Читать книгу The Secret Life of a Submissive and Bonds of Love: 2-book BDSM Erotica Collection - Sarah K - Страница 17

‘Sexual pleasure in woman is a kind of magic spell; it demands complete abandon.’

Simone de Beauvoir

‘So how’s the new man working out, then?’ asked Gabbie, forking a great pile of lasagne into her open mouth. It was a girls’-get-together night. A lot of wine had been consumed and there were puddings on standby in the fridge.

Helen, who was currently sitting on the other side of the table, wiped something tomato-ey off her chin and rolled her eyes. ‘You mean Rob? He’s OK, but he’s a bit wet, to be honest. I really want someone with a bit more life in him. You know, a bit more …’ She made a noise and a gesture that implied vigour.

We all raised our eyebrows in unison. There is an unofficial credo in our gang: We’ve all come too far to settle for a poor compromise. Almost every time the four of us get together, at least one of us says it about something. Helen, not needing to be told, held up her hands in surrender. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘He has to go, but not until after we get back from Crete.’

‘You’re going on holiday with him?’ asked Gabbie, incredulously.

‘Why not? He invited me, and besides I could do with a bit of sunshine. His sister has got a place out there. A villa, I think.’

‘Oh God, don’t tell me,’ sighed Gabbie, slapping her hand to her forehead. ‘He and the family used to go out there every summer before he got divorced.’

‘Stop it,’ said Helen, flicking a piece of lettuce at her.

‘Maybe he’ll redeem himself,’ said Joan, more kindly.

‘We did warn you,’ said Gabbie. ‘Rob didn’t strike me as someone with a whole lot of oomph.’

‘I know, but to be fair I think you made him nervous, Gabbie.’

Gabbie pulled an ‘as if’ face.

‘He was expecting to come for a walk on the beach with the dogs and a few friends, not to be cross-examined by experts,’ said Helen. ‘You frightened him.’

Gabbie laughed. ‘He needs to grow a pair.’

‘How about you, Sarah?’ Helen asked, trying to move herself out of the spotlight. ‘How’s the manhunt coming along?’ They all knew that I was internet dating and had been seeing a few people, although none of them knew what sort of sites I’d signed up for.

Before I could reply, Joan, talking with her mouth full, waved her hands around and said, ‘Hang on. I knew there was something I meant to tell you. I’ve found the most perfect man for Sarah.’

Everyone looked at her. ‘Oh no, you didn’t meet him at church, did you? He’s not a God botherer, is he?’ asked Gabbie.

‘No,’ said Joan, looking wounded.

‘Or another writer?’ asked Helen.

‘No, he makes bespoke kitchens,’ said Joan. ‘Really beautiful – top end, gorgeous.’

Around the table everyone nodded enthusiastically. Good with his hands, practical, creative – I could see the three of them stacking up the plus points before they’d even clapped eyes on the man.

I started to speak but no one was paying a blind bit of attention to me.

‘And he comes highly recommended,’ Joan continued. She didn’t expand on whether that was kitchen or relationship related. Joan managed a cookshop that stocks the most amazingly expensive gadgets and has a deli and wine section. Kitchen designers and fitters were part of her world.

‘And how were you planning to get him to meet Sarah?’ asked Helen.

‘Divine intervention,’ laughed Gabbie, taking a long sip of her wine.

‘Or we could all hang around in the deli section and drive him on to her – you know, like sheep-dogs,’ Helen suggested.

Joan puffed out her cheeks. She was indignant: she was trying to be helpful. Joan is lovely; she is always kind and good, and really pretty in a wholesome way. Her stupid husband had left her for a twenty-three-year-old girl who worked in their local garage, who broke his heart and took his money, and then he had been furious with Joan when she wouldn’t take him back.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Joan said. ‘We’re having an open evening at the barn at the beginning of next month. I’ve already invited Shaun and I was thinking you could all come along. He’s in Tuscany at the moment, fitting a friend’s kitchen.’

Everyone nodded; I think the Tuscany thing clinched it.

‘So promotional evening it is, then,’ said Helen, refilling her glass. ‘Here’s to Shaun.’

‘Oh yes, Shaun, right. And Helen can get shit-faced on the cocktails again,’ hooted Gabbie. Everyone was off again. One bad thing about having good girl friends is that they all have memories like elephants: nothing is ever forgotten.

‘That was a long time ago,’ protested Helen. ‘And I was on tablets. And you’re one to talk. What about the time –’

‘Anyway,’ said Joan, dragging the conversation back on track, ‘what I’m saying is that Shaun is really lovely, he loves cooking, he’s divorced and he wears nice clothes.’

‘And he has friends in Tuscany,’ said Gabbie.

‘Gay?’ suggested Helen.

‘No. No, he’s not,’ said Joan. ‘I asked him.’

I hated to spoil their fun …

‘You asked him if he was gay?’ said Gabbie. ‘Really?’

‘We got talking. He doesn’t know many people round here,’ said Joan.

‘I’d like to have been there to hear that conversation,’ said Gabbie.

‘And I’ve already told him about Sarah. He seemed quite keen.’

… but I was going to have to.

‘You did?’ I said, finally managing to get a word in. ‘What have you told him, Joan?’

‘He’s not seeing anyone at the moment. And he’s hunky and hairy –’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Maybe you should save him for yourself?’ suggested Helen, sucking the sour cream off another potato wedge.

Joan shook her head. Her moving on from a bad break-up involved a complex, and from what I could make out, rather one-sided relationship with God, and two fox terriers. ‘No, he’s not my type, but as soon as I saw him I thought he would be perfect for Sarah,’ said Joan. ‘Just perfect.’

‘In that case we should all go to Joan’s next do,’ suggested Gabbie. ‘When is it?’

‘Tenth of next month,’ offered Joan. ‘What is that – five, six weeks?’

Gabbie pulled a face. ‘Oh, that’s too long. Maybe you should just give him Sarah’s number. I mean, why wait? Or is he in Tuscany for six weeks?’

In the end I held up my hands to stop the clamour and shouted, ‘Stop.’ I hadn’t got any plans to tell them about Max, and maybe I should have carried on with the plan, but I didn’t want Joan fixing me up with someone, and certainly not giving him my phone number, so I said, ‘Actually, I’m already seeing someone.’

Talk about stopping the party dead. All three of them swung round to stare at me.

‘I thought you were going to give up on men after Henry?’ said Helen.

‘Are you just saying that you’ve met someone?’ said Joan.

‘No, I’m a bit old for an imaginary boyfriend. I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks now. Anyway you know I’ve been seeing people, Joan: you’re my safe call.’

‘Well, I know. I just thought you’d gone off the boil a bit lately.’

‘So what’s he like, then?’ asked Gabbie.

I didn’t know where to start.

‘Oh, come on, Sarah, spill the beans. It’s not like you to keep a secret,’ pressed Gabbie.

She was right. It wasn’t. I am notorious for telling everyone everything. I’ve shamelessly robbed my private life for the sake of fiction, not to mention the lives of my friends, my family and complete strangers. If someone ever begins a sentence with the words ‘Whatever you do, please don’t breathe a word of this,’ I always ask them, beg them, to go no further. Don’t tell me. I won’t be able to help myself: you’ll find yourself, halfway through a dinner party or a radio interview, at the heart of an edited anecdote or worse still in a book. As the main character. I’m hopeless at keeping a secret. No need to torture me: just ask and I’ll tell you. I had come to the conclusion that I was genetically programmed to tell people everything – right up until that moment.

I took a breath, considering where I should start, whether I should tell them about Max and the nipple clamps, or how after we had driven home from the restaurant – the one he’d taken me to naked – he had found a spot in the middle of nowhere and spanked me over the bonnet of his car. Or the long afternoons we had spent in my sitting room, with him tying me up, spanking me, exploring my limits. OK, so maybe not, but maybe if I mention the whole spanking thing in passing?

As it was, the words stayed wedged in my throat, unspoken. Maybe telling them about Max wasn’t such a great idea after all. Maybe just keeping my mouth shut, going to Joan’s do and meeting Shaun would be the easier option. We could have a quick chat over the Le Creuset display and I could give them the whole ‘He’s a lovely man, but not my sort of man, and maybe I’m not ready yet’ speech and get off scot-free. Too late now, though.

I thought about Max and the things he had introduced me to. Was I ashamed? No. Was I afraid that they wouldn’t understand? Possibly. Was I afraid that they would disapprove? Very likely – although more because of the risk than because of being narrow-minded. Would they think I was barking mad? I was almost certain of it. But what worried me most was that they might think badly of me.

All of which made no sense; I know things about them that would make your hair curl, things far juicier than any of the stuff I used in my erotic novels. They’re my best and oldest friends and yes, they’re judgemental, but aren’t we all? I think I was afraid that if I told them they just wouldn’t get it.

‘He’s nice,’ I heard myself saying.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Gabbie, rolling her eyes. ‘You really are scraping the barrel. Why don’t you just admit defeat and go and meet Shaun?’

‘Because I’ve just told you, I’ve met someone.’

‘Who is nice,’ chipped in Helen. ‘Oh, come on, Sarah, you’ve got nothing to lose. You heard Joan – “lovely” trumps “nice” any day.’

I didn’t want to get myself into a who-has-more-oomph argument, so I didn’t say anything at all.

‘Well, you know what that means, don’t you?’ said Helen.

‘Oh no,’ I groaned. ‘Not yet.’

‘Come on,’ said Gabbie. ‘You’ve got no one but yourself to blame – you’ve just outed yourself. You know the rules: once he’s out he’s fair game.’

We haven’t got that many house rules but the ones we do have are pretty much inflexible. And one of the biggies (besides everyone bringing chocolate, cake or dessert to every get-together) is that once we’ve announced there is a new man in our lives we have to let the others meet him as soon as is humanly possible.

This may seem a little odd, but it’s the law. It’s also a real acid test. We’ve all made some horrible mistakes with men since becoming single, and good friends can help you save yourself the pain – if you’ll listen. Good friends can help you take seriously those first impressions you tried to kid yourself were just a trick of the light. Good friends can make the judgements you’re afraid to. Good friends can tell you when there’s something not quite right about him. And when you take no notice of what they tell you, and it happens anyway, good friends will refrain from saying ‘I told you so’ until one or both of you is pissed.

‘So,’ said Gabbie, folding her arms across her chest in a no-nonsense way. ‘What’s this new man’s name, then?’

‘Max.’

‘So far so good,’ said Gabbie wryly.

‘And what does he do?’ asked Helen. Helen likes a man with prospects.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Oh my God, don’t tell me: he’s married,’ snapped Gabbie.

‘But his wife doesn’t understand him,’ added Helen.

‘And they stopped sleeping together years ago.’ Joan.

‘No, no and no,’ I said, holding up my hands in surrender. ‘He’s not married. I’m just not sure if he’s anything – not really,’ I bluffed, desperately trying to reel Max back in.

I should have known that that wasn’t going to cut it. The ones who weren’t anything aren’t usually mentioned unless they are unexpectedly amazing in bed (Helen’s relief postman), have some very funny habits (Gabbie’s old dentist), are a dire warning (Joan’s version of God) or are used as an example of how best not to be Mr Right (so that’d be all four of us, then).

Three pairs of eyes were locked on me now. I knew how it worked for potential partners, lovers and menfolk: trial by girlfriends.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK, he’s a business consultant, divorced, late forties, six foot something, dark hair.’

‘And where does he live?’

I told them. He lived in a large village about forty minutes’ drive away from my place, which was close to perfect. ‘He’s got his own house; he’s got his oldest son living with him at the moment because he has just got back from a gap year in Australia, and he drives a Beamer.’

They all nodded in unison. It meant so far so good, but I knew them: they wanted more. A lot more.

‘As well as his son he’s got a grown-up daughter and another daughter by his girlfriend. They’re separated. His daughter is six. I met him online. Joan was my safe call.’ I nod in her direction. Joan nods her confirmation.

‘I didn’t realize you were going to see him again,’ said Joan accusingly.

‘And it’s ironic, really, given that she’s just tracked down Mr Right for you,’ said Helen, picking at the remains of salad. ‘Do you reckon that your Mr Right would do for me, Joan?’

I hoped that the spotlight had moved on but it wasn’t that easy.

‘How about Joan’s do? You could bring Max to that,’ suggested Gabbie.

‘I’m not sure he’s that interested in kitchen gadgets.’ Unless you’ve got any that you can use to torment naked women, I thought.

‘But he does like food?’ asked Gabbie. She has this theory that men who have generous appetites for food and wine take the same generous appetites to bed with them.

I thought about eating dinner with Max – he obviously loved food – and how he laughed a lot, and I thought about how I really liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, and his generous mouth; but most of all I thought about how much he knew about women’s bodies and the way his fingers and tongue made me feel, the way he made me purr and beg and gasp with pure pleasure. My impression was that he liked everything and he liked lots of it.

I realized that Gabbie was watching my face with amusement. ‘So that’s a yes, then, is it?’ she said.

When I got home from our girls’ evening in, I discovered Max had left me a message on my answering machine: ‘Miss you. Hope you had a great evening. Ring me when you get in.’

Embarrassingly my heart did that funny back-flippy thing. I picked up the phone and tapped in his number. After we’d exchanged social niceties, I said, ‘I don’t suppose you fancy coming to a glorified Tupperware party, do you?’

He laughed. ‘I’m not sure. Why, who’s asking me?’

I explained about Joan’s open evening, assuming that he would say no, and then added the real reason: ‘My friends want to interrogate you, Sir.’

‘That’s to make sure that I’m not some kind of psychopath, is it?’ The sound of his voice made me feel warm inside.

‘Yes, Sir,’ I said. Probably a bit late for that, and that’s before they found out that he was a sadist.

‘OK, and actually that’s good, because one of the things I wanted to tell you was that we’ve been invited out to dinner, and I wondered if you’d like to go.’

‘We have?’ I said. ‘By who, Sir?’

‘Friends of mine,’ he said.

‘Right, and will they want to interrogate me?’

Max laughed. ‘Highly unlikely, although they may want to tie you up.’

Which cleared up my next question.

‘So shall I tell them that you’ll come, Sir?’ I said.

‘Sure, and shall I tell my friends the same?’

I smiled. ‘Why not, Sir?’ I said. ‘Why not?’