Ever Unknown (4 page)

Whatever this was, he was good at it. Plus, he’d done a great job of tying his own hands behind his back. In fact, he was so good at this, she was starting to suspect…

She glanced at the cards. They were neat and uniform—the kinds of things people used for presentations—and on each one was a section of typed words. They looked as if they’d been done with a typewriter, too, which gave her a little frisson of excitement that she couldn’t quite understand.

It was probably due to the time he’d taken.
The care.
The almost filthy looking state of the near wobbly letters.
Only careful perverts used typewriters, she was sure, and apparently they typed things like…

You should have known it wasn’t James Walsh.

Making her want to faint, standing up.

The weirdest thing was, however, she
had
known. As soon as she’d seen the words in black and white, she’d known. James Walsh could never in a million years have been this inventive, this sly,
this
able to use a typewriter. James Walsh was too big and handsome and…conventional.

Although apparently not so conventional that he was beyond having his hands tied behind his back, by an anonymous benefactor.

She glanced back at the card, searching for further explanations, anything, even some more of that mocking tone would do. Thankfully, he had it in spades.

Our buddy James here is in to something far, far different than the things you think I’m in to. He likes being tied up, and punished for being a bad boy, and I all I had to do was say—hey, go in this room at this time, and someone will come in and give it to you.

What do you say, Molly? Do you think you’re up to the task?

She thought of all the ways she was
not
up to the task. They included, but were not limited to—her newly discovered liking for the opposite of this, the fact that this was James Walsh, who she’d have to see every day after probably humiliating him roundly, and finally, God, where was Ever? Where was the real Ever? Did he even exist?

She was starting to think she’d developed a split personality, and one of them was him. She fell asleep, and he woke up and wrote emails and typed on cards—like in
Fight Club
, only with less punching and more sexual desires she couldn’t admit to.

She flicked to the next card, and it was even worse than the first.

Unbutton his trousers and push them down. Do it slowly. A submissive always enjoys the tease.

Oh God, he was mad. He was absolutely right, but that didn’t make him any less mad. Or her any less inclined to do what he said. She desperately wanted to say to James, “
is it okay if I do this
?” but oh, inside herself she knew that was the wrong thing to do. He didn’t
want
okay. She didn’t want okay. She just wanted to do it and then see
Ever’s
face—just once.

James didn’t move when she reached around him, and fumbled for the buttons on his pants. All those fantasies featuring him and his blond hair and his big, bulky body, and here she was excited because of the orders on a piece of card, instead of the way he looked and smelt and probably tasted.

She didn’t even want to taste him. Unless
Ever
told her to.

But the next card just said…

Now his underwear.

Every part of her screamed to ask him if it was okay, if he was bothered by this, if he wanted to be naked, or not.
But all she could see was
herself
reflected in him, and knew the answer without saying a word.

Of course he wanted to be naked. Of course he wanted what was on the card after that.

Now stroke his bare ass, as though you’re going to be nice. Listen and feel for his responses—if he trembles, just give him a hint of your nails. Like a promise, almost, like you want him to know where this is leading
.

She couldn’t even think about where this was leading. More than likely towards making her
very,
very wet. She could feel it already, soaking through the knickers she was glad she’d worn. If she hadn’t, James Walsh would probably be able to smell her arousal, now, and know how turned on this was making her—even if he couldn’t see the hard peaks of her nipples through her shirt, or the heat that had spread over her cheeks and down her throat.

She wanted to rub herself against him, but settled for doing as she’d been told.
Just a hand on his bare ass, every nerve in her prickling to feel it.
He had a slight sprinkling of hair, but it felt largely smooth and good, and oh Ever was right. When she stroked, he trembled all over as though struck.

So she dug in her nails.
Just a little.
Just like he’d said—a hint.

Then she watched him squirm and squirm. She thought about herself, wriggling in her seat, so impatient. It made her want to both race to the next card, and hold off until it made him insane. Though in the end, she went with the sweetest, kindest option.

After a while, when he’s nice and unprepared, bring the palm of your hand down on his ass, really hard. Don’t hold back. Don’t cup your hand. Straight from the shoulder—a good, firm whack.

This time her mind went to what Ever must have been feeling, when writing all of this stuff.
Had he jerked off afterwards, thinking about her cracking someone’s ass in the same way he probably would, if he got his hands on her? She thought so. It must have been the case. She wanted to masturbate right now, and all she’d done was read the damned stuff.

Then she smacked, just like he asked her to.

Her palm stung briefly, once the deed was done. And true enough, the sting threaded its way through her body, tweaking her nipples as it went, stroking over her plump sex on the journey down. But it was more the
sound
he made, that affected her—such a guttural, desperate groan. The sound made her aware of her clit, and the sharp tingles she could produce if she mashed her thighs together.

God she wanted to echo that sound.

She held it in, however, and smacked him again and again, just like the cards told her to. The air grew muggy and thick and tight with a weird kind of tension, but she kept on because the cards said to do so. The cards said…

Don’t stop, not even if he begs you to. Go steadily faster and faster, and harder and harder, and wait for him to bend over the desk—he will do.

Which only made her think that
Ever
had done this before. Not just
to
some random woman, but to this exact person standing here in front of her. He’d spanked and spanked James Walsh until he groaned almost continually, thighs trembling as though they didn’t want to hold him up, a tumble of words mixed amongst the panting breaths.

She felt sure he was saying
please, please
, but all she could think was,
did you say that to Ever? Did it make it worse that it was a man spanking you, telling you how bad you were, did you think—God, is he going to fuck me after this?

She didn’t know whether he had or not, but it made her clit jump and slickness run down the inside of her thigh, to think on it. She almost didn’t stop when James collapsed over the desk, she was thinking on it so hard.

But then she managed to gather herself, and take a shaking step back.
Just enough to regain her senses and press the now heated palm to various parts of herself—oh, the feel of it.
Red hot and perfect.
And James calling out to her, unable to control himself now.

“Please don’t stop,” he said. “Please, please, I need it. I need to come.”

The word sounded so much filthier than anything they’d been doing. She’d been spanking him and obeying orders and getting wet, so wet, but that one word…
come.
And so quickly followed by the bittersweet permission of
Ever’s
final card.

You can touch yourself now, Molly. Don’t worry about him. Just give yourself that orgasm I know you’re dying for,
then
leave the room.

Unless you still want to fuck James Walsh, that is.

Man, he was a bastard.
Such a perfect bastard.
He knew everything so exactly, every unknown, unearthed part of everything—in what sort of world could she possibly have disobeyed?

Instead she shoved her skirt up roughly, almost brutally, and pushed her hand into her knickers. It was awkward with the cards still gripped in her fist, but then the whole thing had been awkward while trying to hold onto them and read them and let
all of their
shiver-inducing words sink in.

Now she had a brief moment of freedom, and it felt as good as the obedience. It felt good to find her swollen clit with just the tip of her finger—anything more and it would be too much—and touch herself to the sound of James Walsh trying to hump the desk. Big, bold, Captain of Industry James Walsh, sobbing with frustrated pleasure, the handprints on his ass so red and glorious, right in front of her.

She couldn’t help gasping. She couldn’t help calling a name that wasn’t James Walsh’s. Her clit felt huge and her wetness seemed to have spread just about everywhere, all over her arousal-plumped lips and through her soaking slit. Just a few short
strokes,
and she was there.

The orgasm went on for a long, long time. So long that she hardly heard
him
speak.

“You’re going to leave me like this, aren’t you?”

She hardly heard herself leaving the room, either—suddenly she was at her desk, pulling her coat on. Legs still weak, fingers still sticky, the memory of it burnt behind her eyes.

She could have been disappointed. She kind of thought she should be. And yet, as she shoved the crumpled cards into her bag and staggered towards the elevator, she couldn’t think of a single thing to be disappointed about.

* * * *

The first thing he asked her in the next mail he sent was not what she expected. She expected further orders, something even darker and stranger. Instead he wrote…

Are you angry with me?

As though she
should
have been disappointed.
And when she wrote back that she wasn’t, he then asked why. It seemed pretty silly of him to enquire, as the answer came to her so simply.

Because I apparently find a lot of pleasure in doing what you ask me to.

There was a long, long silence, after that.
Four phone calls, instead of three.
James Walsh passing by her desk, eyes front,
face
steaming red. She laughed into her hand, but didn’t really care all that much if he heard her.

Something had changed, now.
Something good.
The office no longer seemed quite as lonely and empty, with Ever around. Despite the fact that he took a while to reply, she knew it was coming. She’d never seen his face, and yet felt more secure in him than any other man she’d ever known.

And sure enough, ten minutes later…

He said that you didn’t express any desire to make love to him.

Was that a hint of insecurity, beneath the cool, calm veneer? It sounded like it, to her. It made her heart beat faster in a different sort of way to the things he’d said and done before, and her mind went to a whole new set of possibilities. Ones that included that word he’d used, about the kind of thing that her and James Walsh might have done. That he probably
expected
her to have done.

Make
love
.

She replied with three words, and didn’t think anything more needed to be added…

Why would I?

But he responded with many things, most of which made her shiver harder than any of the strange domination games they’d been playing.

I confess, I thought he was what you wanted. But if he isn’t, then perhaps we should try something different. If you trust me, that is, which I think you do.

So this is what I want from you. It may be the last thing I ask you to do for me, but that largely depends on you—and I’m sure you’ll see why, in time.

I want you to go home, tonight, and
do
everything as you normally would. Shower, get ready for bed. I’d prefer you to be naked, but if you’d rather wear something slight, like a nightgown, I won’t object.

On two points I won’t be moved, however. I want you to leave your front door unlocked, and I want you to put on a blindfold. You can sit anywhere you want in your apartment, and take any safety precaution you feel necessary—though I hope you know by now that I would never do anything to hurt you.

I think you do. I think you also know the depth of my feelings for you, though I hardly understand it myself. Whether you choose to do this or not, that feeling remains. I think it always will.

I’ll be there at eleven p.m.

Yours always,

E

It was the strangest thing. She didn’t think of games, or guessing at
who
he was, or any of the other things that had defined this odd relationship. She thought, instead, of girls with boyfriends and husbands who came home after a day’s work or a night out, and did things that boyfriends or husbands do, like kiss their girlfriend’s cheek or make love to them. She thought about how much his email had a flavour of that, as if some weary guy was just waiting to come to home to her—only with extra weird kink piled on top of it.

It made two feelings inside her want to go to war. One side wanted to reply that she had
feelings,
too, the other side didn’t know what the fuck those feelings were about. The other side said—
you don’t even know what he looks like! He could be anybody, you massive dumbass!