A Wayward Game Page 4

  “Is something funny?” I ask.

  “No, Mistress.”

  “Then stop laughing. And stand up straight.”

  He straightens his back. I put the switch down, go to stand behind him, and slip my hand around to the front of his body. My fingers begin to stroke his cock, and I feel it stir and stiffen at my touch.

  “Good boy,” I say. “I want you nice and hard like this. Because that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? For my pleasure.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Good.” I slide my hand back around to his buttock, and give it a little slap. “Now, close your eyes, and don’t open them until I tell you to.”

  I take his hands in mine and lead him into the centre of the room, where a scarlet chaise longue stands midway between two full-length mirrors that hang on opposite walls, facing each other. Our reflected images slip into view, and beyond them images of images, a myriad of reflections. I stop just short of the chaise longue, and unzip my skirt. It falls to the floor with a rustle, and I see my naked behind reflected in the mirror. The pulse of excitement between my legs quickens, and I lean forward and gently kiss Neil’s lips.

  “Open your eyes now,” I say.

  He opens his eyes, and I see them flicker across to the mirror and take in his back, the streaks of dried wax, and my bare backside. A faint smile crosses his lips.

  “Do you see how beautiful you are now?” I ask. I reach down for his cock and stroke it again, and find it large and firm.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  I pull down my corset so that my breasts are exposed, and pushed up by the underwiring. I look at them in the mirror, at the round white globes of flesh surmounted by rosy nipples. They skim the hair on his chest as I move my body closer to his, and I feel his cock pushing against my upper thigh. We kiss: a long, deep, needy kiss. I pull away, feeling a little breathless, and sit down on the edge of the chaise longue, parting my legs.

  “Kneel,” I say.

  He sinks down onto his knees between my splayed legs, and looks up at me. His hands are still bound in front of him, and he holds them up, almost as if he is begging. The chain connecting the cuffs gleams wickedly in the candlelight.

  “Now,” I say, “I want you to please me with your tongue.”

  He leans closer to me, until I feel his breath tickling the skin of my inner thighs and the delicate flesh around my cunt. I see his tongue flit out from between his lips, and watch as it slips inside me. And then I feel it there, running softly over every ridge and crease, gently exploring me. The knot of pleasure in my groin tightens, and I close my eyes and let my head tip back. His tongue slides deeper, until it reaches the most sensitive part of my body. He lets it rest there for a moment, and then begins to move it in small circles and with tiny flicks, exciting me more, until my pleasure is coiled up inside me like a spring, tightening and compressing. His tongue moves faster, harder, and I feel my body begin to tip over the edge toward orgasm. I pull away sharply, gasping, and look down at him. His mouth is wet with me, and his eyes are bright and hungry. His cock, urgent and throbbing, stands out from his body.

  “Good,” I say, and stand up so that I tower above him. “Very good. In fact, I think you deserve a little reward. Stand up.”

  He clambers to his feet, and I reach forward and press the safety catch on the cuffs, so that they fall from his wrists. He gently rubs the flesh there, and I lean forward and kiss him again, tasting myself on his lips. Then I reach for the condom that is lying on the chaise longue, and hand it to him.

  “Put it on,” I say.

  He blushes a little, but obediently tears open the packet and rolls the condom down over his shaft. I watch him, and then turn and straddle the chaise longue so that I am facing away from him. I put my hands down on the soft leather seat, spread my legs wider, and arch my back. I see myself in the mirror: long brown hair, long legs, pale haunches. I see my cunt, slick with desire and split like a ripe fig. I look at Neil, and our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “Now fuck me,” I say, “and look at yourself in the mirror while you’re doing it. See for yourself how perfect you are.”

  He moves closer to me, and I feel his skin against my skin, his groin against my buttocks. I watch in the mirror as he guides his cock inside me with his hand, and then I feel it there, slipping inside me, moving deeper. I feel my own body opening up around him, and feel little pulses of sensation spread across my groin and up into my womb. He moves slowly at first, almost shyly, peering into the mirror at the riot of colour on his back, at his thrusting buttocks, and his balls swinging back and forth between his legs. His expression is somewhere between ecstasy and embarrassment; part of him, I know, does not want to look at these things. It is the same part of him, perhaps, that does not live in his body, and views it as a treacherous vessel, something to be distrusted and denied. It is the part of him that does not approve of what he does with me in this room, and wishes that he were safely back in his old, cosseted life, back in a time when these dark paths remained unexplored.

  But gradually pleasure softens his face. A light gleam of sweat breaks out on his forehead, and his eyes flicker shut as he thrusts harder and faster, giving in to his body’s urgent demands. He begins to moan softly, giving the occasional choked sob of desire. I look into the mirror and admire his body, his face, his swaying balls. Could he ever see himself the way I see him, and understand what he does to me? Would it change anything, if he could?

  My own pleasure builds to a peak as he thrusts, and I find that I’m gasping, perspiring. “Open your eyes,” I murmur, and it sounds not like a command now, but a plea; my voice is breathless and cracked with yearning. His eyelids flutter open, and our eyes meet in the glass for a long, strange moment, in which something – something too fleeting and intense to be captured in words, or interpreted – passes between us. Then an orgasm rips through my body, exploding in every nerve and vein, and I cry out. My body jolts and my eyes close, and a moment later I hear him groan as he plunges deep inside me and comes.

  We stay as we are for a long moment, with our bodies bound together, and I savour the feeling of him inside me. But he withdraws all too soon, leaving me spent, empty, and strangely sad. I look into the mirror, seeking something from him – some reassurance, perhaps. But his eyes are downcast, and I don’t know what or who he is thinking of, or even if he is thinking of anything at all.

  ~

  Later, after I have peeled the dried wax off his back, we take a bath together. The weather has turned again, as it so often does in Britain in the summer, and the night is almost cold. The small bathroom fills with steam as we lie back together in the old-fashioned porcelain tub. He sits between my legs, leaning back against me, resting his head on my shoulder, and he looks dreamy and lost in thought. The sounds of the city – blaring car horns, distant music, loud voices in the street below – drift up to us, heralding a normality to which we know we must return, whether we want to or not.

  We are quiet, as we often are in the aftermath of sex. It is as though, once our games are over, we return to being what we essentially are: two slight acquaintances who have never troubled ourselves to get to know each other very well, and are as a consequence somewhat shy and constrained in each other’s company. This is only to be expected, of course. We have never done the things that most couples do, like going on dates or enjoying long conversations over dinner or drinks. That, for us, was never the point. When we met, Neil was in no mood for another close relationship; he wanted only an affair, a distraction from a crumbling marriage. I, with my own accumulation of private sorrows, was happy to oblige. We were satisfied with our arrangement at the time, and I wonder why it no longer seems like enough.

  “How do you feel now?” I ask, desperate to reach across the chasm of silence that separates us.

  His eyes open, and he stirs and stretches his limbs, and smiles.

  “Very calm and quiet,” he says. “The world seems very distant; it always does, afterwards.
When we’re together in that room, everything else just fades into the background. That’s how it feels, anyway.”

  “Does it seem unreal? What we do together?”

  “Not unreal, no. On a certain level, it’s about as real as anything could be; the sensation is, anyway. But it’s very far from normality, isn’t it? A very wayward game.”

  “What is normality, though?”

  He considers for a moment. “Well, to me it’s just the business of being alive. Getting out of bed, going out to work, doing all the things that people have always had to do. The life you choose to live, I suppose.”

  “The life you choose, or the life that’s chosen for you?”

  “Most of it you choose. There’s no one else to blame. You can’t point the finger at your parents, or your boss, or the world. That’s the coward’s way out.” He closes his eyes, and smiles a little sadly. “You see it all the time in my line of work. You wouldn’t believe how many people are adamant that, whatever has happened and whatever they’ve done, it’s all somebody else’s fault. It’s childish. If you want freedom, you have to accept a certain amount of responsibility too.”

  He sounds exactly like a policeman, a pillar of common sense and respectability, and I smile.

  “Man is born free, but he is everywhere in chains,” I quote.

  “Very appropriate.” He smiles, and turns to look at me. “What’s brought all this on?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s just that I sometimes wonder how much control anyone really has. It’s all very well to say that petty thieves and small-time crooks should take responsibility for their actions. They usually have to when they’re caught, anyway. And all the while the big criminals – the businessmen who squander millions, the politicians who are corrupt – have the money and connections to get away with it. It hardly seems fair, does it?”

  I am thinking of James Sallow who, if I am right, managed – quite literally – to get away with murder.

  “Well, no system of law enforcement is perfect. Personally, I’m a great believer in the law being equal for everyone, and I’d be surprised if any of my colleagues were not of the same opinion. If money and status can buy special treatment, it’s not with the approval of ordinary police officers. Really, though, corruption and favouritism are less common than people think. I’m not personally aware of any huge conspiracies going on beneath the surface. Of course, there are always conspiracy theorists, simply because reality can be boring. People love a good mystery.” He lifts one leg out of the water, and extends it, toes pointed; soap slithers down his skin. “Are you thinking about Diane Meath-Jones, by any chance?”

  I smile. That he has guessed this is not due to any extraordinary perception on his part, but because he knows how significant the case is to me.

  “Of course,” I say. “Actually, I’m thinking about James Sallow in particular. I do wonder if his money didn’t buy him special treatment.”

  “I don’t think it did, no.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll tell you this: I don’t trust that man. A man like that, who’s driven and privileged and arrogant – that’s a dangerous man.”

  “Or just an unpleasant man, perhaps,” Neil says, and yawns. “Either way, it’s hardly evidence.”

  “Maybe not. There is evidence against him, though.”

  “A spot of Diane’s blood mixed with his DNA, in the holiday cottage where they’d just spent the weekend together. That doesn’t amount to much. Diane might have cut her finger, or had a nosebleed. It would never stand up in court.”

  “What about the cadaver dogs? They alerted in the cottage.”

  “The dogs’ reliability can be disputed. Even if it were established beyond doubt, what does it prove? That a corpse had been in the house? It doesn’t necessarily suggest that it was Diane’s body. And without that body – without further, clinching evidence – such indications are legally useless.”

  “There’s no record of anyone else having died in that house.”

  “Maybe not, but that still doesn’t prove that Diane died there.” He gazes up at the ceiling, and I see that his face is at peace. I love him like this – this is the real man, I think, the person behind all the pretence and facades. “One thing that I really don’t understand is why Sallow would kill his pregnant girlfriend. Even if he thought he could get away with it, why would he be so cruel? If she was getting on his nerves, why didn’t he just give her some money and send her on her way? Pay for the kid’s upkeep, and hand over some extra cash so she’d keep her mouth shut? That’s a hell of a lot less risky, and he’s certainly rich enough.”

  “I’m not saying it was premeditated. I think he acted on the spur of the moment. And if you don’t understand it’s because you’re a decent man, and you couldn’t kill someone if your life depended on it. Not everyone is like that.” Suddenly, years of bitterness and disappointment rise to the surface in my voice. “Men think of sex as a game, a game that they’re entitled to win. They forget what it’s like to lose. Women know all about it. Unwanted pregnancies, reputations in tatters, broken hearts and tears – it’s not so much fun when you’re on the losing side, believe me.”

  “What?” Neil raises his head and looks at me, his expression startled. “I’ve never thought of myself as being entitled to anything when it comes to sex. And you’re the one who’s always referred to what we’re doing here as a game. And if you’re talking about James Sallow specifically, didn’t he actually stand by Diane? He didn’t abandon her. He allowed her to move in with him when she found out she was expecting, for Heaven’s sake. That’s hardly the act of a man who might have killed her, is it?”

  “Isn’t it? Nobody’s that simple, Neil.” I sigh, and close my eyes. “Perhaps he felt trapped. He didn’t want to be tied down with a live-in girlfriend and a baby. At the same time, he couldn’t afford to be seen as heartless, as the kind of man who’d abandon his own lover and child. He was considering running for Parliament, remember. Can you imagine the kind of scandal that might blow up if word got out? ‘Parliamentary candidate ditched pregnant girlfriend’? He’d be finished.”

  “So he decided to kill her? That’s a pretty high-risk strategy, don’t you think?”

  “Like I said, I’m not sure it was necessarily a rational decision. Perhaps they had a row, and he acted without thinking – you know, all the resentment and stress just blew up, something like that. In any case, he’s arrogant enough to think he could get away with it. And, let’s face it, he did.” I feel a smile crossing my face – a sour, ugly smile that speaks not of humour but of corrosive anger. “It’s not over, though. What people sometimes forget is that the internet has changed everything. It’s not so easy to control what people see, read and hear anymore. There’s a lot of material out there about Sallow, and he can’t stop people accessing it.”

  Neil closes his eyes for a moment, and frowns; and then he moves away from me, stands up, and steps out of the bathtub. Water pours off his body, and soapsuds slide over his skin. He takes a towel, quickly dries himself, and then wraps it around his waist. He sits down on the toilet seat, not looking at me, and I close my eyes, pretending not to care.

  “What if Sallow isn’t guilty after all?” he asks quietly after a moment. I open my eyes and glance across at him, and he’s looking at me in a shrewd, measured way. “Have you ever thought about that, Katherine? Do you ever wonder what it might be like for him? He has to listen to people saying all kinds of things about him, and there’s nothing he can do to counter it. You say the internet changed everything. Well, you’re right about that. It’s given people a platform to say exactly what they like about anyone, to make the wildest accusations – all from behind the anonymity of a username, of course. And how can anyone defend themselves from that kind of attack? How can they challenge what’s being said, when they don’t even know who’s speaking? Do you ever think about that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Do you?” He looks at me closely, steadily. “Y
ou really should, you know. Because whatever happened to Diane, it doesn’t justify hounding a man who is legally innocent.”

  “Really? The police hound people, as you put it, all the time.”

  “There’s a world of difference between a focussed, reasoned investigation and an internet lynch mob. You know that as well as I do.” He sighs. “God, all this passion. I think if the Diane Meath-Jones case is remembered in years to come, it will be for the absurd amount of interest it generated amongst people who had absolutely no personal involvement with it at all. After all, why Diane? There was nothing so very special about her. She was really just an ordinary woman. And if she disappeared in extraordinary circumstances, she wasn’t the only one.”

  I close my eyes again, because I’ve nothing to say to that. I too have wondered why Diane should have haunted millions of people, and why her image in particular should have been the one to stare out of a thousand newspaper front pages, a thousand TV programmes. What is this mysterious quality, that makes one person more noticeable than others? It makes little sense even to me, and to Neil it is probably unfathomable. He deals on a daily basis with all the live cases that require urgent attention, a city’s roll call of robberies, assaults and murders. He can little afford to pay attention to a case that went cold eight years ago.

  “Diane’s gone,” Neil says at last, in a gentler voice. He gets up, walks back across the room, and sits down on the side of the bathtub. “Whether she was killed or abducted, or whether she left of her own free will, she’s gone. You can’t bring her back. You can’t turn back time. I’m not saying that that’s a reason to forget about her, but there are so many other things in this world. Why focus on just one person?”