Under My Thumb

Chapter One Was it the car or the way she drove it? Either way, it was a statement, an assertion of what she was. He didn’t really care about cars but he knew it was something European; bright green, the color of the leaves in early spring, low slung, with an open top; she said she liked the feel of the wind in her hair. He sat beside her in the passenger seat, seeing how her short white skirt rode up over her finely contoured knees, watching her strong knuckles gripping the stick shift. She drove with rapt concentration, her body at one with the machine. Conversation was impossible above the engine’s throaty roar. She parked on the gravel outside his house, the car skidding a little before it came to a halt. She opened the door and got out, showing him even more of her bronzed thighs. Her heels clicked on the stone steps as she walked up to the door. He followed, watching the firm round buttocks tighten and relax as she strode forward. She went ahead to his studio, opening the door and sauntering in, looking about her the way she did, her head tilted back. “Can I see it?” “I’m not sure,” he said. “You know how I feel about work in progress.” “Please?” He was still surprised how she could do this, turn from a young woman confident in her authority, her money, her aura, to a little girl, coaxing, wheedling; as if she could flick a switch in her mind. She didn’t seem to see how disconcerting it was. “Please, Matt?” She sidled up to him, offering her mouth to be kissed. He brushed her lips lightly, then turned away. She tried again, putting an arm round his neck, her legs parted, leaning in to him, offering herself. “OK,” he said. “But I don’t want any comments, good or bad. Do you hear?” “Yes, Sir,” she said in mock submission. He pulled the cloth off the picture. Across the canvas was a splash of color, browns, purples, blacks, a touch of red. It was unmistakably the body of a naked woman, but the face was still indeterminate. She looked at it for several minutes, from this side and that. He stood with his back to her, gazing out of the window towards the trees. “Who is she?” she asked. “No one you know. Just a model.” “Is she beautiful?” “She’s a good subject,” he said in a tone of voice intended to discourage further questions. “Have you had s*x with her?” He turned, prepared to be angry. She was giving him her little girl smile. He knew it was just a wind-up. He mustn’t fall for it. “Do I ask you such questions?” “No,” she said, “but you might.” Did she mean, he could ask her if she wished, or that it was possible he would ask her in the future? “I choose not to,” he replied. “You’re a free woman, remember?” It was what she’d said to him when they first met. Introduced at a gallery opening, they’d talked for an hour, then she’d asked him to drive her home. At her invitation he went up to her apartment for a night-cap. He thought she was making it pretty clear she was willing to go to bed, and so first he’d asked her, in his old-fashioned way, if she was seeing anyone. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’m a free woman.” She’d surprised him in bed with her uncomplicated eagerness, her frank enjoyment of pleasure, and her willingness to give it. When she sucked his c**k, it was as if she really wanted to, was feeding on it, drawing pleasure out of him. Later, when he was big again and had entered her, she called out in the dark for him to do it hard, do it harder. Two days later they went out to dinner. Ever the gentleman, he suggested she choose the restaurant. It was expensive; not that it wasn’t value for money, but he would never have gone there on his own initiative. It was then he started to realize how wealthy she was. She told him about her business, how she’d seen an opening in the market, a financial service no one else was providing. He didn’t really understand it; didn’t want to. Money meant little to him. He got by, never better than that. He didn’t mind. But he saw how the money gave her confidence. He saw how she spoke to the waiter; not rude, even quite friendly, but always in control. He wasn’t used to women like that. Mostly his girlfriends had been models, other painters, and the occasional student. All indigent, more or less, and mostly, if not exactly in awe of his talent, deferential. They expected him to take a lead: socially, emotionally, and sexually. And he dealt with that the way he’d been taught to. He remembered his father’s treatment of his mother. The little gestures, always opening the door, enquiring after her well-being, never a cross word. And his mother telling him once, I live for your father; my only goal is to please him. She was still looking at the picture. “Would you ever paint me?” He pretended to size her up with a professional eye. “Well, I don’t know. I have very exacting standards for my models. Physical standards.” “Oh really? You think I might not measure up?” It excited him the way she played these games, leading him on, teasing; even if he wasn’t always sure how to respond. “I think there may be one or two imperfections.” “Oh,” she said. She started to undo her blouse. “Perhaps you could show me what they are?” He watched as she took her blouse off. She stood for a moment, then reached behind and unhooked her bra. She laid it on a chair with the blouse. “Does this measure up?” She turned so that he could see her breasts in profile, then turned back to face him. Her breasts were not large, but they had a lovely shape. The n*****s were small and round and he could see them hardening. He shrugged. “Acceptable, I guess.” Holding his gaze, she undid a button on the waist of her skirt, slid down the zipper and let the skirt fall to the ground. “Legs?” She stepped out of her shoes and walked around the room. The legs were good, no question, and she knew it. Long, lean thighs, shapely calves. And pretty feet, he thought, she’s got pretty feet. “Legs are OK,” he conceded. She stopped and turned her back to him. She pulled down the little pair of white satin knickers. “And this?” she enquired. He stared at her bottom. It was a real woman’s bottom, not the scrawny, boyish ass of a model girl but rounded and ripe. Not plump, just swelling beautifully outwards from the hips. “Not bad,” he said. ‘Not bad at all.” She turned to face him. He saw the delicate curve of her belly from her navel to her mons, the dark triangle of hair clipped short. She sat down on the couch, drawing one leg up, the knee bent, her arm resting on top. “So what are the imperfections?” He thought hard. There must be some. “Bikini marks, top and bottom.” She glanced down at herself, examining the patches of lighter skin on her breasts, on the lower part of her belly. “I’ll sunbathe nude if you like.” He picked up his sketchbook and a pencil. She caught his eye, then moved her knee to one side, showing herself to him, daring him to look between her legs. He started to draw but the hardness of his c**k distracted him. He knew he ought to exercise control, show her that she couldn’t just have him whenever she wanted. “I think a different pose,” he said. He went across and showed her what he wanted, on her knees, her head resting on her hands, bottom raised, and one knee slightly in front of the other. He sketched away for a few minutes, but it was hopeless. In the gap between her thighs he could just see the pink lips of her s*x. She kept them shaved. He’d never seen a woman like that before. It aroused him. He put down his sketchbook and stood behind her. He reached down and stroked her bottom, pressing his thumb into the adorable little dimples at the top of the buttocks. He slid his hand between her legs, feeling how wet she was already. It was the work of a moment to undo himself and enter her. He tried to hold it back, make it last longer for her, but it was like red hot magma swelling up from the bowels of the earth, an unstoppable molten flood erupting into her. He lay against her, his hand around her belly. “You like it like that, don’t you?” she asked. “From behind? I wonder why.” “You have such a lovely ass.” “Once,” she said, “I had a boyfriend who liked it that way. When he was f*****g me he’d spank my bottom. Quite hard.” When Matt was eight years old, his father had seen him hit his little sister, and had taken him outside and delivered a stern, terrifying lecture. You never, ever hit a woman, he said. Do you hear me? Men who do that are dirt. Do you hear? “Why did you let him do that?” Matt said. She turned round to face him, holding his face and looking into his eyes. “Sometimes I do things I’m not supposed to,” she said. The next day he went to meet her at her company’s place. They were going to another gallery opening. He waited in the reception area, watching her through the glass wall as she strode about her office. She wore a business suit, jacket tightly buttoned, skirt narrow, shorter than he would have thought proper. She was issuing instructions to a young man who sat with a notepad on his knee. His attitude was attentive, respectful. At last she finished and opened the door. The young man followed her out. “And next time don’t anticipate,” she said curtly. “Wait for instructions.” “Yes, Miss Lawrence,” he said and walked away up the corridor. “Who was that?” Matt asked, smiling. “That? It’s Brian, my secretary.” “Your secretary is a man?” “You find that strange?” Matt shrugged. “Unusual, maybe.” “I haven’t got him properly trained yet.” “You’d better not try that on me,” he said. She looked to see if he was joking. “Or else what?” He didn’t answer. She drove them to the gallery. He glanced down at her legs as she worked the clutch. Desire twitched in his groin. It was a long time since he’d wanted a woman so badly. But there was so much about her that puzzled him, not least the contrast between the grown-up, assertive woman and the mischievous little girl who came out to play when they were alone. He wasn’t at all sure what she saw in him, a man possessed only of what a previous lover had called ‘crumpled charm’, no longer young, hardly successful. What did she really want from him? He hadn’t figured that out yet. But he was the man; wasn’t he supposed to know? She strode into the throng at the gallery, greeting acquaintances, snatching a glass of wine from a waiter. “Elizabeth!” cried a handsome young man, kissing her on the cheek. In no time she was surrounded by people, men mostly. Matt watched as they eyed her up and down. It felt good to know that she was his; if she was. He got distracted by a couple of old friends. When at last they moved away, he saw Elizabeth leaning against a wall. The handsome young man stood in front of her, talking earnestly. As Matt watched she smiled at the man, a dazzling smile. She reached up her hand and patted him on the cheek. Then she laughed out loud. On the drive to her apartment he was silent. Once inside, she brought him a drink. “Pensive?” she asked. “Who was that man?” “Which man?” “At the party. The good-looking one.” “Oh, Ben.” She giggled. “Is he your lover?” She giggled again. “He’d like to be. Once when I was a little drunk I told him I had a taste for bondage. Now every time he sees me he offers to tie me up.” “And do you?” “Do I what?” “Have a taste for it?” Matt felt the burden of his inhibitions. He wished he were younger, less set in his ways. He knew there were people who did things; strange things, wild things, shocking things. But he couldn’t imagine how it worked. How did you get started? ‘Excuse me, do you mind if I tie you up?’ It all seemed a little ridiculous. “Well, do you?” he persisted. She’d stopped giggling. “I like you very much, Matt. I think you could be very good for me. But you seem a really straightforward sort of man. I don’t want to spoil it.”