by Donna Alam
The splashes of colour subside and I quit wishing I could cut out my tongue as I rub my eyes. My surroundings aren’t quite right. Familiar but . . . I open one eye. Not my bedroom. Not my bed. Kai’s. I’m in his bed, not the other way around, although it looks like someone’s been doing a bit of remodelling and abandoned it in between. The chair—yes, that one—lies on its side, my beautiful sweater torn and suspended from the arm. His dresser seems to have moved away from the wall, designer lamp and accoutrements swept onto the floor as a couple of pictures hang askew from the adjoining wall.
A flash of an image pulses in my head, a bit like a negative of a photograph: my back against the wall, legs wrapped around Kai. Was it really my arse that knocked everything from the dresser to the floor? Another image flashes—Kai’s arm sweeping across the wood, knocking things to the floor, his other gripped tightly around my waist.
And then the montage of images hovering at the edges of my brain begin to leak more rapidly. Recollections of the evening: Drinking at Club Cavalli, champagne followed by cocktails. And dancing. So much dancing. I absently rub my palms against the top of my thighs; no wonder they ache. Then, I was at home, suddenly starving and looking for a granola bar in my bag, but pulling out Kai’s hotel key and my phone. Calling a cab. The key-card slipping to the floor, stumbling to pick it up as a green light flashed to let me in.
‘Oh, God . . .’ Drunk in the corridors and bouncing off walls. I drag my hands down my face. Even my jaw is sore. Was I singing? Did we go to a karaoke bar? I move it from side to side; it feels overworked, like I’ve spent hours at the dentist, mouth open to full capacity. It can mean only one thing with the absence of cavities.
Oh fuck.
I turn my head over my shoulder. Kai is naked, sprawled across the bed and determined to keep on sleeping.
‘Wake up,’ I rasp, nudging him. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘Can’t you remember?’
Suddenly I don’t need him to answer; it’s all there in unexpectedly open and wickedly gleaming eyes.
‘I think I’d rather not.’ I groan, fingers back to massaging my temples.
‘You and Rashid both.’
He stretches out unselfconsciously, but even the sight of his toned abs can’t take away what he’s just said. I turn away quickly, between my legs unreasonably sore.
‘Tell me . . . Oh, no.’
It’s all coming back, much more vividly than I’d like. My waking Kai with my mouth, his groan reverberating through me as he became more sentient. The feel of him growing and lengthening between my lips. Pushing him naked from the bed and into the chair, our joint sniggering as I tried to tie his hands with my jumper, then, abandoning my efforts, my head diving between his legs like a shark. The crash as the chair back hit the floor, spilling us over it and each other, laughing like hyenas. Rashid suddenly in the room—in his pyjamas, I think—holding a gun. A gun, really?
‘Rashid . . . I had my clothes on, didn’t I?’
‘Some. I, on the other hand . . .’
‘Shit a brick,’ I whisper. Because, yeah, I’m just that classy. I close my eyes for a beat before my gaze slides embarrassed to Kai’s.
‘Oh, you had much more to say than that. He laughs. ‘I hadn’t realised you have the language capacity of a sailor. You made Rashid—a former soldier—blush. Something about riding me dry. I hope you meant me, rather than . . . friction . . .’ He laughs again but I’ll credit him as trying not to. ‘Yes, well, in any event, it did take us a while. I’d, er, had a bit to drink, too.’
‘Oh God.’
I lie back against the bed, slowly, breathing in relief as my head touches the pillow.
Kai’s hands are braced on either side of the bed, butt perched on the edge. ‘Let’s go find you some paracetamol and coffee. I believe duty calls, unless you’re playing hooky today? No, I didn’t think so,’ he adds, smiling as I clutch my head, the results of a non-verbal no.
‘Does your family business have a pharmaceutical arm? Can you get your hands on black-market Ritalin? I’ll need to dose the kids so I can go die quietly in the resource cupboard.’ He laughs as he slips into his boxers. ‘On second thoughts, maybe you could borrow Rashid’s gun, he did have a gun, didn’t he?’ A gun. Fuck. Wonder what that’s all about. ‘Put me out of my misery. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to face him again, not after that level of inappropriateness.’ My throat is dry, unsurprisingly. It’s also the most I’ve spoken this morning.
‘Sweetheart,’ Kai says, pausing by the now open door. ‘You’re dating me, not him, and you should know by now I’m a huge fan of inappropriate behaviour. Especially yours.’
By some quirk of fate, I’m not late for work today. It doesn’t harm that the clothes Kai ordered are still in the suite. This time I don’t make such a fuss, just meekly, and without moving my head too much, grab a kick-pleat skirt and a pussy-bow blouse. And fancy undies and ballet flats. Gucci, far out! More designer gifts that would sit uncomfortably on my shoulders, if that role wasn’t already filled with my thumping head. Plus, I’ve bigger things at stake, like keeping my job for a start.
I make a concerted effort to avoid the staffroom for the remainder of the week, sensitive in the extreme to any stray looks sent my way. I’ve tried to quiz both Sadia and Hala, without asking specifics. It’s not like I can just come right out and ask if they’ve heard anything without making myself sound, well, less than regionally appropriate, I suppose. I figure the gossip can’t have spread too far when Hala asks me if I want to grab an early dinner with her and her daughter one day next week. I can’t imagine she’d risk her daughter being introduced to a scarlet woman. I’m pretty sure her husband would go mad.
And once Kai is back from this week’s business trip I need to ask him exactly what he’d said to Arwa. I shudder to think, especially as she’s ignoring me like I’ve got the pox. It’s not something I want to do over the phone, mainly because our contact this week has been pretty sporadic and limited to smut and goading. But this thing needs to be addressed. She is my boss, after all. I at least need her to have confidence in me as a teacher.
One other thing we’ve discussed over the phone is my car.
It arrived Wednesday.
A little Toyota four-wheel drive.
No more taxis. No more Rashid.
And despite all I’ve had to say on the topic, and despite how it still makes me feel uneasy, I might be a little bit in love with my new, silver wheels.
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday and almost another week done. Niamh and I had planned to go out for pizza this afternoon, but the weather’s so awful we’ve decided to stay in. It’s hot, as usual, but today there’s no sign of the sun, the sky beige to the horizon, obscured by the desert, airborne and hovering over the buildings below.
The light indoors is sparse, the sand outside giving the effect of a winter’s day. It’s the kind of day that encourages you to curl up and veg out, let the weather do its thing. So we have. We’ve nibbled on hummus and chips—one of my first experiences of driving in the city was a trip to the supermarket to stock my shamefully empty fridge—and the recently delivered pizza box lies empty on the tiles. My iPod plays quietly in the background and Niamh has a magazine open on her lap as my phone dances across the arm of the chair with a text.
I’ve come to look forward to our texting volleys. Kai gives really good . . . text.
Hey, beautiful, the little blue bubble reads. It’s insane that those two words make me want to do somersaults.
That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Our texting sessions so far have been a bit more imaginative, not quite sexting. Maybe more sext-lite.
That was a perfectly reasonable greeting.
I quickly tap out, If a little ordinary . . .
Sweetheart, I’ll gladly up the ante. What did you have in mind? Quickly on the heels of this text comes, Are you alone?
My eyes flit to Niamh. Damn. Her eyes dance with mischief as she peers over
the top of the magazine. ‘You sexting? You’ve gone a bit pink in the face.’
‘Mind your own,’ I answer with a smirk. Niamh’s here, why?
I’m in a meeting and I’m bored. I thought maybe you could distract me a little.
Distract you how?
Dirty pictures, of course. Of course. And get stuffed.
No way, Niamh already thinks I’m sending you smutty texts, I type.
Then, Maybe. And then, I could always excuse myself. God, I’m becoming a perv. You first.
But I feel a little squirmy inside. What would I take a picture of? A nipple? My arse?
I’m not sure it would be wholly appropriate for me to get my cock out in front of business associates. It isn’t really the done thing.
Offer they go first?
I hope that’s not your circuitous way of telling me you collect cock shots?
Get you! You even have the sexting lexicon! I reply.
The little dots move across my screen for what seems like an age. Eventually, Kai’s message is delivered. Well?
Well? That was it? All that typing for . . . Whoa! A second later, a picture message flashes up. Taken from a sitting position, the edge of a white shirt contrasts against a black leather belt. The tips of Kai’s fingers sit at the bottom left of the screen as slim-fitting grey pants cover his muscular thighs beneath. I drink in the details avidly, but my cheeks must be pinker than pink as I stare at the screen, or more specifically, the taut length of cock straining sideways against the fabric of his pants.
Well?
Hang on. My brain’s a bit broke right now.
Reciprocate. Excuse yourself, go send me something nice. Audio, visual. Either works for me.
I will. But not now. Soon, I type, and, my mouth’s watering and I feel suddenly hungry.
You really want me to respond to that?
Yes, please. No. You should get back to work. You probably need to concentrate.
How do you think I got that hard? I’m a very focused individual and I’m concentrating on YOU right now. Where I want to kiss, lick and bite you. I only want to be one place: between your legs. When I get there, I can’t promise I’ll be gentle or even slow because I miss you. I need my fill. Want to devour you greedily, make you writhe shamelessly. How does that sound?
My grip on the phone is so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shoot out of my sweaty little hand. How does it sound? Heavenly.
‘What the hell’s he saying that’s got you that colour?’ Niamh asks. ‘D’you want me to leave the room so you can get your boobs out for a sexy selfie.’
‘It’s . . . I . . . no thanks.’
That sounds suspiciously like sex, I reply.
Sex sounds like fun. You offering? Oh, he’s not quite done yet.
I might be persuaded.
I’d like that job. Sounds like sex. Smells like you.
Eww! I smell like sex? I might need to change my deodorant. Sex smells like shame and tears in my experience!
I’d meant it as a joke, but in the absence of those little dots, I begin to worry, chewing on my thumbnail and wracking my brains for a witty addendum, some way to laugh this off. Then, my phone vibrates again, causing my heart to feel like it’s about to dissolve in stomach acid.
Check your email.
Shit. Flirty banter: Nil.
I quickly toggle to my email account.
From: Kais Al Khalfan.
Subject: Sex. Oh, God. This isn’t going to be pretty.
Your text was disconcerting and I needed a moment to think and respond.
We both know sex and power go hand in hand and ours is a sexual dynamic that gets us both off. But while it’s amusing to pretend I’m in charge, for me to hold you down, watch you struggle a little; the truth is that you want that, too. It’s there for us both to see. Your gasps and trembles are invitations. You don’t resist and you don’t tell me to stop. Pretending the opposite doesn’t hide your knowledge of this. It’s time for you to acknowledge and accept this is who you are. This is what we do.
K
P.S. Sex with you smells fucking fantastic. I’d bottle it if I could.
I suddenly want to cry. He’s totally right. I can’t tell myself that what I do, I must do for him, that I can’t actually like what he does to me. What we do together. That being restrained, that experiencing shame and embarrassment, doesn’t yield to my release. I know my denial is always in retrospect because, in the moment, I’m too busy enjoying myself to stop.
I’m Brer Rabbit, begging not to be thrown into the briar patch, yet secretly relishing the thorns.
Holy crap.
I feel foolish, need some advice and I want to talk to Niamh. Unburden myself, confide in her. But where do I begin? How could I possibly begin to explain how one look from him has me tied in knots so tight I never want to be freed? How do I explain what I don’t understand? I can hardly tap her on the shoulder and tell her I want to discuss my sexual awakening to the other. For a start, it makes me sound like I’ve gone gay.
Hi, my name is Kate and I like being tied up and dominated.
I can see her now. “Yeah.” she’d laugh, “And I’m thinkin’ about becoming a nun.”
I have shed loads of questions and nowhere to turn.
‘Whatcha reading?’ Rising from my chair, I lean over the back of the sofa and read the title of the magazine article she’s reading. ‘Work stress: Is your career spoiling your orgasm?’’
‘I’ve forgotten what one of those is.’ She flicks the page quite aggressively.
‘You don’t manage with . . . menage a moi?’
‘Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth to be buying Cosmo,’ she says, slapping the magazine closed.
‘I buy it for the articles,’ I deadpan. ‘Besides, you’re the one reading it. Hey, do you remember before the pool party, you said Rob was big . . . you know, downstairs. How do you know, if you haven’t . . .’ My expression twists indelicately.
‘I never said we hadn’t. Or that we had. Just that I wanted to. But I met him at a party before the summer break, if that’s what you’re asking.’
That doesn’t answer my question at all. In fact, it’s just a lead-in to several others. ‘And?’ I prompt.
‘We had a grand night, got on really well and . . . we went back to mine.’ Placing the magazine on the sofa next to her, she links suddenly restless fingers behind her head. Crossing one leg over the other, one foot dangles buoyant above. ‘For coffee.’ She slides me a significant look. ‘I didn’t have any in the cupboard but let’s just say we had a very stimulating time, all the same.’
Then she giggles. And jiggles her foot. Far out, it’s like being back in high school—she’s definitely got it bad.
‘So you’ve done the deed?’ Now I sound like a teenager, not that I went all the way in my teens. I was definitely a late starter. Making up for it heaps now.
She exhales a slow breath but doesn’t speak, almost as if she’s replaying the evening in her head. ‘We managed to restrain ourselves to a bit of frottage that time,’ she says eventually and almost as though to herself. Rousing from her thoughts, it’s almost as though she’s shaking off flies. ‘I wished I’d let him ride the arse offa’ me then. If I’d known what I was in for later, I wouldn’t have played hard to get.’
‘Payback’s a bitch,’ I snigger. Get oh-so smug me. ‘And what the hell’s frottage?’ Sometimes I’m sure we talk different languages.
‘You know,’ she says, like I really should. Then, making a slack-cupped fist, she gestures with a loose motion of her wrist. ‘A bit of a helping hand.’
‘Just how many glasses of wine have you had?’ I ask, eyebrows fighting to free themselves from my head.
‘One, why?’
‘Surreal over sharing, that’s why.’
‘Nah, over sharing would be to tell you I let him come on my t—’
‘La-la-laa!’ I place hands over corresponding ears. ‘So don’t need to know!’
D
eciding I need to be back in my chair before I begin baring my soul, I head back to it and take a large mouthful of wine. Should I take comfort in the fact that she’s so willing to share? Maybe it’ll make my questions easier, not that I’ve much choice in the matter. As far as brain picking, she’s all I’ve got, apart from Kai. And why wouldn’t I ask Kai? Because I already feel like the country mouse that’s turned up at his kinkier cousin’s place, finding him answering the front door wearing leather chaps and nipple clamps. Plus, I think somehow this would give him all kinds of ideas in his role as teacher. I expect he’d find some way to supply me with a uniform to befit that role.
‘Niamh?’ I ask, placing my glass on the table and inhaling deeply.
‘Hmm?’ She doesn’t look up, her attention having resumed on the magazine.
‘Do you know much about people who enjoy . . . dominance . . . or fetish?’ My words are quiet and I’m not completely sure I’m using the right terms. Sounds about right, though. ‘Swingers?’ I ask, a little louder and hating the upward inflection in my voice.
‘Horses of different colours, those,’ she says absently, flicking a page. ‘Like donkeys and zebras.’
‘What?’ It was never going to be easy, but really, did she have to make me more confused?
Niamh raises her head, staring into the middle distance. ‘Two . . . states that shouldn’t be housed together.’ Her eyes return to me. ‘Mess your kinksters with your swingers and you end up with crossed boundaries, crossed purposes, or else something really weird.’
‘Okay.’ I draw the word out slowly, not okay at all. ‘What about kinksters, then.’ Swingers are people who swap partners, I think. ‘Kink.’ I repeat quietly.
Leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair, her eyes settle again on mine. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve developed a fetish for shoes, ‘cos, babe, that particular kitty-cat’s already out of the bag.’
I smile weakly and shrug. ‘I like shoes.’
