Eighty Days Yellow (16 page)

She took a couple of steps in that direction. Dominik followed her with his eyes, alert to her movement, the way her legs elegantly danced across the ground in spite of the evident unsuitability of her high heels across the rough stone surface of the crypt.

Just as Dominik opened his mouth to convey his next set of instructions, Summer gently set the violin case down on the ground and unzipped the side of the little black dress.

Dominik smiled. She had anticipated his command, had guessed he wanted her to play naked again, albeit this time with no other musicians by her side. On this occasion, he would be the sole person dressed.

The dress slipped down, uncovering her torso, and then with a rapid movement of her hips, Summer shuffled so that it moved all the way down her legs to land, crumpled like an accordion, on the floor at her feet.

She was not wearing any underwear.

Just the dark-black stockings that stopped halfway up her creamy thighs.

And the five-inch designer high-heel shoes. He idly guessed Summer owned a fair few classy shoes.

She looked up, straight at Dominik.

‘This is what you wanted.’

It was not a question, merely evidence.

He nodded.

In the circle of light, she stood, straight-backed, proud, conscious of the way she was brazenly displaying herself. On her terms more than his.

Again, the cold buried within the crypt’s old stones began to shroud her body, her nipples hardened, her cunt grew humid.

Dominik caught his breath.

‘Come here,’ he ordered her.

Summer hesitated, for the briefest of moments, then stepped out of the narrow circle of light where she had been on unmistakeable display and edged her way towards him. As she moved slowly, Dominik noted, peering at her through the diminished visibility, a thin line running against her flank, a hint of redness, connecting the curve of her rump with her thin waist. He squinted, thinking at first it was just a shadow conjured up by her stepping out of the zone of limelight he had set up earlier into a more welcoming form of penumbra. No, definitely some form of blemish on her skin he hadn’t noticed on the previous occasion when she had turned her back on him to disengage from her dress once the musical students had donned their blindfolds. Today, she had been standing full frontal all the time.

Dominik frowned. ‘Swivel round,’ he said. ‘I want to see your back.’

Summer caught her breath. She knew there were still visible marks on her buttocks from the club. She had caught sight of them in the mirror earlier when showering in preparation for the recital. She hadn’t realised they wouldn’t fade in time for today. This was why she had been so careful not to expose her rear to him when she undressed. She experienced a strong flash of apprehension, unsure what his reaction would be, although part of her wanted to brazenly show off her well-earned marks of personal infamy.

She sighed and executed the order.

‘What are those?’ he asked.

‘Marks,’ she replied.

‘Who did them to you?’

‘Someone.’

‘Has someone even got a name?’

‘I don’t even know. Would a name mean anything to you? I didn’t introduce myself. I didn’t want to.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘A little, but not for long.’

‘Are you a masochist?’

‘Not usually. I . . .’ Summer paused, stuttered, thought. ‘I didn’t do it for the pain.’

‘Why, then?’ Dominik continued his questioning.

‘I needed the . . . rush . . .’

‘When?’ he enquired, although he thought he already knew the answer.

‘Straight after my playing for you the other day, with the quartet,’ she confirmed.

‘So you’re a pain slut?’ he asked.

Summer smiled at the description. She had heard Charlotte use that phrase, when she was describing some of her acquaintances at the club on the boat.

She stopped, thought, considered. Was she a ‘pain slut’? She had tolerated, even enjoyed it at times, but pain had on that occasion just been the vehicle, the means to transport her into that other dimension, not the motivation for her experience.

‘No.’

‘So just a slut?’

‘Maybe.’

As she said this, even though it was partly in jest, Summer felt she had crossed a metaphorical Rubicon and knew that Dominik felt the same way. Instinctively, she straightened her back, her firm breasts on full display. She could feel him examining the thin lattice of lines and faint bruises strewn across her arse, the temporary tattoo that betrayed her inner wanton.

Dominik pondered, the steady rhythm of his breath a gentle hiss blowing through the crypt’s heavy atmosphere.

‘That was more than just a spanking,’ he remarked.

‘I know,’ Summer said.

‘Come closer.’

Summer tiptoed back a few more inches until she was standing right behind him, the warmth of his body reaching her through his clothes.

‘Bend over.’

She obeyed, conscious of the spectacle she was offering.

‘Spread your legs.’

Now he could see not only the marks but also her intimacy.

She felt his hand touch her left buttock, at first like a gentle caress as he explored the surface of the skin, like a rough glove gliding along her curves. His hand was so hot.

But then again so was her skin.

He lingered awhile, following the parallel lines of pinkness that criss-crossed her buttocks, probing the scattered, isolated pale-brown and yellow bruise islands.

A finger then trailed slowly down along the crack of her arse, skipping along her exposed and pulsing sphincter as she held her breath, sliding across her perineum, which made her jump, and with slow deliberation reaching her slit. She knew how humid she already was there and felt no shame at being so obviously exposed in this way both physiologically and mentally. So she found Dominik’s touch, his words, his manner arousing. So what?

The hand withdrew.

For a moment, the loss of contact was unbearable. Surely he was not going to stop, was he? Could he be that cruel? Did she yearn for such cruelty?

‘You like that, don’t you?’

Summer remained silent, at war with her desire to tell him how much she did, indeed, like it.

‘Tell me,’ he said again, his voice barely a whisper, soft in her ear.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I like it.’

Dominik stepped back, circled her again. He would take his time over this one. He watched her body closely, noted the raw heat that emanated from her. She was almost sweating, despite the cold. He noted the way his words seemed to affect her.

Interesting, thought Dominik.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

He pressed her further.

‘Tell me what you desire.’

Summer’s legs ached now, but she didn’t move. She stayed in position, enjoying the tiny currents of air that swept across her body as Dominik continued to circle her, moving ever closer but never touching her skin.

‘Tell me what you want, Summer.’

‘I want you to touch me.’

She spoke quietly, but Summer knew that Dominik could hear her.

Was he really going to make her beg for it?

‘Louder. Say it louder.’

Yes, it seemed that he was.

Her body moved imperceptibly in response to his words. The most minuscule signs of arousal, but unmistakeable, he thought. She would ask him to fuck her.

Of that he was almost certain. And he was in no rush.

Dominik waited.

‘Touch me. Please.’

At last.

He stepped back, satisfied by the desperation, the need, in her voice.

‘First, you will play.’

Summer’s body shook with thwarted desire. She straightened, slowly, knowing he was toying with her and helpless to defend herself.

She moved back to the circle of light and finally turned to face him.

‘An improvisation on the themes of Mendelssohn’s
Fingal’s Cave
,’ she said, taking a delicate bow in his direction. Then Summer bent her knees and, with all the grace she could summon in such a state of undress, extended her hand to pick up the violin case she had settled on the ground. Still partly crouching, she opened it and took out the Bailly.

She knew his gaze was fixed on her genitals, as if the voyeur inside him was hoping that as she crouched, her cunt lips might yawn open ever so slightly and betray her growing wetness. At the mere thought of this, her whole body temperature rose, banishing the returning cold of the crypt.

The yellow-orange varnish of the vintage instrument almost shimmered under the concentrated ray of light in which Summer was bathed. She adjusted her grip on the bow, launched into the piece, her eyes closed.

In her imagination, every time she played this particular music, it evoked waves breaking against a rocky shore of Scandinavian-fjord ruggedness, spume rising like mist in the air against a background of grey and windy skies. For Summer, every piece of music owned its own landscape and it was to these places she was often transported when she played, born on exotic winds on journeys of the mind. She knew the real-world Fingal’s Cave was associated with the Giant’s Causeway, but she had seen neither place in real life. Sometimes the imagination was reward enough.

She felt her ragged breathing slow, her body relax. Time came to a halt.

Beyond the hypnotic wall of the music and her self-chosen blindness – for which she required no blindfold – she could sense Dominik’s presence. The loudness of his silence, the muted distant sound of his breathing. She knew he was watching her, not only listening to every note she was bringing to life, but aware that his piercing eyes were travelling across the geometry of her body like an explorer investigates unmapped lands, pinning her to his imaginary map like a lepidopterist takes ownership of a butterfly, enjoying the vulnerability of her nudity, the gift of her body.

Finally, with a superfluous wrist movement full of showmanship, Summer came to the conclusion of her improvisation. There was a further instant of sound, as the echo of the melody kept on bouncing between the stone walls, before the utter silence returned, a silence so deep that she briefly thought she was now on her own in the crypt. When she opened her eyes, however, she saw Dominik, rooted to the same spot where she had last seen him, immobile, with a faint smile of pleasure colouring his lips.

His hands rose and he clapped slowly, with deliberation and appreciation.

‘Bravo,’ he said.

Summer nodded, accepting his compliment as if she were on a stage.

She leaned over to set the precious violin down on the stone floor, conscious of the fact her breasts would sway, come alive.

She looked at Dominik again, awaiting further words, but he remained silent.

Her lips were dry and she passed her tongue across them. She thought the heat radiating from her body must form some sort of halo around her, like an extra-terrestrial in a science-fiction movie or a nuclear scientist who’d just been irradiated by leaked radioactive waste following some atomic catastrophe.

‘Exquisite,’ Dominik finally remarked.

‘Me, or the music?’ Summer asked tartly.

‘Both.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ she said. ‘Can I dress now?’ she asked.

His gaze was unwavering. ‘No.’

With the grace and latent danger of a panther stalking its prey, Dominik moved towards her. Summer looked up, her eyes met his. Face to face she refused to cede her position, felt once more waves of excruciating heat pass through her at their closeness.

Dominik gripped her shoulder, spun her on the spot and pushed her forward past him, so that she now faced the crypt wall. He set a hand down against the small of her back to accentuate the arch formed by her pelvis and her jutting arse.

His touch sent a lightning bolt of pleasure rocketing through her body.

She wanted to turn her head to look at him, but knew he would disapprove. Her eyes were fixed on the stone floor, a fuzzy upside-down vision of the delta of her open legs, and the protruding lips of her cunt in the periphery of her vision.

She heard a shuffling movement, tried to interpret it and, before she knew what was happening, felt the heat of his cock against her opening, so close, almost touching, he must be no more than a hair’s breadth away.

If Summer adjusted her position, just ever so slightly, pushed back a fraction, she would feel him inside her. But he had not yet asked her to.

‘Is this what you want?’ Dominik said. ‘Tell me.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. She was uncertain of her ability to hold back a moan if she spoke any louder.

‘Yes, what?’

Summer would not wait any longer. She pressed her body back against him, but she had barely moved, had scarcely felt his head pulse once at her entrance, when in one swift movement Dominik had his hand wrapped in her hair and was jerking her forward again, away from his shaft.

‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I want you to ask me for it. Tell me what you want.’

‘Fuck me. Please fuck me. I want you to fuck me.’

His hand gripped her hair and he pulled her back again, breaching her in one swift, rapid movement. The heavy lubrication she had been secreting made it all too easy for him to invest her to her full depth in an instant.

She surrendered to the sensation, enjoying the way he filled her, wondering whether he was already fully extended or would grow larger and harder inside her as some men often did. At any rate, he felt quite wonderfully large already.

He began to thrust.

The fit was perfect, she reflected idly, abandoning herself to the sensations beginning to flood her whole body, while his hand on her waist maintained her exposed position.

‘Say it again,’ Dominik said, feeling the way she tightened round him in response to his instruction, spearing her again with one hard, almost brutal push, hitting her inner walls like a battering ram.

‘Oh,’ was the only word she could find in response.

‘We’re fucking,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘I know.’

‘And is this what you wanted?’

She nodded her head in acquiescence, just as a further hard thrust almost propelled her forehead against the crypt’s stone wall.