In at the Deep End

by Kate Davies

  ‘Sam?’ I called.

  ‘Sorry, I won’t be a minute, babes.’

  ‘Can I model for you soon?’

  ‘What?’ She appeared from behind the bookcase that separated the bedroom area from the sitting room.

  ‘Can I model for you? Will you paint me?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s just that most of my paintings are associated with a really extreme emotion.’

  ‘You don’t have strong emotions about me?’ Yes, I was fishing. I’m not proud.

  ‘You make me feel … content. And great art doesn’t come from a place of contentment.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  She crouched down in front of me and took my hands. ‘That’s a compliment, by the way.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘Contentment isn’t sexy. It’s the emotional equivalent of flannel pyjamas.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She kissed the back of my hand. ‘The sort of thing you want to wear every day.’

  ‘But I want to be exciting. Like a corset.’

  ‘You are exciting. But in a lovely comfortable way. You’re like sexy silk pyjamas.’ She disappeared back behind the bookcase.

  I noticed a new painting next to the stove, of a woman with red lips and an impressive cleavage.

  ‘Right,’ said Sam, pulling her jacket on. ‘Ready?’

  In the car, she flicked through radio stations, searching for a suitable soundtrack. She chose some deep, pulsing dance music.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said, and I began to feel nervous again.

  ‘Aren’t you drinking tonight?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘But you’re driving.’

  ‘Stop stressing. All part of the plan. I’m going to look after you really well. This is your birthday present! OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘Just remember – it won’t be me doing any of the things I do, all right? I’ll be playing a character. We’ll be acting out a scene together.’

  ‘I’m not a very good actor,’ I warned her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll do most of the talking. And if there’s anything you’re not comfortable with, you can just ask me to stop.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But you can’t just say “no” or “stop”, because you’ll probably be saying that loads as part of the scene.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘So we’ll use a safe word. When you say it, I’ll know you want me to completely stop.’

  ‘What should the safe word be?’

  ‘Anything you want,’ she said.

  ‘Help?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, you might say that anyway. It has to be completely unrelated to sex or danger.’

  ‘Like biscuit?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s perfect,’ she said.

  ‘That is not perfect,’ I said. ‘I do not want to be thinking about custard creams during sex.’

  ‘Let’s just have “safe word” as our safe word,’ she suggested.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  We passed through the city and soon we were driving into the very skyline of London itself. The Gherkin bulged above me phallically. The Cheesegrater leaned towards me suggestively. We parked near London Bridge, and as Sam took my hand and led me down the street I looked around for the Shard – my favourite of London’s oddly shaped skyscrapers – and realized we were heading straight for it.

  Sam led me into the vast, empty reception area. ‘Think of all the social housing you could build in here,’ I said, as my footsteps echoed on the polished floor.

  ‘Shh,’ said Sam. ‘Tonight’s about luxury. And fantasy. OK?’

  And then we were in the lift, hurtling so fast towards the top of the building that my ears popped, and then we were in the bar, being led to a table by a woman with a red dress slashed to the thigh and stilettos that can’t have been good for her back. I found myself wondering whether it was legal for employers to require their staff to wear such impractical footwear and then I shook myself mentally and told myself, tonight is about luxury. And fantasy.

  But when we reached our table I forgot my principles and was silenced by the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows, by the beauty and scale of the city I loved. From this height, London looked like a place dreamed up by science-fiction writers, too perfect to be real. Everything looks perfect from 400 metres, I realized. If you saw Sam and me from 400 metres, you’d probably think, look at that gorgeous couple, living the dream. Which I suppose we were. I just wasn’t sure it was my dream we were living.

  ‘I’ll get the drinks in,’ Sam said. I nodded, still gazing down at the people going about their evenings in the streets below. The sun began to set, turning the skyscrapers from grey to rose gold, putting on a show for those of us rich enough to afford the view. I was so absorbed that I didn’t realize how long Sam had been gone, till my phone buzzed with a text from her:

  Room 173.

  She wasn’t at the bar at all. She had booked a room in the hotel.

  I walked down the corridor, feeling increasingly apprehensive as the numbers on the doors ticked up: 170. 171. 172.

  173.

  I could barely bring myself to knock on the door. But the alternative was standing Sam up, which wasn’t an option, so I did knock, three times, as steadily as I could.

  I waited.

  No answer.

  I checked my phone again – perhaps I’d got the 7 and the 3 mixed up? I hadn’t.

  I knocked again.

  And that’s when the door swung open and a hand grabbed the hair on the back of my head and forced me face down so that my nose was crushed into the carpet. I couldn’t see anything except the thick beige pile, and moments later I couldn’t even see that, because something cool and black and leathery was tied around my eyes. I tried to slow my breathing. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. I considered saying ‘safe word’. But we’d only just started, and I didn’t want to let Sam down.

  I lay there, as still as I could, until I felt something cool, hard and sharp against my neck. A knife. Stopping the scene might be more dangerous than going through with it, now that there was a knife. The knife was pressing into my throat, pulling me upwards, and I scrambled to my feet. I could barely breathe I was so terrified. But as I stood there, knife to my throat, wondering what would happen to me next, my heart started beating wildly and I felt a rush like I’d never felt before, and I realized I was so terrified that I was turned on, incredibly turned on and excited, and I finally got what the fuss was about. I didn’t want to say the safe word any more.

  That feeling lasted for about another ten seconds.

  A hand pushed on my back and I stumbled forward so I was kneeling in front of the bed.

  The knife moved from my throat and I felt the tip trail over my body.

  I let out an involuntary moan.

  And that’s when Sam said, ‘You like this, eh, puta?’ In a deep, extremely unrealistic, Mexican accent.

  The whole thing was a lot less sexy and scary after that.

  Sam began to cut my dress off with her knife. ‘You’re mixed up in things you don’t understand, no es cierto?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, because that was definitely true.

  ‘Mentiras!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t play innocent with me.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘I pay you to carry drugs for me, you think you can take some for yourself. You think you can trick El Jefe? No one tricks El Jefe.’

  I wanted to say something – I wanted to tell her to shut up, so that I could enjoy myself again, but I got the impression that I wasn’t really supposed to speak until I was spoken to. So I tried to use my imagination. Fine, she was a Mexican drug lord. She was wild and hot and dangerous. She wasn’t a fake Mariachi singer at a dodgy taco restaurant, even though that’s exactly what she sounded like.

  I was naked now, lying on the bed with the knife still at my throat.


  ‘And now you get what’s coming to you, puta. Beg me to fuck you.’

  ‘Please fuck me,’ I said, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice.

  ‘Pobrecita. Tienes miedo?’ she said.

  ‘Sí,’ I said, very grateful for my Spanish GCSE. She couldn’t be serious. I kept waiting for her to yell ‘Joke!’ (or, indeed, ‘Broma!’), but that, sadly, was not on the cards.

  ‘I know what chicas like you need. You want discipline, no es cierto?’

  I guessed the correct answer was ‘Yes’, so that’s what I said.

  ‘Say “Sí, Jefe,” or I’ll slap you one,’ she said. (Maybe her Spanish phrasebook didn’t have a ‘useful phrases for kidnap role play’ section.)

  ‘Sí, Jefe,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got some cojones, answering me in that tone. I’ll show you who’s boss. Turn over.’

  I rolled over onto my stomach, but got caught up in the bed sheets. There was a bit of a pause while Sam helped me disentangle myself.

  ‘Now. I’m going to hit you. And you’re going to count the spanks for me. And every time I spank you, you’re going to say, “Gracias, Jefe.” OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK Jefe,’ she said. ‘Start counting.’

  ‘One,’ I said.

  ‘En español!’

  ‘Uno.’

  Her palm slammed into my bare right buttock. I felt nothing at first, and then I felt the pain and heat spreading across my arse and a sudden, unexpected rage spreading inside me. I did not like being hit, it turned out. I said, ‘Gracias, Jefe.’

  I can do this, I told myself. This happened to children all the time in the old days.

  ‘What comes after “uno”, puta?’

  ‘Dos.’

  She hit me again, and she laughed as I flinched.

  ‘Gracias, Jefe,’ I said.

  This is fine, I thought. I’ll just pretend I’m in an Almodóvar film. I’ve always loved Almodóvar.

  ‘Tres.’ I felt my eyes fill with tears of frustration and pain and pure anger as she hit me again, but I said, ‘Gracias, Jefe.’

  I’ll pretend Sam is Gael García Bernal. I used to fancy him, before I was a lesbian.

  ‘Cuatro,’ I said, as her hand slammed down again. ‘Gracias, Jefe.’

  Except Gael García Bernal probably wouldn’t be this much of a method actor.

  ‘Cinco.’

  ‘Bueno.’ I felt Sam step away from me. ‘I hope you’ve learned your lesson.’ Her accent slipped when she said that last bit.

  We had sex after that, and it was hot. She used a strap-on, and she held the knife to my throat as she fucked me, and crucially she didn’t say anything during the actual banging. The spanking had made me very angry, and the sex was a good way of releasing that. By the time we were finished, I felt both sexually fulfilled and revolted at myself for being sexually fulfilled. I also felt a little less in love with Sam. She got a kick out of insulting me and scaring me and causing me physical pain. I knew it was all role play, but why did she want to role-play that? And the stinging I still felt on my buttocks wasn’t pretend.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asked when she had untied the leather blindfold.

  I shook my head and began to cry.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, pulling me to her. ‘Come and lie down and let me look after you.’

  ‘I think I need a shower first,’ I said.

  I washed with the expensive shower products, looking down at Tower Bridge straddling the Thames – or was it the Thames penetrating Tower Bridge? Everything looked sordid to me. I stayed in the shower till Sam called me back to bed. I didn’t want to be near her, but I knew I couldn’t put it off forever.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ said Sam, as I slid carefully between the sheets.

  I didn’t say anything. I was turned away from her, looking at the scraps of red material that lay scattered all over the floor. It looked, appropriately, like the aftermath of a bullfight. That had been a perfectly good dress. I’d only bought it a couple of months ago.

  ‘You allowed yourself to be really vulnerable.’

  ‘I didn’t like you calling me a whore,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like you hitting me.’

  ‘I didn’t call you a whore.’

  ‘I know what “puta” means.’

  ‘But I told you, it wasn’t really me calling you that. And you found it exciting, didn’t you? I know you did.’

  ‘It turned me on, but I still didn’t like it.’

  ‘I understand, babes,’ she said, kissing my neck. ‘It takes some getting used to. But it wasn’t real.’

  But it had felt pretty real when she’d hit me, and I’d cried real tears, and she’d done it anyway. And I’d let her.

  I dreamed of being kidnapped that night. I dreamed I was wearing a fur coat and a diamond necklace and I was held up at gunpoint. I woke up shaking and sweaty with Sam’s arm pinning me to the bed, and for a moment I had no idea where I was. Then I remembered. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. I’d always thought I was strong. Maybe being able to have sex like that was strong. Maybe I was owning my sexuality for the first time in my life, fuck social conventions, fuck political correctness.

  I turned around and looked at my buttocks. The right one was still pink and tender to the touch, like a steak, ready for pan-frying. I carefully rubbed it with body lotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to it.

  I didn’t think I could get back to sleep, so I pulled on one of the duvet-like dressing gowns and locked myself in the toilet. I sat there, staring down out of the window, watching London wake up. I could leave. I could walk home through the city and start again with someone new, or I could move to Berlin or Rome or Copenhagen and have sex in a different language. As long as it wasn’t Spanish.

  Far below, I could just make out the window of a bakery. I was hungry, I realized. We hadn’t got around to eating the night before. I’d start there, I decided. I’d go out and buy myself a coffee and pain au chocolat.

  I walked back into the bedroom to find something to wear. I looked over at Sam; she looked so sweet and young lying there, her dark head floating on the white pillow, smiling in her sleep. I couldn’t reconcile this vulnerable-looking, beautiful woman with the person who had held a knife to my throat just a few hours ago. I couldn’t see the knife anywhere, either. I might have thought I’d imagined the whole thing, if it wasn’t for my stinging right buttock.

  I tugged on the door of the wardrobe on her side of the bed and it opened with a pop. Sam turned over in bed, but didn’t wake up. There, on the floor of the wardrobe, golden in the morning light, was the knife. Straight on one side, curved on the other, with a wooden handle. I touched the tip. Not that sharp. I felt calmer, seeing it lying there. Like Sam, it seemed less threatening in the daylight.

  I found my bra tangled up at the bottom of the bed and unzipped Sam’s rucksack to find the change of clothes she had brought for me. I picked up my wallet and opened the door to the room – but as I did, light swept across the bed like a search beam, and then I heard Sam say in a measured voice, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  I stopped and took a breath. ‘You frightened me,’ I said, as I turned around to smile at her. ‘I saw a bakery down the road, so I thought I’d get some pastries.’

  ‘Come here,’ Sam said, reaching out her arm.

  I walked over and sat on the bed, and she took my hand in hers, rubbing my palm with her knuckles.

  ‘Silly Julia,’ she said. ‘The breakfast here is famous.’ She began to stroke my cheek, and the hairs on my arm stood up in response.

  Sam suggested we get room service, but I was beginning to feel trapped, despite the floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘There might be a different view from the restaurant,’ I pointed out, and she decided to indulge me.

  Sam hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as we left: ‘The cleaners might get a fright if they see the cock.’

  ‘A cock shock,’ I said.

  S
am laughed, and I felt pleased with myself. I’d sounded almost normal.

  A few minutes later, a waiter was flourishing a white napkin onto my lap and I was trying to decide between the eggs Benedict and the eggs Florentine.

  ‘You’re very quiet this morning,’ Sam said. ‘Aren’t you having a good time?’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘It’s just a bit overwhelming, that’s all.’

  She nodded. ‘You’ll get used to it. I promise.’

  Instead of answering, I turned to look out of the window. The view was less flashy from here, and I liked that. We were looking out over the less spectacular side of the city, past nondescript office buildings to the hills and detached houses and electricity pylons of Kent. I imagined moving there.

  ‘Can you see yourself ever leaving London?’ I asked Sam.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably get sick of the London scene eventually and buy a big farmhouse – convert a barn to use as a studio and paint, and host big sex parties, something like that. You up for it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure what I’d do with myself in the country.’

  ‘You could help with the sex parties.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d be good at that.’

  ‘I could train you up to be a dominatrix.’

  Sam was busy detailing what my work as a dominatrix would involve when the waiter approached. He stood nearby, gazing over our heads politely, while Sam talked about the benefits of wide hairbrushes for spanking, and the amounts of money businessmen would pay to be forced to dress up in school uniform and hit with rulers.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, as soon as he could get a word in. ‘Have you decided yet?’

  ‘The full English,’ said Sam.

  ‘Of course,’ said the waiter.

  ‘I’ll have the eggs Benedict,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sam said. ‘The TripAdvisor reviews said the hollandaise was a bit cold.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said, a bit too forcefully.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Any drinks?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘A latte for me, please,’ I said.