[Author's note: if you don't like to read about female domination, please skip to the next story, or check out my other books for something that's more to your taste.
This story begins in a counselling session with Quinn's therapist, Cassidy Hayes (
What We Say In The Dark
), who is trying to help him come to terms with how his wife Alena was able to do what she did to him]
---
LIVE LIKE A FALLING STAR
Cassie stood at the windows looking out over the city. Her last patient had been a chore. She felt uncharitable about that: a garden-variety borderline narcissist who was realising that everything wasn't just about him after all. His wife had pointed that out on her way out the door with the kids, and now, finally, he was examining his life. The echoes of her own situation were too close to the bone. She shook her shoulders, trying to get a reset, to dispel that dark corner of her own life, but dealing with other people's problems sometimes brought her back to her own.
She looked at her watch. He would be waiting for her in reception now. Cassie knew she was delaying, but she didn't know why. A favour for her friend; a window into a whole world of hurt. As her eyes followed the endless stream of cars in the late morning sunlight in the streets below her, Cassie began to feel a steady calmness descend. Quinn would be an almighty challenge; he was also part of the hidden other world that she had stepped into, like Alice through the looking glass. It was a world that she could tell no-one about, not even her best friend Billie, who she could tell everything to, and certainly not her husband. For better or for worse, Cassie was embarking on a secret second life in a world that could either be a nightmare or a wonderland. She had been allotted a role to play, and had been given a name by the enigmatic Madame Syn, the gatekeeper into that new world. She took a deep, steadying breath: time enough.
Cassie left the rented meeting space that she used for her patient consultations, a professional, welcoming space for them to feel at home and open up to her with their problems. She straightened her posture and approached the reception area. To one side of the desk, with his back to her, stood a gangly middle-aged man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He was tall and lean, dressed in a suit with his hands in his pockets. She walked up to him, and he turned.
His face was lined, like he hadn't slept, his eyes sunken, but when he looked at her, she was captivated by the soft, brown eyes.
"Glad you could come," Cassie said, smiling encouragingly, "Shall we?"
Quinn nodded curtly and then followed her back to the meeting space without a word. She led him through the door and closed it behind him, letting him get his bearings.
"Make yourself at home, Quinn," Cassie said.
"Thank you, Miss... uh... what should I call you?"
"In here, whatever you feel comfortable with. My name is Cassidy, though people also use Cassie, or Cass."
"Not, uh, Grace?"
"No. We're not doing that here. In this space, I'm your therapist and when we have a conversation, we're speaking to each other as equals. We leave all the rest of it at the door."
"Yes," Quinn nodded, "Yes. Of course."
He clasped his hands and looked down.
"I guess I'm just nervous."
"Quinn, that's perfectly fine. Just remember that I'm here to help you. We'll go as far as you want, it's your call. Okay?"
Quinn nodded then looked up.
"Okay."
He settled into a chair, placing his hands on his legs, making eye contact.
"Okay," he repeated, "Let's do this."
Cassie smiled encouragingly. "That's already a lot of progress, and we're only a couple of minutes in."
"I guess."
Cassie crossed her legs and began to make notes. "So, where do you want to begin?"
"At the start, I guess. Let's go back to the beginning."
"Take your time. That's a good place to start."
Quinn paused.
"No. That's wrong. Oh, I don't know. Maybe we should start at the end. Maybe you should see where we ended up. Maybe that would give you perspective."
"It's up to you," Cassie replied, smiling reassuringly, "Whatever you think makes most sense."
Quinn was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was slow and considered, as if he was opening his deposition in court, using his skills as a lawyer to navigate a difficult case, as if Cassie was the most important jury he had ever addressed.
"It comes down to this," he began. "A conversation I had with my wife at the start of what we did, that maybe lets you see how we got to where it ended. We were just finished dinner and I had finally worked up the guts to have the conversation. I asked her if she was happy with our life, about the way we were just keeping on keeping on. You know?"
Cassie nodded. "I do. It's not an unusual conversation when you've been married a while."
"Yes, exactly. But that night, she seemed more indifferent than usual to it, like she was happy to just drift. I'm afraid that two glasses of red wine at dinner made me a little more effusive than usual. I waxed lyrical."
"How so?"
"I told her that it wasn't enough for me. I berated her about it, which just made matters worse, but I had been thinking about it for a long time."
"How did she react?"
"She got defensive, then started to look hurt. We argued. Then eventually it all settled down and I just sat next to her on the couch, looking into her pretty face."
Quinn stopped himself there, hands working reflexively, clenching and unclenching.
"Oh, there it is again," he gasped, struggling, "Just remembering the way she looked. She was so pretty."
Cassie didn't interrupt. Seeing the tears pricking in his eyes at the memory of his dead wife stirred emotions deep within her and she found herself also struggling to maintain composure.
"I told her that she deserved more than this, she deserved a richer, fuller life," Quinn said, head drooping. "Not counting off the years. Not living between the lines. Not to live like tomorrow was just going to be a continuation of yesterday. As I said, I waxed lyrical."
He interlaced his fingers and drew himself upright. "I told her I wanted to try and grasp it all. I wanted to live like a falling star," he said.
---
I suppose I was pretty naïve. I'd read a lot online about communication and openness and I really thought I had researched it all properly. As it turned out, in the end none of that mattered. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy, as the saying goes.
I need to set this straight from the outset: the enemy here was not my wife, it was apathy, indifference. It was that feeling you get after you've been married a while and everything starts to tail off, as you settle into your rut and each new day starts to look a lot like the last. Looking back now, I can see how I was the one driving this and how my wife was just humouring me to begin with. Then something changed. Oh, maybe I'm not explaining this very well.
Have you ever heard of boiling the frog? If you ask someone the best way to boil a frog, the answer is usually to get a pot of boiling water and put the frog into it, which seems pretty simple. But, that doesn't work because the frog gets scalded and jumps out. The real way to boil a frog is to put it into a pot of cold water and then gradually turn the heat up. By the time the frog works out what's happening, it's already way too late to escape the process.
It's a good analogy. Alena was indulging me, humouring a stupid list I had drawn up that was supposed to spice up our marriage, playing along with me, then she turned up the heat little by little until all of a sudden, she was the one with all the control and I was just a puppet, dancing to her tune.
I suppose I need to show you what I mean, then you might understand. Not the frog in the cold water, but the frog fully cooked and served up on the plate. Let me tell you about one particular night in the Lost and Found.
---
We waited in line outside, myself in a thick woollen coat, and my wife in a trench coat and a pair of sexy high heels. She had spent ages on her hair, teasing it into rich auburn ringlets that framed her pretty face. She'd put on enough eye shadow to show her eyes off as the most perfect blue. Her lips were richly coloured in a dark red, and so achingly perfect. I was battling with myself not to try to kiss her right there and then. I knew I shouldn't, that I had to resist. She had promised me that tonight was going to be the night and I was preternaturally focussed on not screwing up, not giving her any excuse to extend my torment any longer.
"Quinn, how're you feeling?" she asked, "You seem a little tense."
Using my name to reassure me, she smiled sweetly.
"I'm just really looking forward to tonight," I replied.
"You can relax, you know."
"Can I? Really?"
"What do you think's going to happen?"
She smiled as she said it, looking up at me, quizzically.
"I don't know."
She frowned slightly. "You've been a good boy, haven't you?"
An icy chill gripped me. "Of course, very good," I shot back, a little too quickly.
"Then," she smiled again, warmly, "You've nothing to fear."
I studied her pretty face, trying to work out if she was being honest, or this was part of some elaborate trap that she would spring later, finding something to deny me the pleasure she had been promising me for weeks. Before I could form a response, the doorman beckoned us to enter the club.
