‘Very scientific.’ I try to push up my bottom, to lure his hand between my soaked lips. I get nowhere.
‘Tut tut.’ He accompanies his clicking disapproval with two light smacks. ‘You know the rules. Now, I think you can stay like that while I watch this DVD. Just like that, over my knee, and I’ll rub some lotion into you. Would you like that?’
‘Nooo,’ I moan, though normally I would love it.
His lotioned fingers torment me for the entire duration of the film until, by bedtime, my cunt is twitching in bemusement, wondering when the hell the cock is turning up.
Not tonight, Josephine. Not for a few nights yet.
Day four involves a butt plug. On day five I’m tied to the bed and tickled with feather dusters until I scream.
But what really worries me is day six.
On day six, he does nothing at all.
I wake up in his bed on day seven insouciant and breezy.
‘Almost there,’ I crow, ignoring my morning fog of lust and jumping out of bed.
‘Almost,’ says Lloyd, watching me from the bed. ‘Not quite.’
‘What have you got planned? I can’t believe you didn’t try anything on yesterday. You must have some kind of massive finale prepared.’
‘You know me too well.’ He’s quiet for a moment, watching me scoop my shower things out of my overnight bag. He’s told me thousands of times I should keep some on his shelf, but I’ve never got round to it. ‘I’ve invited some friends round for dinner.’
I stand straight, watching his face for a moment. ‘Oh?’
‘Close friends.’
‘Who?’
‘Rachael and O, from the club.’
‘For dinner?’
‘Yeah. It’s our day off. Thought they could come round in the afternoon and hang out.’
‘And by hang out, you mean …?’
‘You’ll see.’
His smile is not reassuring.
In the shower, I daren?
?t even apply the gel to my pubic area, I’m so scared of turning myself on. I wash my hair for what seems like hours, digging my fingers into my scalp, then pulling them back when I realise that the sensation is too sensual. I lather up my arms and stomach and legs and back and leave the rest to the suds. Some of them slide over my breasts and bottom and dissolve in my crotch, but it’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t touch them.
Goose bumps pucker my skin when I get out and I quickly scrub myself dry and wrap my treacherous body in its bathrobe. When I dress, I put on the only pair of jeans I own and a shapeless jumper. Pure thoughts, pure thoughts.
At the farmers’ market, looking for things to cook for our guests, I try to draw Lloyd out on the subject of his plans, but he distracts me with vegetables and artisan cheeses and slaps on the rump until I give up. I think he likes my jeans.
All the same, I have a sick, anxious feeling about it.
It doesn’t help that every single thing at the market makes me think about sex. Ripe fruits, firm cucumbers, rich scents and luxurious textures. I want to smear the berries all over me. I want Lloyd to turn me into an Eton mess.
The urgent tug at my crotch continues when we get back to the flat and start chopping and preparing. My fingers stained with juice, the sharp blade slicing and dicing, Lloyd skinning the fish with such practised skill that I want to stop what I’m doing and just watch those hands at work. It’s a symphony of sensuality, and I want the crescendo. Except I can’t have it. My night can’t end with a bang or a whimper. Just a head of steam that might well burn me.
‘What’s for dessert?’ I ask, slicing the last potato for the dauphinoise.