Dirty Bad Wrong (8 page)

Rebecca appeared behind Cara, wrapping her in possessive arms, and I watched transfixed as Cara turned to her, opening her mouth to welcome Rebecca’s tongue. Their kiss was deep and wet, the dominant woman yanking Cara’s hair until she melted to her touch, her back arching as Rebecca claimed more and more of her.

“Good girl, Cara,” Rebecca purred. “I’ll think you’ll get the paddle this evening, make your pretty little ass all pink for me.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Cara smiled. “I was just telling Cat about Explicit. She should come.”

“I’m not sure Explicit is Cat’s scene,” Rebecca said. I caught the reluctance in her eyes.

“She won’t know if she doesn’t try.”

“Enough now, Cara. Know your manners.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

It seemed the conversation was officially over. My regret at that fact surprised me.

***

I lay in bed, as wide awake as I could ever be. I’d made my excuses, vanishing out of sight while my housemate mauled her girlfriend just feet away. She’d pinned her the minute we landed through the door, forcing Cara over the kitchen worktops and hitching her dress up all the way to the waist. I’d seen a lot more than I probably should have, but neither seemed to give a shit, oblivious to my presence as Cara bucked against Rebecca’s advances, yelping little whines as slaps landed hard in tender places.

Noises cut loud through the closed bedroom door.
Still. Quiet. Lower, Cara, bend fucking lower. Hold out your tits, Cara, nice and still. Those nipples need pain, baby, they need so much pain.
I tried not to listen, tried not to wonder what the hell was really happening in there, tried to think about anything but violent sex and how it would feel to be in Cara’s shoes. I told myself I wouldn’t like it, that Lydia Marsh is no submissive, she’s too goddamn rigid for all that shit. I told myself I’d be too reserved, too self-conscious, too uptight. I told myself I didn’t want to try it at all, but it was a lie. It
had
to be a lie, because I was burning up in my bed, clammy with nerves and adrenaline, and although I didn’t want to face it, I was horny as hell.

Spread it for me, Cara, show me your tasty little slit. Yeah, sweet girl, that’s it, look how swollen you are. I’m gonna make you feel so good.

I kicked the covers away and stared at the ceiling. It didn’t work. Nothing I did felt comfortable, not until I gave in to the urge and let my fingers wander between my thighs. I was wet, sodden through my knickers. I pulled the fabric aside enough to reach my clit and it felt so goddamn tender it took my breath away. I played quickly, desperate to orgasm, strumming my fingers as fast as I could just to lurch myself over the edge. I came harder than I had in years, jerking and wheezing out expletive streams of pent-up frustration. It felt raw, it felt right. It felt crazy fucking good.

I came down slowly, orgasm-high and floaty, ragged breath loud in the silence.

The silence.

Shit.

It was quiet enough to hear the footsteps outside my door.

***

Lydia

Cara had gone in the morning. I wrapped my satin robe tight around my waist and met Rebecca in the kitchen. She made me a coffee without prompting.

“Crazy night, huh?”

I smiled. “A little crazier than I’m used to.”

“It gets a whole lot crazier than that.”

She was already dressed for work, skinny black jeans and a tight red t-shirt.
Queen Bitch,
it said. She sure was.

“Cara didn’t stay?”

She shook her head. “We rarely do the whole cuddle-through-the-night thing.”

“I hope I didn’t piss on your parade. You know, by being here.”

“You can piss on my parade any day, baby. Just say the word.” She cackled her trademark cackle.

“She seems nice.”

“She’s sweet... cute... uber-fuckable. Low tolerance though, life’s a bitch.”

“Low tolerance?”

“Can’t take much of a beating. More a slap and tickle, it’s nice, but sometimes a girl needs a little more from her sub.”

I grinned at her. “Sounded more than a slap and tickle to me.”

She put down her coffee, stared me out straight. “So, what did it sound like?”

I looked away, caught out. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. It just carried, you know¸ through the wall.”

“And how did it sound... through the wall?”

“It sounded pretty rough.”

She stepped closer, and instinctively I shuffled back, bracing myself against the worktop. “The bed squeaks, by the way, in your room.”

I’m sure I flushed crimson. “I.. um...”

She closed the gap, pushing against me to pin me to the counter. “We were right here, Cara arched back right where you are now while I sucked her little clit sore. Did you hear her cum?”

“No...” I mumbled, eyes anywhere but on Rebecca.

“Shame,” she breathed. “
I
heard
you
.” Long fingers on my thigh, teasing at the hem of my robe. I could hardly breathe. “What were you thinking about?”

“I wasn’t... I don’t know...” I said.

Her fingers burned my skin. “Do you wonder what it feels like?” She smiled, mischievous.

“Maybe,” I admitted, daring to laugh a bit. “Shit, sorry, how embarrassing. I’m not used to this stuff.”

She stepped away, clearing a space. “Turn around and bend over.”

My stomach lurched. “Sorry?”

“Bend over, hands flat on the side.”

My eyes must have been huge, boring into hers, but she didn’t flinch or falter, just shifted position so her weight was all on one hip. My mouth turned dry, nerves sizzling. “I don’t know...”

“Bend over, Lydia, stop being so fucking reserved.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.
My body moved, unwilled, and suddenly my chest was flat to the worktop, palms against the tiles. I heard her position herself to my rear. It tickled as she raised the hem of my robe, hitching it up over my hips. I bit my lip, scorching with self-consciousness... and something else. She ran her fingernails over my ass.

“Ready?” she asked. Her tone was low, insistent. I nodded.

She slapped me hard and I jumped a little, settling down just before she landed another. It sounded worse than it felt, the bite of her palm morphing quickly into a gentle burn. She hit me quick, fast slaps over and over, and soon I stopped jumping and just felt. My breath quickened, the burning of my skin seeming to bloom under her touch. It felt good... great... it felt amazing.

She stopped a moment, long enough to trail a finger down the crease of my ass. “Want more?”

I nodded again, gritting my teeth through the embarrassment.

“I knew it. You’re a submissive, alright. Only I don’t think a slap’s enough for you.”

I wrenched my head back over my shoulder in time to see her delve into a drawer. She pulled out a fish slice, and slapped it against her palm over and over; a strange metallic thwack.

“I’m not sure about this...” I said, shifting on my feet but not breaking position.

“I am.”

My heart raced, brain pleading no, while my body pleaded yes. I didn’t move.

She hit me fucking hard. I leapt up, jigging around with a smarting ass.

“Settle down,” she said, simply.

I looked back at her like she was crazy, right until the pain smoothed into a tingle, a really nice tingle, like spidery itches in satin boots, dripping warm treacle over my skin, and there beyond the pain I got a glimpse of the calm place... the place the itches lead to. I settled back against the worktop, hands back against the tiles.

“I fucking knew it,” she said, and landed me another. This time I flinched but didn’t jump up, and she hit me again, and again after that in the same spot. Pain then tingle, pain then tingle, over and over, and soon I was groaning and whimpering and lost in this crazy sea of self-consciousness and confusion, where the only thing I really knew was that I didn’t want to move, not for anything, I just wanted more.

She ran her fingers over me, squeezing tender flesh. I wriggled at her touch, fighting the urge to spread my legs and show her how wet I was. I don’t think I needed to. I’m pretty sure Rebecca already knew, well before I did.

“Beautiful,” she said. “Shit, I’ve gotta go to work.”

She dropped the fish slice on the side and gave me a pinch, leaving me bent-over, bare-assed and totally shell-shocked, with a face that most likely matched the scarlet of the kitchen. I pulled myself together, yanking down my robe and choking back the shock like it never happened.

Rebecca grabbed her bag and keys and checked her make-up one last time, and I watched her as though she was some strange alien creature that I hadn’t spent the past month living with. She turned in the doorway before she left, a huge grin lighting up her face.

“Lydia Marsh, I think we have us a pain slut. Maybe Cinderella shall go to the ball after all.”

***

James

My mobile buzzed in my pocket. Text message.

“Do you want her or not? Last call.”

Writing my response was easy. Sending not so much.
“Not.”

I counted the down the seconds until the second buzz.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want.”

I cast the phone aside and returned to the paperwork in front of me. Lydia’s proposal was virtually faultless. The girl had skill. The phone started up again, rattling against the desk top. It disturbed my pen alignment. I put them straight again before viewing the message.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“No.”

“Definitely not?”

“Definitely not.”

“Positive?”

“Fucking hell, Rebecca. NO, you will not see me tonight.”

A few minutes delay.

“Spoilsport. Cara says she’s forgotten what your palm feels like.”

“I very much doubt that.”

I needed out of this Lydia Marsh shit. The suggestion that she move in with Rebecca had been a bad one, a rash decision made purely by my cock. Now she was there to stay, holed in tight with the only person I called a friend. I’d shit my own bed by courting a ridiculous fantasy. Bad form, James, bad fucking form.

Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
I held on to my mantra daily, gripping it in white knuckles every time she entered my room, every time the ping of my email sounded with her name, every time she crossed my path in the fucking corridor.

She brought me coffee every fucking morning, just how I liked it. Just like we were friends, placing it on my desk with the same shy smile every motherfucking day. And the meetings, countless fucking hours of watching Lydia Marsh watching me, oblivious to the torment of her pretty green eyes. Lydia Marsh who didn’t think I cared shit for her. It’s better that way. Definitely better for me.

I’d given Explicit a wide berth for weeks. The club regulars dulled to grey once I’d seen the pain in Lydia Marsh’s eyes. Even sweet little Cara, even Rebecca. What I’d seen in Lydia was real. Beautiful, hot, raw pain; her broken soul peeking out through the cracks in her armour for just one single helpless moment, and I’d seen it. I’d seen
her
. Even if I bleached my retinas she’d still be there, sobbing her hard little heart out in the kitchen.

I slammed the file shut and smoothed down the edges. Perfect order. Just how I liked it.

***

I didn’t tell Bex I’d changed my plans. She’d find out for herself soon enough.

In my craving for a distraction I’d done the unthinkable. I’d pulled out the little black book. The
virtual
little black book, of course: full of email addresses and online dating profiles all tagged together nicely with photos of my encounters. I’d checked them out one by one, browsing for the perfect Lydia Marsh antidote. Several were off the radar, status
relationship
or no longer active at all, others I’d red flagged as emotional no-gos. I only hit one lucky jackpot. A submissive known as Violet from over in Kent, far enough away to avoid ‘just passing’ or suggestions of coffee, but close enough to make it in on short notice. She’d been good last time around. Nicely experienced. Really fucking dirty but a little too fucking keen. Still, we’d passed the six month cool-off, she was green light status all over again.

I’d dropped her a message, making it perfectly clear what I wanted from her. She’d taken the bait, just like I’d hoped. I used the opportunity to check out Masque’s profile. It was still relevant. Sparsely populated, unrecognisable and entirely untraceable.

Interests - Everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. No vanilla.

Seeking - Sex only. Casual encounters.

Not in a hotel bed, with the cute little coffee trays and in-room satellite TV. Not in some random woman’s living room surrounded by domestic trinkets and family photos, and sure as hell not in mine. One venue only. Public, casual, impersonal. No strings, no questions, just filthy rough sex. They’d never even see my face.

It’s amazing how many women want it that way.

I took up my position at the shadowy side of the bar, watching for my guest. I was invisible from the main entrance, well placed to enjoy her nervousness as she looked around the room for me, jittery and unsure as the stepped amongst the club regulars. I saw Violet’s hair first, redder than I remembered, piled up high on her head in a vintage wave, her long neck sloping down into narrow collarbones. She was older than me, hitting just the other side of forty and blessed with both a high pain threshold and a deep-seated desire to be abused in public. She was a gusher, with a pussy long ripened for punishment, conditioned for the hard stuff by two rough labours and a special-interest side income. Pay-per-minute webcam, fucking herself raw with any crazy implement her public paid for. It was her edge over the younger competition. Good news for her bank balance and good news for me. She’d take my whole fucking fist without so much as a whimper. Dirty bitch. My cock twitched. Thank sweet Jesus for that.

I made my approach without speaking a word. She sensed my presence, turning to look up at me with hungry eyes.

“Masque, hi. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Hello, Violet.” I took hold of her chin, forcing her face from side to side as I checked her out at close quarters. “You look good.”

“Not for long, sir, I’m sure.”

I tipped my head to the main floor, to the cuffs hanging down from the ceiling centre stage. “I’m going to hurt you in the spotlight, Violet, for the whole club to see. Do you consent?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to fuck you up bad, Violet, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Her eyes lingered on mine, dark as night in the shadowy hollows of my mask. “Please, sir, if you would, please bruise me bad. My regulars would like that, sir, very much.”

“And where would your regulars like to see these bruises, Violet?”

“Everywhere, sir.”

“Tell me where, Violet. Where do you want me to hurt you?”

I watched her gulp, her chin still tight in my grip. “My ass, sir, and my thighs.”

“And?”

“And my tits, sir, please... and please hurt my pussy, too.”

“The regulars want to jack-off to your gaping, bruised cunt, do they Violet?”

Colour bloomed right across her cheeks. “No, sir, that’s just for me.”

“Good girl, Violet. Good girl. Let’s get a drink.”

***

Lydia

Crazy, crazy, crazy, I’m fucking crazy.

I’d officially lost my mind, leaving the Dev at gone midnight to trail along with my new weirdo friends to their weirdo-wacko sex bar. All I really knew was that it was located in Soho. We took the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road station, and I followed them in silence, my mouth dry as parchment as I tottered along behind in crazy high stilettos. I’d been the subject of a total makeover, dressed at Rebecca’s whim for my debut appearance at sex club central. She’d laced me up tight in black leather, fastened me into fishnets and suspenders, then turned her attention to my make-up; sweeping flicks all the way out from my eyes, burgundy lipstick and false lashes, with just the slightest hint of rouge. I didn’t look like the usual fit-for-the-office Lydia Marsh at all, and I’d felt strangely well for it. At least I had back at the apartment. A change is as good as a rest, so they say.

My guides stopped outside a pair of unmarked wooden doors, and my nerves jangled around my stomach so hard I considered running, but Rebecca had my elbow locked tight in hers, no hope of escape. She knocked and two huge men stepped out, smiling in recognition once they caught sight of Bex and Cara.

Bex pulled me forward. “This is Cat. She’s my guest tonight.”

They waved us on through and I was in, just like that. We stopped at a shadowy red reception bar to leave our coats, handing them over to a skinny little creature with so many piercings I could hardly make out her features.

Rebecca grabbed my hand tight as she climbed the main staircase, stopping dead before we stepped through into the main club. “Remember your name, Cat. Lydia doesn’t exist in this place.”

I nodded, then followed her in, looking this way and that as I struggled to orientate myself. It was a bigger space than I’d imagined, a gulf of standing area lined with dimly lit seating: plush booths lined with rich scarlet brocade and occupied by small clusters of people, some of which appeared to be particularly well acquainted. I tried not to pry, forcing my eyes to remain on Raven alone as she led the way. The main bar was a crazy spectacle, flashing bright in a neon hue - all pinks and greens and electric blues, with bar staff to match. I sat down beside Raven, noticing Cara following up the rear, saying her hellos to the groups in the booths.

“Well?” Raven asked. “Are we staying?”

“Yeah. But I’ll need a large glass of something.”

“I’m sure we can sort that out.” She leant in close, breathing into my ear and directing my gaze with a finger. “Toilets are over in that corner. There’s a ladies’, a mens’ and an anybodies’. So take your pick when you go. There’s also a wet room off to the side, but I wouldn’t recommend you head in there unless you want a face full of piss. It’s where the edge players get it on.” She gestured further along. “Main stage area. They have a selection of cuffs from the ceiling, with an electric wrench for suspension play. There’s also an X-frame propped at the back and sometimes they’ll set up a flogging bench if it looks as though it’s needed. Mainly the stage is for the hardcore players, so be warned, things really can get fucking hardcore up there. You’ll soon know about it if someone’s starting up a scene, they’ll fire up the main spotlights and turn it into a show. Don’t be surprised to see people getting it on from the sidelines, it’s like real-time porn, only better if you’re into the whole pain-pleasure thing. Nothing like the sound of a screaming sub in live audio.”

“Will there be a show tonight?”

“All depends who’s in. Sometimes I go up there, but
I’m
babysitting
you
this evening.” She winked. “As you can see, in terms of general ambience some of the seating is in darkness, some spotlit, depending on your penchant for exhibitionism. There’s a chill-out room to the back of the main floor, but there’s not all that much chilled out about it. Lastly, down the corridor you have the playrooms. That’s where a lot of the fun and games happen.”

“Playrooms?”

“Yeah, for smaller scenes. They have a variety of furniture in them... benches, racks, cuffs, frames, cages... this is a members only club, and each member is assigned a locker off to the side of playroom one.” She jangled some silver keys in front of my face. “People tend to collect what they need and choose a room for their scene. Some are big enough for multiple pairs or groups, others more for one on one play. They all have internal windows, so you’ll get spectators looking in, but playroom four has blinds if you want a bit of extra privacy.” She smiled. “I’m not sure you’ll need to know the etiquette, but an open door means people are welcome inside and will sometimes be invited to join in. Closed door means watch but don’t enter, unless you’re in a separate scene and want to use the free equipment. Everything gets hosed down and sterilised at the end of every night, but we’re all pretty responsible and we clean up after ourselves. There are wipes in every playroom, and a selection of rubbers. Safe sex is standard here, this isn’t a dive.”

“Nice to know,” I smiled.

“There are some toys available for sale under the bar, vibrators and butt plugs and shit like that, as well as batteries, lube and bondage tape. Sometimes they stock rope as well, but you can’t count on it. If you have any issues there are always hostesses about.” She pointed at a tall woman in white PVC leaning against the wall to the side of the bar. “That’s Delicious, she’s on duty tonight. If you ever get any problems, unwanted attention or some kind of medical issue they’re always around to help, and they hang out with the newbies if they feel nervous. You’re with us, of course, so it’s not so relevant to you.”

“And how much does this cost? To be a member, I mean?”

“Why, you thinking of joining?” she grinned. “It depends. If you want to come every week you pay for VIP membership, which is four hundred a month, with a fifty percent discount for a partner if you have one. You can also invite one guest a month in addition. Occasional members pay five hundred for the year, but they also pay another hundred on the door each visit, and don’t get a discount for partners.”

“So you pay four hundred every month to come here?”

“Sure do. Why do you think I needed a housemate?” she nudged me in good humour. Cara slid over a couple of drinks, cocktails from the looks, bright blue and topped with an umbrella. I mouthed thanks. “There you have it. Explicit in a nutshell. Everyone uses a name here, for privacy, hence the Cat thing. Oh, and there’s a no-photography rule, things like that. There’s an official list of dos and don’ts but everyone generally knows what they are. Anyone leery gets asked to leave pretty sharpish, so generally it’s ok to relax and it’s always ok to say no if you don’t want to do something. You’ll get offers, I’m sure.”