Eighty Days Yellow (23 page)

The thought filled me with a thrill of rebellion. Dominik didn’t own me. His power over my behaviour only extended as far as I allowed it to, anyway. Besides, he had never specifically instructed me not to have sex, or whatever else she had in mind, with Lauralynn.

I remembered the way that her jeans had seemed sculpted to her arse, and the way her ever-roving smile moved across her lips. I bet she was filthy.

Aside from a couple of snogs and a bit of tentative stroking, I had never been with a woman. It was something I had always wanted to try, but I’d never been brave enough to push any of the situations that I had found myself in to the next level, no matter how promising they had seemed at the time.

I was buoyed by the Prosecco, and Lauralynn’s obvious sexual confidence. She had more than enough for both of us.

‘He’s not my man,’ I protested, meeting her eyes with my own.

‘Good.’

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a black cab, speeding across to her flat in South Kensington.

She also seemed to be doing well for herself, I mused, when we arrived, checking out the interior of her apartment. It was old, of course, like nearly everything in London, but much larger than most one-bedroom flats that I had seen, with both an upstairs and a downstairs. The interior was what I expected, all sleek, clean lines, everything in white, minimal fuss or frippery. The effect could easily have been cold, but there was a humorous undertone to Lauralynn’s mysterious persona and I thought that the ice-queen thing she had going on was a bit of a performance. There was a warmer person underneath, I bet.

She watched me looking around.

‘Noise control,’ she said, ‘that’s why I moved in here.’

‘Noise control?’

‘It’s well insulated.’

‘Oh.’

‘Drowns out the screams.’

There was that wicked grin again.

‘My other neighbours kept complaining, so I had to move out,’ she continued, with a shrug.

I stifled a smile. I was always amused by occasions of the mundane colliding with the obscene. This world that I was now a part of seemed so darkly and effortlessly glamorous from the outside, yet perverts, like everyone else in the world, have to fit their extra-curricular activities in with the routine of the everyday, to pay rent, to explain away the presence of unusual household items to curious flatmates and landlords, to learn and practise their art in sometimes the most ordinary of places.

Lauralynn disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the chinking of ice being tipped into a glass and the soft fizz of a bottle opening.

‘Take a seat,’ she said, handing me a drink in a heavy glass tumbler and gesturing to an expansive cream leather couch with a corner seat that ran nearly all the way round two walls of the living room. ‘I’m just going to go and change into something more . . . appropriate.’

I nodded and took a sip. Mineral water. Perhaps she had noticed that the Prosecco had left me a little light-headed. Alcohol and the more physically demanding sexual perversions are not a wise combination, one of the reasons why I so easily trusted Dominik and his use of my body: I knew he didn’t drink.

She turned to me again, just as she reached the base of the stairs.

‘Oh, Summer?’

‘Yes?’

‘We have a friend coming over.’

She left me to stew on that for twenty minutes or so, time I spent straining to hear the doorbell ring and wondering what I would do if it did before she returned. I also took the opportunity to use the downstairs bathroom to freshen up.

Would she go down on me? I wondered, and gave myself a quick wash, just in case. Or expect me to go down on her? I was quite an experienced giver of fellatio, a task I particularly enjoyed, revelling in the power I felt when plumbing a man’s depth, giving him so much pleasure that he seemed to forget everything else, a captive to my mouth, even if I was the one on my knees, but I had never applied my tongue to a woman before, and I wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. I winced when I thought about how difficult it was for a lover to make me orgasm, an outcome that was only likely given a perfectly orchestrated rhythm of touch and mental suggestion, and even then by no means assured. Would I be able to make Lauralynn come? I wasn’t even sure that trying to do so would be part of this scenario.

From the little that I understood, the relationship between submissives, or slaves, and their mistresses was not sexual, but rather a power exchange, a complex dance between service and worship on one side and a benevolent, theatrical sort of authority-wielding on the other. Like all of these scenes, it appeared that the dominatrix was in charge, but in fact she usually went to great lengths to understand the particular psychology of each client and give them exactly what they wanted.

It was not an easy job, by any means, though it probably was a job for Lauralynn, which would explain her upmarket apartment and why the rooms were so impersonally furnished and all the surfaces looked to be easy-clean.

I heard her heels tapping on the stairs again and hurried to finish my cleansing routine. Lauralynn was answering the door as I emerged from the bathroom.

She was now wearing a full-length latex catsuit, minus the head covering, and she looked magnificent in it. She had changed into another pair of boots, with even taller heels, skyscrapers so high that I was amazed she could walk in them without toppling over. Her hair had been straightened, and a light gloss applied so that it shone in the light, a heavy blonde curtain that swayed when she moved. She looked like something out of a superhero film.

A goddess indeed. I could understand, without any hesitation, why a man would want to worship Lauralynn. Even the heads of flowers would bow in deference to her as she walked by, I thought.

‘Marcus,’ she said, to the man at the door.

She had moved to the side a little, so that I could see.

He was of average height and build, with dark-brown hair, reasonably handsome but not striking. His outfit was personality-free, jeans of an ordinary cut and a short-sleeved white shirt with a collar, neatly pressed. He was completely interchangeable with any other man on the street, the sort of man who could never be identified with any certainty in a police line-up.

‘Mistress,’ he replied, in a tone of obvious reverence as he lowered his head to kiss her hand.

‘Come in.’

She turned her back on him imperiously, and he followed her into the flat like a puppy would follow its master. She introduced us and he kissed my hand also. The action was totally foreign to me and I was embarrassed, immediately, by his show of subservience. I wanted to explain to him that I wasn’t a domme, but the expression on Lauralynn’s face forbade it. This was her scene and I would respect whatever part she wanted me to play in it.

Marcus and I mutely followed Lauralynn, stopping when she reached the foot of the stairs.

‘On your knees,’ she said to Marcus, who immediately dropped down behind me. ‘And don’t look up her skirt.’

So an order of sorts had been established, with Lauralynn in charge, me as a sort of accomplice, and Marcus as Lauralynn’s submissive – slave or servant, I was not yet savvy enough to identify the difference, if there was one.

‘Sit down, Summer,’ she said to me, waving a hand at her king-size bed, adorned entirely in black, a dramatic departure from the white downstairs. Perhaps she didn’t allow her men to orgasm here, I mused, or it would be difficult to keep the sheets clean.

I sat down.

‘Wash her feet,’ she instructed Marcus, who was still kneeling, with his body upright, awaiting Lauralynn’s commands with the ready eagerness of a dog expecting a bone.

I bent down and began to remove my shoes.

‘No,’ she said to me. ‘He’ll do that.’

Marcus crawled over to her en suite, where she evidently had a bowl and cloth waiting. I suspected that he had done this before.

He returned, still shuffling on his knees, with the bowl balanced carefully on one hand and the cloth draped over his arm, quite elegantly, like a waiter.

He picked up one of my feet, removed my shoe and began his ministrations, all the while carefully looking away from me, to the floor over his shoulder, deliberately avoiding any accidental view he otherwise might have up my skirt. His touch was gentle, practised, judging by his skill, particularly as he was completing his task blind; he could have been a beauty therapist, and perhaps he was, in his other life.

It was pleasant enough, but the whole act made me feel desperately uncomfortable. I tried to look satisfied, not wanting to give Marcus any indication that I was not pleased with his efforts, though perhaps he would have enjoyed that. Lauralynn watched me like a hawk as she paced the room, sleek as a panther in her catsuit, the latex so shiny I could see my reflection in it if she came close enough. She was holding a riding crop now, which she occasionally waved in front of us with a flourish, either as a threat or a promise.

Finally, he was finished. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you,’ I said kindly to the man at my feet.

‘Don’t thank him,’ Lauralynn interjected. She placed the riding crop under his chin, gently lifting his head. ‘Get up.’

He did.

‘Take off your clothes.’

He peeled off his shirt and jeans, meekly. He was a good-looking man, on the face of it. Everything added up. Features all in the right place, a reasonably lean body, but somehow there wasn’t anything about him that I found attractive in the slightest.

Lauralynn took my breath away and set my pulse racing, but my feelings for Marcus floated somewhere between ambivalence and revulsion. He looked so vulnerable, standing there with his clothes off, at her command, more naked than naked, like a lion that had just been shorn by hunters.

Was that what people saw when they witnessed me being dominated? I wondered. Perhaps they did. Maybe it depended on the particular idiosyncrasies of the onlooker. It appeared that my peculiar sexual make-up did not include an attraction to submissive men. Which I guessed, considering my relationship history, should not have come as a surprise. Other people too must have their own specific quirks and triggers.

‘Get on the bed,’ barked Lauralynn. She was circling him now, like a cat circles its prey.

Marcus rushed to comply.

She leaned over him and tied a blindfold round his head, checking the tightness with a gentle caress as you would reassure a pet about to be punished.

‘Now you will wait for us to return.’

She left him on the bed and beckoned for me to follow her into the bathroom. She shut the door and then crouched down, opened the cabinet under the sink and produced two large, black dildos from sealed zip-lock bags, each attached to a waist harness. Strap-ons. Another item that I had seen in sex shops and porno films, but never in the flesh. Of course I’d seen girl-on-girl action at the sex parties I had been to, but the penetrative fucking, now that I thought of it, had been entirely heterosexual. A bit of a shame really – I’d like to see two women, or two men, joined together like that.

Lauralynn handed one to me and then the penny dropped.

‘Put this on,’ she said.

‘Oh, God, I can’t fuck him!’

‘You might be surprised by what you can do. And he loves it. You’re doing the guy a favour, trust me.’

She took another look at my face and then her expression softened.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll let you pick an end. Which do you want, front or back?’

‘I’ll take front, please,’ I replied, certain that I would rather not take either, but accepting the harness that she offered me anyway. It was surprisingly heavy and didn’t look comfortable. This was going to be hard work. ‘Shall I take my clothes off?’

‘No. He’s not allowed to see a woman naked. Keep your clothes on, just in case the blindfold slips.’

What was the point, I wondered, in that? I supposed it made Lauralynn seem even more untouchable, if he was never able to catch a glimpse of her vulnerable self, her naked flesh.

Now buckled in, we returned to the bedroom, where Marcus was waiting on all fours, patiently offering himself up to us, for our use. I swallowed. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it, but I had come this far and didn’t want to make Lauralynn look a fool by backing out now.

She looked great, buckled up in her dildo. She wore it with the air of someone who actually had a cock. In a sense, I guess she did. I wished I was Marcus, suddenly. I wanted to be on all fours, prostrate before her, feeling her big, black cock invading the walls of my cunt. It would stay hard for ever too, I thought, with a pang of envy, and then of anger. He had taken my place, and I didn’t like it.

I wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of my reflection, but I felt awkward and unseemly, foolish, with the harness strapped over my clothes. It was too bulky, and the waist strap too large for me, so it bounced absurdly when I walked.

Lauralynn was already behind him. She had turned his arse to face her, and I watched as she pulled a surgical glove onto one hand, then covered her middle and index fingers with lube. At the sound of the glove snapping lightly round her wrist, Marcus moaned with anticipated pleasure and lifted his arse in readiness, like a dog on heat, waiting to be mounted.

She inserted one, then two fingers into his anus, with obvious relish.

‘What do you say, ungrateful slave,’ she cried.

‘Oh, thank you, mistress, thank you!’

He began moving back and forward, back and forward against her fingers, his balls slapping hard against the palm of her hand.

She gestured to me to climb up in front of his face.

‘Open your mouth and suck the lady’s cock, slave.’

I moved forward a little, so he could reach me, and watched as he began to greedily lap at the head of my cock. I began to thrust.

‘Are you ready for my dick yet?’ said Lauralynn, pulling her fingers out of his anus and carefully removing the glove, putting it to one side with a tissue. I noticed that she had laid a small towel beneath him, directly in the path of his now fully erect penis. So that was how she kept the sheets clean.