‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘That’s a ridiculous notion.’
‘So do me the courtesy of respecting my request.’
I’d gone along with wearing the blindfold primarily because I was eager to get home and didn’t want to waste time negotiating how we could achieve that. As soon as he’d slid the van door shut I removed the eyemask, but I was in pitch darkness, no windows to see out of. We were home in about ten minutes. It had felt much longer the first time. I wished I had a better knowledge of Saltbourne’s abandoned buildings but there were so many of them, boarded up and derelict, that they didn’t register as individual structures, just part of our broken townscape.
Den had stopped at the bottom of my narrow road and slid open the van door. He made no comment on my lack of blindfold. There was no need to keep me sightless any more, and the D/S dynamic we’d been playing with was evidently in the past. He wasn’t going to chastise me for disobeying him as he might have done in a different situation. We were in our civvies, back to normal. Game over.
‘So you’re really saying that’s it?’ I asked. It was around two in the morning and the streets were dark and quiet, the moon a high crescent behind thin, smoky clouds.
Den handed me my bag. ‘Let’s give it a few days, see how we feel.’ He bent forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. ‘Go and feed your cat. It’s late.’
I turned on my heels, feeling patronised and messed about. Nonetheless, I was glad he seemed to have had a change of heart about quitting.
Despite the hour, I couldn’t sleep that night. I was no longer fearful of Den breaking in again. Instead, my mind wouldn’t rest, hopping over all that had happened and trying to understand Den and his intentions. I didn’t know what to make of him. Him professing not to care about me didn’t synch with the brief, parting kiss and more tender suggestion we contact each other in a few days. I struggled to work out what I wanted from him because I was struggling to work out who he was. Which aspects of him were sincere and which a roleplay?
Baxter’s expression of sexual dominance was more integrated into who he was. I thought back to one of the times Baxter had spanked me. He’d done it briefly a couple of times prior to that but I wasn’t over keen on scenes of discipline and corporal punishment. Alistair Fitch, with his wooden ruler at the piano, had possibly put me off but I think my desires had simply developed. Maybe the spankings and shame inflicted by my piano tutor had been my gateway kink. Over time, my fantasies had got darker, tending towards rough play, verbal abuse, debasement and being forced. Sexual submission, I’d grown to appreciate, can take many forms.
We were in the living room at mine, chatting, Baxter in the armchair, me kneeling on the floor close by. I was trying to explain why I didn’t go a bundle on spanking.
‘It’s just a bit too nice,’ I said. ‘I know lots of women are into it and, yeah, the sensation of being hit on the bum is pleasurable. But the set-up surrounding spanking just …’ I shrugged. ‘All the “naughty girl” talk, the teacher-pupil roleplays. That side of it. I find that infantilising rather than erotic. Makes me feel like a spoilt little princess being rebuked. I guess it’s not my thing, that’s all.’
Baxter was listening to me talk, nodding contemplatively. When I paused, he said, ‘You think too much. You ever been told that?’ There was a warning edge to his voice, playful rather than sincere.
I shot him a look. ‘Only by people who don’t think enough.’
He raised his brows. I could see he was trying not to smile. ‘Did you just call me stupid?’ he asked. He edged forward in his seat, hands on the chair arms, poised.
For a moment or two, we froze, trying to hide our amusement, wondering who would jump first. Then Baxter pounced. I yelped and lunged away but, despite being a big bloke, Baxter was always fast. ‘You cheeky wee bitch!’ He grabbed me around the waist, dragging me back across the floor. ‘You know what’s coming to you now, don’t you, eh?’
I laughed and squealed, helpless against his strength as he pulled me towards the chair and upended me over his lap. He flipped up my skirt and yanked my knickers as far down as he could manage while I wiggled and laughed. The position alone was enough to humiliate me and start my lust churning.
His broad hand cracked onto one cheek. Again and again he hit me, raining blows down on my flesh, and my laughter soon faded. ‘That nice, princess?’ he bellowed, panting and still thrashing me. Every whack landed with perfect resounding force, making my buttocks wobble as he turned them to flame. He had such an excellent, effortless wallop, and his arm took a long time to tire.
When he was done, he set me on my knees by his feet. My arse was raw and my groin throbbed, so plump and wet.
‘Now what are you thinking?’ he said, pinching my chin. ‘Anything at all except how you love getting spanked?’
I shook my head because it was true. I had nothing else on my mind. ‘Yeah but only by you,’ I said.
‘Ay well,’ he replied. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
And it was true. I did love how Baxter doled out a spanking, rough and ruthless without a hint of headmaster in his demeanour. Discovering that new pleasure was a delight to us both and spanking became one of our many available options. But I loved the man, too, loved him with passion and tenderness.
By contrast, Den was some guy I’d recently met online who’d managed to get under my skin. I should perhaps try to accept emotional distance was an inevitable consequence of casual kink. Probably a healthy thing too. Helps keeps everything simple. But the other issue was I didn’t know the ground rules of the game Den and I had embarked upon. He seemed loath to set any, and I’d been trusting him to know what he was doing. Then, just when I thought I was getting to grips with his style, he would pull the rug from under my feet. Should I resolve to forget him because his lack of clarity confused me? Or should we try to work things out?
When I finally slept, I was still no closer to an answer.
The following day it rained non-stop, grey rain like a forerunner to November. I paced up and down the house, overfed Rory again, checked the weals on my bruised arse in the mirror and obsessed over what had happened. Was this my fault? Was I, half-blinded by an enormous need to submit, missing the warning signs that ordinarily would highlight that this guy or that guy was bad news? Should I start mistrusting my desire? Could I be happy and whole without fully expressing my sexuality?
Ordinarily, when I want to clear my head to focus on an issue, I go running. But my body was too bruised for exercise. Instead, I played loud music, drank wine straight from the bottle, and, increasingly angry, had imaginary conversations with Den in which, with my perspicacity and scalpel-sharp wit, I reduced him to a remorseful, apologetic wreck begging for forgiveness and the chance to pick up where we’d left off.
The gentle goodbye peck on my forehead now mattered less. I decided he’d been nasty and callous, and trying to revoke that with a kiss didn’t win him any points. Conversely, it made his erratic behaviour even more unacceptable, and seemed to be a furthering of his attempts to mess with my head. I didn’t know if he had a grand plan or if he just enjoyed playing with his partner’s emotions as part of his D/S fun. If that were the case, I told myself, I should have nothing further to do with him.
In our fantasy arguments, I said as much to Den. And when he wheedled and whined, I stuck to my guns, refusing to take him back because I had no interest in a man on his knees. He was a pitiful specimen, and I told him so. And then my dreams would warp because I didn’t like to imagine Den taking ‘no’ for an answer. His lust was too strong for that. So I made him fuck me instead, made him pin me to a bed and pound into me with uncontrolled need, grabbing my hair and spitting, ‘Shut up! I don’t give a single fuck what you want.’
Anger galvanises. It gets you to the other side, to a better place. And boy, was I getting angry at his apparent mistreatment. But then I continued drinking, pouring out actual glasses rather than slugging wine directly from the bottle, and my ang
er ran out of steam. Instead, I became melancholy and tearful. The pain resulting from Den’s seeming disregard for me opened wounds I preferred to believe were healed.
But maybe we don’t heal. We simply become more adept at walking around with our injuries. I wondered how Baxter Logan was faring with his share of scars? The last time I’d seen him was about a fortnight after our bust-up when he’d persuaded me to meet for coffee after work. I was all for shutting him out of my life once I’d discovered he was married but I’d relented when he’d begged for a chance to explain. A scrap of hope convinced me that meeting up was worthwhile. I was still in shock, unable to believe that, for a whole year, I’d been in a relationship with this man, oblivious to his other existence. I couldn’t believe he didn’t love me. I wanted to hear his side of the story.
When Baxter suggested coffee, he meant whisky. We met near the train station in The Railway Bell, a bleak, seedy pub frequented by alcoholics, commuters and dealers; a place where no one gives a damn about anyone else’s business and the yellowing decor hasn’t changed in decades. I’d never been before but Baxter, who worked in Saltbourne but lived in suburbia, was evidently a regular. He was waiting for me at a table in a booth of dark oak and stained glass, being burly and tragic while cradling his usual, a large Islay malt with three teardrops of water. Wanting to signify my distance and avoid joining him in a maudlin, Scotch-addled descent, I ordered black coffee at the bar.
I slid onto the bench opposite his in the booth, willing my heart to freeze. I wanted him to be a monster or an imposter then I could hate him, but he wasn’t. He was Baxter Logan through and through, as big, beautiful and chaotic as he had been two weeks previously.
‘My Natalie. I’m –’ He reached for my hand across the table. I snatched it back as if bitten. He squeezed his bloodshot eyes, tipping his head to the ceiling before addressing me again, his face puffy with recent tears.
‘Thanks for coming.’ He laced his fingers together as if to stop his hands straying and the effect was an uncharacteristic primness. ‘I didn’t think you would and I know I don’t deserve it.’
‘Bax, I don’t want to hear your self-pity. Just tell me why you lied for thirteen months. Thirteen fucking months!’ Already I was raising my voice, my words thinned by the clenching of my throat, sobs threatening to sabotage communication. I inhaled deeply, aiming to speak calmly. ‘You lied to your wife too. Everything we had, every good time we shared, it’s dust. Dust and ashes and dead things. You’ve poisoned every memory I have of us. I don’t know who you are any more. You’re a fraud, a complete and utter fraud.’
I drew another steadying breath. I could see Baxter was itching to reach across the table to take my hand. He opened his mouth to speak but I shook my head. I hadn’t finished. ‘I used to think you were the … the warmest, the most sincere and honest man I’d ever met. You’ve made a fool of me, Bax, and a mockery of our relationship. I can’t even preserve the good times. It’s like … like the past has gone. Like someone stole the colours from all my photographs.’
Baxter combed his fingers through his mop of dark hair. His entire body seemed to tilt, the shoulders of his suit listing, his tie seeming to swing. It was an aspect of him I adored, the impression he gave of being about to fall apart at the seams, his enormous heart thrumming with the potential to disrupt cold order and regularity. I could almost believe him to be unwittingly capable of causing earthquakes, snowstorms, flash floods and hurricanes.
‘You have to believe me,’ he said, ‘when I tell you I don’t love her. Her existence makes no difference to my feelings for you. Our good times, they’re still true.’
I sipped my coffee and grimaced.
‘That not so nice?’ asked Baxter, gesturing to my cup.
‘It tastes of greasy metal. And it’s barely even warm.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’ I said. ‘The coffee or all your lies?’
‘For everything,’ said Baxter. ‘For every idiotic, fuck-headed thing I ever did, and God’s strewth, I’ve done a few. For the coffee, for getting married and staying married. For hurting you so badly. For letting you down. For being a selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible cunt. I’m sorry. I’m so desperately fucking sorry and I dinnae ken what I can do to make this better.’
Emotion strengthened his Scottish accent as it often did.
‘Does your wife know about us?’ I asked
He shook his head vigorously, eyes pinched shut.
‘Not so fucking sorry, then,’ I said.
He reached across the table for my hand again. This time, I didn’t recoil and he took my fingertips in his. ‘I love you, Nats. You’re my beautiful wee bitch.’ With his other hand, he gripped my wrist, a possessive, kinky gesture that had me wanting to abnegate all responsibility, to erase the pain by sinking into the self-obliteration of surrender. ‘I love you so fucking madly,’ he went on, ‘and it’s tearing me to pieces to think –’
‘Not the point.’
‘And Debra, my wife, she loathes the air I breathe because it allows me to keep living.’
I withdrew my hand from his grip. ‘And you’re still together because?’
He shrugged, put his elbows on the table and clawed both hands into his hair. He massaged his scalp then sat back with a sigh. ‘Mortgage. Habit. Cowardice. Guilt.’ He folded his arms and looked aside before leaning forward to speak. ‘We wanted kids but discovered a while back we couldn’t. Ach, well, we kind of gave up trying. It was too painful, hopes all over the shop. And Debra, she hit a low after that and we’ve just been ticking along ever since. We’re stuck.’
‘And I was your bit on the side,’ I said. ‘Your chance to grab some fun without confronting the issues.’
‘Aye. I admit I’m not unusual in that respect and I’m not proud of my behaviour.’ He swirled his whisky around the glass. ‘But it became more than that. Remember the time you sucked my dick in the old boat down on the beach? I treasure that night, Nats. And it was actually my wedding anniversary.’
I gave a long, bitter laugh. ‘And that’s meant to make me feel special?’
He winced. ‘I’m just trying … What I’m saying … Nats, you mean more to me than my wife does.’
I shook my head in despair. ‘Jeez, Baxter, what planet are you from? Do the words “cake” and “eat it” ring any bells?’
He knocked back his drink, returning his empty glass to the table with a slam. ‘All I wanted was some sex, a laugh and a few highs. Then I went and fell in love with you, didn’t I? I never meant for that to happen but it did then it was too fucking late and now look at us.’ He glowered at me but I knew he was angry with himself, not me. Trouble was, I doubted he even recognised that himself. ‘I’m getting another drink,’ he said. ‘What’ll you have?’
I sighed. I knew I should leave. We could talk endlessly about what had happened, what we meant to each other and where we might go from here. But I could never trust him again so it was futile. I needed to stand up, walk away and forget I’d ever met him.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ I said because I wasn’t yet strong enough to stop loving him.
Twelve
‘You sure you don’t mind doing this?’ asked Liam.
I laughed. ‘Come on, Liam! It’s me you’re talking to. Course I don’t mind.’
‘OK, cool. Just checking,’ he said. ‘Could you open your mouth for me, please?’
‘You’re very polite.’
‘This is a bit strange,’ he said. ‘Would you prefer it if I were impolite?’
‘Ooo, maybe,’ I teased. ‘But I might get all hot and bothered. And then where would we be?’
Liam put on a gruff voice and wagged a finger at me. ‘Open your mouth, you naughty, naughty girl!’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, OK. You’re right. Stick with polite.’
He put his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest. ‘Are you saying I cannot be a master you would wish to obey?’
I bega
n to feel uncomfortable. ‘Liam,’ I said. ‘Don’t take the piss.’
‘Hey, didn’t mean to.’ He returned to his normal self, a sinewy, copper-haired guy with a laidback attitude. Cupping the back of my head, he drew me close to print a kiss on my forehead. I pushed aside the memory of Den doing similar.
‘Just having a laugh,’ said Liam. ‘Didn’t mean any offence.’
‘Sure, none taken,’ I replied. ‘And anyway, that was a terrible impression of what I’m into.’
‘It was meant to be.’
‘Fair enough,’ I replied. ‘But … Well, I don’t want to make this into an issue but, you know, plenty of people out there think that what I’m into is ridiculous or wrong. And it just felt …’
‘Yeah, I get it,’ said Liam. ‘Most effective way to negate the power of something. Laugh at it. But I wasn’t laughing, I swear. I have a lot of respect for you. You know that. I didn’t mean – ’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m overreacting. Just been feeling slightly conflicted about kink recently. I’ll get over myself soon enough. Now stick that … that contraption over my head.’
‘You sure?’
‘Liam,’ I warned. ‘Just get on with it, please. Your model is getting bored. She doesn’t usually get out of bed for less than a tenner.’
Liam grinned and lifted his creation, stepping behind me as he lowered it over my face. The ‘contraption’ was a work in progress, a strappy, leather head-cage reminiscent of a scold’s bridle from medieval times. We were in Liam’s cobble-floored workshop, and I held still, feeling slightly awkward, as he adjusted various straps. The air was steeped in scents of sawdust, leather and tobacco. The pragmatics of Liam’s craft combined with his workmanlike attitude stirred contradictory responses. On the one hand, being fitted with the harness felt reassuringly prosaic yet, opposing that, was my attraction to the world of secrets and submission where the leather half-mask belonged. The latter felt furtive, my desire concealed and disavowed by our necessary pretence of ordinariness.
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