Erotica, Series

The Leatherbound Diaries, Part 25

A Page Ripped Out: Alexander’s sudden appearance at the villa marks the end of Cathy’s journey

Previously: Cathy is invited by Daria, her friend with benefits, for a two-week-holiday at a grand villa in Italy with five other women. Cathy’s feelings for Daria run deeper than she admitted, but she’s finally ready to give in. But, out of the blue, Alexander appears, her nemesis of love and lust.

‘Cook with me,’ Alexander said, and he strolled off to the kitchen. I was still dumbfounded.

‘Nice man,’ said Daria, ‘How do you know him?’

‘I fucked him.’ With as much courage as I could muster, I looked Daria in the eye. ‘A lot,’ I added. Better to get the worst over first. But Daria laughed.

‘I bet you did, slut.’

Was this what trust looked like? A gorgeous blonde, radiating with love for me, smiling like I had just said ‘I love you’ again instead of ’I fucked the man who handed out spritzers a minute ago’?

‘Go help him out in the kitchen. I know you want to. But I’ll drop by later to see if you’re really cooking.’ She grinned and slapped my bum. I took her face in my hands and delicately, but passionately, I kissed her.

‘You’ll be alright,’ she said. ‘I’m here.’

Why was I so nervous? And how did Daria know what to say? How had I not seen her wisdom earlier?

Vegetables and herbs lay spread out on the kitchen table. Alexander was rinsing two chickens, which were large like turkeys. He’d clearly planned the meal ahead.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

He waved towards the vegetables. ‘Mise-en-place. Clean, cut and slice.’

‘And the herbs?’

‘Roughly cut.’

I got to it and waited for him to start the conversation that hung in the air like Damocles' sword.

‘Did you take any pictures while you were here?’ He didn’t even look at me, but kept on seasoning the chickens. I could play that game. I walked over to get a bowl of water at the sink, grazing him as I passed.

‘Yes.’

‘Anything interesting?’ he said, without responding to my physical provocation.

‘Actually, yes.’

‘Tell me.’ Now he looked at me. I noticed his hands pressed down on the plucked chickens as if he was holding them against their will. I smiled; he was nervous too.

As I washed the tomatoes, I told him about the self-portraits. He listened intently, smiling as I explained what I’d been after in creating them and how I felt it was a reference to Francesca Woodman.

‘Interesting. I didn’t know you knew her work.’

‘Not until recently.’

He pointed to the tomatoes. ‘You can cut those in fours. We’re not making anything fancy, just a typical rich Italian sauce for the pasta the vegans out there will get.’

‘And the chicken?’

‘Sage and olives.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yeah.’

We looked at each other, self-conscious about the little dance we were doing.

‘I fucked up, didn’t I?’ he said. I liked he didn’t shy away, but kept looking me in the eye. I still loved the softness of his gaze, which had drawn me to him from the start.

‘You once said you could only love me if I loved myself.’

He nodded. ‘Turns out I was not the one who helped you with that.’

‘No. Well… You did. A bit.’ I was being honest. He had said certain things to me and showed me things which had stayed with me, simmering like the sauce we were making.

‘And there was the Daddy thing that scared you shitless,’ he said.

‘It did.’

‘I never aspired to be one.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry, Cathy.’

‘Don’t be. I guess your sister played you too.’

‘Nina and I… We share. It’s a bit…’

‘Incestuous?’

‘I wouldn’t call it that.’

‘Dishonest then.’

‘Dangerous liaisons.’

‘Right. The games of those who never have to account for themselves.’

‘You mean the rich and famous.’

‘Yeah, the aristocracy of the 21st century.’ I was getting annoyed again, maybe even angry, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to cook with Alexander. Share something that was more than just fucking and sucking. Like the art we both loved, or our mutual fondness for walking around the house naked.

‘Daria seems nice.’

‘Don’t patronise me and hand me that chef’s knife.’

He stepped forward and held the sharp blade close to my face, pressing its point against my cheek. ‘I said sorry.’

It was weird how we understood each other being on the edge of things, fringe-like. I knew he didn’t mean to cut me. It was more like a metaphor for how we rolled. Like he gave me the ambiguous pleasure of holding his cock while he peed. Or I offered him the honour of deflowering my arsehole while he called me boy. We had fun at openings, ridiculing the snobs and the wannabees, but doing it too loud so they could hear our snarky comments. I had once called his mother, posing as his secretary and making the excuse for his absence at a family dinner by saying that he needed to fuck me all weekend. We’d been a bit of a Bonnie & Clyde-show, but without killing people. Well, he hurt me, of course. I had a scar on the ventricle of my heart that had pumped so zealously for him.

But here we were, Alexander holding a knife against my face, and the familiar tingle in my crotch that his presence precipitated. I glanced down and his bulge was cramping his shorts.

‘Apologies accepted, chef.’ He let his arm down and handed me the knife. I gave him a friendly kiss. We continued to cook, chatting and teasing each other. When Daria came in to check on us, it relieved her to find us in such a cheerful mood, filling the kitchen with the alluring smells of simple Italian cooking.

Alexander whispered something to Daria, and she looked at me, her bedroom eyes twinkling.

‘What?’ I said, more than curious to know what he’d said to her. But Daria shrugged.

‘My Lost in Translation-moment, babe.’ And she made the gesture of sealing her lips.

I mimicked a ‘fuck you’ to Alexander, but he only laughed and said, ‘I love you too’ which almost made me cry, because he’d never said it before.

After dinner, I went up to our room to write all this down and for some reason I browsed through the pages of this diary. I found an entry I thought I’d ripped out and thrown in the bin. But apparently, I’d put it back, folded in four, which I can’t remember doing. I read it just now and I’ll stick it to this page, as a contrast to where I am today and a reminder of who I am. A witness to my love for Alexander, and for Daria who found me when I was lost.

I need to write something about booze. And sex. My insatiable urge to combine the two. Imagine a woman of about 26 years old with a thirst. For about anything. Her lips on the rim of a glass of wine, her gluttony gulping half a litre of Becks or throwing back a couple of Margaritas. Your cock in her greedy mouth, or her tongue lapping at your cunt.

Okay, let me start again. I need to refrain from self-loathing and focus.

Alexander. I’ll focus on Alexander. My current rock. Rock hard fucking delicious cock of a man.

Stop. Rewind.

I was completely pissed. I ended up fucking in an alley. It was hot. And then it was filth. But not the pretty dirty kind. After. When I got home. I showered for a long time.

I get drunk a lot. Take lots of pills. Fucking too. I crave.

Alexander says I’m a beautiful person. What can I say?

My hand is on my pussy right now. Just resting. But it needs to be there so I can feel. Know it’s there. What’s there?

Stop. Try again. Fail better.

Alexander took me to dinner. We had a wonderful meal in a restaurant with a Michelin star. I love food. The colours, the smells. I love the textures, the sound of it when you put it in your mouth and chew. The explosion of flavours, the sensation of subtle changes over time. I told Alexander about it and he genuinely understood what the fuck I was talking about.

I will not fall in love with him. He’s old. I don’t have daddy issues. I refuse.

Imagine a woman of 26 years old with a thirst. She drinks the expensive wine in a Michelin-star restaurant as if it’s plonk from an off-license. He ordered another when I finished the bottle. He’s a darling.

My body went limp as I fell on his bed. I remember his kisses. A glimpse of his erect cock, the smell of him quite close to me. I think I reached and maybe I held him for a bit, but nothing else remains. Such a pity.

I failed better in the morning.

He brought me coffee and a croissant with a spoonful of marmalade. He was naked. He likes to be nude, like me. He avoids his clothes as long as he can. He’s too old, I keep telling myself, but I’m fucking smitten. I took him in my mouth after the croissant. Crumbs of puff pastry stuck to his shaft. I was a silly git because I put marmalade on his cock. He let me, laughing. We had another coffee after he came on my tits. What can I say?

My friend Leyla gives me advice in the form of a light blue pill, and we go to parties. We end up having sex with each other or others. Or whatever combination. I told Alexander about a sex party where I was on the menu. He said he heard about it. I said, ‘Do you want to hear the details?’ He said, ‘No.’ I lie in his arms and I forget about the crave.

There was this other morning when he stroked my legs. I was barely awake and the soft tingles of his caresses mingled with a dream I was still in. The sea, the breakwaters at Whitstable beach, mum and dad were there, and I nearly cried.

I woke, and he took me in his arms and I did cry. After, I climbed on top of him and said I wanted him to fuck me to smithereens. He said, ‘Okay.’

He’s capable. He flipped me over and, on my hands and knees, I welcomed him, entering me unscrupulously. It wasn’t enough. What can I say?

‘I cannot love you as long as you don’t love yourself.’ That’s what Alexander said. I told him to fuck off and left. I went to Daria.

You know what? Being with Daria is so much easier.

We slipped under the covers and kissed. Her caresses are just what they are, caresses. She whispered Bosnian words in my ear and it was such a relief to understand nothing. We rubbed against each other ever so slowly. Her pretty tits pressed against mine, our nipples brushing, our pussies lubed with our slickness. Our legs embraced. We came effortlessly and fell asleep with our bellies and thighs slippery from the cum.

I have ended up in a fucking alley. Or call it the gutter. The guy was an asshole. The shower washed off the dirt, but not the filth and the shame. I have to sober up so I can answer Daria’s messages. I want her beside me, and not to fuck or anything. Just there. Inhabiting my shell.

I will rip this page out. And burn it.

Or maybe frame it.

Acknowledgement This is the last episode of The Leatherbound Diaries. A big thank you to May More and Posy Churchgate for being such fans of Cathy and their support for making this serial possible. Thanks to all you readers out there who followed me and Cathy on her journey and gave such wonderful compliments along the way. I’ll be back soon with more tantalising tales for you.

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