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Authors: Vina Jackson
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down the centre standing directly in front of me. I heard the sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper being pulled down.
In my dream, I desperately wanted to feel the man’s cock, but he stood just out of reach. I twisted my arms in their sockets and wriggled my hands, trying to free myself but it was no good. My mouth hung open slightly as I longed to feel the penis breach my lips, caress my tongue and hit the back of my throat. My lips were dry and I moistened them with my tongue. I tried to stand, but realised that my feet were shackled as well.
‘Do you want something?’ said a voice in a mocking tone.
It was Dominik.
I woke with a start. My lips still felt dry, and my hands shook as I picked up the glass of water on my night table and took a mouthful, spilling liquid down the front of my singlet as I did so. I normally slept nude, but not with my sister in the room. She was lying on her back with her mouth half open, snoring softly, her face and hair streaked with bits of white powder, so she still looked a bit like a corpse.
Neither Fran nor Chris mentioned our night out again. This fact rankled with me. Attending a fetish club for the first time had been such a big deal in my life, like a landmark that separated the person I was before from the person I had become. That other people saw it as just a night out left me vaguely irritated. If the part of my life that I thought of as my ‘dark secret’ had become mainstream, then what did I have left?
Without my gigs to keep me busy or the often frantic social life that I had maintained in New York in classical music circles, I was at a bit of a loose end. Fran, who had always been incapable of sitting still for more than a few minutes, had begun looking for a job in London almost the moment she landed, and had taken on some casual bartending work, so she was out most evenings and slept during the day. Chris spent most of the week rehearsing with his band.
‘Why don’t you come down?’ he suggested. ‘Watch us play. The guys have been asking about you.’
He gave me an address for a studio off Holloway Road. The place was sleek, manned by a security guard and a complex alarm system, and full of hi-tech equipment. The last time I’d seen the place that Groucho Nights were renting, it was a mouldy basement with a padlocked door in an ominous-looking alleyway near Camden Lock barely big enough to swing a cat, never mind fit a band inside. I knew that Chris’s uncle had lent the band a bit of cash to help them get on their feet, but I didn’t realise that it was enough to afford a place like this.
‘Wow,’ I said when I arrived, ‘you guys have gone all out, just for me.’
I walked over to Ted and gave him a kiss on his cheek, ruffling my hand through his hair.
He batted me away playfully. ‘Don’t touch the hair.’
‘Seriously, do you always dress like this for rehearsals?’ I asked.
Ted, who played guitar and sometimes the harmonica or kazoo, was from Boston. He and Chris were cousins, and looked so alike they could have been brothers. They were about the same height, with brown eyes and thick, curly brown hair. Ted had started growing his out and frizzing it up so that it was almost an Afro, and he was kitted out in tight red drainpipe jeans and a black waistcoat. Chris was made up to match him with the same outfit but in reverse, red waistcoat and black drainpipe jeans.
Ella, on drums, had dyed her once-blond poker-straight hair fire-engine red, the colour of a postbox, but she was otherwise unchanged. She was originally from Hull, and the only English member of the group. Ella was long-limbed with a boyish figure and muscled arms. When I’d last seen her, she had a half-finished jellyfish tattoo on her chest which had since been filled in with bright shades of pink and blue, tentacles snaking down like map lines under the neck of her singlet that made it hard not to stare at her chest. She dressed like a trucker, in men’s jeans and shirts, a look
In my dream, I desperately wanted to feel the man’s cock, but he stood just out of reach. I twisted my arms in their sockets and wriggled my hands, trying to free myself but it was no good. My mouth hung open slightly as I longed to feel the penis breach my lips, caress my tongue and hit the back of my throat. My lips were dry and I moistened them with my tongue. I tried to stand, but realised that my feet were shackled as well.
‘Do you want something?’ said a voice in a mocking tone.
It was Dominik.
I woke with a start. My lips still felt dry, and my hands shook as I picked up the glass of water on my night table and took a mouthful, spilling liquid down the front of my singlet as I did so. I normally slept nude, but not with my sister in the room. She was lying on her back with her mouth half open, snoring softly, her face and hair streaked with bits of white powder, so she still looked a bit like a corpse.
Neither Fran nor Chris mentioned our night out again. This fact rankled with me. Attending a fetish club for the first time had been such a big deal in my life, like a landmark that separated the person I was before from the person I had become. That other people saw it as just a night out left me vaguely irritated. If the part of my life that I thought of as my ‘dark secret’ had become mainstream, then what did I have left?
Without my gigs to keep me busy or the often frantic social life that I had maintained in New York in classical music circles, I was at a bit of a loose end. Fran, who had always been incapable of sitting still for more than a few minutes, had begun looking for a job in London almost the moment she landed, and had taken on some casual bartending work, so she was out most evenings and slept during the day. Chris spent most of the week rehearsing with his band.
‘Why don’t you come down?’ he suggested. ‘Watch us play. The guys have been asking about you.’
He gave me an address for a studio off Holloway Road. The place was sleek, manned by a security guard and a complex alarm system, and full of hi-tech equipment. The last time I’d seen the place that Groucho Nights were renting, it was a mouldy basement with a padlocked door in an ominous-looking alleyway near Camden Lock barely big enough to swing a cat, never mind fit a band inside. I knew that Chris’s uncle had lent the band a bit of cash to help them get on their feet, but I didn’t realise that it was enough to afford a place like this.
‘Wow,’ I said when I arrived, ‘you guys have gone all out, just for me.’
I walked over to Ted and gave him a kiss on his cheek, ruffling my hand through his hair.
He batted me away playfully. ‘Don’t touch the hair.’
‘Seriously, do you always dress like this for rehearsals?’ I asked.
Ted, who played guitar and sometimes the harmonica or kazoo, was from Boston. He and Chris were cousins, and looked so alike they could have been brothers. They were about the same height, with brown eyes and thick, curly brown hair. Ted had started growing his out and frizzing it up so that it was almost an Afro, and he was kitted out in tight red drainpipe jeans and a black waistcoat. Chris was made up to match him with the same outfit but in reverse, red waistcoat and black drainpipe jeans.
Ella, on drums, had dyed her once-blond poker-straight hair fire-engine red, the colour of a postbox, but she was otherwise unchanged. She was originally from Hull, and the only English member of the group. Ella was long-limbed with a boyish figure and muscled arms. When I’d last seen her, she had a half-finished jellyfish tattoo on her chest which had since been filled in with bright shades of pink and blue, tentacles snaking down like map lines under the neck of her singlet that made it hard not to stare at her chest. She dressed like a trucker, in men’s jeans and shirts, a look
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