauralynn asked.

‘No.’

‘Nor Grayson?’

‘Him neither.’

‘They speak of you kindly, you know,’ Lauralynn declared.

Lily hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I fit into their world any longer,’ she confessed.

‘Rubbish, Lily, it’s in your blood. I can already see that twinkle in your eye. It’s part of you now.’

As the words sank in, Lily knew that Lauralynn was right. She sighed, vowing that this time, though, it would be different. For her and for Neil.

‘They’re opening on Valentine’s Day,’ Lauralynn said. ‘I’ll get you both an invitation.’

She had something altogether different planned for the club. It had come to her while she had been viewing the premises along with the official from the council’s planning department. Stupid man, she thought to herself as he coughed nervously. She imagined that she had him on all fours on a leash crawling uncomfortably along the stone floor and that each time he spoke he would feel the relentless pull of her leash on his collar. The fantasy improved her mood considerably. Perhaps she would make him wear one that was studded on the inside. She watched
his Adam’s apple bobble as he spoke and imagined the press of sharp studs against his soft turkey neck.

His words brought her back to the present. ‘I really don’t think it will be possible to—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she replied. ‘Everything is possible.’

Before the old swingers who had temporarily taken over the club had given up the ghost on their project, they had begun rebuilding the series of old underground tunnels that swarmed out like so many threads of a spider’s web around the original dungeon area. A long time ago, before the advent of health and safety regulations, the tunnels and the small caverns that lay at the end of each one had been used as a cool place to store goods that were being sold at the nearby Smithfield Market. The swingers had planned to create a downstairs grotto of baths and pools that they hoped would add a false modesty to the place, as punters could pretend that they were attending a health spa rather than going to some seedy sex joint to get their rocks off.

She had a poor opinion of both swingers and health spas, and an even poorer opinion of the two combined. But when she discovered the tunnels, in a very rare moment of totally unabashed joy, she had dropped her fearsome Ms Haggard persona, gripped Grayson’s arm and squealed like a child in a candy store.

‘Look!’ she had cried, clapping her hands together. He’d smiled back and each time a bill arrived for the latest renovations he remembered the expression on the face of his beloved mistress and mentally confirmed that it was worth every penny to see the happiness spread over her features.

The various official permissions that had stymied the
swingers’ plans were no problem for She. One of her slaves worked in a senior position in the local authority and it had been a matter of pulling some strings, or rather chains, she reminded herself with no small sense of satisfaction.

When She was finally satisfied with each last detail of the renovations, she set to work planning the opening night and organising the invitations. Her list of chosen ones was exclusive, and entrance for those who were not included would be granted under no circumstances whatsoever, but she did not make her selection based on looks, wealth or age. Patrons were appointed according to a strict criterion that boiled down to She’s own value system.

‘Only those who truly understand what we’re about,’ She informed Grayson. ‘The real players. No tourists, no matter how long their latex-clad legs or how deep their pockets might be.’

The invitations came on thick white card embossed with lightly gold-flecked deep-red lettering that glinted in the light and simply stated the date, 14 February, and the address.

‘Are we going to another wedding?’ Summer Zahova, the flame-haired violinist asked Dominik when she spotted the notice pinned to the fridge alongside the menu to their local Chinese takeaway that made the best roast duck she had ever tasted.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘That club by Smithfield, reopening, I think. Not a wedding.’

‘Thank fuck for that,’ she said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I don’t think I could bear to sit through another one. Shall we go, then? It’s been a while.’

‘So it has,’ he said, resting his hands on her hips and pulling her back against him. ‘I’m surprised She hasn’t asked you to come and play for the event.’

‘Now that you mention it,’ she replied, ‘my agent has been calling. Something about an opening night that I’m not allowed to be seen dead at under any circumstances, let alone performing.’

Dominik laughed. ‘And you’ve been practising ever since, I bet?’

Across the wide open space of Hampstead Heath, Viggo Franck was wordlessly protesting about his latest task under the watchful eye of Lauralynn. He’d just been finishing his weekly house-cleaning session when the doorbell rang. It was the postman waiting on the door’s threshold with some letters and a parcel that wouldn’t fit through the slot.