Subspace

by Sierra Cartwright

  A man at a desk by the door asked for proof of age, and she was scrabbling about in her handbag when a hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

  “You’re late,” he said, then to the desk clerk, “It’s okay, Mal, she’s with me.”

  “Right you are,” he said, nodding admission to Ailish.

  The Scientist steered her to a sofa underneath a black-and-white portrait of a woman in elbow-length latex gloves, her naked upper torso criss-crossed with string.

  On seating herself, Ailish became aware that Rod had ordered for her in advance—a large latte and a cupcake decorated with a swirl of chocolate icing and dotted with little red sugar lips.

  “So this is a kinky cupcake,” she said, picking it up by its red casing and inspecting it.

  “It’s one of the tamer versions,” said Rod, leaning an arm on the back of the sofa and scrutinising Ailish until she felt as naked as the woman above her.

  “What are the wild ones like?”

  “Never mind that. You’re late.”

  Ailish’s heart seemed to plummet to the pit of her stomach, precipitating a kind of pleasurable tension that was quite unlike being in trouble at school, and yet at the same time very like it indeed. Uh-oh, she thought, toes curling in excitement.

  The retort she would usually have given, about ‘not knowing the address and Covent Garden being quite a big place, as well as busy, so give me a break’, died inside her throat. Instead, a tiny unrecognisable sound trickled out.

  “Sorry.”

  “So you should be. In fact, perhaps, depending on the outcome of our chat, you will be. But never mind. I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you actually would.”

  “Neither was I.”

  From the corner of her eye, Ailish noticed a young woman in a killer trouser suit lead an older man on a leash to a nearby sofa. While she sat and perused the drinks menu, he knelt at her feet, hands posed like paws, tongue out in a simulated pant.

  “So why did you come?”

  Rod’s question tore her attention away from the peculiar scene.

  “Um…why did I come? I suppose…what you said at the pub was something I wanted to discuss a bit further.”

  “You’re interested in BDSM?”

  “In what?”

  He sighed. “What used to be called S&M.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I am. Sort of. In a way.”

  “But you’ve never done it.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “No, no, I haven’t. I’ve never…it’s just a fantasy thing. Or it has been. I just read a couple of books, that’s all.”

  “But it’s what you think about when you’re all alone in your bed at night.”

  She picked up her coffee cup and stared into the milky liquid, drawing a deep breath. Rod’s conversational technique was not exactly subtle. But he always managed to hit the nail on the head. Ugh, hopefully he wasn’t into hammering nails into places nails should never be hammered…what was he into?

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s what you think about when you masturbate.”

  She put the coffee cup down abruptly and sent an outraged glance in his direction.

  “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. And sharp, too. And interested in you. You’ve really never tried anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “No!”

  “Would you like to try it?”

  She looked around her, at the people relaxing on their sofas. They looked normal, happy, successful. None of them had extra heads or thousand-yard stares, though a few had some creative facial piercings.

  “I don’t know,” she hedged, cursing herself for her faint heart.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Rod’s tone was so firm and his bespectacled stare so penetrating that she was defenceless to resist it.

  “I could…try it…see if I liked it…”

  “Good.” He smiled, a tightening of the lips, and put a briefcase on the table. Clicking it open, he withdrew a document from the top of the pile and offered it to Ailish.

  “What’s this?” She took it and furrowed her brow over the densely printed paragraphs. “Contract,” she read from the top, then looked up at Rod with helpless puzzlement.

  “What it says,” he replied.

  “A contract?”

  “Read it.”

  She cleared her throat and began to recite.

  “This is a contract of power exchange between Roderick McRae and Ailish—actually, it’s Ailish Glover, just FYI—which is subject to termination in the event of one or both parties wishing to no longer honour its terms. Terms? Oh, right. Here are the terms. One. On pre-arranged dates and at agreed times and locations, Ailish (hereafter referred to as ‘the submissive’) will meet with Roderick (hereafter referred to as ‘the Dominant’) to explore their mutual interest in the practice of BDSM.

  “Two. The submissive may end any period of experimentation by the utterance of a ‘safeword’ to be mutually agreed by both parties.

  “Three. The Dominant undertakes to negotiate with the submissive any limits she may have in regard to said explorations and experimentations.

  “Four. Post negotiation and pre utterance of safe word, every one of the Dominant’s words will be taken by the submissive to be law. Failure to obey without the invocation of the safe word will be punished.

  “Five. The Dominant will respect and take into consideration the submissive’s health, safety and mental well-being at all times.”

  She stopped reading and dared a look at Rod, whose eyes were half-closed in a kind of dreamy rapture.

  “Is there anything you want to add?” he asked.

  “I…suppose you’ve covered the main points. I don’t really know. I’m not an expert.”

  “Okay.” He handed her a pen. “Then you can sign it.”

  It was an expensive pen and the nib glided across the paper almost without her assistance, looping and flowing her over this precipice and down the waterfall that led to who knew what kind of frothy turbulence.

  She watched in silence as Rod added a jerky scrawl to the bottom of the contract.

  “I feel like I should sign it in blood,” she said, nervousness making a sudden and nauseating return. What the hell have I done?

  “Oh no. I’m not into drawing blood.”

  “So what are you into?”

  “Come downstairs with me and you’ll see.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “Yes. I’ve booked one of the rooms. I thought a neutral space might be best while we’re getting to know one another.”

  “You think a lot.”

  “Of course. It’s what I do.”

  “Rod,” she said, hoping he would pick up on the urgency in her voice.

  “Yes?” He put his head to one side and shifted a little closer to her.

  “You are…all right, aren’t you? I mean, you know this is new to me.”

  “I’ll look after you,” he said. “I promise.”

  She essayed a watery smile as she put herself, both literally and figuratively, into Rod’s hands.

  “So…this downstairs place?”

  “I’ll lead the way.”

  He took her over to the front desk, where the man he had called Mal stood presiding over a small counter display of novelties and books.

  “I need the key to the crimson room,” said Rod.

  Mal reached beneath his counter and handed over an elegant silver key. “Here it is. All the toys you asked for are laid out ready.”

  “Thanks, Mal. Catch you later.”

  “Enjoy,” said Mal with a wink in Ailish’s direction that served only to terrify her.

  “Does he cultivate that vampire look?” she whispered to Rod as they descended the stairs.

  “Who, Mal? Oh yeah. Lots of submissives love that whole vampire thing.”

  “It looks creepy to me.”

  “Well, you’re not going to belong to
Mal, are you? So that’s fine.”

  “Am I going to belong to you?” asked Ailish, finding the thought perversely appealing.

  “If you want.”

  He took her behind the staircase, where a hidden door set into the Chinese flock-patterned wallpaper led to a flickeringly lit corridor, off which five rooms were accessible.

  “Oh wow, a secret passage.” Ailish laughed nervously, not wanting to admit to feeling creeped out by her soundless, shadowed surroundings.

  “Very secret,” agreed Rod. “Full of secret things.” He fitted his key to the lock of the furthest door and stood against the jamb, ushering Ailish in before him.

  The windowless brick-walled room was lit only by a tall standard lamp in a far corner, casting a pool of pale light from it to the centre of the floor. In the darkness at the edges of the room, items of strange furniture lurked, unidentifiable at first to Ailish, even when her eyes focused.

  What she could see and identify, however, was a chair, straight-backed but minus armrests, in the middle of the floor, beside a small table on which stood an oval leather thing that resembled a hairbrush without the bristles, a bottle of clearish liquid and what looked like a small vibrator.

  Ailish tensed immediately, the reality of her situation finally hitting home. Was this a game or was it serious—too serious? She flicked a glance back to Rod, who was leaning back against the door, observing her reactions.

  “It’s a bit stark,” he said, picking up on her tension. “I can see it might feel intimidating at first. But they’re just things, Ailish. They’re nothing to be afraid of. Now, turn around and face me.”

  Presenting her back to the chair and table she looked up at Rod’s grave face. He stepped away from the door and put his hands on her shoulders, fixing her to the spot.

  “I’m a scientist and I like to experiment. I’d like to experiment with you. But before we get to that stage, I need to discover your preferences. This can only work if we are both fully engaged.”

  Other girls get compliments and words of love. I get science.

  “What do you mean, my preferences?”

  “I’ll show you. Strip down to your underwear.”

  Although she supposed she ought to have expected it, the command seemed outrageous and her mouth fell open.

  “Do as you’re told, Ailish.”

  Her objections melted away beneath the blowtorch heat of his authority, and she moved her fingers to the zip of her hoody. Yes, she thought, peeling it away to reveal her vest top. This is what I wanted. To be told what to do. To be given no choice.

  She folded the garment neatly, looking around for a place to put it, but Rod snatched it from her and threw it roughly to the ground.

  Blinking, she shucked off her ballet flats and then got to work on her miniskirt, easing the heavy denim down her legs until she stood in just leggings and top, every curve clearly delineated.

  She surveyed Rod from beneath coy lashes. Was this turning him on? It was so hard to tell with him, the way he just let that hard stare bore into her. He was like a camera eye, unflinching and emotionless. He made an impatient gesture with his hand, and she lifted her vest slowly over her breasts and black cotton bra.

  She had spent such a long time choosing her underwear that morning. Had it been the right choice? Again, his face gave nothing away, and she dropped her vest to the floor, suddenly cold, hugging her arms around her ribcage.

  The leggings were next to go, their cheerful flower pattern incongruous on the cold stone floor, leaving her shivering in black cotton boyshorts.

  “Good,” said Rod. “Put your arms at your sides. I want to look at you.”

  She had never considered this in her fantasy, but just being looked at was somehow extraordinarily difficult. The temptation to hide parts of herself or turn away was almost overwhelming, and when Rod moved closer and circled her, every hair prickled on the back of her neck while goosebumps puckered all over her skin.

  “Quite serviceable,” he said softly.

  She shuddered.

  He hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m wetter than wet.

  “I’m going to examine you later,” he said, putting one finger on her collarbone and sliding it to the dip of her breasts. “Inspect my possession. But first I need to deal with something. Can you guess what it is?”

  Ailish shook her head, strung so taut with pleasurable fear that speech eluded her.

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “No, Sir,” she whispered.

  “You were late today. I had to wait nearly fifteen minutes for you. I never tolerate unpunctuality, so I’m afraid you need to be punished.” He slunk past her and seated himself on the straight-backed chair, patting his thigh in invitation.

  “Oh,” she said, spinning around and putting a hand over her mouth.

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself? Come on. It’s high time you were over my knee.”

  She had fantasised about this for so long, she was almost afraid that reality wouldn’t match up to her fervent imaginings. But there was only one way to find out, and she bent hesitantly over Rod’s lap, relieved that she wouldn’t have to look at anything but the floor and his flapping trouser legs while he warmed her seat.

  His hand covered her cotton-protected behind, its size almost sufficient to encompass both cheeks. He cupped them, squeezed them, rubbed and patted them, building up to a level of sensation she found unbearably stimulating.

  “This is perfect,” he commented, tracing the curve of her left cheek with a finger, then slipping it under the knicker elastic and gently sliding along its length. “Absolutely perfect for spanking. The bottom of my dreams. You have to realise that I’m going to want to spank you an awful lot. I hope they let you work standing up over at Tyler & Cross.”

  She whimpered and jiggled her hips, feeling that she ought to be putting up a fight, but not particularly wanting to. Did Doms want you to fight them? Or was compliance always the best option?

  “You’re being very good, Ailish,” he praised, answering her question.

  He wanted her to submit—just as well, because that was what she wanted to do.

  “Very well-behaved down there. I wonder how you’ll take your punishment?”

  He pulled the knicker elastic outward until it was tight, then let it snap back against her skin, causing her to squeak and kick her left leg.

  “Whether you’re a screamer or a sobber or a stoic, one thing’s for sure—I won’t stop until I think you’ve learned your lesson. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir. Oh, except, what if I say the safeword?”

  “You know what happens if you say the safeword, don’t you?”

  “Yes. You stop.”

  “Right.” He rested his palm flat on the crest of her bum. “Let’s make a start.”

  Chapter Three

  She didn’t realise how tense she was until the first smack fell. It was light, yet she shrieked like a steam whistle.

  “You can’t tell me that hurt,” said an amused Rod.

  “It didn’t. I just…thought it would.”

  “Try and stay loose. Save the defences for when they’re needed. For today, the safe word can be ‘stop now’. This is supposed to be pleasurable for both of us, not just me.”

  He was right. This was an experiment. They were looking for her tastes and her limits—the ‘punishment’ angle was just a headspace thing.

  She concentrated on the sensation at first, hanging on to every second of her first spanking, in case it turned out to be her only one. His hand felt gorgeously heavy on her cotton-covered cheeks, delivering just enough sting to whet her appetite for more. The sound of it was arousing enough in itself, the cracks bouncing off the walls and echoing around her, joined by her occasional squeak of mild discomfort as the heat built inexorably.

  “How is this?” he asked.

  “It feels nice,” she confessed. “Just right.”

  “It’s what you wanted?”

  “Kin
d of.”

  “Oh, but not exactly?” His hand continued to fall in strict rhythm as they conversed.

  Ailish squirmed, realising that he was upping the force a little. Her voice, when she spoke again, was uneven and prone to mid-sentence gasping.

  “Oh, oh, it was a bit too…well, you’re being so nice…it sort of doesn’t feel real…”

  “You want me to be mean?”

  “I suppose…in fantasy…that’s a part of it…ouch.”

  “Is this mean enough?”

  He picked up speed, slapping hard and fast in random patterns, all over her bottom and thighs.

  “It hurts more…ow…yes, but I mean…I like the pain, but I don’t like it…and I want you to say things.”

  “I am saying things.”

  “Bad things! Argh! Sexy, bad things. Tell me I’m bad. Kind of things. Oh God, ow, ow, OW.”

  “I see.”

  Rod stopped suddenly and Ailish sighed with relief, even though she hoped he hadn’t finished yet.

  He crooked his fingers inside the top of her knickers and began to draw them down, very slowly, over the warm flesh of her rear and down her thighs.

  Oh God, he can see my bare bum! I am a wanton hussy—I deserve this.

  The thought brought her to the mindset she had been reaching for, and she wiggled her hips in mock protest at her sudden denuding.

  “Don’t you think you deserve this?” asked Rod sternly, seemingly understanding what she had been asking for.

  “I do, Sir,” she whispered.

  “I’m glad you realise that. You kept me waiting for fifteen minutes. I’d say that calls for a brisk spanking on your bare bottom, wouldn’t you?”

  She was too busy trembling with delight to reply at first.

  “I said, ‘wouldn’t you?’” he repeated with a resounding smack.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “No, I need more than that. I need you to tell me what you deserve. These things need to be clearly understood.”

  She swallowed. He drummed his fingers on her cooling flesh. She didn’t want it to cool. She wanted it warm again, hot, scorched.