Kinky(39)

‘Let’s just say I’m a good reader of people.’

‘Let’s just say you’re spouting all this crap because you want him for yourself.’

‘I certainly wouldn’t say no. But I wouldn’t try to stifle him either, or keep him from making other people happy.’

‘What about what makes him happy? Have you thought about that?’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course … I have.’

She catches the hesitation, a hesitation that comes of seeing him leave the building with Trixietots earlier. Does he want to spread himself around, for love as well as money? Have I just been the practice model, helping him hone his skills for the real deal?

I really didn’t think so. I really thought there was something special between us. But what do I know?

‘He wants to be a pro-dom. Does that sound like a one-woman man to you?’

‘He needs money.’

‘There are so many ways of earning money, my dear. Being a pro-dom isn’t the first one that springs to mind, is it?’

‘Well, it’s something he enjoys and he’s good at it. It doesn’t mean he wants to sleep around. In fact, he’s said loads of times that he wouldn’t have sex with his clients.’

‘He’s said that to you.’

‘What, so he’s told you different?’

‘He doesn’t need to. Actions speak louder than words.’

‘What?’ I leap up close to O, stretching on tiptoes so our noses almost touch. It’s an act of aggression, and I wish I could stop myself, but once I’ve done it I can’t seem to step back out of it. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’

‘What the fuck do you mean by threatening my partner?’ The voice, cold and male, comes from the doorway.

I come to my senses and move back, subdued and close to tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter to Mal as he strides into the room. ‘I didn’t mean to get so worked up.’

‘I suppose this is all about beloved Dimitri, is it?’ he says. He sounds resigned, and a little bit pissed off. ‘O, you know you can’t have him, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?’

A tiny flicker of hope sparks up. I work hard at hanging on to it.

‘She’s obsessed with him,’ he tells me. ‘But he isn’t obsessed with her. When that happens, you have to let it go. You know it, darling, don’t you? But you won’t be told.’ He caresses her under the chin, then takes hold of a nipple and twists it.

I wince in sympathy.

She whimpers, ‘But he’s so pretty. I want him so much.’

‘You can’t have everything. You’re spoiled enough as it is. Have you been telling tales to poor Rosie here? Is that why she got cross with you?’

‘I didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true.’

She gasps as he smacks the side of her breast, hard. I watch the flesh jiggle and sway.

‘He’s not yours, O. You can’t be his. You’re mine. Repeat it.’

‘I’m yours, master.’

‘That’s right. You forget it too often, pet. I think you need a reminder.’

She smiles at that, a big wonky dirty smile, running her tongue along the top row of her teeth with lascivious glee.

‘Please remind me, master.’

‘I will. And, since Rosie here has been upset by your ridiculous crush, I think she should stay and watch.’

‘If you think so, master.’

‘I do. Is that all right with you, Rosie?’

‘Well, I, er …’

‘Take a seat.’

I still haven’t had a chance to ask about Trixietots, but Mal seems impossible to defy. He is the old-school dom, as opposed to Dimitri’s odd and whimsical version, and he carries his air of authority with him at all times, like a gold-topped cane.

I sit down on the stage and watch while Mal unshackles O from the cross, giving her a moment to stretch her arms and rotate her wrists.

‘I’m going to go for an old favourite, I think,’ he says, going over to the wall and pulling away a piece of furniture that looks like a normal kitchen stool, apart from one thing: the long thick dildo erupting out of the seat like a rocket.

‘Over here, my love,’ says Mal, the words not menacing in themselves, but his tone pure evil.

O looks apprehensive, pouting at Mal as she crosses the floor. ‘You’re really going to make me ride it in front of Rosie?’

‘Have you ever used one of these, Rosie?’ Mal asks me, stroking the mountainous dildo.

‘No.’

‘Dimitri’s missing a trick. Hop on, then.’

The last words are addressed to O, who looks sulkily away from me as she places her feet delicately on the low rungs of the stool, steadying herself with palms flat on the seat. To mount it properly, she has to first kneel above the giant protuberance and lower herself, slowly and with much wincing, down on to it. I watch transfixed as her lips stretch and the latex is slowly swallowed up inside her.