by Ashley Hind
Has he just given me the brush off? The bastard!
‘I am a suspect?’
‘Everybody who is on that boat is a suspect. Anybody who has any connection with the dead man and who cannot account for their whereabouts on the afternoon of Friday 12th is a suspect. Can you account for your whereabouts that afternoon, Mrs Van Peer?’
‘I have no idea what I was doing.’
‘Then that’s not much of an alibi, is it?’
‘Well, I do apologise, Inspector, but I wasn’t aware I would need an alibi. If you could be so kind as to ring me in advance of any murders being committed within your jurisdiction then I shall make sure to have one, just in case I am asked. Otherwise you detectives shall have to understand that I do not go about making detailed notes of all my activities and precisely when they took place, just on the off-chance that I might be asked what I was doing at any given time. My life is not structured for that. Also, as a single woman, I am often in places, doing things that cannot be corroborated by anyone else. Where were you last night after you left work?’
‘This is not about where I was at any time.’
‘Why not? Is there no such thing as a corrupt policeman?’
‘I was at home.’
‘All evening, all night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can anyone corroborate this?’
‘No, they cannot.’
‘Does it make you a liar?’
‘It makes me more difficult to eliminate from any ongoing murder enquiries regarding that time.’
I don’t care about murder enquiries. I’m more interested in the fact that he was alone.
‘So what about the night before, and the night before that?’
‘What of them?’
‘Were you alone then too?’
‘Yes, Mrs Van Peer, I was alone.’
‘And the night before, and the night before that?’
‘You point is well made, Mrs Van Peer. It seems we are neither of us doing a very good job of eliminating ourselves from any enquiries.’
The flutter inside is turning to a persistent buzz. This is different from talking to the likes of Lionel. With him I feel in control now. I feel surges of joy from the power I can wield. This detective inspires a different set of emotions. With him there is always uncertainty, always a sizzle of nerves. It makes me feel somehow young. It enlivens the spirit.
‘Clearly, Inspector, we are both in need of someone with us at these times to help corroborate our story.’ My eyebrows are raised saucily as I say this. He nods gently, as if giving the words due consideration.
‘It has to be someone trustworthy, though,’ he says. ‘It would have to be a person whose word could be trusted implicitly.’
‘Like a policeman’s?’
There is a pause, just the merest flicker of a smile.
‘Well, that is certainly one option.’
He tries not to let that smile show in his eyes, show he is opening up to me. My belly is alive with excitement. I feel like I have him again.
‘Ah, Inspector Stark, if only it wasn’t frowned upon for you to fraternise with suspects, I think it could have solved our little problem for the both of us. Now, I really must be going.’
And I am! It’s my turn to deal out the brush-offs and I’m wearing a face of triumph, although my pussy is snarling at the rest of me and calling me a stupid, selfish bitch. Yes, this control thing can be fun, but it can feel desperately counter-productive too. Still - things to do, Lionels to tame. I zoom off, leaving the policeman standing for once. I sight him in my rear-view, monitoring my departure. The former clarity of my mind has been compromised by this second conversation. My brain fuzzes and clouds, throbs a little. Thoughts of the sharp man threaten to dominate when I need them to go away. I pull into a lay-by to try and clear my head of him.
For some reason I know Lionel’s phone will help regain my focus. The messages have been stacking up for him even in the short time I have been in possession of it. Fortunately, he had the grace to switch it to silent during the wake, so I have not been pestered by constant beeping. That might have equalled a phone versus open-car-window losing battle. Most of the texts are business-related. But there are others too, from single-named females and of an amorous nature, some in languages I don’t know well enough to get the precise detail, just the hint of them. One arrives even as I am studying the phone, from a female texting in German. If I sprechen-ed my Deutsch any more proficiently I would have replied to her in very uncompromising terms. She is who he will be seeing tomorrow, no doubt.
It is a special kind of jealousy to not particularly have much feeling for someone other than basic physical attraction, yet to feel a burn inside from knowing they will be sleeping with someone other than you very soon. It makes me want to hate him yet triumph over all these unknown others at the same time. It is almost unbearable that he hasn’t come on his hands and knees to me and forsaken all others to declare himself my slave. Totally unreasonable, since we have had such little contact, but nonetheless a resentment that is difficult to shift.
I had already begun forming my plan whilst talking to Lionel so I build on this and gradually force Inspector Stark almost entirely from my mind. Best he stay in there somewhere, though, just to remind me of the consequences for not thinking everything through with absolute precision. I phone ahead to Bertrand, telling him to be at the house on my return. He is. I go to my safe and take out a thick wodge of notes. I always have cash in fair quantities in the house now, since it is the currency of those wishing to remain untraceable. I explain Bertrand’s mission to him in plain terms, as if I am merely asking him to go buy me some fruit. Actually, what I tell him is he must take the Evoque and escort a certain Swiss gentleman back here and then go straight out again to find himself a prostitute.
‘You have association with such girls, I trust?’ I ask him, without any sign of judgement on my face. He just looks back at me in that same rather surly, mocking, offensive way of his. Of course he has association with such girls. Do flamingos crap prawns? His job is to find a red-head, specifically one who is not shaved down below. He is to take her to any room he wishes and use Lionel’s phone to film her masturbating. He is not to capture her face or any parts of her body that might lead to identification - tattoos and so forth. She is not to speak, merely to masturbate while he films her for a good minute or so. After that he can do as he wishes and get his money’s worth. He takes the phone and secretes it in his pocket and leaves me without another word. No questions asked, not even a questioning look. It strikes me that in him I have not just a handyman but a henchman.
I guess there isn’t much need to quiz me since there isn’t much to know - simply that while Lionel is with me in the throes of my passion, his phone will be elsewhere filming mystery girls who might be anyone. Anyone with ginger hair, that is. Well, Inspector Stark did make quite a big thing about having an alibi and things like this can’t hurt, can they? I wonder what the detective would make of my bedroom now, with the harness hanging ready to receive its first guest. I have tried it, obviously. I have suspended myself and tested the possibilities. I have done it naked but for fabulous stiletto heels, at night, with the lights of the room on full and glaring. You can lose yourself to fantasy so easily when held within it. You can push your limits of self-discipline to those that would impress even Madam Destiny - and my, what rapture when you finally give yourself your treat.
Lionel needs to be slayed immediately. Mentally, I mean, not actually. He is perhaps the richest man I can count as a proper acquaintance, not that he particularly knows me at all; at least I had the grace to Google him. He is used to bedding gorgeous women. His instincts are predatory and passion to him is ruthless. He finds me sexy for sure but this will always be a tenuous grip. To strengthen it one must capture his mind. He has come on me but not in me a
nd that will be the thing that drives him here today. That will be my chance to seize. I have to force all those other girls from his thoughts in that instant. Doing so will mean he will come back to me, that he will jet from wherever just for the chance of an hour at my feet. That is when you know you are the best, when you know that the likes of German Lottie of the racy texts - who may be half my age for all I know and with the tightest, cutest pussy on the planet - are nothing in his mind compared to you.
The Catwoman costume it must be. Inspired by Madam Destiny’s devil suit it is all shining PVC and with a full head mask so that the hair is concealed. This was always the wise choice. Stray hairs can be left behind. It doesn’t matter here at home but it was just plain foolish to go to Sampson’s bolt-hole and potentially leave such evidence. The boots I’ve chosen to partner it are extreme, in shining black that finishes at the ankle, and with huge platforms and heels. They are proper fetish works of cordwaining art, no question. They must give me half a foot extra in height and I certainly won’t be sprinting anywhere in them. Fortunately, I need only to teeter around my bedroom, looking unforgettable. Lionel is going to come in his Calvin’s when he sees me, which might mean he can keep better control of himself this time.
The catsuit gives me a sense of impenetrability. The dildo I wear strapped to my waist will imbue him with quite the opposite feeling. What else happens I am yet to decide. There won’t be much romance going on but does any rich man care for such things other than as a tedious aside to getting his target into bed? And what of me - what am I hoping to get from all this? I was once all for romance but it smacks of a hollow charade now. I have had the beauty and exhilaration of it ripped from me. There won’t be any candles lit around my room, although the instinct is to do so. There might not even be any kissing. He is handsome, fit of body and wears wonderfully tailored suits, but I only have the urge to bypass this. It’s like I want to screw up and throw away all the good parts I used to love about being in love because it just reminds me of the lie. I just want to jump straight into the fire, in case I am hoodwinked again. Afterwards the fire must be dowsed instantly, as if it never burnt at all, driven quickly from the mind to stop it catching hold.
So he comes to me and I swell with the pride. There is no Esmerelda today so Bertrand shows him to my room before leaving to find himself an alibi whore. My slave’s expression doesn’t betray him too much, barely a flicker as he takes in the harness hanging from my ceiling and the ready-greased dildo at my waist, but then the best businessmen always possess the best poker faces. I can see the eyes are bright with desire, so I know I have him where I want him. I have taken the trouble to pour us a glass of cognac each, but this will be all that counts as a pleasantry. My body feels like I am plugged into the mains. The anticipation of fucking him, of possessing him and leaving him utterly breathless, is going to overtake me like wildfire.
This is the mood that will drive the moment: this feeling of urgency and potency; this need to almost burst into flames of dirty passion. This will wipe out those years of patient, loyal tenderness wasted. This will make me sure he never has eyes for any other woman again - not even the velvet-cunted Lottie who purrs in German for his attentions.
‘Drink your drink, Lionel. Let the warmth of it slide down your throat. You look like you have come here to do exactly as I ask.’
‘I have, Madame.’
‘But you want to be inside me, I can tell.’
‘Oui, Madame, I cannot lie.’
‘I give that reward only to people who have earned it,’ I say.
And to people who betray me and use me and let me down with impunity, but I won’t tell him that.
‘I understand this, Madame.’
‘I will have been inside you before you get to be in me. If this is something your male pride cannot countenance then leave now. I shall give you this one and only chance.’
I feel weak-legged, having not really planned this bit of brinkmanship, but he is standing his ground and looking earnestly into my eyes.
‘Perhaps Madame should order me to silence, so that my male pride is overruled and can give no objection.’
Now that, my unashamed Swiss cheat, is a very good idea, and one I should have thought of. Madam Destiny would have, the patronising bitch!
‘I will commit you to silence when I am ready. First of all I want you to tell me something. I want you tell me what your most memorable sexual experience has been.’
I don’t know where this comes from. My subconscious clearly wants to hear him say that this, now, is already the most exciting time of his sex-stuffed life. I am almost daring him to say otherwise.
‘Madame is asking me for something I may not be able to give. Many experiences have been memorable - I am not sure there is one that stands above all the rest.’
‘Pick one.’
His eyes stay on mine. I think I spotted a flash of annoyance there, or at least impatience, but it is not acted upon. He ponders instead. To be in his head now; to be able to see that collage of dirty memories that have coloured his adult life. I need to obliterate all this so that he is left only with me.
‘Once I ejaculated so hard it almost had me passing out. It was in Amsterdam.’
Now that would be something to be remembered for.
‘I have a cock ring for you to wear, which will help with the strength of your erection. It has an attached pouch to confine the balls, which is apparently guaranteed to increase the force of the ejaculation. Tell me more about Amsterdam. It was with your wife, I presume?’
‘On this occasion it was not.’
No, of course it wasn’t.
‘But it was the most memorable nonetheless?’
‘She was beautiful. She was under me, both of us face down. I stayed still and she rode me from beneath, thrusting upwards into me with incredible stamina. The feel was sensational, both inside her and against me.’
Well, I could do that, for a while at least. Perhaps the stamina is the key. I like forcing this conversation from him, going close enough to clutch him, feeling the growth of his cock within his clothes, knowing he wants it unleashed but forcing him to wait.
‘That doesn’t sound very out of the ordinary,’ I say. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘The memory was made for me, Madame. It is not one my fantasy contrived. She was an African girl with the most incredible jut to her derrière. It was the colour of a conker, so wonderfully defined and yet softer than any flesh I have felt before or since. I have never witnessed anything more sexually alluring. She was a virgin, the daughter of a tribal leader, and insisted I did not take her flower but entered her anally. She had me pour a mix of honey and warm oils inside her before I penetrated her. I have not had quite this same bliss since. This was the first time I had ever used a girl in this way and I was very impressionable at that young age.’
Well, that’s no good is it? The bum thing I have more than a fancy to do but one thing I cannot be is a beautiful African. I feel decidedly ratty now and shouldn’t have opened this can of worms. I open his zip instead.
‘I don’t want to hear another word from you now, Lionel. Not when I am spanking you or torturing your nipples or using you with this dildo at my waist.’
I can sense the red cloud gathering. I turn and bend in front of him, the shiny fabric like shrink-wrap on my behind. I instruct him to rub his cock against me to get it hard. He presses into my bottom until the blood starts to stiffen him and then finishes the job by sliding his cock in the crack so well defined by my tight costume. This must look fabulous to him. I stay as I am and order him to strip. He hurriedly complies. Gorgeous women in catsuits with their hands on their knees and their round bums stuck out are not to be disobeyed! I get to my knees licking my painted lips but I’m not going to gobble him now however much he sticks his prick out for me. I put the cock ring on him and tig
hten it enough to see the pulse in his erection. He gasps as I cram his balls into the pouch. I can feel the throb of them against my palm.
Eagerness grips me and we haven’t got too long anyway, not if he wants to catch his flight. With the lights of my bedroom trained upon him and the gloom of the winter’s evening descending outside, he goes into the harness back first, so that his prick is standing up at me. I put his wrists and ankles through the loops and secure them to prevent him from pulling free. He won’t need to rely on willpower as I did. He is toned and handsome in his nudity, and all mine. The hair at his chest is black but soft, just like my husband’s used to be. I would stroke it while he dozed, once he had used me. Hair smacks of maleness and perhaps all slaves should be shaved, but this is no time to do a Samson on him, not with that arse of his so at my mercy.
I am sure Madam Destiny would have made this bit last for ages, but then she gets paid by the hour. She would have described in detail all that was about to follow. I find the desire taking me over. I cannot find the control to speak - I am too hungry for that. The foreplay becomes a blur that I am not sure I have much control of. I cannot rake him with my nails because of my gloves, so I pinch instead. I use the cat o’nine tails on his chest and legs, tempering my weight to enliven the skin more than sting it. I use the cane for the first time too, tapping sharply upwards across both his buttocks as they hang down prone. He twists and grunts with each stroke, but he doesn’t speak or show dissention. His cock looks like it might burst.
I use flicks of my tongue-tip on him. He will see the saliva practically pouring out of my mouth and he will know I am nothing but a desperate hussy bitch. He will always know this about me now, and can use it against me - just like he knows I have been caned before. He must be able to see how hard it is for me not to engulf him now as deeply as I have taken anyone before. But I don’t. My sane side fights against the cloud and gives me just a semblance of clarity. I smother his beating cock with warm lubricant so that my hand slides up and down with almost no friction at all. I smear greased fingers around his crack and then I am in him, forcing a finger up to the last knuckle to wriggle inside. My tongue and hot breath stay at that straining purple tip of his. In his mind he must be screaming for me to sink my open mouth upon him, but still I don’t.
