Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

by Sydney Jamesson

Growling, he releases me, "The power you have over me Beth ... you feel it don’t you, tell me you feel it?"

  The air around us is spinning. "I feel it Ayden." My heart beat is whooshing in my ears, yet there’s a gentle stillness between us that comes from accepting our fate. I want to frame this moment, to put it up on a wall behind a curtain so only I know it’s there: the moment when our two worlds actually collide.

  I take his face in my hands and allow my senses to take in every pore: Ayden Stone you are so incredibly beautiful, why would you consider this gift of loveliness a curse?

  Instantly, his firm hand is on my chin, his fingers along my jaw and his thumb skimming my lower lip. "I want to be inside you," he mutters, sliding his thumb into my mouth. His lip twitches momentarily as my tongue finds the soft pad of his thumb and circles it slowly. He shifts in his chair and I sense his arousal. I feel my own: I’m wet and my underwear is sodden and I know my dress will be stained from sitting.

  "Suck hard Beth, take all of me," he instructs, before moving his thumb in and out of my mouth in a sort of hypnotic incursion. His other hand is moving down my dress; his fingertips are tracing spirals across my collar bone and still I suck and lick his insistent thumb.

  He removes it from my mouth and trails it down my chin before filling the vacant space with his tongue. Like magic, he breathes life into me; his breath enters my mouth and I inhale him like oxygen. I push back with my tongue, I want to taste him. He takes me inside his mouth and groans at my fevered invasion.

  I’m so preoccupied with his mouth that I barely feel his hands on my breasts. He’s cupping me, searching for my nipples with his thumbs through the silk material. I feel them hardening and rubbing against my bra, so I push them forward, encouraging him, urging him on. I’m so aroused. I want to be touched, I need to be touched and I desperately want to touch him.

  I lower my hands from his face, feel the damp pleats of his shirt against his skin and let my hands come to rest on his knees. Jesus! But my hands are rigid and I hold onto his hard thighs afraid of traveling further into unknown territory.

  "Do it," he gasps. "I want you to do it."

  "I can’t, not here."

  He moves his hands to my waist and moans into my mouth, "I’m so fucking hard for you."

  I know where this is going but I’m powerless to stop it. His hands rest on my hips and he rocks me back and forth in a kind of rhythmic embrace, but I can’t tear myself away from his passionate kisses.

  My stomach muscles start to tighten when he places the palm of his right hand just below my navel. I feel his fingers spreading wide and his thumb skimming my pubic bone: it feels too good. My arousal steps up a notch, it’s hovering dangerously in the red zone.

  This is wrong!

  What’s he doing to me?

  This is wrong!

  I’m starting to panic … he’s got to stop, I’ve got to stop. This is too much. "Ayden ..." I gasp. "Ayden ... stop, please stop..." When the words leave my mouth, I sound as if I’m pleading.

  He pulls back, removes his hands from my trembling torso and scoops up my face in his sizzling palms. "I’m sorry," he whispers, kissing my forehead. "It’s too much, I know, but I can’t help myself."

  He tips my face to his so we are staring into each other’s eyes: blue and green hoops orbiting bottomless pools of blackness. Our breaths are shallow and we come slowly down, down.

  "I didn’t intend for this to happen, not this way, but you’re like a drug to me. I lose all self-control around you."

  He seems vulnerable and unguarded, I want to kiss him; to feel the plump moistness of his lips on mine, but I hold off and stroke his face with my thumbs, letting him speak.

  "I’ve been thinking of nothing else but you since Monday… I like order in my life, but you’ve come along and everything’s been tipped on its head. I don’t know what the fuck’s happening to me!"

  In my flushed state I can’t think straight, but I have to say something. This is not the time for untruths. "I’ve been a wreck too. If you hadn’t sent the invitation, I don’t know what I would have done."

  His confession comes out in a rush. “… It’s as if there’s something pulling us together. Everything about you is magnetic." There’s sincerity in his voice; his admission leaves him exposed and that makes him all the more desirable.

  "I’ve tried to be invisible for so long, Ayden. You’ve come along and you see me and I’m so thankful for that." Before I can say another word he pulls me to him with such force I think I’ll fall from my chair.

  "How could I not see you. Beth, you’re beauty personified." He relinquishes his grip and brushes away a single strand of hair from my face, taking in every line, every pore.

  "But Ayden, I don’t understand what it is you want from me?"

  "I want to possess you and be possessed by you, in every possible way. That’s what I want."

  My heart quickens in response to those heartfelt words, I can tell from his expression that he is utterly sincere, but there’s an edge to his assertion that seems a little unnerving. Sexual attraction is one thing, but possession? I stiffen slightly, where’s this going?

  "How do you think I can do that Ayden?" Am I so inexperienced, should I know what he means?

  "If you let me love you then we’ll find out together."

  For some reason, that doesn’t satisfy me. I’m suddenly alert and captivated by him at the same time. "Ayden, I’ve loved tonight and this thing we have is, well, mind blowing, but what is it you’re not telling me?"

  Before my eyes, this sexy, self-assured God of a man is fading and there sits a lesser figure who seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders: he’s wrestling with an unfathomable dilemma.

  I’m drawn to his tormented features and gently tip up his chin with my fingers, forcing him to look at me. "No games Ayden, remember?"

  With unexpected softness he says, "I want to …” He stops, looks into my wide eyes, the colour of a summer sky, and reconsiders his words. “I want to be your … submissive ... "

  "... My what?"

  I try not to appear shocked but inside I want to scream. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  A single brow lifts in response to my declaration. “I want you to take control, Beth. To be sexually dominant, with me.” He’s scrutinising my face for evidence of understanding. He won’t find it there. Why does this stunning, wonderfully, talented man wants to be dominated by me? Me?

  Fuck!

  "Ayden, look at me."

  He lifts his head and so forlorn is his expression that it cuts me to the quick. "I can’t imagine what makes you feel you have to be dominated. I don’t know what to say to a request like that. Truly I don’t."

  A little too quickly, he regains his composure. I see him transforming, reverting back into the self-possessed man I saw framed by crystal light only two hours ago. It’s as if he’s made a bad call, misjudged the situation somehow. His back is settling into the back of his chair; he’s becoming fierce and remote. "I see."

  But he doesn’t, he’s pulling away, out of my reach. "No you don’t," I answer sternly. "I didn’t say no, you took me by surprise, give me a minute ..."

  There’s an urgency in my voice that comes from a colossal surge of emotion stirring inside me. It reaches down to the depth of my soul and I am powerless to control it. "Do you think I would let anyone dominate you or treat you that way. Of course, it has to be me." I take hold of his hands in mine and rest them on my lap.

  The gravity of the situation hits me: this is one of those moments in life when a promise made is a promise kept. "I promise to take care of you Ayden, in whatever way I can, and however you want me to. If you want to call that being dominant, then so be it. Can I make it any clearer for you?"

  "No." For some reason, he treats me to a victorious smile and moves closer so we can feel each other’s breath against our lips: he’s intoxicating and, by all accounts, so am I. His pupils are like dark pools of rainwater; in them I
can see myself reflected and I know I belong there in that dark, secret space.

  "What should I call you?" he asks with a sexy glint in his eye.

  Call me?

  I’m thinking on my feet. "Behind closed doors you can call me Elizabeth, but only then. Right here and now I’m Beth."

  "Ok. Sounds good to me." Confidently, he takes hold of my hand, preparing to leave then halts abruptly, thinking through his actions. "Are you ready to go?"

  I swallow deeply and prepare for my command performance. "Yes, if we’re starting tonight then you should take me home so I can tie you up and fuck you." I assume that’s the right thing to say and, by the look on his face I think I’ve nit the bullseye.

  His smile lights up the private box, it stretches to his eyes and the warmth of that light makes us glow like a constellation of undiscovered stars. He upturns his hand and reaches out to me.

  "Let’s go, I’m all yours."

  By lunchtime Dan has had enough. He makes himself scarce and goes for a smoke behind the north exit door, remembering to keep the bin between the door and the latch. He got caught-out by it once before and it took him seven minutes to walk all the way around the building and to re-enter through the double swing doors. That was the day he caught the eye of Sandra clearing the bins in the back office. The memory of that encounter has stayed with him like a bad dose of indigestion. “What a fucking mistake that was,” he recalls with a sneer.

  “Oh you’re a big boy, aren’t you,” she called out when he passed, causing him to clench his fingers into a fist. She was trying to embarrass him in front of her workmates, but he was having none of it.

  He sauntered over to her and positioned himself against the door jam, blocking her path. “Are you talking to me sweetheart?” He could be charming when he wanted to be.

  “I might be,” she said. He hated the way she came onto him, fluttering her eyelashes and flashing her tits.

  “Then, decide if you are or if you’re not because I haven’t got all day.” He had her on the ropes.

  “What if I am?”

  “Then you should be here at 5.30 ready and waiting for me.” He knew exactly how to handle her sort.

  “And what if I’m not?”

  “Then you’ll never know will you.”

  “Never know what?”

  “Whether I’m a big boy or not,” he said, throwing her a wink over his shoulder. He left her with that thought, knowing she was gagging for it. He could hear the peals of laughter as he turned down the corridor, and could already feel the bile forming in his throat. It took a visit to his locker to see his girl, and a couple of strokes to make him feel better.

  When he turned up as arranged at 5.30 in the foyer of the main entrance, she was there, fussing with her peroxide blonde hair and straightening her blouse which was easily two sizes too small. Her face lit up when she saw him and he even managed to manufacture a reciprocal smile to reassure her, before he hit her between the eyes with a knockout punch.

  “You’re here.”

  “I am.”

  He watched her wiggle her arse, straighten her skirt, leading him on. From the way she was holding her mouth, he could tell she was expecting to be kissed. But there was no way that was going to happen. Almost choking on cheap perfume and cigarette breath, he rocked forward into her. “Then fuck off, I don’t date slags!”

  Her face was a picture. He wished he’d brought his expensive camera along, even without the zoom lens it would have been one for the photo album.

  Leaving her standing, mouth agape and ashen faced, he walked away muttering, “Why the fuck would I settle for a witch like you when I’ve got a princess at home?”

  At the end of his shift, he made the forty minute journey back to Ely, grinning for the entire 16 miles at the memory of her disintegration.

  3

  In one swift movement we are trotting down stairs and gliding along marble floors. Ayden is pressing the screen on his iPhone and, after only two rings, puts it away in his pocket. For a matter of seconds, we linger at the bottom of the foyer steps, avoiding a passing vagrant of gigantic proportions. A sleek, silver Rolls Royce comes around the corner to the left of us, registration number: ASMED1A. It pulls up outside the entrance.

  A smartly dressed man with a number two haircut and a stance that belongs more on a military base than outside a theatre, steps out and walks around the car to open the passenger door. I glance over to Ayden and we share a look, yet say nothing about the chauffeur driven car. It’s our private joke.

  "Good evening Mr. Stone, Miss Parker."

  “Hi Lester. Just drive." This is a side to Ayden I have yet to see; him giving commands so effortlessly. "After you, Beth."

  I step into the sumptuous interior; there’s the sweet smell of leather cleaner and polish and it reminds me of my mum’s house. How strange that a fragrance can evoke such a powerful memory.

  "Where to?" Ayden asks, shaking me out of my absorbing recollection.

  I’m too taken with the night’s events to have even considered where we’re going, but I’m supposed to be taking charge so I issue an order; "To my apartment please," realising he doesn’t know where my apartment is. "Sorry, the address is ..."

  "He knows the address," Ayden states as a matter of fact and throws me a ‘what did you expect’ look.

  "He does?" I return fire with a surprised look. I wonder what other information he has on me? There’s a kind of uncomfortable silence and I feel on edge, I want to laugh. Ayden looks so debonair and I can’t believe my good fortune; this kind of thing doesn’t happen to women like me. I put my hand to my mouth to contain a giggle.

  "That’s one way of breaking the ice." He grins and leans into me expectantly.

  Is he assuming I’ll take the lead?

  I look out of the window and try to devise a plan of action, but nothing comes to mind. "Ayden … what are you expecting when we get to my apartment?"

  He has a dead-pan expression. "I’m expecting chains and whips and a selection of bondage gear."

  "What! Have you had them delivered?" From his reaction, my face must be a picture, I’m startled beyond words.

  "Beth … I don’t know what I’m expecting when we get to your apartment. I’m in the dark here." He is shaking his head, but his eyes are laughing: he’s fooling around.

  "That makes two of us,” I say, thinking out loud. “I would have some explaining to do if my neighbour had taken that parcel in." I bump against his shoulder affectionately, we share the joke and the ice melts in the warmth emanating from his smile.

  ***

  When we reach my ground floor apartment, I’m suddenly reminded of the mess I left behind in my eagerness to get ready. He’ll be lucky if he can find a space to stand. When I put my weight behind the front door and it opens, I’m stunned to see it’s immaculate. "Charlie," I say quietly.

  "Who?" Ayden looks about the apartment furtively, fearing our discovery.

  "There’s no-one here, come in." I watch him taking it all in.

  "It’s very tidy and ... homely," he comments, making his way over to the marble fireplace. His eyes are drawn to my framed piece of Papyrus. “Have you been to Egypt?”

  “No. Charlie my best friend went as part of an incentive programme. She was ‘Top Biller’ or something like that for three months. She brought it back for me.”

  “Is it authentic?”

  “I think so, it came with a certificate, saying 8th Century AD. It looks authentic.” I lean in to take a closer look, our faces reflect in the glass before it steams over with our combined breath.

  “So much of this stuff is banana paper, but you can usually tell if it’s real by the quality of the script. I have a couple of wooden masks at my place that date back to around 440 BC.”

  “Are you’re a collector?”

  “No, but I like lovely and unusual things,” he states coyly, shifting his attention to me. "Do you want to show me round?"

  I nod, hoping he can’t sense my
awkwardness. My heart begins to flutter, the bedroom is only thirty feet away, soon we’ll be heading in that direction and he must have all kinds of expectations.

  I push him around with my hands on his back as if he’s an inanimate object. "So this is the kitchen." All he can do is nod and keep his hands in his pockets. We approach the bedroom and instantly his eyes are drawn to the two framed prints on the walls; one to the side and one over my bed. Both are by Nobert Gerstenberger.

  “Interesting artwork.” He tips up his head to each one in turn.

  “You like?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “They’re only prints. I was drawn to the contrasting images of romanticism and cruelty.”

  He spins around, forcing me to take a step backwards. “Cruelty?”

  “Yes. Here these two women were with so many dreams, so hopeful and yet they’ve been overwritten, coloured over and have faded into the background. It’s as if they never existed.”

  “Why do you have them if they make you melancholy?”

  “They make me reflective, that’s not the same as melancholy.”

  He takes a closer to them. “You’re right, it isn’t. They have a dream like quality but there’s something sinister about them.”

  “I think you’re reading too much into them.” I take his arm. “I simply like the artistry.”

  He doesn’t budge. “And what of these women, do they get their happy endings?” He turns around to face me, making me feel shy and uneasy.

  I have to look away. “Happy endings are a construct Mr. Stone. Everyone knows that?” I laugh softly but receive only a flat-smile in reply.

  “Do they have titles?”

  “Yes.” I point out each one in turn. “The Love Letter and The Princess.”

  He sniggers at that, but I’m not entirely sure why. “How apt.”

  Did I miss something?

  I try to lighten the atmosphere with good humour. “You see, us Cinderellas like to live in hope.”

  He circles my chin with a single finger, and returns his hand to his pocket as if he hadn’t moved. “In hope of what, exactly?”