Shadow Girl (6 page)

She cannot see the helmeted knight but is aware of his aura. Aware too of how tall he is, how dazzling in his white tunic. How daunting in his ebony coat of mail. Two nuggets of fire burn in the visor's slit.

He is riding her, working her with ruthless precision. One gloved hand on her shoulder. Firm, unyielding. And she rocks on, choking on her bliss.

Her guts begin to heave. Oh God, oh God, she is going to implode. She is going to burst.

She must purse her lips.

‘You're almost there!' booms the knight.

He pulls off a glove, reaches forward and brings a finger to her mouth. She fastens her lips around it. And draws on it. And sucks on it, like a starving animal. Sucks and sucks, as if she could make that finger sing. In perfect time with the pitching stallion, with her bouncing hips.

He pushes back her tongue.

And then he pulls out.

‘O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

The moan has burst out of her like a white-hot jet. She tries to catch her breath but her world keeps spinning. She erupts again, entranced.

‘O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

‘
Parfait! Superbe!
' applauds the knight. ‘That's a beautiful O! So pure, so crystalline! An O which sparkles like a diamond in the night!'

The praise is quaintly lyrical but she is unaware of this. She only knows she has pleased him. Pleased her harsh master.

She feels a sudden rush of pure lust. Harder. She wants to be fucked harder. All the way. Till her brain shatters.

The horse veers in a wide arc, then narrows his curve. A hand grabs her hair and she is pulled up, lifted off the stallion's neck. Her breasts swing freely to the frenzied pace, the nipples kept taut by the pleasure tearing through her. The knight is pounding her. Jolting her arse with every thrust.

This is unbearable. She is tumbling down a vortex of excess. Round and round she hurtles, her face wet with tears. Round the loops of this mad spiral. Closer and closer to the centre, to the heart of the O, to her inner voice.

She gushes, her mind a seamless blur.

‘O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

‘
Parfait! Fantastique!
Another flawless vowel!'

The horse's tail whisks across her skin. She can't hold back, she can't. Jubilation is pouring out of her.

‘O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

‘Now, repeat after me!
Chateau!
'

She whoops the word, her lips curved in an impeccable ring shape.

‘Ch . . . chat-O-O-O-O-O-O!'

‘
Magnifique!
' bellows the knight. ‘Now,
gateau
!'

‘Gat . . . O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

Her blindfold is drenched. There is no respite from the exquisite stings, from the rapture ripping her apart. No escape.

‘
Merveilleux! Adorable!
' roars the knight over one more zap of the tail.

Her arse has blossomed, seared by the whisk, pounded by his thrusts.

‘
Moto!
Repeat!'

‘Mot . . . O-O-O-O-O-O-O!' she hoots, her body convulsing. Her head is held high by the fist on her scalp, her hair stuck in crazy whorls on her face.

‘
Superbissime!
Splendiferous!' thunders the knight.

The fire tail cracks again, forcing more tremors from within. Her throat has run out of words. All she can manage is a pure, unadulterated vowel. Everything else has faded in the tumult of passion.

The stallion's loops have grown so tight there is no scope for a gallop. The beast is bucking madly, twisting round on itself. She has become one with this primal mass, one also with its fire-eyed rider. She has reached the core, the heart of the maelstrom, and she spins on, mewling that perfect O.

‘O-O-O-O-O-O-O! O-O-O-O-O-O!'

‘
Par
. . .
Par
. . .
Parfait!
' falters the knight, shaken himself by strong spasms. ‘
Rem
. . .
Remarquable! Extraordinaire!
You . . . you have . . . achieved . . . multiple O-gasms!'

The sun has almost dipped below the city skyline. The last of its slanted rays are warming the floor of the flat, diffracting on the window glass. In this golden halo lies the dishevelled figure of a nude, boot-clad woman. Strips of silk are curled around her forearms. A blindfold has fallen to her side and lies like a dozing snake on the shreds of a torn skirt. The belt of a bathrobe is hanging discarded from the couch next to her. A few hibiscus petals cling stubbornly to her hair and her back.

Sandra stirs and gingerly opens one eye. She is still feeling light-headed but most of the dizziness, of the heat, has evaporated. The memory of the previous hours seeps back into her consciousness in broken order. The tongue drills, the chocolates, the mirror exercise, the tongue drills again, the yogic breathing on all fours . . .

Suddenly, everything comes flooding back.

Oh no! she thinks, horrified. How could she be so stupid! How could she let him take advantage of her like that? God, oh God!

She is jolted wide awake by the graphic flashbacks and sits up. Her eyes meet the serene figure of Yaouen, reclining in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. He is impeccably dressed, in his white suit, as she last remembers him. The ghost of a smile floats upon his lips. His eyes, as before, have a curious lustre.

‘Good evening, Sandra. I hope you have rested to your satisfaction.'

She glares at him, and tries to cover her breasts with the remnants of the blouse.

The bastard, she is going to let him have it! You just can't abuse people's trust like that! And in her own home too! And all for what? For a few stupid sounds! For Christ's sake! She's going to sue the jerk. She'll take him to the cleaners, leave him with nothing but the shirt on his back, if that!

She launches into a rebuke, her voice a little croaky.

‘
Espèce de salaud, mais tu te prends pour qui? Ça te fait marrer, fumiste, d'embobiner la première venue pour la sauter? Je vais te foutre mon avocat au cul, ça te fera passer l'envie de
. . .'

She stops mid-sentence, in shock. Her mouth drops. She is speaking French. Perfect colloquial French! How can that be? That's . . . that's . . . ‘incredible' is too feeble a word.

‘I will choose to ignore those remarks regarding my alleged cheap scheme to shag an unsuspecting girl, as you so eloquently put it. And I will take no heed either of your pointed threat of a lawsuit. What matters, I am sure, is that the process of linguistic acquisition has been successful.
Mission accomplie
. Congratulations Sandra, you now master the inner voice.'

He punctuates his praise with a slight nod.

‘
Mais
. . .
Mais comment est-ce possible?
' she blurts out.

‘I told you,
ma chère
. My method is revolutionary, and foolproof.'

‘
C'est tout simplement époustouflant! Je suis effarée!
'

‘
Oui oui, époustouflant.
Astounding indeed. Now, dear Sandra, if you will oblige me, could you say something in English?'

‘
En anglais? D'accord. Je m'appelle Sandra Banks, j'ai ving-cinq ans, je suis cadre à
. . .' She stops, puzzled. ‘
Je suis cadre
. . .' She is still speaking French.

‘Just as I thought,' muses her tutor. ‘The new language has imprinted so strongly you can no longer speak your own. You can
think
in English, probably, but not
speak
it.'

She looks at him, uncomprehending. Then the penny drops.

‘
Mais c'est horrible!
' she exclaims. How can she possibly function like this? She'll be a laughing stock at work! She will antagonise her boss! The board! She will lose her job! And how . . . how can she explain this to Mark? Granted, their relationship had been on a limb, but he'll think she is out to sabotage their listing ship. Oh no, no, no, no! This will not do! There must be a way!

‘
Il doit y avoir une solution
,' she hisses, her voice tense, her eyes drilling into Yaouen's.

‘A solution? There is, Sandra. But you might not like it.'

‘
Je n'ai pas le choix!
' she erupts, with a flurry of her hand.

‘Well, you'd have to find that point of equilibrium where you can alternate at will between the two languages.'

‘
Oui oui
,' she says impatiently, ‘
ça veut dire quoi, en clair?
'

‘It means you'll have to practise alternating French and English phonemes within the same session. The core sounds, naturally — the French and English O — but also a variety of other letters and words to improve your ability to switch. ‘
Oui
' and ‘yes', for example, or ‘
encore
' and ‘more'. May I add that one more lesson won't be enough to give you perfect control over your ability to toggle between tongues. We're talking five sessions at least.'

‘
Cinq séances?
' she echoes, caught off guard. She hadn't quite expected that. ‘
Avec les mêmes méthodes?
'

‘Broadly speaking,
oui
, the same methods. There will have to be a few variations,
naturellement
. We must use a fuller gamut of pedagogical tools, such as cunnilinguistic analysis or rectal vowel insertion, but the general philosophy stays the same.'

Cunnilinguistic analysis, rectal vowel insertion? The guy sounds so full of shit. And yet, she cannot believe the results.

She stares at him, weighing her options. Her tongue flicks over her upper lip. The hard-nosed executive in her knows she has no choice but she wants to cut a deal.

‘Okay,' she says, ‘
mais pas de claques sur les fesses et pas de fouet cette fois! Je préfère la version moins épicée.
'

‘The less spicy version it will be. No slaps on the derriere, no horsetail incentive. Promise,' says Yaouen, crossing his fingers behind his back.

‘
Et pas de chocolats non plus. Il faut que je surveille ma ligne.
'

‘Agreed, no more fattening treats for the healthy lady. You can have too much of a good thing. But I must insist on bringing along a vintage Armagnac, to lubricate the palate and compose the mind.'

She hesitates a moment, then nods curtly.

‘
Et pas chez moi
,' she adds. ‘
Je choisis l'hôtel et l'heure!
'

‘Not here? Not a problem. I'll be happy to meet you at the establishment of your choice and at the time of your choice.'

‘
Une dernière chose. Notre arrangement, bien sûr, doit rester strictement professionnel.
'

‘It goes without saying,' assures her tutor. ‘All this will remain strictly business. I would have it no other way. Strictly business.'

He pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, ‘Although the process may involve, on occasions, some residual attachment. We are only human, after all. Only human.'

He holds her in his deliciously compelling gaze. ‘But I wouldn't worry too much about it at this stage. Honestly.'

She pulls away from his iridescence, trying to ignore his last comment, for now. One thing at a time. She gets up, and shows him quickly to the door.

‘
Demain, quatorze heures, Hôtel Sydney Rocks.
'

‘Sydney Rocks,' approves Yaouen with a twinkle in his eye. ‘An excellent choice, with an apposite name, for a remarkable student.'

He bows slightly, and then exits her flat with his box of sweets.

She leans against the door, alone with her thoughts at last. She heaves a long, long sigh of . . . relief? Contentment? She is not sure. Her bottom is still smarting, her pussy still sore from the frantic riding. She needs a shower, badly. She'll email the office early tomorrow, make some arrangements, take a few days off. She still has heaps of unclaimed leave. Not ideal timing, given her current workload, but she'll catch up later.

She steps over the scattered hibiscus petals, glances with an absent mind at Streeton's enraptured belle, and drifts to the large bow window.

She stares at the harbour without seeing it. Her hair falls in golden loops over her shoulders, over her breasts, draping them in a veil of light. She stands there in her high boots and torn silk, oblivious to her nakedness. Her lips turn into a dreamy smile and she gazes at some inner vision, her face an almost perfect replica of the bewitched lotus eater's on her wall.

Her nipple is being teased by a finger not her own. A finger intent on keeping alive the memory of the past few hours.

God, the sex has been mind-blowing again. She came hard and fast, choking on her strangulated moans, such an effing number of times she lost count way before the end. And again, in the end, the cascading pleasure knocked all wind out of her.

Last thing she remembers is being pummelled senseless, and then
zip crack boom
, the sky came crashing down. Not just the sky, in fact, but the whole flip-wiz universe, complete with exploding stars and giant nebulas and black holes that seemed to suck every smidgen of juice and sanity from her. Yeah, she passed out like she did at home. Crashed out after the bastard took her on a grand tour of her hot raunchy cosmos, to places she simply had no frigging idea existed.

And it's only been three days. Three days. Short enough to make her wonder how the fudge her life, and her horny bits, could have been turned inside out so fast, but also long enough, she feels, to have skewed her perspective on things. Mess with her internal compass. Destabilise her sense of self.

Yaouen's finger is following a convoluted, lazy path from her breasts to her belly button, spreading a new web of delicious tendrils across her skin, and far beneath it.

How can there be any life left in her, she puzzles. Surely she has been exhausted for the day — squeezed and shagged absolutely dry. But the evidence is there, tangible, inescapable. Her body is responding like a harp to the touch of this stranger. Like a harp, and like a fiddle, and like a ukulele all rolled up into one. She has been twanging and quivering and mewing with every finger twirl and every grim thrust of this mystery man — this mesmeric and utterly unfathomable lover.

This is new clit territory for her.

Uncharted pussy waters.

They have been mostly fucking since they got together, except for the nights, when they go their separate ways and she gets a bit of rest. She still does not have the faintest who this guy is — really is. He does not talk much about himself, which is a massive understatement. Doesn't let on anything. She has nothing on him beyond what he volunteered at her flat, when they first met. Mauritian-born, he said, with a French mother.

For all she knows, this might be complete bullshit. She never trusted smooth talkers and there is definitely a whiff of the conman about this monsieur. She tried to probe a little in between torrid sessions but he batted away whatever questions came his way with the ease of a seasoned cricketer.

‘Remember,' he said with his totally engaging smile and intense eyes, ‘you are here to learn, not form attachments from which it would be difficult to untwine yourself. Don't be lured into emotional fantasies. These only cause complications. Unwanted heartache. So let's agree to keep the personal to a minimum, shall we? No prying no crying.'

Sure, she thinks wryly, no prying no crying. Strictly business. She would like to believe it can be so. But she has groaned and bucked and thrashed her way past the point of no return, she knows that. She can see — with some concern — her past life retreating like a patch of blue sky before heavy storm clouds. Damn this Yaouen. Damn him for coming in such a deadly package, with his suave manners and rugged bedroom style.

She had tended to envision sex as a prelude to her beauty sleep. The physical equivalent of a hot-water bottle. Something that put her in a nice, warm, fuzzy mood and ended with a sigh, and then a yawn, and then some happy shuteye.

But bonking with Yaouen falls in the raw category, no question about it. Raw, steak tartare variety. No, that doesn't even begin to describe it. It's all much more primal than that. Like being screwed on a stormy cliff by moonlight — by the sort of radiance that brings out the howling bitch in you.

So far, they have gone carnal pretty much anywhere in the hotel room. On the bed, near the bed, on the desk by the window, in the en-suite bathroom, on the chaise lounge on the balcony. What you call a creative use of the facilities.

After their first shag, when she emerged from whatever bliss hole she had been suctioned into, she tried to draw a firm line in the sand of their relationship. Stake out her territory. Get back some leverage. She rolled off the couch, reached for her discarded top and cast a morose look at her torn panties.

‘
Je t'ap
. . .
Je t'appelle demain
,' she said, in a voice that she knew lacked her customary confidence. Yes,
she
would call him tomorrow. Better that way.

‘Not so fast,' came the suave reply. ‘We're not finished yet. You need more training on those diphthongs. Please.'

He threw in the last word as an ironic mitigation — that was painfully clear. She knew it was not a request.

His arm looped around her waist like a snake and lifted her off the ground. Before she could protest, she was back on the couch with her knees spread out and an expert tongue on her clit. She tried to put up some resistance but realised there was no point. She was already dripping hard and before long was working fervently on her vowels again, obedient little student that she was.

The sounds she made turned out less than perfect — still too French — but by that stage she honestly did not give a fuck and Yaouen did not seem to mind anyway. He had plunged into her with unabated stamina until her hips exploded and her vision blurred once more.

She lingers on the memory.

Not for too long, for her attention is being reclaimed by Yaouen's finger, which is tracing playful arabesques south of her belly button. Further and further south, as it happens. This might be bearable — though only just — if her earlobe was not also being nibbled. And then teased by a salacious tongue.

She catches her breath and her pulse bolts like an anxious filly. And there's the now familiar glow between her legs. Shit, here she goes again. What is wrong with her? She used to like — no, she
likes
being in control, so why is she giving in so damn quickly? Why is she enjoying this so much? And why, oh why, does she seem ever ready for more?

She does not know how to handle that feeling. The feeling she is no longer at the helm. That in the blink of an eye, without having a clue how the hell it happened, she has been turned into Yaouen's putty doll. Putty in his hands, that's what she is. Mouldable, pliable. Pathetically responsive to every single caress.

Fuck him. She cannot capitulate so shamelessly.

She turns round to reach for his cock, which was pressing against the small of her back. She has to try to restore a modicum of balance to this twisted dalliance.

But Yaouen will have none of it.

‘And what do you think you're doing, Miss Eager-Beaver?'

‘
C'est à mon tour de
. . .'

‘Your turn? To what?'

‘
Je
. . .
Laisse-moi te faire une pipe
,' she blurts out. ‘
Tu vas voir, tu vas adorer
.' God, did she just say that? You'll love my blowjob? She's always refused to give BJs in the past. Too meaty, too leaky, too gross, she has always thought, not to mention possible unpleasant side-effects like choking on bitter come or catching stretch marks around your mouth.

But she needs to grab back the initiative, so she can't afford to play squeamish. She's got to bite that bullet. Give her first smoking pipe job, as the French say.

She gives Yaouen her hottest look and her hand moves in the direction of his groin.

But it does not get there.

His fingers have trapped her wrist. And the man himself, judging by his set face, remains unmoved by the prospect of being smoked.

‘The offer is much appreciated, but I don't think you've grasped the exact nature of our relationship. Whatever happens between these walls is my responsibility, and mine alone. Therefore I decide what happens here. I would be less than trustworthy if I could not deliver on the promises I made. In fact, I would positively hate myself for it. Surely you would not want that?'

She looks at him and feels she is seeing him for the first time. The colours in his eyes are pulsing strangely. She is both drawn to him and withering under his stare — sitting there like a little girl who has been caught stealing a sweet. She is amazed at how sorely she needs his approval. How she is scared to displease him.

‘
Je pensais juste que
. . .'

‘You thought? There is no need to burden yourself with tiring thoughts. This is your week off, relax, enjoy the ride. Now turn over.'

Without waiting for her to comply, he flips her on her stomach and she bounces on the bed. He pushes her face down into the soft mattress, right between two plush pillows. Keeps her shoulders pinned there with a firm hand, while another pulls up her hips in a single easy move, lifting her like a cloth puppet. She is left, once again, with her backside pointing up. She twists her head sideways, straining to see what he is doing, but her hair is screening her eyes.

‘Your training is not over.'

Her thighs are pushed apart and her wrists seized briskly, forced to her sides and then dragged between her knees.

‘You shall be taught the true meaning of compliance.'

Before she can gather her wits, her wrists have been snared by straps.

‘
Qu'est-ce
. . .
Qu'est-ce que tu fais?
'

The question is not strictly necessary, for she knows perfectly well what he is doing. Her hands are being tied to her knees. She wonders for a second where those straps have come from. She didn't notice any in the bedroom before.

‘Let me drain all that stiffness and worry from you. Drain the false goals, the misplaced ambition. You do not need to think, do not need to strive. I shall be your guide. From here on, your only guide.'

His voice is soothing but his words have an ominous ring. Beneath the sugared tone she can detect a hard edge, something that wasn't there before. Metallic, cold, sharp, like a dagger's blade. She is a lamb about to be offered to an unforgiving god. She wants to say something, to show him she cannot be cowed so easily. That despite her wanton abandon these last few days, savvy old Sandra, with her poise and acumen, is still there somewhere, resting, waiting to return.

She moves her lips in mute rebellion.

The words are catching in her throat, for a part of her is vaguely scared. This guy could do anything to her. There could be a psycho, a killer, lurking behind the smooth facade.
But
, replies a small voice in her head,
he could have killed you before, couldn't he, and he tied you up in your flat, remember? Maybe
, she counters,
but it was just my hands then, and I didn't know any better. Now I'm walking wide-eyed into this
— though ‘walking' might not be the right word.

She shifts her head a fraction, tries to nudge one of the pillows aside. She is ridiculously exposed. Why is she allowing this? This is crazy. She
must
say something. Demand time out. Enough Yaouen, I want out. Let me go. Please.

But she does not speak, and more straps are looped around her knees and secured to the sides of the bed. Her ankles too are lassoed, and anchored to the bed. She cannot move her legs and cannot free her wrists. She is pinned and webbed like a scarlet jezebel on a forest leaf, waiting for the spider's bite. Spread out like a perfect booty before this singular lover.

The thought of calling out for help crosses her mind. There must be someone out there, within ear shot. This has to stop. She cannot let him walk all over her.

Yet, something is keeping her quiet.

Beyond the anxious knot in her stomach, something perverse is finding all this horribly exciting. Something which will not be denied and for which she does not have a name. Something which whimpers and hungers for pleasure, lustful but weak-willed, covetous but cowardly, so alien she will not recognise it as hers.

The creature has no pride, no ego, no spine. It wallows in its greed and submissiveness. It is curled up and lying in wait, a shapeless thoughtless thing glistening in the dark. Feeding on her qualms, swelling her desire, growing fatter on her deviant emotions. It is oozing profusely, coating her thighs in a lush gleam.

God, she is so damn wet again.

The fingers are back. They dance around her clit, hovering and skimming, promising without fulfilling. She writhes under the caress, drawn like a magnet to the cheeky ballet, dying for a firmer touch.

‘You're dripping, sweetheart. Another excellent start. Let me fan that fire. Let me feed that demon of yours.'

Demon? The word resonates within her. Is he seeing right through her? But it's not her demon, is it? That fawning thing does not belong to her. It can't. She's not like that, surely.

‘
Salaud, me laisse pas comme ça
,' she exhales. No, the bastard can't leave her like this. Let him take her and finish this. Her need is spreading like a hot flood. She can hear herself giving up the first groans. Hear herself begging. Grovelling.

He ignores her.

‘Beyond the inner voice may lie darker forces. Sluttish, insatiable. When such is the case, they need to be released.'

Yaouen's hands set to work on her butt cheeks, paying no heed to her leaking pussy. They knead her like dough, determined to mould her.

She feels his fingers grooving her flesh. They are not here to cajole but claim the victor's spoils. Exact her surrender. This is no game, but conquest. She should be appalled by such insolence but is instead hopelessly turned on. And hopelessly appreciative as rough thumbs start policing the crack of her arse. She submits to the arrogant invaders. Submits to the callous pleasure they dish out.

They are stamping her, branding her.

She lets loose a long thin moan. God, she is caving in so fast. The spineless thing inside is so desperate to please. It squirms in gratitude, and makes her arch her back, display her eagerness to serve, to be toyed with and manhandled.
Please fuck me. Ram that dirty big thing into me. Please. I beg you.
The creature is growing more needy with each passing moment. Another moan, like the call of a captive doe. What choice does she have but to yield to the pull?