Kinky (8 page)

‘No, just busy. Stuff to do.’ I was conscious of not looking him in the eye and shuffling stuff on the desk in an evasive manner.

‘Have I said something to offend you?’

‘No! Of course not.’

‘Westfield’s a bit weak really, innit? What if I said somewhere else? Where do you want to go?’

I found the courage to look up. ‘Nowhere, mate. It’s cool. We’ll do something on Sunday if you want.’

He brightened. ‘Nice one. Brunch? Hampstead Heath?’

‘Get your kite out.’

‘I will! Well, I would if I had one.’

‘Sorted.’

Ten minutes of silence while our heads went back down to our computer screens.

‘Definitely a brothel,’ he said, out of the blue, pulling me away from my air-freshener radio ad.

‘What?’

‘That place.’ He jerked a thumb towards the window, indicating Kinky Cupcake.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Just saw this blatant ho come out the door. Skirt up to her arse, heels like Nelson’s Column, corset and a dog collar.’

‘Perhaps that’s just her style. Not very nice to call women hos, Anton.’

‘Style? It’s nasty. Saw a really weird guy come out of there earlier on too.’

‘Did you?’ I hoped to God I wasn’t not blushing too much. My heart was skittering.

‘Looked like one of the Village People but skinnier. I reckon they have male and female hookers in there.’

‘Right. Which Village Person was it? The one with the huge feather headdress?’

‘Nah. Which was the one with the huge ’tache?’

My heart stopped for a beat.

Coincidence.

Paranoia.

Stop it.

* * *

I want to ask him about it, but I manage to head myself off, concentrating instead on small talk about his crazy flatmates and the film I saw with Anton, while we sip at our Kinky coffee.

‘I miss you this week,’ he says, putting a hand on my thigh and squeezing.

‘Me too.’ A rush of scalding love, head to toe. ‘All work and no play …’

He doesn’t know the saying.

‘I play a little bit,’ he says, and for a moment I think he is going to say he’s been having hot kinky sex with Tinkle Tosser while I’ve been at work. ‘We play five-a-side football, me and my friends.’

‘Oh, ha ha, oh, right, oh, that’s good.’

He eyes me, a little puzzled. ‘You like football?’

‘No.’

Over by the bar I notice a familiar-ish figure and I purse my lips.

Her,
simpering between two burly blokes in suits, wearing not much more than a silk bandage and a smile. She has an amazing figure, full and womanly yet somehow lacking an ounce of extraneous flab. Her laughter is infectious and forces you to look over.

‘Shall we get down to the dungeon?’ I ask, trying to drink my coffee too quickly and burning my tongue.

‘What is hurry? We have all afternoon.’

‘Just … can’t wait.’

He chuckles, pats my thigh. ‘I will make you wait. That is cruel thing to do, right?’

‘Not too long though.’

She is looking over. She has clocked Dimitri. One hand primps her hair while the other slides down the curve of her hip. She thrusts out her bosom. The only way she could make it more obvious she wants Dimitri’s attention is by shooting a flaming arrow across the room to him.

She catches his eye. He nods and smiles, then turns back to me.

A riot of cheering breaks out somewhere behind my ribs.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not too long. Is punishment for me to wait too long.’ He winks and I glow. He pushes the coffee cup away and takes my hand, leads me to the Promised Land. Well, the door to the basement stairs anyway.

‘Hiiiii,’ says Twat Face as we pass. ‘Great to see you here. Are you coming to the orgy tonight?’

‘I must work,’ says Dimitri, not stopping.

‘Oh well. Another time. Catch you later. Unless you catch me first.’ Giggle, simper.

‘Later,’ he says and we are through the door, away from the danger zone.

‘She’s very attractive,’ I say, feeling my way down the dark stairs in Dimitri’s wake.

‘So are you,’ he replies gallantly.

‘Not in her league, though.’

‘She is football player?’

‘Not as pretty as her,’ I translate.

‘I am sad when girls talk like this. Don’t say that, please.’

‘It’s true.’

‘You say it again and I spank your ass, Rosie.’

Shivery delight. I’m tempted to say it again, but I refrain.

The door looks like a real dungeon door from some medieval castle – black metal studs, heavy oak, the works.

When I enter, it looks unfamiliar, perhaps because it was filled with people last time and now it is empty. Intimidated, I take an instinctive step towards Dimitri, who puts an arm around me.

‘It looks real.’ The atmosphere of pain and terror dampens my ardour for a while. I cast my eyes around the gloom, seeking adjustment.

It is lit by flaming torches. The brick, which would presumably be dark red, has been painted black. Shadows loom everywhere – exaggerated shapes of the dungeon equipment I see around me.

Oddly designed chairs and benches line the walls, most sporting leather or metal cuffs in strategic places. Set alongside these are devices resembling old-fashioned stocks or pillories, some with benches or other equipment attached. On the stage, the cross we saw in action stands like an altar, while cages and other unidentifiable constructions dot the floor space.

Dimitri plays with some of the furniture, most of which seems to be adjustable. I run my hand over a long bench with a square box at one end, the top of which looks like a toilet seat.

‘What the hell’s this?’ I wonder aloud.

Looking over, Dimitri smirks. ‘I don’t think you want to know,’ he says. He opens a cupboard and takes out a length of chain with leather cuffs at each end. ‘So,’ he says, stretching it menacingly taut before jingling it at me. ‘What do you want to be tied to?’

‘I’m not sure. Some of them don’t look very comfortable.’

‘I think this is on purpose.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘OK, I choose one to start. Here, this table.’

I walk over and inspect it. It’s a high-set black-padded rectangle with a pair of restraining arches that would cover, approximately, the neck and the ankles. Extendable attachments at the side can be used to cuff wrists and ankles, if the arches don’t suit or the legs need to be spread. It looks so cold and clinical that I want to shudder. But I’m with Dimitri. This is exploratory fun. I’m safe.

‘OK,’ I say dubiously. ‘So …’

‘Well, of course, you must take off your clothes. You must be naked for bondage, right?’

‘Oh.’ I laugh, nervous and feeling the cold. ‘That’s right.’

He seems to tune in to my mild anxiety, stepping forwards and grabbing the lapels of my jacket. ‘I help you,’ he offers, sliding it off my shoulders.

The slinky top and skinny jeans test his disrobing skills, but he passes easily, stripping me down to knickers and bra with expert touch. I surrender to an urge to wrap my arms around him and bury my head in his oversized and somewhat threadbare fisherman’s jumper, breathing in the reassuring scent of his rolling tobacco and joss-stick smoke and menthol. He smells outdoorsy, like a woodsman or something. Not that I’ve ever met a woodsman. What actually is a woodsman? It’s unusual in London, anyway, where nearly everyone smells of exhaust fumes.

‘You are worried?’ He hugs me tight, a bone-crushing embrace just the way I like it. ‘Hey, is only me. No big bad wolf.’

‘You could be a big bad wolf,’ I say, emerging from the sweater to look him in the eye. ‘For all I know.’

‘You really think?’

‘I hardly know you.’

‘What do you want to know? I tell you everything. We can go back to café, do this another time. Is a lot to ask, to tie up a girl when there is not time for trust –’

‘But I do trust you. I’m sure I do. It’s OK. You’ve paid for this room, we shouldn’t waste your money.’

‘Money.’ He makes a dismissive
pshaw
type sound.

‘Tie me to the table,’ I say softly. ‘But first, take off my underwear.’

To be honest, the feeling of being held by him wearing only bra and knickers is so sensually delicious that I can’t face getting dressed again. His bear-like warmth against my nudity makes me want to snuggle up closer and closer until we are forced to merge with one another.

He unclips my bra and the sensation is enhanced by the inevitable friction of my nipples against the scratchy wool of his jumper. His mouth presses heat into mine, tongues meeting in the middle, while he works on my knicker elastic. I rub my pussy, neatly shaved for the occasion, into the crotch of his raggedy jeans. My pubis and lower abdomen encounter strips of cold studded leather, imprinting its patterns into my skin.

One of his hands reaches down to my bottom and cups it. ‘How is this?’ he asks, breaking the kiss.

‘Oh, fine,’ I whisper. ‘Just a few tiny bruises left now.’

‘Today, no pain,’ he promises. ‘Only pleasure.’

I squirm against him, wondering how the pleasure will be delivered.

‘Now, on to this table.’

Not sure whether to put myself face down or up, I perch on the edge of the thing, hands clasped tightly in my lap.

He lifts the neck and ankle arches and instructs me to lie down on my back, which I do. The leather is cold and clammy against my back, bottom and thighs. The narrowness of the table makes me clamp my legs together.

Dimitri lowers the neck arch, securing my head, but he removes the one lower down and places my ankles in the side-attached cuffs instead. When they are secure, but not too tight, he pulls them out, notch by notch, until my legs are well spread. This process is repeated with my wrists, so that I am a secured starfish, unable to move or raise my head. The neck arch prevents me from seeing what is actually happening lower down my body. If Dimitri moves beyond my hips, or crouches down, I can’t see what he is doing to me. He could do anything. I wouldn’t know until he was doing it.

My cunt spasms and I know I am wet and ready. There is nothing I can do but stare at the ceiling. At the hooks attached to beams that run beneath the ceiling. Interesting.

I hear his footsteps. He is back at that cupboard. There is much metallic rattling and some ruminative tutting.

I don’t see him walk back, I just hear him. His footsteps stop somewhere near my left set of toes.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ I have to ask.

‘Something really terrible,’ he says.

A barely there ticklish sensation wisps over my toes. I wiggle them and flex my foot. The ticklishness re-sites itself to my instep and I gasp, trying in vain to yank my foot away.

‘No!’ I squeal. ‘You can’t do this!’

He appears by my head, brandishing a black marabou feather duster. ‘Oh yes I can. I can do anything. You can’t stop me.’

He sings the words, then glides back down, dusting me thoroughly and maddeningly, up my legs to the knees, then across my convulsing stomach, beneath my helpless armpits, over my stiffening nipples. Then over them again. And again.

He flutters those feathers so teasingly and so well that I feel my spine twist like an angry snake, working so hard and so pointlessly at removing me from the source of my aggravation.

‘Oh, Dimitri, noooo.’ The duster is swishing along my inner thighs. I jolt up and down, lifting my bottom from the leather, but he just darts the feathers underneath and the tickle trickles along the crack of my arse instead. I lower it abruptly, hoping to trap the damn thing, but he whips it out and reapplies it to my spread and juicy pussy lips.

‘I hope that thing’s clean,’ I say, suddenly panicked.

‘Relax, it’s cool. We put all the used toys in a bag and take them to reception after. They are good with cleanness.’

‘Cleanliness.’

‘Yes, that. You correct me, you get extra tickle.’

I scream as he flicks the thing from side to side of my pussy lips, rapidly and without mercy. My clit must be enormous by now; I picture it catching the feathers with its sticky juices, so they are stuck fast and can’t tickle me any more.

But before that can happen, the feather duster is discarded.

‘Did that feel nice?’ he wants to know, but his tone is devilish.

‘I hate tickling!’ I pout. ‘Thanks for stopping though.’

‘You hate it?’ I feel his fingers splay high up on my inner thigh, almost on my outer labia. ‘Not so much. This is very wet here.’

‘It’s not.’ I don’t know why I feel compelled to lie. Something about being so helpless and restrained makes me want to assert myself by being contrary.

Dimitri simply laughs. ‘OK, it’s not. If you say so. What is next? You are wondering?’

‘Of course. What is it? Is it nice?’

‘You tell me.’

I hear a squirting sound, and then his fingers rubbing something into my breasts and around my nipples and …

‘Oh God, that’s freezing cold! Oh God! So cold it burns!’ I feel my nipples contract and my whole body shiver under his touch. ‘You aren’t going to put it …?’

A dot of it lands on my clit, travelling by fingertip.

The icy torment spreads from that tiny apex outwards until eventually there is a blessed numbing.

But not for long. A second lubricant or lotion is introduced, my clitoris circled with the stuff, warming it up, and up and up.

‘It’s getting hotter,’ I pant. ‘Much hotter now. Really warm. Tingly. Actually, it’s nice.’ My cunt feels glowy and expanded, a real hot spot. My nipples receive the same treatment and they return to throbbing life.

‘You like that?’

‘It’s kind of intense. I feel really … mmmm.’

My nonsensical ramblings bring his smiling face to where I can see it. He holds up another tub. ‘This one I have not used. I think it can be too cruel for today.’

It looks like some kind of hot pepper cream for the treatment of arthritis.

‘O say it is good after a spanking. Or bad. It is very painful, she say.’

I stiffen. ‘When did you talk to O?’

‘When I book the room. Hey, don’t look at me like that!’

‘Sorry.’

‘I make you sorry.’ He pretends to open the lid and I repeat my apology, more urgently this time. He puts the tub aside.