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“Yes, we fucking shall,” I said. “Don’t call this number again. Faye willneverbe available.”
I hung up before the twat could say another word, and then I barred his number. Prick.
Your fucking move, Vincent cunting Blackthorne. Bring it on.
***
Chapter Eight
Faye
Andy didn’t fuck me. Not that day, nor the next, nor the one after. He utilised his regular modus operandi of lording it around the place, and I played my part, abiding by the rules of the all-powerful coin toss.Hisweek.Hisway. His reign wouldn’t last forever, and when the tables turned they’d be toppling flat on their backs.
I’d always been sexually submissive, even before I knew what it meant. My fantasies revolved almost entirely around the beautiful place beyond pain, where I sacrifice control to someone who knows how to wield it. I’d been playing in the BDSM scene since the day I discovered it, and played both dominant and submissive happily enough under the right circumstances, yet the domme in me had always been a minor facet; an intellectual bystander to my more natural submissive traits. Even in Venice, I rarelyfeltit. Rarely felt the power-lust that dominants yearn for.
But Andy was different. I veered between the desire to kneel at his feet and beg for punishment, and the desire to slap the holy living shit out of him. I replayed our playroom power struggle on loop through my bar duties, the urge to mark his perfect skin becoming my all-consuming aphrodisiac. I wanted to hurt the man. Wanted to control the man. Wanted to hear him beg me to stop, beg me for more, beg me for anything just so long asthatfucking man was on his fucking knees before me.
I craved the sight of his body battered raw at my sadistic hands, the beauty of his skin as it hardened into welts, and ridges, darkening into glorious rich bruises. I wanted to bind him, humiliate him, force him to do things that would make even the mighty Masque call for a time out.
Above all things, I wanted to break him, but someone like Andy Morgan wouldn’t break easily. I doubted a man like Andy even knew how to submit himself entirely to the will of another. Still, I could dream.
Friday night was a killer. A crazy long night on bar in new heels and an overenthusiastic corset. A night where Andy didn’t show his face at all, and I managed to miss out on a Masque spectacular, changing over cruddy barrels whilst he flogged his pretty green-eyed fiancée until she cried. My grumpy night grew grumpier still when I got the news that our wet room had become a littleclogged. I was to be the one to rectify the situation, apparently. Of course I would be; Andy’s orders.
Fucking coin toss.
I tackled the job when the club was wrapping up for the night, teetering on my heels as I attempted to flush fuck knows what down the main drain. Water wouldn’t cut it, so I held my breath against the stench and yanked up the drain cover. The problem was easy to identify, a used rubber wedged in the pipe, along with a grimy matted slimy collection of hair. Even through gloves my skin crawled. The rubber plopped out like a squishy pink slug, and there was shit on it. Actual fucking shit. Jesus Christ.
The thought came unbidden; a crystal clear image of me choking Andy on the skanky, shit-covered rubber until he was sick. It would serve him right for sending me on the grotty fucking errand in the first place.
It was the perfect moment for him to make an appearance, and I couldn’t help but smile. He propped himself against the doorway like Little Lord Fauntleroy, careful not to dirty his brogues on the piss-wet floor tiles.
“I knew you were a dirty cow, Faye, but even I didn’t imagine I’d find you smiling over a wet room blockage.” He pulled a face. “Jesus wept, what the fuckisthat?”
I waggled it in the air like a trophy, fighting the urge to retch. “A shit-covered condom matted with pubic hair. If I didn’t know better I’d think you put it down there, just to be a sadistic asshole.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Even I have my limits, Faye. That is seriously disgusting.” He toed the drain cover back into position with a scowl. “Fuck knows how it even got down there. It’s usually just hair and soap scum. Despite its reputation, people do generally use the place for regular showers. I’d have handled it myself if I’d have known, I’m not that much of a cunt.”
“You, on all fours, in rubber gloves, fishing about in someone else’s shit? Now that I wouldloveto see.” I dropped the offending item in the bin and the gloves along with them. “Way to go for installing a wet room.” I rinsed my hands under the nearest faucet, flicking the drips in his direction.
“Actually, if I recall, the wet room wasyouridea, I merely implemented it. A regular shower block would have been my choice.”
“I clearly didn’t think through the practicalities.”
“No holds barred,” he mimicked. “The ultimate playroom experience… we go bigger, better, dirtier, Andy, not just a couple of flogging benches and some cages. We have the works, everything, even a wet room…”
I smiled. “I remember that conversation.”
He slapped the wall with some kind of perverse pride. “And here you have it. The princess gets her piss play. She also gets shit-smeared condoms along with it, call it a value-added extra.”
“I’ll survive.” I leaned back against a cleanish looking piece of tiling. “Never fancied it? In here, I mean.”
“I’m hardly Masque, Faye. I do havesomelimits.”
“Limits are there to be pushed,” I said. “That’s where the fun is.”
“If you say so.”
“Iknowso.” The thought of kneeling at his feet in the filth gave me tingles. The thought of him kneeling at mine gave me more. “You used to be pretty dirty, Andy. Some of your scenes are emblazoned on my memory for all time. It’s one of the things I liked best about you.”
