“Yes, that sort of thing. She liked being caned the most, and I’m quite skilled at that. She would often seek me out, and we had a good time together. She liked me to fuck her after a session, so I was happy to oblige there too. But there was no emotional attachment, not on either side. It was just pleasure, purely physical. But good, even so.”
“I can’t imagine fucking someone I didn’t care about.”
“No, I can see that. Carrie could though. And she did. Me too. Then one time, after a scene, she mentioned she was having to move out of her flat. The building was being demolished to make way for the Bingley bypass road. She knew I lived in the same area and wondered if I knew of anywhere. I had two spare bedrooms and a house I only occupy for a few weeks out of the year. It seemed a good solution so Carrie moved in with me. It worked fine—while I was here, she spent her time with me. When I was away, she did her own thing.”
“It sounds so cold, so detached.”
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing cold or detachedabout a dominant/submissive relationship. It’s intense and it’s hot. It requires absolute trust and iron self-control. The sub hands over power and control to her dom—she has to know he’ll take care of her. Nothing detached about that. Both partners have to be in the moment, totally.”
I stare at him through my tears, while my pussy clenches like the disloyal little traitor it is. His words move me. They make me yearn for something I never experienced with Ed. I feel as though I’m betraying his memory. I trusted my husband, pretty much, but never in the deep and vulnerable way that Carrie clearly put her absolute faith in Ewan. Would I have allowed Ed to take a cane to my arse? No, I doubt that I would. But I’d let Ewan do it, in heartbeat. And I think I might even like it.
* * *
I had another sleepless night. Ewan left at around ten to do his unpacking and I treated myself to a long soak before bed. The aromatic bubbles did nothing to relax me despite the claims on the side of the bottle. I spent most of the night tossing and turning and trying to get my head round the peculiar but so solid relationship that Caroline had with Ewan. They both knew what they wanted, and they got it from each other. There was an honesty there, a mutual understanding. By the morning, red-eyed and exhausted, I find myself envying a dead woman. She had contentment, a man she could rely on.
But surely, so did I. Ed was reliable. He may have been a womaniser, but he was never unfaithful as far as I know.
Not for the want of trying.That aggravating little voice whispering away at the edges of my consciousness, questioning the certainties I’ve hugged to myself all these months. Years even. I convinced myself that Ed was the man for me, that he loved me. Only me. So I married him.
He worked hard, he was a good provider.
Who paid the bills?Again, that insistent little voice,chiming in, unravelling my realities. Ed earned enough from his courier business to pay for his bike, his petrol, repairs, spare parts. He bought me expensive leathers and a top-of-the-range crash helmet, though when it came down to it, they did nothing to help poor Caroline. But it was my salary that paid the mortgage and the electricity bills. My bank account that paid the standing orders for gas, Council Tax, both our mobile phones. Our financial affairs had required almost no amendment following Ed’s death. It was all in my name already.
Ed was good company, he made life fun. He made me laugh.
Yes, but did he make you feel safe?
Enough! Not going there.
* * *
I see Ewan every day, more or less. He comes round here whenever he feels like it, not even knocking now. He’ll just saunter into my kitchen, help himself to my tea. Last month he looked over my plans for the attic conversion, made a few comments and suggestions. Good ones. I appreciated his help.
A couple of weeks ago he unblocked my sink, and in return I promised to transplant some of my snowdrops into his garden when the weather improves a little. I intend to spend a lot of time on my weeding and pottering from now on, as much time as I like. There’ll be no more dandelion invasions, no more overgrown shrubs or tufts of grass poking up between the paving slabs on my front path.
I haven’t started working from home yet, but I will soon. Maybe another month or so then my studio will be ready for me to move in. I can’t wait; the commute to Leeds has become a chore. I’m wondering about sellingmy car when I stop driving to work, but perhaps that would be overdoing things.
I go round to Ewan’s house too. He’s a better cook than I am so I usually share his evening meal. He has a fifty-odd inch plasma screen television, which is great for movies. I know he prefers the sports channels, but he lets me loose with the Sky remote control and we usually end up with some rom-com thing.
It’s an easy relationship. Comfortable. Except for when Ewan drives off in his car for an evening out, leaving me and my sex-starved pussy to languish at home. I know he’s at that club he mentioned, or maybe some other venue, but he won’t be spending his evenings alone. He’ll find some other willing submissive, another Caroline to drape herself across his knee for a good spanking.
While I just sit here, watching my own modestly proportioned television and wondering what it would be like.
* * *
Paris is wonderful. Of course I agree to go with him, and the city is every bit as magical as I recall from when I was here as a teenager, on a school trip. Then we stayed in a three-star small hotel on the outskirts of the city, frequented markets, and practised our laboured French on patient stall-holders. This time it’s five-star luxury, ten minutes’ walk from the Eiffel Tower. Ewan has meetings on two of the afternoons we’re there, but the rest of the time he spends with me. We eat out at nice restaurants, drink fine red wine, stroll along the Seine admiring the work of street artists and buying souvenirs from craft stalls. Ewan takes hold of my hand as we make our way back along the wide avenues to our hotel, and it feels sort of okay. Sort of natural. Friends do that sort of thing.
We’re in adjoining rooms, and Ewan never so much as hints we might share. If he did, I’m not at all convinced I’dturn him down.
* * *
“Tell me about Ed.”
We’re lingering over coffee after a delicious lunch before leaving for the airport on our journey home. Paris in February is not exactly a sun-soaked paradise, but the early spring weather is fine enough for us to be outside. I glance up at Ewan, surprised.
“Why? What do you want to know?”
“Anything really. What sort of things did he enjoy? Apart from his motorbike, obviously.”
