Dirty Bad Wrong

by Jade West

  “It must get so complicated being you, so many lives...” she mocked. “One day you’ll wear the mask to the office and the suit to the club, you know that right?”

  “And that’s the day I quit town and start all over again.”

  “Such a drama queen...”

  “Anonymity suits me.”

  “Control suits you, Masque,” she grinned. “I think you were born with a crop in your hand.”

  “It was a cane, actually,” I smiled. “And I hope I die with one in my hand, too.”

  She leant in close, her hand still pressed to my chest. The deep plum notes of Poison kissed my nostrils as I breathed her in. She slid her hand down my stomach to the bulge in my jeans, and whispered so softly into my ear I could hardly hear her.

  “You didn’t cum, did you? I know you didn’t. You need a proper scene, James, without holding back. Tame doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m not tame.”

  “You were a pussycat with Cara, she won’t even bruise.”

  “Cara is the pussycat, Bex. I hope for her sake she doesn’t say yes to moving into yours, you’d break her in a week. You and I both know she wouldn’t cope with the hard stuff.”

  “You’d better get it on with someone who would then.” I felt her lips against my ear.

  “Is that a hint? You priming me for your bi-annual foray into the world of submission?”

  She squeezed my cock. “Nah. Anyway, you don’t have a pussy.” She let me go and walked away, tossing me a smile over her shoulder.

  “Since when has that been a deal breaker?” I called after her.

  “Since tonight.” She blew me a kiss.

  ***

  I’m always the only one in the office at 6am. I love the quiet, before the place fills up with people and the general office bullshit that comes along with them. I made myself a coffee in silence, pondering my workload for the coming week. Sales had just landed a big deal, a bespoke solution for White Hastings McCarthy, one of the top five law firms in the country; a seven hundred seat initial installation across three branches, with seven case management worktypes to scope out. The whole thing was ripe for my desk.

  My mind began to assemble the potential project outline. This one would take a lot of co-ordination. A lot of people. I hate all that shit.

  I leant back against the worktop to sip my coffee. Black, no sugar, just the way I like it. Just how Lydia Marsh had made it. My mind bailed without warning; thoughts unravelling and skittering away. There, in their stead, was a full colour rerun of my Friday morning peepshow. Lydia Marsh’s tear-streaked face in full focus, and her eyes, so fucking green. Jesus.

  Bex was right. I did need a proper scene. The need to dominate pulsed in my temples; thick with the craving for tears and pain and the total surrender of a body underneath mine. Cara had scratched an itch, but the real beast raged on unchecked.

  I headed to the men’s room, resigned to an early morning hand-job. I pressed my forehead against the tiles as I worked my cock, eyes screwed shut as I summoned up a lightning-quick montage of memories. Women bound tight by their wrists, arching their backs into the pain as the cane strikes. Tears of surrender, and release, and abandon through pain. Their quivering legs as the adrenaline spikes... then the endorphin rush, the point where their bodies turn limp and their eyes glaze in lust. Quiet tears. Acceptance. Absolute, total submission. All for me.

  Come on.

  Another montage, this one of Bex. She’d fight against her surrender, writhing, kicking and screaming, to the edge of release. Spitting curses and fighting against her bonds, until she’d break apart and go toppling into the abyss beyond, screaming out tears and begging for more. She morphed into my Kitty Kat, my Katreya. Her bruised shins running away from me through long grass, begging me to chase her… begging me to hurt her… hurt her in her most tender places.

  Jesus fucking Christ, James, just fucking cum.

  In desperation I let myself go there. Lydia Marsh, bound at my feet. Staring up at me through watery eyes. Her tits are so fucking pretty, tied up tight in bondage rope, marks of her punishment savage against pale skin. Her mouth is open, ready. Her eyes begging me to take her. I force myself in, and she gags on me. I love the noises her throat makes.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I sprayed my load all over the wall, hissing out a string of expletives and already forcing Lydia from my mind. Colleagues were no go. An absolute no-fucking-way.

  I had one golden rule. The one I’d never break again.

  Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.

  It was a whole lot fucking safer that way, but damn what I’d give to see her cry again.

  ***

  Frank and I had the same ritual every Monday morning. He’d knock at my door at 9.15 on the dot, blustering about how time flies, and then ask after my weekend. My answer was invariably the same.

  “Can’t complain, Frank, how was yours?”

  Cue his a long monologue of events. Golf, shopping, family meals, some story about the neighbours, and I’d sit and listen, making all the right noises. People like talking, and when they’re talking about themselves they aren’t talking about me. It suits me well. That simple fact has made me an exceptional listener, which also suits me well. It pays to listen. It pays to understand.

  Frank finally turned his attention to White Hastings McCarthy, gushing at the potential of what the deal could mean for Trial Run. Another of the big boys on our client list. I shared his enthusiasm, and for a few minutes we were colleagues with a single common objective. It was one of those rare moments it felt good to be part of a team.

  “Look, James, I know you aren’t up for overnighters. There’s no pressure on you to go, but Trevor White wants to kick off with a few days onsite once the paperwork’s in place. Brighton Head Office, nothing too crazy. A bit of a tour, an initial round of meetings, all the usual. I was thinking you could ask Sam from development in your stead, and send him with someone from project management. I figured maybe Steve Jones or Lydia Marsh, but it’s up to you. Lydia headed up the Anderson deal a few months ago, actually, went like a dream. She’d be a good fit.”

  My throat went dry. “Lydia Marsh?”

  “You must know her, pretty girl... tall... dark hair... crazy green eyes.”

  “I’ve seen her around.” I glanced at my notepad, now cocooned out of sight in my in-tray. Lydia’s flowery text: Islington bound, safe and sound.

  “Great. Do you want me to get Janie to handle it or will you ask them yourself?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, before I’d even realised.

  “Good stuff, James. Good stuff. Let’s meet this afternoon, get the team together. I’ll send over a calendar invite.”

  He made to leave, clearly satisfied with our plan, but I called him back from the doorway.

  “I’ll go to Brighton, Frank.”

  He shot me a puzzled expression. “There’s no need, James. Don’t feel obliged, there’s no pressure.”

  “The fact is, we’d be better off if I went. I’ll go.”

  Frank beamed like a cat who’d landed a fat pot of cream. He came back to shake my hand, big solid jerks of gratitude. “I appreciate it, James, and so will Trevor White. I’ll get Janie to book you a hotel.”

  “Make a booking for Lydia Marsh, too,” I said. “She’ll be coming with me.”

  “Good choice, James. I’ll get Janie on it right away.”

  I cursed myself once the door was closed, hands in my hair at the absurdity of my impulsion.

  What the fuck?!

  In frustration I tore out Lydia’s Islington note and fed it through the shredder.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Lydia

  The senior management team at White Hastings McCarthy stared straight ahead at the man before them, nodding at every smooth point he made. James Clarke was polished, confident, faultless. That’s why they call him Mr Perfect, I guess.

  My attendance at WHM, smiling and
scribbling notes while Mr CTO presented the implementation proposal, was still a surprise to me. Apparently I’d been first choice. I was just glad he’d looked beyond my little meltdown to give me a shot. This project would be one hell of a gold star on my resume.

  James handed me the room at the end of his presentation, and I was dropped right into the chaos of shared calendars and proposed schedules. By the time we wrapped up for the day we’d pretty much achieved sign-off on our timescales. We’d done good.

  “That went well,” he said as we stepped out into the crisp Brighton evening.

  I looked up at him, towering above. He had just the faintest shadow of stubble, his face etched in shadows against the gaudy brilliance of the pier beyond. “It went great,” I said. “They loved you.”

  “They definitely loved you.”

  “I scheduled in some dates in a diary, that’s all.”

  “They liked you, Lydia. You coordinated well for a complex project, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “Considering recent events,” he expanded, dark eyes crashing into mine without even a sliver of awkwardness.

  I felt my hackles rise. “My personal shit doesn’t make me unable to do my job. I’m fine, James. Thank you.”

  He laughed, and I gritted my teeth until I realised it wasn’t at my expense. “You sound like me. Knock you down and you’re scrabbling to your feet, swinging your fists at the air and claiming it didn’t hurt.”

  “Oh, it hurt,” I smiled. “But I’m always straight up on my feet. Always.”

  We walked along the beachfront towards the hotel in amiable silence. James Clarke was a brooding character, I could tell, but his smile was easy. I felt strangely comfortable in his presence, my steps falling into gentle rapport with his. Every now and again his eyes would catch mine, and I’d see something flash in him, some indeterminable knowing. Maybe it was concern, I dunno, but by the time we reached our venue for the night I felt a calmness I hadn’t felt for days. I put it down to the sea air, taking in cleansing deep breaths of salty breeze and thanking my good fortune for being out of the London chaos.

  On arrival I paced straight through the hotel foyer, turning in the doorway to the bar to suggest we have a celebratory drink, but James wasn’t following.

  “There’s a good restaurant here, by all accounts,” he said. “Have dinner and drinks on my room. I’m sorry I can’t join you, I have things to do.”

  I kept my smile bright despite the major blow out. “Of course. No problem.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Lydia.” His brush-off panged more than it should have. A rejection-fuelled chink in the Lydia Marsh armour. I elbowed it good and hard, and it fell away into nothing. No big deal.

  “See you in the morning, James.”

  I didn’t watch him leave.

  ***

  I had a few in the bar. Enough to really feel them on my way to my room. James Clarke hadn’t made a reappearance and I hadn’t felt the need to keep up my work facade. Hence the large house whites and unsteady legs. I glanced at James’ closed door as I passed, right next to mine, trying to be a good neighbour by treading as lightly as possible. I was too drunk for a work night, but hell it felt nice to be in my own space again. A few weeks sharing Steph’s shoebox apartment was already driving me crazy. Probably her, too. I took a breath in my own space, and caught sight of the pier through the net curtains. Sea-view balconies were a win. Air, glorious air.

  The breeze sobered me up enough to ease off the wobbles, and I relaxed against the railings with slightly steadier legs, staring intently down on the people below. I heard a door slide open to my left, but my view was blocked by a partition. A voice cut out in the night, quiet but deep, a low laugh tickling my stomach.

  “She said no, then? Probably for the best... what do you mean you kind of asked her? You either did or you didn’t. You did, didn’t you?”

  I held my breath, unsure whether to stay or go. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I crept back inside.

  “It’s for the best, you’d break her and she’d end up moving out again and leaving you in a worse state. Honest, she would... I’m pretty sure it’s not love... no, that’s definitely not love... Rebecca, that’s definitely, definitely not love.”

  His laugh was so genuine and warm. At odds with the steely professionalism of his corporate persona. I stayed put, committed to waiting it out until he went back inside.

  “You could advertise, you know... like most normal people do... you’re not that weird, Bex, not really. Anyway, some people like weird... weird people like weird...”

  I heard him put a foot up on the bottom ledge of the balcony, and peeked forward to find him leaning out into the night. He was still in his suit, its tailoring hugging him in all the right places. He looked really fucking perfect. Drunk-speak. Drunk.

  “I’ve got to go. Long day tomorrow... Yes, it’s going well... Yes, she’s good... I can give praise where it’s due, Rebecca. She’s good… Behave will you. It’s work...”

  She’s good. Me? All of a sudden I felt like an intruder. I should have coughed or something, made it obvious I was there. Shit. Too late. She’s good. I’m good. Of course I’m fucking good. I work really hard... but still. She’s good. I found I was smiling. Did I really smile anymore? Since Stu? Of course not. Of course not since Stu. His name cut, and I was right back there, at home, packing my things through spidery itches. I tried to rein my thoughts back in, but they wouldn’t come. Wine was a mistake.

  “I’ll see you on Saturday, ok? Stick an advert online, you’ll have probably solved your dilemma by then. Who knows, you might have Cara mark-two already moved in. Goodnight, Rebecca.”

  He finished the call but stayed still, staring out to sea. I was contemplating a move back inside, regardless of whether or not he’d hear me, but he negated the need altogether by leaning over.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lydia.”

  Crap. So much for hiding. “I was just getting some air, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” I joined him at the railings, matching his stance. “It’s nice out here.”

  “I like the sea. Clears the mind.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “How was your evening?”

  I smiled. “A few too many wines. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “I’ve had a few too many myself. Quite a few too many.” He smiled at my lack of response, seeming to read my mind. “Does that surprise you? You think I’m Mr Uptight, is that it?”

  “I think you’re Mr Perfect. I’m not sure Mr Perfect gets drunk on a work night.”

  “Mr Perfect?”

  “That’s what they call you, in the office.”

  “Do they?” His eyes dug into me, glinting in the shadows.

  “Sure do.”

  “Do you know what they call you?”

  “No idea.”

  “They call you Cat. Short for cat’s eyes.” He looked me right in the face, staring for long seconds. “It suits you.”

  “Well, Mr Perfect kinda suits you, too.”

  “I’m not perfect.”

  “I dunno, you were perfect today… and perfectly intimidating,” I said, moving a little closer as the wind whipped my hair.

  “You find me intimidating?”

  I smiled. “Perfection is intimidating, is it not?”

  “It’s easy to be perfect in office hours. It’s after that it gets a whole lot harder.”

  “Yep,” I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve got the home shit nailed.”

  “How are you doing, Lydia? Don’t insult me with fine. How are you really doing?”

  I felt my throat tighten, willing me to clam up and slap on the professionalism, but the wine warmed through my veins, loosening my tongue. “Most of the time ok. Right now not so great. Bad wine.” I slapped my wrist.

  “I thought a change of scene might do you good.”

  “Is that why you invited me?”

  “No,” he replied in a beat. “I’m really
not that generous, I wanted you here because you’re good. I just considered it an additional benefit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. It doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  “The thought was there.”

  “On the periphery.”

  “All the same. Thanks.”

  “I’ve had too many wines, Lydia Marsh, and so have you. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, we should sleep them off.”

  “Yes, sir.” I mock saluted, sailing my hand out towards him over the balcony. He didn’t move a muscle, just stared me out so hard I felt almost uncomfortable underneath the haze. “Goodnight, James.”

  In a blink he was away from me; stepping down from the railings and out of view. “Goodnight, Cat. Straight to bed.”

  Turns out Mr Perfect was Mr damn fucking Bossy, too. It suited him.

  ***

  By the end of day two I’d have sworn we’d been introduced to every single employee of White Hastings McCarthy, including the cleaners. Round upon round of handshakes and tours and polite conversation. I hoped James had a better recall of faces and names than I did, because after about the fourth new person they’d all become a blur. Somehow I expected he did. He didn’t seem the type to be lost for a name at a dinner party.

  We’d been waved off with fond farewells from the senior management team, and the morning would see our final wrap-up session with the IT department. Then back to London, to more sofa surfing and shared fridge space.

  “Tomorrow’s just a formality,” James said, as we wandered back along the front. “The hard work’s been done.”

  “I think I’ve got everything clear in my notes. I may just need to reconfirm some of the case management stages.”

  “Our main prerogative was to cement the relationship, and we’ve already achieved that. You were invaluable, Lydia, thank you.”

  “We made a good team,” I smiled.

  “We did.”