A Wayward Game (25 page)

“Stop,” I tell
him.

His hand falls
away from his cock, and he sighs, frustrated. He opens his eyes and
looks at me, his chest rising and falling, and his other hand
strays up to his collar, where his fingers caress the leather. I
get up and slip onto the bed beside him, and stroke his cheek.

“You’re not
going to come just yet,” I murmur. “Now
I
want to touch you.
But first I’m going to tie you up. Lift up your hands.”

He obeys,
raising them so that they lie on either side of his head. I attach
some leather cuffs to his wrists, and fasten them to the bedposts.
I slip my little finger between the cuffs and the flesh underneath,
making sure that they’re not too tight, and then get up and move
down to the foot of the bed.

“Spread your
legs wide,” I say. He opens his legs, and I attach two more cuffs
to his ankles and secure them to the end bedposts. He lies
spread-eagled, completely vulnerable and unable to move. I stand
looking down at him, and smile. Slowly I push down the top part of
my corset, so that my breasts are exposed and pushed up by the lace
and metal wiring beneath. He looks at them longingly. I lie down
beside him and begin to kiss his hair, his face, and his mouth.

“Now you can’t
move,” I murmur. “I don’t want you to move. I don’t want you to do
anything. I just want you to lie still, and
feel
.”

He smiles, very
slightly, and his eyes close. I run my hands over his body,
touching his chest, his belly, and his hips. Then I begin to kiss
him lightly on his neck, and run my tongue over the leather collar,
enjoying the feel and taste of it. My mouth moves down over his
chest, and I nuzzle the hair there, and then lick and suck his
nipples. I move further down, tracing a line with my tongue to his
navel; reaching it, I run my tongue over it, into it. His body
twitches, and he gives a faint giggle.

“What are you
giggling about?” I ask, raising my head, feigning annoyance.

“It tickles,
Mistress.”

“Does it? Well,
maybe I’ll tickle you a little more before I’ve finished.”

I move further
down, kissing and licking his belly and running my lips over his
pubic hair. I don’t touch his cock, but slide down between his
splayed legs and kiss his thighs. I gently scoop up his balls with
my hand, and then take them into my mouth and gently suck. He
moans, and lets his knees fall outwards. I release him, and then
move down his legs, kissing them, until I reach his feet. I kiss
them and run my tongue over the soles. His leg jerks, and he laughs
again, and I find that I am smiling too. I lick his big toe, and
then suck it.

Eventually I
move back up along his body, kissing him as I go, until at last I
kiss his lips again. His eyes are closed; a bead of sweat on his
forehead distends, and trickles down his temple.

“Are you
hot?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Oh dear.” I
smile down at him. “I’ll have to see if I can cool you down.”

A glass of
water sits on the table beside the bed, covered with beads of
condensation. I pick it up, and the ice cubes floating inside click
against the glass. I take a sip, and suck some ice into my mouth.
Then I take it out with my fingers, and gently run it against his
temple and down his cheek. He sighs, and his arms twist in his
restraints. I pass the ice cube down his chest, and gently circle
it over his nipples. He gasps, and pulls against his bindings.

“Oh dear,” I
say, smiling. “I thought I told you not to move.”

“I’m sorry,
Mistress,” he says, but he is smiling too.

“I’ll make you
sorry if you do it again.” I move the ice lower, until it sits over
his navel, and he shivers as it melts and cold water dribbles into
his belly button. “Tell me, shall I move this ice lower?”

“
No
,
Mistress!”

“No. No, I’m
not
that
cruel.” I pick up the melting sliver of ice, and
move it to his mouth. I let it graze against his flesh for a
moment, and then slide it between his lips. He sucks on it, and I
kiss him again, feeling his chilled lips beneath mine.

“Oh dear,” I
say. “Your mouth is so cold now. And I’d really like it to be warm,
because you’re going to be using it.”

He swallows the
last of the ice, and looks up at me. I begin to kiss him again,
slipping my tongue into his mouth. We kiss for a long time, deeply,
while my hands explore his shoulders and chest and slide down his
hips. Then I break away, and run my right index finger over his
lips, tracing the line of his mouth.

“Suck,” I
order. He takes my finger between his lips, and I feel his mouth
close around it and suck. His eyes meet mine again. I draw my
finger out of his mouth, slowly, and a string of saliva lengthens
between his lower lip and my fingertip before it breaks.

“Good,” I say,
and my voice is a little breathless. “I think you deserve a reward.
Would you like that?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

I straddle him,
so that my cunt is above his mouth and I am facing the foot of the
bed. I feel his breath tickling my inner thighs, and move my hips
lower.

“Use your mouth
on me,” I say.

He lifts his
head slightly, and I feel his hot breath on my skin. He nuzzles my
inner thighs, and runs his tongue lightly over the folds of skin
between them. Then I feel his tongue slither inside me, exploring
me. It is both gentle and sly. It begins to flicker over the most
sensitive part of me, and I moan and arch my back. The leather
cuffs around his wrists creak as he moves beneath me, and his
tongue pushes up against me, harder, firmer. Each movement of his
tongue tightens the loop of pleasure that coils there, and at last
I pull away, not wanting this experience to end too soon. I turn
around, and lean down and kiss his lips. They are still wet from
me, and I taste my own hot, sweet arousal on them.

“My God,” I
murmur. “My God, I want you.”

His eyes meet
mine, and I see that he wants me too. Not just for now, or for a
few stolen hours, but forever. Or is he just pretending?

“Please,” I
say, “don’t let me down.” And perhaps I don’t want to hear his
reply, because I kiss him before he can say anything.

I move down his
body so that I am sitting astride him, facing him now. He is
writhing in his restraints, hungry for release, and I cannot bear
to wait any longer. I reach for a condom, rip open the packet, and
unroll it over his cock. Then I move my body down onto his, so that
he pushes against the entrance to my body, and then slips inside,
easily, smoothly. I remain still for a moment, feeling him inside
me, pressing up into the dark core of my body, and then I begin to
move, slowly at first. He sighs, and his eyes close; his body bucks
beneath mine, and he pulls against the cuffs that hold his wrists
in place. His eyes open again, and they seem to be pleading with
me.

“Yes,” I say,
and lean forward. I press the safety catches so that the cuffs snap
open, and then I lower my entire body onto his, so that I am lying
on top of him. He wraps his arms around me, and we kiss. I feel his
hand slide down my back, running over my skin and the lace of my
corset. Another hand moves up to the back of my head, and his
fingers trail through my hair. The movement is so gentle, so
intimate, that it pulls at my heart. I think of all that we have
become to each other in these months, and how things have changed.
I think how cruel it is that, just as I have realised that I love
this man, I have also realised that I don’t even know who he is.
And then thought is drowned by feeling, by waves of sensation that
crash over me and leave me, stranded and grasping, on this strange
new shore.

“The love you
feel is so intense,” Neil tells me later as we lie together on the
bed. “It makes everything else seem irrelevant, almost. You can’t
think about anything, apart from your child. That’s why couples
stay together long after the love has died. It’s why people do all
kinds of things.”

I wonder if
this is his way of apologising in advance, of telling me why he is
doing what he is doing. If so, it makes perfect sense. Neil is a
father. His ultimate responsibility is to his children. If he has
to toe the line and bow to the people in power to safeguard their
wellbeing, what choice does he have?

Often, I forget
Neil’s children for long stretches, before something happens to
forcibly remind me of their existence. Last weekend, I glimpsed
Neil and his daughters, Karen and Amy, on a Sunday afternoon, near
Leicester Square. They were all walking together, three abreast,
amidst the crowds of shoppers and tourists, with Neil in the
middle. The two girls straggled along on either side, too old for
hand-holding or obvious enthusiasm. The smaller girl, Amy, was
about twelve: a sombre, sad-eyed youngster who bore a notable
resemblance to her father. The older girl was taller, brighter, and
red-haired, and looked around with bright, inquisitive eyes. I
suppose she takes after her mother, Neil’s wife; I could, at any
rate, see little of him in her. I had always known that these girls
existed, of course, but to actually see them shocked me. I think of
Neil as my lover, and occasionally as a police officer; this other
part of his life is hidden from my eyes. I had not prepared myself
for this.

I ducked into a
side street before Neil saw me, and stood in a shop doorway
watching as they walked past. By the rules of our game, this is not
a side of his life that I should come into contact with. His life
beyond the hours we spend together is his, and his alone. That, at
least, was what we agreed. But our original agreement has, of
course, become redundant.

“I don’t know,”
Neil continues, apparently not expecting any reply to his previous
statement. “It’s all such a bloody mess. I think we’re heading for
the divorce courts, my wife and I. We just can’t live together. God
knows, we’ve tried. It’s just such a failure, though, because we
did love each other once. We must have. Once that love dies,
though, you might as well be buried alive.”

“You can’t go
back to her,” I say. “Not if you feel like that. It would kill
you.”

“I know.”

I glance across
at him. His face is turned away, and he is looking out of the
window at the overcast London sky. His expression is gentle and
sad: the face of a disappointed, defeated man. A guilty man, maybe;
or perhaps I’m just allowing my suspicion to cloud my
judgement.

“Are you going
to stay here tonight?” I ask.

“If you want me
to.”

“Well,” I say,
as casually as I can, “today’s Wednesday, isn’t it? I won’t be able
to see you tomorrow or on Friday night, I’m afraid; I have a
deadline that I have to take care of. So you might as well stay
here tonight.”

“Okay. I’m
pretty busy myself at the moment, so that’s fine. Shall we meet
again at the weekend?”

“Of
course.”

“Good. I need
to get out of that little flat sometimes; it depresses the hell out
of me. It’s not so bad during the week, when I’m busy, but when I
actually have time to stop and think – God, it’s awful. It reminds
me of everything I’ve lost. Here, I’m reminded of what I still
might have.”

“And what’s
that?”

“Well, you,
preferably. If that’s what you want too.”

“Do I really
know you, Neil?” I ask, desperately.

He looks at me,
startled. “Well, perhaps not as well as you’d like. But you
will.”

To my doubtful
mind, it sounds almost like a threat.

“It’s not going
to be easy, you know,” Neil continues. “I don’t even know for sure
what’s going to happen next. There’s going to be a lot of waiting,
and you can’t be sure of a happy outcome.”

Too right I
can’t
, I think.

“You can back
out, you know,” he continues. “You can change your mind any time
you want.”

Except I can’t,
can I, Neil? You know as well as I that I have to see this one
through to the end. And if this is your warning to me – if you’re
having an attack of conscience, and you’re trying to get me to back
off – save your breath. I owe this to Diane, and to Frieda, and to
myself.

“Are you all
right?” Neil asks, looking at me. “You seem very preoccupied.”

“I’ve just got
a lot on at the moment.”

“A story?”

“Maybe. I’m not
sure yet.”

“Do you want to
tell me about it?”

“Not yet. Do
you want to hear about it?”

“Not
particularly, no.” He smiles. “If it’s an important story, I’m sure
I’ll hear about it eventually.”

We slip into
silence. His hand strays down over his chest, and he runs his
fingers through the hair there. I remember reading once that we
often touch ourselves when we need to feel comforted. God, I could
do with some comfort myself at the moment. But Sallow might as well
be standing by the side of the bed, looking down at us. He came
between me and Diane, and now he’s coming between me and Neil.

“I’m afraid,” I
whisper, and it sounds like a plea.

“What are you
afraid of?”

“That you’ll
let me down.”

“Katherine.” He
reaches out and pulls me towards him, so that my head rests against
his shoulder. “I’d never let you down. Never.”

Words. The
things we use to reach out to other people, and often the most
treacherous and hollow things imaginable. Words mean little; if we
don’t aim them like arrows at the truth, they are nothing. What if
Neil has been playing his own little game with me? What if this
really
is
a wayward game, with no rules and no Safeword?

Tidesend,
Essex. The name comes, unbidden, into my mind. Tidesend: a name
that evokes deep water, swirling currents, loneliness and stark
conclusions. The kind of place where secrets are revealed and
things come to their natural ends. Tidesend.