Undone (29 page)

‘Who is he to you? What’s your connection?’ My voice was sharp with frustration.

Ilya glanced at the bowl of water. ‘There’s a good little puppy,’ he cooed.

‘You’re trying to humiliate me.’

‘Damn right I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it makes my dick hard.’ He took a step closer. ‘Even now, just picturing you on the floor, burning up with shame, is making me hard. You wanna feel?’

‘Fuck you,’ I breathed.

‘I’d love it if you did.’

‘I want to leave,’ I said. ‘Let me pass.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Never been surer.’

He stepped aside, giving me free access to the sofa. Straggles of hair from his top knot hung around his face and neck. He looked like an evil overlord from another world, albeit an extremely attractive overlord. I crossed the room, head high, fearing he might pounce. But he didn’t. He watched, smirking, as I collected my bag.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your hospitality.’

He laughed gently. ‘Any time.’

My heels sounded louder than ever as I retraced my route. I felt his eyes on me as I descended the three vast steps and left the room, entering the labyrinth of archways and passages. Tears burned my eyes. Disorientated, I faltered, and headed in the wrong direction before I got my bearings. I turned the correct way, heart hammering as I found the corridor I’d walked along earlier. The door by which I’d entered stood in the distance like a vision of hope, daylight glowing through the frosted glass and ironwork leaves. All I needed to do was keep walking along the Persian runner. The carpet dulled the noise of my heels. I felt as if I were sailing along a white tunnel towards a bright light of freedom. The door wouldn’t be locked, would it? Might I end up stuck in this building like a lab rat running around a maze? Keep walking, I told myself. Don’t think about Ilya. Don’t think about Sol. Just look after yourself.

I would go back to Saltbourne, to my empty flat in the cobbled mews, and I’d forget about them both. But, oh God, where was Sol? Why had he vanished? Was he in danger?

If I left this villa now, I might never know the truth. My pace slowed and I grappled for reason and sense. Supposing Sol came to harm because I’d refused to drink water served in an unconventional manner? Because I’d prioritised my pride over his welfare? It was only water from a bowl. And a regular soup bowl, not a dog bowl or anything similarly vile.

I paused and leaned against a whitewashed wall, pressing my head against stone. The faint pulse of the sea surrounded me, soft and peaceful. That crystalline coastal light hung in the broad corridor. In a shelf cut into the wall, a pewter vase gleamed like a holy relic. For a while, time stood still. I was held in a limbo of indecision, in a place of worshipful calm, distant waves murmuring like an incantation.

Do it, Lana. Do it.

Don’t, Lana. Don’t.

I told myself you only experience humiliation if you buy into the context. There was nothing intrinsically demeaning about drinking from a bowl. The problem arose from the fact that animals, lacking digital dexterity, drank on all fours and we believe ourselves to be superior to animals. Ilya wanted to force me lower, make me less than human. But if I drank willingly, happily, as if it were no big deal, I could thwart his attempts to debase me for his personal kicks. I could spin the situation to suit my needs, not his. Or I could try.

Besides, it wasn’t as if these kinds of games were anathema to me. In a different situation, being shamed and humiliated would have been right up my alley. But this wasn’t a game. Ilya had something I wanted and that gave him authentic power. Even while that imbalance was infuriating, a small part of me thrilled to it because I found him attractive and excitingly dangerous. But I knew it was unwise to pay heed to that part.

Could I walk away? Was staying such a big deal? What would Sol want me to do?

What did
I
want to do? I withdrew my compact from my bag and checked my reflection. My skin was shiny so I blotted and powdered. I looked and felt calmer. ‘For Sol,’ I told myself as I snapped the mirror shut.

I strode boldly down the corridor, shoulders back, and returned to the sea-view room.

‘OK, I’ll drink,’ I called breezily. I took the three broad steps up into the room. ‘Bring it on!’

Ilya lay sprawled on the chrome and leather sofa, knees wide apart, as if he’d been expecting me. His posture was lewd, indolent and menacing. He grinned and nodded to the bowl of water. ‘All yours.’

I fished about in my handbag for a hair elastic, set the bag aside, and briskly pulled my bob back into a tail. I smoothed stray strands from my face, hooked threads behind my ears and knelt. The floor was cold and hard against my shins, as smooth as ceramic to the touch. The big rectangular tiles spread out around me like a weird football pitch, their soft honey sheen mottled and lightly veined. I tipped forwards, my clammy hands flat to the floor, and pursed my lips on the water’s surface. Immediately I realised I didn’t know how to drink on all fours. I didn’t have the tongue technique to lap.

‘Drink,’ said Ilya. ‘Don’t pretend.’

I made a little slurp and dipped my head up and down, hoping to give the impression I was drinking. I tried to ignore the pulse ticking between my thighs. In the corner of my eye, I saw him stand.

‘Don’t stop until I say so.’

His bare feet moved closer. I kept pecking and sucking at the water, trying not to feel like a fool. His footsteps made small sticky noises on the polished floor; then his feet were by my head. I slotted my eyes sideways. Even his toes were handsome, the nails neat, ivory squares. My heartbeat quickened. I suppressed the urge to put myself at a safe distance from him. Just keep drinking. It’s a means to an end, no more than that. The water cooled my lips and I concentrated on the sensation, hoping to block out the fear and the desire. I sensed him bend closer and then felt his hand on the back of my head. It was the first time he’d touched me. I feared he was about to push my face into the bowl but, instead, he deftly removed the band from my hair. A fine, blonde curtain swept over my face. Lust bolted to my groin. Dear God, that he could get to me so quickly, could make me so weak and soft in the cunt, was beyond my comprehension. The tips of my hair dipped in the water and filaments swirled in the liquid, tangling with my tongue. Before long, wet hair was clinging to my cheeks and lips, ruining my bid to stay tidy and crisp. Embarrassment heated my face. I prayed I could conceal my arousal from him.

‘Put your hands behind your back,’ he said. ‘As if they’re cuffed.’

I did as told, the pulse drumming between my thighs as I continued to drink.

‘Now we’re talking,’ said Ilya, and I heard amusement in his voice. ‘Sit back.’

I obeyed, perching on my heels, cheeks flushed. My hand instinctively rose to my messy, wet face. Quick as a flash, Ilya grabbed my wrist, preventing me. His grip was warm and firm. More than firm. Severe. Think of Sol, I told myself. Things were bound to improve once I’d seen this through. Ilya leaned close and I glared at him. I caught the faint hint of his scent and I wanted to snuffle all over his neck, breathing in his skin’s oil, his sweat and his fragrance, eager to get the maximum amount of him.

‘Your hands are cuffed,’ he said. ‘Remember? Keep them in place until I say you’re free.’

He released me and I pressed my wrists together as required. My lips and chin were uncomfortably damp. Water dripped from the ends of my hair onto my shirt, cool droplets tickling uncomfortably below my clothes. Ilya removed the bowl, feet squeaking on the tiles. I gazed directly ahead at the parted doors and the line of the horizon above the stone balustrade of the patio. The sky was cornflower blue, the vapour trail of a plane slicing a fluffy line behind the glass.

Ilya returned to stand in front of me. ‘Look up at me.’

I did, noting that his sweatpants were bulky at the crotch. He towered above me, and his height and strength versus my reluctant, kneeling obedience made my groin flood with a yearning for submission. Not for servility and obedience but for a forced, whorish submission.

‘It’s very touching,’ he said, ‘that you’d abase yourself to this extent for the sake of a man.’

‘I’m not abased,’ I replied coolly. ‘Just slightly damp.’ He laughed. ‘Nice try. So Sol means a lot to you?’

I shrugged. ‘I guess so. Are you going to tell me what this is about? Or are you just going to keep tormenting me?’

‘The latter. For a while, at least. Because I’m interested, Lana. Interested to know whether you’re making a genuine sacrifice here, in doing what I ask. Or getting pleasure from it. I said, “Look up at me.”’

I’d let my gaze drift. I returned to my meek, doe-eyed pose, on my knees in my invisible handcuffs. ‘Why?’ I said boldly. ‘Would it ease your conscience if you thought I found this exciting?’

He squatted on his haunches so we were eye to eye. Carefully, he thumbed wetness from my chin. I held his gaze, refusing to be cowed. ‘Yes. Yes, it would,’ he said. ‘More than you’ll ever know.’ He tipped his head, sarcastically tender and concerned. ‘But, either way, it’s not going to stop me.’

He brought his hands to the top button of my shirt and unfastened it. I let him. He glanced from my cleavage to my face, trying to read me. I was doing my best to give nothing away, to deny him the comfort of my consent. Despite the late summer warmth, goosebumps crawled across my skin. He undid a second button, continuing to watch me. My face was stone. Ilya’s smile curled in triumph as he opened a third button, widening my shirt enough to push the cotton over my shoulders and down my arms, symbolically trapping me. Water dripped from the ends of my hair, cool droplets rolling down my skin.

He eyed my bra. ‘Sol’s a lucky guy.’ He placed a broad hand over one lacy cup and gently caressed, scrutinising my face.

I knew I was reddening, and could do nothing to stop it. Between my thighs, arousal throbbed, my flesh becoming plump and open, my wetness seeping. He kept massaging my covered breast while observing me, driving me half-mad with lust. Anger simmered alongside my desire but the latter was stronger. At length, he tucked a finger behind the lacy cup and firmly stroked my nipple. A small sound escaped my lips as my tip crinkled under his touch. I closed my eyes in regret.

‘Don’t fight it, Lana,’ he breathed. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone. This can be our little secret.’ He pushed more of his hand into my bra, squeezing. My nipple was as hard as a pebble. ‘We can have a good time together, you and I. Don’t make this difficult for me.’

He withdrew his hand and methodically nudged my bra straps aside. He stroked across my collarbones and swirled a finger over my bared shoulders, as if covetous of my skin. I did my best not to react, knowing he’d see that as a victory, but between my thighs I was a storm of need. He pushed the straps further down my arms and then slipped a hand into one cup. His broad, confident touch made me groan.

‘That’s better.’ He lifted my flesh from the fabric. ‘Try and enjoy yourself, Lana.’

I pinched my lips together as he scooped me free of the bra. He wriggled both cups lower, leaving me exposed and half-dressed, hands still clasped as if I were in bondage. My skin was streaked with dampness, occasional drips falling from my hair. I kept trying to clutch at rationality, at a fragment of good sense that might urge me to stop but my resistance was low. Lust consumed me. I was greedy for him and couldn’t bear to break away.

‘Tip your head back,’ he said. ‘Imagine your hair is tied to your wrists.’ His voice was soft and soothing.

I obeyed, arching my back and gazing up at the bright, white ceiling, knowing the position made my breasts jut.

‘Pretty as a picture.’ He ran a hand down my neck and along the valley of my cleavage. ‘I assume you have a lipstick in your bag,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘May I?’

‘Yes.’

I listened to him stand and root around in my handbag. I wanted to direct him away from the Mac lipstick and towards the Boots 17 but was loath to complicate matters by giving him instructions. I winced to think of how weak I was. I wanted to know about Sol, yes, but this was a long way from heroic sacrifice. I liked it. Liked being on my knees and at the mercy of a man I should be running ten thousand miles from.

I glanced aside as Ilya approached with the lipstick. I was held in invisible bonds, head back, wrists tied to ankles, and I didn’t want to move. I wasn’t sure if he would use actual, physical force if I declared I wasn’t prepared to go any further. I didn’t think so. He got off on the fact I was acquiescing to this, and ostensibly doing so out of concern for another man. Ropes and handcuffs might be hot, yes. But Ilya’s greatest pleasure was in seeing me fix myself in these psychological snares. He wanted to see me doing it to myself. That was the worst of it. I couldn’t escape him because I couldn’t escape myself.

‘Head back, Lana,’ he said.

He crouched and wiped my chest and breasts, removing traces of moisture. I flinched at the first touch of lipstick there; then I held still, breathing shallowly to give him a steady canvas. He wrote on my skin, but it was impossible to track the letters. All I felt was the cool, waxy press of lipstick moving across my chest and skimming the upper swell of my breasts. He clicked the top back on the tube and rolled it across the floor, away from us. He stood.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘So beautiful that I want to stick my cock in your mouth and fuck your face. Fuck you like a cheap, dirty cumslut. How about that, Lana?’

I said nothing although my heart boomed. I hated him but, even so, a dark, sultry lust uncurled within me, stealing through my veins. He bent close and pinched my jaw in one hand, squishing my lips into a duck shape. ‘I said,’ he continued sternly, ‘“How about that, Lana?”’

I jerked my head free of his grip, a grunt of annoyance snagging in my throat, but I kept my wrists locked together.

‘Is that a “no”?’ he asked, straightening.

I didn’t reply.

‘So, is that a “yes”?’

Again, I remained silent.