Fifty Days of Sin Page 7

  He makes no move to unfasten his jeans, so first I reach out and undo his belt again, unzipping the fly and putting my hand into his underwear to free his rock-hard erection. I take it in my hand and start to move, and to my satisfaction I hear him groan with pleasure.

  Then I lick my lips and watch his face, seeing a flicker of desire in his eyes, and I take the full length of him in my mouth.

  At last I feel I have some power, as it’s up to me to dictate the pace and bring him to ecstasy in my own time. I suck hard, and move up and down on him, still keeping my hand moving on the shaft. I start to move faster, sucking harder and taking him as far as I can into my mouth.

  I keep up the same pace, deep and steady, and then as I feel him drawing nearer to climax I increase the rhythm. Then with a deep thrust he comes, moaning incoherently, and I lean back and look up into his face. I feel triumphant, pleased that I’ve elicited such pleasure and obeyed his instructions at the same time.

  “I think you have something to say,” he says, looking down at me. For a moment I don’t know what he means. Then I remember what I always tell him to say to me.

  “Thank you for letting me make you come, sir,” I reply with a raised eyebrow.

  I flinch as he reaches out and pinches my nipple again. “Right words, but wrong facial expression,” he dictates. I can feel myself pouting with annoyance, but try to school my features into a mask of politeness. After all, from what he said earlier, he seemed to be promising me that I would get to come again next. He rearranges himself and fastens the fly of his jeans, once again leaving me nearly naked and him fully clothed.

  He reaches out and I am surprised as he gently caresses my cheek. “I think you’ve earned the right to come now,” he tells me, smiling.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lie down on the floor.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “Now you can make yourself come.” I look up sharply, surprised, but then remember that he’s only getting his own back for what I made him do in my room in college a few weeks ago. Tentatively, I put my hand down to my clitoris and start to rub it.

  “Come on, my dirty little bitch. I know you do this to yourself. Show me exactly how you do it when you’re on your own,” he commands.

  I am burning with resentment but paradoxically, I’m turned on by the pain he’s inflicted on me and the humiliation he’s putting me through. “Yes, sir,” I answer through gritted teeth, as the thought occurs to me that perhaps I need to see a psychiatrist.

  I stop rubbing, and open my legs, putting my fingers between them to wet them with my own juices. I start to touch my clitoris again, staring at Michael as he watches me intently, still feeling embarrassed and exposed.

  Then I close my eyes and start to forget my awkwardness as I edge closer and closer to the peak of my pleasure. Unbidden, the thought of Adam kissing me last night comes into my mind; it’s as if I can feel his hands on me again and feel his kiss claiming my mouth. The thought pushes me over the edge into ecstasy and suddenly I’m coming, rubbing myself just the right way as I thrust my hips forwards as far as I can and the sweet sensation of my climax floods through me.

  I look up at Michael, sated. “Thank you for letting me come, sir,” I tell him.

  “Come here,” he says, his face softened, smiling. I get up and curl into his lap. He holds me and kisses me softly on my forehead in a surprisingly tender gesture.

  “Was that okay?” he asks, brushing my hair from my face and looking into my eyes.

  “It was weird,” I tell him. “It might take a bit of getting used to.”

  “But it made you wet,” he points out with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Yes, it did,” I admit. “I liked the being tied up bit. Although you didn’t have to tie the string so tight!” I look at my wrists. The red marks have still not faded.

  “Sorry,” he says ruefully.

  I get up and start to fasten my bra. “I take it I’m allowed to put this back on properly now?” I ask sarcastically.

  “You can do what you like now,” he grins. I shake my head at him with a half-smile and retrieve my knickers, putting them on, and then I get dressed completely.

  “I’m surprised how tired I am now,” I tell him, sitting down on the sofa again next to him. “Go and make me a cup of tea now, there’s a love.”

  “I guess I owe you that,” he admits and I watch him, bemused at the sudden switch back to his normal self, as he goes obediently to the kitchen. It’s almost like a split personality. I hear him boiling the kettle and smile, thinking of the great sex we’ve just had. I was completely shocked by his declaration that he’d like to try being the dominant one, and surprised again at my enjoyment of the pain of being whacked on the bottom with a Sunday supplement. I pick up the magazine he used and see that there’s a place on the back cover that’s glistening with my body’s juices. I must have been so wet that it got onto the magazine when he hit me. Feeling myself blush, and then feeling foolish for blushing when I’ve just acted so brazenly with Michael, I pull a tissue out of the box and wipe it off.

  And then I think of Adam, and how the thought of his kiss was the trigger for my climax as Michael watched me touch myself. As I hear Michael busy himself in the kitchen, I feel guilty again.

  I haven’t promised anything to Adam, but all the same, he probably assumes that I’m single. Not that my relationship with Michael is a traditional boyfriend and girlfriend arrangement, but it’s unusual for me to get involved with anyone without being straight with them about my multiple partners, right from the start. I usually find it an easy conversation to have – but that’s when I start out with a new partner like Edward, and I know I can take him or leave him. It’s not like that with Adam. In the short time I’ve known him he’s already become really important to me. So I don’t relish raising the subject with him at all.

  And despite the physical connection I feel with Michael, I know I will only ever be attracted to and fond of him – nothing more intense than that. The feelings I’m developing for Adam threaten to be something much deeper, so I wonder if the step I took with Michael today was unwise.

  Perhaps, given my feelings for Adam, I should be backing off and ending my relationship with Michael. Instead, we’ve just taken it to a new, more pleasurable level.

  And because of that, I can’t help feeling a little uneasy.

  Eight

  Friday, 13 April

  I’M DESPERATE TO HEAR FROM ADAM. Every day, I expect a text message or an email, or to answer the phone and hear his voice. When the doorbell rings, I keep on half-expecting to see that’s he’s turned up on my doorstep; but it’s the window cleaner asking for his payment, or a neighbour bringing a parcel that the postman left while I was out at work.

  So I deliver my lectures, run my tutorials, come home at night and eat alone in front of the TV. I don’t plan any nights out in case Adam gets in contact and asks me for another date. But he doesn’t.

  I’m beset by anxiety. Has he had second thoughts about me? I thought we got on so well last Saturday night. I thought he was attracted to me too – he certainly seemed to be when he kissed me. Has he changed his mind, or met someone else and fallen headlong in love? Has he somehow found out about Michael and I, and counted it as cheating on him?

  My appetite wanes, my sleep suffers, and when I look in the mirror in the mornings I see dark circles under my eyes. Okay, I always have them, but now they’re doubly bad. Thank heavens for Laura Mercier concealer.

  A weekend passes, and another weekend is coming up. It’s nearly a fortnight now and I’ve heard nothing from Adam. My Facebook posts have become decidedly morose, although I don’t disclose the reason why I’m feeling so down. I haven’t told anyone about him, and don’t want to splash my disappointment all over the internet. I’ve stopped grabbing my phone and checking straight away every time I hear a message arrive; I’ve given up on it being Adam.

  I’ve seen Michael twice in this time, and we seem to
be getting into a routine of taking turns to dominate. Last week I gave him a thorough caning; this week he tied me up face down on the floor and whipped my bottom with a plastic ruler, and then we had some very enthusiastic sex. It was fun, and again, the pain was bearable and strangely arousing; but still, I have to be honest with myself. And when I’m honest, I know that I would rather be doing it with Adam.

  It’s Friday night, and I realise that I have to start getting out again. Okay, so this romance with Adam that I was so keen on is just not going to happen. That’s no reason for me to fall apart. I’m in my kitchen, making an effort by cooking a tasty, healthy chicken casserole full of fresh vegetables, which is a start. I reason that if I cook something appetising perhaps I’ll manage to eat a bit more of it. The next thing I need to do is sort out my social life.

  I’m just draining some new potatoes to accompany my hearty meal when my phone rings. It’s Adam – at last. My heart feels like it skips a beat.

  “Hi,” I answer.

  “Hi, Justine,” comes his deep voice. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I reply warily. Is he phoning because he still wants to see me? Does he still want to see me at all? Is he going to explain why he’s not been in touch for nearly a fortnight?

  “What are you up to?”

  “Cooking. Chicken casserole.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Hopefully. How are you?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

  “Really?” So why haven’t you been in touch?

  “Yes, really, is that such a surprise?”

  “Well, it is a bit, Adam – I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Er, yeah, sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  “Oh.”

  “But it would be lovely to see you, if you’d like to?”

  My heart leaps. I know it shouldn’t; it feels a bit like he’s picking me up and putting me down whenever he feels like it. But all the same, I really do want to see him.

  “That would be nice.” I manage to keep my tone of voice light. I don’t want to sound desperate.

  “Look, you could come to my place if you like - tonight?”

  “This is a bit sudden, after nearly two weeks of silence.” I bite my lip. I shouldn’t have said that – it sounds bitter.

  “Sorry, Justine. I shouldn’t have asked without giving you any notice. How about tomorrow, or early next week, if you’re free?”

  Suddenly I realise I can’t wait to see him. Tonight sounds perfect. Anyway, I’ve never played hard to get and I’m not about to start now. “No, actually, tonight’s fine, Adam. It would be nice to see you, really. But I’ve just made this massive casserole. Do you want to come over and have some of it with me?”

  I can hear his smile over the phone. “Yes, that would be great. I can be over in half an hour - is that okay?”

  “Half an hour’s fine.”

  “Okay, see you soon then. Bye.”

  “Bye,” I grin, and end the call. Then I look around at my bombsite of a kitchen, and look down at my leggings and comfy t-shirt. My hair’s a mess and my makeup, applied at 7am this morning, has no doubt worn off almost completely.

  So I make a quick decision and open the oven to check the casserole is okay, then quickly throw my cooked potatoes in the bin, run a new saucepan of water and put in a couple of handfuls of raw potatoes. Then I set the hob on a low heat to start cooking them slowly, and dash upstairs.

  There’s no time for washing my long hair – or, more accurately, no time to dry it – so I pin it up away from my face, take off my makeup, clean my teeth, and then strip for the shower. Soon I am clean and buffed, with shaven legs and a trimmed bikini line. I squirt on a hint of perfume, and put on my makeup, keeping it natural: I don’t want Adam to think I’ve made a huge effort; and when I’m happy with that I take my hair down and do what I can to rescue it from looking limp and lifeless.

  Luckily, my favourite skinny jeans are clean, so I pull them out of the wardrobe, along with a white strappy camisole and a light green cardigan in a kind of crocheted knit, which I know suits me. I look at myself in the full-length mirror. I grimace at my hair, which is still not at its best, but the rest looks okay. Glancing at my watch, I see that I should have five minutes before Adam arrives, so I run back down the stairs again. I poke the potatoes with a vegetable knife – they’re boiling nicely but still slightly firm – and I’m about to start tidying the kitchen when I hear the doorbell.

  Heart thumping, I open it, and let Adam into the house.

  “You look lovely,” he says with a heart-melting smile. That cute dimple appears in his cheek again. The sheer force of his attractiveness hits me again. I’ve been picturing him in my mind, but seeing the real Adam in the flesh is a shock. Oh, that man is so sexy.

  “Thank you. Come on in.”

  “Here, I brought this.” He hands me a bottle of chilled white wine. I take it and look at the label. Chablis.

  “Very nice. Thank you.” I allow myself a little smile.

  I lead him into the kitchen and apologise for the mess, explaining that I wasn’t expecting company. “I need an assistant in the kitchen,” I tell him. “I love to cook, but I hate to wash up.”

  “Well, the food smells wonderful.”

  “It’s all very simple and homely, I’m afraid,” I tell him. “But I’d just cooked it, so it made sense for you to come over here.” I put some plates in the oven to warm, and then I test the potatoes again. They’re just right now, so I drain them and put a knob of butter on them to melt.

  “Here,” I pull a corkscrew out of the drawer. “Could you open your wine for me?” He obliges and pours a little into two large wine glasses that I’ve taken out of the cupboard.

  I set the casserole in the middle of the table with a ladle, set out cutlery and dish up some potatoes onto the plates. “Help yourself.”

  “Shall I give you some first?” He ladles a couple of spoonfuls onto my plate as I sit down opposite him at the kitchen table, and then serves himself. “Cheers,” he says, raising his glass.

  “Cheers.”

  He starts on his meal. “Oh, this is gorgeous,” he enthuses. “Better even than my mum’s.”

  “High praise indeed.”

  “It’s a good job my mother isn’t here to hear me say it.”

  I give him a little smile. I’m still confused about the long silence.

  “You have a lovely house here,” he continues. “This is a great kitchen.”

  “Thank you.” I do love my little rustic kitchen, so I’m glad he likes it too. It’s all terracotta tiles and dark oak doors, although the oven is a nice modern one, great for roast potatoes.

  “And how are you feeling? Have all your aches and pains gone from the accident?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, feeling slightly exasperated. “I’d already healed completely the last time I saw you, like I said. Absolutely fine. The doctors gave me the all-clear two weeks ago.”

  He puts down his knife and fork and looks at me. “I’m sorry, I’ve upset you.”

  I look down at my plate. “I was just surprised not to hear from you for so long.”

  He reaches over and gently takes hold of my chin, pulling it upwards so he can look into my face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is that it? No explanation?”

  “Do you really want me to tell you why I didn’t contact you?” he asks.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.” He moves his hand and puts it on mine. He’s doing that mesmeric thing again, gazing deep into my eyes so that I can’t look away. My God, he’s so bloody gorgeous. Am I falling in love with this man? “I want you,” he states baldly. “I want you really badly, Justine. And I was worried about hurting you.”

  “Well, you have done,” I reply bitterly.

  “I meant physically,” he explains. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn’t realise i
t would mean that much to you. It was just that I was worried that you might not be well enough yet... I knew that if I saw you I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

  “But I told you I was okay.”

  “It was difficult for me to accept – after seeing the accident first-hand. It was so awful seeing that car hit you, Justine. I’d only just laid eyes on you, across the street, and you were so beautiful... and then straight away you just stepped into the road and I thought it had killed you.”