In a way, what I was doing was preventing me from having to tell him. It was easier, wasn’t it? It was much easier to have formed this routine. It immediately let him know I’d screwed up and I didn’t have to open my mouth and say it myself. But it was crazy. Certifiably crazy. I knew this even as I ran around the house, doing everything I could remember.
It was almost Christmas. The tinsel and fairy lights were twined around the banisters; the tree was standing in the sitting room, weighed down by decorations. A flurry of cards from well-wishers occupied the mantelpiece, the sideboard, even the telephone table in the hall. Everybody loved Kent, even though they didn’t know anything about him. I picked up each card in turn, checking for imaginary dust. There was no dust. There was never any goddamn dust. He had a cleaner come in twice a week.
I walked hurriedly around the rooms and lit the vanilla-scented candles, my hands trembling. I always got shaky around fire. It reminded me of cigarettes, of the long, lonely, desperate days before Kent had stalked into my life. And yet, some part of me still craved them. Just one. It would be easy. There was a ten-pack in the glove compartment of my car. It had been there for years. I could so easily get my fix. But he’d know. Of course he’d fucking know. What didn’t he know?
I hated him for knowing me so completely. For so many years, the real me had been a secret, the best kept secret. I was the only person who knew me, who knew what went around in my head. And then Kent had come and picked me apart and seen everything and put me back together but with a piece of him in there too. He knew me inside out.
I was wearing his favourite dress. I always wore his favourite dress when I’d done something wrong, like it might distract him from punishing me. It never did. Insanity. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I knew this. I knew all of this. But it didn’t change the routines.
The dress was white, a pure, lily white and sleeveless too. It only gave me additional goose bumps. The fine hairs on my arms refused to lie down. His favourite underwear on me was no underwear so I was naked beneath the dress. My feet were bare, my dark hair tied up in a ponytail.
I couldn’t look at the Christmas tree; was far too conscious of the glaring gap in the presents beneath. He must have known what he was doing. Goddamn son of a bitch. And I was just as bad. He knew me, I knew him. Curiosity killed the cat. I didn’t touch the big presents. It was just that one little one. It was like it was watching me forlornly, begging to be opened. And it wasn’t even wrapped prettily. Brown paper, white string. Not even a gift tag. He’d written on the paper in his cursive handwriting.
To Eva. From Kent.
I’d told myself he wouldn’t notice while knowing he would. And even then, I hadn’t tried to cover my tracks. The smart thing to do would’ve been to carefully slit in open in such a way that it could be easily resealed and made to look untouched. But no. I’d torn the goddamn paper like a child.
Was it worth it? To get to the pretty box beneath, to open it and see the goddamn butt plug shining out at me? It made my stomach drop. Excitement clashed with unease. It was so big. So silver. And all of a sudden, I was in so much trouble. I could have run away; gone home to the apartment I never slept in anymore. Kent wouldn’t have chased me, at least not immediately. But I would have felt even worse.
So what did I do? I stowed the ruined present in the bedside table and awaited my fate. I cooked dinner for him. Spaghetti Bolognese. I even went and bought goddamn butterscotch ice-cream. I took the clothes from the dryer, ironed them. I rearranged the bookcase into alphabetical order. I moved the coffee table so it was exactly a foot away from the edge of the rug. I actually measured the goddamn distance. I painstakingly waxed my snatch. I changed my clothes, brushed my hair, dabbed on his favourite perfume. I put on a Frank Sinatra album.
Things hadn’t been good for over a week. Maybe the silence between us was what had prompted me to open the present. It wasn’t even about the present. It was about attention. I told myself this coldly. I was an attention whore, always had been, and always would be. And not brave enough to ask for the attention. I wasn’t the kid who put myself forward to be Mary in the Nativity play. I was the low-key nameless angel who purposefully tripped over the manger and got stared at disapprovingly.
Attention. Even though it was bad, even though I was told off, I still loved it. Kent knew. He’d know what I’d done, why I’d done it and he’d give me what I craved. But would it fix the standoff? I hated myself for ever arguing with him. But he could be so tiresome at times, so stubborn. He wanted commitment, whatever the hell that meant. Apparently it wasn’t enough that I let him do what he pleased to me. No.
He’d gone out and bought a goddamn diamond ring, got down on one fucking knee and expected me to melt with joy, as if marriage was the thing that would complete us. The ring ended up back in his pocket. We ended up fighting. We still fucked but it wasn’t the same. It was angry, defiant, more hate than love. I don’t know why I fought about it. Any sensible girl would’ve smiled and been happy. But the ring offended me. I hated diamonds, and what they were supposed to represent. I didn’t want to fall into a cliché.
I heard Kent’s key in the lock. Simultaneously, my heart sank, my stomach turned and my snatch flushed with wet heat. I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. I was standing in the kitchen. Maybe he was hungry. I hoped he was hungry. I only ever cooked to see him eat. Jesus. Jesus. It wasn’t worth it. None of it was going to be worth it. Maybe he’d still hate me. Maybe he didn’t want to play my stupid, pathetic, messed-up games.
I knew each sound he made. The door shutting. The bolt across. The key scraping. The clink into the bowl. The drop of his shoes. His coat brushing against the wall as he hung it up. There was a pause. He could smell the candles. I heard him think. I swear I could hear it.
“Eva?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I crossed my legs, my arms, my fingers. I almost wanted to cry. I swallowed hard.
“Eva? You here?”
My feet were walking without permission. Out of the kitchen, into the hall.
“I’m here,” My voice was small, thin, like a scrap of paper.
He looked at me. I looked at his chest. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid dress, stupid presents, stupid everything. What if he hated me? What if he was through? He didn’t speak and to fill up the silence I was suddenly talking fast.
“I didn’t know what time you’d get back. I made dinner but I’m not hungry so it’s all for you really. And I went out and to the twenty-four hour store and I know you said that I should take the car but it wasn’t all that dark and I needed the fresh air and I got ice-cream and it wasn’t the exact same brand but they didn’t have-”
“Enough,” Kent’s voice was resigned. “Just go upstairs.”
I knew better than to argue. I slipped past him and headed up to the bedroom. I heard him follow though I didn’t dare look back. My heart sank a little. His dinner would be cold. It made me almost angry. I walked into the bedroom and stopped at the foot of the bed, turning reluctantly to face him.
“You know what to do,” His voice was patient. “Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”
I couldn’t look at him. Of course I knew. It was maybe the tenth time I’d found myself in this very situation. I walked over to the dressing table. It was small and wooden, painted white in a shabby-chic kind of way. It was probably meant to look French. Kent said it reminded him of me. I could never understand why. I bent over the table, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He was brisk, unemotional, like he always was at this point. He pulled my dress cleanly up.
“Legs wider,” His strong hand closed around my ankle, forcing my feet further apart. “How many times do I have to tell you this, Eva?”
God. God. Why? How did any of this make any sense? Why did I need it? Why did I enjoy it?
His hand slipped up my leg, my calf, the inside of my knee, my thigh and hesitated there. He knew I was wet. He knew I couldn’t help it. Maybe he’d mortify me by calling me out on it. He’d done it before. Why’re you so wet, kitten? D’you want to be spanked? That’s counter-productive, right? Maybe we should come up with something else, something that doesn’t turn you on so much.
But he didn’t say anything. He straightened up. His fingertips rested lightly on my ass and then they were gone. I didn’t move. I hardly breathed. I screwed my eyes shut and waited. His hand came down, fast, strong and hard. No matter how many times I’d felt it, it always surprised me. Sharp. Urgent. He alternated between cheeks and I felt the stinging glow radiate after the first dozen. He always went in dozens.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His voice was lazily amused as he pressed his thumb to my tight asshole. “You didn’t put it in?”
How did he know what I’d done wrong, that I’d seen the plug? I felt like I’d been set up.
“No,” I said, very quietly.
“Why not? D’you want me to do it? Surely, you wanna play with your new toy.”
“No,” I knew he’d make me wear it for what felt like forever. “Please. I – I didn’t mean to unwrap it.”
He laughed.
“Of course you did. You always do. We both know you, kitten. You don’t make mistakes. You’re too fucking smart for that.”
His hand slapped down again, cracking against my tender ass. I pressed my cheek against the cold dressing table and sucked in air, trying to count. It felt like more than twelve. With each strike, the air was knocked out of my lungs and before I could get it all back, he’d have spanked me again, leaving me gasping. Two dozen? I couldn’t count. I couldn’t think. I felt his hands grasp my cheeks, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp out a protest.
“Please. That – hurts!”
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he breathed. “Don’t move a muscle.”
I didn’t move. I heard him walk to the en-suite, heard the drop of his clothing, and imagined his broad shoulders under the stream of hot water. I moaned softly. I desperately wanted to touch myself. My ass throbbed threateningly like it was reminding me of what misbehaving earned. The rush of water. His damp hair. Maybe he was stroking himself. I almost stamped my foot. It felt like I was there for hours. My nails bit into my palms.
By the time he returned, I was a mess. He was naked. It only made me wetter.
“Take your dress off. And bend over again.”
I obliged, slipping the white dress off over my head. He took it from me and dropped it onto the bed.
