In Too Deep (27 page)

When I turn back at the door, his eyes are still on me, bright with meaning.

16 Billet Doux

IN MY ROOM
at the Whitford Hotel, which is extremely luxurious, I discover that the guests’ writing paper is blue. Eggshell blue, the exact colour that Nemesis always uses. It must be a sign, or an omen, or something.

After a long, hedonistic soak in which I used almost all the rich complimentary bath essence and sipped at a split of Zinfandel Blush from the mini-bar, I settle down on my wide, soft but achingly Daniel-free bed with my pen and my sheets of blue paper. In spite of the supposedly relaxing bath, I feel mixed up, edgy and a little hyper. I feel as if I’m the one who’s had a brain operation and it’s difficult to process all the events and the emotions of the last week.

I yearn for Daniel, but I feel slightly guilty to be having lustful thoughts about him at a time like this. I know I’m being silly, but it just seems peculiar and a little bit sick to be entertaining sex fantasies about a man recovering from a serious operation.

And it feels even more twisted to masturbate, thinking of him. But I’ve had my instructions, and who am I to argue? Well, not with him …

Casting aside my paper and pen, erotic masterpiece unstarted, I unfasten the thick white robe provided with the compliments of the Whitford. I’m naked beneath it. The room is warm and my skin is a little pink from the steamy bath and a little shiny from the vitamin-enriched body lotion I slathered on after it, imagining I was preparing myself for Daniel.

I close my eyes, trying to summon him, and suddenly it’s easy. In my mind he’s with me, knowing and beautiful, dressed in dark clothing. His wild, black gypsy hair is just as it was before the operation, and as it will be again. And he can see. No spectacles obscure the wicked magic in his eyes.

Sinking into that magic, I imagine him touching me, fingertips tracking over my breasts as I lie inert and unmoving like a piece of statuary designed for his entertainment. He investigates every bit of skin he can reach, then peels off my robe and explores every inch and nook that was covered too. He owns every zone he lays hands on. Breasts, belly, bottom, thighs, sex, it’s all for him. And as I imagine his scrutiny, I imagine how I might describe it in my letter.

He tweaks my nipples, rolling them between his fingers and thumbs, making me squirm and rub my legs together
.

He sticks his forefinger in my navel and it feels like he’s fingering my sex
.

He examines my bottom and my anus, turning me over and making me show him everything, and I burn with as much lust as mortification
.

He plays in the moist groove of my pussy, gently plying the soft lips, my swollen clit, my entrance
.

And when he’s done this, he sticks two fingers right inside me
.

In the real world, it’s just me doing all this and me beating at my clitoris as I thrust and thrust with my fingers in a poor imitation of his penis. But because I’m doing this for him, the pleasure soars quickly and I come, crying out, ‘Daniel!’

It’s quick and hard and disorientating. My flesh is satisfied, but my heart and mind still feel disjointed and somehow out of phase, because he’s not here.

I lie for a while, just breathing, settling myself, quietly reiterating to myself that this is just temporary. Soon Daniel will be well and not only will we be able to have a proper, delicious
fuck
– and more – but we’ll also be able to sit down and talk, and, in my case at least, put our cards on the table.

But I’m impatient. I want to commit now. I know it’s stupid, but still.

So I cinch my sash, top up my wine, climb into bed and take my pen and the hard-backed leather folder containing the hotel’s expensive stationery.

And I begin to write.

Dear Nemesis, I have something to tell you. Some of it you’re going to like, and some you may not. But here goes
…

Here I am in a London hotel room and I’ve just been masturbating. I wish I could tell you that I was thinking about you, but I wasn’t. Not really. I was thinking about another man as I touched myself. The one I spoke of in one of our earlier exchanges. You know the random man who I chose to show my pussy to? It’s him
.

I’ve come to know him, and I’ve fallen in love with him
.

I hope you’re not cross?

He’s beautiful and intelligent and he’s funny. And he makes me feel all those things too. With him, I feel like a goddess. Exactly the goddess that you describe me as, too. Only he does it with the power of his touch, his eyes, his voice, his laugh … and his incredible body as he fucks me and caresses me
.

Just now I was lying here in this wide bed, touching myself and imagining it was him. I’m wearing a thick, fluffy towelling robe, but I unfastened it and opened it wide, so that I could believe that he was studying my body and touching it. His gaze was like molten heat flowing over it, and the brush of my fingers became his, gliding and exploring
.

He made me touch myself everywhere. On my breasts, and my nipples. My thighs and bottom, right in the groove. In between my legs in the cleft of my pussy. I got dripping wet just thinking about him, dreaming of his clever hands examining
me
, his fingers paddling in my moisture. I played with my clit, just the way he plays with it, and I pushed fingers inside me, just the way he does
.

And when I came, it was for him, shouting out his name
.

I hope this doesn’t distress you? But I can’t help myself, I love him
.

I love him for his body, and for the way he fucks and plays with me. I love him for his mind, because he’s clever and playful and unusual and like no man I’ve ever met before. I want to do things with him, to him and for him that I’ve never wanted before. Strange things, that only now seem wonderful and right
.

Can you understand that? I think you can. I think you know him just as well as I’d like to. I think you know him far better than you do me, and than I do you
.

I’m in too deep, Nemesis. I can’t pull back now
.

And I would never want to, even if he doesn’t love me as I love him
.

Will I ever post this? Or hand it to the person it’s intended for? Somehow, I think I will. I’ll be bold. I’ll be brave. He’s worth the risk.

17 Somewhere Luxurious

I’M IN THE
bedroom, in the villa, preparing myself, my heart thudding.

On the bed lies a letter, written in a familiar hand on blue notepaper. It’s explicit and delicious, and it makes me hot. Not that I’m not hot already, in more ways than one.

Here I am in a tropical paradise, somewhere nice and warm and luxurious, and my companion is the man I love and lust for, Daniel. He’s completely well now, fully recovered from his operation and from the threat that prompted it.

The instructions in the letter are quite specific.

Scent yourself with lily of the valley
.

Done.

Trim your pubic fluff just the way I like it
.

Done.

Put a bit of lip tint on your nipples and play with them until they stand up
.

Done … ooh, yes, very well done.

Wear your corset again, your beautiful white one with the white lacy-topped stockings and those white high heels
.

Good job I had the intuition to bring them, isn’t it? But how could I not, given the reaction they got last time I wore them?

The Caribbean twilight is multicoloured and balmy and, obeying my beloved, I hook myself into the lace-trimmed white satin basque that he’s so passionately fond of seeing me in. Despite Daniel’s protestations about my perfection,
there’s
just a tiny bit less of me to cram into it. He said that I was very naughty and he’d punish me if I went on any silly diets and lost weight, but there are just some special days in a girl’s life when she really needs to be more svelte than others. There’s still plenty of me, though, and likely to be a tad more before long, given the luscious island cuisine and its abundance.

A perusal in the mirror is both necessary and a secret pleasure. I like looking at myself in all my snowy finery. Well, I like looking at myself anyway. I love studying my body and imagining Daniel’s hands roving all over it, worshipping it and savouring it and giving it pleasure, oh, so much pleasure, in a score of different ways.

I love the way he looks at it too, seeing it without hindrance now and enjoying every detail.

My reflection makes me giggle. Pretty as the corset and its accoutrements are, they do impart the aura of a naughty ‘Like a Virgin’ lap-dancer, although in the better clubs I would imagine the girls don’t have their boobs balanced quite as precariously on the edge of exposure as I do. And they probably wear G-strings too, whereas my neatly trimmed bush is still on show in all its glory.

I grab a brush, reach up to tidy my hair and, whoops, a nipple pops out from one of the dangerously shallow bra cups. It’s pink and rosy, just as specified, and as I lever it back into place a jolt of pleasure courses through me and my clit glows and tingles. I’ve felt so wanton since we got here that I’m ready for sex every hour, every minute of the day or night. I don’t know whether it’s something in the tropical flower pollen that perfumes the air that’s acting as an aphrodisiac, or just that I love Daniel so desperately that I want to fuck him all the time.

Or do other things.

I run my fingers over the back of the classic and very expensive wooden hairbrush he recently bought me. And that makes my clit tingle too.

Still holding it, I make one last inventory.

Hair gleaming and tumbling over my shoulders? Check.

Acres of ripe cleavage almost bursting out of my basque? Check.

Carefully groomed pubic hair already slightly glistening with arousal? Check.

Eyes huge and bright with exquisite and deliciously fearful anticipation? Check.

My hips swaying, I walk slowly through the secluded private villa we’re renting, my excitement and desire gathering with every step. Between my legs I feel engorged already, and my slippery honey is on the point of welling over. But I know Daniel loves the fact I’m so juicy. He tells me off for being such an easy and wanton trollop that I’m permanently wet for him, but he really adores it, and of course it gives him a perfect excuse to discipline me.

The sky that arcs over the ocean beyond our veranda is streaked with pink and aquamarine, and the colours blend into the darkening tropical night. Lamps flicker at either end of the open, board-floored expanse, attracting fluttering moths, and there’s a rough wooden table and a couple of high-backed planter’s chairs. At the far end of the veranda there’s a low, broad daybed, spread with a cotton throw striped with cheerful, primitive colours.

In one of the high-backed chairs sits my beloved, perfectly relaxed, staring out to sea. He too is wearing white – a pair of loose, drawstring linen trousers – and both his lightly furred chest and his elegant feet are bare and tanned.

But it’s what he’s wearing on his face that makes my sex clench and flutter.

Oh, it’s the mask … the leather mask from our frisky letters and our sex play.

Wicked arousal roils in the pit of my belly and the juice that’s been gathering overflows and slides down my leg, moistening the white lace tops of my stockings.

As if he’s smelt it, he turns, both Nemesis and Daniel, one and the same. As if I hadn’t known that subconsciously from the beginning.

His eyes glitter in the frame of the dark leather that surrounds them and his velvety, sensuous mouth curves for just a second in a little smile. He still wears glasses some of the time, but tonight he’s got his contacts in. The island breeze ruffles his glossy dark hair, which has grown again, although he doesn’t wear it quite as long as before. His black curls frame his head like a halo, giving him the look of a debauched cherub, angelic and infernal.

Especially in the mask.

‘Who said you should bring that?’ His voice is soft and full of laughter, even though it’s clear that he’s trying to sound stern.

I look down and realise I’ve brought the brush with me. Wishful thinking, obviously …

‘Nobody. I … I forgot I was carrying it.’

I feel giddy, light-headed, almost floating, as if I’m on some incredible high. Which I am, of course. I’m flying. I clutch the brush, holding it tight as a way to focus myself and stop myself rocking to and fro, swirling my hips or reaching down to touch myself. Anything to assuage the intense, congested feeling in my sex. Part of me wants to throw myself down on my back on that daybed and just spread my legs wide so he can plunge straight into me. But part of me craves our delicious, twisted games.

He affects a sigh, as if I’m that vexingly dense student again,
the
one who just won’t learn. But it’s all an act. Inside I know he’s laughing. I’m grinning myself, inside, though for the purposes of this interlude my face is solemn and respectful. Well, it is for now. I have a woeful habit of cracking up at critical moments, which sets him off too, resulting in delicious chaos.

‘Well, put it on the table. There’s a good girl.’

So professorial. So nearly stern. So full of love.

I teeter to the wooden table, my heels clattering on the boards and my breasts threatening to spill out of the lace-edged corset, a fact that doesn’t escape his masked eyes. They flare with undisguised excitement, and, when I steal a glance at his crotch, I can see stirrings already under the white linen.

On the table are other objects that make my mouth go dry and my crotch get wetter. Toys for our play, familiar items we both enjoy.

‘Come here now.’

I obey, starting to feel faint. I can never get over how wonderful he is. How glamorous. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the fact that such a special man is mine. That so rare a creature as he is believes that I’m just as special, and has the power to make me believe it too.