Eighty Days Blue

by Vina Jackson

  Again a hand patting his rump.

  Then the thwack of something sharp and biting on his arse cheek. The tremor of initial pain raced through his body. Oh, come on, he thought, this is all too ridiculous. Does she think being spanked is going to turn me on? He could feel his testicles retreating inside him in reaction. A bead of sweat formed between his nose and lips in anticipation of the next blow, but it didn’t come.

  ‘So you want to understand how it feels?’

  He nodded.

  Then he felt something being stuffed deep into his ears, cotton. Buds of some kind? The silence became abominable and he was floating in a bubble of solitude. Naked. Alone. Two of his senses eliminated, sight and hearing. He didn’t think she would gag him and block his speech, his sounds; surely that would be counterproductive, as she would be intent on enjoying his moans, his sighs, his likely protests. All part of the game.

  He waited.

  Sensed a shadow looming over him, behind him, likely obscuring the blue of the day peering through the skylights.

  He felt hot breath down the back of his neck as she leaned over and a finger, cold and greasy, probed his sphincter, wetting it, testing his elasticity, liberally applying some form of lubricant to his opening. Dominik held his breath, now sensing what was to follow.

  A blunt instrument, an ersatz cock, he guessed, pushed its way in, breaching him with surprising ease, stretching his arse lips until he could accommodate its tip. This was followed by a violent thrust inwards and he was invaded totally, felt as if he was being split apart. He bit his lips. The pain was intense. The entire periphery of his arsehole was open and forced, literally on fire, as if the wrong sort of cream had been applied, and that instead of soothing him, it was setting him ablaze down there. He tried to control the sensation, refusing to allow any sound to pass his lips.

  He attempted to clench his muscles to prevent the object from reaching deeper into him, but he’d lost control, and following a few feeble thrusts, she was entirely inside him.

  I am being fucked, he thought. I know what it feels like for a woman to be filled, invested in depth.

  Inside the blindfold, his eyes were now closed, although it made no difference to the situation.

  Clarity of thought returned to his brain and this was the moment for Lauralynn to begin a series of metronomic movements inside him: a quick partial withdrawal, followed by another deep attack, a short respite, the feeling of being vacated and empty, and then filled again and again and again. At first involuntarily and then consciously, he began to align himself with the rhythm of his fucking, riding it, flowing with it as the initial pain quickly began to fade. It was not replaced by pleasure, as he had hoped, but by a stampede of uncommon physical sensations he was registering and mentally filing away with every successive minute that ticked by, ever the observer, the academic. His body began cooperating and facilitating the flow and outflow of the artificial cock now ploughing into him.

  He quickly lost sense of time, isolated in a cocoon of sightless silence.

  At one stage – he had no clue how long for – she withdrew from him. Why? Instead his arse was caressed by the flow of the air coursing through the studio space, avid to be filled again, begging to be used, abandoned.

  Then she was riding him again, and this time her thrusts were softer, the organic nature of the dildo connected to her strap-on harness (he knew she was not manipulating the dildo manually from both the natural sway of her body behind and the contact of her warm hips against his spread buttocks every time she advanced onto him) now more pliant, less rigid, almost as if it was a real flesh and blood penis now digging its way into him. Again he suspected there was a man there who had taken Lauralynn’s place and was now buggering him. Surely not? And then he thought, Damn, who cares? There was little he could do about redressing matters now. Put it down to experience. She had said no holds barred and had been true to her word. He could no longer get totally hard, although he had been perilously close at one stage, when a hand had cupped his balls and taken hold of his cock and travelled up and down it as he was being fucked from behind, checking on his state, teasing him, playing with him.

  Finally, Lauralynn (or whoever was impersonating her, if there actually was a third, male participant in the studio) began tiring and the force of the thrusts inside him began to diminish. After one rather violent final push that almost brought him down flat on his stomach with its ferocity, she (or he) withdrew from him. Again that characteristic feeling of emptiness, feeling the air caress his bruised opening – a soft, ambient breeze flowing across his hole and a wave of premature post-coital sadness.

  His hearing was restored. The shuffle of feet. The sound from the brook outside and the manic chirping of small birds in the distance.

  Dominik waited for the blindfold to be removed. Shuffled from his knees to sit on his somewhat tender backside. Relaxed.

  She delicately pulled on the blindfold’s elastic and raised it slowly across his forehead and then his hair, taking care not to ruffle it. She was now fully dressed. Or had she even undressed to fuck him? It was as if nothing had happened. A faint smile was painted across her pale lips, her blonde hair catching the rays of the sun filtering through the glass ceiling.

  ‘Now you know,’ she said.

  Lauralynn had baked some potatoes and served them with a bowlful of sour cream, alongside a selection of cold charcuterie cuts.

  They were sitting on the lawn across from the house, the patio floodlight on, watching the waters of the brook flow downhill.

  ‘Victor tells me you’ve agreed to attend his going-away party,’ Lauralynn said.

  ‘I have, although I don’t know much about what’s supposed to happen,’ Dominik admitted.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Lauralynn said. ‘He’s being unusually secretive, the canny old bastard. Very unforthcoming.’

  ‘Has he invited you?’

  ‘We’ve a gig in Boston that weekend anyway, but no, he hasn’t asked me. Sort of makes me suspicious.’

  ‘It’s just a party.’

  ‘I know. But beware of Victor. He’s more dangerous than he appears.’ She dug her spoon into the steaming potato left on her plastic plate.

  In his pocket, Dominik heard his phone vibrate. Just a message.

  He knew only one person who sent him text messages.

  He pulled the phone out, excused himself to Lauralynn and took a few steps to the edge of the water.

  ‘I want you so much.’

  Summer.

  It must be very early morning in New Zealand, or Australia, or wherever she now was.

  Why did she have this knack for contacting him at the wrong time?

  11

  A Visit

  Predictably, as so often seems the way with long-haul flights, I was seated next to an unattractive and annoying businessman all the way to San Francisco. At least it was better than a screaming child. When not asking me an endless stream of questions, he tried to win me over with a detailed and unwanted lesson in the art of digital media streaming, a subject I still knew little about even after the many hours spent listening to him with my brain switched off as the long flight from Sydney made its way through the skies.

  He wore red braces, sported a side parting in his hair and had short, chubby fingers, a perfect combination designed to turn me off from the onset of our conversation.

  I tried to sleep, but knowing I was less than a day away from Dominik kept me soundly awake and neither could I concentrate on the in-flight movies.

  Susan had been talking about the prospect of a European tour, to follow up on the success of the one that had now come to an end, but had warned me it could be at least another six months before she could pull it off. That was all right with me. I felt bone-tired and dreaded the idea of walking onto a stage ever again.

  When he discovered that I had six hours to kill in transit at San Francisco, the blank-faced businessman bluntly suggested we take a room in one of the airport hotels and ‘enjoy a
quickie’, as he put it, although he warned me that his connection to Omaha was due long before mine to La Guardia, and that he would only be able to devote a couple of hours to me.

  He appeared genuinely surprised when I declined his offer, and I was grateful when the signs on arrival diverted him to a different immigration queue for US nationals. Hopefully, his luggage would arrive before mine and I’d seen the back of him.

  It was an American writer, I think, who’d said that ‘you can’t go home again’ or something of the sort. I’d read about it in a magazine left hanging around in Dominik’s loft once, though I hadn’t given it much thought. Until lately. The trip back home had me realise that America was my home now and that New Zealand, however much I romanticised it, would never be the same again.

  I had made my choices.

  I checked my watch, an old multi-coloured Swatch I used to wear in my teens and that I had found buried at the back of my childhood bedside drawer. It would be quite late in New York, so he would probably be home had he gone out for the evening. I dialled Dominik’s number.

  ‘Hello.’ Yes, his voice was sleepy, but warm, deep, familiar.

  ‘It’s me.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Of course, but it doesn’t matter. You know me, I’m an early riser.’

  ‘I’m in San Francisco. At the airport, in the transit lounge. I’m taking the red-eye, so should be in New York early morning.’

  ‘I’m in London . . .’

  ‘London?’ A sharp stab pierced my heart. Had he returned to England?

  ‘Just for a few days. Had some business to settle. Family stuff, things to do. I’m returning to Spring Street after the weekend.’

  A wave of relief flowed through me.

  The text message I had sent him a few days previously to warn him I was on my way back, with the concert tour finally over, had somehow not reached him.

  We both agreed it was unimportant and wouldn’t have made a difference. He’d already made arrangements for the London trip anyway, so wouldn’t have been able to pick me up from the airport. It was the middle of night where he was and I felt a bit guilty for waking him up, but his voice was as soothing as honey, and sitting there in the lounge, lullabied by the sparse night-time announcements and sipping a tepid beer, I wanted to keep him on the line for as long as possible.

  There were a lot of things I wanted to say to Dominik, but the geographical distance that separated us, the time difference and my tiredness conspired to keep the words stuck at the back of my throat and all I could come up with was small talk.

  We parted with the vague promise that we were both looking forward to seeing each other soon.

  As I stumbled my way out of the arrival hall at La Guardia the following morning, violin case under one arm and pulling the heavy suitcase behind me, its squeaking wheels burdened with all the gifts from family and friends in New Zealand, bleary-eyed and only halfway conscious, I was surprised to hear my name called out.

  ‘Summer!’

  It was Simón. I attempted a smile, looked down at his feet. The flamboyant pointy boots. The wild curls of his hair. The perpetually enthusiastic smile.

  ‘How did you know I was arriving now?’

  He pecked me on both cheeks, the fragrance of his aftershave fresh and dizzying, and gallantly seized the suitcase handles from me.

  ‘We have friends in common, remember? Susan told me you were returning. She also happens to be my agent, or didn’t you know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You look good.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I gather the tour went really well. You’re the talk of the town, or at any rate the Gramercy Symphonia . . . Everyone is so pleased for you. Excited. The whole gang.’

  ‘Thanks, Simón.’

  ‘Welcome home.’

  There was a limousine waiting for us, with a proper chauffeur, uniformed and everything. Simón had decided to court me with all guns blazing, it seemed.

  The drive into town was slow going, as we got caught up in bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic full of commuters making their way to work in the city. I had no energy for conversation, but Simón had enough for the two of us, bombarding me with questions about the places I’d played and how the repertoire he had been instrumental in selecting had been received. He was careful not to tread on personal waters, just asking where I wanted to be dropped off and avoiding any queries about Dominik and my future plans.

  By the time we reached SoHo, the sun was already high in the summer sky. After New Zealand and Australia, it felt like a whole new world. My world.

  As the driver carried my well-travelled luggage from the boot of the car and set it down by the steps of our building, Simón asked, ‘Your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to greet you at the airport?’

  ‘He’s in London,’ I said.

  I had another four days until Dominik’s return. On the first day, I slept. Like a log. Barely moving from the bed, tiptoeing to the toilet when I could hold on no longer or shuffling my way to the kitchen area to pick at old pieces of cheese in the fridge and sip straight from a milk carton that hadn’t yet reached its expiry date.

  It was blissful to be lazy, with no plans or commitments. The loft was as I remembered it, spacious, familiar, homely in its sleek and pared-down vastness. I hadn’t unpacked properly and didn’t plan to for at least another day. I wandered naked, dancing along the polished wooden floor, watched a gaggle of pigeons through the windows as they settled in a shadowy corner of a nearby roof. I even ventured shyly into the built-in wardrobe and caressed some of Dominik’s hanging clothes, my bare skin rubbing against the cashmere of his sweaters, my fingers gliding across the exquisite fabric of his suits.

  I surrendered to the peaceful ordinariness of expectancy.

  Simón rang twice, but I didn’t return his calls. I then switched my mobile phone off altogether. Even if Dominik did call and missed me, he would be here in a few days and there were words I would rather exchange with him present than over the phone.

  By the second day, I was going stir crazy and, having finally showered, made my way out onto the Manhattan streets. Within a block or two I felt famished and treated myself to a wonderfully fat burger and chunky chips from a busy diner on the corner of La Guardia Place and Houston. I bit into it with health-defying relish. My trainers would be waiting for me at home, but they could keep for another day.

  In Washington Square Park, a flock of foreign nannies congregated by the childrens’ enclosure with their push-chairs and charges, while the dog walkers criss-crossed the alleys with determined strides as they pulled the animals along, or sometimes it was the other way round. The squirrels leaped from tree to tree, whizzing along the sparse grass borders. At the north-west corner, a bunch of ill-dressed chess players sat at the games tables, seeking partners or challenges. There were no musicians today. I sat and spied on the crowds, focusing on the small children, wild thoughts careening in all directions through my mind as I tried to concentrate on what normality with Dominik might possibly entail. Or if normality with the two of us together was even possible.

  I’d left my phone back at the loft, but remembered a public one at the corner of University Place, fed it a few quarters and called Cherry. We’d left on strained terms and I felt I owed her an apology. The number was no longer in service. Maybe tonight I’d go to the bars and clubs I knew she frequented.

  Finally, I made my way back downtown.

  I took another shower; my body was still re-accustoming itself to the heat of a Manhattan summer and I was roasting after my short winter in New Zealand. Then I did some yoga exercises. The sun-salutation and downward-dog poses always helped clear my mind. In a corner of the loft by the orange sofa, my violin case still sat where I had left it on arrival two days before, lonely and calling to me, begging me to come and open it. I realised with a shock that I had not touched or played the Bai
lly for three whole days, what with the long flights and my last couple of inactive New York days. Never had such a long period gone by without me at least practising or going through the scales. But I hadn’t missed playing, hadn’t even noticed.

  At first, the thought was frightening, but then I took comfort in the fact that it meant I could change. Nothing was permanent. Even my love for my music.

  I deliberately blanked the violin case and stepped over to the small desk where Dominik often used to work with his laptop when he was at home. He’d taken the computer with him to London, and there were just a few pencils and pens scattered there, a couple of abandoned memory sticks, a sleek black stapler and a handful of thin folders lying across its almost empty surface.

  I negligently opened one of them. It contained a bunch of pages he must have printed out back at his office at the library, as we had no printer here.

  I picked up the top page.

  Read the opening lines.

  I had half expected something about Paris, the period I knew Dominik was researching – dates, facts, quotes – but not this.

  It was a story.

  Set in East Texas in a small town I’d never heard of. About a young woman with flame-red hair.

  Intrigued, I grabbed hold of the rest of what appeared to be a first chapter and sat down on the sofa, pulling my legs up under me, my favourite position for reading, something I realised I’d done little of for months now.

  The familiar minutiae of small-town life, a curious similarity to some of the few things I remembered telling Dominik, about where I had grown up in New Zealand, but now more fantastical, subtle variations on the true story and as a result more interesting and somewhat alien at the same time, as if it was seen through the eyes of an outsider who couldn’t quite grasp its reality.

  Surely not?

  Dominik was writing a novel.

  I quickly skimmed through the chapter, which appeared to be unfinished, and rushed to the other folders. Only one appeared to have further excerpts from Dominik’s novel. Just four pages, with large blanks between some of the sections. Elena, the character, was now in Paris, in the early 1950s, the period I was aware Dominik had been avidly researching. Was his choice of Elena for the heroine’s name a coincidence?