Eighty Days Yellow Read online

  Later, he had asked Kathryn, ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Really? Did you like it, though?’

  ‘I . . . don’t know. It was part of the moment, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m not sure why I did it,’ Dominik had admitted. ‘Just did. On the spur of the moment.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Kathryn had said. ‘I didn’t mind.’

  They were on the floor of his study, sprawled over the carpet, still catching their breath.

  ‘Turn round,’ he’d asked. ‘Let me see.’

  She shifted her body, settled on her flank, offering him the sight of her regal, square arse. Dominik peered. The mark of his hand over Kathryn’s lunar surface had almost faded away. The way the imprint of sex disappears so rapidly from a person’s features and you never know once they are dressed and assuming their conventional civilian persona what they had privately been doing; this had always baffled him. As if, deep down inside, he wanted people to be marked by the sex they had shared, for it to be for ever written on their face. Anyway, the outline of his outstretched fingers was now just a memory across Kathryn’s rear.

  ‘It’s almost gone, the mark of my hand.’

  ‘Good,’ she had said. ‘It would have been pretty awkward for me to explain to my husband had it still been present!’

  Later, during the course of their short-lived affair, on the one occasion he had managed to steal Kathryn away from her marriage for a whole weekend, and they had found a pretext to squat a room in a Brighton seafront hotel and never seen the light of day or beach, he’d marked her arse with added savagery and she’d complained of a dull, persistent pain when she had to sit down to eat in a nearby restaurant overlooking the seafront. Dominik had been surprised by the compulsive nature of the way he had spanked her, hit her and briefly felt shame – violence against women disgusted him. He had never even thought of hitting a partner before. Spanker and spankee, is that what they were becoming? Where did this compulsion to dominate, to express the depths of his desire in violent fashion, come from?

  But Kathryn had never objected.

  It puzzled him long after they had parted. The unanswered question in his mind as to what she actually felt when he was doing this to her, in the moment.

  He unzipped his trousers, freeing himself at last, noting the thin pattern of veins coursing up and down the stem of his rock-hard cock, the ridge below the penis head, the scar tissue from his childhood circumcision and darker shades of flesh embroidering the upper reaches of his trunk. He thought of the pale glimpse of Summer’s shapely, fragile buttocks as she had undressed before diving into the music.

  He wrapped his fingers round his cock and pulled on it again. Up, down, up, down.

  He silently imagined the slap of his balls against Summer’s firm arse, and the sound his hands would make with every sharp, dry contact, the way her skin might shudder under every repeated impact, what private melodies it would forcibly extract from her lungs to roar past her pursed lips.

  He closed his eyes. His imagination was now in overdrive and filling the size of an Imax screen.

  And came.

  Yes, Dominik knew, when the time came, he would most definitely spank Summer Zahova, violin player of this parish, but then you only spank the women you still lust for after the initial fuck. Those you want badly. The special ones.

  Dominik only waited forty-eight hours before he made contact with Summer again. Over and over, he reflected on their previous encounters. Gut feeling told him that she had not quite embarked on this ambiguous adventure merely for the sake of the violin, the expensive vintage Bailly he had gifted her with and whose crystal tones had dominated that late afternoon in the crypt with such intense and melodious clarity. This, or at any rate, what this was fast becoming was not just a transaction between benefactor and beneficiary, client and customer, a man full of lust and a young woman with a flexible attitude to morality. He had seen something in her eyes from the very first time they had met. A curiosity, an unspoken challenge, a willingness to take unreasonable risks in the quest to keep the fire inside going. At least, that’s the way Dominik explained her words and gestures to himself, and her easy acceptance of his unconventional demands. She was no amateur whore doing this for the money, or the violin.

  Of course he wanted her. Badly, at that. The way she had played for him, naked, with just that hint of blush spreading across her cheeks when she had finally undressed, until the divine flow of the music had abolished her final reservations and she had stood playing with exhibitionistic pride. It was undeniable. The faint curve of her lips throughout the special performance had betrayed the fact. She had felt at peace with herself, floating in some strange private mental place throughout, oblivious to surroundings or circumstance. It had excited her.

  Dominik now knew that he wanted more than to just take her to his bed.

  That would only be the beginning of the story.

  He finally called her late on Saturday morning when he knew she would be working at her part-time job at the restaurant in Hoxton. He wanted the conversation to remain brief, not to give her the opportunity to ask further questions. It would no doubt be a busy time there.

  The phone rang several times before Summer picked up.

  She sounded rushed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Dominik knew he no longer had any need to give his name.

  ‘I know,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m at work. Can’t speak long.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘I was expecting you’d call.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want you to play for me again.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You will make yourself available Monday. Let’s say early afternoon.’ Dominik, secure in her likely availability and willingness, had already secured the crypt. ‘Same place.’ They agreed the time.

  ‘On this occasion, you will be playing alone.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Must I prepare any particular piece?’

  ‘No. You choose what you wish to play. I wish to be enchanted.’

  ‘Good. What must I wear?’

  ‘Again, your choice, but wear black stockings underneath. Hold-ups.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And your black heels.’

  The images in his mind were already materialising.

  ‘Of course.’

  He’d picked up the keys to the crypt the previous evening and paid a generous bribe to the caretaker to ensure that, once again, there would be no staff in attendance beyond the closed door throughout their stay.

  Rushing down the steep and narrow stairs, Dominik pushed the door open and the musty, enclosed smell of the underground area washed over him, followed by a delicate substrata of wax, faded memories of burned-out candles and long-forgotten devotions. Peering into the darkness, he brushed his hand against the cold stone wall on first his left- and then the right-hand side and finally found the light switch. He’d forgotten from the previous recital that the switch was on the wrong side of the door. He slid the plastic knob upwards through its narrow allotted channel until the crypt was shrouded in a delicate veil of light, not at full power, but discreet, velvety, just the right level for the occasion. Dominik had always been an orderly sort of person, precise, attentive to details, and this was a ritual he had rehearsed endlessly in his mind since his brief conversation with Summer on Saturday when today’s arrangement had been concluded.

  Checking on his watch, an expensive silver Tag Heuer, he hurriedly carried some isolated chairs that had been scattered across the crypt and pushed them up against the back wall. It had to be just right. He looked up at the ceiling and noted a bar of small spotlights. He walked back and picked up one of the chairs, brought it to the centre, climbed on it, wary of its somewhat unsteady grip on the irregular stone floor and adjusted the position of the centr
al spotlight so that it shone onto a particular area. To emphasise the effect, he slightly unscrewed two of the other lights at either end of the rail. Yes, this would now work much better.

  He glanced at his watch. Summer was a couple of minutes late.

  Briefly he flirted with the idea of reproaching her for this and the possibility of heaping some form of punishment on her for this infringement, but decided against it just as he heard her quiet rap on the wooden door.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted out.

  She was wearing her little black dress again, with a grey knitted woollen top covering her shoulders and arms, firmly gripping the handle of her violin case in one hand. The heels made her look taller.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘There were delays on the Jubilee line.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Dominik said. ‘We have all the time in the world.’

  He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze, pulled her top off, looked for somewhere to leave it, unwilling to let it drop to the floor.

  ‘Here,’ Dominik suggested, and held out his hands.

  Summer passed it over to him. The wool was still warm from its continued contact with her body. He unashamedly brought it to his nose, sniffed it, hunting for her scent, something green and pungent far away in the fragrance’s background. As she watched, Dominik turned his back on her and carried the light garment away to set it down on one of the chairs he had left against the crypt’s back wall.

  He stepped towards her. ‘What will you be playing?’ he asked her.

  Her response was hesitant. ‘Actually, it’s something of an improvisation, based on the Fingal’s Cave overture. I’m a great fan of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto, but it’s very technical and I haven’t quite mastered all its intricacies yet. This has similar wonderful melodies, so over the years I’ve been playing around with it, although it’s written for a full orchestra and not a violin on its own. I hope you don’t mind me not sticking to a strict classical repertoire?’

  ‘That will be fine,’ Dominik remarked.

  Summer smiled. For the past day she had agonised over her choice of music to play.

  Still just a few metres from the wooden door that allowed passage into the crypt, she glanced ahead of her and noted how Dominik had positioned the lighting, the way the spotlight threw a circle of incandescent white across the stone floor, and realised this was to be her ‘stage’, where he wanted her to play today.

  She took a couple of steps in that direction. Dominik followed her with his eyes, alert to her movement, the way her legs elegantly danced across the ground in spite of the evident unsuitability of her high heels across the rough stone surface of the crypt.

  Just as Dominik opened his mouth to convey his next set of instructions, Summer gently set the violin case down on the ground and unzipped the side of the little black dress.

  Dominik smiled. She had anticipated his command, had guessed he wanted her to play naked again, albeit this time with no other musicians by her side. On this occasion, he would be the sole person dressed.

  The dress slipped down, uncovering her torso, and then with a rapid movement of her hips, Summer shuffled so that it moved all the way down her legs to land, crumpled like an accordion, on the floor at her feet.

  She was not wearing any underwear.

  Just the dark-black stockings that stopped halfway up her creamy thighs.

  And the five-inch designer high-heel shoes. He idly guessed Summer owned a fair few classy shoes.

  She looked up, straight at Dominik.

  ‘This is what you wanted.’

  It was not a question, merely evidence.

  He nodded.

  In the circle of light, she stood, straight-backed, proud, conscious of the way she was brazenly displaying herself. On her terms more than his.

  Again, the cold buried within the crypt’s old stones began to shroud her body, her nipples hardened, her cunt grew humid.

  Dominik caught his breath.

  ‘Come here,’ he ordered her.

  Summer hesitated, for the briefest of moments, then stepped out of the narrow circle of light where she had been on unmistakeable display and edged her way towards him. As she moved slowly, Dominik noted, peering at her through the diminished visibility, a thin line running against her flank, a hint of redness, connecting the curve of her rump with her thin waist. He squinted, thinking at first it was just a shadow conjured up by her stepping out of the zone of limelight he had set up earlier into a more welcoming form of penumbra. No, definitely some form of blemish on her skin he hadn’t noticed on the previous occasion when she had turned her back on him to disengage from her dress once the musical students had donned their blindfolds. Today, she had been standing full frontal all the time.

  Dominik frowned. ‘Swivel round,’ he said. ‘I want to see your back.’

  Summer caught her breath. She knew there were still visible marks on her buttocks from the club. She had caught sight of them in the mirror earlier when showering in preparation for the recital. She hadn’t realised they wouldn’t fade in time for today. This was why she had been so careful not to expose her rear to him when she undressed. She experienced a strong flash of apprehension, unsure what his reaction would be, although part of her wanted to brazenly show off her well-earned marks of personal infamy.

  She sighed and executed the order.

  ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  ‘Marks,’ she replied.

  ‘Who did them to you?’

  ‘Someone.’

  ‘Has someone even got a name?’

  ‘I don’t even know. Would a name mean anything to you? I didn’t introduce myself. I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘A little, but not for long.’

  ‘Are you a masochist?’

  ‘Not usually. I . . .’ Summer paused, stuttered, thought. ‘I didn’t do it for the pain.’

  ‘Why, then?’ Dominik continued his questioning.

  ‘I needed the . . . rush . . .’

  ‘When?’ he enquired, although he thought he already knew the answer.

  ‘Straight after my playing for you the other day, with the quartet,’ she confirmed.

  ‘So you’re a pain slut?’ he asked.

  Summer smiled at the description. She had heard Charlotte use that phrase, when she was describing some of her acquaintances at the club on the boat.

  She stopped, thought, considered. Was she a ‘pain slut’? She had tolerated, even enjoyed it at times, but pain had on that occasion just been the vehicle, the means to transport her into that other dimension, not the motivation for her experience.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So just a slut?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  As she said this, even though it was partly in jest, Summer felt she had crossed a metaphorical Rubicon and knew that Dominik felt the same way. Instinctively, she straightened her back, her firm breasts on full display. She could feel him examining the thin lattice of lines and faint bruises strewn across her arse, the temporary tattoo that betrayed her inner wanton.

  Dominik pondered, the steady rhythm of his breath a gentle hiss blowing through the crypt’s heavy atmosphere.

  ‘That was more than just a spanking,’ he remarked.

  ‘I know,’ Summer said.

  ‘Come closer.’

  Summer tiptoed back a few more inches until she was standing right behind him, the warmth of his body reaching her through his clothes.

  ‘Bend over.’

  She obeyed, conscious of the spectacle she was offering.

  ‘Spread your legs.’

  Now he could see not only the marks but also her intimacy.

  She felt his hand touch her left buttock, at first like a gentle caress as he explored the surface of the skin, like a rough glove gliding along her curves. His hand was so hot.

  But then again so was her skin.

  He lingered awhile, following the parallel lines of pinkness that criss-crossed her butto
cks, probing the scattered, isolated pale-brown and yellow bruise islands.

  A finger then trailed slowly down along the crack of her arse, skipping along her exposed and pulsing sphincter as she held her breath, sliding across her perineum, which made her jump, and with slow deliberation reaching her slit. She knew how humid she already was there and felt no shame at being so obviously exposed in this way both physiologically and mentally. So she found Dominik’s touch, his words, his manner arousing. So what?

  The hand withdrew.

  For a moment, the loss of contact was unbearable. Surely he was not going to stop, was he? Could he be that cruel? Did she yearn for such cruelty?

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’

  Summer remained silent, at war with her desire to tell him how much she did, indeed, like it.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said again, his voice barely a whisper, soft in her ear.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I like it.’

  Dominik stepped back, circled her again. He would take his time over this one. He watched her body closely, noted the raw heat that emanated from her. She was almost sweating, despite the cold. He noted the way his words seemed to affect her.

  Interesting, thought Dominik.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He pressed her further.

  ‘Tell me what you desire.’

  Summer’s legs ached now, but she didn’t move. She stayed in position, enjoying the tiny currents of air that swept across her body as Dominik continued to circle her, moving ever closer but never touching her skin.

  ‘Tell me what you want, Summer.’

  ‘I want you to touch me.’

  She spoke quietly, but Summer knew that Dominik could hear her.

  Was he really going to make her beg for it?

  ‘Louder. Say it louder.’

  Yes, it seemed that he was.