Husband Heel (Husband Series Book 3) Page 2

  Her head fell to the side, and when he reached under her to dig his fingers into her whipped buttocks, she moaned so loudly, there could be no doubting that her participation was completely willing.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said softly, and closed my eyes to shut out the degradation in front of me. While I’d been imagining what I might accomplish in this place, I’d never let myself think about the person who would be assigned to me. I’d never wanted to consider their humanity, their emotions, their pain.

  If I let myself go down that road, I’d falter.

  And I mustn’t.

  I needed to concentrate solely on myself. Years of doing the opposite had brought me to this place. If I was ever to rehabilitate myself, to fill the aching chasm of humiliation my husband had created, I must be selfish.

  The pendulum must swing back in the opposite direction—too far—before it would find balance.

  The matron, unaware of my internal struggle, led me back into the main corridor with its silver lighting. “This way,” she said calmly, as if we’d never stopped, as if we’d never seen one person physically harming another—both paying for the privilege.

  We walked on in silence until she stopped and said, “This is your suite. Number Fourteen.”

  I stared at the ordinary looking door. “That’s the same number as the room you put Mr. Aston in.”

  She nodded. “We store all Plus Ones individually. Husbands. Wives. Companions. Bodyguards.” She looked at me pointedly. “It would foster indiscretion if we allowed them to speak to one another.”

  “Of course.” Again I could marvel that my voice sounded normal when I was grappling with two overwhelming realizations—firstly, that husbands and wives would accompany each other to a place like this, and secondly, that it had never occurred to me that Nicholas might find out what I was doing.

  That though created a momentary flash of horror until I reminded myself that the privacy agreement he had signed would protect me from publicity. Then there was the reassuring knowledge that I could fire him at any time, because I certainly wouldn’t want to see him again if he knew about this.

  So I merely nodded to the matron, then I fished the old fashioned key out of my handbag. There would be symbolism involved, because they could just as easily have used hotel room technology and sent me a swipe card. Indeed, the number 14 on the door was as normal as you’d see on any hotel room.

  And yet, an old fashioned brass key.

  “Your hour starts now,” the matron said, nodding at the door. “Although you may certainly finish earlier if you choose. Many do, if they find it overwhelming. A full bathroom suite adjoins the playroom. And if you follow this corridor back…” She gestured toward the floor, “…you’ll see the silver lights are red from this direction. Simply follow the red trail back to me.”

  More symbolism.

  I nodded, as though this was all matter-of-fact, as if I was receiving final instructions before entering a business meeting.

  “Remember the rules and enjoy yourself,” she said, and smiled benignly. Then she was gone, leaving me with the key in my hand, not quite ready to open the door.

  I wondered then, why she’d couriered me the key last week instead of simply opening the door now herself. Was it so I’d have the heavy brass talisman in my possession long enough to ensure my visit was fully premeditated? After all, anticipation can be half the pleasure of any encounter.

  And I had anticipated this, although I’d been unsure about what I might do. Even now, my hands were shaking and in the moment of my fear, that was strangely exhilarating. I could smell my own perfume, and the light floral fragrance seemed duskier than I’d remembered.

  The person inside the room wouldn’t see me. They would only hear me, smell me.

  Touch and taste were sensations I planned to restrict. In thinking about my actions, it seemed too intimate to touch someone with my own skin. But the tools inside the room, I could use them to touch. To punish.

  Open the door, Louella. Your future is inside.

  I nodded to myself, put the key in the lock and opened the door, holding my breath, but inside the suite the hallway in front of me was an anticlimax. A Persian rug led to a dimly lit room at the end of the hallway, and beside me was a partly opened bathroom door. Inside was ultra-modern with grey marble and chrome fittings.

  I shut the suite door behind myself, and then I sniffed the air. There was something…mechanical. It was faint, like the scent of an engine under the hood, which was out of place in the plush surroundings. I had no idea what it was, but the unexpected appeared to excite me. I placed my handbag inside the bathroom, ready for my exit, and realized that my skin was tingling, most especially on my arms.

  It wasn’t sexual—nothing like the primitive reaction that had swept over me while I’d been watching the man with his captive submissive. This was all about secrets and danger—the sort of danger that my own actions could produce.

  Hurry up. You only have an hour.

  I turned back to face the playroom, dimly lit at the end of a hallway, and despite the voice of urgency, I wanted to take my time, to prepare myself mentally, because the tingling was spreading to my body, making me tremble, and I didn’t want to be anything but controlled in this situation.

  Nicholas came into my mind then, and I visualized him sitting in the room he’d been allocated, staring at a wall. On the few occasions he’d accompanied me to hairdressing or medical appointments, he’d resisted the distraction of magazines, his phone, or the occasional waiting-room television. Instead, he’d gone to some internal place, staring at the wall, thinking… I had no idea what.

  The first time I’d seen it, I’d imagined it was a momentary daydream. But the second time I’d watched him—unobserved—for several minutes, and he’d barely blinked. His resume said he had martial arts skills. Perhaps it was some form of meditation.

  Whatever it was, the thought of him doing that now, calmed me down. I was safe. There was no expectation on me to do…anything. I could just as easily walk right back out of this room and leave the key with the matron.

  Instead, I followed the Persian rug down to a lamp-lit room with rich, red lacquered timber paneling, expensive paisley armchairs and thick brocade drapes. To my left was the centerpiece.

  The wall had a floor-to-ceiling segment of what looked like original sandstone brickwork—a beautiful feature that brought alive the history of the building. Against it stood a blindfolded man, bare-chested, with his arms above his head, wrists shackled in heavy iron cuffs.

  He had dark hair and was wearing jeans, and for a flickering moment I remembered Nicholas, waiting patiently at the other end of the building. But this man wasn’t Nicholas. He was nowhere near as muscular, despite his toned physique, and he was younger. Perhaps only in his twenties. He also had no tattoos, which gave him a more vulnerable appearance.

  I wanted that.

  His head hadn’t turned in my direction because I’d entered silently, but now he lifted his chin and sniffed the air.

  “You’re a woman,” he said, his voice quavering slightly, as though he’d been left to wait for far too long.

  I lifted my own chin and used the voice of command I’d practiced for so long inside the safety of my own mind. “Silence.” He immediately clamped his lips shut. “You speak only when I tell you to, or to utter the safe word.”

  He nodded nervously, then I saw his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed.

  His safe word was Stop. That was simple enough, and I wondered if they’d organized that because I was a beginner. In any case, it was part of the rules to respond to the safe word by stopping all activity, and I promised myself I could do that.

  I hoped I could do that…

  I walked to the sideboard and selected a shiny red riding crop, running my fingers slowly over its length, feeling my heart pound in anticipation of what I would do.

  “You’ve been bad,” I said, far more calmly than I felt. “And you will be punished
.”

  He nodded, his long fringe sliding over the blindfold. Then he licked his lips.

  I stepped closer and the mechanical scent was stronger. It was coming from the range of products lining the sideboard, and perhaps the metal cuffs and chains that bound him to the wall.

  Machine oil. Lubricant.

  I swallowed down throbbing tension, knowing I shouldn’t speak again. He’d hear turmoil if I did, so I simply stood in front of him, and brought the crop to rest gently against his chest.

  He trembled then, and I had a fleeting moment of wondering what he’d endured in the past, and from whom. And then the thought was gone, and there was only me, in control, my fingers tightening on the crop as flickering images came into my mind: hands on my body, turning me to face away. Humiliation. Unfulfilled arousal.

  For some reason my breasts started to throb then, as if all of the pain was locked behind them, bursting to get out—dark pain, shameful, blurred by the alcohol that had allowed me to endure it.

  But no more.

  I was about to purge that pain, and as I withdrew the crop and smacked it down hard across his exposed ribcage, I felt the jarring of the impact like a frisson of electricity racing up my arm.

  He hissed through gritted teeth, but I wasn’t watching his face. I was completely focused on the red mark that rose immediately against his pale skin. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and knowing that I’d inflicted it, made me tremble with exaltation, which even in my current state I knew was inappropriate.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to rationalize past the fact that this was the most terrifying and euphoric moment of my life. With the crop in my hand I felt savagely right about my decision to do this. Exorcism was worth any risk, and I closed my eyes for a moment to savor the heady rush roaring around my body.

  My heart was pounding but I was instantly addicted, so I struck him again, just below the first, and he grunted. It was like a primitive symphony and I wanted more, so I slapped at his pectorals, deliberately hitting his nipples before widening the target area, creating a crisscross pattern that I told myself was art.

  Then I slapped him through his thick jeans, across the tops of his thighs. His head fell back and his mouth dropped open as he gasped, but there was also a moan lurking deep in his throat, and when I noticed the crotch of his jeans protruding, my euphoria switched instantly into fury.

  You don’t get to be aroused.

  That wasn’t what I wanted, and irrational anger saw me slap at his crotch, trying to beat back the erection that my ministrations had somehow encouraged.

  When he cried out in earnest, I stopped myself—with difficulty, and stood shaking before him, knowing I had to do more—I hadn’t purged enough—but not trusting myself if I saw evidence of his arousal.

  So I swallowed down the throbbing tension that was thundering through my veins and growled, “Turn around.”

  He shuffled, in obvious discomfort, until his back was facing me, and I saw that it was scratched by the rough sandstone bricks he’d been shuddering against. But that wasn’t what held my attention. My gaze dropped to his denim clad buttocks, and I suddenly knew what I wanted.

  I dropped the crop on the floor and reached around him to undo his flies, then I wrenched his jeans down, ignoring the erection that sprang out and would soon be pressed against the rough stone wall.

  His back was broad and beautiful, as young men’s often were, but his buttocks were particularly pert and that suited my impulses perfectly.

  I pushed him roughly against the sandstone bricks, and he winced as his loins contacted it, but he made no sound. Then I picked up my crop again and stung his pale butt cheeks, reddening them with each strike, and reveling in the snap of the stiff leather against his soft skin.

  My arm was tiring but when he groaned out an orgasm I kept going to punish him and was lost in a trance of repetitive physical action and my own voice inside my mind repeating, I can do this to you. You can’t stop me. I’m in control.

  And I was, right up until I flung the crop from my hand and heaved in a shuddering breath. Then I stepped backwards on shaky legs to put distance between us. Some internal marker told me I’d done enough.

  I had to stop—to leave.

  But it was so hard to tear my gaze from the destruction I’d wrought. His buttocks were bright red. Worse than that, however, was the sound of his ragged breathing. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even cried out.

  Just like me, he’d internalized his pain, and in that moment I actually envied his discomfort. Stinging skin would heal far more readily than the psychological damage I’d borne. Although, surely there was something broken in him to allow what I’d done—to enjoy it.

  Before I could turn away, he said in a husky whisper, “Thank you…master,” and I caught my breath.

  Thank you?

  I hadn’t broken his skin or bruised him, exactly as the rules required, and the length of his ‘punishment’ had probably been five minutes, although it had felt like much longer. But the thought that he was grateful for being hurt made bile rise in my throat.

  I stumbled away on legs that trembled and barely held me up, getting only as far as the bathroom before the horror of what I’d done, and the clenching control that I’d exerted, took its toll.

  The scant contents of my stomach expelled violently, and I only just reached the toilet, slumping over it as I retched again and again, my arms barely holding me up. I hadn’t vomited in years so I was disgusted with myself, but I barely had time to think about that because my overwhelming desire was to get as far away as I could.

  I flushed the toilet and dragged myself to the glistening grey marble sink where I rinsed and spat until I could feel my pulse slowing from pounding madness into galloping, and then merely racing.

  I wiped my mouth and then stared at myself in the mirror, not recognizing the eyes that gazed back at me. They glowed with some inner vitality—madness—that turned pebble brown into glistening molasses, alive and shifting with infinite possibilities.

  I was changed.

  In fact, I was reborn. The categorization of ‘Rose Bay socialite’ that I’d always taken pride in when I’d seen it reported in the newspapers, felt suddenly like a bookmark in an old text that was no longer relevant.

  The last half hour had shown me quite clearly that any identity I chose to inhabit was temporary—transitory, because if I could morph from philanthropist ex-trophy wife into a violent sadist, I was capable of anything.

  Perhaps I always had been. But now, the thought of charity work and shopping and maintaining the careful façade of outward appearance seemed ridiculous.

  Why would I bother? I had money and control over my life. Why would I care what anyone thought of me? I could remain in my home, perhaps install a playroom of my own, and… I swallowed sickly.

  The mere thought that I could have this satisfaction any time I wanted, set my pulse racing again, and my newly emptied stomach churned. I needed to stop that. I had to exit this establishment with some measure of decorum.

  Nicholas was observant. I mustn’t appear flustered or he would start wondering what sort of ‘treatment’ I’d had. He might even start investigating. The secrecy surrounding The Rocks Spa was as secure as they could make it, and the very exclusive private investigator I’d hired had taken months to discover it.

  The fact that they did genuine beauty treatments—as well as these more illicit sessions—was clever, and starting at a thousand dollars an hour, they’d certainly keep the standard of clientele high.

  So I’d felt reasonably confident coming in that I could hide my activities from Nicholas. But that would depend on how good an actress I could be.

  Years of being the good wife had taught me subterfuge, but I didn’t have alcohol to smooth the rough edges anymore. I only had self-control, which at the moment was skating thin. My best plan was to focus on action so I couldn’t think.

  I picked up my black leather tote and put it on t
he vanity to retrieve my repair kit of makeup and a change of clothes. The armpits of my beige suit were wet with perspiration but I wasn’t wasting time on a shower. So I stripped, wiped myself over with disposable wipes, reapplied deodorant, then slipped on a duplicate outfit and touched up my makeup.

  My hair didn’t look right and that pulled my busyness to a halt. Before I’d left home, I’d swept my blond bob back from my forehead and over my head into finger-curls at the back of my neck. It was still flawlessly smooth and set, but it looked far too civilized for the volcanic eyes that gazed out at me.

  A woman with eyes like that shouldn’t be able to control her hair so easily.

  And she wouldn’t be wearing pearl stud earrings either. But I wasn’t changing any of that. My external appearance needed to match what Nicholas had last seen, so that required me to compartmentalize what was happening inside and to return that gaze to the banality it usually exhibited.

  The sooner I was out away from the young man, the sooner I could begin.

  So I picked up my tote and let myself out into the corridor without a backward glance. The last thing I wanted was to remind myself of what I’d done by checking on the young man. And in any case, the rules on interaction were strict. I was to play and leave. Any contact with the submissive after the play would spoil their enjoyment.

  It felt uncaring in the extreme, but I was grateful to put him behind me as I followed the red lights along the floor, down corridors toward my exit, toward the real world which I must now re-enter.

  Thinking about normality helped settle my breathing as I forced my mind to my happy place, thinking about my girlfriends who’d been with me for two decades: Fritha with freckles we used to count as teenagers, Angela and her overbearing Mumbai mother who was always telling us what to do, and Jill, the orphan with a little sister to care for.

  It was Tuesday, Fritha’s afternoon off. I wondered who she’d be sleeping with this week. She was a complete opportunist when it came to sex, so I knew she’d never settle down. But Jill was married, and Angela happily pregnant and about to wed. My girls were as settled as I could hope for, and I needed that now. I needed them strong and reliable. Because I was anything but…