7. Katja
My mind is spinningas I walk back to the kitchen after picking up the plates of sushi. Amara is not yet back at the table, so I place the food on a shelf in the fridge.
"Let's be a bit unconventional and have your secondi as a primi," I call out to Wren. "I think it's important Amara is here for the sushi."
"Yes, that's a good idea," Wren replies, their voice as tense as my body feels as I go about getting the meat and gnocchi out of the fridge. I'd had the wagyu in my freezer and am relieved to have the option to cook it tonight rather than risk transporting it down to Margate. As for the gnocchi, I made that in a mad rush earlier before I left my flat while Radia and Chloe shared another slice of cake. As rushed as it was, if there is one thing I have faith in it's the gnocchi recipe I was taught by an Italian nonna in a cookery school I attended for a blissful summer fifteen years ago.
A smile curls my lips remembering the many senses of that summer in Bologna – the foods I tasted, the wine I drank, the women I kissed – and in particular I remember Giovanna, the first woman who showed me what it was like to dominate during sex. Under her watchful eye during a red wine-fuelled threesome with her and a pixie-like petite brunette called Roberta, I was coached through the very basics – consent, safe words, the best places to spank, how to grip a throat without dangerously restricting the airway – and I was addicted. I'd long established I was a top – and a demanding one at that – but I had no idea just how thrilling it was to make someone completely succumb to my orders, or my touch, until I was making little Roberta crawl across a marble floor to lick her way up my body, from the bone of my ankle to my cunt.
That was just the beginning. Several women have let me indulge this side of myself over the years, and Bev had been the sweetest of submissives. Always willing, ready and eager to obey, and beautifully unrestrained when it came to showing her pleasure, and her pain. It was such a contrast to how she was otherwise in our relationship – always a little closed off, often cagey about her past and cautious about a shared future – and I thought I was okay with that. As long as she bowed her head to me when I asked, as long as she let me spank and tease and play with her body until tears ran down her cheeks and wetness pooled between both our thighs, as long as she gave herself to me completely in the bedroom, I didn't need anything else.
Which was a lie. Because I wanted it all. As selfish as it made me, I needed it all.
But I never told her this. I never communicated what I really wanted. Instead, I let us drift apart until we were on two very different islands separated by an ocean of unsaid things.
I may not know Wren and Amara, I may have only a scrap of a sense of their characters, their wants and desires, but I don't want them to end up in the same position as Bev and me. Maybe it's because we're all queer. Maybe it's because we're all roughly the same age. Or maybe it's because there's just something about them both – individually and as a couple – that has captured a small but noisy part of my… not my heart, no and not even my mind, but maybe my desire.
And that conversation with Wren didn't exactly help.
Two confused and conflicted submissives who need a Domme to help them figure out what they really need… It's too perfect, it's too tempting, it's…
Still none of my business.
I cough as I force myself into action, grabbing a frying pan and returning to the fridge for my butter. I place the pan on the hob and turn the heat to high. Slicing off a generous lump of butter, I drop it into the pan and watch it sizzle for a few moments before turning the heat down.
Amara needs to submit. It's part of who she is. It's her oxygen.
Remembering those words also makes me recall how they made me feel. Awake, alert, aware. My spine tingling with energy and possibility. My eyes wide and hungry. My fingers itching to move, to grab, to squeeze.
Now I'm curious about what it would feel like to submit, to surrender control to somebody else, to let go of this control I no longer want.
Control I crave. Control I want. Control I long to be given, like it's a precious gift. A gift I love being worthy of having.
The rich and not at all unpleasant smell of burning butter snaps my thoughts back to the frying pan in my hand and I give it a few quick shakes, moving the fast-melting blob around. I take a generous pinch of salt and throw it in with the butter, before doing the same with some pepper. I then turn back to my bowl of fresh herbs and find a handful of sage. I quickly chop it up on the board near the hob and throw them into the butter. Finally, I find some fresh chili flakes and sprinkle them over the bubbling golden liquid that fills the pan.
"That smells amazing." Wren's voice is closer than I expect and I turn to see them standing at the end of the island, an empty wine glass in their hand.
"Verdammt, you need wine." I wipe my hands on my tea towel. "I haven't poured you a glass in far too long."
Wren's smile is accompanied by a light scoff. "You've been busy trying to save our relationship," they say as they move to find the bottle of red they were looking at earlier.
"This is the one for this course, right?" They hold it up for me to see.
"Yes," I say, still a little embarrassed I neglected my duties.
"Suddenly feel like I need a drink," Wren explains.
"Because you're going to talk to Amara?"
"Yes, because I'm going to talk to Amara."
"That's good, Wren," I say, feeling something warm and solid grow in my chest. Relief? Pride? Hope?
Wren takes a slow sip of the wine and I go back to the hob, ducking into the fridge on my way to grab some garlic. I make quick work of dicing it up before tossing it into the pan.
"You're easy to talk to," Wren says once the air in the room is filled with the sizzle of the browning sage, butter and garlic sauce. "And that doesn't make sense."
"What do you mean?" I ask and turn my head briefly to see Wren taking a seat at the island.
They rub a hand through that flop of hair that hangs over the shaved side of their head. "I can't believe I told you all that and while it wasn't exactly fun, it was… easier than I expected. And it felt… good."
Wren's eyes dart to the hallway that Amara disappeared down, and I realise then how long it's been since she left. I wish Wren would go and check on her. I'm almost itching to do so myself, but on the other hand, I'm pleased Wren is talking to me now, a rueful smile still on their face.
"But you're worried telling Amara won't be the same," I add. "That makes sense. You have more invested in telling Amara."
I toss the pan and it releases more of the rich, herby scent into the room. I pick up a clean teaspoon, scoop up some of the butter sauce and bring it to my mouth. Just as my lips touch the hot liquid I see Wren watching me with an intense expression in their almond-coloured eyes.
It's the same kind of look I am certain I had as I watched Wren and Amara kiss. Fascination, intrigue, curiosity, and hunger. Undeniable, greedy hunger. I taste the sauce, but I couldn't tell you what flavours there are, or what it needs more of. I'm too busy feeling myself get lost in Wren's eyes as images I shouldn't be visualising fill my mind.
"Katja," Wren says, an edge to the K in my name.
"Huh? Was?" I blink.
"Is it burning?" they ask and I smell it then.
"Verflixt," I say with a tut and I take the pan off the heat. Using the spoon in my hand, I toss the sage around and see only a few pieces have blackened. I was going to add more butter to the sauce anyway so I quickly ditch the burnt bits into the bin and then I put the pan back at the hob, turning the heat right down.
"Thanks," I say eventually to Wren.
"You were miles away," they comment.
My throat is dry as I swallow. "Yes, I was."
"Penny for them?"
"Wie bitte? Pardon?" I ask, confused.
"For your thoughts. It's a saying,"
I nod. Maybe I have heard it before.
"If you want to share, it could help. Somebody recently told me that," Wren adds with a pointed look.
"Well," I begin but then stop myself. Am I really about to explain what I was thinking, what I was imagining?
I stall by placing another pan on the hob and turning the heat on. After adding a smaller knob of butter to it, I carefully lower the wagyu steaks onto the heat. Glancing at my watch, I mentally note the time and then look up at Wren, wondering if I'm brave enough to say more.
Wren's patient expression melts away most of my hesitation and I open my mouth to explain, to propose that I could help them both, but there's no time for my words, because Amara walks back into the room. With bloodshot eyes and a scrunched-up tissue in her hands, it's clear she's been crying.
And I feel ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous and stupid and out of place. And that's the feeling I hate most. Feeling like I don't belong. Like I'm so far from home. Like home doesn't exist.
That's why I need to leave tomorrow. I need to leave this too-big city and put strange nights like this behind me. I need to leave London and go find myself a place I can call home.