A Wayward Game (10 page)

Your suggestion that
she might have been suffering from some unspecified mental disorder
is little short of a deliberate slur, by the way. Diane was never
examined by a qualified psychiatrist, and any speculation about her
mental state remains just that – speculation. If she was simply
unhappy, that might have said far more about her relationship with
Sallow than her own psychological wellbeing.

Diane must have felt
horribly alone in those final weeks and months. And I want to make
some gesture, however small, to show that she wasn’t, and isn’t. I
care about her. I’m angry about what happened to her. She wasn’t
just another stranger. I wish I could do something tangible to make
things better, and I’m aware that this forum is a poor substitute.
I’m also aware that to be so concerned about the suffering of
someone who’s been gone for eight years makes little sense. I know
that I’d do well to extend that sympathy to people who are still
here, and might benefit from it. I know all of this, and I reproach
myself for it. But this is how I feel, and my feelings in this case
are stronger than my reason.

Diane was my friend,
and I will never forget her.

A few minutes
later, a reply appears – not from Lurker, but from Phillip, the
newbie.

I agree, Kittyminx. I
never actually met Diane, but I feel like I knew her. Even if she
killed herself or simply left, she must have been really miserable
to do that, and I wonder why she felt that she couldn’t turn to
anyone. And yet it makes sense, too. When the old villages died,
the idea of community died too, at least in any meaningful sense.
In a city, everyone is a stranger. The internet is one of the few
things that can recapture some of that old feeling of brotherhood,
and it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.

Suffering is one of the
few things that cuts right across divides. Suffering is something
we all understand. And yet we all continue to suffer, and many of
us do so alone. Viewed in general terms, it’s an abstract idea.
It’s when you focus in on someone in particular that their
suffering becomes real, tangible. Sometimes – and I know how sad
this is going to sound – someone like Diane, someone you never knew
in reality, just comes to life. Her suffering becomes real, and it
makes her real too.

There’s another issue,
Lurker. Whatever happened to Diane – whether she was harmed by
somebody else, or killed herself, or simply walked away – there has
been no resolution in this case. A family has gone without answers.
Quite possibly, justice has been denied. And that’s not the sort of
thing that we should forget about.

Lots of people
deserve better than they get, of course. But Diane was one the few
we know about. I couldn’t help her before, but I want to help her
now, even if it’s just by remembering her. It sounds trite – it
is
trite – but it’s true. Her suffering
has made her real to me.

The water rains
down on us, soaking our skin and hair, filling the bathroom with
warm mist. Outside thunder growls in the distance, and flashes of
lightning throw the city skyline into stark relief. The storm rides
in on a cold wind from the East Coast, stripping the summer night
of its warmth. I hold Neil close beneath the shower, revelling in
the feel of his chest hair tickling my breasts, his belly against
mine, his stirring penis pressing against my thigh. We hold each
other for a long time, kissing, and I feel his tongue slip shyly
between my lips and linger there. I kiss him back, pulling him
tighter against me, dizzy and desperate with need.

Eventually I
break away from him and step back slightly, keeping my hands on his
shoulders.

“I’d like to
wash you all over,” I say. “Would you like that too?”

He gazes at me,
his hair dark with water, his body shining.

“Yes,
Mistress,” he murmurs.

I take the
showerhead from its holder and go to stand behind him, feeling my
pelvis slide over his wet buttocks.

“Tip your head
back,” I say, and he obeys. I point the showerhead so that the
water runs over his hair, soaking it, and then replace it in its
holder. I take a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, squeeze some
into my palm, and begin to lather it into his hair. A sharp citrus
scent fills the bathroom as I gently massage his scalp. I watch as
the foam slides down the back of his neck and over his back. Then I
wash it away, tilting his head back so that the soap doesn’t get
into his eyes.

“I want to put
conditioner on your hair,” I tell him. “I want your hair to be
soft.”

He murmurs his
assent, and I reach for the conditioner and smooth it over his
hair. He stands still while I work it into his hair and then rinse
it away. Then I reach for the shower gel, lather some between my
palms, and begin to soap his shoulders and back, rubbing my hands
over his flesh and muscles, letting my fingers trace the length of
his spine. My hands stray down to his buttocks, and I wash them
gently, and then crouch down, sliding my hands down his thighs, his
knees, and his calves.

“Lift up your
right foot,” I tell him.

He raises his
foot and I wash it, stroking the hard skin on his heel, and then
place it back down.

“Give me your
other foot,” I say. He obeys, and I glance up at him as I wash it.
He is standing with his hands on the shower wall, with his head
turned to one side. Beads of water run down his face, and his wet
hair is plastered to his scalp; his expression is one of sweet,
dreamy peace. I stand, running my hands back up over his body, and
kiss his cheek.

“Turn around,”
I whisper. He turns to face me, and I kiss his neck and jaw. Then I
lather some more shower gel between my palms, and begin to wash his
chest, running my fingers over his nipples and through his chest
hair before lifting his arms and washing his armpits. I move my
hands further down, stroking his torso and pelvis before I finally
reach the dark thicket of his pubic hair, and the strong, stiff
length of his cock. I wash him there, stroking him, feeling him,
and he murmurs something beneath his breath and lets his head tip
back slightly, so that the spray from the shower mists his face.
The sight of him awakens a deep, hot need in me, an ache of
desire.

“Hold out your
hand,” I say.

He extends his
right hand, palm up, and I squirt some shower gel into it.

“Now,” I say,
“rub it between my legs.”

His hand slips
down my wet body, and I feel his fingers stroking the sensitive
skin between my thighs. His hand moves up and cups my groin, and
his thumb runs over the thin line of hair there. I lean closer to
him, pressing my breasts against his chest, seeking his mouth with
mine. We kiss, and I slip my tongue between his lips just as his
finger slides inside me and begins to stroke my clitoris. I feel a
sharp tingle of pleasure, and make a small sound of desire. My
clitoris hardens beneath his touch, every nerve standing to
attention, while pleasure-bearing chemicals flood my brain and
drown out all anxiety and fear. I kiss him harder, and he strokes
me more firmly, until I think I might die of desire.

“Oh God,” I
whisper. “You don’t know what you do to me. You don’t know how you
make me feel.”

His gentle but
insistent fingers, and the confidence with which he touches me,
tells me that he does know. In passion, there is little room for
doubt.

I pull away
from him, almost afraid of my desire, not wanting this moment to be
over too soon. I take his hand from my thighs and guide it to his
cock, and then place my own hand over it and move it, so that he is
now stroking himself, gently and teasingly. He gives a small mumble
of pleasure, and I lean closer to him as the storm outside comes
closer and the thunder grows louder.

“So stiff, so
ready,” I murmur. “Do you want to come?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

I manipulate
his hand harder and faster, increasing the intensity, and he sighs.
Then, just as I sense him nearing orgasm, I pull his hand away, and
he makes a little sound of protest. I take his balls in my hand and
gently pull them down, and he grunts.

“Not yet,” I
say, and smack his backside hard. My palm makes a sharp slapping
sound as it hits his wet flesh, which echoes around the enclosed
shower cubicle. “Not until you’ve given me pleasure. Then, if
you’ve been good, I might let you come. Get down on your
knees.”

He slips down
into a kneeling position, and looks up at me, his face full of
desire and pleading. I smile down at him and spread my legs,
leaning back against the shower wall so that I’m open to him.

“Now,” I say,
“kiss me, and lick me.”

He begins to
nuzzle and kiss the inside of my thighs, soft little kisses that
give rise to starbursts of sensation on my skin. His mouth moves
higher up, until it reaches the point where my thighs meet. I feel
his breath, warm and tingling, against the most sensitive part of
my body. He runs his lips over the entrance to my vagina, and then
slips his tongue inside, and I feel it, soft and sly, moving over
my flesh. He runs it gently around the inside of my cunt and then
moves inwards, slowly, until at last he reaches my hard, pulsing
clitoris. His tongue rouses me to new levels of passion; I brace my
body against the shower wall and moan as throbbing waves of
pleasure course through my body. His tongue moves more firmly and
insistently, taking me higher, until I feel the sensation
concentrating on one tight, hot, pulsing point between my legs.

“No,” I say
and, lifting my right foot and putting it on his shoulder, I push
him gently away. He leans back and looks up at me again, and his
eyes are hot with yearning.

“Stand up,” I
breathe. He places his palms down on the wet shower floor and eases
himself up, a little awkwardly. We kiss again. We are both
breathless with desire and hungry for each other. I turn around so
that my back is pressed against his chest and belly, and open my
legs slightly so that his cock slides between them. Then I clamp my
wet thighs around him, and we begin to move back and forth, so that
his cock slides between my legs. I look down and see the tip
emerging from between my thighs, disappearing, emerging again. I
push my body down slightly, so that his shaft slides between the
lips of my cunt and rubs against my clitoris. His hands slide up my
belly and cup my breasts, and his thumbs stray upwards to circle my
nipples. I feel his mouth grazing the side of my neck, and he
kisses me, his harsh breath tickling my skin, as his rhythm
increases. Outside, the storm breaks out in a fury: there is
constant thunder, insane bursts of light. Rain hurls itself against
the window.

“Wait,” I cry.
“Stop.” I step away from him, and he moans as his cock slides out
from between my legs. I step behind him and, pressing my body
against his, reach around and slide my hands down his chest and
belly. I move them further down, and begin to cradle and stroke his
cock. I feel it slipping through my palms, urgent and throbbing,
craving release. I stroke and knead him, willing him to derive
every last drop of pleasure from the experience.

“You’re so
beautiful,” I whisper into his ear. “So, so beautiful.”

He moans,
perhaps allowing himself to believe me in this moment of pleasure.
He lifts his chin, and his expression is somewhere between ecstasy
and pain, as if my gently stroking hands were a form of torture. I
stroke harder, grasping him firmly, and his hips give a violent
jerk, and he cries out as he comes. His hot semen spurts out into
the cupped palm of my left hand. He strains back against me, and
then leans forward, hands against the shower wall, gasping, almost
sobbing. Outside, the rain is weakening, the thunder
retreating.

“Turn around,”
I tell him, when he has steadied himself. He turns to face me,
dazed with sex and release, eyes hooded, body slow.

“Now,” I say,
“I want you to taste yourself.”

I dip the
fingers of my right hand into the small pool of semen in my left
palm, and lift them to his lips. His tongue darts out and licks it
up, and then his mouth closes over my index finger. He sucks, and
his sleepy eyes meet mine. I drag my finger out of his mouth and
trace the shape of his lips. I kiss him, tasting him, wanting
him.

“How perfect
you are,” I whisper. “I want to know every part of you. I want to
lose myself in you.”

I don’t really
expect him to reply to this, and so when he remains silent I feel
only a slight sense of disappointment. We know the rules of this
strange, wayward game, he and I. We never speak of love. We never
say “forever”.

Or so I think,
anyway; but later, when we’re lying on the bed in the dreamtime
that follows sex, he suddenly says, “We’ve been foolish, haven’t
we, you and I?”

“In what way?”
I ask.

“We thought
that none of this had to matter. We thought we could have our
little bit of fun, and then walk away and be none the worse for it.
But these things change you. The person you become is not the
person you were.”

“Everything you
experience changes you,” I say, cautiously.

“Some things
more than others.” He looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve never been a
very honest person, you know. Not with other people, and not even
with myself. I’ve spent years lying to myself, telling myself that
I was just another ordinary bloke, content with an ordinary life –
or what we’re told is ordinary, anyway. But there was always this
secret side. A dark stream flowing just beneath the surface.”

“Submission?”

“That. And
other things besides.”

“Such as?”

“Almost
everything I’ve ever felt. Do you know the first time I wondered if
I’d made a mistake in marrying my wife? On our honeymoon. God, I
remember it so well. We were staying in this castle in Scotland,
and we’d been out somewhere, and something had gone wrong – it had
started raining, or we’d run out of money, something like that. And
she was furious. She didn’t bother to hide it, either. We got out
of the car and started to walk back to the hotel, and she was
stamping away, a few feet ahead of me, face like thunder. I just
followed her; I didn’t know what else to do. And all the time there
was this scared little voice whispering away in my mind: You’ve
made a terrible mistake. You’ve been married for two weeks, and
already you want a divorce. And then I thought: All right, it’s
bad, but it’s not a
calamity
. We’ll just get a quick divorce
and go our separate ways, and everything’ll be okay. And do you
know what happened next?”