One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Feck!’ she exclaims, rushing past me. ‘You stay there!’ she yells as I make to follow.

  ‘All right,’ I grumble. ‘No need to get the shits with me.’

  The door bangs closed behind her and muffled voices ensue. The higher of the two sounds placating, the other, well, pretty pissed off, as I sit, like any self-respecting woman, straining to hear as I sip on my coffee, which is cooling nicely.

  ‘Ah, go wank up a tree!’

  Pretty sure she’s not on the phone.

  ‘Like you’d let me,’ comes a response in a much lower register. And in an accent. Almost drawled. So defo not the phone, then. The lying little minx.

  I brush the crumbs from my lap as Niamh closes the bedroom door behind her, and, avoiding my, shall we say, smirking countenance, walks into the living room. Seating herself carefully in the chair opposite, she begins to unfold something silky, small and red, before coming to with a jolt. Screwing the material up in a ball, she shoves it between her bum and the chair.

  ‘I suppose you want to know what that was all about.’

  ‘Who, me? Your business, by the sounds of things. Of course I don’t want to pry.’ Hear that? That’s Captain Subtext screaming Dish that dirt, mate! I’ll loan you a shovel!

  ‘Right,’ she answers sardonically. ‘Then maybe you want to rub the bit of drool off your chin.’

  Stupidly, my hand goes there, halting half-way.

  ‘I’m about to make shit real awkward, and not ‘cos I want to, mind.’ She inhales deeply. For drama, obviously.

  ‘Just spit it out!’

  ‘I’m gettin’ to it, if you’d just shut your hole for a minute.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on!’

  Inhaling, she expels a deep breath along with a rush of words. ‘I’m a dominant woman, Kate.’

  I snort and then take a mouthful of my coffee. Then I roll my eyes.

  ‘You knew already?’

  ‘That’s not something you can hide easily.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, a slow smile creeping across her face. ‘Cool. Christ, I was brickin’ it with the thoughts of telling you. Manic when you turned up, especially as I’d left him tied to the bed—’

  ‘Niamh,’ I say holding up a hand. ‘You’ve been dominating me since I met you. You’re a real bossy cow and—’

  Whoa.

  Cue the screech of needled steel over vinyl. ‘Hang on, what did you just say?’

  As the colour quite literally drains from her face, my own eyes grow wider than dinner plates.

  ‘You’re . . . You mean, you’re . . .’

  ‘I’m a dominant, Kate.’

  ‘Like a dom?’ Should that have an “e”? ‘A domme?’ I repeat. ‘A dominatrix?’ My gaze flicks over her robe expecting a flash of latex, leather, or boots, then shoots to the door again, not quite sure what to expect. ‘Have you got a bloke—a client in there?’

  ‘What? Would ya’ ever fuck off. Just ‘cos I like my men submissive, doesn’t mean I fleece them!’

  ‘So who—that’s . . . that’s Rob, in there?’

  ‘You thought I had some random tied to my bed?’ With each word spoken, her tone rises in sharp increments.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I screech in return. ‘You might’ve given me some warning!’

  ‘Warn—How? D’you think they do Hallmark cards, or something? Congratulations on getting a new subby. Don’t worry, I’m just a bit inclined like your new hubby?’ Her ditty hangs in the air between us like an expletive—rude and echoing—my absolute shock giving her the opportunity to fold her arms across her chest. ‘Not nice, is it? Being outed.’

  My mouth works without sound. Inclined like Kai? She couldn’t know, could she? ‘Is there a secret handshake or something?’ I blurt, my brain lagging behind my mouth. Business as usual then.

  ‘Call it an educated guess.’ Folding her arms, she shrugs.

  ‘No way. I-I don’t believe it.’

  She looks at me as though considering something, then shrugs. ‘He turned up on my doorstep and I invited him in. In between slugging my best whiskey and twisting his hands in his hair, he said something. Mumbled it more like. Something about pushing you too hard, and let’s just say it struck a chord. ‘So,’ she adds in a superior tone. ‘Now that we’ve established I don’t humiliate men for money, Rob and I would like you to agree to something.’

  ‘We? You and . . .’ I nod towards the door, unable now to even say his name. Please don’t let her want a joint outing to one of those funny clubs. ‘No. You haven’t told him, have you? About me and Kai?’

  ‘He’d like us all to promise,’ she says, without replying, ‘to never refer to this afternoon again. And, he says he’ll shout us our next night out, buying us copious amounts of Belvedere as brain bleach.’

  ‘Deal,’ I reply immediately, holding a hand to my face. ‘Why couldn’t he have just kept quiet?’ Ignorance does seem like bliss at the minute.

  Sliding her hand under her thigh, Niamh dangles something from her index finger, something that appears to be a bright red, sparkly G-string.

  ‘This. The string of my thong slid down the back of his throat. Poor bastard was choking.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Like the old adage a watched kettle never boils, it seems a watched for Kai never arrives. Still bored, so very bored. I’ve sent Niamh a text telling her of my intention to spend some time in Kai’s gym. I’d expected a volley of responses, sane words to talk me down from the ledge, but I guess she must be busy in class this morning because I haven’t receive one solitary text. Or maybe she’s still smarting from being outed? Who knows?

  I try to talk myself out of it and then remember I’ve nothing else to do. And that I’m putting on weight; at least I think I am. Kai doesn’t seem to own a set of scales—no surprise there—the man always looks like Adonis after a juice fast.

  But mine is a vicious cycle, but not the biking kind. I’m bored, therefore I eat. I eat, therefore I’m putting on weight. The size of my arse depresses the shit out of me. So bored and depressed, I eat again.

  Half an hour of punishment it is then. Not to mention upping my carb curbing.

  Healthy living sucks arse.

  I do twenty minutes on the treadmill, counting the five it took to work out how to switch it on. And the five I stood with my feet planted on the side guards while the belt whirred like a demon, after I’d inadvertently selected a pre-set workout of Kai’s.

  Okay, fine. I did ten minutes. And even that left me out of breath.

  Next, I hop on the bike wondering why my legs don’t reach the pedals. I get off, re-adjust the seat, then get down again five uncomfortable minutes later when I’m reminded of two things: I once did a spin class that made me puke halfway through and riding bikes causes my . . . my undercarriage to bruise.

  ‘Taint no laughing matter. My bits are just bike unfriendly, is all.

  I’m now sitting on the row-thingy, contemplating bringing the handle-thing a bit closer, when my phone buzzes with a text. Niamh. It has to be, and it’s never too late to be talked out of a bad idea.

  Opening the phone, it’s not from Niamh. It’s from Kai. A picture message. My black underwear, the missing pair, laid out on what I guess to be Kai’s hotel bed.

  I text back: Where’s the ransom note? I stare at the phone, willing a reply and when it comes, it reads one word.

  Reciprocate.

  I consider dashing upstairs to grab a pair of his Armani boxer briefs, replicating the image, but struck by a flash of daring decide to go with another plan.

  Remember the terms of our parting?

  Between my legs pulses once, leaving me both empty and tingling as I recall his terms.

  I’ll decide how you come. And when.

  Patience is a virtue, I respond.

  And one I value highly, he cryptically replies.

  I have a sudden, kinky epiphany. Placing myself in front of the mirrored wall, I pull my track-pants below my knees. I look
kinda silly, staring at myself in the mirror, sweatpants half-mast, but he’s not going to see that bit. Hooking my thumb into the waistband of my undies I pull downwards, exposing a little more than just skin.

  I take the shot. It’s not bad; pretty sexy, even if I do say so myself, and more teasing than a full frontal porn shot. My finger waivers not quite hitting send, as I tell myself the image is almost anonymous, and definitely featureless. Unless sent to someone with intimate knowledge of those bits. Besides, his phone now contains much more sexual images that aren’t so unidentifiable. Taking a deep breath, I press send.

  Upping the ante? That’s my girl.

  One for your collection, I type back.

  The little blue bubbles move across the screen, then a moment later, another image appears.

  This one I can’t quite make out before it’s quickly followed by another, which makes the first easier to understand. It’s Kai, schmoozing it would appear; the blurry images of figures in the background. Taken from a strange angle, it shows Kai in half profile as he shakes hands with someone, the main focus his chest and outstretched arm. Then I notice the something in the corner of the image, and I understand why he’s sent this shot. Hanging out of his jacket pocket seems to be a tiny fraction of a pocket square. A black, lace pocket square. Or more accurately, my borrowed underwear.

  The second image is a lot clearer: Kai’s pants, the image probably taken under a table by his own hand. Light coloured, slim fitting pants, a black leather belt, a slice of his white shirt above. But the rest? The definition of his cock outlined in the fabric—hard? Semi-hard?—and my black underwear trailing from his pants pocket and grazing one muscular thigh.

  Oh my god, that’s so bad. He’s flaunting my undies in plain sight! What if he gets busted? What happens if someone says, Hey, buddy. You know you’ve got ladies underwear hanging out of your pocket? What happens if someone suffers a massive nosebleed in that meeting? How would he have looked pulling those out to help?

  And, fuck a duck, what will he want from me in return?

  I don’t have to wonder long.

  I’m going to send you something when I get back to the hotel. Watch it. All will reveal the mystery of your underwear. Consider it an educational viewing. Far out. My mouth waters at the prospect.

  Then, I expect you’ll want to touch yourself at some point, run your fingers against that gorgeous ribbon of deep pink flesh. But not now, remember. Not until later. Not until I say.

  I bite back the instinct to tell him he’s not around to police this request, but a promise is a promise. I stare at the phone a few more moments, almost forgetting to pull up my pants as I stumble before righting myself and leaving the gym with a definite spring in my step.

  Looks like I’m not going to be bored this afternoon!

  Patience is a virtue that will be rewarded in the end.

  My phone buzzes with the incoming message, and I’m so excited I could quite literally burst. Burst in my knickers, probably. Anticipation certainly is the key. And rewards . . . I’m defo up for on any terms.

  I stare at the phone on the kitchen bench. Does he want an answer? Some kind of affirmation? Another pic?

  Get your iPad.

  Well, that was a bit of an anti-climax.

  On second thought, I don’t think he wants to play Candy Crush.

  Take it to the bedroom.

  Now that’s what I’m talking about, I think, as I take the travertine marble steps two at a time. No small thing for someone of my leg length.

  When you get there, let down your hair.

  Strip.

  Do it slowly.

  Do it as though I were there.

  I can’t. Really, I can’t. I’m too bloody excited. Anticipation and exhilaration and plain, sheer lust swim through my veins as I set to work toeing off my running shoes, and quickly stripping off my sweatpants and T-shirt.

  I expect you couldn’t wait.

  Would’ve been different if you were here, I respond.

  I know, comes his ominous reply.

  There’s a box in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. No, there isn’t. I’ve already snooped. I’ve been through all the cupboards and drawers in the bedroom, not exactly snooping, just . . . okay, snooping. But I won’t tell him that. Take out its contents and lay them on the bed.

  The room is cool, especially now that I’m bare, my nipples standing prominent, gooseflesh stippling my flesh. One arm across my chest, I bend to open the drawer, knowing already it’s emp—

  Well, it was empty, but now not so much. I pull out the box as directed, placing it on the bed. Excited, nervous and desirous, because, let’s face it, I’ve been the lucky recipient of Kai’s mystery gifts before.

  As I lift the lid, I reflect on how lucky I am that this man is my husband; be it impromptu masturbation by toothbrush, or expensive sex toys, Kai has an innate sexual gift. I never really knew myself—not sexually. Not before meeting him. And since, well, I’ve been opened to a whole world of experiences, and somehow I know it’s only going to get better.

  Inside is a small box, only slightly larger than that which would hold a ring. It makes me glance again at the gorgeous mega-rock I have on my left hand, while I wonder, sort of eagerly, if the box contains more nipple clamps. Setting it aside, deciding I’ll open it last, I pull out a coiled, black silk scarf. My mind immediately goes to a scarf of a similar kind; a scarf from a box, whose contents began my sexual unravelling.

  A box that dared me. A scarf that hinted to my inner desires, urging me to be free as it read:

  Welcome bondage, for thou art a way to liberty,

  Like the first, this scarf contains a message in cream embroidery, though its message is a little obscure:

  Action is eloquence.

  Picking up my phone, I quickly type out my take. Deeds, not words?

  Yes, your promise, comes his almost instant reply. I get to choose how and when, remember? His reply that has my insides liquefying with need.

  Action is eloquence. Or to put it into more familiar words, time to put your money where your mouth is, Kate.

  With a tremulous breath, I set the scarf aside and pull out the final item. Another box: gold, with an almost satin-like finish. Inside is an amber coloured glass bottle, painted with a scene from what looks like the Garden of Eden. As attractive as both the bottle and the packaging are, it doesn’t detract from the fact that this is lube. A bottle of lube. What the hell for?

  Lube? I type.

  Yes.

  Should I be worried?

  No, but you should be naked. Get on the bed, prop your back against the pillows, and open your email. There’s something I want you to see.

  I push my gifts into the centre of our massive bed and pushing the empty boxes to the floor with my arm, I climb into the middle of the mattress, shifting to and fro, trying to position myself in a seductive pose. Frig, I’ve still got my socks on. I peel them off, dismayed at the line they’ve left around my ankle. Shit, even my ankles have gotten fat! I begin rubbing them frantically, hoping to make the rings fade.

  Have you started without me? comes Kai’s next text. Wasn’t the scarf’s message clear enough?

  No, I’m here. I’m ready.

  Though for what, I’m not sure. And why was I arsing about; it’s not like he can see me. Not yet, anyway. Pulling my iPad towards my naked lap, I toggle to my email and a video file from Kai, as my phone chimes again.

  Before we start, remember: no touching yourself.

  My chest feels knotted with breath as I open the file.

  Audio rustles and the screen is filled by a blur of skin. His chest, I can now see as he moves back against the plush headboard of his hotel bed. He seems to be wearing the same pants as the earlier pic, though I’m pleased to see he’s lost the shirt. He doesn’t speak, but briefly levels his gaze on his own device—phone? iPad?—as he begins loosening his fly with that sinful glance.

  And that one look . . . it’s already too much.
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br />   I’m wet, and he hasn’t even started. And I’m naked, and I know there’s a reason why. I push my thighs together, conscious of the moisture gathering there, which brings my mind back to the lube. Stop it. Stupid mind, freaking out. I shake my head and concentrate on the screen again.

  Kai doesn’t take off his pants, but pulls himself free from the confines of his grey boxer briefs, holding the heavy weight of himself in one palm. He curls his fingers around his girth, then strokes: once, twice. I hold my breath, almost not daring to move, as he rubs his thumb over the silky head, exhaling a heavy breath.

  My mouth is dry and my heart is beating somewhere between my legs as he runs his fingers from root to tip, his stomach muscles rippling as he teases the swollen head. If it’s even possible, his cock appears to grow larger. The fingers of his free hand move away to the side, slipping into his pocket, and pulling out . . . my lace knickers. He trails them across his body, his abs contracting. My breath hitches as he then takes the fabric in his palm, wrapping both them and his long fingers around the base of his shaft.

  He doesn’t look up—doesn’t look at the camera—and I know it’s not because he’s camera shy. I feel like this is some sort of statement, like how this isn’t about me, this isn’t for my pleasure.

  It’s all about him.

  He starts off slow, breath heavy as he rubs his length, twisting a little at the head. My insides are tight, my fingers grasping my tablet tighter than it needs as his free hand brings a bottle into view—something clear squirted into his working hand. His movements change then, speeding up, his hands working harder, his breath coming in short but weighty bursts. Suddenly, he cups his hand around the distended head, fingers tightening as he lets out an earthy groan. He’s come, I think. That was kinda fast—and fantastic, when he swaps his cupped fist for his thumb, brushing against the tiny hole there. As his thumb lifts, a small amount of white liquid stretches like a glossy string.

  I hear myself sort of squeak, pushing one hand between my thighs and squeezing them tight. But I don’t cheat—I could, but I won’t, and he starts again.

  Harder, faster, rougher. His breath is rapid and sandpapery.