sweetness of the pain. He forced my arm around my back, dragged me to him, and stuck his tongue in my mouth. After a while he pushed me down on to the bed kept in there for rare guests. He told me
to take off my clothes. I obeyed him. I always obeyed Seb eventually even if I made a show of protesting before doing so. While I peeled off my jeans and struggled with the buttons of my
cheesecloth top, he rummaged about in one of the hat boxes and unearthed a pile of silk scarves.
‘All of them,’ he said. ‘Everything off, come on.’
Taking a wrist in turn he tied my hands above my head to the bedstead. Then he fastened scarves around my ankles and pulled them tight around the frame. I struggled and swore at him and he
laughed and said I’d asked for it.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, making for the door.
‘It’s cold. You can’t leave me like this.’ At this point I didn’t believe he really would. I was enjoying the game.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to go.’
‘What’ll I do if they come back? Untie me!’
He shrugged.
‘Seb!’
He went to the door. Turned back. Grinned.
‘Have a good night!’ he said. Then he turned the handle, went out, shut the door behind him. I could hear his feet on the steep wooden stairs that led down to the main floor below. I
struggled. Began to panic. Suppose Seb walked out of the house and left me like this all night? What if my parents came in and my mother wanted to shower and change? I tried to hear what he was
doing downstairs. There was a sound from the bottom floor – the slam of the door on to the courtyard.
Footsteps on the stairs. I struggled to sit up. Strained to work out whose they were. When the door opened I braced myself, grappling for words of explanation.
‘What are you doing naked on the bed like that?’ Seb asked.
‘You git!’ I hissed. ‘You bastard. Let me go.’
‘What did you say? I didn’t hear!’
‘Seb, it’s not funny any more. I was scared.’
‘You want me to let you go?’
‘Yes, please, please.’
He leant over me then and I struggled, writhed, reached up and bit him hard on the neck.
‘Ouch. Vicious!’ he said, laughing, pushing my face back with his hand. Then he pushed his jeans down, unleashed my ankles and lay on top of me.
I turn over. I can’t stop thinking of Jez above me, drugged again and asleep on the old iron bed. I can’t relax. I remember the silk scarves in my wardrobe.
I get out of bed, pull on my kimono, snatch a bundle of silk and go up to the music room.
I take the opportunity to examine him properly. I pull back the duvet. He’s half undressed himself, is wearing a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. He must have fallen asleep as he pulled his
hoodie off, he’s still got one arm in the sleeve. I watch the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he breathes, the rise and fall of his ribcage. His navel is not even sunken, but
lies in a perfect shallow dip amongst his stomach muscles, three little cushions between two tiny creases. His boxers hang so loose around his narrow pelvis, legs long and smooth and muscular as a
horse’s. I’d like to freeze him the way Seb is frozen at this very age in my memory.
Instead, I take the first scarf and tie it firmly round his right wrist. Then I wrap it tight around the iron bedpost, the way Seb wrapped mine. I know the exact moves, the exact knots to make
him secure. I do the same with his left hand and then his good foot. When he’s fully bound, I lie on the bed next to him, stretch my hand across his pelvis, rest it on his hip bone. I feel
the warm skin under my palm.
He doesn’t stir. I wriggle down the bed, and let myself kiss his stomach. I can’t help it. It’s perfect: the colour, the contours, the texture. His skin is taut, it springs
back into place if you pinch it. I taste salt, and something briney, elemental. Even close up it’s flawless. I look carefully at the crystalline surface, examine it to see if I can find a
blemish.
to take off my clothes. I obeyed him. I always obeyed Seb eventually even if I made a show of protesting before doing so. While I peeled off my jeans and struggled with the buttons of my
cheesecloth top, he rummaged about in one of the hat boxes and unearthed a pile of silk scarves.
‘All of them,’ he said. ‘Everything off, come on.’
Taking a wrist in turn he tied my hands above my head to the bedstead. Then he fastened scarves around my ankles and pulled them tight around the frame. I struggled and swore at him and he
laughed and said I’d asked for it.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, making for the door.
‘It’s cold. You can’t leave me like this.’ At this point I didn’t believe he really would. I was enjoying the game.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to go.’
‘What’ll I do if they come back? Untie me!’
He shrugged.
‘Seb!’
He went to the door. Turned back. Grinned.
‘Have a good night!’ he said. Then he turned the handle, went out, shut the door behind him. I could hear his feet on the steep wooden stairs that led down to the main floor below. I
struggled. Began to panic. Suppose Seb walked out of the house and left me like this all night? What if my parents came in and my mother wanted to shower and change? I tried to hear what he was
doing downstairs. There was a sound from the bottom floor – the slam of the door on to the courtyard.
Footsteps on the stairs. I struggled to sit up. Strained to work out whose they were. When the door opened I braced myself, grappling for words of explanation.
‘What are you doing naked on the bed like that?’ Seb asked.
‘You git!’ I hissed. ‘You bastard. Let me go.’
‘What did you say? I didn’t hear!’
‘Seb, it’s not funny any more. I was scared.’
‘You want me to let you go?’
‘Yes, please, please.’
He leant over me then and I struggled, writhed, reached up and bit him hard on the neck.
‘Ouch. Vicious!’ he said, laughing, pushing my face back with his hand. Then he pushed his jeans down, unleashed my ankles and lay on top of me.
I turn over. I can’t stop thinking of Jez above me, drugged again and asleep on the old iron bed. I can’t relax. I remember the silk scarves in my wardrobe.
I get out of bed, pull on my kimono, snatch a bundle of silk and go up to the music room.
I take the opportunity to examine him properly. I pull back the duvet. He’s half undressed himself, is wearing a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. He must have fallen asleep as he pulled his
hoodie off, he’s still got one arm in the sleeve. I watch the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he breathes, the rise and fall of his ribcage. His navel is not even sunken, but
lies in a perfect shallow dip amongst his stomach muscles, three little cushions between two tiny creases. His boxers hang so loose around his narrow pelvis, legs long and smooth and muscular as a
horse’s. I’d like to freeze him the way Seb is frozen at this very age in my memory.
Instead, I take the first scarf and tie it firmly round his right wrist. Then I wrap it tight around the iron bedpost, the way Seb wrapped mine. I know the exact moves, the exact knots to make
him secure. I do the same with his left hand and then his good foot. When he’s fully bound, I lie on the bed next to him, stretch my hand across his pelvis, rest it on his hip bone. I feel
the warm skin under my palm.
He doesn’t stir. I wriggle down the bed, and let myself kiss his stomach. I can’t help it. It’s perfect: the colour, the contours, the texture. His skin is taut, it springs
back into place if you pinch it. I taste salt, and something briney, elemental. Even close up it’s flawless. I look carefully at the crystalline surface, examine it to see if I can find a
blemish.
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