Free Eighty Days Amber by Vina Jackson Page B

only momentarily what Chey had done that made the rest of the gym inhabitants seem so afraid of him. Perhaps he was a particularly strong fighter. Maybe he owned the Dojo. But all of those thoughts scattered from my mind when he lowered the elastic of my leggings and slipped a finger inside me, and then another.
    ‘You seem to have enjoyed our session more than you let on,’ he said, fingering the wetness that had seeped betweenmy legs, in response to both the physicality of the situation and the vision of his firm body as he moved alongside me.
    ‘So. Will you let me train you, mermaid?’ It had become his name for me, ever since the dance on the beach.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied.
    ‘Good,’ he said, with an infuriating grin.
    He lowered his head to my ear and pressed his lips against my lobe, his breath hot against my skin.
    ‘Your first task is to learn to wait.’
    He was teasing me, and my profound irritation at being so powerless in the situation was overwhelmed by the enormity of my arousal. I was so desperate to feel his hands all over me again, to feel his cock inside me once more and to enjoy whatever it was that his vivid imagination cooked up this time that I allowed him to simply unpeel my legs from his waist and rearrange my clothing into a semblance of order.
    I felt stunned, drugged with desire, as he led me by the hand to the exit, totally aware and enjoying the fact that my nipples were visible through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
    But as soon as we returned to the apartment he was called away again, and amid apologies that he would make it up to me once more, he was gone and I was left alone, to eat, dance, sleep, and wait for him to come back again.
    A week or so later, I came home to find an unusual costume laid out on the bed. I hadn’t seen any of the girls in the club wearing anything quite like it before. A series of leather straps, metal buckles, and a pair of clips with bells attached that I guessed were designed to be attached to my nipples.
    I’d seen one girl at Sweet Lola’s perform a routine in a leather corset, black lace-up boots and a whip that shecracked with each pirouette, but her costume hadn’t been quite like this, and neither was it the sort of outfit that I had guessed Chey had in mind for me. In my view, leather, PVC and the like were trashy items, the type of thing that hung in sex-shop windows, better suited to the sort of girls who needed something ostentatious to distract from the fact that they couldn’t really dance at all, merely rub themselves against the stage pole and hope that no one would notice how dead their eyes were or how clumsy their steps.
    Alongside the costume was a note: Try it .
    Chey understood my temperament well. We were not so different at our core, each of us stubborn as hell and only liking an idea if we thought it was our own.
    I fingered the straps. The leather was thick, but soft. It wasn’t cheap or scratched. The buckles gleamed in the light, and the whole thing was well put together, as if it had been made by an experienced leather worker, not a factory that spawned cheap garments by the dozen.
    I had to stand in front of the mirror and have a few tries before I worked out how to strap myself into it, but when I did, I was pleasantly surprised. The costume formed a harness which outlined each of my breasts and my pussy in a diamond shape, with a strap at the back that gently pulled my shoulders up, affirming my posture.
    When I turned, Chey was standing in the doorway, smiling.
    ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘I like it.’
    ‘It’s not what I expected. Not . . . classical. You think I should dance in this?’
    The harness wasn’t tawdry, but it was very different to my usual understated style for the stage, which I felt drew attention to the delicacy of my movements and underscoredthe fact that my performances weren’t about sex. Or at least, not just about sex.
    ‘Only for me,’ he replied.
    He lifted his hand to display an