“I will see you again next week,” he continued, “and there will be no Final Reminders in your correspondence this time, will there?”
I couldn’t respond with my mouth full of cock, so I concentrated on sealing my lips and moving them up and down his shaft at the speed we had negotiated earlier. His hand clutched at my hair, pulling the roots in time with the rhythm. I felt his tip hit the back of my throat and then there was bitter salt flooding my mouth. Like a good little sub, I swallowed it all up.
“No, Dexter. Goodbye. And thank you.”
I waited for the door to click shut, then I got up—with some relief—and went to listen at the door. The click of his footsteps against the linoleum stairs echoed up through the stairwell and, once it was faint enough to indicate that he’d reached the lobby, I slipped out of the apartment and made my way, on light-soled ballet flats, down after him. I didn’t care what I might find, I was going to learn more about the man who spanked me and ruled my life and my orgasms. Didn’t I have a right to know?
Outside the building, I saw him walking on past the shops to the corner of the street where the tube station was located. Luckily, I lived close enough to the centre of the city to ensure a safe barrier of other people between us, although I was anxious about losing sight of him. His height was good, his head an effortless few inches above most of the throng, so I followed it like a beacon, admiring the close cut hair at the nape of his neck, turning into the tube station and preparing to get my travelcard from my handbag but…he wasn’t in the station. He’d walked past, and I was almost too late to catch him, staring around wildly until I noticed him on a crossing halfway up the next block.
Outside the station, a religious zealot stood handing out leaflets about how we were all doomed, but I waved him away, zigzagging through traffic until I had Dexter in my sights again. He was casually looking at the window display in the music shop—oh, was he a musician? He crouched a little, peering at a score, or a book of some kind, but he didn’t go in. Instead he headed away from the busy streets, out towards the quieter part of town. I wondered, with a shock of excitement, if he was going home, and followed him for half a mile more before he disappeared into a door set alongside a takeaway. Did he really live above a grotty fried chicken shop? I was somehow disappointed, but when I got closer, I noticed golden lettering on the door and realised, deflatingly, that this was simply the main office of the Life Coach operation. He’d returned to work. No clues to be had.
Unless…oh, I knew it was bad. One shouldn’t stalk people, but I couldn’t bear the idea of slinking back home, no wiser than I was when I was determined to pursue Dexter to a place of knowledge and enlightenment. Across the road stood a café, an old-fashioned affair that served tea and scones and suchlike, and I liked the idea of spending some time in a place that wasn’
t a corporate coffee chain. So I bought a newspaper from the stand in the street and settled myself into the window seat for an hour of undercover observation. After all, it was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon—it was very likely that he’d only gone to the office to collect something, or neaten up some paperwork, or pass on a message before heading home.
I felt like a private detective, sitting behind my newspaper drinking two large mugs of tea—not green—in succession and succumbing to the temptation of home-baked scones with jam and clotted cream—“from Devon” apparently—though I did manage to get most of the jam on my fingers, then the paper, which made for a sticky experience.
By half past five, the volume of tea consumed in a short space of time was having the obvious consequences for my bladder, but I didn’t feel I could leave my seat. If I went to the loo, he would surely emerge at that very moment and I would lose him. But if I didn’t go to the loo…well, my uncomfortable shifting demeanour, even more uncomfortable thanks to that damn paddle, was a dire warning of how this scenario might end. I couldn’t relieve myself all over that poor woman’s lovely rustic-style chairs with the embroidered cushion covers, could I? I nipped to the bathroom, mindful of the owner’s very loud and obvious cashing-up and tidying-away manoeuvres. She wanted to close anyway. I would have to give up.
When I returned, the cups and plates were absent from my table, but the newspaper was still there. And so was Dexter.
I stopped dead in the middle of the café.
“Oh. Hello.”
“If you want a drink, I’m shutting up now,” interrupted the owner. “But there’s a Costa down the road. Stays open ‘til eight.”
“Thank you,” said Dexter, aiming a courteous smile at the woman, which he switched off when his attention returned to me. “Shall we?”
Outside on the pavement, I was at a loss for words. When I found some, they were, “It’s not illegal to have tea and scones in a café, is it?”
“Not illegal, but it’s not considered polite to spy on people, is it, Miss Marple?”
“What? I wasn’t…”
He stopped walking—God knows where we were going, but he’d been leading me up towards the canal – and shook his head at me.
“So much for honesty,” he said.
He picked up the pace again so I had to trot along behind him, all the way down to the canal, where he sat down on a bench and watched a group of teenage boys larking about with fishing rods, his face disconsolate behind the spectacles.
“Okay,” I said, sitting down—wince—beside him. “I followed you to the office. Is it so bad that I want to know more about you? You never answer any questions and I…like you. I’m interested in you.”
“These relationships can’t get personal,” he muttered.
“Why not? If you don’t fancy me, that’s fair enough but…”
“It’s not that,” he said, rather savagely, then, noting the fear in my eyes, repeated it more gently. “It’s not that.”
“What is it then? You don’t want to be unprofessional? You’re married?”
“No. I don’t have to tell you, so I’m not going to. And perhaps it’s best you find another life coach. I’m not sure this is working out.”
“Dexter!”
“I wish you well,” he mumbled, then he got up abruptly and stalked swiftly off down the towpath, leaving me to call after him and stare in dismay, while the teenage boys whistled and catcalled.
I was not leaving it there. I couldn’t leave it there.