EXCERPT‘What about BDSM? Are you going to teach me something about that?’
He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Why? Are you interested in being a submissive?’
‘I don’t know. I could be. What is it?’
‘It’s a game.’
‘I like games. Start me off and I’ll tell you if I like it.’
He stops smiling, his eyes change, darken. Very deliberately he positions his drink right in front of him, tips his glass sideways and allows the liquid in it to pour onto the table. I watch the puddle grow on the table. At some point before the glass is empty he stops pouring. I lift my eyes from the spill and look at him. His eyes are expressionless, watchful. The silence stretches. I break it. ‘Well?’
‘Clean it up,’ he says.
‘I don’t need to repeat myself, do I? It is a punishable offence.’
For a moment I feel confused. Was this the thing that has everybody hot up the collar? Do I want to be his little slave? The answer is obvious and immediate. I don’t. Definitely not. But I’ll let it play a little more and see where this little game goes. I turn towards the paper towels.
‘Not with the paper towel.’ His voice cracks like a whip.
I turn towards him slowly. Our eyes clash, a look of impatience about his. What does he want me to do? Clean the table with my tongue? The thought is unsexy, off-putting. ‘With what then?’
He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. ‘With your sex.’
And suddenly I am wet. The idea is shocking but incredibly, unbelievably erotic. I hook my thumbs into white lace and push them all the way down. I step out of them.
‘Give them to me.’
I bend down to retrieve them and walk towards him. I look into his eyes as I drop it into his outstretched hand. He puts it into his trouser pocket.
I pull myself onto the table and opening my legs slightly so he can see what I am doing, slowly drag my sex across the spill. Something flashes in his eyes. His drink is cold on my warm skin. When I have pulled myself across the liquid I stop and look to him.
He nods slowly. ‘You,’ he says, and there is a touch of admiration in his voice, ‘are an excellent pupil. You never do more than what you are instructed to do.’
I say nothing. Just hold myself in that position.
‘Now spread your legs,’ he orders.
Georgia Le Carre lives in England, in an old 19th century romantic cottage surrounded by a magical garden filled with fruit and walnut trees. When she is not feeding words into her laptop, she is either curled up in bed with a box of chocolates and a good read, or lost in a long walk in the woods. Especially on moonlit nights. And often with the man of her dreams.
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