Eighty Days Yellow Read online

  The thick red letters criss-crossed my skin like waves of infamy. Across my stomach he had written, ‘SLUT’, above my genitalia, ‘SLAVE’, and on my rear, which I had great trouble deciphering as I had to both twist my body round to catch a sight of the inscription and read from back to front, he had in bold red letters spelled out, ‘MASTER’S PROPERTY’.

  I felt sick.

  It would take me three days of showers, baths and determined rubbing to feel clean again.

  Victor called me the next morning.

  ‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

  I denied it.

  ‘You say that, but I could read the contrary on your face, Summer. And the way your body always reacts.’

  ‘I’m—’ I gathered a weak protest.

  ‘You were made for this,’ Victor declared, ‘and we’re going to have a wonderful time. I will train you. You will be perfect.’

  The bile was rising from my stomach to my throat, that terrible feeling of being on a runaway train, helpless to change its course, tethered to its thunderous wheels as it rushed down the track.

  ‘And next time –’ I could hear at the other end of the line how he was savouring every single word – ‘we will make it official. We will register you.’

  ‘Register me?’ I queried.

  ‘There is a slave register on the Internet. Don’t fret – only people in the know will be aware of your true identity. You will be assigned a number and a slave name. It will be our secret. I was thinking of Slave Elena. It has a nice sound.’

  ‘What does it entail?’ My indignation was battling my curiosity.

  ‘It will mean you will fully accept my ownership, my permanent collar.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes you are,’ he continued. ‘You will be given a choice of a ring or a tattoo in the most private of places, with your number or barcode, indicating your status and ownership. Of course, only those of us in the know will ever set eyes on it.’

  Listening to his words, I felt a sense of both shame and excitement rise inside me. Surely in the twenty-first century, these things didn’t happen any more?

  Nevertheless, the temptation was strong; a siren call was already tickling my senses and imagination, tempered by the hard reality of knowing I would also be losing the treasured independence I had fought for years to retain.

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  Victor purred. He could read me like an open book. ‘I will let you know.’

  He hung up, leaving my life in limbo.

  I collapsed back onto my narrow bed. There were no rehearsals for another week. So much time to kill, too much time to think. I tried to read, but the words of every single book I picked up just became a blur and I was unable to concentrate on plot or subject matter.

  Neither would sleep come and soothe the storm raging within.

  I waited for Victor’s call for two days. I spent my hours roaming through Greenwich Village looking for distractions of the shopaholic variety and dropping in to see mindless action movies in the hope they might help me take my mind off things, but the call never came. It was evident he was torturing me on purpose, ensuring my mind was ablaze with yearning by the time he made contact with me. Every time I entered an auditorium, I adjusted my mobile phone to vibrate in the hope of news during the screening, but to no avail.

  I was becoming scared of my own thoughts, of the inevitability of the path I was moving towards.

  Then, at three in the morning, one balmy night with the windows open wide to the New York heat and the regular sound of sirens from ambulances and police cars rushing down the canyons of the avenues, it came to me.

  A final gamble.

  Maybe putting the decision out of my hands.

  London was five hours behind, not an unreasonable time to call.

  I dialled Chris, hoping his phone wasn’t switched off and he was in the middle of a gig in Camden Town or Hoxton.

  It kept on ringing for ages and I was about to switch the phone off when he finally picked up.

  ‘Hi, Chris!’

  ‘Hi, hon. You back in town?’

  ‘No, still in the Big Apple.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘A bit of a nervous wreck,’ I confessed.

  ‘Things not getting any better?’

  ‘No. Maybe even getting worse. You know me – I’m sometimes my own worst enemy.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ There was a moment of considered silence. ‘Summer? Come back to London. Just drop everything and do it. I’ll help if you need something, you know that.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘So?’

  I hesitated, rehearsing every word around my dry tongue, and then said it. ‘Can I ask you a huge favour?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Can you contact Dominik? Tell him where I am?’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Just that.’

  A throw of the dice. Would Dominik respond?

  12

  A Man and His Blues

  Their sex was regular, perfunctory.

  Dominik had a strong libido, though when the occasion warranted it, he could easily forego carnal pleasures in order to concentrate on other pursuits, research projects or the various literary endeavours he was regularly involved with.

  With Summer gone, Dominik had precious else to occupy his time. He had long since fine-tuned his lectures, though he was careful to vary his material, keep things fresh. He had enough notes ready and was quick enough on his feet that he needed very little time to prepare these days. He much preferred to improvise on any given subject.

  His current intake of students was dull in the extra-curricular sense; no one interested him in that way. Not that he would actively pursue a relationship with a student: it was too risky. He left that to the less moral professors, such as Victor, who had quickly vanished off campus to take up a new post in New York that had arisen at short notice. He was still a man, though, and he couldn’t help but notice those girls who caught his eye, who smiled invitingly when he looked their way, even if he didn’t act on it, at least until the term was finished.

  Dominik had imagined he was in for a sexual hiatus, a proverbial dry spell, to compensate for Summer’s sudden departure, and in some respects he had relished that, wallowed in it, looked forward to evenings alone catching up on his neglected pile of reading material, a new series of books that had so promised to captivate his attention when they arrived in the post from a dealer a few weeks ago but which had been left gathering dust while he concentrated his energies on plotting new scenes for Summer.

  Then Charlotte had appeared, turned up at one of his evening talks at the City Lit. Dominik hadn’t believed for a second that she had happened upon his class by accident, having almost overnight developed an overwhelming interest in mid twentieth-century literature. He knew that she had tracked him down, her pride hurt no doubt as a result of his unenthusiastic response to her fumblings at the party where he had shaved Summer. He was surprised that Charlotte had gone to the extent of finding and reading one of his books, but not flattered. Dominik merely saw that she had wanted something and had set out to get it.

  They had fallen into a relationship easily enough, simply by continuing to indulge their appetites in the sexual sense. Neither Dominik nor Charlotte had ever formalised their arrangement in words. Sometimes he wondered what she wanted from him. Not money: she had enough of her own. Not sex: he knew that she still saw Jasper on occasion, and, he suspected, other men too, with regularity. He didn’t care. It almost seemed to Dominik that Charlotte simply wanted to spite him, to taunt him, to ensure that Summer never left his mind.

  He noticed that she had begun waxing her cunt bare, so that every time he saw her nude, he was automatically reminded of Summer’s once newly shaved genitals, of the ritual that had seemed so perfect in his mind, the ultimate crescendo in their orchestra of lust, an act of depravity that had somehow been snatched out of his co
ntrol, his fantasy used against him, an act that had pushed them apart instead of bringing them together.

  He fucked Charlotte more roughly because of it, took her whenever the mood struck him, though she was always willing of course, and seemed to enjoy it. He rarely indulged in cunnilingus, a task he normally revelled in. He could have licked Summer’s pussy for days, until she begged him to stop, but he never touched Charlotte with his tongue, and he didn’t plan to. She never mentioned it, and continued to perform fellatio with surprising regularity. Sometimes, just to spite her, he held back his orgasm, let her continue to suck and suck until her jaw ached, too proud to give up, to admit that she had failed to make a man come with her mouth.

  She was attractive enough, he supposed, in the typical sense of the word, but though his cock responded readily to the presence of her flesh, his mind was unmoved. In a physical sense, he found her dull, a doll of a woman, nothing original, unique or surprising about her. It was as if her personality had deserted her. Maybe he was just attracted to more complicated women. And her scent of cinnamon gave him a headache.

  Dominik sighed. He shouldn’t be so cruel. It was not Charlotte’s fault that she was not Summer, that their sexual tastes were not fully aligned. She might have set out to light the spark that fanned their relationship, but he was as much a party to it as she was.

  Charlotte turned, sighed softly in her sleep, snuggled her rump against his crotch. Dominik felt a momentary spark of affection for her. The only time that Charlotte ever seemed completely genuine, without guile, was in her sleep. He slung an arm around her and drifted into a fitful slumber.

  He was haunted by the most perverse dreams. All of them involved Summer, most, Jasper too, or some other faceless man, plumbing her depths, her genitals on awful display, the shaft of a stranger’s cock pumping against the inner walls of her vagina, her face a picture of ecstasy, her body writhing in orgasm, while he watched, powerless, uninvolved, obsolete, consumed by jealousy. Sometimes he imagined her being filled by a legion of different men, one after the other, each filling her with his seed while Dominik stood back, helpless, forgotten.

  He spent the mornings after these dreams wondering where she was and to what extent she was pursuing her desires without him. Dominik knew that he had started it; he had taken the lid off that simmering pool of submission, that deep well of darkness within her.

  He missed her emails and text messages informing him of her adventures. True, it had been a way of taming his jealousy – he didn’t own her, though he wanted to – but it had also been a way to keep an eye on her while she was still growing into her new skin. To check that she was in control of giving away her control, that she had not been pushed too far.

  How far would she go? he wondered. Would she ever draw a line in the sand? Where would Summer’s line be?

  It was after one of these dreams, when he was particularly cranky, that Charlotte started on him.

  ‘You never come up with scenes for me,’ she said. ‘No naked concerts, no fucking for an audience, no rope, no showing me off in public. We never do anything.’

  She was right. He never did any of those things for her, but she didn’t inspire him to do so, like Kathryn had, or Summer had.

  He shrugged. ‘What is it that you want me to do?’

  She raged. ‘Anything! Anything other than just fuck me. What kind of dom are you, anyway?’

  Flecks of spittle flew across her lips as she spoke. He watched her mouth move with a curious disengagement, remembering a nature programme he had recently seen that featured an animal with an abnormally large oral cavity. It had reminded him of Charlotte.

  She yelled at him often, her ready temper pushed to the surface by his apparent disinterest. Each time she lost her prized sense of composure Dominik felt a small thrill of victory, a battle won.

  He had agreed, in the end, to attend a swingers club with her, partly because he had always wondered what these establishments were like. He had never had the right person to go with, except for once, years back in New York, when the etiquette of swinging was still in its infancy. Either the girl was straight-laced and would have been horrified at the idea, or his romantic feelings for her were too strong and he could not bear the thought of giving her up to another man. Perhaps Charlotte was just the right person for him to attend such an evening with.

  Besides, the thought of sex in public had distracted Charlotte from her desire to have him dominate her. Dominik didn’t feel that way about Charlotte, had no desire to spank her or have her give herself to him. Charlotte was a hedonist, a player; she liked to dip a toe into whatever water she stumbled upon, just to try it out. Charlotte was indulging a whim, not submitting to him, and that didn’t inspire him. She didn’t move Dominik in the way that Summer had.

  The club was in an industrial centre in South London, tucked between a series of minor factories and dated office buildings. It was discreetly signposted, the only light on the outside of the building from the headlamps of infrequent taxis, pulling in and out to deliver new patrons or take them away.

  They were met at the door by the club manager, a simpering man dressed in a full suit with jacket, despite the closed heat in the small reception area. He seemed pleased with Charlotte, looking her up and down in the manner that someone might admire a racehorse, and gave Dominik a cursory glance, tolerating his presence at least.

  Dominik paid the rather exorbitant entry fee and declined the offer of yearly membership, which also entitled them to early-bird tickets for a couples-only cruise around the Mediterranean the following year. He always got seasick, anyway.

  He could not think of a prospect more awful than spending a week in a similar situation on board a boat, with no escape route available, other than diving overboard. An option he might actually consider, he thought, as another man, similarly suited, took their jackets and mobile phones away. Dominik was about to protest that he needed it to call a cab later when the man waved to a sign on the wall that advised that the use of any device that contained a camera was prohibited.

  They were ushered through into the club proper and introduced to Suzanne, a hostess, who promised to show them round and help them settle in.

  ‘Hiya!’ she said, with a cheerfulness that did not seem to be forced.

  Charlotte responded with an enthusiastic greeting in return. Dominik nodded an acknowledgement, once.

  She was young, in her early twenties, Dominik guessed. On the short side, and a little bulky. It was unfortunate that the uniform for the hostesses was so unflattering, as the short pink crop-top and tutu-style miniskirt that Suzanne was wearing did not add to her appeal.

  ‘Is this your first time, guys?’ she continued, seeming uncertain now whether to direct her questions toward Dominik or Charlotte. In most situations like this, he supposed, it would be reasonably obvious which member of the couple was the driving force. Perhaps not so in their case.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Charlotte smoothly, saving the hostess from embarrassment. ‘We can’t wait.’

  Suzanne waved a plump hand towards the bar, indicating where they could buy drinks on the lower level. They followed her as she led them upstairs, to another smaller bar, and a ‘play area’, a labyrinth of dark corridors with a series of adjoining rooms of varying sizes. Some were obviously designed for orgy-like encounters, easily holding twenty people at a time. Others were more like small booths, for two or perhaps three sets of couples, at a push. Most were entirely open, so that anyone would be able to watch, or join in, but one or two of the smaller rooms had bolts on the inside, so that a couple looking for a quiet moment could shut themselves in.

  Their hostess pointed out the features of all the rooms, without a moment’s blush. She did not seem at all discomfited by her attire, or her role at the club.

  Dominik’s gaze travelled around the room, noticing the poles in the bar area, inviting patrons to cavort in the manner of amateur strippers once enough alcohol had been consumed. Females, at any rate, he hoped. A s
eries of couches lined a lounge area, alongside the bar, and in one corner a piece of equipment a bit like a swing hung from the ceiling, made from a wide mesh, allowing free roam around the body of whoever lay within, with arm and leg restraints so that an individual could be strapped inside, unable to free herself.

  Each empty surface was filled with a large clear bowl of condoms with multi-coloured wrappers – enough condoms, Dominik guessed, to sustain a club full of copulating couples for a month. They gave the place a strangely cheerful look, like bowls of sweets in a doctor’s surgery.

  Adjacent to the rooms was a thin, black curtain fixed to the ceiling and falling full length to the floor, with a slit in one side to form a makeshift tent. The tent was full of holes, some the size of an eye, others the size of a fist, so that spectators could peer inside at any figure or figures within, or reach an anonymous hand and grapple at whatever happened to be within reach. Dominik peered inside. It was empty.

  ‘It’s always quiet like this until midnight,’ Suzanne said apologetically, ‘but then it really picks up. In an hour or so, all this will be heaving.’

  Dominik held back a grimace.

  He had never quite understood the appeal of watching people rutting in public, and the thought of such mindless fucking reminded him of Summer and Jasper, a picture that he could not get out of his head.

  Dominik’s personal brand of voyeurism required some kind of connection with the subject, an unwritten contract, an agreement of sorts that allowed or invited his stare. Without any kind of connection to the participants, he was no more moved by the spectacle they provided than he was by watching animals mating on a nature show.

  Charlotte, however, held an entirely different view. She enjoyed the physical sensation of sex for its own sake, enjoyed demonstrating her daring and allure by indulging in public displays, and she liked to show off. Swinging was a favourite pastime of hers.

  She had already begun to saunter over to the bar area, making eyes at the few people who gathered around the countertop: a young man and woman who were studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone besides each other, a beefy older man in a polo shirt and cheap mock-leather belt, who seemed to be alone and was leering at the hostesses in their pink tutus, and an older Indian couple, the type who looked as though they came every week.