Switch (A BDSM Romance Novel)

by Astrid Knowles

  She was ready long before necessary, and so she sat upon her sofa, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles and her hands folded in her lap as she occupied herself with her thoughts, routinely checking the clock and continuing her musings. She waited until the time that she had decided to leave… and then she waited ten minutes more. The large hall was slowly filling when she arrived, and many people hung around outside, presumably drawn to the fuss or awaiting a companion. Viola was already engaged in a delightful conversation with a short, elderly woman that Jenna did not recognise, a wide smile on her face and a proud Aaron at her side when she arrived, and Jenna immediately made her way as far from the door as possible, admiring the paintings at the back while she kept herself turned away from the knowledgeable critics that entered after her.

  For the longest while she wandered the row of photos without really seeing, recognising the faces without reconciling them with the friends to whom they belonged. The friends that would probably be lingering somewhere, congratulating Viola and puffing themselves up with their own self-worth as they were recognised by the other wanderers.

  Sheepishly, she peered about the room, all eyes as she kept her head ducked and hidden so as to avoid any undesirable conversationalists. Most of those belonging to the those small clutters were unrecognisable to her; either as strangers whom she had yet to be introduced, or through their preening of their appearance. The majority of them, the less noticeable portion of the room, were done up as if they were walking the red carpet, ready with non-moving false smiles lest someone whip out a camera and take a photograph of them without them looking their best. They were false, ugly, fake versions of their photographed selves, responding to the beauty of Viola’s images with an excess of vanity, and jealousy of the others around them. Several could be recognised as Viola’s classmates, camera’s hanging around necks and waists, being occasionally fingered as their owners spoke to people, offering fake congratulations and loud exclaims of wonder at the work that they desperately wanted to replace with their own. A single word, Jenna knew, would have them taking the cruel instruments and wielding them, if only to show ‘how else that idea could be done’.

  They were worthless.

  Jenna’s attention was focused on those outside of that punishing togetherness, the few who like her stood beside the pictures, keeping to themselves, keeping their backs to the camera. Jenna started when she finally found a familiar face, but in a good, happy way that told her that she wasn’t truly surprised. Craig stood, alone by a picture that Jenna couldn’t see, his back straight and his hand in his pocket as he quietly admired the image, his body entirely clothed and neat. His usual leather had been replaced with smart-casual dress; dress trousers with a partially unbuttoned shirt that was tucked in beneath a polished black belt, as up to scrutiny as his shoes, the kind of which Jenna had never seen him wear. There was no submissive by his feet or stood at his side, and he looked somewhat meek, his shoulders forwards and a drink held close to his chest. It was with an uncharacteristic fragility that he stared into the picture, his fists clenched so as to not reach out for it.

  Jenna approached him cautiously, timidly advancing until she was only a couple of feet away from him, close enough to admire the picture while far enough away to not startle or trespass upon Craig’s space.

  The photograph was large and unframed, printed on thick canvas so as to appear modern and fashionable; or so Viola had told her. Apparently thick, dark, ornate frames were a thing of the past, and it would only deduct value to invest the money into such an accessory. Looking at the photo, Jenna found herself not even missing the polished wood. She was far too drawn to Daniel’s face, and to Craig’s as he watched him, both in the present and in that perfectly captured piece of past.

  Knelt upon worn cushions, Daniel and Craig faced each other, mirroring in posture, their feet flattened against the bare floorboards around them. It had been taken in their home, Jenna assumed, or at least in someone’s bedroom, for a bed was out of focus behind them, unmade with the sheets rumbled and clothing strewn carelessly across it. The pillows also were out of place, and the bed had the compete appearance of having been a playground of sorts. The sheets had come untucked from the mattress, and overall conveyed passion. It was a dirtier, but less intimate contrast to the figures, clothed in thin white linen as they knelt on equal height, their bodies alluded to by the modesty of the fabric. Their arms out, they embraced, eyes open and unashamed as their gazes met, the black and white of the photograph making their eyes and eyebrows dark, deep shadows illustrating the lines of their faces while their cheeks were pure. In the light, Daniel’s lips were pale in the photo, relaxed and slightly parted as if in anticipation of a kiss. They looked soft, Jenna realised, and unwittingly her tongue snaked out to wet her mouth.

  Craig, in that position, did not appear Dominant. He seemed to worship the man in his arms, his own face so much more focused than that of his partners. There was no lazy trust and expectant need; instead therein lay years of attentive care and devotion, and indeed love for a person could be so content as to give himself to him.

  The current Craig was like white light, far less easy to read. All colours of the spectrum were encompassed into his blankly-masked emotions, a thousand thoughts and feelings displayed in a single second. He stared, unblinking, unwilling to acknowledge the world outside of their image, the sweet capturing of how easily Daniel held him in the palm of his hand.

  Feeling intrusive, Jenna moved on to return to the vapid lies of the others, desperately seeking solace in the face of what she had just witnessed. She couldn’t handle to calm that Craig had passed over her, but neither could she embrace the easy falsities of forced interaction and uncaring sharing of that personal experience. The beauty of the room moved her, encompassed, held her tightly but left her slung away from obtainment.

  She wanted to avoid the clumps and the loners both.

  She looked now, truly looked, as she passed each wonder in turn, paying them the attention that they deserved. She forgot about the puppets, the self-crafted dolls that bumbled around her, and instead saw every shadow and highlight of the pictures. She saw the story in each and every one, the familiarity that made her ache inside for someone to tie her, kiss her, bite her and hold her.

  Immersed as she was, she was not expecting to find anything in her way as she slowly walked, still staring at the previous picture each time that she moved on to the next. It came as a shock when, her head turned to look over her shoulder, a being appeared, an awkwardly shaped obstacle that squeaked and jumped aside, taking the form of a short, dumpy woman when Jenna hastened to face her, startled.

  It was the tears in her eyes that jolted her the most.

  “Suzannah!” She cried. “I’m so sorry! You came!”

  “Oh, yes.” Suzannah replied, happy to engage in conversation with her employee, voice soft and body seemingly frail outside of their workplace. “This is just my sort of thing; when you told me about it it was a dream come true! Of course,” She sniffed, her eyelids dropping before she forced them to rise again. “I don’t really go out much these days…”

  Silently, gracelessly she stepped back again to face the picture, gesturing to it with a small smile on her lips. “He looks like my late husband.” She told Jenna, her voice cracking as her smile spread wider. “It is such a beautiful picture. Everything about him is the same, except for the women, of course! I always was the only ever one for him, bless his soul. This is like having him back with me, not aged even a day…”

  Tears were falling down her cheeks now, but in Jenna’s current calm contemplation it did not occur to her that she ought to move away, to deposit her onto the nearest person as quickly as possible, or simply tune her out. For one of the few times since she had begun working for her, Jenna looked at her employer’s face, listened to the sweet, reminiscent words that flowed from her lips and felt – not sympathy, that would not be right – she felt a loss and sorrow akin to the woman’s own. “I saw a p
hoto of you here earlier. Do you know him?” She asked.

  Arthur was the heart of the picture, and Jenna nodded at the sight. With Clara and Sarah on either side of him, it was apparent that both were his lovers, however that was all that could be construed. It was a close up of mainly their faces, only showing as far as their shoulders, or rather Sarah’s small shoulder as she reached up high to cradle Arthur’s jaw, her arm half hidden by Clara’s head as she leaned in the peck the corner of his mouth. His eyes were lowered, making it difficult to tell who held his attention, his face turned slightly towards Sarah who burrowed into his neck, her face seen in profile. She looked up at Clara adoringly; her gestures only for Arthur and her eyes only for the third member of their family. Clara’s eyes were closed, and not one of the three were adorned with make-up; Clara’s eyelids were visibly bare, her lashes natural. Her hand rested on Sarah’s neck, linking the three together in a sweet circle. This photo was in colour, and all too real, and it made Jenna’s breath catch as she remembered their recent behaviour.

  Of course, none of this could be told to her boss, a rather reclusive, eccentric woman who had seemingly forgotten the joys of a partner, or even a friend, let alone explored anything more extreme. The picture was bringing her joy, that much was clear, and Jenna placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes, his name is Arthur. The woman on the left is Sarah, his wife. Clara is a friend of theirs.”

  Suzannah nodded and swallowed thickly. “And are they happy?”

  “Very.” Jenna whispered. “Some of the happiest people that know.”

  “I want to buy this picture.”

  All of a sudden, Suzannah drew herself to full height, reaching out and signalling Viola to her as she passed.

  “Are you the artist?” She asked, continuing immediately as Viola nodded. “I would like to buy this picture. It is an absolute beauty.”

  She struggled slightly with the words, as edgy and unsure as ever in the presence of someone that she did not know.

  “Thank you!” Viola grinned, hugging the unsuspecting woman who looked to Jenna for help before patting the small photographer on the back. She pulled away just as abruptly, dancing on the spot as the turned away, pointing to a desk in the corner of the room. “If you go over there, that woman is in charge of sales, and she’ll take down your name, address and payment details. You are welcome to take the picture with you this evening, however it would be preferable for you to wait until after nine o’clock. Of course, it can also be delivered to you free of charge.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suzannah excused herself and made her way over to the desk, a spring in her step that Jenna had not observed in her before. Her head was raised to face the world, the tear-stained cheeks upturned with a small smile. She had barely left before Viola’s attention was commandeered once more, and Jenna shot her a small smile as she backed away. She headed back along her row of pictures, looking now for the picture of her that Suzannah must have seen. It was quickly located, with only a few pictures passed on the way, and Jenna felt the breath knocked out of her when she saw it.

  The camera being an ever-present fixture of Viola’s, Jenna had not noticed or, she supposed, remembered that Viola had been taking photos that night when Jasmine had come round and everything had gone to pot. It was no mundane, so non-erotic, and so real that it made her ache. Her face crumpled but no tears or sobs were induced. It was a gloriously happy moment, captured forever in a large, glossy print that could fill a room and a heart in the blink of an eye. A blonde beauty was held in the soft, warm, capable embrace of a taller, dark haired man, a lookalike of some old, romantic painting, his features perfect and his burning gaze only for the woman in his arms who smiled openly up at him, leaning back with the absolute certainty that he would not let her go or let her fall.

  The colours had been enhanced somehow to an absolute vibrancy that Jenna adored, the kind of beauty that would look every inch acceptable in some tastefully decorated living room, but Jenna could also picture in her kitchen, the very place where it had been taken. Not her sitting room, certainly; it would definitely not do it justice to be hung amongst her childishly garish furniture.

  All of a sudden Jenna felt a hatred for the bright green, bright orange, the tastelessness. It was disgusting, nauseating to think of the things that had been done in such a naïve room. She wanted to be the painting, tasteful, beautiful, happy and elegant. Sophisticated and ordered. The image was pure perfection, stunning. It was love and life and hope, and a small tangible piece of what Jenna wanted most; Henry’s respect, trust and adoration. That moment now was untouchable, would not fade, would not die.

  She wanted it.

  Regardless of the cost, she realised, she wanted to have it. And so, she dragged her head away, tilting her chin to search for the price tag, for sale sign or reference number, only to find none of them. Perplexed, her brow furrowed and Jenna spun wildly, wearing a lost look as she searched through the crowds for Viola.

  Looking back again, she found it, but it wasn’t what she had hoped for.

  A number, any number would have been welcome, and instead she found a small card beside it reading the word ‘sold’. Into a pit of despair, Jenna immediately fell. Wandering witlessly, she found herself in front of the desk that Viola had sent Suzannah to, the one that held the names and addresses of anyone who made a purchase. She stopped a few feet away, edging the remaining distance millimetres at a time as if it would stop the woman manning it from noticing her presence. A large black book lay open, a clipboard placed parallel beside it, and a pen parallel to that in a meticulous manner that made Jenna think that no one had touched it since Suzannah had been there.

  So the mysterious buyer must have arrived before that, when Jenna did, when there were only a few stragglers entering the building. And yet instinctively, she knew that they hadn’t. None of the people then would have bothered really looking at any of the pictures, let alone buying such a mundane, personal one that could only ever be appreciated to its full extent by the models who occupied the image; or perhaps their friends.

  She moved closer still, hardly daring to breathe as the neat, spidery writing drew nearer. It swam before her, a distinct mess that she could not decipher. She was near enough to separate each individual word, but not yet close enough to read them. It was maddening, her pulse hammering and her eyes wide and startled, her ears clogged with thick fear and the smell of panic permeating from her.

  Nearer and nearer she went, focused wholly on her goal and its gaoler. Sly, graceful and predatory, she slunk, no world outside of the mission. Everything else faded away, words dimming to a dull buzz and her peripheral vision clouding before becoming black, as if she were a horse wearing blinkers. Focused, driven, single-minded.

  And also rather easily startled.

  Jenna jumped with a whoosh of breath releasing in a small yelp, the liquid in her hand sploshing against its glass. A cold hand was settled on her shoulder, a familiar voice calling her name.

  “What are you doing over here then?” Viola gushed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are you looking for me?”

  “I’ve been looking for you all evening.” Jenna replied, her voice sounding sharp and weary despite her attempt to inject humour and nonchalance, a seeming impossibility. “No, now I’ve just been trying to get a look at your customer list. Do you know who’s bought the picture of me and… um, of me in the kitchen?”

  Her lips thinned and Viola nibbled them, frowning. “Yes, and they really adore it, so they won’t change their mind. Did you want a copy?”

  “Yes.” Jenna replied hollowly. “But I still want to know who bought it. I want that one.”

  “Why?”

  “I hadn’t realised before, but it seems kind of creepy for someone to have that picture.”

  “Why?” Viola asked curiously. “It’s less sexual than the others.”

  “It is more intimate.” Jenna hissed, exasperated. “More pers
onal, so I would like to know who bought it.”

  Viola nodded thoughtfully. “I guess so. It’s a good thing that the person who bought it has sentimental value for it then.”

  Frantically, Jenna snapped her reiteration. “Who bought it?”

  Viola paused a miniscule moment, her voice as soft as silk as she let out her reply, a sad, sympathetic smile touching her lips. “Henry.”

  Jenna was beyond nervous as she slid the key into the lock. She had had no clarity of thought when she had made her plans, when she had come here to this large building, when she had found the correct flat. Only now, hearing the door click open, did it hit her.

  She didn’t even knock first, or try the handle. What if the door had been unlocked, and he had been home? What then?

  She felt like a scared child as she entered the unfamiliar home, peering anxiously around the bland, plain, masculine décor, the neat space with a distinct lack of personal touches. As promised, she rounded the corner to enter a room with an arch rather than a door, and as promised she saw the picture.

  A sofa, an arm chair and a television were placed in the room, seemingly haphazardly as they appeared to be too small for it. The open space was alarming, and the only other items were a cat-castle, not unlike the one that she had bought for her own pets, and a small, well, tiny, table to the left of the brown leather single seat. On that table lay a photo frame, a tiny picture in it of them both at Christmas, the only thing there that told her the flat was Henry’s.

  As she had offered, Jenna entered the spotless kitchen area and opened the second cupboard along, pulling the wet cat food from the top shelf and ignoring the dry. She opened it quickly, efficiently placed it all into the plastic bowl and placed the packet in the bin, located in the low cupboard by her legs. She washed the small amount that had spilled over her hands off, and wandered into his bedroom.

  Like the lounge and kitchen, it was almost bare, rather uncluttered and sophisticated, and suited both the man and the picture down to the ground. A lamp, not unlike her own, sat on a table by Henry’s side of the bed, and beside it was Henry’s diary.