Eighty Days White

by Vina Jackson

  ‘Lean back. Spread your arse cheeks.’

  It seemed like an impossible task. The state she was in, she would surely fall headfirst onto the floor. But Liana managed to curve her back up and hold her body out flat as she hitched her skirt up so that she was gripping the fabric between her wrist and her hips and she placed one hand on each buttock and pulled.

  Leroy wasn’t even close to touching her and yet I could see from the twitching of her body and the way that she was softly moaning that Liana was already on the edge. I forgot my shyness and leaned forward, fascinated, watching the myriad emotions that swarmed over her face as her cheeks turned pink and her lips parted in an expression of sensuality.

  I wished that I could be her, that I could feel just once what it was like to lose oneself so utterly in the moment, to be such a willing slave to pleasure. When I was domming I got carried away at times, but never as completely as this – I was always aware of the need to keep an eye on my sub’s wellbeing.

  Submission, I realised then, was an act of surrender. That’s why she looked so relaxed. She’d given herself not just to Leroy, but to the sensation of each moment. That’s why it was so intense. Without the need to focus on anything at all besides physical feeling, she must be aware of even the most infinitesimal currents of air on her skin.

  Finally he reached forward and ran his fingers along her pussy. She jumped and shuddered in response to his touch, as though he’d nudged her with a cattle prod.

  His fingers glistened when he removed them. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked her juices off with relish.

  ‘You’re very wet,’ he observed.

  Liana moaned.

  ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘Say it. I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘I’m a slut,’ she said. ‘Your slut.’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘I’m your slut!’ she shouted.

  She’d said exactly the same thing to Nick. A coincidence, I wondered, or did she get every guy to demand that of her? I wanted to ask Leroy how much of what he did was because it was what he wanted, and how much of it was what she wanted. I knew from my own experience that submissives could be very demanding. I spent hours at the club giving slaves what they begged for. Half of the time I felt as though they were the ones who were dominating me.

  ‘You’re my fucking whore,’ he announced in a satisfied voice. His tone had become darker, as if something in him that he had been reining in had now snapped. His arm shot out and he grabbed a hank of her hair and wrenched her head back hard. He was driving his other hand into her with such force each thrust was more like a punch. Yet instead of reacting with fear or pain, Liana relaxed even more, spreading her legs wide and leaning against him and shuddering as though she would come at any moment. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling.

  Leroy let go suddenly and she stumbled forward without making any attempt to stop her fall. She didn’t even let go of her arse cheeks. Because he hadn’t told her to, I realised. Even her body’s natural defences had submitted to Leroy. She’d let herself go so much that she was relying on him for everything, even keeping her upright. If I tripped over, then my hands would immediately come down to break my fall without any conscious thought. But Liana’s body followed Leroy’s commands instinctively, even more instinctively than she protected herself. He caught her easily before she hit the floor.

  He gripped her on each side of her hips and bent his head down to the pucker of her arse and slid his tongue inside and then ran it in a straight line all the way up the length of her spine to the base of her neck where he sank his teeth into her. She arched her back and pressed herself against him. It was like their own strange version of a hug and seemed oddly nurturing.

  The nurturing didn’t last long.

  With one quick push Leroy had Liana on her knees. He yanked her up by the hair again, so firmly that I was surprised she still had any. Maybe all the tugging helped it to grow faster.

  Faced with his penis, Liana took it into her mouth like a starving person who hadn’t had a meal for a week. She didn’t lick it playfully first or indulge in any of the techniques that she had laughed at and I had blushed over back at the Brighton flat when we were both close to relative innocents. She impaled herself on him as though she wanted to eat him alive and he held her by the sides of her face and swung her head back and forth as though he were fucking her cunt and not her face. Every minute or so she would make a noise like a cat with a fur ball and just when I thought she could take no more he would stop for long enough to let her inhale and then she would thrust herself right back onto him and continue sucking him into her throat as if he was her source of air.

  Leroy started to shake and clench and I was sure that this was it, he would come in her mouth and then I would be faced with the dreadful moment of wondering what to say once they’d finished, but he stopped her before he exploded.

  ‘Shhh,’ he whispered, and that one word was like a code between them. Liana sank back onto her haunches immediately and her face softened. She released his cock from the grip of her mouth and nuzzled her face into his groin, landing soft kisses around his thighs and nibbling at his balls. His dick was still hard and she pressed it to her face as though it were the caress of his hand. Liana had turned from rabid to romantic quicker than I could blink.

  He reached down and cupped her breasts. Softly at first and she purred and burrowed against his hands. Then, in another one of those momentary power exchanges that seemed to flash silently between them, he switched from cuddly to rough and, placing one hand on her breast bone and the other on her back, he flipped her over in a flailing tangle of limbs.

  She fell back, totally exposed and that was when I noticed the silvery glint. She was completely smooth down below and the petals of her labia were engorged and spread open displaying the piercings that I hadn’t known she sported. A steel ring glistened at the hood of her clit and two matching silver circles were threaded through each of her labia. She hadn’t mentioned getting them done, although it was the kind of thing that Liana would normally take great pleasure in telling me all about. Both the plan and the execution. Yet she hadn’t.

  I’d seen a few men and women who had been pierced either by or for their dominants. Some wore a dog tag to denote ownership. I suspected that Liana’s jewellery might have been a result of her relationship with her Brighton dom. That would explain why she hadn’t mentioned it. And it would be typical of Liana to leave it in. She didn’t think of the past as a type of baggage to be dropped at the earliest opportunity. She was too pragmatic for that. Liana enjoyed her demons, she didn’t fight them, and she held her mistakes close to her chest in a loving embrace as a reminder of who she was.

  I yam what I yam, as she always said.

  ‘Close your eyes, and don’t move until I say,’ Leroy hissed.

  She was now flat on her back and didn’t look as though she had any intention of going anywhere.

  He rooted around in his duffel bag until he found a couple of lengths of deep-red bondage rope. Liana responded to each clink that the objects inside the bag made with a soft moan or a shudder. Leroy smiled as he watched her twitch and I was certain that he was purposefully taking his time and shaking his bag of toys around to build the anticipation up more.

  As the rope brushed against her skin, she broke out all over in goosebumps and made a plaintive crying sound as though the expectation of pleasure was too great to bear.

  Leroy bent each of her knees and bound her thighs to her calves so that she was wide open to him, but unable to do little more than wriggle. He then pulled her arms over her head and tied her wrists together. The more roughly he pulled on the rope, the louder her moans of excitement became, but his roughness was only a show, I noticed. For all the appearance of harshness, he was careful to run his finger between her skin and the rope to check that it wasn’t too tight for her circulation, and every few minutes he would glance down to make sure that she wasn’t turning blue and clutch her hands
to warm them.

  Finally he pushed her knees apart and pulled himself on top of her body. His cock was rock hard and glistening wet. He made no move to reach for a condom and somehow the idea of him entering her bare thrilled me more than anything else. It was such a personal act.

  ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said. His voice was hoarse. The effort of holding himself back was evidently causing him so much pain that I had to stop myself from leaning forward and pushing his cock into her myself.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Fuck me. Please fuck me, please, please, fuck me …’

  She repeated the same phrase over and over like a mad woman and Leroy growled and lifted himself up and thrust into her again and again as hard as he could. Bound and trussed, she was unable to push against him but she still tried to rock her hips and wriggled and squirmed until he took hold of her wrists and held her down.

  I was on the edge of my seat now and breathing rapidly along with them. I wanted Leroy to reach over and grab my hair and pull me up hard against him, but I restrained myself, remembering the number-one rule that was repeated on signs all over the club: Never interrupt a scene.

  Liana jerked harder and harder, grinding herself against him. The nub of her piercing seemed to be stimulating her clit and the harder she rubbed, the quicker his thrusts became until she bit her lip and begged, ‘Oh fuck, let me come, please let me come, please let me come …’

  ‘Come for me,’ he cried, and the moment the words were out of his lips she arched her back and strained against the ropes and screamed so loud that I jumped a foot in the air and nearly screamed right along with her.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he said, and he lifted her arse and clamped her against him and held her still as the tremors of a climax visibly ripped through her body.

  ‘Did you like that?’ he growled, with a look of extreme concentration on his face.

  The poor man was going to burst, any second, and I doubted his ability to hold on any longer, but he managed to until Liana stopped shaking for long enough to murmur a fervent ‘yes’.

  He gripped her shoulders, pressing himself into her, and finally let go.

  When his orgasm was over and his body relaxed, she curled herself towards him. He laid her flat and swiftly untied the ropes that bound her arms and legs and then he pulled her into his arms and rocked her back and forth like a child. ‘Shhh,’ he said again, each time that she mewed and buried herself into him. She looked as though she was trying to crawl into his skin. As if close would never be close enough.

  At that point, I left them. Watching the sex was one thing, but watching them embracing afterwards was something else altogether. The obvious intimacy between them had left me with mixed emotions. On the one hand I was desperately jealous. I wanted to feel that way with someone. On the other hand, it was so all-encompassing that I was afraid that opening myself up that way would leave me too vulnerable. I was afraid of being hurt. I was afraid of letting go.

  I tossed and turned for hours that night before I eventually managed to fall asleep. The sex had left me undeniably turned on, but I couldn’t bring myself to masturbate over Liana. I didn’t want to think of her that way. It would change things between us.

  The next morning I lay under the covers and snoozed until I was sure that Leroy would have left so I would not need to face him. It was cowardly, but I didn’t care. I could thank him for his generosity in allowing me such an intimate glimpse into their lives another time, when I didn’t feel so embarrassed.

  Liana was happy, and unusually quiet. I poured myself an orange juice, into a glass this time to appease her and sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Did you get it?’ she said to me at last.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I got it.’

  Neil and I met up during our respective lunch hours, the day after my return from Amsterdam. He worked such long hours these days that I rarely got to see him in the evening. By the time he finished work, I’d begun at the club, so snatched lunchtimes had become our regular way to catch up. He was wearing an anthracite-grey suit, a tight-fitting white shirt, a dark-blue tie and black brogues polished to an inch of glassy smoothness and looked every inch like a master of the universe. On every successive occasion we spent together he seemed to be morphing into a brand-new person, distancing himself from the chrysalis of his Brighton years, casting off the callow softness of youth, while every time I looked at myself in the mirror I didn’t seem to be changing at all on the outside, still appearing younger than I was.

  Growing up suited him.

  He’d booked a table at Kettner’s, a plush eaterie in Soho, where I felt out of place in my casual clothes and clumpy boots, unpolished and clumsy. I reckoned even my sometimes fetish wear would have fitted in better.

  Neil, on the other hand, seemed in his element, gliding along from the salon to the restaurant floor full of poise, holding my hand casually in his, as the greeter guided us to our table.

  It was when the conversation turned to more personal matters that he began to lose his assurance.

  How often did he have to proclaim that he was so terribly fond of me, as he put it, fumbling in dire fear of a certain four-letter word? And how he wished we could make a go of it, even if he awkwardly attempted to explain how my lifestyle scared him.

  He was struggling with his inner demons, in search of some form of equilibrium, as he wrestled with his feelings and a way to fit in what he had discovered of my sexuality and the appetites I had acquired into the equation.

  His heart, and the old-fashioned morality he had been brought up within, yearned to offer me the princess scenario, the good old picket fence, the semi-detached house in the suburbs and even the fat-cheeked babies he had been indoctrinated from birth to strive towards, while trying to reconcile this with the more basic instincts that had come to the surface during the photography session with Grayson and that he had been a witness to at the country house and which had disturbed him to the core.

  He was mixed up.

  But then so was I, and his lack of articulacy and the fact I couldn’t come up with right words in a crowded restaurant to explain how I felt or what I really wanted only served to magnify my own irritation and our halting exchange quickly turned rather petty and we parted on strained terms. Jonno and the others at the music store quickly made a note of the cloud I was walking under and steered clear of me for the rest of the day.

  I felt in no mood to return to my room that day. I’d eaten too much at lunch and knew I’d just pussyfoot around, munching unnecessarily on crisps and watching reruns of reality shows on TV or slob around to no purpose and feel even worse about myself.

  I hadn’t heard from Dagur for some time. First he had been on tour with the band and had only returned to London while I happened to be in Amsterdam and unavailable. I decided he would the best possible distraction for me tonight.

  I called him up.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello, Teardrop, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Busy lives, eh?’

  ‘Feel like meeting up?’

  ‘I’d love to. Are you free now? I could be along in half an hour.’ Dagur shared a house with the band’s bass player in Brixton, just a stone’s throw from the tube station on a quiet road behind the Ritzy cinema. His housemate was never present, seemingly permanently shacked up with one of his string of girlfriends, so we’d always had the run of the house.

  ‘Come on down.’

  ‘On my way.’

  I knew sex with Dagur would be unburdened. There would be no unwelcome mention of feelings or sentimental complications, and he wasn’t the sort of man who harboured submissive tendencies so I would not be tempted to turn the tables. For my dominant streak to surface properly, I needed men who would respond instinctively to my taking the lead, guys who secretly craved having the tables turned on them.

  I rushed down the escalator to the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road station. There was a long-haired guitarist singing ‘Wonderwall’ on the busk
er pitch where the corridors separated and I remembered how shortly after my arrival in London, I had marvelled at the melodious sounds of a young woman who had been playing violin on the very same spot, her eyes closed and a rapt expression on her face, but whom I’d never seen there again. I swept by as the singer hit a false note.

  It was dark by the time I reached Brixton. The lights in the windows of the shops on the High Street shone bright, bathing South London in what felt like a Christmas atmosphere, although the festivities were still months away.

  ‘The door’s not locked. Just turn the handle and make your way in,’ Dagur’s voice echoed through the intercom, the recognisable strain of the Rolling Stones ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’ playing in the background. ‘I’m in the bedroom.’

  In the initial throes of my affair with Dagur, I had once spent a whole week of nights at his house, commuting to and from Denmark Street in the early morning and evenings, so I knew the lay of the land well. His bedroom was on the top floor, a vast space that had been carved out as part of an extensive loft conversion.

  I ran up the stairs and pushed the door open.

  Dagur was in bed.

  But he was not alone.

  The first thing I unavoidably set my eyes on was the perfect circle of a woman’s arse, as a blonde with unfeasibly long, straight hair falling across her flanks and porcelain-coloured buttocks busied herself sucking Dagur’s penis.

  She was on all fours, but even in that compromising position I could already see she was the owner of an endless pair of model-like legs.

  I held my breath.

  Finally Dagur acknowledged my entrance.

  ‘Hi, Teardrop,’ he murmured distractedly, still under the influence of the blonde girl’s attentive ministrations.

  Hearing this, she abandoned his cock for a brief instant and turned her head in my direction.

  She was straight from a glamour photographer’s portfolio, her breasts compact and firm, her cheekbones razor-sharp and her eyes a pale shade of seablue. She flashed me the friendliest of smiles. Then moved back to her blow-job, her full lips swallowing Dagur’s length in one elegant gulp.