Friday, 10 February 2012

The Epiphany 1 of 4

It was simple. It really was.

I went to a fetish club. My second time, with a good trusted friend. The sort that knows you really and is able to nudge you out of your comfort zone without you even knowing. I walked in, tall, proud, in a skin-tight body suit with a sheer panel at the front, showing off my breasts, stockings, and thigh-high boots. I was playful and inviting yet choosy. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I was sure as hell I was looking for something. There was something stirring in me. I was perusing the crowd and the men were mesmerised as I was passing by. My Scot was watching me and guarding me closely. Several approached. While I am easily engaged and enticed, The Scot was giving them a brush off. 'Not good enough' he pronounced. I trusted him. I was still searching.

He was stocky, heavy and dark. Not my type at all. But that was not the reason why I chose him out of the crowd. That became clear later. Our eyes met over the bar and I smiled, to be then distracted by an offer of a drink. As the shot of Tequila hit my mouth, I looked again. He was gone.

I put the glass down and just walked through the crowd. There he was. His broad shoulders right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and beamed. He was very happy to see me.* The Scot smiled approvingly at last, and then obligingly disappeared.

The in-between was inconsequential. I was in my usual mode of a princess who bestowed her grace on a potential favourite. We had a drink, chatted a bit. I talked a lot, dispensed amusing one-liners and ordered him around. A bit of banter.

'I am a bit of a leg man'
I smiled smugly.
'I have a surprise for you then. I have outstanding legs'

And then I ordered him to mine. He followed. We bumped into The Scot, queuing to the couple's room for his own bit of fun. He checked if I was okay, in a very fatherly fashion, then gave a stern look and a quiet word to my prey. We were free to go.

When we got to mine, we talked a little. Getting to know each other. Not hard. My flat is all about me, full of pictures, books and mementos. A reflection of me in a very small space. If you look hard enough, you will know who I am.

I was a little manic still. I radiate energy on a quiet day and coming straight from a buzzing club had me restless. I stripped to my body suit, put on a pair of stilettos and twirled.

'You do have very good legs' he smiled.
'I know'
'And a very good arse' (That I didn't know - always hated my arse)

Then we went to bed. If I am honest, I don't remember the first couple of time we fucked. We simply did because that was the point of it all. I still didn't know why I wanted him to fuck me. He was not my type. Dark, quiet, stocky with shaved head. I like slim, eloquent, very tall and foppish. Yet, I played along. I was sensual, playful and responsive but ever so slightly detached. I liked him fucking me in a way that one likes having a good dinner, or watching a pleasant movie. I haven't fucked for a while so it just did the trick. He was heavy on top of me, always missionary, not very adventurous. Thick cock with just the right length and pulsating girth. His cock was like him. Heavy, relentless and just pounding me.

'You are very sexual. I like how you respond to me'. That was the second and last complement that night.

We chatted a bit more. I was dominant, overly-intellectual, and a tad dismissive because he just wasn't fast enough to keep up with my manic energy. He was almost incongruous, impassive. Not reacting much to me at all. I was getting bored. My mind kept wandering off, as if questioning him being in my bed in the first place.

We were lying next to each other spooning after fucking leisurely for the third time. I was detached, staring at the wall, away with my thoughts. He kept fingering me deeply, and I was writhing obligingly, connecting only with the physicality of it, impaling myself on his fingers and raising my bottom. And that's when it happened. He pulled out his fingers and spanked me.

What the fuck..? Before I had the chance to finish verbalising that thought in my head, he spanked me again. And again. The rush was immense. I cannot describe it because epiphanies are famously hard to put into adequate words.

'You like it, don't you?' His tone was no longer impassive. It was a voice of someone who found the light switch in a dark room and and he now knew exactly where he was, being very pleased with himself for doing so.

I said nothing. I just raised my bottom again and felt his palms falling on it in a sharp stroke. And another. Then he stopped. I was quiet. Just shivering like a trapped animal. No more thoughts racing through my head. No longer detached. Very connected, suddenly very conscious. He slid his fingers inside me and I felt myself dripping out onto his hand, hot and bubbling, in a stream of fresh, thick juice.

He simply turned me over and fucked me. This time it was different. He was at last in his element. He went darker, no longer indulging any of my casual insolence. I was a limpet, wrapped around him obediently. He was brutal, impenetrable, and finally started talking.

'Filthy little slut'

And that was a beginning of a very long affair.

Being spanked the first time is like the first kiss. You never forget it.

*He later told me he came up to me at the bar but I was surrounded by men and he wasn't sure whether it was right to approach me. Thank fuck I knew he was the right one.

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