Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (7 page)

“You’re here.”

“I am.”

He watched her wiggle her arse, straighten her skirt,
leading him on. From the way she was holding her mouth, he could tell she was
expecting to be kissed. But there was no way that was going to happen. Almost
choking on cheap perfume and cigarette breath, he rocked forward into her. “Then
fuck off, I don’t date slags!”

Her face was a picture. He wished he’d brought his
expensive camera along, even without the zoom lens it would have been one for
the photo album.

Leaving her standing, mouth agape and ashen faced, he
walked away muttering, “Why the fuck would I settle for a witch like you when
I’ve got a princess at home?”

At the end of his shift, he made the forty minute
journey back to Ely, grinning for the entire 16 miles at the memory of her
disintegration.

In
one swift movement we are trotting down stairs and gliding along marble
floors. Ayden is pressing the screen on his iPhone and, after only two rings,
puts it away in his pocket. For a matter of seconds, we linger at the bottom of
the foyer steps, avoiding a passing vagrant of gigantic proportions.  A sleek,
silver Rolls Royce comes around the corner to the left of us, registration
number: ASMED1A. It pulls up outside the entrance.

A smartly dressed man with a number two haircut and a
stance that belongs more on a military base than outside a theatre, steps out
and walks around the car to open the passenger door. I glance over to Ayden and
we share a look, yet say nothing about the chauffeur driven car. It’s our
private joke.

"Good evening Mr. Stone, Miss Parker."

“Hi Lester. Just drive." This is a side to Ayden
I have yet to see; him giving commands so effortlessly. "After you,
Beth."

I step into the sumptuous interior; there’s the sweet
smell of leather cleaner and polish and it reminds me of my mum’s house. How
strange that a fragrance can evoke such a powerful memory.

"Where to?" Ayden asks, shaking me out of my
absorbing recollection.

I’m too taken with the night’s events to have even
considered where we’re going, but I’m supposed to be taking charge so I issue
an order; "To my apartment please," realising he doesn’t know where
my apartment is. "Sorry, the address is ..."

"He knows the address," Ayden states as a
matter of fact and throws me a ‘what did you expect’ look.

"He does?" I return fire with a surprised
look. I wonder what other information he has on me? There’s a kind of
uncomfortable silence and I feel on edge, I want to laugh. Ayden looks so
debonair and I can’t believe my good fortune; this kind of thing doesn’t happen
to women like me. I put my hand to my mouth to contain a giggle.

"That’s one way of breaking the ice." He
grins and leans into me expectantly.

Is he assuming I’ll take the lead?

I look out of the window and try to devise a plan of
action, but nothing comes to mind. "Ayden … what are you expecting when we
get to my apartment?"

He has a dead-pan expression. "I’m expecting
chains and whips and a selection of bondage gear."

"What! Have you had them delivered?" From
his reaction, my face must be a picture, I’m startled beyond words.

"Beth … I don’t know what I’m expecting when we
get to your apartment. I’m in the dark here." He is shaking his head, but
his eyes are laughing: he’s fooling around.

"That makes two of us,” I say, thinking out loud.
“I would have some explaining to do if my neighbour had taken
that
parcel
in." I bump against his shoulder affectionately, we share the joke and the
ice melts in the warmth emanating from his smile.

***

When we reach my ground floor apartment, I’m suddenly
reminded of the mess I left behind in my eagerness to get ready. He’ll be lucky
if he can find a space to stand. When I put my weight behind the front door and
it opens, I’m stunned to see it’s immaculate. "Charlie," I say
quietly.

"Who?" Ayden looks about the apartment
furtively, fearing our discovery.

"There’s no-one here, come in." I watch him
taking it all in.

"It’s very tidy and ... homely," he
comments, making his way over to the marble fireplace. His eyes are drawn to my
framed piece of Papyrus. “Have you been to Egypt?”

“No. Charlie my best friend went as part of an
incentive programme. She was ‘Top Biller’ or something like that for three
months. She brought it back for me.”

“Is it authentic?”

“I think so, it came with a certificate, saying 8
^th
Century AD. It looks authentic.” I lean in to take a closer look, our faces
reflect in the glass before it steams over with our combined breath.

“So much of this stuff is banana paper, but you can
usually tell if it’s real by the quality of the script. I have a couple of
wooden masks at my place that date back to around 440 BC.”

“Are you’re a collector?”

“No, but I like lovely and unusual things,” he states
coyly, shifting his attention to me. "Do you want to show me round?"

I nod, hoping he can’t sense my awkwardness. My heart
begins to flutter, the bedroom is only thirty feet away, soon we’ll be heading
in that direction and he must have all kinds of expectations.

I push him around with my hands on his back as if he’s
an inanimate object. "So this is the kitchen." All he can do is nod
and keep his hands in his pockets. We approach the bedroom and instantly his
eyes are drawn to the two framed prints on the walls; one to the side and one
over my bed. Both are by Nobert Gerstenberger.

“Interesting artwork.” He tips up his head to each one
in turn.

“You like?”

“I’m not sure.”

“They’re only prints. I was drawn to the contrasting
images of romanticism and cruelty.”

  He spins around, forcing me to take a step
backwards. “Cruelty?”

“Yes. Here these two women were with so many dreams,
so hopeful and yet they’ve been overwritten, coloured over and have faded into
the background. It’s as if they never existed.”

“Why do you have them if they make you melancholy?”

“They make me reflective, that’s not the same as
melancholy.”

He takes a closer to them. “You’re right, it isn’t.
They have a dream like quality but there’s something sinister about them.”

“I think you’re reading too much into them.” I take
his arm. “I simply like the artistry.”

He doesn’t budge. “And what of these women, do they
get their happy endings?” He turns around to face me, making me feel shy and
uneasy.

I have to look away. “Happy endings are a construct
Mr. Stone. Everyone knows that?” I laugh softly but receive only a flat-smile
in reply.

“Do they have titles?”

“Yes.” I point out each one in turn. “The Love Letter
and The Princess.”

He sniggers at that, but I’m not entirely sure why.
“How apt.”

Did I miss something?

I try to lighten the atmosphere with good humour. “You
see, us Cinderellas like to live in hope.”

He circles my chin with a single finger, and returns
his hand to his pocket as if he hadn’t moved. “In hope of what, exactly?”

Words don’t come easily. “Of being loved by a Prince,
of course.” I feel very unsophisticated right now; I have absolutely no idea
what I’m saying. “The Prince Archetype was the focus of my dissertation,” I say
much too hastily, trying to regain some semblance of credibility.

He folds his arms and props himself up against the
bedroom door. “Tell me about it.”

“Alright. Fairy tales are like portals into another
world, another reality…”

“… Escapism?”

“Yes, for some, but they’re part of our oral
traditions, a shared consciousness, a way of connecting the imaginations of
living people.”

“I didn’t know that.” I really think he’s listening.

“… I’m sure it all sounds very juvenile to you, but these
kind of stories go back centuries … they’re full of real emotions and they have
a distinct symbolic and metaphoric language. People used to understand that
language but these days, all we get is the Disney version.”

“You’re passionate about this aren’t you?” He scrapes
back a stray tendril of hair from my face and so gentle is his touch, I think I
may have imagined it.

“I always have been, since I was little …” That memory
makes me smile.

“Some things stay with us, even as we grow older and
mature,” he says with total authority. He reaches out suddenly, grasps my hand
and twirls me around, winding me into the carpet like a tight, little
corkscrew.

I stumble into him, quickly regain my balance and
point at the bed. Feeling so nervous I fall back on an outdated cliché. “And
this is where the magic happens ..."

He throws me a look I can’t quite decipher, or perhaps
it’s better I don’t.

"Please ..." He walks off into the kitchen
but I can tell, just from the angle of his head, he’s smiling. Stifling laughter,
he calls out, "Can we have some wine before the magic happens?"

Oh please God yes, lots of wine.

He turns his nose up at the inferior wine and hands me
a glass of everyday Shiraz. "You look like you could do with a couple of
glasses of this stuff." He’s not wrong. "Maybe then you’ll calm the
fuck down."

He’s trying to be firm but his mouth is soft and his
irises are sparkling a kind of teal green. In spite of his assertions, he’s
relaxed and taking great delight in watching me squirm
.
I ask myself. In
what universe does a man like this become submissive?

Dismissing my unease, I sense my cue. "I don’t
think you should be talking to me like that Mr. Stone, after all I’m the one in
charge remember?" I feel more confident now. I’m finding my feet, or it
might be the half glass of wine I’ve gulped down. "You shouldn’t be so
rude or I may have to punish you." I hear the words, but I’m not sure
where they’re coming from.

I’m about to laugh when I realise I have his undivided
attention. He looks crestfallen and I want to go to him, to say ‘I’m only
teasing,’ but his body language has altered. He’s less authoritative somehow,
less intimidating. His head is bowed and his free hand is hanging limply by his
side. I stroll over to him and place down my glass on the counter, I take his
and settle it down next to mine.

I summon up a firm voice from somewhere. "I don’t
like it when you’re rude to me Ayden." And before I can finish my sentence
he says softy…

"I’m sorry Elizabeth." His eyes don’t leave
the floor.

My hand rests against my mouth, concealing my horror:
what have I done? He’s like a small child who’s been scolded, caught cheating
in an exam, broken a window …

I don’t know what to do, what should I do?

Here and now I decide to do the one thing I wanted to
do from the very moment I saw him at the top of the stairs in the auditorium,
that moment when our eyes met and our hands were welded together: to take him
to bed. But this is not the time for seduction, it’s about something else. It’s
about me making him feel safe and cared for, I think. I lift his face to mine,
gaze into those khaki pools of light and take his hand. "Come with me
Ayden, we’re going to bed.”

I turn on the bedside light and watch how it catches
his cheek bones, I’m dazzled by his innate beauty, there’s no air brushing
here. I stroke his shoulders and push off his jacket, feeling a kind of
reverence for him as an air of serenity circles him, mimicking his mood.

Unbuttoning his shirt, I find myself talking about
nothing in particular. I don’t know what I’m doing but I can sense he’s totally
relaxed and willing to let me care for him in the softest of ways. I scan my
iPod resting in its deck by the bed for something appropriate and settle for
the soothing voice of Sade. She sings of
No Ordinary Love
and I let the
album play.

With nimble fingers, I undo the double buttons on his
cuffs and push back his shirt and try to contain a gasp: his upper body is
sculpted and toned; washboard abs and that V shape etched into his hips.
There’s a sprinkling of chest hair between his pectoral muscles that I can’t
help but stroke and rest my cheek upon. How long has it been since I felt this
close to someone? I can’t recall a time – never.

 I trace the outline of defined abs with my fingertips
and breath him in. He’s every inch the man I imagined him to be. I come to a
stark realisation: this is about self-control, his and mine. Willingly, he’s
transferred every decision, every ounce of his power to me.  He is my
submissive and how amazing is this?

Sitting him on my bed, I remove his shoes and socks,
he is content to watch me. I catch his eyes darting from left to right, tracing
every tender move I make.

"Stand please," I ask and he does.

With nervous hands I focus on the stylish fastening on
the top of his trousers, feeling my breath quickening and my pulse racing, but
… I
can’
t undress him. I hardly even know him. What the hell am I doing?
I look up to him, seeking permission or is it guidance? He knows …

“
You’re
in control Elizabeth.”

Is he reading my thoughts, is my inexperience so
obvious?

“Go ahead, it’s ok.” His voice is soft and coaxing.

Our eyes meet and there’s a sensual craving there
that’s flickering like glowing embers, I’m fighting to contain myself and I
suspect he is too. With shaky hands I pull down his fly and lower myself to
pull down his trousers. I stop to take in all his manliness. His erection
shifts and strains against his boxers and I feel as if I will climax there and
then. I fall to my knees, happy to worship at the altar of Ayden Stone.

"S... step out please," and he does. I throw
his trousers onto the chair by the wall and try to regain some semblance of
rational thought but my brain is fried and my clitoris is aching for him.