Indecent...Desires (11 page)

Epilogue

‘Lucas!' I yell, as I pull on my trousers. ‘Where the hell is my hairbrush?' I'm going to be late for work again, I know I am. That makes the third time in as many weeks. Keep this up, and it's going to become a habit. Not that anyone at work seems to mind. They've all become very protective of me, constantly asking me if I need to sit down, or if I want another biscuit.

‘Where did you have it last?' comes the yell from the kitchen, shortly followed by ‘Found it!'

‘Found it where?' I yell back, as I fasten my trousers and attempt to squash myself into a blouse that doesn't really fit. I give up, toss it onto the bed and pull on one of Lucas's shirts instead.

‘Where you left it!' comes the reply. ‘Got to go. Love you!'

The door slams, and he's gone, leaving me alone in the quiet of our flat. It used to be his flat, now it's ours. I gave mine up because it was easier to move my clothes than to move his entire collection of random wires, and because my flat reminded me of who I used to be, and, well, I'm just not that person any more, thank god.

Lucas has made sure of that.

Tugging the edges of his shirt together over the firm jut of my belly, I make my way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen in search of food. I know Lucas will have left me something. He always does. Today, it's a half-peeled banana stuck in a jar of nutella. I pull it out, take a bite and can't hold back a grin. He'll pay for it later.

I'm sure he knows it, too.

Right now, however, I have more important things to do than think about all of his transgressions, like finding my hairbrush and finding my shoes and getting myself to work on time. I finish the banana, toss the peel in the bin and go in search of my brush. I distinctly remember using it on him last night. I asked him to paint my toenails, because quite frankly I can't reach them, and he put his hand somewhere he shouldn't.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, he was bent over the arm of the sofa with his lush arse on show, begging me to discipline him. My hairbrush has got to be in the living room somewhere, I decide. But it's not shoved down the side of the sofa, or the armchair, and I distinctly heard Lucas say that he'd found it.

So where?

I plant my hands on my hips and scan the room. We painted in here, and it's now a cheery shade of yellow, with a potted palm in the corner and photographs all over the walls. Photographs of the two of us, the last twelve months captured in sharp black and white. So many happy memories, so many smiles.

But I don't have time to indulge myself now. I have to get moving. I hate being late. So I check the sofa and the armchair again, and the desk in the corner. I think about looking under the sofa, then decide that the chance of me not being able to get back up again is too great. Lucas says I look amazing. I tell him I look more like a beached whale, but to be honest, I don't care. I wanted this for too long to be unhappy.

And then I see it. Over on the windowsill. I make my way over, pick up my brush and run it through my hair. There's something underneath it, a folded piece of notepaper, sitting on top of a neat black velvet bag.

I stare at the bag for a moment, then I unfold the note.

Dear soon-to-be-Mrs-Brady,
it says.
I want to thank you for punishing me last night. It was wrong of me to touch your pussy when I was supposed to be painting your toenails, but it is so pretty that just thinking about it makes my cock very hard. I didn't mean to be bad, but I just couldn't help myself. I am very worried that I will be bad again tonight. So just in case, I have bought you something that you can use to paddle my behind. Apparently it will sting even more than your hairbrush, but I probably deserve it.

Love, Lucas.

p.s. this way, you won't keep losing your hairbrush and being late for work

I slowly reach out my hand and pick up the black velvet bag, then loosen the drawstring that holds it tightly closed. I slip my hand inside, and find something flat and smooth and hard. I draw it out, and suddenly find it hard to breathe. The leather is soft and smooth to the touch, and the weight of it feels perfect in my hand. I take the handle, turn it over, turn it over again, run my fingertip over the neat stitching that runs around the edge of the flat, oval surface. I smile, feel an overwhelming rush of love for him.
Lucas,
I think to myself,
I am so happy that you're mine.

And then I make a note of all the ways I am going to make him pay for it.