Sparks

Chapter 7

Seven

When I returned to my apartment that evening, my body was singing with unspent energy. James' effect on me was so bad, I wanted to hump my coffee table, and that was saying something. Practically running to the kettle, I shoved it under the tap and smacked the switch down. Camomile tea. It was supposed to be calming and soothing, and it was the closest I'd get to what I really wanted, which was copious amounts of alcohol. Unfortunately, years of training had taught me that in high stress situations, you needed to have all your wits about you, and alcohol, or indeed its aftereffects, weren't going to help me get through my little situation tomorrow.

No, but several orgasms might. I literally watched the kettle boil while I jumped frantically up and down. My clit was throbbing in earnest, and all I wanted to do was give it some much-needed attention, but I had to get my cup of post-climatic tea first. There was no way I was getting out of my bed once I'd settled down under my duvet, so when the sound of boiling water could finally be heard, my eyes lit up with avid delight.

Clutching my tea tightly, I practically ran to my bedroom. This was not a particularly smart move whilst carrying a hot drink, but somehow I made it there unscathed. Settling my mug down on a coaster, I then tore through my underwear drawer, knowing that a vibrator or two would be nestled somewhere in amongst the panties and bras. Sure enough, when most of the floor was covered in a carpet of black and white lace, a rabbit vibrator came into view. Hallelujah! Fighting through the sea of crepe de chine that covered me, I finally got free of the thing, and it was also unceremoniously dumped on the floor. I had no time for niceties, and I couldn't even be bothered to take off my underwear. Instead, I took a flying leap upon the bed and switched my rabbit to its highest setting. Using my left hand to scrape my panties aside, I rammed it against my clit in a feverish haste. I came within thirty seconds. It took a further three orgasms before my body felt exhausted enough to sleep. The ferocity of my climaxes had taken me by surprise, because my libido had been entirely absent for the past nine months or so. It appeared that James had awakened it, and instead of coming to slowly, it was demanding that the time lost be made up immediately and in triplicate. I almost felt sorry for my tormentor.

****

The next morning, after a solid ten hours of sleep, I felt a burst of anxiety at the afternoon ahead. It was more a fear of the unknown than anything else, but I was always a firm believer in the adage "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I could handle anything that James dished out for me on the pain front, of that I was certain, but there were other aspects that frightened me.

The stripping naked thing for starters, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Following orders, having someone I didn't know play about with my most intimate parts, and trying not to scream the place down if I saw him come at me with a needle were all high up on my list. The humiliation aspect also didn't sit well with me, and if he expected me to masturbate in front of him, we were going to enter stalemate territory, but he'd find that out soon enough.

Everything that happened that morning was mechanical, but I had long been used to robot mode. The toaster beeped, and I added butter and marmalade to the bread. A glass of orange juice followed, although I had no real desire to eat or drink. A sixth sense told me that my session with James would be very demanding, and that even if I didn't feel like eating, it was important to get as many calories as possible into me before this afternoon. I'd never forgive myself if I fainted. A cup of coffee and a bath followed, allowing me time to primp and preen to the best of my ability. Nikki, my beauty therapist, had given me a bikini wax a couple of days ago, but I was diligent in my search and eradication of any other strands of body hair that dared to show themselves. Soap, shampoo, water, and moisturiser followed. I was going to smell like a goddamned florist's shop, but at least I wouldn't be covered in thick waves of nauseating, expensive scent. I wasn't allowed to wear it for my job, so I refrained from buying it. I'd probably saved myself a fortune over the years.

Taking a ridiculously long time over-styling my brunette locks, I tamed them into sleek, long lines with the help of my GHD straighteners. Deciding my makeup needed just as much attention to detail, I got out all manner of pots and brushes, and applied it like a pro. I went for the temptress look. It took an age to get it right, but when I was finished, my eyes looked huge surrounded in black kohl, my skin looked flawless, and my lips had more red on them than one of London's traditional double-decker buses. Deciding there was no point spending much time on my wardrobe choice, considering it would spend most of the session lying on the floor, I settled for a pair of jeans and a soft, black cashmere sweater. The colour matched my mood.

Having achieved all of that, I then stomped around my apartment aimlessly for a few minutes. Now what the hell was I supposed to do? I had three hours before I needed to leave, and that was a long time when your nerves were doing an internal combustion thing. My skin felt fevered, and I knew my cheeks were flushed. Thank God the makeup would hide that, although I didn't know why I was so worried. He knew I was attracted to him. He saw far too much. After a couple of hours of climaxing, wriggling, struggling, not to mention sweat and tears, he'd see everything - every little thing.

My thoughts were a tangled mess of confusion and anxiety. One moment I wanted to ring up and cancel, and in the next I wanted to storm into his office and demand he see me now. I just wanted to get it over with. After our chat last night, I suspected there was a good chance that I might actually enjoy it, and that worried me even more. If I had an incredible orgasm in the midst of James Leverett's science project, what did that say about me?

For the first time in my life, I wondered if I was about to have a panic attack, and then laughed at myself for being so stupid. Anyone who achieved the nickname of "Ice Queen" at work was unlikely to succumb to hyperventilation at the thought of a little bondage. If I could kill people in cold blood and not give a flying fuck, I would breeze through a short session of ropes and cuffs. Besides, I had no choice. If I wanted to get through my psychological assessment and be handed my next assignment, there was no other alternative. I needed a distraction, and preferably one that would dispel my feelings of anxiety. I knew just the thing.

Tying my hair back in a ponytail, I stripped off my clothes and put a neon purple tank top and a matching pair of running tights on. All of my hours of hard work would be for nothing, but I didn't much care. Strapping my iPhone to the waistband of my leggings and donning a pair of bright pink trainers, it wasn't long before I shot out the front door, and I didn't look back.

As my feet thundered along the paved streets of London, a blissful feeling of calm returned. Running was cathartic for me. It chewed up and spat out stress faster than any drug I knew, and my mind seemed to work better as my blood began to pump double-time around my body. It's therapy. If I was out for an hour-long run, I got time to think or daydream about whatever I wanted. The hunk off the TV, how the thriller I'm reading might end, or how I'll deal with the next assignment that is always winging its way to me. I guess it's helpful, because I always feel great when I've eaten up a few miles and got a good sweat going on.

Today was no different. I felt better as soon as my feet stepped outside the front door, but organising my thoughts proved difficult. They always came back to James, and I wanted to stay away from that particular topic, seeing as he was the cause of my angst at the moment. Trying to concentrate on admiring the countryside, I turned my attention to people watching. The people of London were endlessly fascinating. Tall, short, fat, thin, gay, straight, punk, fetish, elderly, young... there was always someone interesting to watch. Today proved no exception. I hadn't run more than half a mile before an adult male appeared walking around Victoria Park in a Spiderman onesie, sporting a pair of bright red Doc Martins. He had a copy of the Daily Mail in one hand and a can of Diet Coke in the other. I waved and smiled at him on my way past, and he waved back, surprisingly enough. Most people in London do not smile or wave. I have learnt this over the years. Everyone is far too busy for that kind of thing. Before my hour was up, I added a woman walking around in a pair of leather panties and thigh-high boots and a Santa Claus. Considering it was April, he was exceptionally early for his shift, I thought.

When I got back to my apartment, I almost felt like my old self again. It wouldn't last, but for the moment, my blood was singing around my body and I felt refreshed and alive. I was ready to face the world - after I'd had a shower.

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