I blushed. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Well, rather than spend a month trawling the internet for all the information that’s out there – most of it conflicting – why don’t you just go with the flow? Do you want me to take the lead?’
‘Well, yeah. I can’t. Besides, isn’t that the whole point?’
‘It’s the role I play. But you write the script, essentially. You make the cuts. Anything you don’t want in there is out. You’re the Lord Chamberlain and his censors.’
I laughed. ‘So I have ultimate power over your production?’
‘You could put it like that.’
‘So, with this, then – with us – can I just do what you say? And if I don’t like what you say …’
‘Say no? Sure. But sometimes saying no is part of the game. I feel that this is especially so with you, because sometimes it’s hard for you to admit what you want. So instead of saying no, you can use the safeword. Do you remember the safeword?’
‘Pax,’ I said.
‘Ten out of ten.’
I glowed.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You like getting the answers right. You like getting
full marks on your tests. I think I’ll have to work with that tendency … we could have some interesting scenes.’
I drank the dregs of my coffee.
‘Aren’t you going back to France?’
‘Not for six weeks.’
‘Six weeks. And you’re going to be here all that time?’
‘Yes. I’ve got things I can work on. I might have to go to the odd meeting or ceremony or …’ He sighed. ‘I owe myself a break. I’ve worked flat-out for the last three years. I need some quiet time to empty my head, make some space for new project ideas.’
‘A holiday.’
‘A retreat.’ He held up his hand, forbidding my further utterance. ‘Do you hear that?’ he whispered.
I couldn’t hear anything. Even the rain had stopped. I shook my head.
‘That’s what I mean. Silence. I never hear it. There’s always a ringing phone or traffic outside or cheering or oceans of flattery or …’ He sighed. ‘I forget how much I like silence.’
I took a breath, about to speak, but he cut over me.
‘So you aren’t speaking today,’ he said. ‘Not a word, until I say so. Well, except that one word. You’re allowed that. Do you understand? Nod for yes.’
I nodded, my face burning. I hoped this wasn’t a comment on my conversational skills. Did he find me inane? Tedious? Stupid? I tried to banish my insecurities, but he must have seen an element of them.
‘It won’t be easy for me either,’ he said. ‘I like talking to you. You have a fresh take on things. But just for today … silence. Now, go and shower.’
I presented myself for breakfast in the kitchen in my usual long skirt and top-and-scarf combo. He stopped me before I sat down and asked me to show him my underwear.
I almost asked why, but checked myself in time. Instead, I silently pulled up my top and then lifted my skirt, my pulse racing. Despite the soreness below, I felt ready to take more of him, tingling with the shameful joy of submission.
‘Too much,’ he said. ‘Go upstairs and take it off. You aren’t going to need underwear for the next six weeks. Unless I ask you to wear it. Go on, then.’ He waved the spatula at me. I could imagine that being quite a useful spanking implement.
When I came back down, he beckoned me over to the counter, where he was buttering toast. With his other hand, he felt my breasts through the thin cotton top, rubbing at my nipples until they stood out through the fabric, bullet-hard and unmistakable. When that was done to his satisfaction, he lifted my skirt and checked for the presence of knickers. Finding none, he rewarded me with a luscious, filthy, grope-filled snog.