by Suzy K Quinn
‘And you can serve the food now,’ Marc tells Phillipe.
‘You’re sure, sir?’ Phillipe looks between us, wine bottle in mid-air.
‘Certain,’ says Marc, dropping his hand, blue eyes holding me still.
Phillipe looks between us, then gives a jerky bow and trots out of the ballroom.
‘What if I hadn’t have wanted wine?’ I ask Marc.
‘I’ve already told you.’ Marc holds his wine up to the light, swilling it around. ‘This evening, you won’t be making any decisions. I’ll be deciding everything for you.’
I cock my head at my own wine glass. ‘Says who?’
‘Me.’ Marc puts his glass firmly on the table. ‘And any failure to follow my instructions will be met with swift and direct punishment.’ He gives me that handsome half smile of his. ‘Which I have a feeling you’ll enjoy.’
I push my wine glass away. ‘I shouldn’t drink alcohol. What if Ivy needs me?’
‘Seraphina is on hand.’ Marc pushes the glass back towards me. ‘One glass of wine is perfectly acceptable. As a matter of fact, I am going to insist you drink two glasses of wine. For being so disobedient.’ He’s smiling now.
‘And how exactly are you going to make me do that?’ I can’t help smiling too.
‘I can’t make you do anything. I can only teach you how to behave. By punishing you if you step out of line.’
I feel a little shiver.
The truth is, I love seeing this side of Marc. I have no idea what that says about me. All I know is that when he takes charge, I enjoy it.
I pick up the wine glass and take a sip. ‘Happy now?’
‘Very.’
‘It’s nice,’ I say, feeling the chilled liquid on my tongue.
‘Nice?’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Your vocabulary disappoints me.’
‘Okay, it’s … delicious. It tastes like … apples. And … maybe blackberries?’
‘Better.’
‘What kind of food do they have here?’ I ask.
Marc’s lips twitch into a smile. ‘The Swiss-French kind.’
‘Will the menu be written in French?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
I feel a sudden need to chew my fingernails. ‘So how will I—’
‘I’ve already ordered for us.’ Marc takes another sip of wine. ‘I phoned ahead while you were sleeping.’
‘Okay. As long as it isn’t foie gras.’
We smile at each other.
‘Funny you should mention that,’ says Marc, leaning closer. ‘It was on the menu.’
‘Marc, you didn’t!’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ He watches me with amusement. ‘Drink your wine.’
I take another sip. ‘This really is nice.’
‘There’s that word again.’
I hear a loud cough, and see Phillipe trotting across the ballroom, two white plates balanced carefully on his hand and wrist.
‘Excuse me Mr and Mrs Blackwell. Your first course.’ Phillipe places what looks like dessert in front of us – a piped swirl of pastry – then quickly backs away and trots out of the room.
I look down at my plate, not sure what to make of the C-shaped puff of pastry, filled with white, foamy cream.
‘Do they start with dessert here?’ I ask, hovering my fork over the pastry.
‘No.’ Marc’s lips twitch. ‘This is savoury.’
My cheeks flush red. ‘It’s not funny. Not all of us have eaten in fancy restaurants all over the world, you know.’
Marc’s smile grows. ‘I’m not laughing. I’m just enjoying you. Now eat.’
Tentatively, I touch the pastry with my fork. ‘What is it?’
‘Cod and a savoury cream in a choux bun.’
‘Shoe bun?’ I say, still not sure how to cut my food. ‘Like the ones you wear on your feet?’
‘No Sophia.’ Marc steeples his fingers together. ‘A different kind of shoe. It’s a light, French pastry.’
‘Oh. Um …’ I try to cut the pastry with my knife and fork, but it all crumbles.
Marc reaches over. ‘You’re using the wrong cutlery. Let me help you.’
Gently, he takes the fork from my hand, then gives me the smallest knife and fork to hold.
‘Thank you,’ I say, making neat cuts. When I taste the food, I feel myself smiling. ‘It’s … nice.’
‘You’re skating on thin ice, Mrs Blackwell.’ Marc leans further forward, elbows on the table. ‘Very thin ice.’
‘Marc?’
‘Yes Sophia?’
‘You were right.’ I take another mouthful of pastry. ‘I needed a rest. It’s been okay having someone else help out with Ivy.’
‘I hope you’re seeing things more clearly now.’ He drums his fingertips together. ‘And that you’ll consider coming back to Ivy College next year. I’m extremely interested in your continued education.’
‘It would be weird going back,’ I say. ‘Not just because you’re there. But … I mean I’ve already been in a movie. What is there left to learn in a classroom?’
Marc frowns. ‘Don’t get arrogant, Sophia. You still have a lot to learn.’
‘I wasn’t being arrogant.’ I shake my head, cutting more pastry. ‘I just feel like … I’ve come a long way since I took classes with you.’
Marc cuts his own food. ‘You rushed into Rapunzel. And the musical. Don’t you remember how hard you found things? Christ – you passed out at one point.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I learned on the job.’
‘You still need a good teacher.’ Marc makes firm strokes with his knife. ‘You’re young.’
‘So are you,’ I point out.
‘But I started younger.’ Marc takes a swift mouthful of food, chews and swallows. ‘Look, perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss this. We’ll talk again in a few months. When Ivy is sleeping better and you’re in a more agreeable frame of mind.’
I put down my knife and fork. ‘You’re saying I’ve been disagreeable?’
‘No. I’m saying you’re preoccupied. Tired. Not yourself.’ He takes another forkful of food.
‘I’m a little tired,’ I admit, cutting pastry. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking straight.’
‘I beg to differ. If you can’t see how tuition would benefit you … listen, we’ll talk another time. I want you to relax. Enjoy your break.’
‘You make our daughter sound like a job,’ I say.
‘Well she’s certainly hard work.’ Marc cuts more food. ‘There’s no shame in taking some time for yourself. Has it been bad so far?’
‘You mean aside from the last couple of minutes? No. Not at all.’ I chew another mouthful.
‘Don’t do that.’ Marc shakes his head at me.
‘Do what?’
‘Feel guilty.’ Marc puts down his fork, and slides his hand over to take mine. ‘I know that look. Ivy will be sleeping right now. And if she wakes, in those brief moments, Seraphina will take care of her. You are a moment away if Ivy needs you.’
‘I know. You’re right.’ I manage a smile, squeezing his hand over the table. ‘Shall we start the dinner again? Forget about acting and teaching?’
‘Good idea. Have you finished your starter?’
‘Yes. It was delicious. Astonishing.’ I throw him a teasing smile. ‘Are those better words?’
Marc holds my gaze. ‘Much better.’
I push my plate away, and Marc summons Phillipe to clear the table. To my surprise, Phillipe clears not only our plates, but the orchids and some candles too.
‘Is dinner finished?’ I whisper to Marc.
‘It’s only just beginning.’
14
A moment later, Phillipe returns with a giant half-wheel of cheese, mounted on a wooden trolley.
The cheese is so big that the trolley shudders beneath its weight.
Under the trolley are various dishes of food – toasted bread slices, daintily carved carrots, puffy pretzels, crisp-bread triangles, smoked ham and f
olded salami.
‘I hope all that cheese isn’t for me,’ I say, eyeing up the giant half-wheel.
‘I thought,’ says Marc, ‘seeing as we’re in Switzerland, you should try a raclette.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask, still surprised by the sheer size of the cheese. It’s enough for twenty people.
Marc strokes my fingers. ‘Flame-grilled cheese, melted at the table. Phillipe – get us started, would you?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Phillipe lights a blowtorch, holding it against the long, flat edge of the cheese wheel. Instantly, the cheese begins to bubble and melt.
Marc nods at the Phillipe. ‘Thank you Phillipe. I can take it from here.’
‘You’re okay to operate the fire, Mr Blackwell?’ Phillipe turns off the blowtorch and hands it to Marc.
‘Yes.’ Marc runs fingers up and down the torch handle, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘It’s not a problem.’
‘More wine before I leave?’ Phillipe asks.
Marc nods. ‘One more glass for my wife. Thank you.’
I smile and roll my eyes, but I don’t object as Phillipe refills my glass.
‘You finished the first so quickly,’ Marc points out.
‘Well it was so nice,’ I laugh.
When Phillipe leaves, Marc takes my plate and fills it with bread slices, vegetables, ham and salami. Then he uses a long knife to push the melted cheese over my plate.
‘What did you say this was called?’ I ask, watching a mountain of food grow on my plate.
‘Raclette.’ Marc scrapes more melted cheese over perfect crisp-bread triangles. ‘Technically the name of the cheese, but everyone here understands it should be served this way.’
‘It’s such a perfect little meal. I can’t wait to try it.’ I bite into a triangle of bread, topped with nutty, melted cheese. Then I try pretzels, pickles and salami.
‘This is so nice.’ I’m grinning now.
‘That does it.’ Marc stands, grabbing a napkin. He dabs my fingers and lips carefully with the soft cloth, then places my hands behind my back.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
‘Disciplining you.’ Marc spins the napkin into a long, thin strand then wraps it around my wrists.
‘Marc?’ I’m still whispering, but it’s an urgent whisper. ‘Here? You’re disciplining me here?’
‘Yes.’ Marc binds my wrists tight with the napkin, then sits back down.
‘Marc. We’re in public.’
‘You should have thought of that before you decided to overuse a very boring and ordinary word.’ Marc leans back in his chair, smiling.
‘Untie me.’ I struggle back and forth, but of course, Marc being an expert with a rope, has done an excellent job of immobilising me.
‘Phillipe won’t be back for a while.’ Marc’s eyes sparkle.
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘I’m not trying to be funny.’ Marc slides his chair closer. ‘I did warn you about misbehaving.’ He picks up a triangle of crisp bread with cheese on top. ‘But just because you’ve misbehaved, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat. You need plenty of energy for what I have in mind.’
‘Marc—’
‘I’ll untie you if you want me to. You know I will.’ Marc holds out a piece of cheese-topped bread. ‘But you’ll find tonight much more relaxing if you just let me take charge.’
A marriage and a baby later, and he still does this. He still tests me.
I feel the napkin cutting into my wrists.
We both know I made my decision months ago.
I take a bite, chewing the crunchy bread and delicious melted cheese. Then I take another bite. And another. Piece by piece, Marc feeds me little squares of bread, washing them down with soft, fruity wine.
Between bites and sips, Marc dabs my mouth with a napkin.
After a while, I forget we’re sort-of in public. The only thing in my world is Marc, Marc, Marc.
When my plate of food is finished, Marc sits back in his chair.
As if on cue, Phillipe appears and clears the table.
Dimly, I wonder if Phillipe has noticed my hands are tied. He’s not letting on if he does; his face is totally impassive.
Perhaps I should be embarrassed. But … I’m not.
As Phillipe goes to leave, Marc raises a hand. ‘Bring the dessert Phillipe, and then you’re dismissed for the evening. I can take it from here.’
Phillipe bows. ‘Very good sir.’
15
Dessert is a trough of strawberries dipped in Swiss chocolate, balanced on a dish of ice chips.
Phillipe also brings two shots of cloudy pink schnapps. ‘Good night, Mr and Mrs Blackwell.’ He offers an anxious smile. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Champagne, perhaps?’
‘That will be all for this evening,’ says Marc. ‘Thank you Phillipe.’
‘Very good sir.’ Phillipe bows again and trots away.
Marc lifts a chocolate strawberry with silver tongs and feeds it to me.
‘Nice,’ I murmur, as chocolate and strawberry flavours explode in my mouth. I taste champagne, dark chocolate and honey.
‘I’m warning you, Sophia.’ Marc takes my bottom lip in the tongs and twists it, just a little. Not enough to hurt. But close.
Suddenly, I’m very aware of my own breathing.
My chest begins to pound.
Marc squeezes the tongs tighter until I give a little gasp.
We watch each other, my lips throbbing between the silver. Then Marc releases my lip and taps the tongs purposefully on the table, watching me with hard, blue eyes. He stands, coming behind me. ‘Don’t turn around.’
Marc’s fingers drop firmly on my shoulder, and I feel the cool metal tongs on my collarbone.
My breathing becomes fast and ragged.
Lowering his face to my neck, Marc presses his lips along my shoulder. He slides the tongs inside my dress, finding my breast and closing down hard on vulnerable skin.
I suck in air.
It doesn’t hurt at first. But then he squeezes harder.
‘Ooh.’ I flinch, my eyes squeezing shut.
It’s delicious agony – the tenderness and the pain. The anticipation of more.
Just as the red-hot burning at my breast becomes unbearable, Marc squeezes and releases, squeezes and releases the tongs.
It’s enough to keep me on the edge of agony. The stinging pain ebbs, becoming a pleasant wave that burns hot again.
I am totally still. I can’t move, even as Marc’s hand slides from my shoulder.
He begins to unbutton my dress.
‘Marc.’ I shake my head at him. ‘Not here.’
‘Your opinion isn’t necessary right now.’
Once Marc has unbuttoned my dress, he unties my wrists and rubs my sore skin with strong fingers. He slides the dress from my shoulders, pulling sheer sleeves over my wrists.
My heart thuds in my ears as Marc takes my reddened breast and covers it with his hand, frowning.
I know his conflict. He hates seeing me hurt. But we both enjoy it too.
‘You know I’d never do anything you didn’t like,’ he whispers.
‘I know.’ My eyes are still half closed.
Marc presses the sharp edge of the tongs to my unreddened breast. ‘Tell me to stop.’
‘Don’t stop.’
‘Don’t stop?’ Marc draws a red curve around my breast.
‘Don’t stop,’ I gasp.
‘I like to see you submitting.’ Marc draws a line all the way around my breast.
‘I’m not submitting,’ I insist, my voice barely a whisper. ‘I’m consenting.’
‘Consenting, yes. To domination.’ I hear a slosh of liquid, then feel coolness and let out a gasp.
The red line Marc just made around my breast – it’s on fire.
My eyes spring open.
Marc’s fingers come into my hair, holding me still. ‘It’s just alcohol. It will burn for a moment.’
I nod, my eyes
watering.
‘Too much?’ Marc asks.
I let out a shaky breath. ‘I’m okay.’
‘No. It was too much.’ Marc dips a napkin in water and wipes the red lines on my breast. ‘Stand up.’
With some effort, I push myself up on shaky legs, and my dress falls to the floor.
I wrap my arms around my naked torso, self-conscious in the empty ballroom.
‘You’ve come a long way Mrs Blackwell.’ Marc watches me. ‘You’d never have dreamed of submitting like this when we first met.’
‘You know, this really isn’t me submitting,’ I say. ‘I mean, we’re both in this together.’
A smile plays on Marc’s lips. ‘It seems very important to you, all of a sudden. To define what we’re doing. And who’s in charge. So let me clear that up. I am in charge. Because you do as I tell you.’
I feel the familiar throb of heat between my thighs.
‘Sophia. Put your arms down,’ Marc instructs. ‘I want to see your body.’
‘Maybe we should go up to the bedroom …’
‘No. Not today.’ Marc is still watching me.
I hesitate, my arms still tight around my naked torso.
‘Put your arms down.’ Marc puts a hand to his hip, impatient. ‘I want to see you. Now Sophia.’
Reluctantly, I let my arms drop, feeling totally exposed. And vulnerable.
Marc circles me, frowning. ‘You know, you haven’t submitted as quickly as I would have liked.’
‘I haven’t submitted at all.’
Marc comes behind me, twisting my hair around his hand. He gives a sharp tug so my neck snaps back, and I let out a cry of surprise.
‘This isn’t submitting?’ he asks.
I swallow again and shake my head. ‘No. Because I could say no. Any time I like.’
He leads me to the table by my hair and bends me over it.
My breasts and face find the soft cotton of the tablecloth, and I see a silver candlestick holder inches away.
‘You’re right,’ he says again, pressing my cheek to the cotton. ‘Tell me to stop, and I will. You know I will.’
I bite my lip, but don’t say a word.
16
A white candle, flickering in a silver holder, swims in my vision, and I feel Marc’s firm hand in my hair.
‘I don’t want you to make a sound,’ he says, stroking my hair in his fingers.
