Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  “You’re Raye C. Ryder of Pleasure’s Edge fame. You have a chart-topping book on Omazod. You’re set to make a fortune. And reading between the lines—you’re writing it about Will Darby. I’m not stupid, and I’m going to tell all the people who count, so you will never be taken seriously again.”

  I sit back in the seat.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Shit. I always knew Annie was a bitch but I never counted on her having keen intelligence or insight.

  She shows me the tablet that’s lying on her desk and flicks through pages. It’s already loaded like she was reading it when I entered.

  “‘His emerald eyes glint at me and dark lustrous curls graze my thighs as he settles himself. The muscular veins of his arms grab my attention as he braces his weight. My sex is a coiled ninja awaiting his assault when his tongue meets my clit. My mask and ball-gag won’t permit words! This is a man I can’t say no to!’ What do you have to say about that one?”

  “Could be anybody. Why do you think it’s me who wrote that?”

  “Dibian told me you did. And that you used Will for research.”

  “You should keep taking your tablets—stopping meds gives you strange ideas.”

  “I’m going to tell Will.”

  “He already knows.” I’m a crap liar but I tough it out.

  Damn. I could hit the Omazod delete button but I don’t have permission, thanks to Dibian. I’m sailing shitty creek with a very poopy paddle.

  She licks her bottom lip. “I’ll raise the issue with Rogerson. Is this the kind of extracurricular activity a teacher should present to the world?”

  “Do you know, Annie, I never liked you, but I never had you down as a nasty-arse bitch. You couldn’t get Will yourself, then you picked the wrong guy in Andy and used it as further reason to hate me. I’d feel sorry for you, because you really don’t deserve to be done over by a tool like Regis. But in trying to spoil and sully and fuck up things for the rest of us you stoop too low. So what if I wrote a book? It’s a fiction, a bit of fun. And it’s been more successful than I ever dreamed. If you want to crap all over that and the fact that me and Will have a shot at a decent love life, then be my guest. I came to ask you about Lydia. I can’t state strongly enough how much I think you should listen to me. If you want to try to balls my life up, go ahead. Why not up the headcount to two? Lydia and me. Do your worst.”

  I walk out.

  And Coldplay is switched off by the time I’m closing the door.

  * * * *

  I’ve been summoned to Rogerson’s office—it smells strongly of wood wax, so clearly Florrie the cleaner’s had a mad buffing episode. Something about it takes me right back to the basement at Will’s with a longing that shocks me and rocks me on my heels. Inside I quiver.

  “Izzy. Take a seat.”

  He turns to the gazunder behind his desk and brings over a tray with an enormous candle as its centerpiece. It’s multihued and must’ve taken nights of detailed work to create.

  “Always wanted to pay my own homage to the leaning tower of Pisa. It’s where my wife and I honeymooned. Anniversary present, thanks to your candle mentoring skills. I’m eternally grateful.”

  “Wow. It’s big and beautiful. I know your wife will love it and the time and care you put in.”

  I hold back on my view that she’d probably rather have a lily bouquet, Belgian chocolates and a theater weekend pre-booked. But let the man deal with his own domestic bonfire.

  I get up to go when he adds, “I asked you here because I need to ask you something personal.”

  Immediately I jump to the conclusion that Annie’s already been before me. Bloody hell, that was quick. She’s dobbed me in with the boss for my writing and for Will.

  “I need to ask you to please show restraint with Mr. Darby.”

  “Sorry?” I’m trying to gauge what he knows, what’s been said, but I can’t.

  “I know you and he are on friendly terms. But Mr. Darby is on a very pressing assignment and I’m asking if you could please accommodate me by permitting him space and not asking questions. He’s going to be rather tied up. Please don’t ask about it. Full details will emerge when the time is right.

  “I won’t ask. We’re colleagues.”

  “Can I rely on you to stay away from him? In the short term and for the sake of the school? I know you spend time together. And that’s fine. But he cannot be disturbed at school right now and your job depends on giving him space to undertake my instructions. Anyway, on another issue, a concerned parent contacted me today, intimating their daughter made an allegation you are taking too much interest in her social life.”

  Blimey. Talk about a curveball.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Lydia Salter thinks you bother her. Asking if she is being bullied. Stopping her while she’s with her friends out of school time.”

  “Yes. These things are true.”

  “You know the boundaries as well as I, Izzy.”

  “It’s interested concern only. I wasn’t pushing in my nose.”

  “She’s off today. Her mother asks if you can please be mindful that Lydia finds your attention intrusive.” Rogerson steeples his fingers. “I must ask you to consider this your first verbal warning.”

  I nod. I’m stunned. I’ve never been given an at-work dressing down or an advisory meeting in my career.

  Shit. I’m gobsmacked. And I really must have got it all wrong.

  * * * *

  There’s nothing like a back-off warning and a sense of shock and disappointment to carve the way for minimal foreplay and great frantic wild sex. So it must be, when I finally go to Hangley Grange that night for our last night of passion and to let Will know I’ve been officially warned off. I think he’s somewhat stunned.

  “The key,” I tell him and thrust my bags at him. “Bring these to the playroom!”

  I’ve never been a real dominatrix before. Well, I pretended for the party but tonight I’m taking full control. If I have to stay away from Will and not ask questions then I’m damn well going to go full throttle at all my sex fantasies and lay them bare in one full-on night of epic sex.

  He’s obviously been on the treadmill, because he’s in his running shorts and track shoes only. His breathing is still in the exertion zone and there’s a glistening sheen of perspiration on his pecs.

  “And be quick about it!” I snap as I walk to our basement lair. He’s beside me opening the door and sorting the keypad, still panting from his workout.

  “Don’t you want me to shower first?”

  “Nope. You will obey all instructions. There isn’t time. I’ve a lot of stuff to get through. Tonight I’m in charge.”

  He’s looking at me oddly. “Okay. Mistress. I think. Go for it.”

  “I understand that you have something secret afoot. But I have things I want to do too—tonight’s about my sex fantasies. I want all my boxes ticked.”

  The lights are dim in the playroom slash Bat Cave. It’s as I remembered. There’s something about the black fixtures and deep rouge color scheme of the walls that remind me of Moulin Rouge meets opium den in a bordello. I find I like it.

  “Open the bags,” I order. “The black glossy one is yours.”

  I sweep off my overcoat and watch as Will’s jaw hits the floor.

  “Shit,” he says softly. “You’ve gone to effort.”

  “Indeed.”

  I’m wearing new patent leather thigh-length boots. They’re pretty damn hot. They lace right up the front and right up the back and there’s buckles aplenty. Put it this way—taking them off and putting them on will require three maids and a livery expert. Plus Harry Houdini.

  “You like?”

  Will comes toward me, as if to prove it. “I like.”

  “Wait. Do not touch the goods,” I instruct.

  I throw my coat on the leather chair at the door.

  I’m wearing a sheer black cloak. If highwaymen wore negligees, then thi
s would get the bonus ball. I’m calling it a cloak but it’s more like a voluminous waistcoat, complete with a large hood. My arms go through it, but there are no sleeves. It’s a sheer as a will o’ the wisp. I think it’s sexy as hell and it shows all the things I’m not wearing beneath. It’s a bit Kylie round the edges but Kylie on a being very bad girl day.

  All I am wearing beneath are leather pants. Similarly, the leather pants have a thong and they are covered in tiny buckles and zips. I’ve never worn leather knickers before—I find I like them. Even though I’ve not technically got a penny of my publishing money, I’ve spent a sizeable sum of money in the nearest sex shop tonight—I figure, after what I’ve been through, I deserve the treat. It’s crazy to think I’ve made a million yet I have to be careful because it may never be mine.

  I have three other leather and lace outfits. One decidedly dominatrix spandex number. Plus a bra and pants covered in Batman logos. That will be my pièce de résistance.

  The bra I am currently wearing has a foundation structure of leather but it’s inset with peekaboo lace, and the cups are pointed and PVC. With shimmering steel pointy bits.

  I watch as Will sucks in a breath.

  “Holy jeez, babe.”

  “Tonight, I’m in charge. You have the knowledge. But I have the power.”

  Will’s voice is dry with desire. “I’m getting those signals. Whatever you want, babe.”

  “Kneel by the bed,” I order him. “Give me the bag first.”

  From the bag I take out my kit—a whip, three crops, a tickly duster thing that caught my eye, nipple clamps—I cheated there, as Janey left them at mine. There are also balls for a certain part of me and a mask. The big sausage-style dildo implement was on special offer and I felt a little sad to leave it behind on its own.

  “Christ on a bike. Did you rip off a sex shop?”

  “Silence. Aren’t you going to open your gift?”

  I watch him, while holding my own first toy of choice. It’s the cane from my forfeit—I’ve still not returned it. And I dearly want it to have some fun before it goes back.

  Will looks in the shiny black bag I’ve brought him. “Ah. Okay. Right.”

  “What are you waiting for, Batman. Get them off and get those on.”

  Dominatrix Izzy. I think I’m going to be good at this.

  * * * *

  Will is wearing a leather sex pouch. He suits it very well. He’s also wearing a lot of baby oil and he’s finger-licking good. My very own Will Darby McNugget.

  I have him cuffed and chained to the bed—arms and ankles. I also have him blindfolded.

  I can see he’s ultra-nervous and I’m loving every delightful, loaded, clock-ticking second. I sense it’s going to be a long night.

  I take the lit candle and pour wax upon his chest. It’s very near the nipple but misses. He growls, but does not protest.

  “Good boy! You make a very good submissive.”

  “What book are you reading now, Mistress? I’d suggest this one’s gone up the scale a notch too far toward loopy loo.”

  I snap my crop down across his thighs and hear the jangle of chains and cuffs as he tries to bolt and flinch from the surprise punishment.

  “Mistress will be kind if Will is a good boy.”

  I kiss him, enjoying the taste and feel of him. Reveling in the moment, I can feel his tension and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like being restrained. He’s a guy who likes to be in control.

  “As much as this is okay, I don’t suppose we could have straight vanilla sex now?” he asks.

  “You dare to disagree with your Mistress’ orders?”

  “Just sayin’.”

  Again the candle wax becomes my plaything, only this time it’s close to his stomach and he shouts out with surprise. I reward him with labored attention to his mouth and ardent kisses. He is shaking beneath my touch and I realize this isn’t fair. He isn’t in the zone, he wasn’t prepped and he didn’t ask for this.

  “Don’t you like being a sub?”

  “It’s okay but—”

  “Would you like me to stop?”

  “Not if you mind.”

  I sigh. Then take off his mask. His eyes are earnest and he looks somewhat relieved. “If it’s important to you—”

  I find I’m not that bothered. It started out as a giggle and a chance to try out all the things I’d read about, but, in reality, if he’s not into it, neither am I.

  What I am into is the way he makes me super-hot seeing him in those tiny leather pants.

  I unlock the cuffs and ankle straps.

  “Vanilla sex has its place.”

  “Nothing wrong with vanilla. As long as there’s spice on the side,” he answers, and in a deft flick, he’s on top of me. I’d been planning to give him mind-blowing attention to a lower part of the anatomy, but he’s beaten me to it.

  “Sir always likes to take the lead.”

  “In these tight leather pants, babe,” he answers, “I’m in danger of an embolism. Let’s get this moving, shall we?”

  Chapter Twenty

  It’s all well and good having sex in a good dozen different ways in a room expressly designed for sin and experimentation. But there’s one thing that’s liable to darken proceedings—and that’s introducing the elephant that’s currently in our room.

  Namely the fact that my erotic author identity must be properly discussed before Annie does it for me.

  I kiss him as we dress each other. We don silky robes, then head arm in arm to the kitchen. “About my book. It’s doing really well in terms of sales, now. You were pretty important in helping me find material but I had started writing it before I met you. Don’t worry, nobody knows you were my sex mentor.”

  “I know all about it. Read it too. Didn’t think you could get away without me investigating?”

  Come again? I stare into his green eyes. And try not to be distracted and mesmerized by a glimpse of bare chest and pecs—they must take a lot of gym work to hone. I shake my head slowly. “You know?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sexy too.”

  “Who told you? Dibian?”

  “No. Ben did. I’m flattered—after all you’ve touched on experiences we’ve shared. It’s very well written. And hotter than a jalapeño sandwich with hot sauce. Eaten in a sauna straight from the barbecue. Makes me proud.”

  “You’ve bloody read it? You knew and didn’t say? And now I have to bloody well wait until you decide you can finally tell me what’s going on with this Dibian thing?” I’m pushing my hair back and trying to regulate my breathing. At this rate I’ll need to ask for a paper bag to blow into.

  “Dibian is a subject that will be fully explained when I’m given clearance to do so. As for the book, I’ve only read some of it.” He grins. “It’s a great read. I fancy the hero and heroine myself.”

  I laugh and prod him. Then I give him a push and he yanks my wrist and kisses up my arm in a move he does oh so very well.

  I feel myself heat to inferno level from my blushes. “I can’t believe you read that and never told me.”

  “Izzy, babe, we’ve shared wild jungle sex in many ways and tonight you found a new fascination for straddle bars and BDSM sex toys. Why get all coy and girly about me reading your fantasy book?”

  He has a point.

  “Saying it out loud is different.”

  He grabs my fingers and kisses each one at a time, then makes a delicious feast of the pinkie by sucking it in a scurrilous manner.

  “There’s somewhere else we haven’t tried. Could feature in a sequel. The whirlpool?” He crooks a finger—he has the power to make me quiver and I all but leap at him.

  “Thought you’d never suggest it. Add a chocolate fondue pot on the side and it’s pretty much ultimate fantasy nailed.”

  His eyes light up and he yanks me in his wake. My perfect man—dark secrets and all.

  * * * *

  It’s funny how in life, when you tell a lie about something, the falsehood becomes a div
ine prophesy that the lie you told will bite your behind and leave marks. Well, that’s happening tonight with my car.

  When I came unannounced, I pretended car trouble. As I head up the drive to the Hangley Grange gates, my car sputters then stalls. I try the ignition but it’s dead.

  “Shit. C’mon.”

  I scratch my head and flip the bonnet switch. But my car maintenance knowledge is as basic as my skills in advanced knot-tying. I can call the AA or maybe even have Will look? Sounds like a plan.

  The driveway avenue here is a winding fairy-tale woodland affair with small lay-bys, where rhododendrons create quiet corners. I’m whistling as I walk but stall as I round the bend in the drive where the house is in clearer view. It’s Tessa. She of the crazy, deluded fantasies. She of the long blonde hair and claims of experience in Will’s bed. Psycho nutter in spiked heels. I gasp as Will walks out to meet her and they talk. When his hand goes to gently touch her arm, my stomach takes a disorienting dip.

  I thought she wasn’t working here anymore?

  I lurk, sniper-style, behind a rhododendron. I’m unseen in the dim light and my eyes widen as I watch.

  She’s walking into Will’s house with him, her red sports car parked near the entrance—it wasn’t there when I came out. It’s as if she must’ve been behind the property when I left. Will told me she no longer worked here. Will said there was nothing between them.

  So why is she entering Hangley Grange carrying a suitcase? And why is Will greeting her like she’s number two in the queue?

  I’ve spent the last two hours having sex with my man in his house. And the next woman was in the wings for the main event. It causes me a pain in my heart to see him talk to her, then gently place a hand on her shoulder. I can’t watch more because there’s a raw feeling in my stomach like the flu bug that made me puke.

  I return to the car, my pace increasing with each step and my head crammed full of my questions. I don’t feel ready to confront them—maybe I should? I get into the car to find my phone. I turn over the ignition on the off chance and the car starts. I drive away at speed and in such a state that only half a mile down the road, I wrap the car around a ruddy lamppost with a heavy metal thunk. The bumper’s hanging off and there’s a massive bash in the bodywork. It’s drivable, but only just. Will has another woman and all I care about is fleeing this place for good.