It was close to three in the morning when she woke to the frightening sound of voices in the other room. Fear paralysed her until her more rational mind told her it was the sound of her own voice on the answering machine. Someone was calling her at this unbelievable hour.
Cursing herself for having forgotten to switch off the call monitor she got out of bed, eased open the door and listened, uneasily feeling that she was intruding on herself.
Her own announcement ended, she waited with bated breath to see if the caller would dare leave a message.
‘Hello. This is Jeffrey. It’s just past midnight …’
Liar! …
‘… and I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Please call me the moment you get back. Speak to you soon!’
Listening to the machine re-set itself she wondered why he had bothered to lie about so apparently insignificant a detail.
Puzzled, she rewound the tape to hear the message through again. Had he forgotten that answering machines recorded the time and date of the call?
Even supposing he didn’t know, was he so unworldly that he had not even allowed for there to have been an intervening call which would have also exposed his lie?
She found herself having her first real doubts about the true nature of the man who had assumed so much over her.
It was then she realised that she had overlooked the most illuminating facet of the call. Had Jeffrey been lying awake at three a.m. thinking about her? Thinking so deeply that he had been moved to call her with no expectation that she would be there? Then, having done so, been too coy to admit that he had called at such an ungodly hour?
Of course, he might simply have been returning from a night out and had thought to impress her with his devotion. But for what reason?
She replayed the tape, listening carefully for any signs of slurred speech which might have indicated a drink-inspired call. There was none. He sounded endearingly sincere and, but for his lie about the time, she might have, there and then, called him right back.
Instead, she turned off the call monitor and went back to bed.
Some hours later she woke in a state of confusion. This had happened to her several times in her life and more especially since Kenneth’s death, but this morning was something different, something more intense and frightening.
Nothing seemed to make sense and nothing was as it should be. Rationally she knew where she was but the images that haunted her dreams remained hovering, undefined, on the edge of her waking mind. Something was bothering her. A problem that her dreams had left unresolved.
The feeling grew and no amount of coffee could drive the apprehension away. Something out there in the mists of the future was lurking, waiting in ambush. She would have liked to call somebody but there was no one.
Millie was her closest friend but she already knew that talking to her would be met with a frown and the admonishment to ‘pull yourself together’.
Something more stopped her calling Millie. It was the knowledge that, no matter how great her resolve, she would, in minutes, have confessed everything that had passed between her and Jeffrey. That was a shame she wasn’t yet ready to share. Not even with Millie, whose own answer to depression was a romp in bed with someone new.
Millie was without doubt the most outrageous woman she knew. Flagrantly unfaithful to her adoring husband, drooling to know the details of everyone else’s sex life, and scornful of anyone that espoused the slightest regret no matter how outrageous their behaviour, Millie had once said: ‘In life you should only regret the things you didn’t do.’ No. On this precipitous edge Millie was not the person to confide in.
Trying to distract herself by tidying up the apartment she came face to face with an echo of her own debauch. Lying half concealed under the bedcover was the belt he had used to beat her. Seeing it, she had involuntarily reached out to pick it up but then hesitated as if it had become a venomous snake. All her unsettling images suddenly resolved themselves into one. Jeffrey. He was the serpent gnawing at her mind. A cancer that needed immediate surgery. Going to the telephone she dialled rapidly, anxious to put her impulse into effect.
‘Hello? Jeffrey?’
He sounded excited. ‘Where are you? Are you in London?’
‘Yes. At the apartment …’
‘I’ll be right there!’
‘No!’ she yelled into the phone, but her voice bounced back off the already dead microphone.
Infuriated, needing to stop him at all costs, she dialled his number again. His answering machine came on. He couldn’t possibly have left immediately, so when the tone came she spoke urgently hoping that he had also left his monitor switched on.
‘Jeffrey, please pick up the phone. I have to speak to you. I can’t possibly see you. Not today.’ She waited a moment more before the answering machine clicked off and returned her to the baleful dialling tone.
Putting the telephone down she found herself in confusion. What did he want of her? Why this instant response to her call? Why had she told him she was home? Why hadn’t she told him she was still in Eastbourne?
It was then that she discovered the leather belt was still in her hand. She stared at it. When had she picked that up?
His imminent arrival left little time to tidy herself or the apartment. Refusing to listen to the inner voice which plaintively reminded her that she had intended telling him she didn’t want to see him, she flew about the flat and made some attempt at presentability.
The street door buzzed and, picking up the entryphone, she saw his monotone image, making him look like something from an old newsreel. If she were going to turn him away then this was the moment to do it. All she had to do was tell him he wasn’t coming in and then not open the door. She was about to do just that when he spotted the monitor lens and, sticking out his tongue, smiled broadly into it.
Unable to resist this childish behaviour she pressed the door-lock release and watched as he disappeared from the video screen.
Opening the apartment door to him she was still intending to make a token protest, but was greeted with a doorway filled with flowers through which poked a magnum of champagne. From behind the floral screen came his voice.
‘Don’t say a word!’
She stepped back as the flowers advanced on her. His face appeared grinning impishly over them.
‘You are forbidden to speak!’ he told her. ‘I’m here to look.’
‘Look?’ she gasped.
The champagne was thrust into her hands – it was chilled – and a silencing finger laid lightly on her parted, protesting, lips.
‘Not a word! Not one! Nothing. You are sentenced to be silent.’
Having freed one hand, he reached back into the hallway and dragged in a huge white box tied all over with golden ribbon. Saying nothing about the box he swept by her into the kitchen, leaving her to hold the champagne. He was back in a moment carrying a huge vase – he’d found an unwanted wedding present she couldn’t have found if her life had depended on it.
He arranged the flowers – which only now did she register as predominantly, unseasonal, roses – while humming a joyous tune to himself.
‘But—’ she started to say before the finger again pressed her to silence.
She sighed and turned away, wondering exactly how drunk he might be. On the other hand it was refreshing to find a grown man – who, she thought, knew how to behave and was prepared to play games at this level.
Having placed the flowers precisely where she would have put them herself, he turned his attention to the champagne. Keeping to the rules she stayed silent as he flushed out yet another wedding present – fluted champagne glasses.
Beginning to warm to the atmosphere she held the glasses as he opened the bottle – without any explosive overflow – and poured repeatedly until, the bubbles subsiding, they were filled.
In the manner of a Head Waiter she was guided to her own couch and invited to sit down. The glasses touched and they drank.
He settled on the matchin
g couch opposite and smiled at her.
‘You are the most lovely lady I know,’ he told her, and then, as she opened her mouth to deflect the outrageous compliment, he again held up his finger. ‘Please!’ he said. ‘The things I have to say will be much more easily voiced if you say nothing.’
Intrigued, she saluted him with her glass, sipped, smiled and looked expectantly at him for him to begin his promised monologue.
She was disappointed. He simply sat opposite her, smiling and looking at her. Twice during the long minutes he spent at this, she opened her mouth to speak and twice he raised his admonishing finger to stop her.
Deciding the only dignified way to support his game was to pretend to ignore him, she sat back and did her best imitation of a silent movie vamp.
He clapped his hands in delight. ‘Perfect!’ he cried. ‘Listen, I could just sit here all day drinking with you but – I wonder – would you do something else for me?’
Staying in character, she swept a hand through the air in a regally dismissive arc.
He leapt to his feet, went to the door, picked up the huge white box in one hand and came back to hand it to her across the coffee table.
‘Wear this for me,’ he said.
Taking the box she saw the famous designer name discreetly engraved in gold in one corner and, instinctively, although only half-heartedly, opened her mouth to protest – but again that finger was there, readied and threatening.
This created a dilemma. Should she open it here or take it into the bedroom? What if it were something she wouldn’t be seen dead in? Could the contents, given the name on the box, possibly be construed as a Christmas gift between friends or was there something inside that would create an obligation or, at least, an expectation.
He settled her internal argument by reaching down to pull at the gold ribbon bows himself.
Under layers of silky white tissue she found a gown of very fine black silk that looked, in the hand, to be practically shapeless. She looked across at him and wondered why he had brought this to her and puzzled over whom it could have been bought for. Certainly not her – couturiers didn’t work over Christmas and they would not, anyway, sell such an item without fittings.
‘Put it on,’ he enthused. ‘If there’s anything to be done to it we can fly to Paris and have them fit it properly.’
Feeling slightly light-headed and thinking she might have, like Alice, fallen down some mythical rabbit hole, she stood and held the dress against her – it still had little form or even shape. ‘Please,’ he was saying. ‘Try it on. If you don’t like it we can change it.’
Allowing herself a deep sigh, she turned past him, went into the bedroom and firmly closed the door.
Hurrying to the mirror she again held the gown in front of her and was undecided what to do. Was she going to join in this ‘game’? What if the dress looked as awful on as in the hand? Could this be some kind of fetish of his? Distantly, she heard his voice calling out asking her not to be too long.
Consciously thinking that this was ridiculous, her hands were already unbuttoning the denim shirt she had worn to greet him. She pulled off cotton leggings, and shed her brassiere, unwearable since the top of the gown consisted only of two panels held by buttons at the shoulders. It took a few attempts before she got the dress on and, when she turned towards the full-length mirror, she got a tremendous shock. The fine silk had immediately clung to the warmth of her body. What had seemed shapeless had now taken form – her form! The material, clinging to every nook and cranny of her body, delineated the thrust of her nipples which, she observed, had gone into instant erection. The effect was breathtaking. She saw herself as transformed and, although she had never thought of herself as any more narcissistic than the next girl, exciting. To wear a dress like this was not only to proclaim the naked body beneath but to advertise to the world that the woman inside was ready for sex.
Responding to his further warning not to take too long she searched out a pair of high-heeled shoes – Kenneth had called them her ‘tarty’ shoes – and slipped into them. She would have liked to do something more with her hair, but settled for a spray of perfume before taking a careful, assessing, look at herself.
There was only one flaw in the reflected image and that was the way in which the silk, now thoroughly warmed to her body, and clinging ever closer, outlined her panties.
With a tingling sense of daring she raised the flowing skirt and, hooking her thumbs into her briefs, pulled them down and stepped out of them.
Looking at herself she became shocked and aware that her breasts were thrusting hard against the silk and her nipples ached – a sure sign of arousal. ‘Cocktails are ready!’ he called through the door.
With one last regret at not having more time to do anything with her hair, she moved to the door, took a long breath, and stepped out.
He was clear across the room holding two tall, stemmed glasses filled with some kind of champagne cocktail.
‘Stunning!’ he said.
She got as far as saying ‘I—’ before he again intervened.
‘Rule still applies!’ he told her, coming forwards to hand her a glass with one hand and, catching her other hand, raised it to his lips.
‘You can only wear it for me,’ he said. ‘I mean, you look gorgeous and all but I think something a little more subtle, more understated, would ensure you didn’t get ravished the instant men saw you. Model it for me. Let me see the full effect!’
Tingling from head to toe, she did her best impression of all the catwalk models she had ever seen.
‘Superb!’ he called, along with other compliments. ‘Again!’
Turning, she swished and sashayed as best she could on the high heels that had suddenly started to pinch, before coming back to accept the drink he had been holding out all this time.
‘Who was the gown made for?’ she asked.
‘For you,’ he said.
Her laugh was short and scornful. ‘And how did you get a dress made over Christmas?’
He looked bashful. ‘The truth is I saw the dress on a model many years ago and loved it so much that I bought it. I didn’t have anyone to wear it for me, then or since – until I met you. I knew immediately that this dress had been made for a body like yours. I was right.’
‘True?’
‘I promise you. We might have only just met but I’ve been searching for you a long time.’
Enormously aroused, she found her apprehension growing. This man was different. He had mistaken her for someone she was not but, as she stood there, she knew that she wanted desperately to become that woman.
‘There’s something else about this dress,’ he told her. ‘But before I show you what it is you have to promise something.’
‘What?’ Now she was fully aroused. Secrets and promises were like aphrodisiacs to her. She only wondered how he knew.
‘You have to promise me that whatever happens to that dress in the next five seconds you will not interfere.’
She was puzzled. Did the dress dissolve or what? ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘But do I have your promise?’
She nodded and he reached out to the top fastening buttons, tweaked them and the dress slid, like a caress, to the floor, leaving her completely naked before him.
Four days – or was it a century? – ago, before she knew him, she might have instinctively grabbed at the dress to stop its downward slide, but something about this man made her trust him and his judgement completely. She was proud to be naked for him and willed herself to be as still as a statue as he looked at her.
‘Breathtaking,’ he said. ‘I knew I was right. You’re perfect in or out of that dress. We’ll have more of them made. It’ll be exciting to know I can have you naked in seconds.’
Trembling before him she realised that he was as aroused as she was and, as she fought for breath, she brought her uncertain eyes to his and read in them that he knew. In that moment there was nothing more important to her than
that this man should be sexually satisfied. And then she found she had fallen to her knees.
He was standing over her.
‘Incredible. Beautiful!’ he was saying as he tried to reach down and lift her to her feet, but she didn’t want that. In close proximity lay his cock, veiled only by the thin material of his trousers. It was that fleshly pleasure she wanted and eagerly she reached for it. He had to help her trembling hands seek him out, but the moment his cock was free she sank her mouth down on to it like an eager calf at the teat.
Greedy now, insatiable even, choked by his growing erection, she tried to cry out and let him know what she was feeling, but his penis gagged her. Her mouth clung to him, worked him, fearing that if she let go, took her mouth from him, she would fall backwards into an abyss. This cock and its coming gift were, in that moment, her entire life. She was greedy for the taste of him, wanting him to fill her, choke her, punish her. Then, as she felt him start to throb, she found her own release as she redoubled her efforts to suckle from him. Suddenly, without any seeming transition, she was on her own bed and he was burying himself deep inside her. She felt another wave starting as he moved against her. It came, and she knew another was close behind. This was impossible. Sensation was crowding in on her, confusing her, leaving no room for thoughts beyond satiating her body’s needs. There came only one other sensation – a sudden pain on her nipples.
‘Yes!’ she screamed. ‘More of that! Hurt me! Punish me!’
His words started then in an excited stream. Words that assured her she would feel his pain, feel his come, feel his cock and at each teeth-clenched imprecation she yelled back him, ‘Yes!’
When did it stop, she wondered? She was lying flat on her stomach, streaked with sweat from his and her own overheated bodies, knowing only that somehow it must have stopped since she now lay in a velvety haze that held her swaying in the most comfortable position she had ever known.
She moved gently so as not to dislodge him, only to find that he was lying turned away from her. What she had thought was his risen flesh inside her was only the bruised, happy memory.
Turning her head she could see the tendons raised on his strained neck where it pulsed with life. Fascinated, she watched the flesh vibrating. Somehow she wanted to match the rhythm of it, feel his urgency inside herself.
The Gift of Shame Page 3
