Eighty Days Yellow Read online

  A maid costume. For Saturday. Charlotte’s party.

  There was no sign of shoes. Dominik had either forgotten that detail, which seemed unlikely, or assumed correctly that I would have my own pair. I did, in fact, own a pair of black stilettos with a high platform at the front and a white trim, which I had bought second hand from an ex cage-dancer in Hackney, who had given up dancing to concentrate on millinery and was consequently selling all of her footwear. They’d be perfect, if rather uncomfortably high. Still, I was prepared to make sacrifices, not necessarily for glamour, but to get the ‘look’ just right.

  I did find one more item, buried right at the bottom. A tiny bell. The shape and style like those attached to churches, but with a stem not much bigger than my finger. It made a surprisingly clear sound when I shook it. More like the deep knell of a percussion instrument than the lighter tinkle that might accompany a pet collar or a bicycle bell.

  Acknowledging the package seemed the polite thing to do, but I didn’t want to encourage his gift-giving. I was in debt to him enough already, with the violin. Having said that, I had the distinct impression that he’d bought the outfit for him, not for me, so that he could imagine me wearing it, go on some kind of power trip over having me serve food with my tits out like a Hooters waitress, albeit one in a much more refined ensemble. The bell, I supposed, was for the guests at the party to use to alert me to their requirements.

  In the end, I didn’t let him know that I had received it. More because I just didn’t know what to say than because I wanted him to stew over it. Wouldn’t do any harm, though, to let him wonder if he’d guessed wrong about me being home for the delivery and the package had been returned to the store.

  I did text Charlotte, though, to check the outfit was appropriate and wouldn’t offend any of her guests.

  ‘OK to go topless?’

  ‘Sure. Can’t wait.’

  I put everything back into the box that it had arrived in, shut the lid and left it sitting in the corner of my bedroom, staring at me, reprovingly, as if a lonely creature were trapped within, waiting for me to set it free.

  The next morning, to take my mind off the outfit, and Charlotte’s upcoming party, I went for a furious swim at the local pool, powered by my underwater headphones, playing Emilie Autumn on repeat, then went window-shopping on Brick Lane, stopping for a coffee and breakfast at my favourite cafe in this part of town, on the aptly named Bacon Street. The cafe doubles as a vintage clothing store, with racks of outfits inside dating back to the 1900s, and consequently, has that sweet, almost dusty smell of old things, a little like the scent of Dominik’s books.

  It was still fairly early, much earlier than I usually get up, but the street outside was packed already, each side jammed with racks of clothes, antiques and bric-a-brac laid out on blankets on the pavement, leopard-print chaises longues perched next to office furniture, food stands selling everything from barbecue ribs to fruit smoothies served in coconut shells, the air fairly crackling with the eager energy of market traders and excited tourists visiting for the first time. I had noticed, as I was walking along, picking my way through an obstacle course of zealous sellers and bargain-hunters, that my recent sexual adventures had opened my mind in other ways too. Previously, I had looked at the many stalls selling military hats, jackets and gas masks, and thought that they would be purchased by war memorabilia collectors, who must frequent markets like this one with unusual regularity, as they were always filled with the stuff.

  Now, everywhere I looked, instead of collectors’ items I saw fetish wear, the jackets and hats favoured by what Charlotte would call ‘doms’ at the clubs I had been to. The masks had been worn mainly either by submissive types with their heads covered or the punky sort with no immediately identifiable sexual quirks but an apparent interest in fetish fashion. Recognising these things in a way that I am sure other passers-by didn’t, I had the pleasing sense of having been granted membership to a secret club, a society full of people who lived on the edge of the world, unbeknown to everyone else. I realised, also, with a touch of trepidation, that I would never be able to erase these things from my mind. Without even meaning to, I’d turned down a road from which I would never be able to return, even if I wanted to.

  I sat in the cafe for most of the day, observing the ebb and flow of the other diners, wondering which of them, if any, were also members of this secret world. I wondered if they recognised a kindred spirit in me, if as outsiders we would be drawn to each other like a flock of geese headed inexorably south, or if I just seemed as ordinary as everyone else when I had my normal-world clothes on.

  It was this feeling of resignation to the path that my feet had evidently chosen for me that led me to don the outfit that Dominik had gifted to me for that evening, and to wear it as he had intended, with my breasts completely bared.

  I spent about an hour, with the instruction leaflet close by, fiddling with the laces in the mirror. Eventually, I managed to get it on, though not nearly as tight as it should be, and I headed off to Charlotte’s, catching the Hammersmith and City line from Whitechapel to Ladbroke Grove. I wore my long, red trench coat over top, enjoying the thought that beneath my outer covering, I was an entirely different person, my own person, and not subject to all the usual rules of society, like wearing a bra in public.

  I wasn’t so brave when I reached Charlotte’s and it came to taking my coat off again. I’d purposefully arrived early, so that I could settle in and soothe my nerves before the other guests arrived. In the end, I just took a deep breath and ditched the trench coat as if I wasn’t the least nervous about the party. Charlotte would have only teased me if she noticed my shyness.

  ‘Nice corset!’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ I didn’t mention that it was a gift from Dominik.

  ‘You can lace it tighter than that, though. Come here.’

  She turned me to face the wall and then put her hand on the small of my back and pressed me forward.

  ‘Put your hands on the wall.’

  I remembered the sex with Dominik in the crypt, the way he had pushed me into almost the same position. I wished he was here, fucking me again in the same way. My nipples hardened at the thought and then grew even stiffer as I realised that it was likely I would find tonight’s ‘service’ a turn-on, and if my nipples remained this stiff, it was unlikely that I would be able to hide the fact. Had Dominik considered that point? He was observant and I knew that he had noticed my triggers of arousal, but I wasn’t sure if he had meant for me to find the maiding and, particularly, wearing the outfit he had chosen for me arousing. Did he want me to be horny tonight, without him? With the possible consequences that might ensue? Or had he just meant to exert his control, to see if I would follow his increasingly bold instructions? The topic of exclusivity hadn’t arisen. It was far too early for that. I wasn’t even sure if we were technically dating.

  ‘Enjoying that, are you?’

  I was so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed Charlotte pulling my laces tighter.

  ‘Breathe in.’

  I gasped as she put her foot on my back and then pulled with all her might.

  The corset was now laced nearly all the way up, just a couple of inches spare at the back. The sensation was completely different from the corset of Charlotte’s that I had once borrowed, which had been too loose and simply felt a little stiff. Dominik had selected the perfect fit, though I knew the laces did allow for a little flexibility in the size. Laced tightly, my breathing was constricted and my back perfectly straight. I found it surprisingly pleasurable, a bit like being encased in a very tight hug. I was glad that I had put my matching heels on earlier, as now I couldn’t bend over at all. If I had to pick anything up from the floor tonight, I would have to crouch down somehow, with my back straight. The thought turned me on, I was certain that Charlotte would be able to smell my arousal as she squatted in front of me to straighten my stockings.

  I spent most of the evening in the kitchen, arranging p
lates of food and enjoying for once an opportunity to be more creative than I was at work – the chef there was insistent that his orders be followed to the letter. When the bell rang, I responded immediately, and with each trip to the dining area and back to the kitchen again I caught glimpses of the party unravelling, Charlotte’s colourful guests moving closer together and becoming less and less clad with each fresh top up of their glasses. There was roughly an even number of men and women present, dressed very much like the partygoers on the boat, most in a mixture of latex and lingerie. One of the men was dressed as a maid, in a short bubble-gum pink frock with a white frilly apron over the top, though his manner suggested that he was not in a service role. Despite Charlotte’s assurance that I would have company in the kitchen and wouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting, I was the only guest working.

  All night, each time I had difficulty breathing or had to bend or crouch awkwardly, restricted by the tight grasp of the corset, I felt as though Dominik was controlling my movement, as though he had the power, even, to alter the way my chest rose and fell, pressed tight as it was against the satin panels and steel boning that surrounded my torso. Every time the bell rang, and I hurried to take a plate away, or refill a wine glass, I imagined that Dominik was the bell ringer, and myriad images flooded my mind, images of all the ways that I hoped he would take me and use me, as though a mental flood of violent desire had been unleashed in my head.

  Charlotte watched me curiously.

  ‘I have a surprise for you later,’ she whispered into my ear, as I refilled her drink. She had rung the bell for me more times than anyone else that night.

  ‘Really?’ I replied, with a degree of uninterest. The fantasies playing out in my head were frankly more exciting than anything she might have in mind.

  Dinner was finished now, and she was sitting on the lap of a man I recognised. It took me a few minutes to remember where I had seen him. He was the one in the sequinned leggings and military hat that I had noticed at the fetish club on the boat, before we had entered the dungeon. Charlotte had known I was attracted to him, I was sure. I wondered if she’d invited him on purpose, and if she was sitting on his lap just to wind me up. A little silly perhaps – I hadn’t even spoken to her friend – but Charlotte had toyed with men I liked in the past. I think she just enjoyed watching me react to it, so I did my best to appear unfazed.

  I was in the kitchen, spooning dessert into bowls, when I heard the clear sound of a viola playing in the living room, the voices of Charlotte’s guests now hushed, listening to the music. It was a Black Violin cover, though without the usual violin accompanying the viola. Chris. It was one of the covers that we played together, one we’d played the night I had introduced him to Charlotte. She’d hooked up with him afterwards, a fact that had angered me and embarrassed him, even though our friendship had never had even the remotest sexual spark, a fact I’d always found odd: I had a sexual spark with virtually everyone, even the milkman. But it was nice to have a male friend with whom I could relax without worrying about the consequences.

  What would he think of me now?

  The song came to a close, and then I heard the piercing ding-a-ling of the bell, reaching my ears over the din of appreciative applause. Charlotte, no doubt, hurrying the dessert along. I picked up as many bowls as I could carry and took them into the living room – partly because Dominik’s bell called me like a siren song, and I was compelled to follow it, and partly because I knew that Charlotte was setting me a challenge and I’d be damned if I let her win. I wouldn’t cower in the kitchen or attempt to hide myself, and Chris would just have to deal with it.

  His eyes widened when I appeared. I glanced at him quickly and then looked down, hoping that he would understand my silent gesture and not say a word. He didn’t.

  It was Charlotte who spoke first. ‘What do you think of our waitress?’ she said to Chris.

  ‘I think she looks lovely,’ he replied, without falter.

  Then he began to play again, cutting off any further conversation. I breathed a sigh of relief and disappeared back into the kitchen. Thank God for good friends. I resolved never to abandon Chris again, no matter what the opinion of any future lover on our platonic relationship.

  He completed his performance and cornered me in the kitchen on his way out, clearly shocked by the behaviour of Charlotte’s guests, who were now revelling in the living room as if they were coming to the final course of a Roman banquet. The air was filled with sexual tension and I suspected that an orgy might be on the menu – straight after dessert.

  ‘Sum,’ he said, resolutely maintaining eye contact without so much as a glance at my naked chest, ‘do you know these people?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, just Charlotte.’

  That was true enough. She hadn’t introduced me by name to her guests, a natural function of my position for the duration of the evening. It was odd, now I considered it, the way the role she had saddled me with had consumed me completely, the moment I had the apron on and heard the first ring of the bell.

  ‘All a bit odd, isn’t it? You know,’ he added in a whisper, glancing over at a now topless girl at the dining table who was openly running her hand up and down the pink-frocked man’s thigh, ‘if you needed money this bad, I would have helped you out, hon. You should have called me.’

  My heart sank. He thought I was doing it for money. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was working, dressed like this, for free. How would I ever explain the sheer madness of it?

  I nodded, mutely, too ashamed to meet his eyes. He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  ‘I got to go, baby. I have a late-night gig after. I’d give you a hug, but . . . you know . . . it would be weird.’

  My eyes filled with tears. Chris had always been the only person who I felt really understood me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I lost him over this.

  He stretched forward, carefully avoiding my breasts, and gave me a soft peck on the cheek. ‘Call me, OK? Or come round later if you wish, once you’re, um, finished here.’

  ‘OK,’ I replied. ‘See you later.’

  He let himself out, and the bell rang again.

  It took Charlotte a moment to articulate her request, as she was busy, kneeling on the floor, naked, her face buried in the cunt of another girl. She waited until I had had a good look at the action and then asked me to bring her a spoon and another bowl of ice cream.

  ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I want you to watch.’

  I was rooted to the spot, not entirely because she had instructed me to stay there. Charlotte was daintily spooning ice cream into her partner’s vagina and then ducking her head and sucking it out. The woman flinched with each transition from hot to cold, though her enjoyment was obvious. The man from the club, whom Charlotte had been sitting on earlier, was watching also, his cock straining against the crotch of his jeans. I wanted to unzip him and pull it out, but my arms wouldn’t move in response to the thought, either out of loyalty to Dominik, still constrained as I was in the confines of his corset, or because it didn’t seem appropriate, in my position as maid, for me to be so bold.

  Charlotte turned her head to meet the eyes of the man behind her, nodded slightly in approval and then spread her long legs wide. He peeled off his jeans and his cock sprang straight out, unencumbered by underwear. He had a particularly beautiful penis, perfectly straight, evenly coloured, and a promising length and girth. It was like something you would expect to see carved in marble in an art gallery. He stopped for a moment, picking up his jeans and foraging in the pocket for a condom.

  Then he bent his knees just low enough so that he could drive his cock into her from behind. As he did, Charlotte’s face was washed with pure pleasure, an almost religious ecstasy. I was forgotten, lost as she was to the sensation of the thick shaft pumping into her.

  I forgave her in that moment. Charlotte was no less captive to her desires than I and evidently looked quite beautiful in the throes of passion.

 
I picked up her now empty plate and discarded spoon, and returned to the kitchen. The bell didn’t ring again, but still I waited, locked into the corset and stilettos, my feet now throbbing. The discomfort gave me a sense of peace, not dissimilar to the way that I felt when my body ached after a few dozen lengths of a swimming pool.

  Eventually, the guests left and Charlotte called me a cab.

  ‘Was that OK for you, honey?’ she asked, her arm draped affectionately around my shoulders.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Actually, I kind of enjoyed it.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  She stood on the front step, clutching a sheet, her only protection from the cab driver’s curious gaze, and watched me disappear into the night.

  Dominik called the next day, to confirm our date.

  ‘There’s something different in your voice,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Tell me.’

  I thought I detected a hint of worry, but I couldn’t be sure. Whether he really had been worried about me or this was just another turn in his game, I was no less compelled to answer his question than I had been to respond to his bell. I told him about the corset, and Charlotte, and how I had felt watching her being filled from behind.

  He texted me, the night before our meeting: ‘Come at 10 p.m. tomorrow. You will have an audience. Of more than one.’

  8

  A Man and His Guest

  It was a room in Dominik’s house that Summer had not yet encountered. On the top floor. It might well have been an attic at one time, but had undergone extensive renovation and conversion. Here and there the ceiling curved, following the path of the roof above. Only two of the walls were covered with bookshelves, mostly housing long runs of often yellowing-spined literary and film magazines, although the upper shelf on the left-hand wall was dominated with an assortment of older, leather-bound volumes of some sort, mostly with French titles. Summer was not allowed the time to take a closer look at the bookshelves and investigate further. There were no windows and the only light came from two square skylights carved into the ceiling.