Kinky

by Justine Elyot

  ‘Yeah. But –’

  ‘Go, go, talk to him. He let you in.’

  ‘But once I’m in, I have to stay in.’

  ‘Is OK, I make distraction.’

  ‘Dimitri! Don’t get yourself arrested for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I never get arrested.’ He winks. ‘Never.’

  I shake my head for a moment, then I think of my account manager Giles’s disbelieving narrowed eyes behind his super cool spectacle frames and I shudder. I don’t want to face them tomorrow. It has to be worth a try.

  Mr Security is sitting at the reception desk, feet up, reading the Evening Standard while black and white CCTV footage flickers on the screens overhead.

  I rap at the door and press my ID badge to the smoked glass.

  He peers at me, then lumbers over. ‘What’s to do?’ he asks through the letterbox.

  ‘I left my house keys in the office. Just came out of the pub and realised they’re in my desk drawer. Can I come in and get them?’

  ‘I’ll get them for you. Where are they?’

  I clench my fists. Is there any point in telling the truth? It has to be worth a try.

  ‘Look, I haven’t finished some important work. Would it be impossible to come in and do an hour’s graft at my desk? Please? It could save my life – it could certainly save my job. And we all need a job in this climate.’

  The guard tightens his lips, puts his head to one side. Then, ‘Ah, go on.’ My heart leaps as he opens the door to me and lets me slip in. ‘Just for you,’ he says, with a rather unsubtle wink.

  ‘Er, thanks. Thanks a million. I owe you one.’

  ‘That’s right, love.’

  I feel vaguely creeped out as I rush to the lift, grateful when its doors slide a barrier between us. All the same, it’s a bit of a triumph, and Dimitri won’t need to risk his liberty or his visa after all.

  So what will he do now?

  Reaching my desk, it occurs to me that I don’t have a number for him, or an address. What if that’s that and we never meet again?

  Before switching on the light, I move over to the window and look down to the street. Kinky Cupcake is in darkness, even though I know that, somewhere in its upper roof space, slaves are being shared. As for Dimitri, there is no sign of him.

  I sigh, flick the switch and sit down at my desk.

  Air freshener. It freshens air. Four fresh fragrances. Fresh … fragrance … air … odour … aroma … I put my forehead on the desk and try to extract some coherence from these strands, but all I can think about is how Dimitri smells and how it felt to have his arm around me.

  My mind dances away from scents and into sensations. Over his lap, he could have gone further, he could have touched me … right there, but I mustn’t masturbate on CCTV, mustn’t do that …

  I wake up with a jolt. There is a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Dimitri?’ I whisper, turning around, but it isn’t.

  ‘Sleepyhead,’ says the guard with a leer. ‘Off in the land of nod, were you, love?’ His fingers press into my shoulder blade. I try to shrug them off, but they are planted there.

  ‘Didn’t realise,’ I mumble. My head is still thick, but my heart recognises danger, quickening into a pounding rhythm. Sweat prickles on my palms.

  ‘I’ve gone out of my way for you,’ he says. ‘Could get into trouble for this. So that one you owe me …’

  He bends lower and buries his nose in my hair. My scalp crawls as if beset with a million head lice.

  ‘What?’ I try to get the words out but my voice is high and cracked. ‘This’ll be on CCTV. Don’t.’

  His meaty hands move down my shoulders over my upper arms. ‘Switched it off, of course. You think I’m stupid?’ His pig’s snout snuffles my neck.

  I want to scream, but there’s no point. The clock says five ten. Nobody will be anywhere near this place.

  All I can do is moan, ‘Noooo,’ while he chuckles, and then an alarm shrills out, so loud and piercing that we both jump and the top of my head bangs into his chin so that he swears.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he bellows, racing over to the lift.

  I stand up, sit down, stand up again, grab my bag with a shaky hand, look out of the window and around the room. He’s downstairs and I don’t want to encounter him again. Can I get out on the fire escape?

  Headless-chicken-style, I run around the third floor, somehow unable to remember its layout even though I’ve been working here six months.

  The shrieking in my ears doesn’t help. I put my hands over them and head for the emergency exit. Somewhere before the barred door, a pair of hands grabs hold of me and I scream and flail, aiming a sharp kick for my assailant’s shins.

  ‘Rosie! It’s me.’

  I quit struggling and stare into the face of Dimitri.

  ‘Was that you?’ I yell over the wail of the sirens. ‘The alarm?’

  ‘Yes, I set it off.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  The alarm ceases abruptly and my ears ring with gratitude.

  ‘Come on, I have to talk to your guard.’

  ‘No, leave it!’

  ‘No, come on.’

  The guard is behind the reception desk, frowning and fiddling with his CCTV screens. He jumps up when he sees us. ‘Oi! What’s going on? I’ve got the police coming.’

  ‘Better not,’ says Dimitri, holding up a reel of tape. ‘I’ve got film of you with my friend here. Bad evidence, right?’

  The guard swipes for it, but Dimitri holds it up high.

  ‘She want to tell the police you try to touch her.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘I saw it. I have the film.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is but –’

  ‘But when the police come, you send them away, and then you go home, right? We look after the place until it open.’

  ‘I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘You’ll lose more than your job if you don’t do as he says,’ I snap, taking my cue from Dimitri. Something about him makes me feel brave and invincible. ‘Just do it or I’ll take you to court.’

  The guard looks at the tape in Dimitri’s hand, looks at the CCTV, then looks back again. ‘You won’t say nothing about this then?’

  ‘If you go home. And stay away from my girl. Right away.’

  ‘OK then.’

  The guard picks up the phone and makes a short call, explaining that the police are no longer needed, then he takes his rucksack and edges past us.

  ‘Oh, one other thing,’ says Dimitri politely.

  The guard stops.

  Dimitri slaps him hard so that the guard’s chops wobble and his eyes bulge in astonishment.

  ‘Bye bye.’ He pushes the guard onwards by the shoulder. ‘Don’t see you later.’

  ‘So.’ I draw a breath. ‘Right. That was lucky.’

  ‘Lucky. I am lucky person.’

  ‘You’ve been hanging around outside for five hours?’

  ‘No. I go back to my friend’s place. I go to sleep. But I wake up in two hours, I realise I have question for you. So I come here, see if you are still at the office. Through the window, I see this creep on the TV screen. I break in, set off alarm. Here we are.’

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘You get me a coffee? In your office?’

  ‘Oh. Sure.’

  On the way up the stairs, various things Dimitri has said slot into my thought queue, once the intense relief at not having had to murder the security guard has abated a little.

  ‘You told him I was your girl,’ I mention, plugging in the coffee machine.

  ‘What you say?’

  ‘The security guy. You said, “Stay away from my girl.”’ My efforts to replicate Dimitri’s accent are only partially successful.

  ‘You want him to try again?’

  ‘Do you think he would?’

  ‘Not now. Not if he thinks I am your boyfriend. He fears me.’ Dimitri says this with a casual air, as if it’s perfectly normal
for thugs of brick shithouse build to cower before him.

  ‘I see. Well, thanks. Actually, yeah, thanks for all of that. I should have said that before. Head’s not quite straight yet. Not that I needed saving or anything. I could quite easily have whacked him in the groin with my paperweight.’

  Except that wouldn’t have occurred to me, in my creeping panic.

  Dimitri humphs and scoops coffee into the filter, not dignifying my pathetic bravado with an answer.

  ‘That’s going to be quite strong.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Strong coffee. What we need, right?’

  ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘Question?’

  ‘You said you came back here to ask me a question.’

  He turns and leans on the counter, primping his moustache so that the ends are perfectly symmetrical. ‘If I want to be professional dom, I need to practise,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, that.’ I still think he’s barking up the wrong tree. Surely there aren’t that many people who would pay for a bloke to abuse them?

  ‘I will like to practise with you,’ he says.

  I bite my lip and watch the first few drips of coffee fall into the jug. ‘Practise … When you say practise, you mean …?’

  ‘You submit to me, right? I do all that whips and bondage on you. Maybe other activity too, is up to you.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d had all these kinky girlfriends. Didn’t you learn anything from them?’

  ‘Ah, I say that for benefit of that vampire man. I never have a kinky girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, you are interested? If not, is fine, I can ask the Trixietots.’

  ‘No, no, no. No need. No. Don’t do that.’

  He smiles, a kind of evilly triumphant smile. ‘I knew that will work,’ he says. Those piercingly keen eyes crinkle, lasering into my soul.

  I clatter the coffee cups crossly. ‘I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Come here and I show you.’

  My wrists, suddenly limp, can’t deal with the coffee cups any more. I glance over at him, guarded but strung taut with excitement.

  ‘Come on,’ he repeats, with a tilt of the head. ‘Over here, Rosie.’

  It reminds me of that blurry, swoony moment before he spanked me. My pussy reacts accordingly. The command in his voice lures me to him; as soon as I am within reach, he places me between his feet and laces his fingers together around my waist.

  ‘I think you are attracted to me,’ he says in a low-down whisper that tickles my ear and, correspondingly, my crotch. ‘You know why?’

  ‘Go on.’ I try to keep a sardonic edge in my tone, but the tremble betrays me. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Because a girl who lets a man do this …’ He unlaces his fingers and pats my bottom, gently, but providing such a potent reminder of what happened earlier that my knees buckle. He pulls me in tighter, keeping me upright in arms that imprison as well as support. ‘Really wants him to do this.’

  His moustache prickles my upper lip and our noses rub together. He is giving me plenty of time to say no, plenty of time to duck back or sideswipe. I’m not doing any of it.

  ‘Do what?’ I whisper.

  His answer heats my lips. ‘This.’

  And we kiss. I put my hands in his hair, his bushy thick mane of dark-brown hair and sink my fingers into the richness. His mouth is hot and soft at first, then more demanding, his tongue forging through to tangle with mine. When his hand slips up inside my top, I feel the cold metal of his bangles chill my skin and I wriggle a little against him, causing him to hold me firmly with a hand on my back until I am still and his travels continue. The fabric of my top rises with each new incursion until it bunches just beneath my bra and both of Dimitri’s hands are planted on the exposed portion of my back.

  He gives my lower lip a tiny nip and breaks the kiss.

  ‘We can lose this,’ he says, shoving the top up, over my breasts and up my arms, which I raise without question.

  He kisses my mouth once more, fulsomely, then lowers his head so that his lips graze the side of my neck, turning it to gooseflesh. His palms rise to cup my breasts in the accursedly boring workday bra I am wearing. He moans onto my neck, a low keen of lust, and flicks his tongue out to wet my skin. My nipples struggle against the stout cotton, pushing themselves out for his fingers’ attention, which is readily given. I rub my nose under his ear and give the ear lobe teasing bites. He moans even more, his voice vibrating down through my tissues, all the way to my bursting clit.

  He smells and tastes and feels so good, it’s an intoxication, a need that addles my brain and befuddles my senses. I rub my legs against his, letting my shoe drag up and down his ripped jeans, the leather making contact with patches of his skin.

  He captures me in a kiss again, yanking aside the cups of my bra with one hand while the other moves lower, finding my skirt zipper and fiddling with it.

  I shiver all over when his palm caresses my bare nipple, brushing it into a tight hard knot of need so that it’s ready for him to pinch, very gently, exquisitely, but no less cruelly. I gasp into his mouth and a shot of sweet pain makes me grind myself against him, finding a swelling beneath those jeans that I feel more than ready to tackle.

  I move my hands down to cup his behind, noticing how tightly the muscles are bunched, poised and ready for action. This butt means business. And so do this tongue, these fingers and this rock-hard jean-clad cock.

  One arm reaches behind me and undoes the zipper of my skirt. As we kiss and wrestle and grind and pant, the garment makes a slow rumpled journey down over my hips, sometimes helped on its way by a free hand, sometimes left to its own devices until it reaches the point, around mid-thigh, of self-propulsion. The lining swishes past my nylon tights with a whispery crackle until it settles around my ankles. The area it once covered is now firmly annexed by squeezing, rubbing hands. I lift one leg and clamp the knee against his hip, opening myself, issuing the invitation.

  Now there is nothing on my mind but visceral want. Every other consciousness has faded. I have to join my body with this one at all costs.

  Whoever invented tights didn’t have sex on the brain, unlike me. They stand between me and my goal in the most irritating way – there is no way of removing them without having to deal with my knee boots first. I hang on to Dimitri with one hand and try to unzip the boots with the other, keeling awkwardly to one side so that I can’t maintain our kiss.

  Dimitri pats me on the bottom, forcing me to look back up. ‘You want to fuck?’ he whispers.

  Does he need to ask?

  ‘Well, don’t you?’

  ‘I plan a kiss only. But a fuck, I don’t say no, of course. Just … this is your office, yes?’

  I squint at the clock. ‘Yeah, but it’s early. And you took out the CCTV tape for this part of the building, so … um. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we shouldn’t.’

  The inopportune pause for breath has acted like a bucket of cold water. Suddenly, I’m besieged with unwelcome thoughts in the ‘will you still love me tomorrow?’ vein. Perhaps I’m just imagining this bond that our shared evening of randomness and debauchery has forged. He’ll take what he wants and then leave.

  ‘Wait. You don’t want to?’

  ‘I … don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Of course you do. Your body knows.’

  ‘My body wants to. My brain … the jury’s out.’

  ‘OK. Well, perhaps I don’t want to. Perhaps you don’t respect me afterwards.’

  He folds his arms and lifts his nose with offended hauteur. ‘Perhaps you just use me for sex and send me away,’ he says.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No, me neither. Not to you. I have plans for you.’ He fixes me with his true blue eye. ‘So, sex. Yes?’

  I nod. The cold water evaporates. The boots come off, then the tights and boy shor
ts, then I am sitting on a filing cabinet with my thighs splayed and my ankles wrapped around Dimitri’s waist.

  ‘Good. But there is a problem. I don’t have no condom.’

  ‘There are machines,’ I gasp. ‘In the toilets.’

  ‘I run out of my pounds. They take roubles?’

  ‘Oh God, haven’t you heard of bureaux de change?’ Frustrated beyond measure, I dig my heels into Dimitri’s hips and then push him away, pointing at my handbag on the desk. ‘Go get ’em. And be quick.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He mock salutes and races to the gents’ with my handbag, looking so like the world’s least convincing transvestite that I can’t help giggling.

  I look down at myself, naked apart from a ruined bra, sitting on a filing cabinet. The metal is cold against my backside, but I’m heating it up quickly enough. I reach around and unhook my bra. It seems pointless to keep it on, after all.

  When he emerges from the toilets, condom packet in hand, I become conscious of the fact that he is still fully dressed whilst I am starkers. The inequality of the situation needs to be redressed, I feel. Or undressed.

  He slings my handbag back on the desk with a pleasingly cowboy-like nonchalance and stands in front of me, hand on hip, condom brandished, crooked smile in full effect under that moustache.

  ‘So,’ he says.

  ‘So, you’re wearing too many clothes. And I’m getting cold up here.’

  ‘Cold? Oh, that’s not good.’ He shimmies back up to me, clasping his hands together in the small of my back, leaning his forehead against mine. ‘I don’t like cold.’

  Behind me, I can feel his hands waggling about, tackling the condom wrapper. It’s not going to do much good unless those jeans come down, though, so I reach towards his belt buckle. Except there’s a problem here – he has more than one. He is wearing about five skinny leather belts of different designs, all interlinked and looped around each other. I sigh, lips brushing his.

  ‘Why so many belts?’

  ‘I don’t want to pack them.’

  ‘Oh right.’ One down, the other four are quick enough to unbuckle. They fall aside like a gateway of tooled leather, allowing me to concentrate on unbuttoning his fly. Here it comes. The exertion causes me to pant slightly, my hot breath mingling with his. I prepare myself to push down the jeans then the underpants – but there are no underpants. An unexpected cock emerges from the disintegrating denim, causing me to squeal inelegantly.