The Man's shoes squeaked against worn, waxy floorboards as he stepped into the church hall. A low hum of commotion greeted him, excited calls and dull chatter melting together as chairs and tables scraped at the floor. Sighing inwardly, the Man slipped down into the room.
He passed as quietly as he could between endless rows of tables, each one surrounded by unfamiliar elderly faces. He tried to avoid their collective gaze, his head bowed as he rushed towards a seat at the end of a row.
He didn't make it.
A hand snaked out from one of the chairs, barring his path. A set of dry, kindly eyes were beckoning him to a seat in the middle of the crowd. The old lady seemed insistent. She smiled - he couldn't resist,... and that's what he hated most.
The room was full to capacity and buzzing with excitement. The whole congregation had descended on the hall, each one of them bumbling along carrying platters of cold meats, quiche and salads. They muttered and mumbled cheerful greetings, sharing petty jealousies and bigotry with the same breath that gave praise every Sunday. But the Man knew they were good people - lifetimes of service and loss had made them so.
The smile he returned was false. Taking his seat, his shoulders dropped as Ten sets of eyes all turned immediately upon him.
"So, I hope you've got a good appetite!" "I hear Sandra has made a pie!" "Such a pity that your Wife couldn't make it".
The pleasantries hit him like a hail of bullets, each new greeting as mundane and unwelcome as the last. He smiled a reply to each, nodding when needed and chuckling in empty laughter. Hollow replies to hollow questions asked by kinder people than he.
The Man didn't belong here: he knew it to his core. But here he sat, sitting in for his sick wife who couldn't bear the thought of missing out on village gossip. He sighed again, his mind loosing focus on the room around him as part of his soul cringed and whimpered at the aching pleasantry of it all.
There was a buzzing against his hip and a sharp chime in his ear. His phone was lighting up in his pocket, a message instantly beaming to the tiny Bluetooth earpiece he always wore.
Glad of the sudden distraction, he retrieved the phone from his pocket, flipping the screen on to read the text that greeted him.
"Don't talk."
Two words shining back at him, just two. The man checked the caller ID: It was Her.
"Not N,..."
The phone buzzed before he could finish texting his reply.
"Just Listen, Master."
The Man's eyes opened wide as his mind registered disobedience. He shot a look around the room, checking that he wasn't attracting attention. His heartbeat raced, his mouth suddenly dry, in spite of himself. In the corner of the room, the vicar was standing and making her way to the stage. No one seemed to pay the Man any further attention.
He returned his gaze to his phone, trying to shield the screen beneath the overhanging tablecloth.
Again a vibration rippled from the phone, a constant melody now playing from his earpiece as the call came in. With a trembling hand the Man reached up to his ear and tapped the headset on.
"Master,..."
Her voice, low and sensual and dripping with sex, instantly fogged his mind.
"Don't speak. Just hear me."
He swallowed hard.
"You left me wanting, Master. You left me needing. And though you may whip me,..."
The Man growled: that was a certainty.
",.. I must have my release."
A spectacled old lady was trying to get his attention from across the table as trays of potatoes were passed between plates. He nodded numbly, utterly unaware of her request and dismissing it carelessly.
"Mmmmm, Master,..." The voice purred again, the man's eyes fluttering closed briefly as she spoke. How did she do that?
"My hand is on my cheek - can you feel it? Fingertips so light against my skin,... against my throat,... against the leather of the collar that you strapped around it."
Her gasp of pleasure made the Man jump a little in his seat, his eyes flicking open. Across the room, the lady Vicar had stopped to make a little small talk. For some reason, the Man couldn't keep his eyes off her as the voice on the phone purred and sighed. His gaze grew dark, a familiar menace rising in his blood.
"Trailing over my skin, making me shiver,... making me wet. Would you like to taste me, my Master? I know you would. I know you so well,..."
Beads of sweat itched on the Man's brow.
The slick sound he heard from his earpiece was met by her moan: a longing, aching, breathless cry, called into the air.
"Oh God Master! Oh, fuck!"
The spectacled lady opposite was gesturing to the man, asking for him to pass a plate across. He smiled to her, passing the plate while listening intently, his thumb caressing the phone as he slipped it back into his pocket, listening intently.
