Текст книги "Seduce Me"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Twenty-four

Lana is back from her honeymoon. She has invited me to go over to Wardown Towers for tea. The last time I was here was on the eve of Lana’s wedding, I had come with Billie and it was already dark, so I had not paid any attention to my surroundings. Now I am sitting in the back of the Bentley alone. I gaze at my surroundings with interest. A guard and gatehouse heralds the start of a long drive that winds through arable fields ringed with wild flower meadows. After about a mile of driving through the estate we passed the long, high brick-walled kitchen garden. Visible in the distance are formal ponds, clipped yew hedges, summerhouses and beds.

At the front door a matronly lady in a gray uniform greets me and takes me through a wing of the house I have not been in before to a greenhouse, the largest I have seen. The roof is V-shaped and it is very old. The floor is made of large stone slabs. Abundant palm trees and the grape vines give the impression of a tropical rainforest. It seems cooler in here. The glass ceiling is lofty. From the open door comes the perfume of honeysuckle.

Lana is wearing an old bottle green sweatshirt and jeans. Her hands are encased in gardening gloves, and she appears to be re-potting a plant. She turns to look at me, and smiles. Even here, standing in an old apron and without a trace of make-up, she looks mind-bogglingly beautiful.

A strange flash of understanding. I like her. I’ve always liked her.

‘What have you been doing to yourself? You look absolutely wonderful,’ she says, her voice ringing with sincerity, and coming forward hugs me.

‘Hi. You’ve picked up a tan,’ I say shyly, and hug her back.

‘I thought we could have tea here since you love flowers so much.’ She gestures toward a beautifully laid wrought iron table. Anyway, it’s a bit of a mausoleum in there with all the dour paintings and drapes never fully opened in order to protect the artwork.’

‘Yeah, I passed a portrait of a stern man with an aristocratic nose and dark, angry eyes. It felt like his eyes were following me around the room.’

‘Ah, that must be the founding father of the Barrington dynasty, an astonishingly shrewd and secretive man. Apparently he possessed an unmatched talent for making money. It is said about him that he played with new kings as young misses do with dolls.’

‘Oh and what about those two totally eerie stuffed owls?’

Lana’s mouth turns downwards. ‘Those were pets. They used to belong to some ancestor.’

My eyes grow huge. ‘Really? That’s what really rich people do. When their pets die they simply stuff them and hang them up as decorations.’

Lana laughs. ‘They do have some strange customs. Seems that was where the owls loved to perch when they were alive.’

‘I passed a photograph of another of Blake’s ancestors in a top hat and tails riding on a giant tortoise.’

‘That’s the uncle that went mad,’ Lana explains. ‘He was crazy about animals. He is the one who started the zoo. He once drove to Buckingham Palace in a carriage drawn by zebras.’

‘I thought zebras couldn’t be tamed.’

‘The zebras were led by a horse,’ explains Lana.

‘I can’t believe what we are talking about. Come on, tell me all about your honeymoon. Where did you go? What did you see?’

Lana laughs. ‘Blake took me to the desert.’

‘That’s the great surprise? The desert?’

‘Oh, Julie, it was so unbelievably beautiful. We joined an old-fashioned camel train. When it got too hot we traveled in a howdah. It was wonderful. The cameleers were so polite and hospitable. In the day they sing songs; at night they gather around a fire and tell stories.’

She claps her hands together in front of her.

‘Blake knew I always wanted to experience rain in the desert, so he had the clouds over us seeded and that night it rained. It was amazing. Truly. We sat at the mouth of our tent and looked at the rain and then we made love in the rain. It was the most sensuous sex I have ever had.’

I look at her and think I must get Vann to have sex with me in the rain.

Something happens outside the greenhouse behind me and Lana is distracted by it. I look over my shoulder and see two peacocks.

‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘It looks like they are about to dance.’

We go outside the glass house and around its side and come upon the peacocks. Lana puts her finger to her lips. We wait a few minutes but she was wrong. Neither spreads its tail. Lana looks at me and shrugs ruefully.

‘Oh well,’ she says, and we both turn to go back. As we are walking I have an odd sensation. I turn my head and one of the peacocks has opened his glorious tail. I touch Lana’s arm. We both turn and catch the rare sight of the spectacular creature dancing for his mate. Strangely my hand is still on Lana’s arm. I don’t pull it away. When the dance is over Lana turns her bright eyes on me. ‘That was spectacular, wasn’t it?’

Unable to speak I nod. We have shared something special. I feel connected to her like I have not with any other human being. The piercing jealousy has dissipated.

‘Remember that time those boys were chasing me and throwing stones at me?’

Lana looks at me strangely. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why did you come to help me? They could have hurt you.’

‘I knew they wouldn’t dare. They were afraid of Jack.’

I take my hand away. The old hurt is back. How wonderful for her. To be so cherished and loved and protected by my Jack. ‘He looked out for you, didn’t he?’

‘He was my brother,’ she says simply.

He was in love with you, you fool, I want to scream. ‘Let’s have tea,’ I say quietly.

‘Yes, let’s. You have to try the chef’s scones. He makes the most delicious scones I have ever had anywhere.’

We sit at the table and Lana presses a buzzer.

‘Does Blake’s sister live here alone?’

‘Yes, for the moment, but she will be moving in with us when we move into our house next week. She’ll only be coming here at the weekends to see her animals.’

‘How come there is no information about her on the net?’

Lana lays her hands flat on the table. Her engagement ring glitters. ‘Apparently that is what these old families do. They hide the relatives that they are ashamed of or might threaten their social standing.’

‘Really?’

‘Even the Queen’s had two first cousins who were secretly incarcerated in a mental asylum, and Burke’s Peerage declared them both long dead, on the misinformation supplied to them by the family. It was only when a journalist discovered in 1986 that one of the women was buried in a grave marked only by a plastic name tag and a serial number and the other is still alive but forgotten that the story came to light.’

The food arrives. Cake stands filled with delicate finger sandwiches, scones, cream cakes and tarts. Lana pours the tea. ‘You must try the cucumber sandwiches. Until I came here I had never tasted one. They are exceedingly delicious.’

I take one and bite into it. Lana is right. The cucumber is very finely sliced. It is light and buttery and scrumptious.

‘What happened to Victoria?’

Lana’s face tightens at the mention of the woman’s name. ‘She has been locked away in a place where the doors have windows.’

I am shocked. ‘Just because she crashed your wedding reception, emptied a glass of wine on your dress and nearly slapped you?’

Lana looks directly at me. Her eyes harder than I have ever seen them. ‘She had three razor blades taped to her fingers. She didn’t want to slap me, Julie. She wanted to shred my face, and disfigure me forever.’

My mouth drops open. ‘Oh my God!’ The thought of what so nearly happened that day.

‘Blake looked like he wanted to kill her that night. I thought he was going to do her harm.’

‘It was actually her father’s idea. He knew that Blake had become an obsession for her, and if she was not locked away she would do something that would end her in prison. She is being treated with the best that money can buy.’

‘Can someone become mad just like that?’

‘It seems mental illness runs in her family. Her grandmother suffered a major nervous breakdown and, despite spending many years at a private sanatorium in the care of famous psychiatrists, she never recovered fully. At a grand society dinner party in New York she shocked everyone by eating the roses that were there as table decorations.’

I meet her eyes. ‘That makes perfect sense. No wonder she was saying all those crazy things about Blake.’

For the first time since I have known Lana, her eyes become veiled. ‘Yes, her breakdown was very unfortunate.’

Twenty-five

As soon as I come into the apartment I know immediately that Vann is not in. The flat seems emptier than normal. I wonder where he is. Perhaps he has popped down to the newsagent. Smith comes towards me and rubs his face against my legs. I pick him up and glance upstairs. Why, the door is slightly ajar. I put Smith back down and go up the stairs.

I even go so far as to touch the doorknob.

So desperately do I want to see the painting he has done of me, but my hand falls away. I can’t do that to him. I take a backward step. For the first time in my life I resist my curiosity and refuse to indulge in my propensity to snoop. I run down the stairs and as I get to the bottom stair, Vann opens the front door.

He stops what he is doing and slowly turns his head in my direction. We stare at each other. Not for the first time there is some unspoken message in his eyes. I feel the breath die in my throat. It is as if we are talking but silently. He is telling me something. I am telling him something. I don’t trust what I am saying to him. There is something wrong. I drop my eyes. Confused. What the hell just happened? I hear him walk towards me.

‘Show me your hands,’ he says.

I hold them out to him. ‘I didn’t look, Bluebeard,’ I joke weakly, but my head is still reeling from that silent exchange.

He looks me in the eye. ‘I know.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There are no marks on your hands.’

I laugh. ‘Honestly, how do you know I didn’t?’

‘It’s in your eyes.’

I giggle wickedly and start to undo his belt and pants. ‘And I…want a thick and tasty treat.’

He likes me to do it on my knees, in front of him. I drop to my knees in obedience and rub his member against my cheek. It feels as warm and polished as a glass sculpture that has been sitting in the morning sun. There are not many things more perfect than this. The moment flips to slow motion and we do it right there on the cool wooden floor with Smith watching from not far away. The movement of his fingers inside me is deft, but raw with sensuality. He stares at me while he fucks me.

‘How many licks before I touch your soul?’ he whispers.

I am too far gone to reply.

Afterward we both lie on our backs panting, staring at the white ceiling. I turn my face towards him. ‘Lana invited us out for dinner.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘Why not?’

‘OK. Arrange it with her.’

‘I have. Wednesday, next.’

‘Blake found me an agent. He saw a couple of my canvasses, thought they were good, and has set up a sixteen piece exhibition for me at the Serpentine.’

My eyes light up. ‘The Serpentine? Isn’t that a really posh place that only showcases the works of the very best artists?’

‘Yes, but it’s not a reflection of the quality of my work. More a testament to Blake’s reach.’

I lie on my stomach and prop myself on my lower arms. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of refusing. So what if Blake’s influence can give you a small leg-up. Everybody needs a break at some time in their lives. If your work is not good enough you’ll fail anyway?’

‘No, I’m not going to refuse.’

He smiles lazily and I dig my chin into his chest. ‘Vann?’

‘Mnnnn?’

‘Why do you keep your hair long?’

‘It’s what hair does naturally: it grows. Shouldn’t you be asking the other men why they cut theirs instead?’

I pull a face.

He chuckles. ‘Hair is not what culture leads us to believe, a cosmetic preference. During the Vietnam War special forces in the war department combed the American Indian Reservations to look for young men with outstanding tracking abilities—experts in stealth and survival.

‘But once enlisted an amazing thing happened to these men. The talents and skills they had possessed on the Reservations seemed to mysteriously disappear. Recruit after recruit failed to perform as expected. Extensive interviews and testing proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when the men received their military haircuts, they could no longer ‘sense’ the enemy or ‘read’ subtle signs. When the men were allowed to grow their hair back their ability to ‘sense’ came back. Hair is an extension of the nervous system, a type of antennae.’

‘Is that really true?’

He grins. ‘Maybe?’

I punch his arm. ‘What do you need tracking skills for anyway?’

‘To track sulky-mouthed girls with green eyes.’

‘My eyes are not green.’

‘You keep saying.’

‘Vann?’

‘Mnnnn…’

‘How come Blake’s brothers didn’t come to the wedding?’

I feel him still beside. Always this reaction when we are discussing Blake or his family.

‘I don’t know.’

I know instantly that he is lying. ‘Do keep in touch with them.’

‘A little with Marcus.’

‘What’s he like then.’

‘He changed a lot after his son died.’

There was no mention of that in the websites I had trawled. ‘Oh, how old was he when that happened?’

‘Eleven months.’

‘What happened?’

‘Cot death.’ He sits up suddenly. I reach out a hand and gently tug him back down. He allows me to pull him back down.

‘I’m sorry. It must have been awful.’

‘Yes,’ he sighs. He turns his face to me.

‘Vann?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I don’t know if I do or not. He gives us so many flaws and then he goes so silent.’

‘Do you think Blake believes in God?’

‘Why do you ask?’ His voice is casual enough, but again his body is suddenly tense.

‘Just wondered.’

‘Has Lana said something to you?’

‘No.’

He props his head on the palms of his hands. ‘Have you been snooping again, Julie Sugar?’

I become red-faced. ‘I kind of read Lana’s notes.’ I don’t tell him it was her diary.

His face becomes grave. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘I’m not a cat. Anyway,’ I say, standing up, flinging his clothes on him, and getting into mine, ‘I’ve got to go and practice.’

You see, I am learning pole dancing. Every day I lock the bedroom door and I practice. I am surprisingly good at it since I have been hanging off door ledges doing my Callanetics for years, and I have very strong arms and the suppleness of a gymnast.

Twenty-six

It is a Sunday morning and we have just had breakfast when I turn towards Vann and ask, ‘What about BDSM? Are you going to teach me something about that?’

He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Why? Are you interested in being a submissive?’

‘I don’t know. I could be. What is it?’

‘It’s a game.’

‘I like games. Start me off and I’ll tell you if I like it.’

He stops smiling, his eyes change, darken. Very deliberately he pushes his glass of orange juice to the middle of the table, reaches for the carton of milk and, holding it right in front of him, slowly tips it sideways until the milk in it pours onto the table. I watch the puddle grow on the table. At some point well before the carton is empty he stops pouring. I lift my eyes from the spill and look at him. His eyes are expressionless, watchful. The silence stretches. I break it. ‘Well?’

‘Clean it up,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘I don’t need to repeat myself, do I? It is a punishable offense.’

For a moment I feel confused. Was this the thing that has everybody hot under the collar? Do I want to be his little slave? The answer is obvious and immediate. I don’t. Definitely not. But I’ll let it play a bit more and see where this game goes. I turn towards the paper towels.

‘Not with paper towel.’ His voice cracks like a whip.

I turn towards him slowly. Our eyes clash, a look of impatience about his. What does he want me to do? Clean the table with my tongue? The thought is unsexy, off-putting. ‘With what, then?’

He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. ‘With your sex.’

And suddenly I am wet. The idea is shocking but incredibly, unbelievably erotic. I hook my thumbs into the scrap of white lace around my hips, push it all the way down and step out of it.

‘Give them to me.’

I bend down to retrieve them and walk towards him. I look into his eyes as I drop my bunched up knickers into his outstretched hand. He puts them into his trouser pocket.

I hop onto the table with my legs apart so he can see what I am doing, I bend forward and, flattening my thighs, slowly drag my sex across the liquid. Something flashes in his eyes. The milk is cold on my warm skin. When I have swept myself across the spill I stop and look to him.

He nods slowly. ‘You,’ he says, and there is a touch of admiration in his voice, ‘are an excellent pupil. You never do more than what you are instructed to do.’

I say nothing. Just hold myself in that position.

‘Now spread your legs,’ he orders.

Silently, I open my thighs, sliding them not one by one but at the same time, knees straight and holding them aloft from the table the way a dancer would. My pussy opens out like an oyster, glossy and gooey and unashamedly lewd. Milk drips from the hairs onto the surface of the table.

‘Wider.’

I spread out farther. I am so supple I can open wider than most girls. Totally exposed, I wait. The intensity of his gaze makes my flesh tingle. Makes me feel wanton and brings on such an intense craving to be filled and taken urgently that I feel myself creaming right before his eyes, and he hasn’t even touched me.

‘Spread the labia and show me the pink insides.’

Blood pumps into my clit. I take the plump lips in my fingers and pull them apart, exposing the glistening hole that seems to have a one-track mind. It is desperate to be stretched open, to swallow some rigid meat whole.

He taps his fingers on the table. ‘Are you turned on?’

He knows I am, big time. ‘Yes.’

‘BDSM 101. The game where you are punished for no good reason, and then blissfully rewarded for following instructions and for waiting like a good girl for it. Do you know what your reward is?’

I shake my head.

He sinks two fingers into the soaking folds and, crooking them, begins to stroke that inner nerve that beckons the delicious whole body climax. I throw my head back and moan.

‘You like that, pretty puss?’

‘Yes, oh God, yes,’ I rasp.

He laughs wickedly.

I move my hips so his fingers will enter deeper into my pussy and he suddenly removes his fingers. I open my eyes and look at him. ‘Who told you you could move your hips?’

‘Sorry.’ I have never wanted him more. I look down to his pants. They are bulging with his erection. I know if I touch that rod it will be hot and pulsing. And the tip, my favorite part, that bit that looks like a miniature bum, will be satiny.

‘Go and lie face down over the arm of the couch.’

I slide off the table and go drape myself over the armrest. Brazenly I flip my skirt up towards my waist and present myself with my bare ass pushed high up into the air. I try to arrange my legs to be as alluring as possible, think of my bottom as a heart-shaped offering, but it is an odd position—exposed and vulnerable.

Perhaps even a little humiliating. Definitely a ready, begging position.

I am his to ride or do with as he pleases. I feel like a slut, his slut and love the fantasy of it. The loss of control and responsibility for my own body is strangely exhilarating and fantastically exciting. I have the sensation that we are no longer equal, that I have become nothing more than a faceless, anonymous body, an object for his pleasure, to do with as he pleases.

The fantasy of being taken and used selfishly by him makes heat pool between my legs. My own juices are leaking onto my thighs. He doesn’t move.

The anticipation is killing me.

Finally, the chair is being pushed back. A delicious shiver. I hear him come and stand over me. For what seems like ages he stands motionless looking down at me. The flat becomes very still. Nothing moves. It is as if time has been suspended. I want to speak, say something, but somehow I know I am not allowed to. I must not move or shift.

‘Spread open.’

Two words. Hard like pebbles. I obey instantly. I have to. I have become in the blink of an eye his little sex slave. Now I am splayed open like a starfish with an open pink eye. I feel the air around me move as he bends down and runs his fingers along the wet slit of my pussy and pushes two into the hole. The rush of hot blood into my head is amazing. I feel dizzy as if I am going to climax. My eyes close involuntarily, but he takes his fingers out.

‘A Chinese philosopher once said, ‘Beat your woman often—you may not know why, but she will.’

While I am trying to get my lust tangled mind around the philosophy of that phrase his palm crashes down hard on my butt. Only when his hand leaves and the cool air touches my skin do I feel the sting and scream. I try to wriggle away. His hands grip my legs hard, not with affection but the way my mother had, once, when I was a child and had unthinkingly tried to run across the road. So hard I cannot move an inch. My cheek is squashed into the cushion.

‘A relationship is the opportunity to try out shameful fantasies.’ His voice is level, reasonable and so dispassionate that I quit struggling.

He runs his tongue along my spine, kisses my shoulder blade. ‘Up to you. Want to see the fantasy through or want to quit now?’ His voice is now silky, delicious.

I am aroused, terribly so. At the same time I am not enjoying this new pain aspect that he has introduced, and yet I must see it through for the reward at the end of it.

‘See it through.’

‘So no more bullshit screaming and pathetic whimpers?’

Gosh, that was a flip. That he can turn his voice so suddenly cold and expressionless. I turn my cheek and look into his face, so close to mine. The eyes are beautiful, unsmiling, unfathomable.

‘No,’ I say softly.

He moves his face away and I feel his large hands gently stroke the soft burning skin of my butt cheeks. Then it is gone and the next crack on my left buttock is like a jolt of electricity. The air leaves my lungs. I bite the cushion and grunt. Fuck, how can this pain be sexual? My bare flesh is sizzling. I am no longer aroused but more alive than I have ever been. My bum is stinging so much. Tears are flowing from my eyes. Stop, stop, I am dying to cry out, but I don’t. It will stop on its own and I will be rewarded.

I begin to count them. Six. The tips of his fingers strike my vagina. I feel an unexpected and powerful spasm go right through me. Seven. I want a repeat of that strike. The urge makes me squirm and rearrange my butt. Eight. But he now confines the spanking to the base of my cheeks. The vibrations drill through into my groin. I am quivering with nerves. My ass is on fire. Concentric circles of pain are radiating out of it. My skin is bathed in perspiration. I’m not going to be able to take much more and yet I am still waiting for another strike from the tips of his fingers. Nine. Maybe he will stop at ten. He must stop at ten. Ten. That’s it. Surely that’s it. Eleven.

And then he stops. I don’t move. I actually feel humiliated. The tears will not stop flowing. But I wanted this. I asked for it, but tears will not stop. I feel used and abused. Feel like a slut or a whore. Even worse, the knowledge that I enjoyed it all—the attention, the pain, the fingers—in a sick, perverted way.

I hear the sound of the foil then his trousers being dropped, and suddenly the tears stop and my pussy opens out like a flower, oil drips from it, and shivers of strange pleasure shoot from my trembling sex. I remain quite still, unconsciously holding my breath as the rounded thickness of his cock forces itself into my dripping cunt.

It is such relief to feel it sinking into me, ending the punishment in the best way imaginable. It is what I have been waiting for. I always knew it would end this way. To be filled like this. I feel complete. I push my pelvis upwards and towards the hot, throbbing cock, ignoring, no, welcoming the pain of brushing my raw tush against his skin.

The ramming my soft center receives that morning.

The friction of my clit rubbing against the sofa mixes with the pain of his flesh striking my sore bottom, and his cock slipping and sliding in the sloppy, creamy excretions makes me ready to burst. Dizzy with erotic pleasure I bite the pillow and sob through the long, rippling climax.

I don’t feel him come, I know only my own intense pleasure. My reward. And an amazing reward it is, heightened and illuminated by the raw emotions and beating my little bottom endured that takes me to new textures, heights and depths.

I feel terrified and I feel incomparably and totally alive.

I feel sated and soiled.