Each man tried to outdo the other, sending her to his rival with a neater set of cane stripes, or a prettier cluster of needleprick bruises, or a sorer pair of nipples than the other.
Lucy became accustomed to the initial inspection when her lovers arrived at her flat. Almost before they were through the door they would order her to strip, or show them her bottom, and she would spend some time being thoroughly examined for signs of the Other.
Two Wednesdays beforehand, she had waited for Rob after work, dressed in the short wine-red skater dress she knew he liked, no knickers underneath, sheer stockings and suspenders her only concession to lingerie. As she always did before he called, she had laid out her collection of straps and paddles and the rest on the bed ready, but instead of sitting demurely on the sofa, she paced up and down, looking periodically out to the street for signs of him.
Sitting down wasn’t an option, because Richard had birched her three days earlier, and it hadn’t stopped stinging like buggery. Speaking of which, he’d been more than usually enthusiastic in his commandeering of her arse afterwards and she felt the rawness of it still.
Rob was going to have to take it easy tonight, and he wouldn’t be best pleased.
She watched him turn the corner of the street and cross towards her building, the collar of his tan leather jacket turned up against the blustering wind. He was long and lean and fine-featured where Richard was squarer, darker and more rugged, but she still couldn’t acknowledge a preference. Either one would do. Either or both.
Besides, she was tired of comparing and contrasting. Rob more sensitive, Richard playing the brute with such effective menace. Rob funnier, Richard cleverer. Rob younger and more open-minded, Richard with his wealth of experience.
Rob rang the bell and she buzzed him up, then headed for the fridge and the bottle of chablis, readying it on the coffee table with the big fishbowl glasses.
That was another one – Rob white, Richard red. Like the chess pieces in Through The Looking Glass. The red king and the white king. And she was Alice. It certainly felt as if everything was topsy-turvy back-to-front often enough in her life.
Rob called her from the hallway and she went to greet him, putting her arms about his neck and pressing herself against the deliciously cold leather of his jacket for a taste of his deliciously warm lips.
‘Mmm,’ he said, patting her bottom. She tried not to wince or clench. ‘My favourite dress.’
He was barely through the door, still wearing his coat, but it didn’t stop him from sliding a hand beneath the flippy skirt and seeking Lucy’s grazed cheeks.
He felt the birch marks straight away, his stroking fingers chafing her skin.
‘What’s he done now?’ he exclaimed, stepping back. ‘Turn around, lift up your skirt. How the hell did he do that? What was it, some kind of whip?’
Lucy, facing away from her interlocuter, patiently held her skirt up for him to get the best view of her welted bottom.
‘Birch,’ she said.
‘Birch? This is the middle of London. Where did he find a fucking birch rod?’
‘We drove out to the countryside, Sunday afternoon.’
‘So now he’s taking you out and about?’ Rob huffed. ‘I’m going to have to up my game. He’s taking the piss now.’
‘Rob, calm down. Come and have a glass of wine. How was your day? How have you been this week?’
His face was still pale and his eyes overcast when he took his place on the sofa for their traditional inhibition-loosener.
‘I’m good, thanks, fine. I missed you. I wish you’d come out with me, to the movies or something. Have you seen the Jam
es Bond? We could go this weekend.’
‘Maybe.’
She smiled, too brightly. Things were getting out of hand. She poured the glasses of wine, hovering over the coffee table.
‘Maybe, maybe.’ He raised the glass to his lips and took a gulp, then shrugged off his jacket and dumped it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Sit down.’
His voice had lost the grumpy, whiny edge. He was in role, quicker than a fingerclick.
‘It hurts,’ she said apologetically.
‘Sit. Down. And then you can tell me exactly what Richard did to you.’
Lucy had to plump up a cushion and place herself slowly and gingerly atop it. Work had been hell these last three days. She was a PE teacher, so at least she didn’t have to do much sitting, but the running up and down the hockey pitch, even in her loosest tracksuit trousers, had still been a mite uncomfortable.