Mr Blackwell: Teacher Student Romance (6 page)

23

It was probably a bedroom once. There’s an amazing view over the swimming pool and grounds, and a faded patch on the carpet where a double bed must have been.

But now the room is something else entirely.

I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in films, not on TV … and definitely never in real life.

I can’t take it in. I’m turned on and terrified all at once.

I don’t even know what half of this stuff is for. But from the brutal look of it … I can guess.

The bed, if you can call it a bed, is metal – with chains strung across. Leather straps hang from the wall. And manacles.

I close my eyes and feel the rush of blood. I can’t stop it.

This is who I am.

Christ, I hate myself. I fucking hate myself.

Jessica begins to undress. Her rolled-up jeans and white-striped t-shirt – typical Hollywood casual – fall lightly to the ground.

Her underwear is simple.

White. Sporty.

She sits on the edge of the metal bed and grins at me, looking for all the world like she could be modelling some family brand of laundry powder.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be this person. But I know I won’t leave. I can’t. It’s as simple as that.

I’m strapped to a rollercoaster going up, up, up towards the sky. Soon I will come plummeting to the ground.

Cassandra puts a hand to my chest, smiling at my beating heart.

‘Ready to have some fun?’

‘I’m not ready for any of this. Not in any way, shape or form.’

I feel dizzy. The world is caving in on me and I don’t know up from down. The only thing I know for certain is that I want to fuck someone in this room.

Cassandra gives a low laugh, her eyes dropping to my waist. ‘Oh, I think you are.’

‘Cassandra—’

‘Trust us, Marc. Let us show you.’

My heart thumps harder in my chest. ‘Do your parents know about this room?’ I ask Jessica.

She laughs. ‘Of course. It’s
their
room.’

‘Your parents—’

‘Oh they don’t know
I
use it. I have to be totally careful that everything goes back where it came from. That’s why I went upstairs. I needed to take Polaroids so I can match everything up when we finish.’

Oh Jesus Christ. If I thought things were fucked up a minute ago …

Jessica takes down a leather whip and strokes it between her fingers. ‘This room is locked usually. But I know where they hide the key.’

‘So your parents—’

‘Kinky as hell.’

‘Does your mother …’

‘She was the one who had the room built.’

‘They lock the door …’

‘To keep the cleaner from seeing. But they don’t mind me knowing. My mother told me all about it. We’re a very open family.’

‘But
you
don’t tell them you use their room.’

‘Well that would just be weird.’

I laugh. ‘Wouldn’t it just?’

A thought occurs.

Jerry Goldberg. An upstanding citizen who runs billion-dollar businesses and is known for his charity work. He’s not an alcoholic or a drug addict. Nor is his wife.

Maybe everyone likes this kind of sex. But no one talks about it.

I haven’t met a girl so far who hasn’t liked me taking charge. But then, like Cassandra says, maybe I’m getting to know the types.

‘Can you manage two of us, do you think?’ says Cassandra. ‘I wouldn’t usually try this. With someone as young as you. But you’re something special.’

Christ.

What have I got myself into?

24

Oh Sophia, Sophia.

Sex with you … it has never felt unclean. Even when you submit to me. When you let me dominate you.

We fit together. We belong together.

It is pure and beautiful.

God, I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

I can’t believe I was ever afraid of loving you.

You awakened me to it all – these real feelings. You were never some glassy-eyed girl, staring at a movie star, a fantasy man. It’s me you love. The real me.

When I first saw you playing Lady Macbeth and making that speech about light and dark … I was terrified.

My feelings were so powerful they frightened me.

I didn’t recognise love when it was right in front of me. So I ran …

25

Jessica lays on the metal bed. It must be cold on her bare skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead she watches me, her breathing getting faster.

Cassandra is behind me, but she’s not talking.

My stomach turns over and over.

I feel my legs walk me forward.

I look down at Jessica, white underwear, perfect tanned body, and wonder how many times she’s done this before.

How did she find out she liked being dominated? Did she talk about it with her mother?

‘Take your bra off,’ I tell her.

‘Yes master.’

‘Master?’

‘Oh yes,’ says Jessica. ‘You’re my master right now. That’s our game. You’re the master and I’m your slave. And guess what? I’ve been disobedient. So you’ll have to punish me.’

Blood pulses at the word ‘punish’.

God, I hate myself. Completely hate myself. But I can’t shake free of these urges. I just can’t. And right now, when I’m with a semi-naked woman in a room full of whips and chains … let’s just say it’s not the time to practise abstinence.

I go to the wall and take down a flogger – a bound leather handle with long leather laces hanging from it. The laces are thick and knotted. I suppose to increase the pain.

On the metal bed, Jessica smiles and shivers.

‘Are you sure you want this?’ I say, fingering the strands of the flogger.

‘Oh yes.’

I throw the flogger over her thighs – whack!

Jessica lets out a moan of pleasure and writhes on the bed.

I hate this. I hate that Jessica likes it. And most of all, I hate that – despite every sense in my brain telling me this is wrong – my cock is standing to attention.

Jessica’s moan is still ringing through my body. It’s doing things to me.

I hit her again. And again.

Red marks appear on her lovely suntanned skin.

I put my hand to the red, feeling the heat of it.

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ I ask.

‘This is what she likes,’ Cassandra says. ‘What we both like.’

‘Do all women like it?’ I ask, remembering the woman in the shower. And the others …

Cassandra shrugs. ‘You’d have to ask them.’ She perches on a black chair and runs her hands up and down her thighs. Her tight, black dress is plain, but elegant. Expensive. It goes nearly to the knee, and under it she wears seamed stockings and bright red high heels.

Very slowly, she moves her thighs apart.

‘I love this room,’ she tells me. ‘I think you’re going to love it too.’

26

I spent the whole summer with Jessica and Cassandra, but I barely saw the sun.

It was one hot, sticky mess of confusion, arousal and self-hatred, over and over again.

I hated myself. Honest to god, hated myself. But at the same time, the stuff in that room did it for me like nothing else.

I’d never felt so alive. So awake.

All the torture equipment lying around, Jessica begging me to strangle her as I fucked her, Cassandra asking me to hold a knife to her … anything could happen.

I could hold it together while I was whipping them or tying them up. But when I came I was afraid.

Rough sex and light domination – those were the sorts of things you could do to a normal woman, if she was in the mood. But Cassandra and Jessica took me to darker places. I did things with them that were depraved. Wrong. And they loved it.

I was in demand that summer. My film with Baz had just hit the big screens and I was touted as the next big thing. Maybe even James Bond one day.

I was invited to all the parties, all the restaurant openings … LA loved me. It was unbelievable. The kid from the broken home was suddenly a star.

I’d never had any trouble getting a woman into bed, but now they were throwing themselves at me. Screaming my name, telling me they loved me.

If only they knew what I really was.

I became adept at spotting the sort of woman who enjoyed being seriously dominated.

Sometimes I toyed with a normal sort of girl. Tied her hands. Spanked her. She’d giggle and moan, but if I suggested chaining her to the bed she’d run a mile. So I usually stuck to the true submissives – the girls who loved being taken charge of in every way.

After that summer, I flew to Paris to shoot
Neuf
.

It was a relief to leave LA and the room at Jessica’s house.

When I left, I didn’t miss either of those girls and had no desire to go back.

I didn’t sleep with anyone in Paris. Had no interest in women whatsoever for a while. I threw myself into the movie, and for once the newspapers talked about my acting, rather than my good looks and rumoured girlfriends.

But before long, I was back in LA again. And what can I say – you can take the man out of the fucked up, but you can’t take the fucked up out of the man.

They say like attracts like.

I tried to stay away from my old ways. But they found me. All the fucked-up girls who liked it like I did. And as controlled as I was, my body needed the release. It was like a drug to me. Being in charge. Seeing a woman soften beneath me.

If they hadn’t have liked it, it would have been easy. But they begged me to take charge of them. Over and over again.

Christ.

I couldn’t stop.

To everyone else, I was someone to be envied.

Handsome. Young. Talented. Rich. Winning awards left, right and centre. Women throwing themselves at me. Going to all the A-list parties, the clubs … and money, money, money. Free meals, free drinks, free drugs if I wanted them. And millions paid for every movie.

Nobody knew the hell I was going through. The endless struggle inside.

Baz was back in the UK at that time, trying to make his marriage work, while serially cheating on his wife. If he’d have been around, I might have been calmer. More restrained. But he wasn’t and I wasn’t.

I found friends who were similarly messed up. Violent childhoods, drug addictions, jail time … we all found each other.

Those years were a blur or women, shame, regret, women, shame, regret.

I can hardly remember any of it.

Blonde, brunette. Blonde, brunette, redhead. Round and round they went. I barely knew their names, let alone noticed their hair colour …

27

There’s a girl at the door of my Bel-Air mansion.

It’s 3am and she’s buzzing the intercom.

I can see her on my security camera – a tall girl with brown hair and red lips stumbling around at the gates.

Her name is Sigourney.

I believe she’s a model, although she could be an actress. I’m not sure. She’s British. And a car crash.

I guess you could say we’re kindred spirits. Two fucked-up angry British people in LA.

Christ.

This is my life right now.

I get cold-called at three in the morning by beautiful women.

Sigourney’s part of the Pump House crowd, and she’s been flirting with me for months. The Pump House is where rich people with bad habits hang out. And Sigourney certainly has bad habits.

I’ve seen her around many times, but never sober.

The intercom crackles. ‘It’s Sigourney.’

‘I know who you are. What do you want?’

As if I don’t know.

The intercom crackles again. ‘You weren’t at the club tonight.’ Her voice is soft and drunk. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

Of course I’m going to let her in. I’m not about to leave a woman alone on my doorstep.

I hit the door release.

Five minutes later, I hear Sigourney staggering around my marble lobby in high heels. Eventually, she finds her way upstairs to my room.

Sigourney is as drunk as ever, makeup halfway down her face.

I think she’s upset. She’s clearly looking for a distraction. Which I am happy to give her.

I get out the handcuffs and chain her to the bed. It’s all so usual now. Almost routine.

I skip the prolonged teasing because I judge her drunk enough to fall asleep at any minute.

When I finally work her up enough to fuck her, she’s nearly asleep, even while she’s coming. It feels wrong. Horrible. I can’t keep going, so I pull out.

And suddenly, I learn a magic truth.

I can give pleasure. And then I can stop.

I can
stop
!

I almost laugh out loud – it’s like paradise has just opened up before me.

I unchain Sigourney and leave her on the bed.

I head to the guestroom, but I can’t sleep. I lay awake, awash with power and possibilities.

What if I
don’t
come? All those feelings of terror. Fearing that I will hurt a girl. That I will totally lose control. Gone. And yet I still have that
rush
. That rush of being in charge.

This is a revelation.