Reading · Stories From Nowhere

Cassandra kicked off the red plastic heels and peeled away the fishnet stockings.

With some difficulty she managed to unhook the peephole bra and disentangle her arms from the web of straps. That went on the pile with the stockings and the heels.

She went to take off her panties, but she caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped. She pivoted her hips, turned and craned her neck to see herself from the back. They were small and red, nothing like what she would normally wear, but the view didn’t displease her.

I’ll keep these, she thought. I could have bought them myself. No-one will know.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled out her travel clothes; a pair of black jogging bottoms, a black sports bra and a baggy grey t-shirt that said ‘Sales Superstars, Mexico City 2018’ on it in faded blue letters.

She paused, looking at the t-shirt for a moment. Clive had brought it back from some shitty conference. All the way to Mexico City, and he’d thought just enough of her to bring back a shitty free t-shirt.

Bastard.

But damn, yes. She had to message Clive. She picked up her phone from the bedside table and tapped out a quick message. “My flight leaves at 11, I’ll call you when I get there. There’s lasagne in the fridge x.”

Cassandra reread the message three times, then deleted the ‘x’ and hit ‘send’. Act normal, she reminded herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put a kiss on a message to Clive. She took a deep breath and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Just act normal. Don’t do anything that might look suspicious.

She put on a plain blue t-shirt; the Sales Superstars t-shirt went on the pile with the stockings and the rest. Cassandra pulled a carrier bag from a drawer and stuffed everything into it. The stiletto heels poked out through the thin plastic, but it didn’t matter. She’d find a bin on the way to the airport.

Next, she dragged a suitcase from underneath the bed, leaving deep tracks in the thick pile carpet. It was heavy, and had been packed for a week now. She checked through her handbag. Passport, purse, tickets. She slung it over her shoulder and scanned the room. There was a rubber riding crop on the dresser, next to a picture of Clive. Not a picture of the two of them together, but of him with some trophy or other from the golf club. Who knew they were giving out awards for being a complete tosser?

He looked happy though. Maybe he was that happy with the tarts he met on his business trips, or with the women he brought back to the house — slept with in their house! — but she couldn’t remember him ever being that happy with her.

Never mind. She was ready for some time off, God knows she’d earned it. She jammed the riding crop into the bag with everything else.

It had been almost pathetically simple. She dropped a few hints and picked up a catalogue from the little shop in the alley behind the theatre. Within a couple of days, Clive had bought all the equipment himself. He even rigged up a harness in the back bedroom.

He hadn’t been keen on the mask or the handcuffs, but, she argued, if she was going to wear the heels and all the rest, wasn’t it only fair that he also tried something new?

But it’ll be uncomfortable, he had said. It’ll put me off.

You should try getting it on while wearing six-inch plastic heels, she said. Don’t talk to me about comfort.

Anyway, it’s supposed to make it better. The suffocation. It heightens your awareness, makes you super sensitive.

Did they need a safe word? he’d asked. Don’t be silly, she said. It’s all perfectly safe. I’ll be right here.

She stood in the doorway and listened. The grunting had finally stopped. She crossed the hallway and peered into the back bedroom. Clive hung from the ceiling in his rubber mask, fat and pink and very, very still.

Cassandra carried her suitcase down the stairs, picked the car keys from the dish by the phone and left the door wide open behind her.

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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling, and never getting around to learning to play the guitar.

These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.

055: Time off.

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