Down a notch

I head for the disabled lavatory. Close the door and look at myself. I am flushed and shaky. I lick my lips and turn the tap on. Cold water feels good. I cup my hand and let it flow into a little pool. I carefully sip it and then look in the mirror again. I am going to do it.

Text pops up on my phone. I pick it up with wet hands too impatient to bother with drying them.

"3 minutes. Are you ready?"

"I was born ready" I text back.  I will not abandon my propensity for a one-liner even if I am actually shaking with fear.

The hotel is a swanky one as always. I come here often for cocktails, to entertain clients, the staff know me and should my little plan be exposed at any time, it could backfire spectacularly.

I take off my dress. And look at myself. I'm pleased with what I see.

The hold ups trace the silhouette of my legs. I am wearing a demi bra, with my nipples peeking out just enough to be pinched at leisure and a matching pair of crotchless knickers. Agent Provocateur. The right side of slutty.

I carefully position myself, just as instructed with my hands against the wall, legs apart. Feels good.

One minute to go.

I turn the lock to open and resume the position.

The door opens and I hear lock go again.

He's here. Standing behind me.

"Very nice"

"I know"

"You really think you are a bit special don't you"

I stare at the wall defiantly.

"Yes, I do"

He starts tracking his fingers from the nape of my neck, down my spine and all the way to the small of my back.  I tense and stretch a little. My knees start trembling, the desire and anticipation in a pure whirlpool of delightful confusion. I am no longer wet. I am drenched.

"Well, my little miss special, how about I will fuck you, then take your dress with me and leave you here? I would like to see how you're found out for what you are. Cheap little whore, dragged through the lobby"

He turns me over, pushes me down to my knees, pins my wrists above my head and puts his cock in my mouth. Actually, no. Correction. He rams it into my mouth until I choke and fucks my mouth solidly until I'm dripping with saliva and tears. To be fair to him he cups my head in his hands so that I'm not banging it against the wall. I struggle for breath and when I turn my head and release his cock to catch some air, I get a slap so hard it makes my head spin. I take it back pretty swiftly after that.

As his cum slowly trickles down my throat and I am trying to catch my breath, he picks me up and pushes me towards the mirror.

My face is a mess. Red lipstick smeared around my mouth, make up running from my eyes into dark smudges all the way to my lips. One of the stockings has rolled down my leg.

He holds my hair and pulls it back exposing my neck.

"What are you?"

"A cheap whore" I finally say although the words barely make sense when spoken with my swollen mouth.

'I didn't hear you'

'A cheap whore"

"That's right. Now. Sort yourself out. I'll see you at the bar. Make sure you're presentable. I don't want people to think I am entertaining a hooker"

And with that he leaves.

Just a quick one...

... as the vicar said to the altar boy.

'Fuuuck, I am so late'

I lean over to kiss you, trying to get off the sofa by jumping over you. But I get stuck. At kissing.

And suddenly I am not going anywhere. Your hands cup my bottom, the blanket slips off me and I have the overwhelming urge to press my hard nipples into you. 

Cursory glance at the watch. I am so late I am yesterday.

You don't bother with my knickers. Just pull them aside, your cock slips into me easily because I am drenched already, from this moment and the two times you fucked me this morning. You fuck me with great urgency. I protest a bit and get a correcting slap. I slap you back because I feel like it while your cock penetrates me to the core. Fuck time. Immaterial. As the orgasm starts building in me with every brutal stroke, I start screaming in my usual wildcat fashion. I get another slap and a hand on my mouth. As you spunk feverishly on my belly, I relax for about 30 seconds, then jump off, taking advantage of your weakened state. 

My clothes go on in record time and I run out of the flat with a fleeting parting kiss. I know better now not to linger. I leg it to the station. 

On the way, I decide to have a quick cigarette. No lighter. Fuck. I see an entrance to a club where the tired bouncers are wrapping up the after hours drug-fucked party full of recalcitrant punters. I swing by and magically they all turn to me. I say nothing and at least three lighters are extended to my expecting cigarette.

I light up and walk off, their stares lingering on me.

Then I catch myself in the shop window. My hair is a mess.  My top is inside out. My face is unmade, my eyes hazy but I look oddly serene.

Another man walks by and stares at me in an almost involuntary way. I look and smile.

Freshly fucked. That's the look. Catnip for boys.

A little bit inconvenienced

I am stretched on a four poster in a boutique hotel. Bound by wrists and ankles. He walks around leisurely tightening the leather cuffs here and there. He peruses me for a bit. Mind you, I am guessing that bit. I am blindfolded so all I am sensing is his presence, his consideration of whether the position I am in is indeed the one he wants me in. 

Then tightens the cuffs again. Adjusts me.

Step back. 

A luscious pillow is pushed under my arse to expose me even more. Like I need it.

I am already lying  there crucified,  like a fucking Jesus Christess of kinky domination.

But I am also a bit bored and impatient.

'I may fuck you now', he says in a calm measured tone.

Never underestimate my capacity for casual insolence.

'Oh, well, fuck you. You want to fuck me so you will fuck me anyway'

'Really?'

'Yes, really', I draw my words mockingly.

Silence.

Then I hear the door open and close. He left the room. I smile to myself. 'Oh well, blah blah...'

I rest and chill in my position for a while. I had a hard day at work and this is actually quite comfortable. Like being in a Pilates class.

After some time, I start to wonder where the fuck he is. 

Then my nose stars itching. I lazily try to move my hand to relieve it but... fuck, I can't!

That's when it kicks in. 

'Don't panic' I say to myself.

Telling yourself that when trussed up like a Christmas turkey is no good, let me tell you.

I start thinking about the moment when 12 hours later the cleaner comes in and I will have to conduct the awkward conversation.

'Errr.. hi, yes, no. I mean, you wouldn't mind giving me a bit of a hand here because, ummm, err, yes, in a bit of a pickle you see...'

'What a massive cunt', I start raging internally.

Then my back starts tingling. Oh this is intolerable!

And when I am at my most vulnerable and close to tears, he comes back.

And fucks me within inch of my life. And I am gracious and grateful and generally amiable.

When he unties me, I slap him hard in the face.

'Do not ever do that again', I say.

But I don't really mean it.

Mindfuck

I love a good mindfuck. Sometimes, perversely, more than the actual fuck.

The Taskmaster (as I called him) was a well, a master at that.

We spent ages chatting online. He had a turn of phrase that would send me insane with desire. Ornate and old-fashioned. A little like a Victorian gentleman with a fetish for spanking and domination. I loved it. 'Wanton slut'. 'Self-indulgent harlot'. I followed his instructions. Stripping in the ladies and standing with my hands on the wall, wearing only my heels, for full three minutes, imagining (as instructed) that he was there behind me, assessing me.

Or that time when he forbade me to masturbate for three days and tortured me with tasks I had to perform to earn my right to touch myself again (I cheated all the way through of course. I can't be trusted like that). But it was the principle of it that counted. The Holy Principle of Denial.

When I met him in flesh first time, I was beyond excited. And nervous, like before an exam or a job interview. The controlling fucker arranged to meet me in a very public place. A middle of a park in Soho. And watched me first for a few minutes as I fidgeted around then just walked up to me. Very tall, dark, quiet and watchful. I saw him and I knew I wanted him to fuck me. He liked disconcerting me, you see. Then we had a chat and then he said 'I shall reflect on you' and disappeared.  I am not used to be reflected upon you see as I usually get what I want. But that was part of the chase and pursuit and play and I went along with it.

More online tomfoolery followed. I acquiesced on some days and I kept balking, disobeying, being insolent, late with reports of my tasks just to rile him on others. I'd get punished sometimes as he would not respond for few days.

But I liked pleasing him. Once, he ordered me to take my knickers off at my desk. I was wearing skin tight trousers and a thong. So, in an open plan office, I simply pulled my thong up, sliced it with a pair of scissors on each side. All while being on a conference call. Then pulled it out and texted him the picture of it on my desk. I loved the game and as God is my witness, I was going to play it proper.

Finally, we arranged to meet properly. A swanky hotel bar. He ordered me to arrive in a long coat and only underwear, stocking and heels. I followed his instructions to the dot. I rolled up in the bar wearing a low cut fitted black coat, a pair of hold ups, pair of towering stillies and my finest Agent Provocateur. Swept back short hair, dark eyes and red lips. Remember the girls in Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love video? You get the picture.  We sat in that bar for hours. I was leisurely sipping Martinis, barmen fleeting around me flirtatiously, him enjoying the attention I was getting and taking me in with every glance. We kissed. His hands, big rugby player hands were running up and down my thighs. God, I wanted him to fuck me. But he would not. It was simply the second job interview. Damn. 

'Anticipation is everything SLUT' was the message I got next morning.

Two weeks later, I got a curt message. Drinks and hotel. I skived off work early carefully orchestrating my schedule so that I would not be disturbed. Beautiful dress, no knickers, stockings and heels. Oh yes.

The drinks were inconsequential. I downed my Martini in two gulps. I was ready. More than ready.

We got to the room. He pushed me down and restrained me. Then he whipped me. Lightly. I writhed, resisted, kicked. I was feverish and restless. And ready to be fucked. My desire was just spilling out of me, down my thighs, onto the hems of my stockings. He finger fucked me. He had me on my knees gagging on his cock. A gorgeous cock I may add. And yet. He would not fuck me. The Principle of Denial. 

I writhed a bit more, I begged, pleaded, whinged, whined, whimpered, threatened. Petulant, commanding, little girl's voice. The works and more. Nothing worked. 

'I will not fuck you this time. It will give you something to look forward to next time.' 

As these words slowly floated into my ear it just hit me. I didn't like it anymore. The denial. The game. It was manufactured, disingenuous, manipulative bullshit that at that point just got on my considerably lovely tits. Everything that rang so true when we talked and wrote to each other, was passionless and empty in real life. It was all talk and no cock (or trousers), and quite frankly, I was done. I glanced at the digital clock on the built-in flat screen TV in front of me. 

7.45. Final test just to check.

'Fuck me please'

'No'

'Well do or don't but I've got places to be*' I said, got up without looking at him. I put my dress on, picked up my bag and headed for the door.

As the cold air hit my face outside the hotel, I realised that mind fucking is all good. But sometimes you need just the fucking.And anticipation isn't everything if the anticipated never comes.

I lit up a cigarette and walked to the station.

Next message was week later. 'SLUT, are you ready to play?' I never replied.

*Only later realised that this line wasn't even me. It was a quote from The Wire that just unconsciously popped out of my mouth at that time.

Simple

Walk in.
Grab my arm.
Stand me up.
Straight.
Then march me to the nearest meeting room.  Yes, that's right. March me. By my elbow, me tripping over my high heels trying to keep up.
Bend me over the table, hold my neck in place, my cheek squashed against the hard surface.
Lift my skirt.
Push my knickers aside.
Don't check how wet I am. No need for that.
Take your cock out and fuck me. Hand on my mouth to keep me quiet, drops of my saliva wetting your palms and dripping onto the table.
And when you are done, zip up calmly and leave, without a single glance.

Hands

Big hands.

Long thick fingers. Tanned. 

I stare at them.

He takes me in, his eyes running leisurely up and down my body.

Inspecting me.

But all I can think of is these long, thick fingers, sliding into me.

Inspection

12. I shall inspect my slut in flesh.

As the text pops up on my iPhone (annoying, it always displays the full text), someone is sitting at my desk, and I am in a middle of reviewing something quite important.

Fuck, have they've noticed?

I push my iPhone away. The message pops up again because fucking iPhone, like a postman, always rings twice.

I am annoyed at two things. 

The boldness of the message. 

And the fact that I am now dripping wet and I could be looking at crystal ball not a set of numbers on my screen that suddenly stopped making any sense.

Bed

Him "But I..."

Me: "You made your bed darling. I strongly suggest you go and lie in it"

Beware

"Beware passions Hester. They inevitably lead to something ugly"

That quote from Rattigan's Deep Blue Sea always had me in a place of doubt.

For it is true. In revealing one's passion, one always loses oneself. It's the giving away of secrets, passions, longings that always catches you at your most vulnerable.

It's the humanity of the bare soul. The all encompassing need to tell, to share, to be wanted despite our dirty secrets that make it so incredibly hard to connect.

If I told you that... I wanted you to see me.

And want me for who I am.

But as Don Draper said "People tell you who they are. We don't see it because we want them to be, who we want them to be."

The unfulfilled nature of human nature where we want to be 'found out', 'known', is so intoxicating. It's like we walk around trying to find the person who will know the real us, yet we don't know it ourselves. Foolish and deluded and yet in the pursuit of it, perversely we make ourselves so amiable and acceptable, that we forget who we truly are in the process.