The Gift of Shame (4 page)

Putting the telephone down she found herself in confusion. What did he want of her? Why this instant response to her call? Why had she told him she was home? Why hadn’t she told him she was still in Eastbourne?

It was then that she discovered the leather belt was still in her hand. She stared at it. When had she picked that up?

His imminent arrival left little time to tidy herself or the apartment. Refusing to listen to the inner voice which plaintively reminded her that she had intended telling him she didn’t want to see him, she flew about the flat and made some attempt at presentability.

The street door buzzed and, picking up the entryphone, she saw his monotone image, making him look like something from an old newsreel. If she were going to turn him away then this was the moment to do it. All she had to do was tell him
he
wasn’t coming in and then not open the door. She was about to do just that when he spotted the monitor lens and, sticking out his tongue, smiled broadly into it.

Unable to resist this childish behaviour she pressed the door-lock release and watched as he disappeared from the video screen.

Opening the apartment door to him she was still intending to make a token protest, but was greeted with a doorway filled with flowers through which poked a magnum of champagne. From behind the floral screen came his voice.

‘Don’t say a word!’

She stepped back as the flowers advanced on her. His face appeared grinning impishly over them.

‘You are forbidden to speak!’ he told her. ‘I’m here to look.’

‘Look?’ she gasped.

The champagne was thrust into her hands – it was chilled – and a silencing finger laid lightly on her parted, protesting, lips.

‘Not a word! Not one! Nothing. You are sentenced to be silent.’

Having freed one hand, he reached back into the hallway and dragged in a huge white box tied all over with golden ribbon. Saying nothing about the box he swept by her into the kitchen, leaving her to hold the champagne. He was back in a moment carrying a huge vase – he’d found an unwanted wedding present she couldn’t have found if her life had depended on it.

He arranged the flowers – which only now did she register as predominantly, unseasonal, roses – while humming a joyous tune to himself.

‘But—’ she started to say before the finger again pressed her to silence.

She sighed and turned away, wondering exactly how drunk
he
might be. On the other hand it was refreshing to find a grown man – who, she thought, knew how to behave and was prepared to play games at this level.

Having placed the flowers precisely where she would have put them herself, he turned his attention to the champagne. Keeping to the rules she stayed silent as he flushed out yet another wedding present – fluted champagne glasses.

Beginning to warm to the atmosphere she held the glasses as he opened the bottle – without any explosive overflow – and poured repeatedly until, the bubbles subsiding, they were filled.

In the manner of a Head Waiter she was guided to her own couch and invited to sit down. The glasses touched and they drank.

He settled on the matching couch opposite and smiled at her.

‘You are the most lovely lady I know,’ he told her, and then, as she opened her mouth to deflect the outrageous compliment, he again held up his finger. ‘Please!’ he said. ‘The things I have to say will be much more easily voiced if you say nothing.’

Intrigued, she saluted him with her glass, sipped, smiled and looked expectantly at him for him to begin his promised monologue.

She was disappointed. He simply sat opposite her, smiling and looking at her. Twice during the long minutes he spent at this, she opened her mouth to speak and twice he raised his admonishing finger to stop her.

Deciding the only dignified way to support his game was to pretend to ignore him, she sat back and did her best imitation of a silent movie vamp.

He clapped his hands in delight. ‘Perfect!’ he cried. ‘Listen, I could just sit here all day drinking with you but – I wonder – would you do something else for me?’

Staying in character, she swept a hand through the air in a regally dismissive arc.

He leapt to his feet, went to the door, picked up the huge white box in one hand and came back to hand it to her across the coffee table.

‘Wear this for me,’ he said.

Taking the box she saw the famous designer name discreetly engraved in gold in one corner and, instinctively, although only half-heartedly, opened her mouth to protest – but again that finger was there, readied and threatening.

This created a dilemma. Should she open it here or take it into the bedroom? What if it were something she wouldn’t be seen dead in? Could the contents, given the name on the box, possibly be construed as a Christmas gift between friends or was there something inside that would create an obligation or, at least, an expectation.

He settled her internal argument by reaching down to pull at the gold ribbon bows himself.

Under layers of silky white tissue she found a gown of very fine black silk that looked, in the hand, to be practically shapeless. She looked across at him and wondered why he had brought this to her and puzzled over whom it could have been bought for. Certainly not her – couturiers didn’t work over Christmas and they would not, anyway, sell such an item without fittings.

‘Put it on,’ he enthused. ‘If there’s anything to be done to it we can fly to Paris and have them fit it properly.’

Feeling slightly light-headed and thinking she might have, like Alice, fallen down some mythical rabbit hole, she stood and held the dress against her – it still had little form or even shape. ‘Please,’ he was saying. ‘Try it on. If you don’t like it we can change it.’

Allowing herself a deep sigh, she turned past him, went into the bedroom and firmly closed the door.

Hurrying to the mirror she again held the gown in front of her and was undecided what to do. Was she going to join in this ‘game’? What if the dress looked as awful on as in the hand? Could this be some kind of fetish of his? Distantly, she heard his voice calling out asking her not to be too long.

Consciously thinking that this was ridiculous, her hands were already unbuttoning the denim shirt she had worn to greet him. She pulled off cotton leggings, and shed her brassiere, unwearable since the top of the gown consisted only of two panels held by buttons at the shoulders. It took a few attempts before she got the dress on and, when she turned towards the full-length mirror, she got a tremendous shock. The fine silk had immediately clung to the warmth of her body. What had seemed shapeless had now taken form – her form! The material, clinging to every nook and cranny of her body, delineated the thrust of her nipples which, she observed, had gone into instant erection. The effect was breathtaking. She saw herself as transformed and, although she had never thought of herself as any more narcissistic than the next girl, exciting. To wear a dress like this was not only to proclaim the naked body beneath but to advertise to the world that the woman inside was ready for sex.

Responding to his further warning not to take too long she searched out a pair of high-heeled shoes – Kenneth had called them her ‘tarty’ shoes – and slipped into them. She would have liked to do something more with her hair, but settled for a spray of perfume before taking a careful, assessing, look at herself.

There was only one flaw in the reflected image and that was the way in which the silk, now thoroughly warmed to her body, and clinging ever closer, outlined her panties.

With a tingling sense of daring she raised the flowing skirt and, hooking her thumbs into her briefs, pulled them down and stepped out of them.

Looking at herself she became shocked and aware that her breasts were thrusting hard against the silk and her nipples ached – a sure sign of arousal. ‘Cocktails are ready!’ he called through the door.

With one last regret at not having more time to do anything with her hair, she moved to the door, took a long breath, and stepped out.

He was clear across the room holding two tall, stemmed glasses filled with some kind of champagne cocktail.

‘Stunning!’ he said.

She got as far as saying ‘I—’ before he again intervened.

‘Rule still applies!’ he told her, coming forwards to hand her a glass with one hand and, catching her other hand, raised it to his lips.

‘You can only wear it for me,’ he said. ‘I mean, you look gorgeous and all but I think something a little more subtle, more understated, would ensure you didn’t get ravished the instant men saw you. Model it for me. Let me see the full effect!’

Tingling from head to toe, she did her best impression of all the catwalk models she had ever seen.

‘Superb!’ he called, along with other compliments. ‘Again!’

Turning, she swished and sashayed as best she could on the high heels that had suddenly started to pinch, before coming back to accept the drink he had been holding out all this time.

‘Who was the gown made for?’ she asked.

‘For you,’ he said.

Her laugh was short and scornful. ‘And how did you get a dress made over Christmas?’

He looked bashful. ‘The truth is I saw the dress on a model many years ago and loved it so much that I bought it. I didn’t have anyone to wear it for me, then or since – until I met you.
I
knew immediately that this dress had been made for a body like yours. I was right.’

‘True?’

‘I promise you. We might have only just met but I’ve been searching for you a long time.’

Enormously aroused, she found her apprehension growing. This man was different. He had mistaken her for someone she was not but, as she stood there, she knew that she wanted desperately to become that woman.

‘There’s something else about this dress,’ he told her. ‘But before I show you what it is you have to promise something.’

‘What?’ Now she was fully aroused. Secrets and promises were like aphrodisiacs to her. She only wondered how he knew.

‘You have to promise me that whatever happens to that dress in the next five seconds you will not interfere.’

She was puzzled. Did the dress dissolve or what? ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘But do I have your promise?’

She nodded and he reached out to the top fastening buttons, tweaked them and the dress slid, like a caress, to the floor, leaving her completely naked before him.

Four days – or was it a century? – ago, before she knew him, she might have instinctively grabbed at the dress to stop its downward slide, but something about this man made her trust him and his judgement completely. She was proud to be naked for him and willed herself to be as still as a statue as he looked at her.

‘Breathtaking,’ he said. ‘I knew I was right. You’re perfect in or out of that dress. We’ll have more of them made. It’ll be exciting to know I can have you naked in seconds.’

Trembling before him she realised that he was as aroused as she was and, as she fought for breath, she brought her
uncertain
eyes to his and read in them that he knew. In that moment there was nothing more important to her than that this man should be sexually satisfied. And then she found she had fallen to her knees.

He was standing over her.

‘Incredible. Beautiful!’ he was saying as he tried to reach down and lift her to her feet, but she didn’t want that. In close proximity lay his cock, veiled only by the thin material of his trousers. It was that fleshly pleasure she wanted and eagerly she reached for it. He had to help her trembling hands seek him out, but the moment his cock was free she sank her mouth down on to it like an eager calf at the teat.

Greedy now, insatiable even, choked by his growing erection, she tried to cry out and let him know what she was feeling, but his penis gagged her. Her mouth clung to him, worked him, fearing that if she let go, took her mouth from him, she would fall backwards into an abyss. This cock and its coming gift were, in that moment, her entire life. She was greedy for the taste of him, wanting him to fill her, choke her, punish her. Then, as she felt him start to throb, she found her own release as she redoubled her efforts to suckle from him. Suddenly, without any seeming transition, she was on her own bed and he was burying himself deep inside her. She felt another wave starting as he moved against her. It came, and she knew another was close behind. This was impossible. Sensation was crowding in on her, confusing her, leaving no room for thoughts beyond satiating her body’s needs. There came only one other sensation – a sudden pain on her nipples.

‘Yes!’ she screamed. ‘More of that! Hurt me! Punish me!’

His words started then in an excited stream. Words that assured her she would feel his pain, feel his come, feel his cock and at each teeth-clenched imprecation she yelled back him, ‘Yes!’

When did it stop, she wondered? She was lying flat on her stomach, streaked with sweat from his and her own overheated bodies, knowing only that somehow it must have stopped since she now lay in a velvety haze that held her swaying in the most comfortable position she had ever known.

She moved gently so as not to dislodge him, only to find that he was lying turned away from her. What she had thought was his risen flesh inside her was only the bruised, happy memory.

Turning her head she could see the tendons raised on his strained neck where it pulsed with life. Fascinated, she watched the flesh vibrating. Somehow she wanted to match the rhythm of it, feel his urgency inside herself.

Reaching down she cupped herself in both hands, not caring that this spread her naked thighs obscenely. There was only him to see and she already knew that nothing she did would ever be obscene to him. Watching his neck pulse she imagined that it beat deep inside her. Matching her self-caress to his pulse she could fantasise a situation where the throb would be constant, never ceasing, just a constant never-ending drip of infinite sexual arousal.

Never had she felt like this. Now she knew the meaning of insatiability. As her own libido sang she had to resist her body’s demand to increase the tempo of her searching, teasing finger. Instead she forced herself to endure this self-inflicted arousal as a regiment of men looked down on her spread thighs and waited their turn with her. Yes! Now she was a cheap whore – the brothel girl who would do anything, satisfy any man’s craving. She was the dirty bitch that would crawl to them, beg them for their cocks and cry with gratitude when one deigned to put his cock in her …