He began to stroke my clitoris, circling the tip of his tongue over the throbbing pleasure point in a way that caused my breath to come faster and a delicious heat to radiate through me. How could I ever have entertained the thought of telling him to stop when the sensation was so divinely erotic that I now wished it would never end?
I realised that, at this point, I was about to relinquish authority over the both of us. If I did, it would be surrender. I would become his willing prisoner. That was not allowed. I had to resist, I had to hold back.
And then I drew in a sharp breath at the sensation of his fingers trailing over my swollen outer lips, slippery with saliva and my own wetness.
‘Tell me what you want, Mistress,’ Simon whispered to me. I clamped my teeth together, biting the inside of my cheek, hoping the pain would prove to be a distraction. I could not risk voicing my desires. I was so aroused, wanting so badly to feel him inside me, that I was in serious danger of abandoning the fantasy entirely and begging him to fuck me.
‘I need to learn what pleases you,’ he continued. And then, without waiting for my response, he slid two fingers partway inside me, causing me to gasp with pleasure. ‘Like this … or like this? Tell me when it feels the best for you. Show me what you enjoy.’
I knew I should not have entered into that dialogue, but I did, and from then, there was no going back.
‘Like that, yes, that feels good.’
‘And this?’ He shifted his angle, rubbing a spot so deliciously responsive that it felt as if I was melting under his touch.
‘Even better. Please, don’t stop.’
He didn’t for a while, and then he whispered, ‘Deeper now?’
‘I … I don’t know. Try and see. Oh, yes. Deeper is good. Ah. Just there. Your … oh …God, Simon, I need you to …’ I bit my cheek again so hard I tasted blood. Don’t say it, I told myself. Don’t say it.
I didn’t dare speak again. I closed my eyes, stopped resisting, and finally abandoned my fight. Instead, I gave myself over to him, let myself float into the depths of pleasure, immersed in his desire.
With his expert tongue and his sliding fingers, he was teasing and penetrating my sodden depths, discovering my most secret pleasure points, guided by the intensity of my own helpless responses.
I surrendered and opened myself to him, as his fingers moved slowly in and out of me, stretching and filling me more deeply each time, accompanied by the almost unbearably pleasurable friction of his tongue on my clitoris. Sensations followed each other as fast and powerfully as waves, each one dragging me further out, with no time to think, to claw back any mental distance from the onslaught of physical delight.
The blood was pounding in my head and I suddenly realised the room was very short on air. I was moaning, gasping with excitement and with disbelief that he was actually doing this to me, that he was taking me this far. Dear God, I was going to end up coming. I couldn’t believe it. He was going to make me come.
I tried to resist my orgasm just to see if I could, but it was hopeless. I was too far gone and he was too good. I came grinding my hips against his face, feeling my muscles grab and squeeze around his fingers buried inside me, as I cried out in delight, in release, and yes, in gratitude.
I heard him murmur something in ragged tones. My heart was hammering and my head was spinning.
‘Pleasure yourself,’ I managed to get out.
I closed my eyes and listened to his breathing, which was growing faster and hoarser. When he cried out as he reached his climax I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the soft moan I gave at hearing his pleasure, so long awaited and so generously earned.
Sometime later, maybe a few minutes or maybe longer, I was roused from drifting in a sea of bliss by him stroking my hair.
‘Thank you, Emma,’ he whispered.
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled drowsily.
‘I’m going to sleep in the other bedroom,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I blinked at him in the semi-darkness.
‘Early meetings tomorrow. I’ve ordered you breakfast in bed. Sweet dreams.’
He smoothed my hair back and before I knew it, I was floating off again. Part of me wondered whether what he’d said was an excuse and he actually hadn’t wanted to sleep in the same bed as me, and if so why this was. But mostly I was cocooned in satiety, reliving the incredible sensations and experiences of the evening.
I was woken by a polite tap on the door, with the sun filtering in through the curtains and my breakfast in bed being delivered on a silver tray.
That morning, I found myself on an absolute high. I felt energised, as if I was floating on a sea of endorphins and other happy-making chemicals. I could not stop smiling and my cheer knew no bounds. I literally believed I was glowing from the inside. It was strange, because I’d had good sex before, I’d had great orgasms before (although admittedly a long time ago), but I could not recall that I’d been lifted to the same pinnacle of joy the next day.
Was it just the thrill of abandoning my morals in a glamorous hotel?
Or had the fantasy scene that had played out last night between us – the adrenaline, the excitement, the sense of doing the forbidden – helped to create this incredible afterglow?
I didn’t know.
What I did know was that when I got back home and found Roger waiting outside the gate I was going to need all the good humour I could get.
Chapter 25
My brother was sitting in the driver’s seat of a silver Lexus. And with him, on the passenger side, was none other than his best buddy Da Silva.
Roger climbed rather stiffly out of the car and stared disapprovingly at my rattly Renault as I pulled up behind him. Da Silva got out of the other side and, in unison, they tugged at the lapels of their charcoal jackets.
Men in Grey II.
‘Hello,’ I said, scrambling out of my car. Since Simon had left long before I’d woken up, I’d passed on the make-up and hair and simply enjoyed a croissant and coffee in bed before packing up the detritus of the previous night. Now I was painfully aware of how I must look. Messy hair, shiny face, bags under my eyes, slight dizziness from a mild hangover.
Yup, I probably looked as if I’d spent the previous night indulging in kinky, alternative sex and enjoying mind-blowing orgasms with a wealthy deviant. The irony was, of course, that I could have come back from helping out at the church bazaar, and Roger would still assume I’d been up to no good.
In contrast, with his shiny suit, white starched shirt and neatly knotted blue tie, Roger looked as if he’d stepped out of the fashion pages of Accountants Weekly.
‘I didn’t know you were in town,’ I said.
‘I called you last night, Emma. I told you we’d like to see you at ten-thirty this morning.’
‘Ah. You called.’
Well, it was only ten thirty-five now, so at least they hadn’t been waiting too long.
I rooted in my handbag for my phone, which I hadn’t looked at since yesterday afternoon. As I did so the pair of scarlet knickers which Simon had been wearing last night, and which I’d noticed hanging on the heated towel rail as I was about to leave, fell out and tumbled to the ground.
Roger’s lips tightened when he saw this and Da Silva suddenly found an important message to read on his BlackBerry. I grabbed my underwear and stuffed it back in my bag. Then I took a look at my phone to discover that there was indeed a missed call from my brother, and that he’d left a message.
‘I’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’m sorry. I was away at a friend’s last night.’ Frantically, I hunted for an excuse that would explain the presence of the panties. ‘Hen night. Quite a wild party.’ I smiled at him. His expression did not change. I had the feeling he was unconvinced by my words.
‘Can we come in?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
I buzzed the gate open and got back into the car, glancing in the rearview mirror to confirm the fact that yes, my face had turned the sa
me colour as the underwear.
I followed Roger’s car in through the gate, parked under the tree, and unlocked the front door, opening it to be met by a stern cohort of four waiting cats.
Biscuit made a bee-line for Roger’s legs and twined himself around them, causing my brother to recoil in horror and begin performing a mini version of the traditional gumboot dance. Bob the Cat, refusing to be distracted from the pressing matter at hand, jumped onto the back of the sofa and meowed accusingly.
‘I’ll be with you now. I’ve just got to feed them,’ I explained. ‘Please sit down. Coffee?’
My offer refused, the two men walked over to the couch, each brushing the seat precisely three times with his right hand before sitting down.
I shook some food into the cats’ bowls before returning to the lounge and settling myself down onto the other chair.
‘So,’ I said. ‘What are we here to discuss today?
Roger exchanged a glance with Da Silva before clearing his throat in a deliberate manner. That was not surprising, since most things my brother did were deliberate.
He was nine years older than me, which put me firmly in the ‘mistake’ category. Not that I’d ever minded that – it explained a lot about why I’d turned out the way I had. What I didn’t understand, though, was how Roger and I could possibly be so closely related given that he’d missed out completely on the sense of humour gene that both our now-dead parents had possessed.
Not surprisingly, Roger had gravitated towards the world of accounting. Today he owned a small firm in Cape Town, where he presumably raked in the cash in exciting ways like doing annual audits and profit and loss statements. Since even those words made my eyelids grow heavy, we’d never had much to talk about.
Except for one topic – a subject that never seemed to grow dull to him, which was ‘How Emma Has Wasted Her Life’.
My brother was a naturally disapproving person, one of those who seemed to like to find fault with humanity in general, but never was his criticism more sharply focused than when it was directed at me. I sometimes wondered if it was rooted in jealousy, and if my parents had directed all their attention towards me, their surprise late baby, and left him feeling unloved.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ Roger said.
I felt an all-too-familiar lurch of my stomach at these words, which I was by now so accustomed to hearing.
But this time I decided that I was not going to play their little game.
‘Right. Bad news,’ I said, and they both looked up in surprise at my cheery tone. ‘Bring it on then. Let me have it. Let’s see how bad it can get.’
I might even have clapped my hands – I don’t remember.
‘Emma, this frivolousness is not …’ Roger began, but I interrupted him.
‘It’s not what? Not appropriate for my circumstances?’
‘No,’ he snapped.
‘Well, let me tell you something. I’ve lived with my circumstances for more than a year now. I’m used to them. I’ve decided that I’m not going to be a prisoner to them any more. So, come on, tell me the worst.’
They exchanged a glance.
‘The Road Accident Fund claim has been declined,’ Da Silva said.
Well, that was a body blow all right. That news was cripplingly bad, and in other circumstances I think I would have broken down. In fact, if he’d told me three months ago I’d have burst into hysterical tears. Now, though, I wasn’t going to let it bring me down.
‘Why?’ I asked, raising my chin. ‘I thought everything was in place. That all we had to do was wait.’
‘It’s because they have assessed the evidence and ascertained that Mark was over the limit.’
‘You mean because he was drunk at the time of the accident, he doesn’t have a claim?’ I frowned. I knew he’d had some alcohol in his system but that didn’t alter the fact he’d been stopped at a light on his side of the road when the lorry coming the other way had had a blowout, veered across the yellow line, and smashed into him.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ I thought about this for a minute. What it would mean for me.
The payout that was supposed to set Mark up for life in the care home would not be forthcoming.
His monthly expenses would henceforth continue to be an insurmountable burden on me. The insurance payout had dealt with the bill for the next quarter, but after that it would fall back on my shoulders. The bill from Rest Haven was substantial even at its most basic; and it was always higher if he needed any medical attention. At worst, it would mean I’d end up defaulting on the bond payments again.
Six domination sessions per month was what Mark was costing me.
‘You need to downscale, Emma,’ Roger began in his usual fussy tone, and yet again, I interrupted him.
‘Well, I’m not going to,’ I said, glaring at him. Then I glared at Da Silva. ‘Selling this house, especially now in this depressed property market, will achieve nothing except make me miserable. If I sold now, it would be at a huge loss.’
‘But …’ Roger began, and I silenced him with a glare.
‘And what would I do with the money I got from the sale, if any? A year from now I might well be in exactly the same position, the difference being that I wouldn’t have any assets left. Right now I have income, I am doing freelance work, I am feeding myself, my employee and my animals, and I am actually managing to pay off my bond arrears.’
‘Right,’ Da Silva said, adjusting his glasses on his bony nose. ‘Right.’
I turned to him.
‘Resubmit that claim, please.’ I ordered. ‘I’m not accepting no for an answer here, especially since Mark was stopped at a red light when the accident occurred. His car was stationary. Therefore, there is no way that the alcohol in his system could have contributed towards the accident, even if he was over the limit. It was one hundred per cent the other driver’s fault.’
‘Er … all right, I will …’
‘Keep me informed of the progress. I want updates on a monthly basis, and I want you to follow up with the Road Accident Fund before each update.’
‘Yes, Emma,’ Da Silva said. It was the first time I’d ever heard him sound meek.
Then I turned back to my brother.
‘Now, in the meantime, what I am going to suggest is that instead of making irresponsible suggestions about downscaling, you actually man up for a change and help me out.’
Roger let out a huffy breath and sat up ramrod-straight, as if somebody had pushed a well-sharpened 4H pencil up his bum.
‘Up until now, you haven’t lifted a finger to help me out financially, despite the fact that you are employed and earning very good money, when I am not,’ I told him.
Roger’s face was frozen, but at least he wasn’t wearing his usual supercilious expression. Emboldened, I continued. ‘All I have had from you since Mark’s accident is preachy and impractical advice that I should sell my house, which in the long term is going to break me down without actually improving the situation at all.’
‘Actually, she has a point …’ Da Silva murmured.
Glaring at Roger, I carried on. ‘I know we’re different. I know you disapprove of me. Hell, I disapprove of myself sometimes, too, but none of us is perfect, not even you. I haven’t followed your path in life but did you ever stop to think for a minute that not everybody is suited to becoming a chartered accountant or an auditor?’
Da Silva was nodding approvingly, as if he agreed that some people were far better suited to becoming lawyers. From his reaction, he looked as if he was on my side, I realised, with a leap of hope. At any rate, he was not entirely on Roger’s side. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders and continued with my outburst.
‘When I was in my last year of school, I used to overhear our parents discussing money late at night, when they thought I was asleep. They were constantly worrying because they knew they couldn’t afford to send me to university as well as put down the deposit on your first home, wh
ich they wanted to do because you’d just got engaged.’
‘I never …’ Roger started.
‘You never knew because nobody told you. Mom and Dad didn’t even know that I had heard them.’
‘I see.’
‘I could have chosen to study the sort of degree you would have considered to be frivolous. A Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Drama or English language. I could have had a three-year party and ended up with a fairly useless qualification at the end of it. But one of the reasons I didn’t was that I thought it would be unfair for me to end up wasting what would have been your house deposit.’
‘Oh,’ Roger said. His voice sounded quite small.
‘So instead I took a different path in life, which just happened to lead me into the phone sex industry, which nobody approved of. Not you, not my parents, definitely not Mark, and while I’m not sure about all the other friends you’ve told over the years, I’d say that Da Silva would probably offer up a ‘‘No’’ vote as well.’
Da Silva was avoiding my gaze, instead entering into a staring match with Bob the Cat, which I knew already he was going to lose.
‘For years and years, my decision, which wasn’t the most sensible one I could have made – I do know that – has ended up poisoning all my closest relationships. With our parents, with you, and even with Mark. It’s ended up permanently tainting the way you perceive me, and that isn’t fair.’
‘I understand.’ Roger gave a small nod.
‘Imagine if your wife had ended up where Mark is and you were unemployed and faced with enormous medical and care expenses every month that, through no fault of your own, you could not cover. If I had a job, I’d contribute something. I would help you out. It would be the first thing I would have thought of doing.’
‘She’s right,’ Da Silva muttered.
Roger glanced down at his hands and then back up at me. He looked at me with a rather shamefaced expression, like he’d never really seen me before, and perhaps, in a way, he hadn’t.
‘I’m sure I can see my way towards paying my share,’ he muttered.
‘You have your lawyer here right now. Let him draw up an agreement that will be workable for both of us.’
Folly Page 17
