by Blake, Laila
Contents
Copyright
Now
Then
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
Now
Epilogue
About the author
Other books by Laila Blake
About A Hotter State
LAILA BLAKE
TRADING TIDES
An erotic novella
Copyright © Laila Blake 2014
Cover picture © Depositphotos / ikostudio
Published by A Hotter State
ISBN 978-988-12899-3-3
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorised duplication is prohibited.
Warning: This title contains graphic language and is suitable for adults only.
www.ahotterstate.com
NOW
The night sky is dark and starless, steeped in the feeling of approaching dawn. It's in the sound of water rushing from showers all around my flat, and in the hum of the first tube. It's in the off-black color of the sky, that mud grave charcoal where the night is laid to rest. It's in my stomach, too, in the aching hollow that isn't hunger.
I stretch, roll my shoulders back one by one, savor the little ache as I pull my elbow towards my chin. I've had too much wine and my head feels heavy, but I can't go to bed.
My first alarm will go off in twenty minutes. It is sitting there across the room on the ornate driftwood nightstand Paul made for me. I count down the minutes until it will ring and make me jump.
I think my body has been asleep for an hour or so, but my mind is still spinning up a slow, rainy storm.
I think about having a shower. There’s something about hot water and a confined space, about the lower oxygen content in the water vapor that seems to heal most things. I’m cold, too. But it’s that time of morning and chances are there won’t be any hot water to speak of. One day, I’ll be promoted to staff writer, or I'll sell one of those screenplays that populate my head, and maybe then I can move—somewhere with proper heating and water system; somewhere without walls so thin, I hear the couple next door fucking every night.
I try to find some sense of justice in the fact that, surely, I paid them back tonight, both in noise and duration—but the memory just makes me come up short and wrap my arms around my body so tight.
I think I screwed up. Big time.
And still, I can't believe he didn't come back.
I force myself to get up, to stop clicking on random links, on trailers and kitten videos. They make me want to buy a pet, and I'd be a terrible pet owner. I close the browser, and turn off the screen so that the computer can switch itself to standby.
I pull my shirt off over my head; my hair crackles with static. As if my body recognizes the motion, it moves into a stretch, a yawn so wide it feels like my jaw is trying to escape its shackles. I take a pint glass into the bathroom, fill it with water and gulp it all down with an aspirin. When it’s empty, I’m out of breath, swaying on the spot. The act of brushing my teeth feels beyond me, but I fumble for paste and brush anyway.
I watch myself in the mirror cabinet, watch the way the toothbrush distorts my mouth. My hair’s a mess; there’s a bite-mark on the swell of my breast. I can still feel his teeth when I run my fingers over the spot. My eyes are red and puffy and my lips look huge, like they’re leaking color into the adjacent skin.
My hand goes still; so does the toothbrush. I feel the plastic against my teeth.
Why did I have to say it?
Somewhere, there’s a need to cry. But I’m not letting it happen yet. Not yet. Not that easily. I clear my throat, brush until I bleed. Then I spit pink bubbles into the sink and watch them run down the drain.
I’m washing my face when I hear the doorbell. It’s loud enough to make me jump, and for a second, I confuse it for the alarm. It's too short, though, too loud. It’s 4:40 in the morning—but I know who it is. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe it's a deep expectation that finally pans out, the last note to complete the melody, the final twist on the screen that turns two hours worth of suffering into a happy ending—but I know. I can feel it in my stomach—I can feel him. Paul’s back.
THEN
I
I was in a meeting when my phone hummed, vibrating on the table and sending a jolt of anticipation down my spine. One of the senior editors, George Lyle, was droning on about the quarterly sales and the future of print in the digital age; he gave me the stink-eye and I snapped the phone off the table, muffled the vibration against my thigh.
He was fifty-eight, a paper man through and through; the Internet was enemy territory, purveyor of pornography and home to bullies, pedophiles and other lonely assholes who enjoyed superficial reporting. Someone once told him what clickbaiting was, and he'd been proudly appalled by its effect on journalism for weeks, like an old dog with a very stinky bone. And I was the millennial with my smart phone and the magazine's twitter account who represented all of it.
I waited another minute or so, until his attention was fully back on his topic, before I switched my phone on under the table and unlocked the screen. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and breathed in deeply, tuning out the rest of the room, savoring the anticipation.
The table disappeared, then the people, the voices—and I was back by the sea. I could almost taste the salt.
Paul: Pet, please find tonight's instructions down at reception.
When I came up for air and the room rematerialized around me, I was biting my lip. My face felt flushed and heated, but nobody had taken any notice of the distances I'd crossed in my mind. The intern across from me was still staring at the table trying to keep his eyes from falling shut; the guy next to me was rubbing his nails until they sparkled in the artificial light.
Before the text, I had been in my element—bored and frustrated maybe, but focused. Now I would have given anything for Lyle to run out of righteous indignation already, so I could leave.
I read the text again, and again—but the effect came with diminishing returns and the tingling heat between my legs faded just like its power to transform the room around me.
There was an arousal that came with a certain amount of panic, Paul taught me that. I thought about whatever was waiting for me at the reception desk. In my head it reached ridiculous proportions: a scroll wrapped around a dildo, or a long thin package that couldn't be anything but a whip of some description.
Most likely it would be a letter again, but there was no stopping my imagination now. Paul liked putting instructions down in his own handwriting. He'd write me long emails about his day and the fish he’d caught or the thoughts he'd had, but when it came to the weekend and our Skype sessions, there'd always be a small envelope waiting for me in my letterbox. He had a beautiful, meticulous handwriting, and he'd list items or instructions after long elegant dashes. It made me feel as though I was dating someone from a different century.
I sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall. If the meeting went according to schedule, we would wrap it up in fifteen minutes. Something like an eternity.
I missed him, that was what I wanted to write back. The same thing every day, every hour. It was also the thing I almost never put in writing. I missed his voice and his hands, and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. We don't often think of wrinkles that way, as a feature to enhance someone's looks, but that's what they were in Paul's face. They showed a man who sm
iled from within, a man who smiled not because it was expected but, because it came out of him unfiltered and without guile.
I asked him for a picture once, but like the ones from his press releases, it didn't really depict him—not the Paul I knew. It depicted Paul Archer, recluse and eccentric: a fictional character he made up. And Paul Archer didn't smile that way, he glowered intensely even when the corners of his mouth curled upward.
I feigned frustration; secretly I loved him for it. Loved that the Paul I knew was exclusive, intimate, that he didn't belong to the whole world the way Paul Archer did. And I loved that it condemned me to hours of trying to recall the features of my Paul, the smile, the depth, the sweetness.
It passed the time.
***
I was first out of the room when Lyle adjourned the meeting, jumping up almost before he'd finished the sentence. I didn't care anymore, as I clutched my phone and squared my shoulders in determination. What could he see but a hungry young journalist, eager to get back to work?
“Miss Ellis?” I turned around, trying to make out the speaker amid the throng of colleagues leaving the conference room. George Lyle waved his hand once over their heads. I sighed inwardly, tracing the sharp outlines of the buttons along the edge of my phone. “Do you have another minute?”
When I trotted back inside, he was at the head of the table again. I didn’t slink back into my chair. I held my head high as I approached, leaned my hip against the table.
“How can I help you?”
“I was wondering when I can expect your first presentation. It’s been more than two weeks.”
I nodded, stopped myself from running my fingers through my hair, from thinking about the package at reception, about Paul and the fact that it was Friday.
“Yeah, I thought I’d emailed you. Next week should be good. The team has another session planned before we go home later and that should do it for now.”
He nodded; I tried not to narrow my eyes at him. He could just have answered my email, but I suppose that would have been too simple.
“Monday, then. I’ll get two other members of the senior staff to sit in if you don’t mind?”
Shaking my head, I clicked my thumbnail against the metal casing of my phone. My pocket muffled the sound. If he was trying to intimidate me, he wasn’t doing a great job, glowering and hoping I’d crumble under the public speaking hurdle. I know, I look like that would get to me, but I don’t mind it, really. Leading this project had been the challenge, presenting our results would be a relief more than anything. The following week, I'd be back to writing full time, with far fewer company politics and old men's egos to navigate. I would be able to put in for a few days off—even spontaneous ones. I could write from anywhere, after all.
I breathed against the inappropriate smile trying to sneak onto my features. “If that’s all…” I gestured back to the door, “I have a mountain of work before the weekend.”
***
It had been sweet of Paul to assume we occupied a whole building and that I'd have to walk down into some elaborately decorated entrance hall. The reality of our magazine came closer to half a floor in a run-down office park. A short trip down grey cubicle walls led me straight to reception. The desk stood by the elevators, and the staff constantly complained about the drafts and the noise.
"Hi, Stace." I waved nervously, and put on my brightest smile. "Anything in the mail for me by any chance?"
She looked at me just a second too long, and my face turned pink. I stepped from one foot to the other and while she tilted her head, I raised my brows in a pleading expression. Please don't say anything. I swear it's not my dildo.
"A pretty heavy something," she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "I already put it on your desk."
I mumbled my gratitude and turned away.
"You know you're not supposed to get personal deliveries here?"
Was there a greater than normal stress on personal? I was in the kind of mindset that could have made anything she said sound like I'd received a fucking machine wrapped in nothing but a bow. My mouth was dry and so I nodded, cleared my throat and tried to smile.
"I know... it's research, actually."
I didn't think she believed me. When it came to lying I was usually better, but anything even vaguely connected to Paul turned me into such a damn ingénue. I think that was part of his appeal, but it felt jarring when my work personality clashed with his pet.
I smiled at the receptionist; she rolled her eyes and I scampered off. I'd buy her coffee on Monday and she'd forgive me. Maybe a large one, with sprinkles and cream. It felt warranted when I reached my desk and saw the package. Easily three cubic feet in size, it dwarfed my little cubicle. My keyboard had been pushed as far back as it would go, but when I moved my mouse, I still found 15 pages of lower case b in the document I was working on.
I hefted the package onto my chair and looked around. Almost everybody was back at work, catching up on the emails that had filled their inboxes during the enforced break of the meeting. I took a deep breath, found a box cutter and slid it across the tape at the side so I might spy in. My fingers were shaking and Paul's handwriting on the address label was smiling up at me.
I liked the way he wrote my name. The dashes at the top and bottom of the capital I were long and curved and the s at the end swirled back to underline the rest. Iris. My hand stilled and I closed my eyes, overwhelmed with the memory of his face when he said it, whispered it, groaned it into my ear.
I looked around. Still, nobody paid me any attention. I felt like I needed a glass of water. Or a shower. Fast.
The rough cardboard cut into my hand as I pried it open. It was hard to tell what I was looking at: something large and round and covered in bubble wrap. I made sure one more time that nobody was watching and then slid the box cutter along the large opening on the front, pulled the cardboard wings apart and, carefully, plucked out the envelope on top. Before even I could get a good look, I snapped the box shut again, just in case.
My dear pet,
Don't worry, today I am not telling you to strip off your underwear at work or to make yourself come in the ladies'. For tonight, I have something different in mind.
Tonight, I request the pleasure of your company for dinner, my sweet.
I stopped reading; my heart rattled in my chest. Was he here, just waiting for me to get off work? I couldn't help it, I looked around again—but no Paul melted out of the grey wallpaper or appeared from behind a potted plant.
On the back of this letter, you will find a list of ingredients to buy on your way home. I took the liberty of filling your present with a few specialty items you might have trouble finding in a hurry.
I will call you at 6 p.m.
Paul.
P.S.: I am sure, by now, this does not need saying, but you are not to touch yourself today until I tell you otherwise.
I stopped holding my breath, then I put the box on the floor and dropped onto my chair. I was feeling a little faint, clutching the paper and hating him for a few minutes. It was exactly that last command that made me want to, no, need to disappear into the bathroom. I wouldn't even have to come, that wasn't important—I’d just press my palm against my clit to stop it tingling, to stop it feeling like a single huge needy nerve ending.
It was still a whole hour until five. My body was aching for him, worse with each day. And the smug asshole was planning to spend our special Friday night phonecall giving me cooking instructions.
Even just in my head, I had to take that back. He wasn't an asshole—smug he was, but an asshole, no. He was sweet, really, and an evil tease. This time, I opened the box with less fear. It held a large, cast-iron wok, filled with Asian spices and sauces. My stomach grumbled unhelpfully.
I wasn't a great cook, and Paul knew it. I'd mentioned take-away a few too many times. He, of course, was incredible, and apparently, had more to teach me than just the bliss of submitting to him. I wanted to slap him or roll my eyes at him, but mostly
I wanted him with me.
I hated being where he was not.
It wasn't so hard most days, to banish him into a corner of my mind—always there, but calm and patient the way he was in real life, too. But it just took a letter, or the prospect of spending the evening with his voice in my headphones to make the rest of my life feel a bit like Plato's cave—dim shadows on the wall, until Paul came to save me.
II
I wasn't ready when my laptop started to ring. I'd come home less than half an hour before; the lines in the supermarket had stretched almost through the entire building and I'd left there exhausted, sweaty and frazzled. I don't like crowds, or supermarket music. I'd had a shower, blow dried my hair and was just trying to put a few dabs of make-up on the dark spots under my eyes, when he rang. It was six o'clock on the dot.
Dashing back into the kitchen, I hit the button and his face appeared on the screen. There was something about the light at his place that always sent a shiver of familiarity down my spine. It was fading already, but the bright, greenish tint grew only stronger during the early evening. It was a salty kind of light, a light that smacked of unbridled winds, the way it reflected off the stark planes of his face.
"Good evening, beautiful," he said and it hardly mattered that the tinny speakers distorted his voice, made it metallic and robbed it of its timbre. I still felt its power traveling through my system.
"Hi," that's all I could say, hardly more than a vocalized breath. "Sorry, I... I have to plug the headset in."
He was wearing his, all ready and looking good in a white shirt, leaning against what seemed to be his stove, his arms crossed casually in front of his chest. Where, normally, I could see his office or—sometimes—the bedroom in the backdrop, today's video feed brought me back into his kitchen. I could see the fridge, a corner of the little window, the fresh herbs he kept on the sill.
