‘I never said we hadn’t. Or that we had. Just that I wanted to. But I met him at a party before the summer break, if that’s what you’re asking.’
That doesn’t answer my question at all. In fact, it’s just a lead-in to several others. ‘And?’ I prompt.
‘We had a grand night, got on really well and... we went back to mine.’ Placing the magazine on the sofa next to her, she links suddenly restless fingers behind her head. Crossing one leg over the other, one foot dangles buoyant above. ‘For coffee.’ She slides me a significant look. ‘I didn’t have any in the cupboard but let’s just say we had a very stimulating time, all the same.’
Then she giggles. And jiggles her foot. Far out, it’s like being back in high school—she’s definitely got it bad.
‘So you’ve done the deed?’ NowIsound like a teenager, not that I went all the way in my teens. I was definitely a late starter. Making up for it heaps now.
She exhales a slow breath but doesn’t speak, almost as if she’s replaying the evening in her head. ‘We managed to restrain ourselves to a bit of frottage that time,’ she says eventually and almost as though to herself. Rousing from her thoughts, it’s almost as though she’s shaking off flies. ‘I wish I’d let him ride the arse offa’ me then. If I’d known what I was in for later, I wouldn’t have played hard to get.’
‘Payback’s a bitch,’ I snigger.Get oh-so smug me. ‘And what the hell’s frottage?’ Sometimes I’m sure we talk different languages.
‘You know,’ she says, like I really should. Then, making a slack-cupped fist, she gestures with a loose motion of her wrist. ‘A bit of a helping hand.’
‘Just how many glasses of wine have you had?’ I ask, eyebrows fighting to free themselves from my head.
‘One, why?’
‘Surreal over sharing, that’s why.’
‘Nah, over sharing would be to tell you I let him come on my t—’
‘La-la-laa!’ I place hands over corresponding ears. ‘So don’t need to know!’
Deciding I need to be back in my chair before I begin baring my soul, I head back to it and take a large mouthful of wine. Should I take comfort in the fact that she’s so willing to share? Maybe it’ll make my questions easier, not that I’ve much choice in the matter. As far as brain picking, she’s all I’ve got, apart from Kai. And why wouldn’t I ask Kai? Because I already feel like the country mouse that’s turned up at his kinkier cousin’s place, finding him answering the front door wearing leather chaps and nipple clamps. Plus, I think somehow this would give him all kinds of ideas in his role as teacher. I expect he’d find some way to supply me with a uniform to befit that role.
‘Niamh?’ I ask, placing my glass on the table and inhaling deeply.
‘Hmm?’ She doesn’t look up, her attention having resumed on the magazine.
‘Do you know much about people who enjoy... dominance... or fetish?’ My words are quiet and I’m not completely sure I’m using the right terms. Sounds about right, though. ‘Swingers?’ I ask, a little louder and hating the upward inflection in my voice.
‘Horses of different colours, those,’ she says absently, flicking a page. ‘Like donkeys and zebras.’
‘What?’ It was never going to be easy, but really, did she have to make me more confused?
Niamh raises her head, staring into the middle distance. ‘Two... states that shouldn’t be housed together.’ Her eyes return to me. ‘Mess your kinksters with your swingers and you end up with crossed boundaries, crossed purposes, or else something really weird.’
‘Okay.’ I draw the word out slowly, not okay at all. ‘What about kinksters, then.’ Swingers are people who swap partners, I think. ‘Kink.’ I repeat quietly.
Leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair, her eyes settle again on mine. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve developed a fetish for shoes, ‘cos, babe, that particular kitty-cat’s already out of the bag.’
I smile weakly and shrug. ‘I like shoes.’
‘You like fuck me heels all of a sudden.’ Actually, Kai like’s to fuck me in heels but that’s just semantics. ‘Or are you talking more along the serious lines—bondage, pegging and that pony play stuff?’
I swallow the lump of madness, the chunk ofohmyGodNiamhIlikebondageandbeingspankedlodged in my throat. Trust her to whisk the conversation to the heart of the matter so fast, I feel like I’ve got whiplash. My face burns so hot, I think my outsides probably match my innards. And what the puck is pony play? Because the only animal I’m playing is possum, and I’m doing it right now as I force myself to relax back in the chair.
‘And pegging, what the feck!’ she exclaims, turning an unfamiliar shade of red herself, which totally clashes with her hair.
Pegging? Laundry pegs as bargain basement nipple clamps? Misuse of your laundry stuff, at a guess?
‘Whatevertosses your salad, I suppose,’ she says, sniggering. Then, licking the tip of her index finger, she turns the page, adding haughtily, ‘I think you’ll find it’s a load of sensationalism, mainly. People thinking they’re missing out on shit, making stuff up. Especially as bondage’s become a bit of a buzz word lately. I mean, look at that book, for example. It sent sales of sex toys through the roof.’
‘The one from your book club,Sixty Shags?’
She nods. ‘‘Course, there are people out there getting their freaky-freak on for real. Believe me, I’ve seen the homemade porn.’ Shrugging off the admission, she carries on. ‘A freaky minority lusting after inanimate objects and trying shit—sometimes literally.’
