NOT long now.
I check my Rolex again, the small in-built light illuminating the watch face. It's dark in the closet, the wooden slats of the door providing only a little natural light. The small stool is hard, my buttocks are numb and my back aches. I'm not claustrophobic, but I've had enough of this enclosed space, with all its cleaning implements, packing cases and a box of garish Christmas decorations. There's even a doll, with plaited woollen hair – one of hers, naturally – peeking out at me from the top of one of the packing cases. Not her favourite toy, but one with enough sentimental value to be kept, although packed away until there are more spacious quarters for it to adorn some shelf or wardrobe top. The doll's fabric smile leers at me, and I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable under its felt-eyed gaze. Despite my essential calmness and patience, I reach out, more for want of something to do than anything else and adjust the doll's position in the box so that it stares at the dark closet ceiling instead.
Not too long until we move to a new flat, or, better still a house. True, property prices are booming – 'rocketing' is the current parlance - but we should make a steal on this place. Who'd have thought a grotty East End tenement could one day be desirable property?
I stifle a yawn and peer through the slats again. She's late, that's for sure, but the traffic over to the East of the City can be pretty horrendous this time of day. It'll be okay once they finish that light railway link they're working on. I stand up in the cramped confines of the closet and stretch – got to keep the muscles toned for what's coming soon. If you play The Game you have to be fit.
She's fit, that's for sure. In the odd hours when she's not working, she's down the gym, toning, honing and making herself look even more attractive than she already is. In fact, in the past eighteen months that we've been together, since our memorable meeting, she's bloomed – physically, professionally and, crucially – sexually. The Game has been good for both of us, our natural affection and love for each other not stifled by the strictures of our amusement, but enhanced by it. It seems that the more we play out the fantasy, the stronger the 'real life' love becomes.
See, I'd failed to understand that part of The Game, even though I had a good teacher myself, many years before. It's not
just
about total dominance and submission between the two players. Sure, anyone can play at that, and there's plenty of women I've known who have played. The crucial, underlying trick, the very essence of the fun is that the players really abide by it. We both play hard – she plays hard to lose by resistance, thus enhancing her pleasure at the point of total submission a hundredfold. I play to win, the struggle to make her capitulate enhancing my own enjoyment. We grow with it. We become closer with it. The trick, as I may have mentioned before, is to play it with
style.
A metallic clicking sound draws my attention back to the matters at hand. A key in the front door lock –
her
key. She's home! I poise myself at the closet door, but keeping far enough back not to betray my presence by breathing too heavily or jogging the door open. Timing is crucial, all part of the approach. Style again, you see?
I adjust the ring modulator on my throat. Neat little device this, pretty high-tech. A small part-payment in lieu of owed cash by a grateful client. Apparently they use these in big Hollywood films. This guy – decent enough New Yorker – has some contacts in the movie world. Must be a pretty good judge of character if he thought I'd want to disguise my voice for any occasion. He's probably thinking in terms of business deals over the phone. I'm thinking in terms of seizure.
The front door opens onto the darkened hall, light from the landing illuminating the passageway. She's silhouetted against the light, the outline of her hair, her long coat, and briefcase in hand clearly visible. By her very posture – even though it's upright and business-like as she always is, betrays her fatigue at the end of a long day. I fancy it also betrays her sexual frustration, making her keyed-up, receptive to what I have planned. I never actually let on to her, of course, but my bouts of 'tiredness' due to overwork are all part of the preparation for the next game. I'm just as frustrated as she is, but I need that keen edge to perpetrate the whole thing. She needs the edge to fully appreciate it and to even resist it. Two weeks can be a bloody long time without making love or just plain old raw sex. Thing is, you have to suffer for your art if you want to play The Game.
She steps inside, putting her briefcase down and fumbles for the light switch. I hear her audible curse as she realises – or thinks anyway – that the hall light has blown. I've jut simply loosened the bulb. She shrugs her tan coat off and hangs it up, leaving the hall door open to illuminate the passageway. She adjusts her tight dark jacket, but leaves it on, so we'll have to do something about that quite quickly. As she turns to close the hall door, the landing light illuminates her face into pure alabaster, her hair, tied back in a neat arrangement, with little wisps down her cheeks almost golden, despite its natural reddish-brown hue. Her white open necked blouse stands out starkly, combining with the tight jacket to show her shapely breasts, her two slim gold necklaces glinting above her cleavage. She is every inch the efficient businesswoman, but she betrays enough of her natural sexuality to give her that commanding edge in negotiations with clients and in meetings with fellow employees. In fact, she can use this sexuality to intimidate and disarm both males and females alike, without losing sight of the fact that she has a sharp business mind and a real killer instinct for business. The other women are either bimbos or too male in their approach. They haven't learnt the strength of female vulnerability and the strength that it imbues. That's because they don't play, and they don't have her
style.
She slips off her heeled shoes, obviously grateful for the cool, soft relief of the wooden flooring. I smile to myself.
You want cool?
She picks up her briefcase – more work to check at home, no doubt, but not tonight, although she doesn't know that yet – and she pads down the hallway towards the living room. Timing, timing…. She passes the closet. I swiftly, but quietly swing the door open and pull it back… she's almost at the living room door now, free hand outstretched for the handle, not able to see because of the dark passageway and only a small sliver of light from under the door. She won't think I'm in there – I'm at a late meeting, or so she thinks. The light is simply the timer having switched one of the living room lights on to deter burglars.
I launch myself forward, moving lightly on my feet, but even so a floorboard squeaks in protest. She's quick – she hears me approaching, but she's not quick enough to prevent me grabbing her in an arm lock around her throat and yanking her free arm behind her and pinning it up her back. She tries to scream, but her breath is choked off, she drops the briefcase and tries to struggle ineffectually. The voice modulator does its nifty business – and even surprises me – as a guttural voice issues from my lips and growls into her ear: "
Don't move, bitch!"
