by J. D. Chase
What does this tell me about Veuve?
Usually, a person’s private space is representative of them. Their personality, hobbies, interests and so on . . . but this? This is so far from La Veuve Noire that, if it were anybody else, I’d think it was a joke. Or that their projected persona was a fake. But everything else about her screams that she is what the eye sees: a scantily yet mostly leather-clad confident, dominant female who is overtly comfortable with her sexuality. Yet somehow I know that the décor is as genuine as she is—the conundrum that is La Veuve Noire. I’m as curious about what’s behind the beautiful façade as I am to find out why this room is girly heaven . . . I have a feeling that the first will explain the second.
I walk over to the door and unlock it, letting The Kid out on to a tiny balcony that’s barely wide enough to house a neat, little bistro set. He takes one chair and I squeeze myself into the other. He’s brought the laptop but I’m not sure whether the screen will be legible in the bright sunlight. His head’s soon down and I’ve lost him, at least for the moment.
I push back my chair a little so that I can lean back and allow the sun’s rays to bathe my face. It’s early evening but there is still considerable warmth in them and the breeze helps to lighten the humid feel. A bottle of cold beer would be perfect right now. But hey, you can’t have everything. It’s a huge improvement on the stifling confines of the flat and it’s nice to hear the sounds of normality.
The balcony overlooks a large communal garden or park—I’m not sure which. I can hear a dog barking playfully, as well as the shrieks and laughter of young children. I notice that are were plenty of picnic blankets spread out on the ground, mostly by families or young adults. I can smell smoke and food . . . I know without looking that there’s at least one disposable barbecue on the go down there.
I turn my head and shade my eyes. Yeah, the weather is drawing everyone outside today. I look over at The Kid. There are loads of young adults down there and yet he’s been stuck inside all day. Why isn’t he out there spending time with other kids? He could do with some sun on his face. He’s properly pasty-faced. He’s also very slim and I know that he has limited muscle tone. I look back to a group of kids playing football on a patch of grass at the far side of the grounds, and then to the smatterings of teenagers and twenty-somethings beneath me. None of them look like The Kid. They all look healthy and vibrant. Like he should.
He disturbs my musings with a tap on my leg. I look back to him.
‘I don’t know much about the man I want to find. All I know is that his name is Ross. He lives somewhere in London. I need to find him. That’s all I know.’
I study his face. I know that he’s serious. That he is desperate to find the man. That it’s personal and important to The Kid. And that there’s likely to be danger involved. Don’t ask me how—it’s a sixth sense that I have that’s either developed over the years or that’s part of my DNA.
I take my time to formulate my reply.
‘Kid, London’s a massive city. Do you realise that over eight million people live here? Finding someone can be difficult if you don’t know much about them.’ Hmm, I wonder . . . ‘Of course, that’s useful if you’re hiding from someone or you don’t wish to be found . . . ’
I see it. I see the positive response I’d been half expecting. But then his face screws up and I get the negative response too. ‘So finding Ross will be difficult?’
I nod but the cogs of my brain are turning. So he’s happy that finding someone is difficult . . . is that because he doesn’t want to be found? That’s my suspicion. But he’s equally unhappy because it makes it difficult for him to track somebody down.
I’m tempted to say, ‘That’s life, Kid,’ but I don’t think he’d get it. He’s not savvy or streetwise. The way his face screwed up shows just how crestfallen he is. Whoever this Ross guy is, I think he must be important to The Kid in some way.
Maybe he’s The Kid’s father. Wouldn’t his mother be able to give him something else to go on? Couldn’t she help him?
I think I’ll have a quiet word with her later.
‘Will you help me?’ he says, his face looking like that of a young child who asks whether Father Christmas is real. He wants good news but he’s trying to brace himself for the bad news that he’s almost too afraid to hear.
‘Of course I will, Kid. But I need to know more. What about your mother? Would she know more?’
Shit! He looks like I’ve just punched him in the gut. He’s winded and wounded, tears brimming in his eyes. He shakes his head, trying to keep a lid on the tears. I feel bad but I don’t know what I’ve said.
‘It’s okay, Kid. I won’t say anything to her,’ I mutter, feeling the discomfort of someone not used to dealing with traumatised children. I want to make everything okay but I don’t know how.
He doesn’t respond but keeps fighting back the tears.
It’s an awkward couple of minutes. My idea of asking Veuve for assistance has gone up in smoke. I’m sure his reaction is caused by not wanting her to know he’s trying to find this guy. Maybe they’ve discussed it and she’s forbidden him. Or maybe, if Ross is his father, the relationship ended badly or maybe he’s not a nice man. Yeah, perhaps she’s got reasons for keeping them apart.
I rub the back of my neck and roll my head on my shoulders. This whole thing is making me tense. I don’t know how to handle it properly. Should I help him? Should I ask Veuve for guidance? No, how could I do that without tipping her off?
I don’t know the right thing to do. I don’t want to break The Kid’s trust and I don’t want to let him down but I also don’t want to do the wrong thing if there’s a reason they’re being kept apart.
I get up and pull the doors closed to give us more privacy although I know she’ll be in the shower by now.
‘Kid, I need you to tell me as much about Ross as you can. Then I’ll be able to tell you whether I can help.’ Because hopefully I can figure out whether it’s safe or even wise to when I hear more, I add to myself.
He just nods.
‘Firstly, is Ross his first name or his last name?’
He shrugs. ‘That’s just his name. I only heard him be called Ross or Rossie. But not Rossie very often . . . and only by women.’
‘Okay.’ Surely he’d know that about his dad. Unless he’s never been on the scene, not since The Kid was born. Then, I remember that The Kid didn’t want to tell me his name last night.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. An early warning sign that’s not often wrong.
‘What’s your real name, Kid?’
He stares at me and says nothing. I can’t help but feel a little frustration. He wants me to help him. He wants to call the shots. But he doesn’t trust me. I know he doesn’t really know me but I’ve given up my time to help him. He’s asking for more help. Yet, he won’t give me anything in return.
‘Kid, if you want me to trust you, you’ve got to trust me a little. What’s your name? I promise I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Who’s Asoul?’ he asks, his face scrunching up first in confusion, then in anxiety.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Surely this kid’s taking the piss?
I take a deep breath. ‘A soul . . . means a person. I won’t tell a soul . . . I won’t tell anyone else.’
His face smoothes out and his shoulders relax. ‘I had another name. My mum called me something when I was little. I mean really little. But then, as I grew big, everyone just called me The Kid. Even my mum.’
Sadness radiates from The Kid. My previous thought that this Kid is special in some way comes back to me. He speaks and acts like a much younger child. He appears backward in some way but he’s very keen to learn and learns quickly. He doesn’t go outside. He doesn’t even know his own name.
Something screams at me in the back of my mind to leave it alone. To walk out of the door and never look back. It’s not my business and something isn’t right here. In fact, from the pri
ckling on the back of my neck, I know something is very wrong.
But I look into those sad, brown, puppy dog eyes in that pale, anxious face and I can’t run. I look into his eyes and into his soul. Instantly, I can’t look away. Those eyes aren’t the eyes of an innocent kid. Those eyes have seen things that nobody should. I don’t know what and I don’t know how but I just know.
I’m disconcerted and it’s making me overheat. I pull my tee-shirt over my head and stretch out as much as I can in this tiny chair.
‘Do you have a birth certificate, Kid?’ I ask when he finally turns his head away.
When he looks back, his eyes have hardened and his expression is resolute. Something passed between us when I was staring into his eyes—it wasn’t a one-way communication.
‘I don’t know what that is,’ he whispers, and I know he’s telling the truth.
‘This Ross, is he a bad man?’
I see fear and loathing in his eyes when he nods.
‘Why do you want to find him, Kid?’
He looks at me with utter contempt on his face. ‘He has my sister. When I find him, I’m going to get her.’
Now he really has my attention.
I nod, maybe it is his dad. I open my mouth to speak but he’s not finished.
‘And then I’m going to kill him.’
His voice is devoid of emotion. I know two things from scanning his eyes. He means it. And it’s justified. At least in his mind.
And I can empathise, probably more than anyone else on this planet. I’d kill for my sister if it meant I could have her back.
‘And you’re going to help me,’ he says with complete confidence.
Now what the hell do I do?
I’M WALKING THROUGH MY bedroom when I see the toned, inked torso lounging on my balcony.
The soles of my feet weld to the carpet and my ovaries somersault—well, metaphorically speaking—I have no ovaries but you get the idea. My mouth’s hanging open and I’m sure I’m drooling.
Until I remember what the rest of him looks like and the image before me is instantly tainted. But even so, it’s hot. Clit twiddling hot, in fact.
I step into the shadows and unashamedly ogle the bronzed biceps and pectorals that are on display. The muscle definition is mouth-wateringly good but the inked adornments are captivating. I want to get closer to study them properly but I don’t want to be seen. I’d had a quick shower and refrained from having a nice soak in the bath, too worried about The Kid being on my balcony for the first time.
Great. I knew Jones had a good body, no clothes can hide that kind of body. But tattoos? I didn’t have an inkling . . . no pun intended.
Damn, with just his flesh on show—his head is hidden behind the wall as he’s leaning back in his chair—I can pretend he has dark hair and eyes. Yeah, his pose is all alpha—just the way I like them until they’re kneeling at my feet. I swallow hard at the mere thought of that body, prostrating reverently . . . something that I know will never happen. What a waste.
I tiptoe out of the room. The temperature is high enough today without generating more heat, perving at an unattainable body. I’ve never been one to want what I can’t have but there’s something about him. He’s an alpha, yet around me I can feel him reining himself in. I wonder whether he respects me as a dominant female and that’s why. I hope so, that would be one thing in his favour and one thing about him that doesn’t mirror him.
Feeling guilty that I went to check on The Kid, yet didn’t give him a second glance, I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I can’t shake the image of Jones, minus his tee-shirt, from my mind. I’d rushed my shower, feeling that I needed to keep an eye on The Kid. I wish I’d stayed and given my nub an extra rub . . . I wouldn’t have the vision of that inked body floating before my eyes right now and I wouldn’t be feeling so damned horny either.
I crack open the water bottle and gulp the cold liquid, hoping that it’ll cool the heated blood in my veins. I close my eyes and mentally block out the inappropriate image. I open them again and lift the bottle from my lips and find the mental image, standing about a foot away from me. I jump and almost drop the bottle. Water splashes out and lands on my chest, running down my cleavage. I’m wearing a strappy top with a low cut scoop neck.
I watch his eyes follow the trail of water as it descends. Usually, I do anything to avoid looking in their azure blue depths but he’s still shirtless and I can’t look at those intricate, indelible designs that make me think things I shouldn’t. They call to me but when I allowed myself to admire them in the bedroom, everything else seemed like white noise in the background. I have to be on my guard when I’m around him. I can’t allow a pretty body to distract me, even if it is literally the hottest I’ve seen in quite some time.
Possibly ever.
His eyes flick from my cleavage to my face. I see the muscles of his jaw tensing repeatedly before our eyes lock. My breath catches in my throat as I gasp.
Suddenly, he’s all alpha. His potent persona shrouds us both like an invisible cloak with a force I can feel. His eyes darken as his pupils dilate; a blatant indicator of his unfurling arousal. His eyes become two sapphires as he communicates his need. I know this is a man who is used to taking. Controlling. Dominating.
My instinct is to fight it. I’m used to Doms at the club attempting to out-dom me. It seems that it would be quite an achievement—I’d become their trophy sub if they topped me. But I always demonstrate my own near tangible puissance and take them on toe-to-toe. It never gets physical—in any sense of the word. If they tried that, they’d be kicked out of Vouloir on their arses. No, they either laugh off their effort as a joke or skulk back under their stones. But now, right now in my own damn kitchen, I stand here and . . . what exactly? What am I doing?
Am I letting him think he can top me? Is that even what he’s trying to do?
Fuck. I can’t read this man. That’s why I’m so wrong footed. I don’t know what he’s doing. I can’t tell what his intention is.
And that makes him dangerous. At least to me.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling and just like that, the spell is broken—or whatever it was. I feel my own power returning and it projects outwardly, meeting his. I see his eyes flash—a minute action but I see it. He knows.
I brace myself mentally for the onslaught as I’m sure he’ll fight me.
To my astonishment, he drops his eyes and relaxes his frame and says nonchalantly, as though nothing has passed between us, ‘Any chance of a couple of bottles of water for me and The Kid?’
I’m reeling sideways and I’m glad of the excuse to turn my back. I pull open the fridge and hand him two chilled bottles. I’ll be kicking myself for weeks but, when I hand them over, I don’t meet his gaze. To his credit, I don’t detect any smugness or cockiness when he says thanks and saunters back out of the room.
To my credit, I manage not to drool when I see that a talented tattooist has been busy on his muscular back too.
To my shame, I crush the nearly empty water bottle in my hand in frustration. ‘Why does that body have to belong to him? And why can’t he act like a complete bastard so I can hate him?’
Because he’s not. I blink at the little voice that makes itself heard from my subconscious. He may look like one but he’s not.
I SINK ONTO THE barstool and ask the barmaid for a beer. I’ve earned it today. From the heat of the summer’s day to the heated argument with my mother when I told her I was looking into a flat share. I know I could afford something of my own, a tiny little place, but I want to keep helping her out a bit so a flat share should get me better facilities only I’ll have to share them. If I can find a cute girl or a laidback guy, I should be good to go.
The chilled liquid runs down my throat and I swallow and sigh, allowing the tension of the day to be washed away. It doesn’t help that I’m on a wank ban. Usually, when my mother pisses me off or when I’m stressed out, I will knock one out a
t the earliest opportunity. But not today. My balls already feel like they’re made of lead. I just hope that Veuve is going to allow me a release . . . or better still, release them for me.
Oh shit. She’s limited me to two beers. I wonder if she’s had a chance to give the bar staff that directive yet. And I doubt this barmaid knows me—there’s no sign of Gabe. I’m very pleased about that. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, not since we got personal with Veuve at the same time. I still can’t believe I did that. I mean, I know I didn’t touch him but . . . it feels weird. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get used to getting it on near to other men. Even if they’re only watching, it would be off-putting. Although I know it makes me a hypocrite—I watched men and women in the playroom—and I enjoyed every fucking minute of it.
The memory of Elaine in the playroom induces other, less pleasant memories, and I turn and scan the club to take my mind off them. I hope Veuve hurries up because my balls are aching so badly that watching these nubile dancers and shameless strippers is pushing me to my limit. I check my phone for a message but the screen is blank. I’m tempted to sneak into the gents and ease my discomfort but I know that she’d know. Don’t ask me how, she just would. Plus, I have to be gentle with my maimed cock so it takes a while. I want to be here when she arrives.
I’m getting to the bottom of my pint and there’s still no sign of her. I’m going to be gutted if she’s blown me off for some waif or stray again. I know what she does is important but these sessions are taking things so slowly and I can’t play with anyone or even with myself. And my cock is beginning to look a little better today. It still hurts like fuck but the bruising and welts are beginning to fade. By tomorrow I think I’ll be able to beat it like a teenager watching his first porno.
And soon, once I’ve moved out I’ll be able to wank to my heart’s content. And not just wank . . .
Once Veuve’s taught me how to fuck, I’ll be in my element. I’m not sure about the whole D/s thing yet. From what I’ve seen, there aren’t that many Dommes around. Plus, I can still remember what she said to me the night I met her—that she’ll turn me into a legendary fucker who will have women falling over themselves and into my bed. I like the sound of that. And, if that is the case, I can pick and choose so I’ll choose the ladies who aren’t afraid to take control. Unless my preferences change. Maybe, when Veuve’s finished training me, I’ll be able to fuck women regardless of their sexual preferences. Maybe I’ll be adaptable.
