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‘I wonder what you would be without great-granddaddy’s money?’ I taunt.

‘I’d still want to f**k you senseless.’

‘Fuck you,’ I shriek and as if possessed by some crazed demon I begin to kick at his legs and punch his hard body with my free hand. Like a sack of potatoes I am lifted up by sheer male strength and thrown over his shoulder. For a moment the shock of being turned upside down stills me and then I continue to pummel his back as he takes me into our bedroom. ‘You don’t trust anyone, you don’t love anyone, you’re just an emotional bonsai,’ I scream.

He hurls me on the bed. I fall on my side, winded but unhurt. My head is still, but f**k me, the room is spinning around like a merry-go-round. Still, the important thing is I have lost all fear and apprehension. My only goal is to goad him into losing that tight control that dictates his every move. I look at him, my eyes taunting him. ‘Scared of a cunt, Barrington?’

His head jerks slightly with surprise. ‘You really want rough sex?’ he asks.

I nod.

His mouth twists. He unbuttons his shirt, yanks the ends out of his trousers. Opens his fly, flings his underpants behind him and takes a step to the edge of the bed.

‘Here it is, my love,’ he grates.

In one smooth moment he hauls me up, catches the hem of my long dress and flicks it over my head. He stands looking at me, upper body and head covered, but lower body obscenely sprawled with garters, stockings and inelegantly splayed legs. Then, before I have even recovered my balance, he grabs my hips, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh, and brings me to my hands and knees. He grips my ass and very roughly spreads apart the cheeks, kneading them as if they are two pieces of dough, and drives his dick into my wetness, so savagely that I actually cry out with the shock of it. That stops him cold as if he too is shaken by the ferocity and violence of his own thrust.

‘Don’t stop,’ I hear myself say, in a voice I do not recognize.

And he slams again into me. This time he does not stop even when I cry out. My entire body becomes a rag doll shuddering and rocking to the deep thrusts. I want to scream, but I dare not for fear he will stop. His stomach continues to pound my spread ass. His hands travel up my sweat-slicked body, digging, grasping in an effort to push as deep into me as he can. He grinds my rear so hard into his groin that I feel him to the very ends of me.

Every thrust is torture, but in the hurt there is a strange and exquisite pleasure. After he comes, he bends forward, kisses my shoulder blades and slowly eases out of me.

My slit is so sore it stings, burns and throbs painfully as he withdraws. It is over, I think. Then I feel his mouth lightly licking the reddened, raw skin around my cunt. He slips his velvet tongue gently inside, but even that hurts like hell. I moan and he takes his tongue away, starts lightly sucking my clit. I forget how sore I am and come in a moment, white with shockingly intense pleasure. As if my nerves have been made more alive by the pain, the pleasure is far more powerful than anything I have experienced before.

I fall forward on my face. My body is aching everywhere and so tender, I don’t think I will be able to sleep on my back. My last thought as I drift into blackness is that I haven’t had dinner yet and he never lost control. Despite all my efforts not once did his cold exterior crack to reveal the real man inside. Now I know whatever he guards so carefully inside must surely be truly precious or ugly beyond words.

Fourteen

I wake up, my mouth sour, aching, and stiff—getting out of bed is a slow belly crawl. I can barely walk to the bathroom. A disheveled mess greets me in the mirror. I stare with fascination at my reflection. Very slowly and with great difficulty I unhook the row of black pearl buttons at the back of the dress and shrug out of it. I go to the end of the room where two mirrors meet and gasp in shock at the dramatic sight that greets me.

My back, hips, bu**ocks, and thighs are blue black. It looks like I have been run over by a truck.

I gingerly lower myself down on the toilet seat. The urine flow burns and the entire area is so sore I can hardly clean myself. Drinking without having consumed food has also left me with a throbbing headache. I step into the shower. Good move, Lana. It relaxes my muscles and makes me feel a little more normal. Afterwards I dose myself with two 500mg paracetamols. In fifteen minutes Mr. Nair and I are sitting at the kitchen counter having coffee. I feel pretty normal.

After coffee I call Tom and tell him that today I am bringing Sorab to stay with me. I go downstairs at 9:30 am and Tom puts down the newspaper he is reading.

‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning, Tom.’

He opens the car door, but getting in draws a wince from me.’

‘Are you all right?’ Tom enquires with a look of concern.

‘Just stomach cramps,’ I say.

He nods and goes around to the driver’s seat.

Billie is drying dishes. She throws a dishtowel over one shoulder and turns to me. ‘You look a bit constipated,’ she says by way of greeting.

‘I tried your advice. Drank half a bottle of vodka and pushed his buttons last night.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘He didn’t want to play ball.’

‘So why are you all scrunched up with pain?’

‘I mean, I got the rough sex, but nothing else,’ I say. ‘He never said a word he should not have or retaliated in any way that would fall outside of rough sex.’ I lower myself slowly onto one of the dining chairs while Billie looks on with an expression I cannot quite fathom.

I stay with Billie the whole afternoon making plans for our new business.

Blake texts to tell me he will be late so I leave after the rush hour traffic at six. I have dinner on my own. A simple meal of grilled cheese on toast with a slice of smoked salmon on top. It is wonderful to have Sorab with me. The flat doesn’t seem so foreign and lonely. Afterwards we have a grand old time in the bathroom, him shrieking happily and splashing lustily and me laughing. It is at this moment that Blake appears at the door.

‘Hi,’ I say. I am actually very nervous. In my mind I still think Sorab looks a lot like Blake.

‘Who do we have here?’ he says, and comes into the room. I look at him in surprise. He stands over us looking at Sorab for a long time. Sorab is waving his hands at the new face excitedly, but my heart is in my mouth. What the hell is he looking at? Surely, there is no way he can tell it is his son? When he turns to look at me his eyes are neutral. We look at each other.

‘Does he cry a lot?’ he asks finally.

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