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‘Kneel, Arthur.’ The iron rod of the command was wrapped in such loving gentleness that my heart melted even as it beat uncontrollably faster. I knelt.Poirot traced a leather-clad finger along my cheek. ‘What will it be tonight, mon coeur?’I knew what I wanted. My breath hitched, but my voice came steadily. ’The cane. Please.’ Poirot hummed his acknowledgement. ‘How many?’I wanted to say: until you can no longer raise it. I wanted to say: until I am weeping, or bleeding, or both. Until my consciousness slips through the cracks of pleasure and pain.I answered him. ‘Ten.’ Because what I wanted and what each of us could bear were different things.Poirot moved out of my line of sight, and I did not turn; a mark of self-control that I knew would be appreciated. A moment later: a swish and a muffled thump, and another, and one more; practice strokes against the cushions of the settee. I knew, without seeing, that each blow was laid with exquisite precision on top of the previous one; I knew, before the cane touched my skin, with what exquisite precision they would land upon me.Poirot brushed the tip of the cane down my neck, along my bare shoulder, and I shuddered. ‘Are you ready, Arthur?’‘I am.’‘You will count the strokes for me.’
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One.
‘I have a question to ask of you, mon coeur,’ Poirot said one evening, as we relaxed together in companionable silence.I laid aside my detective novel. ‘Of course, old thing. Fire away.’Poirot hesitated, which was unlike him; I got the impression that he was choosing his words very carefully. ‘It concerns the physical side of our relationship.’I felt myself flush; my heart settled tight in my chest like a closing fist. ‘Oh? What about it? Is—’ my voice shook slightly despite my best efforts ‘—is anything wrong?'‘Non non non non, ne t’inquiètes pas.’ A quick firm pressure of Poirot’s hand on my own, and when our eyes met, his were warm with reassurance. ‘You give me the greatest pleasure, always, as I hope I also give you.’‘Well, yes,’ I said, awkwardly, ‘absolutely, yes.’‘I know that for you to talk of these things, it is difficult,’ Poirot continued, patting my hand gently. ‘I do not wish for you the embarrassment, mon coeur. Yet I would like to ask of you—you know, perhaps, that there are those who derive the gratification sexual from more than the act itself? For example, from the dominance or submission of their partner, from the giving or receiving of pain?’I blinked, and felt my cheeks grow a shade redder. ‘I… I have heard of such things. I think.’‘Ah.’ Poirot paused, tilting his head to one side in that characteristic manner, but when he spoke it was with an unusual diffidence. ‘Would you be willing, then, to trust me in an experiment? Understand,’ he added, looking at me very seriously, ‘that if your answer is no I accept it absolutely, and we need speak no more about it.’I swallowed; whether the dryness of my throat was due to fear or arousal or some combination of both I could not tell. ‘What are you asking of me?’‘To permit me to restrain you.’ Poirot’s broad fingers briefly encircled my wrists, and the kick of, yes, arousal left me breathless. ‘To permit me to hurt you, only to the extent which you allow. To permit me to use you for both our pleasures, and to care for you, afterwards.’Wordlessly I kissed him, and when at last he drew back to search my face intently, seeking an answer, I said simply, ‘Please.’‘You mean—?’‘I’m yours.’
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Two.
The ropes that Poirot showed me were black, of a silk so soft I could scarcely believe it. They ran through my fingers as smooth as water. ‘You permit?’With a nod I handed the ropes back, and allowed Poirot to push me down upon the bed. With the greatest care, he bound my wrists together, fastening them to the headboard; and he kissed the pulse in my throat where it fluttered and jumped.
‘Ça va, mon coeur?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bon.’
He moved to my ankles, binding them with the same sure movements to the end of the bed, and I found myself strung, bow-tight and helpless, already aching and arching for touch, for release.
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Three.
‘How did you know, love?’ I asked, late one afternoon, shortly after our first few forays within these new physical horizons. Poirot glanced up from his book. ‘Know what, mon cher?’I had asked the question in a burst of courage that now all but deserted me. I fidgeted with my pencil, flushed, wished I could vanish. But Poirot’s expectant expression pushed me on. ‘How—when did you know that you, well… enjoy the sorts of things we’ve been doing?’He removed his pince-nez and gave the question a moment’s consideration. ‘Eh bien, in the same way that you did, Hastings: when my lover asked it. I was quite a young man at the time, but he offered himself to me, and I quickly discovered my preference… To submit, it is not in my nature; that, I have never enjoyed! But to have one whom I love submit to me, so willingly—ah!’‘And have you—’ I hesitated. ‘Have you had many, in that way?’ Poirot cocked his head to one side. ‘I do not know what qualifies as ‘many’ in your mind, Hastings. A dozen, perhaps fifteen, over the years.’The mixture of emotions his words roused in me was a tumult, and for a moment I could not speak. ‘I didn’t realise,’ I said at last.‘You are surprised?’ Poirot raised his eyebrows. ‘But remember, Hastings—I am older than you by a number of years, mon cher, and I have never been of the disposition to deny myself the good things in life.’I tried to smile. ‘Well, I know that’s certainly the case.’ Something in my voice must have sounded strained, for Poirot rose to join me at the window. ‘But what is it, Hastings? I have never hidden from you the fact that I have had other lovers at different times of my life, just as you have not hidden yours from me.’ He paused. ‘Does it make so much difference, now that you know that I was their maître as well?’‘Yes,’ I confessed, reluctantly. ‘I don’t know why, but it does.’We stood in silence, watching the lights of London flicker into brightness. The window reflected our faces back to us, but it rendered them unfamiliar. ***********************
Four.
I always wanted more pain than was good for me. Poirot drew the line at drawing blood.‘I understand that it is what you desire, Hastings, but this I will not do.’‘I’m sorry, Poirot,’ I muttered; my shame at having spoken was compounded at seeing him so visibly distressed, and I felt the words catch in my throat, knew they were inadequate. ‘I won’t ask again.’He shook his head. ‘Non non non, there is no harm in the asking.’ Turning from the window where he stood, he crossed the room with the neat little steps I knew so well, and sat down beside me. ‘And I know that to ask is itself a difficult thing for you. But mon coeur, I could not forgive myself if I caused you real injury. And I must be able to trust you—trust that you will not let me do that—just as you must be able to trust me, not to let your courage and my own desire push you too far.’I wanted to say: it’s not courage. I wanted to say: push me. I wanted to say: but you woke this in me, this need I didn’t know existed. Couldn’t name, cannot bear. Cannot now live without.Instead I said, ‘You can trust me.’ Kissed his fingers, folded them in my own.Still he looked into my face intently. ‘Do you promise me, Hastings?’‘I promise,’ I said; and I meant it.
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Five.
If there was one thing more raw and intimate than feeling Poirot’s seed spill onto me as I knelt—naked, bound—if that one thing existed, it was in the solicitous care he lavished on me once he was done with me. In his quiet words of praise and appreciation, murmured promises of how he would bring me to my own climax if I had not already reached it, still desired it. In the soft cloth wrung out in warm water, wiping away the ejaculate before it turned sticky and chill. In the comfort of a blanket over my shoulders, a tisane in my hands.
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Six.
Seven.
Eight.
The pace was even, rhythmic; enough time between each blow for the pain to blossom fully, the red line blooming across my skin as I gasped, shuddered, braced for the next.
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Nine.
‘You have been so good for me, mon minet,’ Poirot said, and his eyes were dark with arousal. ‘Three times you have brought yourself to the brink and then at my command you have stopped.’He brushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair back from my forehead, trailed his fingers down my cheek. Cupped my chin and kissed me breathless; I whimpered as we broke apart, but the sound turned to a strangled groan when Poirot wrapped his hand around my shaft. ‘I said I would reward you, did I not?’ he murmured, stroking once, twice, slow and firm. I moaned, and he smiled: a small smile, intimately wicked. ‘Do not hold yourself back this time.’ He took me in his mouth, and he swallowed all I had to give.
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Throughout my life I have never been at ease with physical pleasure, and so with women it was always useful to be able to hide behind the conventions of gentlemanly behaviour. To speak romantically, to behave gallantly, even: all the while safe in the knowledge that nothing more could decently be expected of me. But between men—between Poirot and I—there were no codes, no rules, once the fundamental fact of attraction had been recognised for what it was. And so I knew that I could want, and have what I wanted; and it was terrifying. Of course I could barely articulate this jumbled mess of feeling to myself, let alone to Poirot, and I certainly couldn’t know how much of it he guessed or understood. But I did know one thing, and that was: that I never felt safer or more loved than when I called him maître, counted the strokes of the cane.
Ten.