Carrion: A Story of Passion Read online

  I still can't get my head around why someone would pay so much for the film but Alexander explains that there is a whole network of private members’ clubs and societies who will pay the man to ‘loan’ it to them. He tells me that it isn't an act of charity; that the buyer is a broker of erotica who has a good nose for business. People will pay a lot to feel something.

  Alexander and I spend Friday on a date. We go to the National Gallery to look at the medieval icons and then have lunch up in China Town, where we stuff ourselves on Dim Sum and drink cheap Saki. Mildly intoxicated, we head through Soho, revelling in our youthful beauty and sense of reckless freedom. I wonder how long this feeling of youthful invincibility will last. I think about my mother and wonder if she ever felt this too. I can’t accept that she did, because then I have to acknowledge the fear that I too will one day end up in chintz worrying about the cost of meat in Tescos.

  The phone call from Quentin comes mid-afternoon and before the close of the banking day, Alexander checks his bank account to see that we are both considerably richer; although I still don't know how much of it actually belongs to me. We stop at a wine shop and buy several bottles of champagne and a bottle of Absinth, then grab a cab to Fortnum and Mason, buying lobster, Caviar and Fois-gras, artisan breads and anything else that promises to delight.

  The weekend is lost in alcohol and fucking and feasting. I am Alexander’s muse ‘to shape and mould for his pleasure’. The camera is no longer and invisible spy. Every aspect of my existence is filmed. All I do, all I am. He dresses me, poses me, binds me. We don't leave the flat for three days; it's a lot of time to play. Games escalate. Rules are invented and trashed. We are children with momentary tempers and selfish needs. The further we go, the more I learn how far there is to go. But there are things I won't do - not even for Alexander and so he asks me,

  "How do you feel about us getting a pet?"

  My first thought is a kitten. It's not the kind of kitten he is thinking of. I don't like the idea of inviting a stranger into our bed. He offers a list of options but I hold firm and say that it is not the way it's going to happen; I want the challenge of enticing someone in. I want my own muse. Some pleasures aren't to be bought. I can see by the way he twists his mouth that he is frustrated by my unwillingness to offer him instant gratification, but another part of him is intrigued by the idea of delayed pleasure.

  By Sunday night, we are both beginning to suffer the mild effects of cabin fever; we head out to the cinema and watch a horror film. We look on the surface like any other pretty young couple on a date.

  When it comes to Monday morning, I refuse to get out of our bed. Alexander is already showered and putting the finishing touches to his office costume.

  "No work today?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I lay back against the headboard and pout. "No work today. No work tomorrow. No work ever again!"

  He laughs and throws my silk dressing gown across the bed.

  "In that case, you can go flat hunting. I think we've outgrown this place."

  He leaves for work and I pad around the tiny little flat. I ring my landlord and give him notice on my flat. I search Google for the contact numbers of a house clearance company. I make the decision that I will go back to my flat tomorrow, pack a bag of things, clean out the fridge, bury the spider-plant and then leave the key with a neighbour ready for the clearance guys.

  None of what I'm doing makes any sense. It is less than two months since my first date with Alexander. In that time I've thrown away my career and now it would seem I'm throwing away my life. I've never been one for risks; whatever it is that Alexander has done to me, the transformation is almost complete.

  I dress and head out to scour the letting agents. I have no real idea what rental budget I have but I guess that with Alexander’s salary and the money from Bohemia I can go relatively high. There's no shortage of flats, but decisions have to be made quickly. I compromise a little on location in order to secure the lease on a large two bedroom Victorian first floor flat. At just over two and half thousand a month it seems a reasonable compromise. There's a tube station nearby for Alexander. I ring him whilst I'm viewing and he asks to speak directly to the agent. Before we leave, the agent puts the keys into my hand and wishes me luck. I have no idea what Alexander said to the agent, but in my limited experience, this is not the usual way of renting flats; usually there are several weeks of papers and signings and references. It would seem we can move in immediately. I spend an hour walking through the flat, imagining what we could do to the place. With all the original features and slight sense of decaying elegance, the flat makes a good backdrop for us to act out our life.

  I walk into the master bedroom and smile at the roll-top bath someone has rakishly put in the bedroom. The flat has a history of whimsy. I dare to imagine that this might be a home Alexander and me; a place where we can become a couple. I think about Quentin and Emeline, young, married and beautiful. Simple bands of gold that inform the world that they are not alone – that to take them on, means taking them both on.

  I lay down on the floor and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight, fantasising about Alexander and me getting married, committing to a lifetime of what we have now. It wouldn’t be easy getting Alexander to think such a thing – he isn’t really the marrying type, and I know this. Most twenty three year old men aren’t. It didn’t mean that they didn’t do it – in the end. There was time to make him love me. Years.

  We spend the next six months constructing a beautiful world. In a hedonistic lust for life and feeling, we host dinner parties to which we invite complete strangers, we go dancing and learn the Argentinian Tango, we attend Lost Soul lectures on, The History of Fleas, on Voodoo, on The Theory of Relativity, How to distil your own gin - nothing is off limits. We go to art gallery openings, music gigs and film festivals.

  Chapter Six: Midsummer Night’s Eve

  We are travelling at speed through Oxfordshire lanes towards Arabella’s country house. She has arranged a Midsummer Night’s Eve party, to which only her most ‘talented’ students are invited. She has joked that it is an end-of-term celebration. She has assured us that is only dinner and dancing – but both Alexander and I know that something magical and wondrous will occur. He has already been to the house and set up the cameras in anticipation. Alexander is trusted.

  Our – my – lessons with Arabella have been over for weeks. After the basic education, Alexander wished me to be moulded to his own particular and contradictory tastes. It’s nothing if not equitable. Tonight Alexander is in charge – my Prince Charming. The dress code is Nymphs and Princes. We have been promised a sumptuous feast.

  We are the last to arrive – our arrival is an artfully constructed piece of theatre. The last two seats at the table are either side of Arabella; it is clear that they have always been ours – and that they have all been waiting. Her slave is chained to the leg of her chair. He is blindfolded and gagged. A ring and chain are attached to his cock and then to his lead. It allows Arabella the opportunity of being able to yank it every so often throughout dinner, eliciting groans of torment and pleasure.

  Arabella doesn’t stand on our arrival – she is our Queen and we, her errant subjects. I follow Alexander’s lead, dipping my head to kiss her hand in apology for our tardiness. All eyes around the table watch the interaction closely. Alexander, I soon realise, is somewhat a cause celebre. I suspect that Arabella requested him to arrive late and play out this little vignette. I look down the table, noting how all the Princes have been placed on one side, opposite their nymphs on the other. Each one, like us, is masked. Each one, like us is rich in their own identity. There is no uniformity of shape or size or mode. They are a glorious mixture of age and form. The effect is as if we are about to dance, rather than feast.

  With us finally in position, Arabella calls for service by clapping her hand. She yanks the chain of her pet purely for her own amusement. My eyes fall to the young man on all fours at his mistress�
� feet, curious to know if it is Daniel.

  Serving girls come in wearing nothing but a thin diaphanous tunic – their hair has been plaited in the Roman style, and each of the fifteen servers, wears little golden slave cuffs; so that their hands are bound in servitude. I watch them flow in, each carrying a silver domed platter in each of their hands, creating the strange impression that they are living, breathing manifestations of Libra.

  Each stands between two guests and carefully places a charger in each of the settings. In perfect synchronisation, the girls remove the lids with a theatrical flourish, exposing a tiny roast quail decorated with autumn berries, woodland mosses and morels. I wonder if in reality the servers are prostitutes, or strippers that spend their days painted with red wax lips and cheap PVC. I wonder how cheaply they sell their sex for, and what price Arabella has paid them this evening. Are they mildly afraid of this decadent world?

  Our glasses are filled by young, beautiful Adonis’ each gagged with a black leather strap and fully naked except for the straps that force their cocks to stand to attention throughout. When not serving, they stand against the wall, with the Ewers of wine held on their heads. I can only imagine the sweet agony. Once empty handed, the serving girls take up the space between them and, taking a cock in each hand, she strokes her hand up and down the shaft in slow, languid motions. We dine to the background music of muffled moans of ecstatic torment.

  Arabella conducts her serving staff like a choreographer. The hours it must have taken to rehearse such synchronicity is almost unimaginable. Our plates are cleared. Our wine glasses filled and the room is full of excited chatter and amusement. Our Main course of rare fillet beef is served. I can barely focus on the bloodied meat in front of me. I am distracted by the sight over Alexander’s shoulder; one of the serving girls has taken one of the wine boys in her mouth. I watch as her head rocks backwards and forwards on her slender porcelain neck. I turn my attention to the slave boy’s blissfully agonised face, which contorts with the discipline of not releasing. The heat blooms between my legs and I feel my oils release and slide over my sex. I press my thighs together and gasp at the little ripple of pleasure that emits from my bud. Alexander has been watching me and a darkling smile plays on his lips. I am slick and full of pulsing blood. How I wish that Alexander were sat next to me so that he could slide his fingers in and fuck me through my mounting agitation. Now, I understand Arabella’s exquisite seating plan and mentally bow down to her genius. I fill my mouth with meat, close my eyes and imagine my mouth replaced with that of the serving girl. I can barely swallow it down. I abandon the task. Putting the knife and fork down. Taking my wine glass in one hand, I slip the other into my lap and under the folds of my delicate lace dress. I fix my eyes on Alexander who is watching with an amused smile as he gorges himself on rich meat and silken mashed vegetables. As he eats, I know he is mentally fucking every mouthful.

  Arabella leans in and whispers sharply in my ear, “Don’t touch yourself at the table, sweetie.”

  My hand shoots back onto the table and I blush with shame. I look down the table to see if my indiscretion has been witnessed, but all I see is a row of nymphs kissing and pawing at each other – all similarly driven by the sights of the slaves around the room. Alexander is quietly laughing at my admonishment, and Arabella turns to him and says, “I take it that you will suitably punish Charlotte for her heathen manners.”

  He flicks her a charming smile and replies, “Of course. It will be my pleasure to ensure she is appropriately disciplined.”

  I squeeze my thighs together and wiggle them, desperate for the pressure. Arabella bends down and unclasps her slave, untethering various bindings and offering him a set of whispered instructions that are just out of my hearing but which Alexander has full knowledge of. He puts his cutlery down and sits back in his chair, raising his glass in salute.

  “Spread your legs, Charlotte,” Arabella instructs, and I feel a blush creep up over my cheeks. The introduction of a third party into Alexander’s world and mine is alien, but thrilling. After a momentary hesitation, I pull my thighs apart and wrap my ankles around the chair. I fix my eyes on Alexander and we lock looks, a silent potent energy runs between us. I feel hot breath on my ankles, the feel of a small darting tongue, kissing my calves and up to my thighs, where the licks become longer and more pressured. The feeling of his tongue is slightly rough against the delicate flesh of my thighs. His teeth graze the flesh teasingly. His nose nuzzles into my oiled down, and he uses it to seek out my sex, nudging my bud deliciously with his nose. I grip onto the sides of the table and try to control my upper body so that it doesn’t betray the riot of sensations that are happening below. I thrust my hips forwards, demanding more. The wine slaves have been freed of their wine ewers and are now using their free hands to bend the serving girls over and fuck them from behind. Some of them have been summoned to cater to the needs of those at the table, and the whole scene is slipping into a sumptuous movement of flesh.

  Only Alexander and Arabella sit gazing at the scenes with an iron discipline. The slave slaps my bud with his tongue, eliciting small muffled squeaks from my mouth. Alexander is daring me to surrender. It is a complex game of stare down. The slave pushes his tongue deep into my cleft and I sigh, unable to keep Alexander’s gaze any longer. I throw my head back and give myself over to the rhythm the muscle stabbing me, of the sensation of firm cartilage hitting my bud hitting me over, and over, and over until I can hold on no longer and I come with a moan that is raw enough to disturb the nymphs next to me. My body jerks, sending the red glass of red wine spilling across the white table linen like arterial spray. Sensing my crisis, one of them extends her arm behind her and holds my face still in the palm of her hand, stilling me until it passes.

  Arabella clicks her fingers and one of the serving girls efficiently tidies the carnage around me. Covering the stain with a fresh white linen napkin, taking my plate away and resetting my glass, refilling it. Another girl wipes my brow and neck with a warm cloth. All this is done whilst I swim in post orgasmic bliss. Through the haze, I see Alexander, and I dare him. But rather than take up the challenge I offer, he pushes his chair back and strides around the table, commanding me to stand.

  “Charlotte,” he tuts and sighs theatrically, “really?” He forces pushes me towards the table, so that its edge bites into my thigh, and grabs my arm with one hand whilst sweeping the table free of glasses and flowers, not caring if the wine spills or the flowers crush.

  “Lay on the table,” he commands. I glance down the table to see that the whole room ripples with an excited whisper before falling into silence.

  Arabella has pushed her chair back for a better view and has held her wine glass out for a refill, which some serving boy scurries to do. She says in a clipped voice, “I believe sir would like some disciplinary tools? Boy,” she says indicating that she is need of service. The slave scurries from the room.

  I am mortified. Humiliation spreads through me, jangling my nerves.

  “Charlotte,” he says coldly, “Do as you are told and lay on the table.”

  “Yes, master,” I mummer.

  I scramble up onto the table, pulling myself along until my cheek is pressed against the white table linen and my nostrils fill with the smell of starch and washing powder. I am looking at Arabella, imagining we are back at the academy, and we are merely in class. I feel Alexander’s hands sweep up my thighs pulling my dress up over my thighs and buttocks.

  He leans over me and I feel his stiff cock through his trousers resting against my thigh. “Turn your face towards the party.”

  I whimper, and shake my head. I don’t want to face their hungry, curious eyes. I think about using the safe word – it would only be the second time in all of our teachings. But I don’t – something stops me, because as much as I’m humiliated, and scared, and fearful, my body is screaming for the performance to begin.

  I turn my face and see that the candlelight has spread a million stars shimme
ring through the room. The faces of my eager audience are softened by the light so that they look like creatures from another, more beautiful world. I sense Alexander’s movements and brace myself hard against the table, my breasts full of dull pain as they press into the unforgiving wood.

  The leather paddle slams into my yielding flesh, eliciting a deep groan from my throat. Tears pool at the side of my eyes, and snake lazily to the cloth. The heat spreads rapidly, snaking its way into my loins and into my sex; sensitive from the orgasm that was still playing out its ripples. My sex tightens and contracts, the muscles spasm. Alexander’s knuckles brush my exposed mound, sending shivers bumping into the pain, so that the sensations jangle and dance. He smooths his hand over my buttock and raises the paddle once more. With its impact, my hips bounce from the table and slam back down. Despite my desire to retreat from the offending article, my hips betray me, and thrust my buttocks out, inviting more.

  “Put your hands on the back of your head,” Alexander commands. I do as I am bid. I feel Alexander’s hands raise my hips firmly off the table as he manoeuvres a small velvet cushion under them, exposing my sex. Out the corner of my eye, I see him take the thin, cream, riding crop, a particular favourite of Arabella’s, and hand it to her. She stands, smiling and takes it from Alexander ceremoniously, before he retreats to the other end of the table, where a space is immediately cleared for him, as if a true prince has surely arrived. I look down the tunnel of masks and crystal to see Alexander perched, like carrion crow, over the end of the table. His gaze is fixed on me. The air splices as Arabella skilfully brings down the little leather strap onto my engorged bud. Scolding heat runs up its core and suffuses into my hips. Ripples of pain and pleasure intermingle and I cry out.