Hard Rain

by Melissa Vayle

  She did not recall the journey home from work; did not remember much about leaving the dungeon after she finished in the shower and got dressed with the clothes Michael had brought her from the library. All she could think of was that room, its maze of light and dark, her shimmering body floating through the air, the roar of the water splattering the hood, a constant stream of images, sounds and sensations. It was all too much to take in. Too fast, too intense, too out of this world for her nervous system to handle. She was only just now trying to catch up with it all.

  She crossed the small courtyard and almost said Hello! to the small black cat, a cute little bundle sitting on the wall that watched her behind its inscrutable, whiskered face. She felt lonely. It was as if she and the little creature were the sole inhabitants of Earth and she suddenly felt like a little kitten herself. Only not as innocent.

  On returning from Blackthorne, the first thing she did was take off her dress and look at her bottom in the mirror. She was taken aback by the sight of an abstract composition, a smear of blues, greys and purples with hints of brown and red. Battered wife came to mind. She turned from the mirror, the reality mocking her fantasy of marrying Michael. Surely he would not beat her any harder? And a sickly feeling came over her as she recalled the contents of the cupboard. The dildos, leather gags, clamps...There was no telling what he might end up doing, and she studied more deeply the image in the mirror. Anne came to mind. Four years, and she was still in one piece. More's the pity, came a voice deep within and she smiled to herself.

  The more she looked at her multi-coloured bottom, the more the sound of the strap came back to her. She could feel once more the straps that bound her to the bench and the gag, and the all-enveloping caress of the soft plastic. He had punished her. Like a dirty, little girl. She turned from the mirror to stop the thought and at once picked up her dress from the floor. She wished suddenly it was the mac. She wanted the mac, wanted his straps and gags and the feel of the lash. Strung up like the filthy whore she was and thrashed good and proper. God! She had never had such foreplay and orgasms in her life. Addicted, came the thought. She turned back to the mirror and looked straight into the face before her. The defiance in the eyes was unswerving and, as the hand in the mirror touched the naked crotch, she watched the mouth mime the whisper that she heard under her breath: ‘I don’t give a damn and I want it more than ever.’

  She could not eat and left the micro-waved meal in the kitchen. Erotic thoughts had gradually given way to new ones impinging from the outside world and she began to feel she might be sobering up after a day of acute intoxication. She could not sit comfortably, something, at first, which turned her on but as time passed, she could not sustain the sexiness of it all on her own and old thoughts of self-doubts and guilt began to come to the fore. She needed some air.

  She turned off from the path to the bridge, cutting across the small field towards the sycamores in the distance. The sun's position could be just discerned from behind the off-white cottages which now blanked it out and the air hung heavy in the evening heat. She had come out in a navy blue tee-shirt, short black skirt and flat shoes, comfortable for walking. Her bag hung limply from her shoulder. She walked more slowly as she neared the river.

  She could no longer avoid thinking of Michael. She knew she needed to think hard and be realistic about him, and not lapse into feelings that hijacked her which invariably triggered impulses that always made things deteriorate into bouts of unedifying behaviour.

  What is he doing now? Has he got his feet up, glass of whisky in one hand, a rich, smug smile on his face, as he’s staring out through the window of that lounge, feeling very pleased with himself? Self-satisfied, as well he might be, with his control, and corruption, of yet another desperate female? Is that what I am? Desperate? She was now, and the thought disturbed her in a way that did not elicit a thrill. She told herself she could put a stop to it now. Tomorrow. Yet the thought of going in to work in the morning to quit her job only conjured up images of having to confront him. Sipping his whisky. She could see his handsome face and that beautifully sexy mouth. It was the source of all those quips that mocked her, the voice of that clever, sadistic mind that knew how to play her like some finely-tuned instrument to a composition of his own making.

  The shallow water babbled over the pebbles close to the bank and the shower incident came to mind. She made for the bench close by, wanting to sit down. Sipping whisky. Or right now back in that room playing with Anne? The thought cut her to the quick. Maybe he is thinking about me too? Maybe since this afternoon he could not stop thinking about me. Pacing the room. Going for a walk. But she stopped the thought in its tracks. She knew he was not the type. Guessed that what had happened was all routine to him. She suspected that she was just the latest in a long line of women that had passed through that room. A conveyor belt came into mind, rattling along squeakily, drowning out the muffled cries of dozens of women lying on it, bound and gagged in plastic struggling helplessly as they were all conveyed, one by one, into his devouring dungeon. He'd like that image, she thought and smiled, then suddenly felt angry with herself at endorsing his perverted ways, only to at once have to acknowledge that these very ways appealed to her, and sometimes dreadfully.

  She got up, moved a few steps, then turned and sat down again. She needed to think. To stop her mind rambling, she needed to concentrate. A thought occurred to her. Throughout the ordeal in the dungeon, not once had he exposed himself. Not once shown any real sexual behaviour in front of her. Maybe that's what he was doing. Not sipping his whisky but masturbating as he ogled the pictures he had taken of her.

  She got up and the thought hurt all the more as she realized that that was what really got him off. Reducing women to the ultimate sex objects - mere images, of things of his own making. But then she immediately thought of him in the bedroom. No reluctance then to expose himself. He had even stuck it right in her face. Why, oh why can’t I fathom him?! Why one minute yanking her off her feet like a piece of meat, the next letting her down gently, cradling her in his arms, as if one second more of hanging, was one second too long? Maybe that was it: his inability to show his true feelings. The transient show of affection and tenderness is as good as it gets. He can’t handle it. He was afraid to show he was vulnerable and not all macho-man, boots and whips, ropes and cuffs and all those masterful theatrics he puts on. He is full of self-confidence when he is in control and the poor thing is all tied up, helpless and passive, incapable of being a threat: the perfect audience for his exhibitionistic ego. Can’t even say for once - not once! - ‘Let’s make love …’

  She stopped her train of thought as her feelings were taking over this moment of insight. At least that was what she sensed she had finally realized was the matter with him. But as soon as that thought had come, another came. He’s not the poor, little lost boy you think you can save. He’s an independent, fully-grown man as complex as you are and clearly good at business and making money and very self-confident. He’s an agile, witty, perceptive, charming, cultured, suave and captivatingly handsome man. Moreover, he is adept at sexually arousing women and having them enjoy the sensuousness of their own bodies and minds and experiencing pleasure they have never known before. There the thought stopped as she realized how readily that list trotted out of her, as if carefully previously enumerated and learnt by rota through repetitive subconscious analysis of it. At once, another thought piped up. You mean, he brings out the sex-maniac in you. The thought stopped her dead in her tracks and her rambling, tormented mind suddenly ceased its flow of argument and counter-argument.

  She sighed inwardly. She was beginning to like the sadism, but she loved the tenderness more, even though - or because? - it was rationed, and all too brief. Something told her at once that she wanted to turn him on, really turn him on, and bind him to her in a way she knew, just knew, Anne could not. But as soon as she had the thought, another crashed in from reality. Anne, she had to admit, had a relationship with him. She knew
him intimately, and not just sexually. What chance had she, Catherine, of ever getting close to him as a lover? Of getting under his skin so that he really wanted her in his life? Only then could she have a chance of a real relationship, and an equal one at that. One thing was for sure. She was ready for anything he could throw at her. She would lap it up till it was coming out of her ears, if necessary. Almost anything, anything, to impress him.

  She got up briskly and turned back for home. She had decided to talk to Val. About men and her own insights and what, if any, ideas she could suggest for managing a blossoming relationship in the workplace between employee and boss.

  She was early to work next morning. She had slept well and felt as if this glorious summer would never end. The library was already very warm and, on entering it, she made straight for the windows to open them. Then she saw it. There, on the computer keyboard, was a small gift package, beautifully wrapped in silver-blue paper and silver ribbon. Excitement seized her, her heart soared, and she just knew it was something personal and lovely from him. She knew it! She opened it at once.

  Inside the box was a card with a simple message written in turquoise ink: For an exquisite derriere! Accompanying it was a little jar of comfrey cream bearing on its label: 'Nature's remedy for bruises.' A lead weight dropped inside her and her heart stopped racing. She stared at the bottle in her hand and felt empty. Serves you right, came the voice within, you’ll never learn. She thought of her backside and yesterday. She put the jar back in the box and looked again at the card. She touched her bottom with both hands, feeling her cheeks, and smiled.

  Chapter 17. Rain, sweat and tears

  It was three days since the gift left on her desk and she had not seen him. The cream had been working quite well and the colouration was beginning to turn a more uniform golden hue. Maybe he’s waiting till I’m fully recovered before continuing where we left off, she thought. She did not care what state her bum was in. She just needed to see him.

  At long last it was home-time and she could not wait to put the day behind her. Perhaps tomorrow … She shut the windows and reached for her bag and was suddenly startled. He was standing there by the door, smiling at her.

  ‘Oops! Sorry Catherine, did I make you jump?’ Of course he did. ‘You could do with something to calm you down.’

  Though he had frightened her, there was nothing sinister about him, nothing creepy the way some men were, rather it was his arrogance, his calculated style, the way he always seemed to pick the right moment when she was at a disadvantage. His style … and an image of a soft cosh shot through her mind. Courteous, considerate, a gentleman even … For a brief moment, she recalled how he originally was with her and resented this other, later side of his self-assurance that twisted everything to feed his own selfish needs. He’s devouring me …

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ and indicated her bag sitting there at the ready. ‘I was just about to go home.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’s a pity.’ But there was no disappointment in his face.

  She noticed what he had in his hand. It looked shiny, a tightly rolled up something, and she knew at once, this was a business call different from those he made on his clients.

  ‘But if it’s important I can hang on a bit longer,’ adding, her voice suddenly flat and lifeless, ’if that helps?’ He merely smiled straight at her.

  ‘Strip!’ he said simply, and stepped forward, closing the door quietly behind him.

  She had been on the verge of locking up and going home and had told him, there and then. She had been going home. All day to see me but No! He doesn’t come. As always! Always last minute. Well, stuff your little games! I’ve changed my mind. I’m off!

  ‘Strip, I said. Now!’

  At once - the look, the authoritative tone, his domineering presence, the shut door behind him, the inappropriateness of the setting - a thrill shot through her and she forgot immediately everything that had just happened.

  She stripped quickly, too quickly, forgetting to be the put-upon party in all this. She caught a whiff of his aftershave, which she loved. She wanted to buy him a present, longed to get more personal with him. Then she heard the unmistakeable crackle of PVC in his hands as he came towards her unfolding the bundle.

  ‘Put this on round your waist,’ and he handed her a leather strap arrangement which for a moment puzzled her. It was a wide leather belt with buckle. A long, plain leather strap was dangling from the centre of the belt, riveted at one end to it. She said nothing but saw at once the purpose of the dangly strap and buckled the belt round her waist comfortably and ready to begin whatever he had in mind. It hung down loosely by the cleft of her buttocks.

  ‘Now put this on,’ and his eyes smiled as he handed to her the partially unfolded black mac.

  She opened it out fully. It was a crinkly plastic which crackled noisily and not as lovely and soft and supple like the others she had worn. She slipped it on, buttoned it up, and tried to quickly smooth out the creases as best she could. The belt was in the pocket as always and she cinched it tight round her waist, just as he liked it. It was a jet-black gloss, exceptionally shiny, and the thought struck her how clever someone was to invent such material. The image of a little, old, bald-headed man in a white coat, hunched over bubbling test-tubes in his laboratory, flashed through her mind. Little pervy chemist, devoting his life to new materials to dress women up in. Little genius. Hooray for kinky chemists!

  ‘Come on! Turn round!’

  She snapped to and did as she was told. The cool plastic was already beginning to soften under the heat of her body and she tingled slightly as his hands smoothed the coat down over her shoulders, back, bottom and thighs. The floor was cool under her bare feet and she suddenly felt improperly dressed. She fancied wearing her heels. His hands moved round from behind to the front of her thighs, then up to her breasts. God! The gloss on the mac! She wanted a full-length mirror. He was up hard against her back, fondling her all over through the now increasingly softer plastic as she yielded under the play of his hands. She was becoming aroused and joined in, there and then, feeling herself too.

  The plastic was beginning to cling to her body and, as it caught the light, it glittered with each movement she made. Captivated, she stopped and was lost in the moment. Gazing down, she saw how the PVC moulded dramatically her figure in a way she had never seen it before, and she gasped softly.

  ‘On your knees!’

  This is getting to be a habit. Although she instinctively liked going down on him, her knees balked at the cool, hard floor. Handcuffs. She wanted to be handcuffed, wrists behind her back. First high-heels, now handcuffs. A slight shock came over her at the thought, a tiny alarm bell warning her of the depravity she was leaning to. A voice, silent but clear, told her at once what she did not want to hear. Dirty. You like it dirty. Tell him to bind your wrists. You like it dirty. She was not leaning toward depravity. She was in free fall. He spoke.

  ‘Give me the strap between your legs.’

  With pleasure, came the unspoken reply, as she fumbled inside the mac, opening her thighs wider to grab the leather and pull it up through her legs then pass it out from the front of the coat, handing it to him without looking up. He tugged the strap quite hard, making her gasp and almost unbalancing her, so that she nearly collapsed up against him. It was pulled in tight between her buttocks and up hard against her crotch. Despite the discomfort, she was quite comfortable. This is more like it, beats cataloguing any day, and she was surprised she was so perky. Maybe she was getting used to it more quickly than she had thought.

  ‘Get my pants down.’ She smiled inwardly. Men are so predictable. ‘With your teeth …’

  Her mind went blank. He took his trouser zip and pulled it down slightly.

  ‘You look like a hooker, so work like a hooker,’ and he flicked the metal zip. ‘Come on! Get to work, you whore!’ and he slapped her arm.

  Jolted, she immediately leaned forward
and struggled with her tongue to get the zip between her teeth. Her face was pressed into his crotch and she suddenly wished he was in those leather jeans he wore in the dungeon. High heels, cuffs, leather crotches … what else next? Game, she made a mighty tug on the zip. It slipped from between her teeth. She cursed and struggled to get it back, this time biting down hard on it. Another tug. It came away again but, this time, she had moved the zip perhaps half an inch. It had hurt her teeth slightly. This was suddenly no fun.

  ‘The secret is to push, not pull. Now get to work!’

  Slowly, and feeling increasingly hot and strained, she undid his fly. Suddenly, he started pulling and tugging the strap to revive her and she remembered at once her situation.

  ‘Untie my laces and take my shoes off.’

  He then dropped his trousers and she folded them neatly, placing them on top of his shoes.

  ‘Get my pants off me.’ She made to pull them down. ‘With your teeth.’

  It would have helped if this had been in the job description, came the whimsical thought. At least I could have practised beforehand. But then she realized she had no male friend to help out and sighed.

  ‘Get a move on!’

  She snapped to. Bit by bit, she tugged his underpants down, her face pressed against his muscular nether regions, breathing in his warm, musky scent and, coaxed repeatedly by a tug on the strap, the pants responded to her efforts. She wanted to kiss him all over there and lick his scent and be smothered by his crotch. However, when his pants dropped down round his ankles, she placed these too on the neat pile next to him. Novel twist to domestic duties, came the thought with a smile, and the additional thought, without a smile, of wanting to do all this with her wrists bound behind her back. Could be interesting …