Faith Page 5

  Ed was good company, he made life fun. He made me laugh.

  Yes, but did he make you feel safe?

  Enough! Not going there.

  * * *

  I see Ewan every day, more or less. He comes round here whenever he feels like it, not even knocking now. He’ll just saunter into my kitchen, help himself to my tea. Last month he looked over my plans for the attic conversion, made a few comments and suggestions. Good ones. I appreciated his help.

  A couple of weeks ago he unblocked my sink, and in return I promised to transplant some of my snowdrops into his garden when the weather improves a little. I intend to spend a lot of time on my weeding and pottering from now on, as much time as I like. There’ll be no more dandelion invasions, no more overgrown shrubs or tufts of grass poking up between the paving slabs on my front path.

  I haven’t started working from home yet, but I will soon. Maybe another month or so then my studio will be ready for me to move in. I can’t wait; the commute to Leeds has become a chore. I’m wondering about selling my car when I stop driving to work, but perhaps that would be overdoing things.

  I go round to Ewan’s house too. He’s a better cook than I am so I usually share his evening meal. He has a fifty-odd inch plasma screen television, which is great for movies. I know he prefers the sports channels, but he lets me loose with the Sky remote control and we usually end up with some rom-com thing.

  It’s an easy relationship. Comfortable. Except for when Ewan drives off in his car for an evening out, leaving me and my sex-starved pussy to languish at home. I know he’s at that club he mentioned, or maybe some other venue, but he won’t be spending his evenings alone. He’ll find some other willing submissive, another Caroline to drape herself across his knee for a good spanking.

  While I just sit here, watching my own modestly proportioned television and wondering what it would be like.

  * * *

  Paris is wonderful. Of course I agree to go with him, and the city is every bit as magical as I recall from when I was here as a teenager, on a school trip. Then we stayed in a three-star small hotel on the outskirts of the city, frequented markets, and practised our laboured French on patient stall-holders. This time it’s five-star luxury, ten minutes’ walk from the Eiffel Tower. Ewan has meetings on two of the afternoons we’re there, but the rest of the time he spends with me. We eat out at nice restaurants, drink fine red wine, stroll along the Seine admiring the work of street artists and buying souvenirs from craft stalls. Ewan takes hold of my hand as we make our way back along the wide avenues to our hotel, and it feels sort of okay. Sort of natural. Friends do that sort of thing.

  We’re in adjoining rooms, and Ewan never so much as hints we might share. If he did, I’m not at all convinced I’d turn him down.

  * * *

  “Tell me about Ed.”

  We’re lingering over coffee after a delicious lunch before leaving for the airport on our journey home. Paris in February is not exactly a sun-soaked paradise, but the early spring weather is fine enough for us to be outside. I glance up at Ewan, surprised.

  “Why? What do you want to know?”

  “Anything really. What sort of things did he enjoy? Apart from his motorbike, obviously.”

  I have to think for a moment. “Well, he had lots of friends. He liked to be sociable.”

  “Were they your friends too?”

  “Not really. My friends are people I work with mostly. With Ed it was people down at the Red Lion. Or other bikers.”

  “Ah, right, the Red Lion. That’s the pub along the road from us, yes? I don’t tend to get in there much.”

  “Well, me neither. Not these days. We used to though, me and Ed. Friday and Saturday nights as a rule.”

  He gives his coffee an idle stir. I’m not fooled for a moment. Sure enough… “What was Ed’s job?”

  “He was self-employed. A motorcycle courier. Delivering packages mainly.”

  “I see. Was that lucrative? We often used couriers when I was fresh out of university, to take plans from one office to another, but these days all that tends to be done electronically.”

  “He did okay. And of course, I had my salary.”

  “Did you think about starting up your own firm back then?”

  “Yes, occasionally. I mentioned it to Ed but he was worried about us both being self-employed. We wouldn’t have been able to get a mortgage but for my salary. It’s different now, with the insurance.”

  “You might have made more money as a graphic designer than he did as a courier.”

  Ewan doesn’t say it, not out loud, but it’s there, hanging between us. Ed could have gotten a job. He could have been the one pulling a salary while I followed my dream. But he didn’t. He would never have agreed to that. He loved his bike, he loved riding it around and calling that making a living. But it was me who made our living. He financed his hobby.

  “What about holidays? Where did you like to go?”

  Clearly Ewan’s not done yet. He’s careful not to be openly critical of Ed. He has no need to be. My heart sinks. This is an easy one. There was only one type of outing, only one sort of holiday Ed would contemplate—the annual bikers rally in Brighton. I loved it the first time we went, and the second time even, though it rained a lot. By the third, and last, time we went, I was less enthusiastic. A holiday somewhere warm, where I could strip down to a bikini and loll in the sun all day with my e-reader, now that would have suited me. But no, Brighton it was. We were there just a couple of weeks before Ed died. Apart from Hawes on that awful day, it was the last outing we had together. I don’t want to say all this to Ewan though. It feels too disloyal still. In any case, it’s enough that I say it to myself.

  “We didn’t get away that often. I was hoping to talk him into a bit of sun and sea, maybe this summer.” Noncommittal enough, I think. And true, as far as it goes. “I expect you get all the sun you want. Qatar, I mean.”

  He smiles. “Yes, but working in forty-plus degrees is a far cry from a beach holiday. Still, Doha is a lovely city, and the resorts there are breath-taking.”

  “Mmm, exotic and up-market though. Out of my league, at least for the next few years. Will you be there a lot?”

  “Not for a few months, but towards the end of the year, yes. I’ll rent an apartment then.” He pauses, leans back in his seat. “Would you come there too?”

  “What? Me come to Qatar? With you?” Now this I did not expect.

  “Paris hasn’t been so awful, has it? We’d have fun.”

  “I’m sure we would, but… I couldn’t just up and go to Qatar. For months on end.”

  “I don’t mean for months. Just for as long as you can spare.” He swills the remainder of his coffee down his throat. “Don’t decide now. Think about it.” He gets to his feet. “Are you ready? We’ve a plane to catch.”

  Chapter Five

  Ewan is away again. I miss him. I mean, really miss him. I’m not sure exactly when he’ll be back; three or four weeks I suppose.

  I’ve made a decision. I’m going to get laid. Somehow. My battery-operated approach to sexual fulfilment has kept me just about the right side of sanity over recent weeks, but it’s not enough.

  I’ve stopped fooling myself, I know now that it’s Ewan I want. I also know I can’t have him, it would just be too weird. Even though I now understand more about his relationship with Caroline, and I’m getting a more balanced perspective on my own less than stellar marriage, I’m not ready for another emotional commitment.

  Sex with Ewan would be emotional. It would be passionate, hot, all-consuming. My head, my heart, my body would never be quite the same again. He might be able to view relationships dispassionately, but I can’t. And this leaves me wondering about the prospect of sex without the relationship baggage, the sort of fucking that brings two people together just for pleasure, nothing more.

  The sort of sex Caroline and Ewan had. I’m thinking I could get me some of
that.

  Ewan mentioned a club in Manchester. There must be others. I make it my business to find out. I begin my campaign by reading up on BDSM, both fact and fiction. Next, I join an online fetish community, start chatting a bit, mainly with other submissives. I say ‘other’ submissives, because based on my response to what I’ve read, I’m pretty sure that’s the side of the fence I’m on. It doesn’t take long before I get a couple of recommendations for clubs I might try, in Leeds, one in Sheffield, and of course Manchester. I decide to give Manchester a miss, even though I know Ewan is thousands of miles away. I can’t run the risk of maybe running into someone he knows, or even someone he may have fucked. Instead I invest in some slinky black leather, red Lycra, and a pair of spiky heels. I head off to Sheffield one Friday night.

  The club is out of the city centre, but my satnav gets me there without too much trouble. It’s a detached house, large, imposing, surrounded by lawns and block paved parking. I sit in my car for maybe fifteen minutes, looking at the grand doorway and working hard to convince myself of the wisdom of this enterprise. I’m not entirely successful, and it takes some courage to walk up to that huge door alone, but I manage to do it.

  My knock is answered by a tall, slim man wearing a formal suit. He asks if I’m a member. I say no, but I’d like to join. He smiles, offers me a polite bow, and gestures me towards a desk just inside the door where a young woman sits. Her gaze is friendly, expectant.

  “Susan, this lady would like a guest membership for the evening, please.” He turns back to me. “Please give your details to Susan and she’ll explain how things work. Welcome to Fairlawns. We don’t expect you to pay for tonight; you will be our guest. Enjoy your evening with us. After you’ve sampled our facilities, if you still want to take out a full membership, we’d be delighted to welcome you.” With that he returns to his station by the door, ready to meet and greet other new arrivals.

  The very normality of my welcome reassures me, despite being alone in an environment I find alien in just about every respect. Once inside though, I find that being here on my own isn’t an issue. Susan takes my name and address, asks me what name I prefer to be known by whilst at Fairlawns.

  I hadn’t considered that aspect, but decide a pseudonym feels more appropriate. I tell her I’ll be called Charity, as this seems a fair enough variant on Faith. Hope is for another place entirely.

  She nods and makes a note on her system and tells me that the club uses standard safe words—red, amber, green, the traffic lights system. That makes sense. The formalities concluded Susan directs me to a room where I can change if I want to before entering the communal playroom. She recommends I start there, but assures me I’m free to make use of any facilities I like. She goes on to explain that Fairlawns employs staff to offer help and advice, and to ensure safety rules are adhered to. I should not hesitate to ask if I have any questions, and they will demonstrate how to use the equipment.

  I feel welcome, no one hassles me, I just watch. And learn.

  At first I’m self-conscious, I feel like a voyeur, intruding on the privacy of others. Submissives, both male and female, in various states of undress though no one is entirely nude, are stretching themselves out on benches or allowing themselves to be secured to various pieces of equipment. They seem to welcome the spankings and floggings that are administered to various parts of their bodies, and even in one case a caning. I confess that last brought tears to my eyes as well as to the male submissive on the receiving end, but it was also clear that the pain was welcomed, celebrated. There were no victims here, just willing, enthusiastic participants watched over by discreet staff.

  I soon get past my early discomfort, helped along by the genuine friendliness of the people here. A female member of staff suggests I might enjoy a demonstration of wax play. I’m intrigued, I have no notion of what this might be but I make my way to the side room indicated. Here I find three rows of seats all facing an open area at the front of the room. Most of the seats are occupied already, though I see a couple of spare chairs in the middle row. A young man wearing leather pants, a leather waistcoat, and a collar moves along one place to make room for me. I thank him and sit down.

  A few minutes pass, then a door at the front opens and a couple emerge. The woman, wearing only a thong and a pair of killer heels, is accompanied by a man who looks as though he’s just come from working in an office. Smart grey trousers, a white shirt, grey tie, he’s attractive but does not fit my internal image of a dom. I suppose I expected whips and handcuffs, not this subdued respectability.

  Another member of the Fairlawns staff follows them into the room wheeling a trolley, which she positions against a wall. There are several small pots on the trolley, some squat candles, and a piece of plastic sheeting, folded up. The man thanks her, and she leaves. He turns to us, his smile confident and quite dazzling.

  “Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Matthew, and may I introduce Melanie…?” He holds out his hand to the woman who steps forward, bows her head to us, then kneels at his feet. Matthew lays his palm on the top of her head. Her features are serene, and in that moment I envy her certainty about the lifestyle she so clearly loves.

  “This evening Melanie and I will be sharing with you the art of wax play, but first a few safety issues you need to be aware of…” Matthew goes on to explain about the use of low temperature wax, keeping a first aid kit and a fire extinguisher handy. He advises against restraining the receiving partner, and suggests protecting furniture and carpets because wax can be messy. At this point he picks up the plastic sheeting, shakes it out, and spreads it on the floor.

  He murmurs something to Melanie, who stands, walks to one end of the sheeting, then lies down on it, on her back.

  I sit, entranced, as Matthew lights one candle after another, all the while pacing around Melanie, stopping to dribble hot wax onto her body. At first he does this from a standing position, but as the demonstration progresses he shifts to using melted wax from the pots, and paints this onto her using either his fingers or a brush. He paints designs onto her body, circling her nipples in red, her breasts in a shade of cerise, then working his way down her torso, across her stomach, then over her inner thighs.

  She hisses from time to time, wriggling occasionally, but for the most part she remains quite immobile, her eyes closed as she submits to this. I am fascinated, as much by Melanie’s submissive mind-set as by the tableau unfolding before us. Even so, Matthew is quite an artist; his designs are both intricate and erotic. Despite Melanie’s almost-nudity, the overall impression created is one of artistic sensuality rather than overt sexuality.

  The demonstration draws to a close with Matthew advising on ways to remove the wax, though I can’t help thinking that would be a pity. Melanie’s adorned body looks quite breath-taking.

  I enjoy my evening at Fairlawns. I drive home again after three hours, much enlightened, intrigued, encouraged, and vowing to be back again the following weekend. And every weekend, until Ewan returns.

  The first time I’m offered a spanking I refuse. I’m polite, but firm. Despite my rampant and as yet unassuaged libido, I tell myself I have no desire to actually indulge. I’m just—interested.

  The next time such an offer comes my way I accept. The dom who approaches me in the playroom is friendly, pleasant. His smile is warm and my answering smile comes naturally. He stands next to me for a couple of minutes as we both watch a dom administer an erotic spanking. The submissive’s bare bottom is already a deep shade of pink, and she’s just starting to emit small yelps of pain with each swat.

  “He’s good. And she’s loving that. So far.” His voice is low, perfectly modulated to calm rather than unnerve me.

  “Er, yes. I suppose so.”

  “You suppose?”

  “No, no of course not. She is loving it.”

  “Would you love it, Miss…?”

  “Charity. My name is Charity and… yes, I think I might
.” I intended to tell him no. I intended to thank him for his kind offer, but to turn it down. I have no idea where ‘yes’ came from, but having said it, I am not turning back.

  “I think so too. Shall we?” He introduces himself as David and gestures towards a spare spanking bench a few feet away. I walk over to it, then turn to him. I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

  “First time?” He hitches one hip on the edge of the bench, his arms folded across his chest.

  Embarrassed, I nod. “Is that all right? I mean, I’ll understand if you prefer…”

  “It’s fine, Charity. A nice, gentle introduction, then. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Strictly speaking, that’s ‘yes, please, sir,’ but we’ll skip the niceties for now. All you need to do is lean across the bench and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Right. Okay. Sir?”

  “You’re a fast learner, Charity. I’m impressed. So, would you like to keep your knickers on for this?”

  “Yes, I would really. If that’s okay, sir.”

  “It’s fine. You know the house safe words I expect?”

  “Yes. Red to stop, amber to go slower, green for all’s well.”

  “That’s right, but this is your first time so we’ll start low key, and I’ll just continue until you ask me to stop. You just tell me when you’ve had enough.”

  The spanking is glorious. He uses a paddle, I think. He starts soft, and increases the intensity after about six slaps. By the ninth swat I’m letting out small cries of pain, but I don’t want this to end quite yet.

  “You okay, Charity?” David pauses, waits for my response.

  “Yes, sir. Green.”

  “Good girl. Let me know when that changes.”

  I count twelve strokes, then I know I’ve reached my limit. For now.

  “Sir, would you stop now, please?”