Bound by Ivy (20 page)

61

When I open my bedroom door at Ivy College, I see a large black box on my bed, tied with a bright pink ribbon. The window has all been cleaned up, and a huge bouquet of fresh white roses sits on my bedside table. They’re just like the roses at the fancy London hotel Marc and I stayed at.

I sit on the bed and message Marc to tell him I’ve arrived. Then I
take the box, pull at the ribbon and carefully lift the lid.

The cardboard is that
thick, expensive kind that squeaks.

My heart begins to flutter as I see what’s inside the box.

Laying on swirls of soft pink silk is a length of chain and a pair of panties with some sort of hard, plastic object sewn into the crotch area.

What is
all this?

I pick up the chain and panties
, holding them up to the window, and begin to get an idea of what Marc has in mind.

My phone bleeps
and I hurriedly jab at it so I can read Marc’s email.

Take off your clothes. All your clothes. Put on the panties. Then sit on the bed and wait for my instructions.

I look at the panties. What on earth is that plastic thing inside the underwear all about? I guess I’m about to find out.

I strip off my coat and clothing, so
cks, shoes, panties, everything and climb into the panties Marc has provided.

Now
I’m pretty much naked. As I move, the panties rub up against me.

I sit on the bed and feel the cool, hard plastic
press between my legs. It feels pretty good.

Marc sends another message.

Wrap the chain around your ankles. I
don’t want you running away.

I get a little burn of pleasure between my legs as I eye up the chain lying on the soft silk. I reach towards it, but then I hesitate. Can I really do this without Marc being here? The heat that’s creeping up my thighs tells me I can.

Reaching for the chain, I bind it around my ankles, hearing the links clank together and feeling the cool metal against my skin. My phone bleeps again.

L
ift the silk out of the box. There are things underneath.

62

I reach into the box and lift out the length of pink silk. Underneath
it is stiff black velvet with lengths of chain and a little black wooden pole lying on it.

As I lift the objects out of the box, I realise there’s more to this bunc
h of chain and wood than meets the eye.

For a start, there are two objects. One is main
ly chain, with two small silver ivy leaves at each end. The metal leaves are beautiful, but I swallow hard when I see they’re actually little clamps.

T
he other length of chain has a rolled piece of black wood in the middle of it, and a clasp at each end of the chain.

My phon
e bleeps again, and I reach towards it.

I want you to clamp the ivy leaves onto your breasts. Then take the wooden mouthpiece and bite down on it. Secure the clasp behind your head.

I message back:

You certainly know how to treat a girl.

Marc replies:

Don’t talk back.

My hands shaking a little, I secure one of the ivy clasps to my breast, just like Marc said. It burns a little, but gets more bearable as the seconds pass.

Then, gingerly, I take the other clasp an
d do the same.

Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

That one hurts. As the stinging makes my eyes water, I pick up the wooden mouthpiece, place it between my teeth and secure the clasp behind my head. Biting down on the wood helps take my mind off the stinging a little, but not much.

There’s another bleep and another message:

Go look at yourself in the mirror.
Then sit down on the bed again and wait.

I stand up carefully and shuffle towards the mirror with the chain around my ankles. I try not to let my breasts move, but of course they do – and they burn with each jolt.

Heading towards my wardrobe,
I open it and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror. I get a throb of pleasure between my legs when I see myself. I have to admit, it’s sexy being all gagged and trussed up like this.

I return to the bed, knowing wet
ness is building.

My phone bleeps and I read Marc’s new message:

I’m going to go down on you
now. My tongue will be just gentle enough to make it unbearable. You’ll be screaming for me to go harder, but I won’t. Do NOT touch yourself. Doing so will result in punishment.

Just as those words sink in, I feel a buzzing between my legs. The hard plastic of the panties is vibrating against me, and I nearly jump in shock. It takes a moment to realise that Marc must be operating the panties by remote control.

I moan
as the vibrations roll around, up, down, making me hotter and hotter. But Marc’s email was right – it’s all too soft and gentle. I want more, just like he said. I want it harder. Stronger.

The phone bleeps again:

I want
you to squeeze the clamps hard against your breasts.

Oh boy. Can I really hurt myself like that? I reach up to my breasts, putting my hand onto the left ivy leaf. I hold it there for a few moments, working up the courage. The clamp is already painful, and I think squeezing it might tip me over the pleasure/pain boundary right into pain.

Okay. Okay, just do it Sophia. Marc likes to tes
t you.

I squeeze, just a little, and feel a hot burn of pain.

Ouch
.

But it’s a good ouch, and m
ixed up with the vibrations between my legs, it drives me a little crazy.

I nearly drop the phone.

‘Oh god,’ I hear myself say, as the pain subsides and I’m left with the gentle vibrations between my legs. ‘Oh Marc, I can’t bear it. Please. I need more.’

My eyes are a little out of focus as Marc’s next message comes through.

Are you begging me for more? I hope so. Because
I’ve had my fun torturing you, and now I’m going to make you come.

Suddenly, the vibrations in my panties get strong and hard. So much so that I begin leaping and twitching against the bed, shouting and yelping and moaning.

‘Oh god, oh god.
Yes. Yes, yes.’

Another message:

Roll over onto the bed and press your breasts hard into the mattress
so they burn. Now you have my permission to touch yourself.

I moan again, rolling onto my belly and feeling the clamps push hard into my flesh. They dig right into the breasts, causing a delicious burning, pulling sensation that makes me roll back and forth so I can feel more of it.

I grab at the panties and push them hard between my legs, right into me, so the vibrations are as strong as they can be.
Heat ripples up and up and over me, until the pleasure becomes unbearably good and I feel dark waves start to flow down my stomach and thighs. I can’t hold on any longer.

‘Oh
god,’ I moan, pushing my breasts harder against the mattress to feel the sting. ‘Oh god, I’m coming. I’m coming.’

And I do. Hard. Feeling bright, bru
isey tingles zoom across my breasts and nipples and pleasure and warmth spread over my body.

I lay on the bed for a moment, letting the good feelings overtake me. Then the phone beeps again, and I reach for it, turning my head to read the screen.

I wish I was with you
.

I struggle to focus. To make my fingers work. Somehow I manage to tap out a reply.

You have no idea.

63

Marc and I send messages back and forth until midnight.
Some of them make me smile. And some of them make me ache for him so badly that I can hardly stand it.

At midnight,
we both know we have to say goodbye. No more messages. No more phone calls. Nothing. But there are only a few more weeks to go now. And then we can be together.

*****

After our day of emailing, time drags along. Hours and, eventually, days pass.

T
he aching feeling in my chest and stomach begins to lessen as March rolls along, but I’m still not eating or sleeping well.

P
erformances go by in a sort of daze as I do show after show, and then sleep in the cottage all morning and hang out with Jen and Sammy in the afternoon.

All I can think about is Marc, Marc, Marc. I should
be feeling happier as each day passes, but the closer I get to the end of our separation, the slower time seems to move. It’s like the days are tied to my ankles and I’m dragging them along.

Jen does all sorts of things to try and cheer me up. She takes Sammy and I out to see farm animals
, or to the organic market to buy ingredients for pasta sauce. But all I can think about is Marc.

The only time the darkness
really lifts is when I ride Ebony.

She’s
such a beautiful horse, and the more she gets used to me, the more excited she is to see me. I talk to her about anything and everything – missing Marc, the show, things happening in the village. Ebony let’s me rattle on, and just bows her beautiful black head and nuzzles against my hand.

Some days, I ride her
. Other times, I walk her around the field, feeling her warmth beside me and sharing a quiet moment.

Seeing Marc’s sister feels good too. Annabel is
getting closer to winning custody of her son, and watching her get stronger and happier really lifts my spirits.

I visit her whenever I can – at least a couple of times a week, sometimes more.

One morning, I’m at the cottage, packing a bag with fresh bread and homemade soup for my visit with Annabel, when I get a call from her rehab hospital in West London.

It’
s pouring with rain outside, and for some weird reason the weather tells me that bad news is coming.

‘Miss Sophia Rose?’ says
a young lady, when I pick up the phone.

‘
Yes,’ I reply. ‘How can I help?’

‘
I’m calling from Tower Clinic. I understand you’re scheduled to see Ms Blackwell today.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I was just leaving now, as a matter of fa
ct.’ I glance out of the window and see the limo perched on the pavement outside our cottage. Rain beats on its shiny black roof and rushes down its tinted windows. ‘Is everything okay?’

There’s a pause.

‘Ms Blackwell left the clinic a few hours ago. I thought I should let you know. To save you a wasted journey.’

‘She left the cli
nic? But ... why?’

‘She had some bad news this morning. About her custody situation.
And she left.’ Another pause. ‘Sometimes, addiction is just too strong. Around half our patients leave and return to their old lives.’

I shake my head at the phone. ‘But she’s been doing so well. I
honestly don’t think she’d give up. Even after bad news. Are you absolutely sure she’s left the premises?’

‘We’ve checked her room. And the refectory and the
recreation rooms,’ says the woman.

I grab my bag. ‘Has anyone checked the grounds?’

‘It seems unlikely she’d be out there in this weather.’

I hear the rain h
ammering against the window, and think about Annabel. I know she’s relapsed many, many times before. Maybe I’m just being naïve, but I honestly don’t think she’d give up now. My gut tells me she’s still at the hospital. Somewhere. Unhappy and alone.

‘I’
m coming down there,’ I tell the woman, grabbing my coat and pulling the front door open.

‘
Soph, are you off to see Annabel?’ Jen calls out from the sitting area.

‘Yes,’ I call back. ‘See you soon.’

‘Did you want some breakfast before you go? Rodney’s making pancakes.’

‘No time
,’ I call back, heading out into the storm. ‘Maybe I’ll eat at the hospital. Back later.’

64

When I arrive at the hospital, I check Annabel’s room, just in case. She’s not there, so I head out to the grounds and begin hunting around the woodlands.

It’s still absolutely pouring with rain, and I get soaked
within minutes. But I don’t care. All I care about is finding Annabel.

After searching the east side of the building, I head west, my ankle boots squelching in the mud as I weave through fir and oak tre
es.

Annabel and I have walked around
these grounds many times so I know them well, but finding someone out here is a different story, especially in this weather.

There are
acres and acres to cover, and the thick evergreen trees mean I can’t see more than a few metres ahead.

Eventually, I stumble upon a huge, craggy
grey rock under a feathery fir tree. The rock is sheltered from the rain, thanks to the thick branches and leaves above, and I take a seat, realising for the first time since I arrived that I’m actually pretty faint with hunger.

I
hear my own laboured breathing fade into silence.

As my ears be
come accustomed to the pouring rain, a sound carries on the breeze. A choked-up, desperate crying sound.

I sit up straight.

It’s Annabel. I’m sure of it.

Jumping to my feet, I splatter through the mud towards the sound, stopping every so often to listen.

After five more minutes of walking I find her, hunched over in a ball under a huge oak tree. She’s soaked to the skin and weeping as the rain splashes down.

I crouch
beside her and rest a hand on her back.

‘Annabel, it’s me. Sophia.’

The weeping dies down a little, and Annabel’s head turns to the side. ‘Sophia,’ she says softly. ‘How did you find me here?’

‘I looked.’

‘You’re soaked,’ says Annabel. ‘Please go inside. I’m no good to anyone right now.’

‘I’m not going anywhere without you,’ I say.
‘Will you tell me what happened?’

Annabel starts to s
ob again. She cries hard for a few minutes, her whole body shaking. I let her get it all out.

Then
I ask again, gently, ‘What happened?’

‘They say I can’t have Daniel,’ Annabel sobs.
‘Even if I have a home and support. They say he’s going to be adopted. His last name will be changed. I’m not even allowed to know what he’ll be called.’ She breaks down again, clutching her knees to her chest and sobbing.

‘Who says he’s going to be adopted?’ I ask.

‘A social worker called me this morning.’

‘Has he been adopted already?’

‘Not yet. But he will be.’

I stand up
and pull her to her feet. ‘
Going
to be adopted is not the same as
being
adopted. You won’t help anyone or anything sitting out here in the rain. We’re going back to the main building so we can make some calls.’

‘
But it’s so hopeless,’ say Annabel, swaying a little as she tries to get her footing on the mud.

‘Annab
el. You’re a mother. You have to find hope. You have to look for it. Always. You can’t ever give in. Daniel needs you to be strong. Come on. Let’s go inside.’