Bound by Ivy

by S. Quinn

  Love Rat Blackwell

  ‘Can I see the articles?’ I take the clump of newspapers from Jen’s manicured nails and dump them on the garden table. Then I take off my gloves and flick through the papers.

  The articles are all about Marc fathering Cecile’s unborn child.

  Cecile is quoted in all of them – she must have run to every newspaper in London.

  ‘She’s totally flipped,’ I say. ‘I mean, she’s lied to the papers before, but this is different. These articles are complete fantasy land.’

  ‘I wish someone had told me,’ says Jen. ‘How can I stop the two of you getting bad press if I’m not told when these sorts of pictures are taken?’

  ‘I’d never have guessed the stories would be this bad,’ I say.

  ‘They’ve been clever,’ says Jen, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering in her thin blouse. ‘It’s all allegedly this and allegedly that. Nothing we can sue for. But I’m going to make sure a counter story is run, showing that Cecile refused a paternity test.’

  ‘She refused a paternity test?’

  ‘Not yet. But she will when I get Marc’s lawyers to demand she take one. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘But you haven’t started working for Marc, yet,’ I say. ‘You’re on babysitting duty. Jen, this isn’t your problem.’

  ‘Of course it is. You’re my friend. Which makes your boyfriend my top priority. I’m not going to let someone badmouth him. I have a few hours here and there. Right now, Sammy’s sleeping. That gives me most of the afternoon to try some damage limitation.’

  ‘Has Dad seen these?’ I ask, nodding at the papers.

  ‘Not these exact ones,’ says Jen. ‘But he’s bound to pass a newsstand at some point. We should probably go talk to him before he does. So you can tell him what really happened, before he gets the wrong idea.’

  ‘Okay.’ I get up out of the wiry garden chair, scooping the newspapers under my arm. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’

  We find Dad by the front door, strapping on his money belt ready for work.

  ‘You’re going to work already?’ I ask, pleased that Dad is getting back to his old routine. It didn’t suit him, moping around the house.

  ‘I’m trying to get as many hours in as I can before next weekend.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I ask.

  Dad suddenly becomes very interested in his money belt. ‘Oh, just that I was hoping to take Saturday night off. So I could take Denise out.’

  ‘Denise? As in, Denise from Ivy College?’

  Dad coughs and doesn’t meet my eye. ‘Yes. I mean, it’s no big deal. Just two friends going out to dinner.’

  ‘You two are going out to dinner?’ I say. ‘Like a date?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a date exactly,’ says Dad, his cheeks flushing. ‘There’s this 1950s diner Denise read about in Soho, so ... we thought we’d check it out.’

  ‘That’s great, Dad.’

  ‘It’s just a dinner. That’s all.’

  ‘Denise is a lovely lady,’ says Jen. ‘And very attractive too, don’t you think, Sophia?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, catching Jen’s tone. ‘A very attractive lady.’

  Dad scratches his ear. ‘All I know is that she’s a very warm and friendly person. And I enjoy spending time with her.’

  ‘Well you enjoy away,’ I say. ‘You deserve a nice night out.’

  ‘See you girls later.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Dad,’ I say. ‘Can I talk to you? The newspapers are running a story today. About Marc. And before you hear about it from someone else, I just wanted to tell you that it’s total rubbish. All made up.’

  ‘What story?’

  I look at Jen and she looks at me.

  ‘You may as well see for yourself,’ I say, handing him a newspaper.

  Dad unfurls the paper and scans left and right. He’s never been the fastest of readers, so it takes a few moments before his eyes widen, and he starts shaking his head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, love.’

  ‘Dad, it’s okay. Really. These articles don’t bother me. I know they’re all lies. But I just wanted to make sure you knew the truth before you read them on some newsstand somewhere.’

  Dad frowns. ‘Soph, love. Are you sure they’re lies? I mean, you haven’t seen Marc for a while. And he’s photographed right next to this girl.’

  ‘They took that picture at Ivy College last night,’ I say. ‘I was there. Cecile broke in and threw a pig’s heart at my window. And Marc went down and escorted her out of the building, with his security team. That’s when the picture was taken. Look, you can see them in the background.’ I point to two men in black uniforms.

  ‘She threw a pig’s heart at your window?’ Jen asks, her eyes widening.

  ‘I know. She really has flipped.’

  ‘So this Cecile girl was at your college last night?’ Dad asks.

  I nod.

  ‘And Marc was there too?’ Dad says the words slowly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so were you?’

  ‘Yes.’ My stomach drops as I begin to realise what Dad is thinking.

  59

  ‘The two of you are supposed to be separated,’ says Dad. ‘That was our agreement.’

  ‘We have been,’ I say. ‘But … something happened last night, and Marc came over to check that I was okay. He was about to leave when Cecile turned up. I didn’t even see him—’

  Dad’s lips go all thin and white.

  ‘Honestly, Dad. We were keeping to your rules. We’ve been apart this whole time. Just phone calls. That’s kind of what last night was. An extended phone call. Like I said, I couldn’t see him—’

  ‘Well then,’ says Dad. ‘There’s an easy solution, isn’t there? No more weekly phone calls.’

  ‘But Dad—’

  ‘Do you want to stick to this agreement or don’t you?’

  ‘If it means you giving us your blessing to marry, then of course I do.’

  ‘Then from now on, no phone calls. There are only a few weeks left before you can see him again. I’m sure you’ll manage.’

  I feel sick to the stomach.

  ‘Please, Dad. There are things I need to tell him. About Annabel. She needs our help. Dad, wait.’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Can you at least let me call him today? To tell him what’s happening?’

  Dad frowns. ‘You can email today. To let him know the new arrangement. But after today, that’s it. No more contact until the three months are up.’ With that, he storms out the door.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ says Jen. ‘You’re tougher than you look.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  ‘That’s what I know. You’ve already toughed out over two months. And at least you can email Marc today. That’s better than nothing, isn’t it?’

  I find myself nodding at that little bit of light at the end of the tunnel. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I guess that’s better than nothing.’

  From: SophiaR

  To: MarcBlackwell

  Dear Marc,

  I don’t know how to start this email. But here goes.

  I love you.

  I love you so much it hurts. In fact, everything hurts right now. Being away from you hurts, not hearing your voice hurts, thinking about you hurts.

  I have some bad news. Dad has read the newspapers and found out that you were at Ivy College last night. And now he says we can’t phone each other any more. We can only talk by email, and only today. After that, nothing until this last month is up.

  I need to tell you about Annabel. I was looking over the forms she has to fill in, and what she has to do to get her son back. She needs somewhere to live. And I thought, could she live near us? Could you get her a place? That way, I could help her with her son.

  I’m typing this in the garden, wearing the coat you gave me.

  Leo thinks that—

  I pause, my cold fingers hovering over my iPhone keypad. No. Better not talk about Leo. Delete, delete, delete.
/>
  Some people think that space can be healthy. But to me, it feels like I might just die during these last weeks. Our weekly calls were what got me through the days, but now we don’t have them I’m lost. Totally, utterly lost. Please write back quickly.

  I love you,

  Sophia.

  My thumbs ache because I typed so fast. It’s cold out here, but I’m understanding now what Marc means about liking the cold. It’s helping me feel something, because otherwise I’d be numb.

  I sit staring at my phone, waiting, waiting for a reply. After twenty minutes, I realise that the email is still waiting in my inbox and my signal bar is low.

  I head into the house, but the signal is no better in there. Jen is playing with Sammy in the lounge area, and she looks up as I come in.

  ‘Did you send him the email?’

  ‘No reception.’ I wave my phone at her. ‘I’m going to head to Ivy College. The phone reception around this village is too hit and miss.’

  ‘How are you going to get there? Didn’t you say Keith had the morning off?’

  ‘Bus and train. Just like the old days.’

  60

  As I walk through the little cobbled streets of our village, past greengrocers and butchers, I finally get phone reception and the email leaves my inbox.

  I watch my phone anxiously as I walk, waiting for Marc’s reply. It comes within five minutes.

  Sophia.

  Let me speak to your father and try to explain. And apologise.

  And I’ve been trying to persuade Annabel to move to Richmond for years. I’d buy her anywhere she wanted. The problem is, a part of her is still attached to Daniel’s father and her old friends.

  I love you too.

  Marc.

  I hurriedly write a reply, tripping over a cobblestone in my rush to respond.

  No, no, don’t! You don’t know Dad like I do. He’s angry about us seeing each other last night, so he won’t change his mind. This is just how it has to be.

  And I don’t think Annabel wants that life any more. But she’s feeling a little depressed about having to lean on people. She wants to be independent. We need to find a way to give her a place without her feeling like she’s taking charity.

  Within moments, Marc fires back:

  Re: your father, I’ve never been good at accepting things. But for you, I can accept anything. If this is how it has to be, then we’ll get through it.

  Tell Annabel to find somewhere suitable, and I’ll buy it for her. She can choose the place. And then, when she gets back on her feet, she can pay me a monthly rent until the place is paid off. She won’t be leaning on anyone. Just taking out a loan.

  You never cease to amaze me. I bring in Jen and Rodney to make sure you’re not overstretching yourself. And then you go and make my sister into your new project. Don’t tire yourself out.

  I’ll be watching over you. Keeping you safe.

  I love you,

  Marc.

  I spend the whole bus and train journey emailing Marc and reading his replies. We write about how much we love and miss each other, and we talk about the wedding – and what we’re going to do on our honeymoon.

  I get pretty hot reading and writing the honeymoon emails, and hope the other train passengers can’t see the blush spreading up my neck. When I tell Marc I’m on my way to Ivy College, I receive the quickest response ever.

  Not alone you’re not. I’ll send a driver to wherever you are. Keith isn’t working this morning, but I have a replacement.

  I message back:

  Too late. I’m already at Liverpool Street. I have to get the tube now, so no reception. Don’t worry – I’m in public the whole time.

  Before I hop on the Central Line tube train, I receive a reply:

  Did I ever tell you how much I both love and hate your independent side, Miss Rose? It gets in the way of keeping you safe. I’ll have security sent to watch you, and no arguments.

  I smile as I read that last message. When I get off the tube at Oxford Street, I see Marc has already sent me another email:

  Sophia,

  Where are you now?

  I reply:

  Walking to Ivy College. It’s okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

  Marc replies:

  You’d better be. Or I’m coming looking for you. Since we at least have a day where we can email each other, I’ve arranged to have something waiting for you in your room at Ivy College. Because you like surprises.

  I smile at that message too, and nearly walk out into a line of traffic. I catch myself on the pavement and wait for the green man. Then I reply:

  Depends on the surprise, Mr Blackwell, but so far your surprises have all been pretty good.

  Marc replies:

  Message me when you get to your bedroom.

  Intrigued, I slip the phone into my pocket and head through the London crowds to Ivy College.

  61

  When I open my bedroom door at Ivy College, I see a large black box on my bed, tied with a bright pink ribbon. The window has all been cleaned up, and a huge bouquet of fresh white roses sits on my bedside table. They’re just like the roses at the fancy London hotel Marc and I stayed at.

  I sit on the bed and message Marc to tell him I’ve arrived. Then I take the box, pull at the ribbon and carefully lift the lid.

  The cardboard is that thick, expensive kind that squeaks.

  My heart begins to flutter as I see what’s inside the box.

  Laying on swirls of soft pink silk is a length of chain and a pair of panties with some sort of hard, plastic object sewn into the crotch area.

  What is all this?

  I pick up the chain and panties, holding them up to the window, and begin to get an idea of what Marc has in mind.

  My phone bleeps and I hurriedly jab at it so I can read Marc’s email.

  Take off your clothes. All your clothes. Put on the panties. Then sit on the bed and wait for my instructions.

  I look at the panties. What on earth is that plastic thing inside the underwear all about? I guess I’m about to find out.

  I strip off my coat and clothing, socks, shoes, panties, everything and climb into the panties Marc has provided.

  Now I’m pretty much naked. As I move, the panties rub up against me.

  I sit on the bed and feel the cool, hard plastic press between my legs. It feels pretty good.

  Marc sends another message.

  Wrap the chain around your ankles. I don’t want you running away.

  I get a little burn of pleasure between my legs as I eye up the chain lying on the soft silk. I reach towards it, but then I hesitate. Can I really do this without Marc being here? The heat that’s creeping up my thighs tells me I can.

  Reaching for the chain, I bind it around my ankles, hearing the links clank together and feeling the cool metal against my skin. My phone bleeps again.

  Lift the silk out of the box. There are things underneath.

  62

  I reach into the box and lift out the length of pink silk. Underneath it is stiff black velvet with lengths of chain and a little black wooden pole lying on it.

  As I lift the objects out of the box, I realise there’s more to this bunch of chain and wood than meets the eye.

  For a start, there are two objects. One is mainly chain, with two small silver ivy leaves at each end. The metal leaves are beautiful, but I swallow hard when I see they’re actually little clamps.

  The other length of chain has a rolled piece of black wood in the middle of it, and a clasp at each end of the chain.

  My phone bleeps again, and I reach towards it.

  I want you to clamp the ivy leaves onto your breasts. Then take the wooden mouthpiece and bite down on it. Secure the clasp behind your head.

  I message back:

  You certainly know how to treat a girl.

  Marc replies:

  Don’t talk back.

  My hands shaking a little, I secure one of the ivy clasps to my breast,
just like Marc said. It burns a little, but gets more bearable as the seconds pass.

  Then, gingerly, I take the other clasp and do the same.

  Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

  That one hurts. As the stinging makes my eyes water, I pick up the wooden mouthpiece, place it between my teeth and secure the clasp behind my head. Biting down on the wood helps take my mind off the stinging a little, but not much.

  There’s another bleep and another message:

  Go look at yourself in the mirror. Then sit down on the bed again and wait.

  I stand up carefully and shuffle towards the mirror with the chain around my ankles. I try not to let my breasts move, but of course they do – and they burn with each jolt.

  Heading towards my wardrobe, I open it and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror. I get a throb of pleasure between my legs when I see myself. I have to admit, it’s sexy being all gagged and trussed up like this.

  I return to the bed, knowing wetness is building.

  My phone bleeps and I read Marc’s new message:

  I’m going to go down on you now. My tongue will be just gentle enough to make it unbearable. You’ll be screaming for me to go harder, but I won’t. Do NOT touch yourself. Doing so will result in punishment.

  Just as those words sink in, I feel a buzzing between my legs. The hard plastic of the panties is vibrating against me, and I nearly jump in shock. It takes a moment to realise that Marc must be operating the panties by remote control.

  I moan as the vibrations roll around, up, down, making me hotter and hotter. But Marc’s email was right – it’s all too soft and gentle. I want more, just like he said. I want it harder. Stronger.

  The phone bleeps again:

  I want you to squeeze the clamps hard against your breasts.

  Oh boy. Can I really hurt myself like that? I reach up to my breasts, putting my hand onto the left ivy leaf. I hold it there for a few moments, working up the courage. The clamp is already painful, and I think squeezing it might tip me over the pleasure/pain boundary right into pain.

  Okay. Okay, just do it Sophia. Marc likes to test you.

  I squeeze, just a little, and feel a hot burn of pain.

  Ouch.

  But it’s a good ouch, and mixed up with the vibrations between my legs, it drives me a little crazy.