Eighty Days Yellow (21 page)

With a superfluous flourish of self-satisfaction, Summer came to the end of the piece. The spell broken, Victor was about to applaud, but Dominik gestured quickly to halt his movement and brought his fingers to his lips to indicate that silence was still the order of the day. Summer must not know who or how many were present.

Victor and Dominik exchanged glances. Dominik felt as if Victor was encouraging him. Or was it his imagination? Summer was waiting, holding the Bailly by her side, proudly nude. His eyes fell to her midriff, then lower. He perceived her slit behind the thin curtain of her sparse curls in the dim light now illuminating the room.

He took a couple of steps forward, took the violin from Summer’s hand and gently set it on the ground behind him where it would not be harmed.

‘I want you,’ he said. ‘You make me want you, Summer,’ he continued.

She was still blindfolded, so he could read no response in her eyes. His hand settled on her breast. The nipple was hard as rock. This was answer enough for him.

He neared his mouth and whispered in her ear, ‘I want to take you right now, right here.’

There was the hint of a nod, although he couldn’t be sure.

‘And there will be someone else watching . . .’

Her chest heaved as she took a deep breath. He felt her shiver for a second.

His left hand alighted on her shoulder, applying gentle pressure.

‘On your knees, on all fours.’

And then he fucked her.

Victor watched in total silence, fascinated by the spectacle of Dominik’s thick cock as it slid in and out of Summer’s opening, parting her lips with implacable force, pistoning into her depths. Observing the rise and fall of her breath as she was taken, the delicate sway of her breasts as they balanced below her, moved by the regular forward motion of Dominik’s body against hers, the slap of his balls against her lower arse.

Victor wiped his forehead and briefly touched himself through the material of his green corduroy trousers.

From the corner of his eye, as he kept on working himself in and out of Summer, Dominik could see how excited his colleague was, noticed him grinning wildly at him but was soon distracted once again by the way her anal opening widened under the impact of his cock inside her, like a wave taking its point of origin at the heart of her vagina and moving outwards in concentric circles, animating first her arsehole and then the rest of her body, giving life to the whole surface of her skin as the pleasure crest travelled across her.

The rear hole yawned microscopically and Dominik could not help thinking to himself that he would one day wish to fuck her there. As he did this, he missed Victor’s prompt movement as the philosophy professor positioned himself ahead of him, by Summer’s bowed face. For an instant, Dominik imagined Victor was about to get his own cock out and force it into Summer’s mouth, the classic ‘spit roast’, as he knew it was called in more vulgar circles, and was about to protest, but all Victor did was take a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and, with terrible kindness, wiped the sweat away from Summer’s forehead, gifting Dominik with a beatific smile as he did so.

Realising it wasn’t Dominik who was touching her there, albeit with gentleness, Summer seized up for a second and he felt her cunt muscles grip his cock with undue vigour. Thoughts racing through his brain with impossibilities, improprieties and memories galore, Dominik reflected frantically that he had once read – was it in the Marquis de Sade? – that when women died in the throes of sex, their vaginal muscles froze and a man’s cock could remain stuck there, embedded like a vice, or was it in other pornographic tales involving women and K9s, as the Craigslist personal ads less than euphemistically spelled it out? The shocking reminder struck him like a bolt of lightning and he came, violently, almost disgusted by his own thoughts.

When he looked up again, Victor had left the room. Beneath him, Summer seemed to be gasping for breath.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked solicitously, pulling out of her.

‘Yes,’ she said haltingly.

She collapsed full length onto the wooden floor, as spent as he was in her own way.

‘Did it turn you on to know we were being watched?’ Dominik asked.

She undid her blindfold and turned her face to him. She was flushed.

‘Terribly,’ she confessed, and lowered her eyes.

Dominik now knew how her mind worked, how her body responded to the gaze of a voyeur, but she was still uncertain where he would take her next.

It was half-term at the university and Dominik had long ago agreed to attend a conference overseas at which he was one of several keynote speakers and had arranged to take time off in the foreign city following his official talk.

When Summer had asked him when they might meet next, he had informed her of his forthcoming absence. The disappointment was visible on her face. They were in his kitchen on the ground floor having some toast and butter following the top-room fuck. Summer had slipped her T-shirt back on, still obscenely leaking, and at Dominik’s request had not slipped her jeans back on and was sitting bottomless on the metal chair at the granite kitchen top, where he had laid out the plates and glasses of grapefruit juice.

She felt highly conscious of her state of undress as the criss-cross pattern of the seat’s slats cut into her bum. No doubt he would witness another set of provisional marks latticed across her arse when she next stood up, and he would visibly enjoy that spectacle when she finally had to walk upstairs again to retrieve her jeans, with Dominik behind her in a perfect line of vision.

Dominik was once again his distant self and seemingly unable to address any subject of importance, let alone comment on what he wanted out of her in the long run. Summer, however, was pragmatic and happy to go with the flow. He would explain when he thought the time was right, she expected. For now, he restricted himself to small talk. She wanted so much to ask him about himself, his past, in an attempt to ‘read’ him, understand this curious man better, but maybe this reserve, this distance, were an integral part of the game. On one hand, she felt enormously attracted to him, while on the other, there was something of the night in Dominik, a darkness that she craved but that scared her at the same time. It seemed every step in this relationship of sorts was a sly progression in some journey to a place she couldn’t yet conceive.

‘Have you ever been to Rome?’ he asked her idly.

‘No,’ Summer replied. ‘There are so many places in Europe I still haven’t visited. When I came to Europe from New Zealand, I swore I would take full advantage and travel all over the place, but money has always been short, so it has seldom arisen. I once went to Paris for a week with a small rock band I sometimes play fiddle with, but that’s all.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘It was wonderful. The food was exquisite, the museums tremendous, the atmosphere electric, but because I was playing with people I’d previously not been involved with a lot – I was a last-minute replacement – I spent a lot of time rehearsing, so I didn’t have a chance to visit all the places I’d hoped to. I’ve sworn to myself that I will go back again and see and do more. One day. Do Paris properly.’

‘I understand Paris has a thriving private-club scene.’

‘Fetish clubs?’ Summer queried.

‘Not quite,’ Dominik replied. ‘They call them
clubs échangistes
, which translates as “swing clubs”. Almost anything goes.’

‘Have you ever been to one?’

‘No. I’ve never had the right person to take.’

Was this a covert invitation? she wondered.

‘There is a notorious one called Les Chandelles, the Candles. It’s terribly elegant, nothing sordid about it,’ he emphasised with a faint smile.

Then he dropped the subject.

Infuriating man. Just when she was full of further questions. Was he thinking of taking her there and ordering her to perform? Music only? Or also to be sexually displayed? Mounted in public maybe? Even by others? Summer’s imagination was frantically racing ahead.

‘So do you have any plans while I’m away? More fetish adventures maybe?’ Dominik asked.

‘None right now,’ Summer answered, although she also knew it was unlikely nothing would happen. It was bound to. Every single nerve in her body had now been lit like a torch and she knew her arousal and curiosity were moving down a slippery slope, the momentum increasing with every day.

Dominik was obviously aware of this.

His features became more solemn. ‘You do understand you owe me nothing,’ he said. ‘You are free to pursue your life in my absence, although I would ask only one thing of you.’

‘What?’

‘Whatever you do, whatever you get involved in beyond the normal banalities of day-to-day life, working, sleeping, playing with your little band, I want you to let me know. Write to me. In detail. Report to me. By email, or SMS, or even by quaint old-fashioned letter if the time allows. Will you do that for me?’

Summer agreed.

‘Can I offer you a ride back to your flat?’

She declined. His house was just a few minutes from a station on the Northern line and she needed the space to think, some form of free time Dominik did not own.

Dominik had declined when the Sapienza University in Rome had offered to arrange for him to stay in a hotel close to the campus. He much preferred his own accommodation and had booked a room in a four-star establishment off Via Manzoni, a ten-minute cab drive from Stazione Termini, where the train from the airport would deposit him.

He would engage with the conference, give his comparative literature lecture on ‘Aspects of Despair in the Literature of the 1930s to 1950s’, focusing on the Italian writer Cesare Pavese, one of a long tradition of writers who had committed suicide for all the wrong reasons. A subject matter, although somewhat uncheerful, on which he had by default become something of an authority. He would socialise with international colleagues, but he also wanted time alone to reflect on these weeks with Summer. He badly needed to clarify his thoughts, analyse his feelings and decide where he now wanted matters to lead. He had a sense there were a profusion of inner conflicts to resolve. Too many. Things could get messy.

Following the keynote speech, on the second day of his Roman stay, he had joined a group of other conference speakers and attendees, and dined in a restaurant off the Campo dei Fiori, where the
fragole di bosco
, the wild strawberries, had just the right touch of pungency and tanginess, and the caster sugar with which they had been sprinkled drew the flavour out to perfection when the fruit touched the tongue.

‘Is nice, no?’

Across the narrow rectangular table, a dark-haired woman he had not been introduced to earlier was smiling at him. Dominik looked up, his eyes stealing away from the succulent concerto of primary colours on his plate.

‘Delicious,’ he opined.

‘They grow them in the mountains, on the slopes,’ she continued. ‘Not in the forests as it says.’

‘Oh.’

‘I enjoy your lecture, very much. Is an interesting subject.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I also like the book you write three years ago on Scott Fitzgerald. Is very romantic subject, no?’

‘Thank you again. It’s always a pleasant surprise to come across an actual reader.’

‘You know Roma well, Professore Dominik?’ the woman asked as the waiter navigated the table juggling a tray of piping-hot espresso cups.

‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘I’ve visited a couple of times previously, but I’m afraid I don’t make a great tourist. Not a huge fan of churches and old stones, you see. I love the atmosphere, though, the people. One can sense the history without going on a proper cultural safari.’

‘That’s even better,’ she remarked. ‘Is good to be one’s own man, not to follow common path. By the way, I am Alessandra,’ she said. ‘I live in Pescara, but work at Firenze University. I teach ancient literature.’

‘How interesting.’

‘How long are you in Rome for, Professore Dominik?’ Alessandra asked.

‘I have another five days.’ The conference proper ended the following evening, and he had no plans beyond. He had thought of just relaxing, enjoying the food, the weather, grabbing some time for reflection.

‘If you want, I can show you around. Reveal to you the real Roma, not the tourist tracks. No churches, I promise. What do you say?’

Why not? Dominik thought. Her tousled black hair was a jumble of untamed curls, and her deep tan held a promise of warmth. Had he not made it clear with Summer, back in London, that what was developing between them was not exclusive by nature? Or had he? He knew he had not asked her for any promises, and neither had she made any demands on him. Call it an adventure, not a relationship, at this stage.

‘I say yes,’ he said to Alessandra. ‘It’s a wonderful idea.’

‘Do you know the Trastevere well?’ she asked.

‘I expect I will soon,’ Dominik smiled.

Seduction is mostly a game played between grown-up men and women, when neither party is aware who is the seducer and who the seduced. That was how it turned out with Alessandra from Pescara. The fact they ended up in her hotel room was just a matter of geographical convenience, as the late-night bar they had their final drinks in (sweet Martini for her and Dominik’s usual glass of cola without ice – he was teetotal by taste and not on a matter of principle, never having enjoyed the taste of alcohol when he had been younger and a normal consumer of the stuff) was closer to her homely boutique
pensione
than his spare, impersonal, expensive chain-hotel room.

His phone vibrated just as he entered her suite, holding Alessandra’s hand in his and having kissed her in the elevator and been allowed to negligently fondle her arse through the thin cotton skirt that she was wearing.

He begged Alessandra’s indulgence, pretexting outstanding business matters of a non-academic nature and consulted the text message that had just arrived. It was from Summer.

‘I feel empty,’ it said. ‘I think of your twisted desires over and over. Confused, horny, sort of lost.’ It was just signed ‘S.’

As Alessandra excused herself and moved to the suite’s bathroom to freshen up, Dominik walked over to the balcony where the hills of Rome curtained the surrounding landscape in the hot evening air and texted her back.