by Jade West
“Is that what you did?”
“I should have binned the ring sooner, it would have made the process a lot easier.”
I studied the man sat before me, the hard line of his jaw, his confident smile. His black hair was perfectly tousled, making his dark eyes appear even darker. He was certainly imposing in his self-assured calmness.
Women in the office talked about him, a lot. He was the resident ‘I would’ eye candy of the female Trial Run populous, and up close I could see why. I sensed some darkness spring up in him, and he took his hands away. Whatever had gone down with his ex-wife had got him good, I could tell, but he’d buried it alright, just like he said, buried it deep. My angry ghosts saluted his, waving from the shadows. His waved back before his eyes returned to calm, mask restored.
I looked past him through the window as the dawn broke on a dreary day outside, the first day of life without Stuart.
Back at my desk I deleted the text messages and barred Stu’s number. I’d build the wall sky-fucking-high, higher than high, to the ceiling of the whole fucking universe, where the pain couldn’t reach me ever again.
***
It was almost 8am when the ping of my email sounded. I’d never been so pleased at the prospect of something to do, but the email wasn’t from a client at all.
From: James Clarke
Subject: Coffee
Should you wish to store your suitcase in my office for the day please do feel free. It may save you some well-meaning questioning from colleagues once 9am hits. You’ve enough on your mind right now. I don’t imagine you’d appreciate their sympathy.
James
James Clarke
CTO, Trial Run Software Group.
A man with intuition.
To: James Clarke
Subject: Re: Coffee
You imagined right. Thank you very much. I’ll bring it up.
Lydia
Lydia Marsh
Senior Project Co-ordinator, Trial Run Software Group.
I shoved my drying clothes back in and wrenched the case closed. I’d only just managed to yank it upright when my email pinged again.
From: James Clarke
Subject: Re: Re: Coffee
No need.
James
The office door was already swinging open as I read it, and there he was, mobile tablet in hand on his way to my desk. I took him in as he approached; the confidence of his stride, his self-assured expression, the gorgeous goddamn suit he was wearing. He could have stepped straight off Savile Row. His jacket was pale grey pinstripe, paired strikingly with a dark burgundy tie. Pure white shirt, tailored trousers showcasing solid toned thighs. Even his feet joined in on the show, gleaming to perfection in mirror-shined brogues. He really was Mr Corporate, you could almost smell the senior management title on him. He was tall, really damn tall, commanding an imposing frame without being bulky. I’d heard on the grapevine that he worked out every lunchtime without fail, but he didn’t use the shared gym in our complex. The messy tendrils of his hair contrasted perfectly with the hard angles of his face. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Old enough to be distinguished, but without even a hint of salt and pepper hair. James Clarke was an impressive specimen. Still, it meant nothing to me, nothing at all. He could be anyone for all I cared this morning, just as long as he hid my suitcase.
“I figured you’d lugged that thing far enough this morning already. Where are you headed when work’s done?”
“Islington, I think. I’m counting on a friend.”
“Let me know.” He leant in close as he grabbed my case, and I caught a scent of musk, almost Arabian, and underneath the smell of fresh linen, and vanilla soap. If that’s what a senior management title smells like, it smells damn good.
“Thanks for this, Mr Clarke, I really appreciate it.”
“James,” he said. “I’m not your boss, Lydia, you don’t need to act like my subordinate.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read.
“Ok, James,” I smiled. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be leaving at five on the dot,” he said. “If you’re later than that I’ll leave my office open for you.”
I could breathe a whole lot easier once that suitcase was out of sight. With a dab or two of concealer we’d be back to business-as-usual.
***
James had already gone by the time I went for my case. He’d left it hidden behind his desk, out of sight. Sliding into his seat to retrieve it felt weird and invasive. His desk was immaculate; stationery and papers arranged in lines with perfect precision. There was a letter tray for incoming mail, but outside of that there wasn’t a single scrawled note, or post-it, to be seen. Even more notable was the serious lack of anything personal: no photos, no trinkets, nothing. His pens were arranged in uniform, a display of perfectly aligned ballpoints, all black. A black stapler, hole punch and calculator, all standard issue from the stationery cupboard. A metal ruler lay perfectly parallel to the desk edge, and a Trial Run notepad lay open on the first page, unused. Aside from the certificates on the walls there was no touch of the man in the room. A generic leafy plant sat on a bookshelf, which housed only industry-related publications. An empty wastepaper bin, without even a trace of lunch, or discarded paperwork. Nothing.
In a moment of impulsion, I took one of his pens from its position. On page one of his Trial Run notepad I left my mark.
Islington bound, safe and sound. Thank you.
I signed off with a big scrawly L and a flourish, and successfully fought the urge to line the pen back up where I found it. A bit of chaos wouldn’t hurt him.
***
I dreaded sofa surfing at Steph’s place, but my sharp exit from home had left me well and truly up shit creek without a paddle. Steph is kind and supportive, but I wanted nothing more than to lick my wounds in private without the world in my face. In Steph and Mike’s cramped one-bed apartment, that wouldn’t exactly be easy.
Steph did her best to act like it was a completely usual Friday visit, pouring me wine and chatting about her day until I wanted to talk. I kept it sparse, outlining what had gone down without delving into the emotional shit.
She listened without interrupting, and then said what any good friend would say.
“He’s a jerk. An absolute, motherfucking jerk. You can stay here as long as you want, you know that.”
“Thanks.”
“I know you aren’t going to bawl your eyes out on my shoulder and watch a rom-com marathon, but I’m here if you want to.”
“I know,” I smiled.
Steph twirled a stray wisp of blonde hair in her fingers. “Have you told your mum?”
“Hell no.”
“Maybe she could help?”
“Like she’s ever helped,” I snapped. “I’ve got enough of my own shit to wade through without dealing with hers, too.”
Steph let it drop. A wise choice.
.
***
Chapter Two
James
Cara spread her legs like a good girl, pressed tight against the flogging bench with her perky little ass in the air. Just how I wanted her. I knelt down behind, spreading her wide enough to trace my tongue around the tight little ring of her asshole. She squirmed like an eel, and I slapped her ass. Hard. The smack of my palm cut loud across the room.
“I said, don’t move.”
She stopped squirming. “Sorry, sir.”
I savoured my position a moment longer, her glistening pussy just an inch from my nose. I breathed deeply, letting my warm breath tease her. She tensed, but checked herself, keeping still enough to prevent further punishment.
God, I needed this. I needed the heady scent of sex, the musky taste of her against my tongue. I needed to feel her jerk and scream as she came, and even then still beg for more. More tongue, and more pain. I’d give her more of both. Gladly.
I buried my tongue, lapping at her slit and teasing a path through the folds to her clit. She tasted so fucking good. She moaned, but didn’t move
a muscle, not even when I clamped my mouth tight onto her, taking her sweet little nub between my lips. Her scent hammered my senses, and my dick twitched in my jeans. Fuck yeah.
I stopped.
“What do you want, Cara?”
Her answer came within a second. “Your mouth, sir. Please.”
“You will remain quiet and still.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you move or make a sound, I will spank you, hard, understand?”
I saw her pussy clench. Horny little bitch.
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Good girl.” I spread her open, stretching her lips wide apart like a pretty pink butterfly. So fucking pretty. I heard her breath quicken, and almost willed her to moan, just so I could punish her. “You have a perfect little cunt, Cara.”
I imagined her eyes screwed shut under her blindfold, all her concentration focused on obeying. I wasn’t going to make it easy.
I fixed my mouth onto her, sucking her in. She was already swollen with lust, ripe for my touch. I swirled my tongue, gently, my arms wrapped around her thighs to hold her tight to me. Every muscle in her legs was tense, straining for composure. I gripped her flesh in my teeth as I pulled away, savage enough to make her breath hitch. Make a sound, you filthy bitch, make a fucking sound. She kept quiet.
I plunged two fingers inside her and she exhaled everything she had. I curled them forward, finding just the right spot. The cuffs on her wrists jangled as I worked her from the inside, but I let her off this once. My thumb balled her clit, pinning her pleasure from both the inside and out. Her cunt made gorgeous wet slurps, slick and swollen from everything she was taking from me. I closed my eyes to savour the sensation.
“I’m going to stretch you open, Cara. You do want more, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes please, sir.” Her voice was raspy. I slid in a third finger, and her legs trembled. She tightened beautifully, her greedy little slit sucking at my fingers. I worked her into a rhythm, strong steady movements all the way inside her, echoed by my thumb around her clit. “Please, sir, may I cum?”
“No.” Her legs shuddered again, another clink of her cuffs. “Don’t make me punish you, Cara.” She was trying so hard, but the sadist in me couldn’t resist. I increased the pressure, coaxing the nerves inside. They betrayed her, and she bucked against my hand, wheezing out a string of incomprehensible mewls. I pulled away instantly and her knees almost buckled. “I said, no.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
I got to my feet, kneading the soft skin of her buttocks in rough hands. “I’m going to punish you now, Cara. You need to be punished now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I trailed my fingers up the soft pale groove of her spine, enjoying the way her muscles twitched at my touch. “If you’re a really good girl, I’ll make you cum after.”
She groaned and arched her back, jutting her ass out towards me. She’s so fucking good.
I didn’t go easy on her. My blows were hard, and fast. Slap after slap across her perfect white flesh. Her ass juddered under the abuse, and soon the sound of her whimpers came loud. Her ass bloomed pink under my hands, rosy and gorgeous, ripening to a deep, dark flush. I coloured her thighs too for good measure, and she let out a squeal as I landed one right on her pussy.
She lay flat to the bench, breathing heavy while I gave her a moment.
“Your skin is so pretty, Cara.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I ran my fingernails down her thighs and she gasped, shifting her legs apart like a wanton whore. “What do you want, Cara?”
“I want to cum. Please make me cum, sir.”
Without warning I grabbed hold of her hair, yanking her head back. “You don’t deserve it, yet.”
I kept hold while I slapped her again, watching the tension in her shoulders as I inflicted her punishment. I observed every twitch, every flinch and every tiny moan, watching her careening to the edge of her tolerance, a slow burning arch of pain. It made my dick throb. I finished up as she made a particularly loud whimper. Perfect timing. I watched the rise and fall of her back as she caught her breath.
“How do you feel, Cara?”
“Amazing, thank you, sir.”
She wasn’t lying. Her face was flushed bright and her thighs were slippery wet, but more telling was the smile that spread slowly across her lips. Endorphins kicking in, no doubt. She was flying high.
I slid my fingers all the way back inside her, saving my thumb for her asshole. She groaned as I forced it in, and bucked back against me with jerky motions. I allowed her movement this time, back and forward against my intrusion as her chains rattled. My free hand curled around her thigh, circling gently around her sopping wet clit, and with steady fingers I brought her to her peak. I pressed my whole weight against her as she exploded, pinning her to the bench. The restriction sent her wild, and she shuddered against me, squealing like a cat. I didn’t stop until she was all done, withdrawing my fingers with a delicious squelch. I touched them to her lips and she licked them clean.
“Good girl, Cara.”
I unfastened her cuffs and she spun around, reaching for me. I guided her up from the bench and she fell to her knees instinctively, hands aiming for my belt buckle. I let her find it, gazing down at the long dark tangle of her hair. It hung down around her naked shoulders, coiled into damp tails. It reminded me of something. My dick jumped inside my jeans.
Dark, wet hair. Green eyes. So fucking green. Tears, lots of tears. Beautiful pain.
Lydia Marsh.
I reached for the woman on her knees, stroking down her hair and pulling her closer. Yes. Her palm against my cock through the fabric, rubbing me. Her mouth already open, wanting.
Green eyes. Tears. Perfect tears.
I raised her blindfold, staring down at her through a haze of lust. Desire pulsed through me, tickling my skin.
But Cara’s eyes were brown.
It knocked the wind right out of my sails. I recoiled before I could stop, jolted from the fantasy.
Cara kept her eyes on mine, a hungry smile on her face. Her fingers freed my belt, but it was too late. I took her hands in mine.
“I need a drink, Cara, thank you.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Thank you, Cara.”
She looked disappointed, but it was no good. My mood was broken. I lifted her to her feet and kissed her knuckles before we left the room. She leant into my side en route back to the bar, her naked flesh burning into my chest. It felt good, but it was over for me.
A small crowd retreated from the windows, show over. One of the men patted my shoulder.
“Good scene, Masque.”
I smiled back at him. “Yes, it was.”
***
The bar was quiet when we returned, everyone’s attention fully engaged by the main floor. A couple I recognised, Diva and Cain, were getting down and dirty with a reel of bondage tape and a couple of floggers. I flashed a smile but walked on by, leading Cara by the hand to deliver her into the arms of another club regular. Raven, Mistress Raven, to the general club populous, also known as Rebecca ‘Bex’ Hayfield, but only to me. A real life friend. One of my only real life friends, in fact.
I watched Raven’s mouth spread into a sly grin as we approached, her kohl-rimmed eyes sparkling. She’d gone for a particularly severe look this evening; blue-black hair twisted tight into a high-pony, topping off a skin-slick latex number which ended just shy of her ass. Thigh-high boots finished the look. She air-kissed me twice to save her lipstick, then turned her attention to the naked woman at my side.
Cara twirled on instruction and Raven nodded her approval.
“Nice and rosy, just how we like it. Good job, Masque.” She slapped Cara’s ass for good measure, then pulled her in close, roving her tongue up naked flesh to nip at Cara’s neck. The obliging sub continued her spin, presenting her cute little tits to Raven’s gaze; perfec
t white skin with sweet peachy nipples. “What’s this?” Raven asked, raising an eyebrow. “No marks?” She tutted loudly, giving me the eye. “These gorgeous little titties were made for pain, Cara. You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Cara’s silky-soft voice made me hard again, and I glanced away to watch Diva taking a fairly decent flogging.
“Are you going to finish the job?” Raven asked, pushing her ward in my direction. Cara squeezed her tits together and held them high for me, smiling in invitation.
“I thought I’d leave them for you, Raven. I know how wet you get over nipple torture.”
“So thoughtful,” she grinned. “Playroom three, Cara, now. Don’t you dare touch yourself.”
Cara tottered off without hesitation, and I watched her tight little curves sashay away. I turned back to find Raven staring at me, her eyes just inches from mine. She trailed a finger down my nose, pretending to peek under the mask that covered most of my face.
“I’m beginning to forget what you look like under that thing,” she laughed.
“Maybe that’s the plan.”
“So sad. Your face is too pretty to hide, Masque. You used to at least take the thing off between scenes.”
“It’s growing on me. Besides, I don’t really want my face being snapped in this place, regardless of whether I’m flogging the shit out of some young plaything or not.”
“Everyone knows the no-camera rule.”
“Wherever there are rules they are inevitably broken.”
“Fair, but your face isn’t exactly your only recognisable feature,” she laughed, tracing the tail of the tattoo on my chest. “You can’t get a mask for that thing.”
“Nobody outside of this place ever sees that thing.” I took her hand in mine as she continued her journey down the beast. “But this thing.” I pointed to my face. “People see this thing all the time.”
