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.