Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Faye

Andy didn’t fuck me. Not that day, nor the next, nor the one after. He utilised his regular modus operandi of lording it around the place, and I played my part, abiding by the rules of the all-powerful coin toss. His week. His way. His reign wouldn’t last forever, and when the tables turned they’d be toppling flat on their backs.

I’d always been sexually submissive, even before I knew what it meant. My fantasies revolved almost entirely around the beautiful place beyond pain, where I sacrifice control to someone who knows how to wield it. I’d been playing in the BDSM scene since the day I discovered it, and played both dominant and submissive happily enough under the right circumstances, yet the domme in me had always been a minor facet; an intellectual bystander to my more natural submissive traits. Even in Venice, I rarely felt it. Rarely felt the power-lust that dominants yearn for.

But Andy was different. I veered between the desire to kneel at his feet and beg for punishment, and the desire to slap the holy living shit out of him. I replayed our playroom power struggle on loop through my bar duties, the urge to mark his perfect skin becoming my all-consuming aphrodisiac. I wanted to hurt the man. Wanted to control the man. Wanted to hear him beg me to stop, beg me for more, beg me for anything just so long as that fucking man was on his fucking knees before me.

I craved the sight of his body battered raw at my sadistic hands, the beauty of his skin as it hardened into welts, and ridges, darkening into glorious rich bruises. I wanted to bind him, humiliate him, force him to do things that would make even the mighty Masque call for a time out.

Above all things, I wanted to break him, but someone like Andy Morgan wouldn’t break easily. I doubted a man like Andy even knew how to submit himself entirely to the will of another. Still, I could dream.

Friday night was a killer. A crazy long night on bar in new heels and an overenthusiastic corset. A night where Andy didn’t show his face at all, and I managed to miss out on a Masque spectacular, changing over cruddy barrels whilst he flogged his pretty green-eyed fiancée until she cried. My grumpy night grew grumpier still when I got the news that our wet room had become a little clogged. I was to be the one to rectify the situation, apparently. Of course I would be; Andy’s orders.

Fucking coin toss.

I tackled the job when the club was wrapping up for the night, teetering on my heels as I attempted to flush fuck knows what down the main drain. Water wouldn’t cut it, so I held my breath against the stench and yanked up the drain cover. The problem was easy to identify, a used rubber wedged in the pipe, along with a grimy matted slimy collection of hair. Even through gloves my skin crawled. The rubber plopped out like a squishy pink slug, and there was shit on it. Actual fucking shit. Jesus Christ.

The thought came unbidden; a crystal clear image of me choking Andy on the skanky, shit-covered rubber until he was sick. It would serve him right for sending me on the grotty fucking errand in the first place.

It was the perfect moment for him to make an appearance, and I couldn’t help but smile. He propped himself against the doorway like Little Lord Fauntleroy, careful not to dirty his brogues on the piss-wet floor tiles.

“I knew you were a dirty cow, Faye, but even I didn’t imagine I’d find you smiling over a wet room blockage.” He pulled a face. “Jesus wept, what the fuck is that?”

I waggled it in the air like a trophy, fighting the urge to retch. “A shit-covered condom matted with pubic hair. If I didn’t know better I’d think you put it down there, just to be a sadistic asshole.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Even I have my limits, Faye. That is seriously disgusting.” He toed the drain cover back into position with a scowl. “Fuck knows how it even got down there. It’s usually just hair and soap scum. Despite its reputation, people do generally use the place for regular showers. I’d have handled it myself if I’d have known, I’m not that much of a cunt.”

“You, on all fours, in rubber gloves, fishing about in someone else’s shit? Now that I would love to see.” I dropped the offending item in the bin and the gloves along with them. “Way to go for installing a wet room.” I rinsed my hands under the nearest faucet, flicking the drips in his direction.

“Actually, if I recall, the wet room was your idea, I merely implemented it. A regular shower block would have been my choice.”

“I clearly didn’t think through the practicalities.”

“No holds barred,” he mimicked. “The ultimate playroom experience… we go bigger, better, dirtier, Andy, not just a couple of flogging benches and some cages. We have the works, everything, even a wet room…”

I smiled. “I remember that conversation.”

He slapped the wall with some kind of perverse pride. “And here you have it. The princess gets her piss play. She also gets shit-smeared condoms along with it, call it a value-added extra.”

“I’ll survive.” I leaned back against a cleanish looking piece of tiling. “Never fancied it? In here, I mean.”

“I’m hardly Masque, Faye. I do have some limits.”

“Limits are there to be pushed,” I said. “That’s where the fun is.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.” The thought of kneeling at his feet in the filth gave me tingles. The thought of him kneeling at mine gave me more. “You used to be pretty dirty, Andy. Some of your scenes are emblazoned on my memory for all time. It’s one of the things I liked best about you.”

“Liked best? Don’t write me off quite yet, Miss Kink. I’m dormant, not fucking extinct.”

Heat. You could feel it between us. A flame smouldering without oxygen, waiting to explode. A clack of heels broke the tension, Topaz with keys in her hand.

“We’re all done,” she said. “See you in the morning, Faye…” she looked from Andy’s feet to his face and back again, “Goodnight, Mr Morgan.”

“Goodnight, Topaz,” he said.

I waved her goodbye, then readied myself for leaving. Bed was calling, loud. Blissful bed for aching feet. Fucking heels. “Time for a cab, Mr Morgan,” I said. “I’m absolutely pooped.”

I could’ve smacked him across the mouth for the cheek in his smirk. “Not quite,” he said. “Playroom three’s flogging bench needs washing down before tomorrow. Someone forgot club etiquette; it’s rather sticky, apparently. You’d better grab another pair of gloves.”

My eyes widened. “You are shitting me?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “This is club life, Faye, you wanted in, you can pull your weight.”

“This isn’t about pulling my weight,” I snapped. “It’s about you proving a stupid point.”

“Think what you want, but that bench isn’t going to clean itself. Gloves. Bench. Then taxi. And don’t be late in the morning.” He walked away without so much as a backwards glance, leaving me to simmer in the wet room with a temper fit to burst.

I stomped through the club to the supply room, gathering up antibacterial spray, and steriliser, and gloves, and wipes and bleach and a commiseration glass of vodka Coke before tracking back through to playroom three.

I flicked the lights back on, slamming the door behind me and downing my drink in one. The room was immaculate, the fresh smell of pine steriliser still ripe in the air. I approached the flogging bench with confusion; it was perfectly fucking clean. I cursed under my breath that the asshole had sent me on a fool’s errand, when the door creaked behind me.

I didn’t bother turning around. “No need to check up on me. It’s already been done,” I said. “It doesn’t even need cleaning.”

“I know it doesn’t,” he said, and his voice was low, gravelly… threatening. The hairs on my neck prickled, pulse accelerating, mouth clammy.

I held my breath as his footsteps came closer, and even though I knew what was coming, it still made me jump.

The leather of the crop tickled my shoulder blade. It crept up slowly, then grazed a path right the way down my arm.

“I want your back against the wall, Miss Devere. Right fucking now.”

***

Andy

I tapped the crop against her wrist, hard enough that she let the cleaning supplies clatter to the floor. She took a breath, then moved as instructed, long graceful steps like a gazelle until her back was pressed flat to the wall. I tapped the crop against my thigh as I looked her over. She was still made up from her stint behind the bar, eyes heavy with black glitter and ridiculous false lashes. Her mouth was a vicious scarlet; lips slightly parted and sheened heavy with gloss. I loosened my tie and pulled it free, running the burgundy silk across my palm as I approached. Her heels made us a perfect height match as I squared up to her, eye to eye, close enough that I could feel her breath on my face. I hooked the crop on a rail to the side, well within easy reach.

“Give me your wrists.”

She offered them up without argument, keeping quiet while I bound them together with my tie. I pinned them against the wall above her head.

“Keep them there. Don’t move.”

I tugged at the front lacing of her corset, and she struggled to stay still as I wrenched it away from her skin. Her tits spilled loose, and her nipples were pert little buds just begging to be punished. The sight made my mouth water. I yanked her corset free and threw it aside, then bunched her tight little skirt around her waist. Sheer black lace covered the sweet mound of her cunt. I hooked my fingers inside the gusset and pulled until the lace cut tight between her pussy lips.

“Such a pretty wet slit you’ve got for me, Faye. You didn’t think I was going to let you walk out of here, did you? Not on my fucking weekend. You should know me better than that.”

She squirmed, grinding her clit against the fabric. “Fuck, Andy, that feels so good.”

I pressed my mouth to her ear. “I’m going to teach you a lesson in manners. It’s going to really fucking hurt, and you’re going to be really fucking grateful.” I tugged on the fabric between her legs until she squeaked. “Tell me you’re going to be grateful, Faye.”

The softest moan before she replied. “Yes…”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Andy. Yes, I’m going to be grateful!”

I slipped her panties down her legs until they dropped to the floor. She stepped out of them instinctively, and I kicked her ankles further apart. “I’ve been doing some bedtime reading,” I sneered. “It’s been quite informative.”

“It’s just a book…” she began, yelping as I landed a slap between her legs.

“Don’t lie to me, Faye. I’m not an idiot, so don’t you dare fucking take me for one.” I ran my thumb across her mouth, smearing her pretty lipstick. “That fucking pervert Vincent is very forthcoming on how dirty his sweet little Magpie was for him. You loved the way the filthy cunt hurt you, didn’t you? I’m reading it all, Faye, every sordid little detail, committing it all to memory.” The moan from her lips was a perfect blend of both lust and horror. “He made very sure to mention how his pretty bird likes her pussy punished. I know he slapped your tight little slit until you begged him to kiss it all better. Maybe I’ll kiss it all better, too, if you’re a fucking good girl.”

“Please,” she hissed, and her eyes were glazed. “Hurt me, Andy. Hurt me like he did.”

“I’ll hurt you better than that fucking prick ever did, I fucking promise.” I hooked my thumbs inside her pussy rings, pulling enough to stretch her lips wide. “You’re going to spread your legs for me, and you’re going to stay still, you understand?”

“Yes…”

I stepped away and watched her shift into position, offering me her pussy without reservation, hands still held high above her head. I took the crop down from the rail and tapped the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs. “So much I could do to you, Faye. So much I want to fucking do. I’m spoiled for choice.”

“Please…” she said. “Anything…”

I rubbed the crop over her clit, and she squirmed against the contact. “I’ll make it feel good, if you’re a good girl for me.”

“I’ll be good,” she said. “Fuck, Andy, that feels really nice.”

“And how about this?” I said, thwacking it hard against her thigh. “How does that fucking feel?”

“Ow, fuck… yes!”

“Did he hurt you like this, Faye?” I brought the crop up to her tits, flicking the end against her pert little nipples. She gasped and groaned, closing her eyes as she struggled to keep position. “I don’t give a fuck who wins the next coin toss, you’ll be wearing my bruises right the way through next week, I fucking promise.”

My words stoked the fire, and her eyes flashed open, blazing with defiance. “Then you’d better fucking hit me, hadn’t you? Come on, Andy, fucking give it to me!”

I thrashed her thighs for her audacity, and I thrashed them good. Her legs trembled with adrenaline, stripes darkening to crimson as blood pooled beneath the skin.

“Better?” I sneered.

She nodded, eyes watery.

“There’s so much more to come, Faye. So much more…”

I dropped the crop and used my palm to deliver heavy, thudding slaps across her tits. I twisted her nipples until she yelped, then took them into my mouth, biting and sucking and slurping until she begged for more. Fuck, how I loved hurting those sweet tits, marking them up so fucking pretty. I ground my fingers into her hungry snatch and she bucked at the contact, desperate to grind that tender little nub to orgasm.

“Please, Andy,” she wheezed. “Make me come.”

I slapped her cunt so hard she gritted her teeth. “You’ll come when I say so.”

“Bastard,” she said.

Two fingers slid inside her easily, so I opened her up with a third and she grunted. I snaked my free hand around her thigh to seek out her dirty little asshole, then worked a finger in dry. She let out low groan of pain. “I’ll fucking remember that,” she hissed.

“You’ll remember this more,” I said, and her body stiffened as I forced in another two. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it this way,” I snarled. “Your pussy well and truly fucking betrays you.”

“Fuck…” she wheezed. “Fuck, Andy, that fucking hurts…”

My fingers were brutal, stretching both holes nice and wide as she groaned and bucked and hissed at me. “Good girl,” I said. “Fucking take it.”

She brought her arms down from the wall, hooking them around my neck to rest on my shoulders, and with that leverage she pulled me closer, until her mouth was pressed to mine and her tongue was at my lips. I kissed her hard, muffling her squeal as I jammed a fourth finger into her pussy.

“Fuck me,” she groaned into my mouth. “Please, Andy, just fuck me.”

Her body made such delicious noises as I pulled my fingers out. I spun her around and pinned her hard, making her groan as her sweet bruised tits slapped the wall. I loosened my trousers enough to free my cock, and slammed into her sopping cunt with a growl of relief. I reached around to strum at her swollen clit, and my other hand found her mouth, forcing dirty fingers down her throat until she gagged.

“Come for me,” I snarled. “Come for me with my filthy fingers down your throat. Show me how dirty you are, Faye, show me the girl from those disgusting fucking books.”

She exploded under my fingers, legs shaking like jelly as she spluttered against the intrusion in her mouth. I held her firm, unloading myself into her hot little snatch as she tensed all around me.

I kept her pinned as we caught our breath, only letting go when I was sure she was steady enough.

Her hair was a mess, and her lipstick was even worse, but she looked hot as fucking sin.

I left her to dress herself while I finished up in the office, and she’d only just laced up her corset by the time I’d got back.

I tossed my keys from one hand to another, casually, as though I hadn’t just fucked her brains out five minutes earlier.

“Fancy a lift?” I asked. “Car’s round the back.”

***

Faye

Andy had a Mercedes, a new acquisition. It smelled of leather, and polish, and him. It also smelled of sex once we’d been sitting in it a few minutes. I relaxed into the passenger seat and watched dawn breaking over London, the rumble of the engine all but sending me to sleep.

“Up here, right? West Street?” Andy took the corner before I could stop him, and swinging onto the road I’d abandoned three days previous.

“Not anymore, sorry,” I said. “I should’ve let you know sooner. I’m in Kings Court, you can cut back around at the top, it’s only a couple of streets over. Kings Lodge Guesthouse, there’s a sign out front.”

He shot me a look before swinging the car around. “Why the move?”

“The bed was too soft,” I lied. “Couldn’t get on with it.”

“Couldn’t they have moved you to another room?”

“Fully booked.”

“I see. I trust this one’s better?”

“Much.” I shot him a false smile and he seemed to buy it.

He pulled up outside the guesthouse, and I unclipped my seat belt.

“If you’re about to sink into the whole that was a mistake bullshit, you should give it a rest before you start,” I said.

He twisted in his seat to face me. “Sorry?”

“I’m saying, don’t you dare think of pussying out on me before it’s my week.”

“I don’t pussy out of anything, Faye,” he snapped. “And I wasn’t about to sink into any that was a mistake bullshit.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you say so.”

“I fucking say so.” He strummed his fingers on the steering wheel and my stomach lurched at the memory of them inside my asshole. “Look, Faye, I don’t see the point in maintaining some bullshit pretence that it’s not going to happen again. It will happen again. It’ll probably all end in tears and a business relationship that’s more fucked up than the fucked up one we have already, but it’s going to happen again regardless. Why pretend it’s not?”

“I’m not pretending, I thought you were.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.”

“Fine,” I said, making my move out of the car. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’m absolutely totally fucked, in more ways than tiredness, thank you very much.”

“Don’t be fucking late,” he said.

I gave him the finger before I turned away.

I flicked on the kettle and ran my poor feet a very, very hot bath before calling it a night, and only pulled out my phone at the very last minute to check my alarm was set for the morning.

I shouldn’t have looked for the message icon, should have just pretended it didn’t exist.

But there was a message icon, and it was blinking right at me.

1 new: Vincent

Shit.

I opened it with a sigh, confident it would just be another like all the others, with the same load of fly back to me, my love crap he’d been spouting of late.

But that wasn’t what the message said at all. Not even close.

I stared at it for long seconds before I pressed delete, turning it over in my head like it could have some alternative meaning.

It couldn’t. It was quite simple.

If my Pretty Bird won’t fly home to roost, the roost will fly to her. I’m London-bound, sweet Magpie. I’ll be seeing you very soon.

Oh fuck.

***