Eighty Days Yellow Read online

  A soft breeze blew across the lawn, and with each gust of wind I smelled the faint scent of books that lined his front hallway, and the rest of the house. They seemed so much a part of him that I imagined his skin might feel like parchment, but of course it felt just like the skin of every other man, though his lips had been pleasantly soft.

  The books, though they did suit him, weren’t what I expected. I had always associated book collections with messy people, with mad lecturers and more obviously academic types. I had figured Dominik would be a hotshot in the City, a bank trader, someone in finance, not a university professor, as he had told me, when I asked why his house looked like a library.

  Judging by the shine of his shoes, and the money I presumed he must have, allowing him to purchase the violin and make all the other arrangements, I’d expected him to take me back to some monochrome apartment in Bloomsbury or Canary Wharf with stainless-steel fittings and décor in varying shades of silver and black, the colour of his car. I hadn’t expected this, a proper house, a home, even, with a study and a real kitchen and books everywhere, in all colours and sizes, a literary kaleidoscope lining the walls. At first, I thought he must have a cat too, who was likely curled up, observing my presence from the safety of the shelves, but I deduced shortly after my arrival that Dominik was not a pet person. He wouldn’t be able to put up with an animal, uncontrolled, winding its way round his legs, even a creature as independent as a feline.

  He wasn’t unduly secretive, didn’t seem to be consciously hiding anything, but nonetheless had offered very few details about his life, the day-to-day routine of his existence outside of our meetings. He liked his privacy, I suppose, and I could understand that, reticent as I was to invite anyone into my own home. I was surprised he had taken me here. Though his books gave him more humanity, somehow. At least, if he didn’t have a story of his own, he seemed to enjoy collecting the stories of others. Perhaps not dissimilar to the way that I liked to imagine the stories in my instruments, and the music I played, each piece with its own distinct imagery and adventure.

  The thought made me like him more. We weren’t so different, this man and I, though we must seem so to any casual observer.

  I remembered the way that he had so expertly touched me, after he had insisted on watching me masturbate. I shivered again at the thought. I’d had sex with no small number of men, that was true enough – I’d had more than my fair share of casual encounters and Internet dates arranged in the throes of horniness or loneliness – but no one had ever examined me like that, gazing so intently at the way I ran my finger round my clitoris, under the bright heat of his desk lamp, like a doctor but without the air of medical disinterest. He had no shame, Dominik, and he seemed to enjoy peeling my shame away, one layer at a time. It was as if he was watching a demonstration that he planned to re-enact precisely later. He had asked me to slow down or speed up, to increase or release the pressure. Not, to turn me on this time, I thought, but so that he could gauge my response, see what it was that made my body react and what didn’t work so well. He had had me on display for him like a scientist examining a new specimen. I had half expected him to start taking notes.

  ‘One day,’ he had said, ‘I’m going to watch you do this again, and I will tell you to put your own finger in your arsehole.’

  That was what had finally sent me over the edge. I don’t come all that easily, particularly with a new lover, but the thought of him watching, and the direction that his mind seemed to travel, the dirtiness of his requests . . . Dominik pressed buttons I didn’t even know I had.

  He had said that he didn’t play an instrument, but I thought that he would likely be rather good at it.

  Yes, I thought, I would definitely like to see him again.

  I shifted my weight to my other foot and loosened my grip on my violin case. He didn’t seem ready to let me go yet. I waited patiently for him to speak.

  ‘I think I’ll leave you to plan the next time,’ Dominik said.

  I stood silent for a while, thinking. Another change of tactic. Just when I thought I had him figured out.

  ‘What if I plan something that is not to your taste?’ I replied.

  Dominik shrugged. ‘Would you take any pleasure in an arrangement that I didn’t enjoy?’

  I considered this. No, I wouldn’t. If we were going to have another date, then of course I would want both of us to have a good time. Wouldn’t anyone feel that way? Even so, I still wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he wanted from me, or what I wanted from him, and that would make planning the next time difficult.

  I shook my head, suddenly lost for words.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ he added. ‘I will wait for your call.’

  I agreed, bade him farewell and then turned to leave.

  ‘Summer,’ he called out, just as I reached his gate.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You choose the date and place – here, if you would like that – but I will choose the time and iron out some of the finer details.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  I allowed myself a small smile as I turned away again.

  He couldn’t resist taking over.

  And I was surprised to find that I preferred it that way.

  My mind was a whirl all the way home. It would soon be dark, so I dismissed the thought of taking a walk through Hampstead Heath to clear my head, though the exercise and fresh air were exactly what I needed.

  The sex had been great. Hot as anything. My muscles ached a bit now, especially my calves. Probably the way that he had bent me forward in the crypt. I had stood there with my legs burning for an age as he had walked around me before we fucked. My reward, I suppose, for being so stubborn, refusing to let on that I was uncomfortable.

  Then the way he had gone down on me, straight after I’d made myself come, with his come still inside me, before I’d had a chance to shower. I hadn’t even been able to use the bathroom to wipe myself beforehand. I recalled how he’d picked me up and carried me to his study as soon as we got to his front door, plonked me down on his desk and spread my legs. I’d had to choke back a laugh when I realised that he was actually carrying me over the threshold.

  It was, ironically, the most romantic sex I’d ever had, although we hadn’t used condoms, a point that as a general rule I am paranoid about. I’d have to go and get tested. A flash of shame crossed my mind as I pictured telling the doctor or nurse on duty that I’d had unprotected sex. It was a stupid thing to do, but the heat of his cock had banished all sensible thought from my head, and the way he had fucked me so hard, like a man possessed, and kept pulling my hair back as if he was riding a horse.

  No wonder I ached.

  Dominik might be a little on the cocky side, but he was great in bed, and not selfish. His bedroom behaviour did not have the customary hallmarks of arrogance so prevalent in men of his kind.

  I headed for the shower as soon as I got in the door, continuing to think as I rinsed off all trace of the day’s adventure.

  Almost all trace, I thought, as I caught a glimpse of the faintly apparent bruises in the bathroom mirror.

  Had Dominik added any of his own?

  At least – thank heaven for small mercies – none of the marks were on my wrists or upper arms, but on areas that I could cover most of the time, and none looked so violent that clumsiness – a story of walking into a door or falling over – wouldn’t work as an excuse.

  I wondered how this worked for the people I’d seen at the fetish clubs. How did they manage to fit their nocturnal (and perhaps daytime) hobbies around their ordinary lives. It was just a night out for some of them, I was sure, but going by what Charlotte had said, that wasn’t true for all of them. If she was to be believed, there were men and women all around London, at home with their respective partners in front of the television with a curry in one hand and a whip in the other.

  Would I soon be one of them?

  Not with Dominik, I didn’t think. He hadn’t so far produced any paddles
or handcuffs, though I had wondered if he might, considering the interest he had shown in my bruises. I had been slightly disappointed when he hadn’t tied me up, suspended me from the ceiling or buckled me to some piece of equipment that I thought he might have lying around the house. I had only seen his study and his kitchen so far, though, not his bedroom. Odd that he would have a bed in his study. He said that it was for thinking. Thinking about what? Ways to further confuse and entice me, I imagined.

  The more I thought about it, the more I found myself in a tangle with no discernible exit strategy. Aside from the trouble I was having working out my own personal sexual revolution and how I fitted into this new world of deviancy that I had stumbled upon, I didn’t know what to do about Dominik.

  The thought of calling him to arrange our next meeting perplexed me. It was a simple enough task, but the more I ran over it in my head, the more I concluded that despite the irregularity of his behaviour up to this point, I had enjoyed the way that he ordered me about. I had appreciated the simplicity, and the surprise within his instructions. I missed the excitement of discovering what he would plan next. But even admitting the fact in my own mind made me imagine the suffragettes turning in their graves. And that was before I added my whipping and spanking experiences.

  This wouldn’t do.

  I considered phoning Chris, from the band. He’d been working all hours of the day on recording the group’s first EP and I hadn’t seen him for months, though we’d exchanged a few emails. Darren had always been jealous of our friendship, and to keep the peace, I’d gradually decreased our contact. I regretted it now. Chris had always been my go-to guy, my wingman, my refuge when I needed someone to understand the eccentricities and difficulties inherent in following a creative path.

  There was no way I could explain all this to him, though. He was protective; I knew that he would be suspicious of a man who gave me expensive gifts and asked me to undress in front of him in secret underground locations. I would be suspicious of Dominik if I heard the story second hand.

  Instead, I called Charlotte. This was a problem that was right up her street.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ she said. ‘How you been?’

  She was alone this time. Good. It was hard enough describing my story to one person. I didn’t want another overhearing.

  ‘Remember that guy who sent me the email? The one with the terms and conditions?’

  ‘Yeeeesss,’ she said, suddenly all ears.

  I told her the full story, the Bailly, the crypt, the nakedness, everything. Described Dominik and all of his puzzling instructions.

  ‘No surprises there, then,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘What do you mean, no surprises? The whole thing is crazy.’

  ‘No, it’s not crazy; he’s just some dom.’

  ‘A dom?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re all like that – cocky, want to control everything. Sounds like you’re liking it, though.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What did you say his name was again?’

  ‘Dominik.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Well, that’s just typical,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘What shall I tell him, then? About the date?’

  ‘That depends entirely on what you want to get out of it.’

  I considered. I truly didn’t know what it was I wanted from him. Something, yes. I couldn’t get him out of my head, but why?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘That’s why I called you.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ever the pragmatist, ‘you need to work out what you want or you’ll never get it.’

  Sensible enough advice.

  Charlotte continued. ‘It won’t hurt to make him wait. Maybe a week or two. Suggest you play for him again, naked obviously, since it turns him on so much, and at his house – saves you inviting him back to yours. Plus, he’ll think you’ve put the ball back in his court. Which you haven’t, obviously.’

  I could almost hear the smirk spreading across her face.

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  ‘And in the meantime, you can come and serve at a little party I’m having next week, if you like.’

  ‘Serve?’

  ‘Like a waitress. A maid. The guests are all fetish sorts. I can introduce you properly to a few people and you can see if you really do like being dominated. I’ll tell everyone you’re just trying it for a night, and if you don’t like it, you can drop your apron and join the party. I’ve got proper slaves coming too. They’ll do all the hard work. You can just carry a few plates around and look hot.’

  ‘Look hot how? What shall I wear?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, use your imagination. Why don’t you call your rich boyfriend up and ask him to buy you something?’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend! And no way am I asking him for anything.’

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, girl. I’m just pulling your leg. You’re so sensitive.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said huffily, ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Charlotte. ‘Maybe you should mention it to him, though, see how he reacts. And I’ll see you on Saturday. Bring my coat back too, would you?’

  As per Charlotte’s advice, I left it three days before calling Dominik.

  ‘Summer,’ he said, before I had a chance to tell him who was calling.

  ‘Our date,’ I said. ‘I was thinking, next Wednesday?’

  He paused and I heard the flutter of pages. Presumably checking his diary.

  ‘No problem. I’m free. What did you have in mind? So I can make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘I will play for you again, at your house.’

  ‘An excellent choice, if I may say so.’

  I relaxed as he seemed pleased with my suggestion. We discussed the choice of music. I had considered trying something different on him, since he had enjoyed the improvisation in the crypt so much. I thought of playing something he wouldn’t know by Ross Harris, the Kiwi composer, or maybe something outside the classical repertoire altogether, maybe Daniel D., but nerves got the better of me and I agreed his choice, a section from the final movement of the Max Bruch violin concerto.

  ‘I’ll see you then, then,’ I said with forced cheerfulness. I hate phone calls.

  ‘Summer,’ he said again, as I was about to hang up, always getting in the last word.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you available on Saturday night?’

  ‘Sorry, I have plans.’

  ‘I see. No problem.’

  He seemed disappointed, and I wondered if he had been hoping to see me sooner. Then I remembered Charlotte’s suggestion, that I mention her party to him.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m going to be in attendance at a bit of an unusual party.’

  ‘Hmm. Unusual in what way?’

  He sounded amused, not annoyed, so I continued.

  ‘My friend Charlotte is hosting, the one who introduced me to the fetish clubs.’

  ‘She sounds like an interesting friend.’

  ‘She is. She’s . . . ah . . . she’s asked me to work the night as a maid.’

  ‘A maid? Not a waitress? Unpaid, I presume?’

  ‘I think so. The question of money just never came up.’

  ‘Just for the rush, as you refer to it, then?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘How quaint.’

  I wasn’t sure whether that meant he approved or not.

  That Friday, I received another package. From Dominik. Again, I had to sign for it, but this time he didn’t check to see if I was in.

  He must have assumed I would be home, or taken the chance, but still, it was a detail that disturbed me a little. I wasn’t completely comfortable with him knowing so many of my secrets.

  Within the standard, nondescript cardboard box was another, smaller package, wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a black bow. I opened it carefully, folding up the paper and putting it neatly to one side. Inside the paper was a black satin draw
string bag, and within the bag, a black corset. It was beautiful, not at all like the tacky sort I had seen on the rack in cheap lingerie stores. Fully boned, with wide, gored hips and a velvet diamond shape in the midriff to highlight the wearer’s shape. Subtle velvet detailing in inch-thick strips ran down the sides of the wider satin panels, a pattern with a geometric feel to it, art deco, the kind of thing that would have suited a 1930s movie star. It was an undeniably glamorous, rather than trashy, piece of clothing. However, it did seem to be cut a little short. When I held it to myself and looked in the mirror, I realised that the cut was underbust, rather than overbust. Unless the wearer added a bra, or nipple pasties to go with it, she would have her breasts on full display.

  The thought excited me, and eager to see what it would look like on, I began fiddling with the laces. Then I realised that it seemed unlikely that Dominik would want me to play for him partially clothed when he had already seen me naked. He didn’t seem all that fussed about the specifics of what I wore, either, though I thought he enjoyed watching the subtle changes and variations in each outfit I chose, depending on the specifics of the occasion. The corset was more my style than his. I hunted through the box for some further clue and found two smaller packages under the protective paper that lined the box, protecting its contents from damage, and a note.

  The note read, ‘Wear this for me. D.’

  One of the other two packages contained a pair of white frilly knickers, a packet of stockings and suspender clips. The stockings were the real sort, nylons, and seamed. I had heard of nylon stockings, of course, but had never actually seen a pair. They were slippery, slightly rough against my skin, and had no stretch in them at all, like long, thin parachutes rather than the soft, stretchy pantyhose that I was used to wearing.

  The other package contained a small apron, white cotton with a black-and-white scalloped lace trim. A matching cap, about the size of a saucer, was included.