Dirty Bad Secrets (4 page)

I criss-crossed her back with swipes, darkening her skin to my favourite hue. Her breathing slowed, head dipped in concentration. Occasionally she’d moan, just the faintest little moan. Her back was a wall of pink by the time I’d done with her. She held out a hand for the flogger, and my eyes soaked in the dark of her swollen nipples. Her tits were splotched with colour, each tooth mark etched in purple. Her tits rose and fell with her breath. I fought the urge to reach for them, tease them, put my hungry fucking mouth around her nipples and bite until she learnt some manners.

“Shirt off,” she said. “Against the wall. Same drill.”

“You’re not hitting me, Faye. I don’t play that way.”

“Since when?” She raised her eyebrows. “You think you’re the only one who’s got resentment issues? Tit for fucking tat, Andy. Get your fucking shirt off.”

“You’d better make it good.” I gestured to the rack. “Crop next, one of the models they use at the Badminton horse trials. Quite a fucking bite on it.”

She watched as I took off my tie and unbuttoned my shirt, her lips curling into a smile. “Come on, pussycat, hands against the wall.”

I placed my palms flat, mind whirring. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d played. I raised the stakes, raised them sky fucking high. “New game, Faye. Winner takes all.”

“Winner?” she quizzed.

“Ten strikes each, working our way along the selection. We alternate, until one of us bails. You can take seven strokes to my ten if you like, make it fair.”

She landed the flogger hard around my ribs. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re out of practice, my tolerance is higher.”

“We’ll see about that.” I hissed as she landed another. “You win and we’ll dust your desk off, set you up in the office.”

“And if I don’t?” She cracked the flogger with perfect precision, right between my shoulder blades. My skin burned like hell.

“If I win you’re working the bar for as long as I want. No argument, no questions.”

“Deal.” She unleashed the torrent. The flogger was savage, but not savage enough to test my limits. She was breathing heavily by the time she was done, more heavily than I was. I checked out my back in the mirrored wall. Lobster pink. She’d got me good.

I unhooked the crop from the wall. Jabbed it through the air in her direction. “Skirt off. Now.” She didn’t protest, just unbuttoned and dropped it. “Panties, too.”

She raised an eyebrow but did as she was told. “You going to use that thing on my pussy? That’s a bold precedent.”

“I’ll use it wherever the fuck I want.”

“I like this game.” She took up position, and I tapped the crop against her thighs to indicate wider. She shifted her feet apart like a good girl. “Make it good, ten strokes.”

The glorious thwack of crop against tender thighs. She started, sucking in breath. I didn’t give her long to recover before landing another, just a fraction below. The pain would bloom as one. She rocked on her toes.

My ten went by in a heartbeat, cock pulsing in my suit trousers. Her thighs were a fucking delight as I handed her the crop.

“Strip,” she hissed. “Everything.” She smirked as my cock sprang free. “Seems you haven’t lost your appetite after all.”

“I never lost my appetite,” I growled. “I just grew tired of the same old menu. This doesn’t mean we’re ok, Faye. We’re far from fucking ok.”

“Call this fucking therapy, then.” She was a demon with her ten. Hard and fast without pause for recovery. My thighs burned hot, but I didn’t even flinch, sucking up the pain as fuel.

I took down the paddle. English Oak. This time we were up close and personal. I took hold of her hair, holding her in position as I punished the smooth globes of her ass. The sound of wood against skin was fucking divine.

She hissed and flailed, but showed no sign of breaking. I kept going, harder. The rhythmic thwack of her punishment as soothing as a fucking lullaby. “That’s more than fucking ten, Andy...”

“I’ll take exactly the same, don’t you fucking worry.”

Her ass jiggled under the assault, patches darkening from pink through crimson. Her breath was coming in short sharp gasps, and the musky scent of her pussy made me heady. Her thighs were slick when I stopped.

“Fifty. Your turn.”

“Bend fucking over. Touch your fucking toes,” she snapped. “This is going to hurt.”

She wasn’t lying. She hit the same spot over and over, just to be a bitch. I groaned and cursed, but I didn’t move from position. The last ten hurt like a motherfucker. I gritted my teeth as I took down the cane, and for a second there was a flash of nerves across her face.

“Ten?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Thirty.”

“Are you fucking mad?”

“I’ll take it first, if you’re wavering.”

She bent over. “Make them fucking good.” She cried out at the first, and louder at the second. “Fucking hell, why are the first ten always such a fucking bitch?”

She squealed through the first twenty, and then she calmed, cresting high. She wrapped an arm around my thigh, and the skin on skin was electric. My cock pulsed so hard it hurt, thick and sore with the need to fuck her.

She stood slowly after her thirty, checking out her welts in the mirror. Streaks of ridged white pain, flecked with blood, and I wanted it, too.

I braced myself against the wall, taking a deep breath. “Make them quick.”

She took them slow. Really fucking slow. I was shaking by the thirtieth, the tender patch of skin where my thighs met my ass ridged so hard I walked with a limp.

Her eyes were wild, feral. She licked her lips, stared at my cock. “What next?” she hissed.

“Free choice...” I dropped the cane and yanked her by the elbow, forcing her back onto the flogging bench until her pretty bruised tits were presented up for me. She read my mind and groaned. “Oh God, yes...”

Ten slaps on bruised skin. Nipples so fucking sweet against my palms. My cock was pressed into her belly, and she squirmed so tight I could’ve shot my fucking load all over her. I pinched the gorgeous little buds between my fingers, rolled them hard. She bucked and moaned and begged for more.

“It’s your fucking go,” I said. “Your turn.”

But she was too far gone. The victory should have been sweeter than it felt, lost among the mist. “I don’t want a turn...” she said.

I squeezed her tits so hard she bit her lip. “You give in?”

“Not to the pain...” she rasped. “To you... please, Andy, for God’s sake, for my sake, for our sake, just fucking fuck me.”

I pulled on the rings between her legs, a short sharp tug that made her squeal before I found her clit. “You planned this, didn’t you, all the way back from fucking Italy, you sneaky little bitch?”

“Will you stop if I say yes?” Dark eyes bore into mine, pupils so dilated I could see my own reflection.

“No...”

“Then yes... yes, I planned this... I fucking wanted this...”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I lifted her clean off her feet as my cock slammed into her. She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I’m so fucking pissed off, Faye.”

Her fingers tugged at my hair, grating at my scalp. “So am I.”

“This doesn’t change anything,” I growled. “Not a fucking thing.”

“And what about this...?” Her sweet mouth pressed into mine, her tongue slipping past my lips with the stealth of a fucking panther. I was kissing her before I knew it, hard and brutal and fucking angry. But it was hot, so fucking hot. I thumbed her clit in time with my thrusts, and she arched back on the bench, mumbling for more, more, fucking more. She was inhuman, some kind of she-demon succubus from the deep, sucking the fucking life out of me. She screwed her eyes shut as she came, and I wasn’t far behind. I pulled out in time to splatter her sweet tits with my cum, and she gobbled me into her mouth, slurping on everything I had to give.

She rubbed my seed around her puckered nipples, smiling as she licked up the rest from her fingers.

I stumbled backwards until my back hit the wall. Hot and sweaty, and filled with dread.

I smoothed my hair back, dazed. Gathering strewn clothes from the floor.

Faye slid her skirt up over sore thighs. Fastened her bra and buttoned up her blouse. My breath was still ragged as she fixed her hair in the mirror.

“I’d better get to the bar,” she smiled, eyes on fire. “I’ll see you later,
Sir
.”

***

Faye

I paced through the club with a lot more swagger than I felt, shooting Topaz a wide smile as I approached, and ignoring the tremble in my legs.

I slid the rota across the bar top and she picked it up, eyes wary as they flitted from me to the schedule. Women. They always fucking know.

“Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together.” I kept my smile bright as I perched tentatively on a stool. I’m sure my cheeks were still flushed, my ass too. “Andy and I think it’s a good idea that I learn the place from the ground up... just until I find my feet again.”

“If Mr Morgan thinks so.” She pinned the sheet on the noticeboard with the others. “It’s not rocket science.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest.”

“Cocktails are the only things that get complicated.” She dug through drawers until she presented me with an ingredients list. “Self-explanatory, really.”

I watched her clatter about, stacking glasses and wiping down already clean sides. Topaz was a pretty thing. She had her hair in pigtails, tied tight with navy ribbon. Egyptian eyes, thickly lined with kohl, a stud in her bottom lip, much more subtle than the ring in her nose. Her black cami was tight and low, the curve of her left breast decorated with the colourful tail of some beast or another. She had a winged scarab for a necklace, its silver wings highlighting the definition of her collar bones. She was shorter than me by quite some way, a bright little pixie from ancient Egypt.

“You’re here a lot, aren’t you?”

“I get the bar ready, tidy up, draw up stock lists...” she said. Her eyes met mine for one pointed moment. “... I look after Mr Morgan.”

“I’m sure you do a great job.”

Her eyes were guarded. “I love being here. I love my job.”

“And you don’t want me here, I can understand that.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to say it.” I pushed the cocktail instructions to the side. “I’m not your enemy, but I am your boss and I am planning on sticking around. Andy and I go back a long way, and our relationship is...
complicated.
” I fixed her firmly in my stare. “I’m not here to piss on your parade, Topaz. I don’t want to tread on any toes. Except maybe his. Sometimes.”

She sighed. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me... there’s nothing going on... between Mr Morgan and me, I mean.” Embarrassment turned her cheeks rosy. “He doesn’t even know I exist. I just make his coffee and clean the bar.”

“You like him,” I said. “He probably doesn’t have a clue, by the way. He’s got his face glued so tight to his paperwork I’m surprised he even remembers to take a shit.”

She scrubbed the bar until it squeaked. “It’s just a crush. Boss thing, you know? I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“I’ve been around a bit. My female instincts are finely tuned...” I paused until I had her eye. “Is this going to cause a problem?”

She didn’t even flinch. “I’m a big girl, I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Not that big. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” she said. “Old enough to know the difference between fantasy and real life.”

“Doesn’t make jealousy sting any less.”

“It’s just a silly crush. I’ll survive.” She looked beyond me towards the playrooms. “I walked past earlier. Coffee run. Tell me it’s none of my business if you want.”

“We were just working things out, Explicit style. Things escalated quickly.” I got down from the stool and grabbed myself a vodka Coke. “I could do with a drink, I don’t know about you.”

She joined me and grabbed herself an alcopop. Popped a neon blue straw in the top. “Is that why you came back from Italy? To
work things out
with Mr Morgan?”

“I came back for the club. I belong here. At least, I thought I did.” I resumed my seat and winced at the sting. “I’ve been gone a long time, I don’t have many friends here.”

“You’ll make friends,” she said. “They’re a good crowd.”

“And what about you? Are you part of the
crowd
?”

She slurped on her straw. “I’m just a barmaid, I’m always working.”

“Every single night? Are you not a member?”

She shook her head. “I was shy when I joined, and now I’m just part of the furniture. I never get noticed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Would you want to be?”

“Maybe sometimes.” Her smile was nervous, tentative. Something brewing under the surface. “I came here for research, though, primarily. I want to be a writer.”

“A writer?” A shiver crawled up my spine.

“Erotica. BDSM erotica.” Her eyes met mine, held firm. “I love reading. It’s all I do when I’m not at work or writing. I’ve read so many books, EL James, Sylvia Day, all the big names... Vincent Blackthorne... he’s my favourite...”

My breath hitched, and she was watching me, eyes like a hawk. “Then I guess you must have questions...”

“I don’t want to pry.” Her words were hollow, she edged around the bar, took a seat to my left. “But I heard, about Italy... I wasn’t going to ask, but is it true? That you met Vincent? That you lived with him?”

I downed my drink, fought the urge to grab another. “I didn’t live
with
him. I lived on his property. He has two houses, I lived in the guest house.”

Her eyes glazed. Starstruck. A look I was familiar with.

“I love Vincent Blackthorne’s books. I have all of them...
Venice in Chains
...
Master Mine
...
To kneel and obey
... and his Magpie series...
Pretty Bird, Caged and Beautiful
and
Broken Wings
...”

“He’s very good.”

“Mr Morgan would fire me if he knew I’d asked.” She smiled, anyway. “What’s Vincent like? In real life? His author blurb says he’s authentic, that he has a dungeon in the Veneto mountains. Sometimes he talks about it on Facebook.”

My stomach churned.
He’s twisted, and manipulative, and vile, and a liar
.
He’s a liar. A dirty, filthy, twisted liar.
“Vincent is a serious man, brooding. A creative type. Troubled. Smart.”

That glazed look again. “Did you get to read his books? As he was writing them?”

You could say that.
I nodded. “Perk of the location.”

“Wow.” Her eyes twinkled. “His next comes out next month, have you read it already?”

“Some of it.” Vodka was calling, vodka and my hotel room. Fuck this place, fuck all of it. Fuck Vincent, fuck Andy. Thoughts of Andy’s mouth on mine came back unbidden. The memory tangled with flashes of Venice, making me heady and queasy all in one.

Topaz was still talking. “...I can’t wait to hear what happens to Magpie. Does Master Blake get with her? For real this time? Please tell me he does.” She shook her head. “No, wait. No spoilers. Don’t tell me.”

No, he doesn’t. He fucking doesn’t. He fucks her up and betrays her, and she runs, far away. On a fucking plane with her middle finger high in the fucking air.
“It was a work in progress. I didn’t read the whole manuscript.”

“I bet
you
can’t wait, either.”

My subject change had the finesse of a rhino in a ballet shoes, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Have you published anything?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m still writing my novel.”

“What’s its working title?”

“Explicit Love,” she grinned. “It’s not based on here, though, not really...”

My breathing calmed as she rattled off details. A trick of the trade I’d learned by heart; there’s nothing a writer loves more than to talk about their own work. That knowledge had salvaged many an awkward moment for me, not least this one. I smiled and listened, nodding my head at the twists and turns of her Explicit heroine: Ruby Reynolds, the shy nerdy girl at a sex club who’s ravished by her boss, in definitely not anything like real life circumstances.

“So, you are curious. You could take some nights off, you know, become a member.”

She waved it aside like the idea was ridiculous. “Ruby Reynolds is so much braver than I am, I’m nothing like her.”

I didn’t push. “Maybe I could take a look at your novel some time? I have some experience with beta reading, obviously...”

Her face fell in a heartbeat. “I don’t think Mr Morgan would like that.”

“Mr Morgan can go fuck himself. He’d have fired you long ago if you weren’t excellent at your job, don’t let him intimidate you.”

“He threatened to fire me every single day for at least six months after I started.”

“Initiation by fire,” I said. “He’s always been like that. He’d fire me in a heartbeat if he could.”

“Maybe.” Her eyes sparkled as she finished up her drink. “Or maybe not.”

I checked my phone to find the time was running away. “So, where are we at, Topaz? Are you going to show me how to run this bar, or am I still learning from the instruction manual?”

She smiled. “Let’s get to it, boss.”

***

Andy

The security cam feed flicked back to the bar. Cosy, cosy, fucking cosy. Faye was always good at that, getting her feet under the table. So much for staff fucking loyalty.

They’d been chatting away all fucking afternoon, gesturing and gossiping.
About me, probably. Or about him. Italy. Vincent fucking Blackthorne.

I turned my attention back to the online ordering system, keying in figures for spirits and coasters and all the other shit on the replenishment list. I shifted in my chair, the sore ridge of my ass pulsing as I moved. It shouldn’t feel as good as it did. A mistake. She’d slipped under my skin again.

And now she was slipping under the bar staff’s too.

I pressed confirm on the order and waited for the acknowledgement. It pinged through to my email and I scanned it along with the other fresh items. Nothing important.

Idly, I pressed the search icon.
Faye
. The most recent email was two years previous. A simple
thanks
with three kisses in response to my dividend report. She hadn’t given a shit. Not about the club, and not about me.

She had never been coming back, fuck what she claimed.

I pulled open my top drawer, checked the flip file was still undisturbed.
No regrets. None.

Only now she was back, drinking at the bar like a cackling witch with Topaz. I buried the file under other paperwork and took out her address before I locked the drawer up tight.

City Inn
,
West Street, W1.

I looked it up on Google. An inoffensive Georgian terrace, nothing grand. I’d have expected more opulence from her. I dialled their number.

“I’m trying to get hold of Faye Devere, I have a parcel for delivery to her next week. Is she in?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid Ms Devere is not here at the moment.”

“Can you check something for me, please?” I cast an eye to the camera feed. It showed them still happily dicking about with cocktails. “I know she’s on a tight schedule. Will she still be in residence next Thursday?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, sir.”

“Please, throw me a line here.” I put on my most charming voice. “I don’t want to delay her parcel, and the schedule is going out any minute.”

I heard the tapping of a keyboard. “No, sir. Ms Devere won’t be in residence next Thursday.”

“How about Wednesday?”

I heard a sigh, “She checks out on Monday, sir.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

My common sense threatened to bail on me for the second time in one day. It could mean anything. She could simply extend her stay, find somewhere else, be looking to rent a place. I tapped my pen against the desk. It didn’t mean anything. What was I expecting to hear, anyway?
Oh yes, sir, she checked in for the next six months, paid upfront, no cancellation option.

I clicked through old files.
Photos. Explicit. Faye.
A directory I knew better than I should.

I flicked through the images on screen, of us on opening night, drinking champagne with linked arms, her big smile as we took a stint behind the bar, and then later, to drunkenness. Faye sprawled, laughing, across a flogging bench, looking up at me as I brandished a riding crop. But I hadn’t played with her. Never.

Business only.

Until this morning.

My cock was hard, aching for more, just like that. One fuck down and already fucking craving. Her mouth against mine, those dark eyes wanting me. Her bruised tits, so soft under my palms.

I tensed in my seat to feel the pain, the burn of muscle where she’d hit me, and my fingers were at my belt, snaking inside, jerking my prick as I pictured her perky ass in my face.
Fuck you, Faye, I’ll fuck an apology out of you. A decent fucking apology
.