A Wayward Game (21 page)

The idea
doesn’t seem so incredible, from a certain point of view.
Corruption is inevitable, in all large organisations, however fine
their motives or benign their purposes. Eventually, deception and
hidden agendas will take root. Besides, how can any institution
remain pure, when faced with wealth and power? People can be
bought; failing that, they can be intimidated.

But Neil isn’t
like that, I tell myself. He joined the police for all the right
reasons, and I’ve never had cause to doubt his honesty and
sincerity. I
trust
him. But – the thought intrudes like an
unwelcome guest – am I right to do so? What do I know about this
man, really?

For months I’ve
talked to him about myself, my past, and my work. We’ve spoken
together about Diane, James Sallow, everything. Looking back now,
it seems to me that those conversations were often instigated by
him rather than me. Was that deliberate? Was he pumping me for
information, and then passing it back to others? But if that were
so, why then did he warn me that someone – Sallow, perhaps – was
watching me? Some kind of trick? A genuine moment of weakness and
compassion? Or, perhaps, an attempt to intimidate me?

But if all of
this is true, what can I do? Break off our affair? Refuse to see
him again? If there’s no trust between us, what kind of
relationship can we possibly have? Even as I think of this
possibility, though, I know I won’t do it. I want Neil, so badly.
And, in my heart of hearts, I can’t believe that he’s been
deceiving me. I
won’t
believe it. Perhaps Sallow found out
about my visit to Walsh because, even then, I was being spied on.
That’s a plausible explanation, and it exonerates Neil. I cling to
it like a life raft in a stormy sea.

As I walk away
from the shop, though, I feel like the ground is slipping away
beneath my feet, and I can rely on nothing and no one anymore.
London buzzes and heaves around me, filled with people and life,
and as I pass through the streets I know that, whatever is
happening, I have some powerful enemies here.

I am still
wondering later that day, in the evening, when Neil arrives at my
flat. I’m still wondering while we’re drinking tea and talking over
the mundane details of our day. Even as he follows me into the room
where we play our games, I remain unsure. Something that still has
the power to surprise me, after all that I’ve seen and experienced,
is how urgent lust can be, and how it can override all other
instincts. With so many doubts running through my mind, I should
find it almost impossible to embark on these games tonight. But I
am as aroused as ever, and none of my brain’s sombre warnings can
even dampen my desire. If nothing else betrays me, my own body
certainly will.

Neil stretches
out his arms and legs, positioning himself so that he is facing the
St Andrew’s Cross. He is excited, but strangely serene; if he is
nervous tonight, he gives no sign of it. Of course, when you play
these games, trust should be absolute and undoubted on both sides.
He knows that I would never truly hurt him, and I know that he will
always tell me how he feels and guide me. But what if that was
never truly the issue? What if there is some other, deeper
deception going on beneath the surface of our affair?

Two leather
cuffs dangle from the upper arms of the cross, and I attach them to
his wrists and then step back to look at him. I gaze at the white
length of his back and the curve of his buttocks, and the dark hair
on his thighs. He looks almost like a martyr, facing his Fate
willingly and almost triumphantly, and I wonder what he thinks of
when he sees the symbol of the cross. We are both Catholics, he and
I, or were raised as such; and though neither of us is really
religious anymore, there is a sense in which we always shall be. I
continue to think of the Church as my home, with all the
ambivalence that this entails; the cross is, for me, a symbol of
comfort, of suffering embraced and suffering transformed. Diane
would have laughed at that, I think; for her, Nature was God, and
human society the word of God. James Sallow would probably not even
understand the idea, because money is his Divinity. I wonder what
Neil thinks. Does the cross symbolise suffering alone, or is it an
emblem of triumph and redemption? Does it remind him of spiritual
concerns, or of the carnal things we do in this room? Does he even
recognise these things as being distinct? We have never really
talked of such matters.

I caress his
shoulder, let my hand slide down his back, and stroke the soft
mound of his buttock. He closes his eyes, and I hear a very slight
catch in his breath. I continue to stroke him with a soft, circular
motion, and lean towards him so that my mouth is next to his
ear.

“You know,” I
murmur, “you really have the most beautiful ass.”

He does not
reply, but smiles – a smile that suggests that he does not believe
me. I raise my hand and bring it down sharply on his buttock, and
he gives a little grunt.

“Don’t you
believe me?” I ask; and then, when he remains silent, I slap him
harder. “Answer me when I speak to you.”

“I’m sorry,
Mistress.”

“You still
haven’t answered my question. Do you think I’m a liar?”

“No!”

“No,
what
?” I slap him again.

“No,
Mistress.”

“That’s
better.” His buttock has turned pink beneath my palm, and I begin
to stroke it again. “You see, I really love your ass. And by the
time I’ve finished with you, you’re going to love it too. It’s
going to give you feelings you’ve never had before. Would you like
that, do you think?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good boy.”

I take a wooden
paddle from the table, and gently run the flat edge over the skin
of his backside. His breathing quickens, and he leans his forehead
against one of the cross’s arms. I wait, allowing the anticipation
to build, stroking him all the time; and then I raise the paddle
and bring it down on his buttock. It makes a dull slapping sound as
it strikes his flesh, and I imagine the sensation reverberating
through his body, echoing along his nerves. He makes no sound, but
his mouth opens slightly, and I see moisture gleam on his lips.

“Pleasure and
pain,” I say, running the paddle over his buttock again. “We think
of them as being opposites, but very often they come full circle
and meet each other. They both have the same effect, in a way: they
take you to a place of pure sensation. You forget everything except
the feeling. You forget
yourself
. You don’t think, you don’t
feel afraid, you don’t know grief or despair; you just
feel
.”

I bring the
paddle down again, a little harder, and he groans. I stroke him,
pause, and then strike, and repeat the action again and again,
varying it slightly, making the blows a little harder each time,
taking him closer to his limits. He keeps his forehead against the
cross and his eyes closed, and grunts and grits his teeth as the
blows rain down on him. Then, after one particularly smart strike,
he gives a little wail, and cries, “Satis! Satis!”

I put the
paddle back down on the table, slip one arm around his waist, and
gently stroke his tingling buttocks, soothing and calming him. His
head falls to the side, and rests for a moment against my shoulder.
I kiss his hair.

“Satis,” I
whisper. “
Enough
. You can trust me, you know.”

“I know,
Mistress.”

“Can I trust
you?”

“Of course,
Mistress.” He sounds surprised.

“Because this
is a two-way street, you know. If one of us trusts, then the other
must be able to trust.” Neil does not respond to this; probably, he
does not know what to say. There is a slightly awkward moment of
silence. Then, to lighten the mood, I murmur, “Your ass looks so
pretty when it’s red.”

He gives a
little giggle.

“And soon,” I
add, “your face will be every bit as red; only this time it will be
with embarrassment.”

His tongue
darts out and runs over his lips, and he gives a little smile.

I go to stand
just behind him, so that my groin brushes against his buttocks, and
move my arms around his waist. My hands begin to stroke his cock
gently, my fingers sliding over him, and I feel him hardening
beneath my touch. He sighs and moans, and I slide my right hand
lower and cup his balls. I run my fingers over them, and then take
them in my hand and give them a gentle squeeze. He breathes sharply
in. I release them, kiss the back of his neck, and step away. He
gives a little whimper as my body moves away from his, and I feel a
heavy, hungry ache of desire for him.

Returning to
the table, I slip my right hand into a latex glove, and squeeze
some lube into my left palm. I go back to him, and kiss his
cheek.

“Now,” I
whisper, “lean forward, so that your ass is sticking out.”

He leans
forward as far as his cuffed wrists will allow, and spreads his
legs. His buttocks part slightly, the cleft between them marked by
a narrow streak of hair. I dip my latex-covered index finger into
the lube, and begin to smooth it gently over the wrinkle of his
anus, caressing the delicate flesh around the opening to his body.
He makes a small sound of longing. I stroke him until I feel him
beginning to relax; and then, positioning my finger at his
entrance, I push gently until he opens up around me. The tip of my
finger slips inside him, up to the first knuckle, and he groans. I
lean forward, and kiss his earlobe.

“What a lovely,
sweet hole you have,” I whisper. “So hot, so ready for me.”

He moans, and I
push a little further inside him. His body relaxes around me, and
my finger slides in up to the second knuckle.

“You’re going
to feel so much pleasure here,” I say. “One day, I’m going to make
you come so hard that you feel like you’re about to explode. And
then you’re going to cry out for more.”

I push again,
until my finger is entirely inside him, and I feel his muscles
clench around it. He gives a soft sigh of longing.

“And,” I say,
“by feeling pleasure, you’ll give me pleasure. You know that, don’t
you?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

My finger finds
the small bump of his prostate, and I begin to caress it gently,
very gently. He gives a whimper of desire.

“This,” I say,
“is a beautiful way to give and receive pleasure, and I don’t want
you to feel any shame. Do you understand?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good boy.”

I continue to
caress and tease him, stroking his shoulder and arm with my free
hand, listening to him sigh and moan as his pleasure builds. A
small droplet of semen drips from his engorged penis, and falls to
the floor. Sensing that he is close to climax, I gently withdraw my
finger, a knuckle at a time, and he makes a small sound of loss and
frustration.

“Don’t worry,”
I tell him. “I haven’t finished yet. I think you’re ready for a
little bit more.”

His eyes close,
and he leans his cheek against the cool wood of the cross. I peel
off the glove, and then wipe my hands. I pick something else up
from the table and take it back to him. His eyes remain closed, and
I run it gently along the side of his face. He gasps at the feeling
of the cool silicone against his warm skin, and his eyes fly open.
I hold the object up in front of him, and he looks at it with eyes
that are dazed with sex and longing.

“What is this?”
I ask.

“A butt plug,
Mistress.” He blushes as he says the words. His eyes meet mine,
their expression almost beseeching. He has reached that point, I
think, where desire and dread are roughly equal in strength. He
wants this, and he fears it too. Everything he has heard and
experienced in his life to date tells him that real men do not do
such things, and all the old insults and insinuations continue to
circle around in his mind.

“Do you want to
do this?” I ask.

He hesitates,
just for a moment, and then says, “Yes, Mistress.”

I place the tip
of the plug just at the entrance to his wet anus. He parts his legs
a little further, and I gently push it up inside him, a little at a
time. He groans, but does not protest. I stroke his hip with my
free hand as the plug slips inside him. He sighs, and his head
falls forward a little. Then the plug is resting inside his body,
up to the flared base that keeps it in position.

“Does it feel
good?” I ask.

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good. Because
I want you to enjoy this so much. I don’t want you to feel any
shame. Here there’s no wrong, no bad. There’s only us, and what we
want to do. Understand?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“Good.” I reach
up and begin to unshackle him. “I’m going to set you free now.
There’s something I want you to do for me.”

Neil stands up
straight as the cuffs fall away from his wrists, and gently rubs
the flesh there. He stands still for a moment, adjusting to the
sensation of having the plug inside him, stretching him, pressing
against him. His cock is large and hard. I embrace him, stroking
his shoulders, kissing his lips. I move closer, so that his cock
slips between my barely-open thighs and presses against the lips of
my cunt, just grazing my clitoris. A jagged little current of
pleasure forks through me, lightning-quick, making my whole body
tingle.

“Oh God,” I
breathe in his ear, “you’ll never know how much I want you.”

I kiss him
again, and his tongue slides between my lips. We begin to kiss
fiercely, hungrily. It’s different to the kisses we’ve shared
before: it’s more intense, full of half-hidden meanings and
unspoken yearnings. His arms slip around my waist, and suddenly I
don’t want to dominate him anymore; all I want, I realise, is to be
held, to feel treasured. I want to know that I can trust him. I
break away, and lean back against the St Andrew’s Cross.