Free Pain and Pleasure by Harlem Dae

Chapter One
    I paced the living room floor. No, paced wasn’t the right word, stomped was better. I stomped impatiently in high-heeled boots, black and so shiny they looked like liquid. They were tight, too, as snug as a latex glove, and creaked in the silence when I moved. I would have liked them to rise to my thighs, but just above the knee would have to do.
    And, besides, I was only going to the supermarket.
    The little brass clock on the mantel struck one a.m. and the single sound echoed around in my head, increasing my irritation.
    Damn it. Two hours to go.
    I really should have taken my own advice and tried to get some sleep. It would have passed the time. But how the hell could I go to bed? All day at work I’d been looking forward to my next meeting with Gabriel. Thinking about the dark promises in his eyes and the sinful suggestions his words held had kept me highly aroused.
    Promises, yes, promises that I would bet a year’s salary he could deliver. And not just deliver, but give to me with a hefty dose of expertise and experience.
    Hell, this was a guy who carried an implement of BDSM sexual torture around in the lining of his suit jacket. What else should I think? Admittedly, the misery stick was small, easy to conceal, but my God it could pack a punch, and my arse still had the evidence to prove it.
    I swiped my hands over the back of the short black skirt I wore—yes I had a black theme going on—and was relieved when spikes of pain darted through my buttocks.
    The welts he’d delivered so skillfully to my bum on the train that morning during our first stolen meeting were as raw as ever, not least because I’d squirmed on my seat most of the day, enjoying the erotic memories they’d induced. I’d probably made them worse by doing that, increasing the swelling and irritating them.
    In fact, I’d wriggled so much my boss had asked me if I was okay. I’d blushed furiously, knowing that the state of my makeup had only added to his concern. But he was an old man, like a father figure, kind and with a greying mustache. If he knew his secretary had snuck into a store cupboard on the train with a stranger on her way to work, been brought to a pain-laced orgasm then fucked hard by a man who’d insisted she’d called him Sir, he’d no doubt block off one of his coronary arteries in shock, or stroke out at the very least.
    No, I couldn’t tell anyone about my liaison with Gabriel. Ours was a very unique relationship.
    I flicked on the TV, whizzed through the channels, jammed a hand on my hip and tapped my foot, then tossed the remote aside. Nothing on—nothing that could hold my interest anyway.
    The kitchen beckoned, or, rather, a glass of wine did. I clacked to the fridge, yanked at the door then studied the contents. I didn’t need to go to the supermarket in Bridgewater. I had plenty of fresh veg and salad, some cooked chicken, organic yoghurts and a punnet of cherries. There was a thick slice of quiche leftover from my dinner, and I cut myself a wedge, figuring I would need the energy for later.
    Quiche eaten and glass of merlot in my hand, I moved to the window. I parted the blind and looked out. The rest of my small cul-de-sac was sleeping. The glow from a couple of upstairs hall windows mixed in with the amber light of the street lamps. It was odd, this all-night opening at the supermarkets. Was it really worth the shop’s while? Especially in a quiet, commuter belt residential area like this where sleep was high on everyone’s list of priorities before they joined the rat race the next morning.
    What did I care?
    The fact that the supermarket was open—open with skeleton staff—gave my fantasies fodder. I’d been thinking about those big cages for weeks. Ones I’d seen being pushed around the store full of stock. They looked so sinister if one imagined being imprisoned within, like an animal or a showgirl, but not a showgirl with feathers in her hair and a sequin bikini—no, a showgirl from