The joys of extra virgin

I am writhing and pushing into him hungrily. More so than usual, because we spent most of the day together and as we strolled leisurely around a museum and then had a howler of an evening with friends, I was bubbling up with desire and building up a healthy appetite.

So now is the moment and I want him so much that having his hard cock in my wet, desperate pussy just isn't enough.

"I want your cock up my arse", I yelp like a greedy puppy.

No objections. The Lover is a very understanding man.

Logistics though. No lube.

One mad dash to the kitchen later and I get exactly what I want with a generous smattering Tesco's Finest Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

Every little helps.

Professional

The Frenchman is a twat.

He smirks when I talk, patronises me and tries to undermine me constantly. He is late to the meetings or doesn't turn up. Or just rolls up univited and derails them completely. In short, he's a fucking nightmare. I am icily polite and devastatingly pragmatic with him which drives him up the wall.

But there is one more thing I know about him. The more he smirks, the more he patronises me the more I see how he looks at me. A glance here or there. He may hate me, but he would still fuck me. Oh well.

A difficult meeting turns into a quagmire of corprate shite and one upmanship of the 'my cock is bigger than yours' variety when there are far too many men in the room. And the French prick is the biggest cock of them all, only metaphorically speaking.

I am sitting opposite him but quite close, at the edge of the table. We argue over the remit, the purview whatever.

I am both bored and pissed off by now. He won't budge, I won't budge, the rest are staying well clear.

I get an idea. I excuse myself and head for the loo.

I sit myself comfortably against the wall, roll up my skirt, free my breasts from my bra and start playing with myself leisurely. I take my time. Sure enough, I am dripping on my own fingers, imagining someone kneeling over me, fondling my tits with one hand and wanking with the other. Like say, The Teacher did just the other day.

After a long and satisfying orgasm, unusually intense (I have to bite my fingers to stop myself from screaming), I get up and go back to the meeting. I do not wash my hands.

As I breeze back in, the men stop talking.

I sit next to the Frenchman.

"Sorry where were we", I say smoothing my hair. My breath is quickened, and I have that delightful hazy look in my eyes from having just come. I know I do because everything in view has just lost its edges.

5 minutes later and I leave the meeting with my remit and my purview intact.

Party 2 of 4

I walk into the room.

I am being introduced to people. Turtle faced ambassador's wife. The ambassador, a lusting man in his 50s, caressing my hand as he kisses it European style.

It isn't up to the dinner when I finally clock.

"Are you the apetizer?" asks the Alistair Cooke style diplomat on my right.

"Excuse me", I say, searching for his eyes to tell me that the weirdness is okay. One look at him and I can tell. It has been sanctioned and signed off.

He avoids my eyes. Of course he does. He sold me.

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You have no idea what it feels like to be me there.

All these lusting, ridiculous Europeans, the aging Flamenco guitarist men swathed in pashminas.

I want to go.

Seriously.

I start walking towards the second exit in the room. Georgians, right? Always two ways to go.

Mademoiselle?

I stop.

Madameoiselle?

Again.

Yes?

Party 1 of 4

"I'm tired, I don't want to go"

I'm sitting in front of the dresser, looking at myself and not finding my reflection in any way satisfactory. I am drained.

"We have to go", his voice comes from the batroom, barely audible over the buzzing of his shaver.

"And don't worry. It's going to be quite low key. Plus it's in that Georgian house you really like. Remember? Near Wallace Collection?"

That appeals to me. I love Georgian architecture. The imposing sash windows, clean lines, ornate functionality and rooms with two doors. Two ways to exit somewhere where you don't want to be.

'Okay', I give in. "What am I wearing?"

The buzzing stops and he walks out of the bathroom smiling.

"That's more like it"

"Shall I wear that black origami zipper dress", I say and start putting on my foundation. It's a gorgeous woolen dress with cut outs at the back.

"Too edgy", he says and opens the wardrobe. "It's not that kind of crowd"

He appears behind me with a cream Jill Sander dress. It's a minimal, beautiful piece, clean lines, dropped waist, flapper-dress but demure. The panels at the front look innocent until you it down and they part showing off my thighs. He loves that dress. I do too but feeling a bit peaky, I want some armour on me tonight.

"I really want to wear that zipper dress"

"Indulge me", he says and leans over to kiss my neck. His hand wanders down my thigh parting my bathrobe. I gasp. He slides his fingers inside me. I gasp again, part my legs and look at myself in the mirror, my eyes wide open, only part of my face blushed with the rouge, his hair, wavy and dark against my cheek, his face on my collar bone.

"Well, you are ready after all" he speaks and his voice reverberates against my chest.

"Always ready"

"No", he takes his hand away. "We'll be late"

Normal

Out of the blue he invites me out for a drink.

Weird. We don't go for drinks. I get instructions, I turn up, we play, that's it.

I am not asking questions though. I scan the texts for hidden clues. Nothing. I decide to go with it. With The Teacher things always become abundantly clear once we meet. I trust him.

I arrive, dressed up. Not as a character, just me but glammed up with beautiful lingerie, a dress that subtly reveals more than it conceals. Effort has to be made.

I am anxiously checking my make up in the lift, realising that the lack of scenario makes me five times as nervous as usual.

He opens the door, wearing a pair of jeans and a beautifully cut summer seersucker jacket. He looks... normal. WTF?

He kisses me on the lips, informally.

I half expect to be on my knees any second.

It doesn't happen.

I walk into the living room, giving it a swift once over. No toys in sight.

"What would you like to drink?", he asks casually. 

"What are you having?", I am still scanning the room, and this buys me time.

"Vodka tonic"

"I'll have the same", I say trying to look effortless and natural as I cross the room randomly to look behind the sofa. Nothing. Not even a sneaky tail of a bondage rope.

Then I look at the telly. Hello! There is a woman on it. Middle aged, with terrible make up, sitting at a table in a dodgy looking kitchen, her tits spilling out of a low cut top.

"Fuck", I think. "This is some terrible housewife porn he will make me watch and fuck me to it. Oh what the hell..."

"There you go", he's behind me. I startle, take the glass and down half of it in a massive nervous gulp. 

"So, did you have a good week?"

"How can he be having this conversation right now?! This is too twisted.", I think and my eyes dart to that wretched telly screen again, fully expecting to see something vaguely unspeakable.

And then it hits me. BBC3 logo. I realise that I am not looking at some dirty cuckold porn. It's fucking Gavin and Stacey and the woman on the screen is Nessa. Now talking to Stacey's dad.

So yes, we are having a drink. Just a drink. And let me tell you. This is weirder than anything we have ever done before.

Teacher 3 of 3

On my knees and obedient, with his seed slowly trickling down my throat in salty stream, I hear his voice.

"So you can be a good girl", he muses, stroking my hair gently. "Who knew...."

He leads me, stumbling to the sofa. My face is flushed, with the minimal make up I was wearing smeared down my cheeks, my shirt is ripped open, my arms tangled in my bra, my skirt hitched up but my school stockings are still very much in place.

He sits down and then pulls me down on his lap.

I don't want to look at him. I hide my face in his shoulder. It's not that any of this felt wrong. It's that it felt so right that I need some time out. Not be in character for a moment.

He strokes my hair. Gently and methodically, as if smoothing the literal and metaphorical kinks.

"And look how shy you are all of the sudden"

I push my face into him even further, seeking refuge in the nook between his neck and shoulder.

"You have made amends with me. I give you that. But... you developed a little bit of reputation at school... among other teachers. I would like to help you overcome that', he says, shifting lightly so that I fall even deeper into his lap.

My idea of me being me again is clearly not what he had in mind.

We are back at school.

He stretches me out, adjuststing my limbs. Legs apart, my arms out of the way.  Arranging me, with great focus, as if I am his favourite toy.

He leisurely moves his hand on my thigh, playing briefly with the hem of my stocking and moving it upwards. I lock my thighs and trap his hand.

"No!", I mumble. "Please no"

"Open your legs", he orders harshly and stops stroking my head. Instead, I feel his palms sneaking between the messy strands of my hair and grabbing a firm hold. He yanks my head back.

I am now fully stretched, open and available. Bar the stubborn statement of my clenched thighs.

His hands travels upwards nonetheless, insistently breaking the the resisting flesh of my thighs. He stops just short of reaching between my legs.

"Open your legs"

But by now,  I want his thick fingers to penetrate me and acknowledge the hot, bubbling need inside me, to break inside me and free me from the unberable tension. I recall the first ever kiss in the dark school corridor, and the incompetent fumbling that followed from my 16 year-old boyfriend and what is about to happen, is what I wanted to happen then, but it never really did.

My legs fall open.

He strokes me through my knickers. They are so soaked that I feel the wetness spilling onto my thighs. His thumb is applying just enough pressure through the cotton softness of the fabric; so pleasurable, it's almost painful. He no longer has to hold my head back. It rolls back freely, my eyes are open, surveying the cream fabric of the sofa. Odd. It's the strands and threads I am looking at that are holding me, barely, in the moment. I am lost until he I feel his breath on my cheek and his voice seeping into my ear:

"As I said, you will have to repair your reputation. And I will make the necessary arrangements. Instead of going to your violin class this Wednesday, you will come to my office. I will invite a couple of other teachers. Maybe more than a couple. You will show them, like you shown me, what a good little girl you are."

His fingers deftly move my knickers aside. As he slides them inside me, I hear him take a quick breath. It's the only time during the whole thing he ever reacts. Maybe because I am not as much wet, as drenched, closing greedily around his fingers in a hot, wet grip. He moves his fingers to my clitoris and starts teasing it a little. I push onto his hand and as he picks up the tempo I move with him, arching, begging incoherently, my head pounding, my legs apart as much as I can open them. As he brings me closer and closer to the edge, I hear the soundtrack of his voice, calm and dark:

"I will have you in the middle of the room. On your knees. You will suck me off first. They will watch first, then they'll use you. Some will come in your mouth, some will come on your face. You will take them one by one and you WILL be grateful"

As I come, the moment is so shattering that I am falling apart in my head, a flurry of black spots whirling around my mind, blinding me. I spasm, contract and utter a animal-like scream of release.

He quickly picks me up, sits me up and impales me on his cock. As I have no strength left, he lifts me up and down, my head spinning and lolling around, my arms flailing until he grabs hold of them and drapes them around his neck. He uses me like a rag doll.

Afterwards, he takes me to bed and is very gentle with me, tucking me in and making sure I am comfortable.

I have an early start next morning. I get up without waking him and  have a quick  shower. I gather up the schoolgirl debris of the crumpled skirt, the House Prefect badge and rolled up stockings and drop it into my overnight bag. I am wearing high-waisted black trousers and the white shirt from last night (I planned this outfit ahead) with a black sheer body suit underneath, and a pair of high heels. My hair is slicked back and I'm wearing sharp make up. My Blackberry beeps. The quarterly financial review at 9.30. 

I am all grown up again.

Teacher 2 of 3

I take my arms away, not for a moment daring to defy him.

He opens my shirt and pinches my nipples, piercing the simple cotton bra I am  wearing. He deftly opens the clip of it and frees my breasts.

He is now standing very close to me and I take in his smell. Kiehl's Musk No 1. 

"Legs apart, and bend over", he orders.

I don't argue. 

"Arch your back"

I do.

"More"

I do.

"I will punish you now. Count every stroke"

He starts spanking me. Hard. 

"One, two three, four, five, ouch, ouch, six, seven, ouch ouch ouch please stop"

"You missed one", he says measuredly. "I will have to start again, and continue until you get it right"

And he does. 

When he finishes, I am defeated. My legs are trembling, I am out of breath and my bottom is smarting. 

He grabs my hair, pulls my head back and stands me up.

"What are you?"

"I don't know", I say, choking with tears. I genuinely don't. I am a shivering limp mess and my head is all over the place.

"You are a filthy little slut. Say it"

"A filthy little slut"

"Louder. I can't hear you. What are you?"

"A filthy little slut", I sob, my head is now resting on his shoulder, my cheek brushing against the coarse wool finish of his tailcoat.

"Good girl", he says finally pleased. "On your knees now"

When I drop to the floor, I have it waiting for me. Hard, smooth cock, sticking out of his trousers.

"No hands. And take it all the way down your throat", he instructs me.

And I do. Because by now, I am as good as gold.

Sad

I am sad. Really sad. That all encompassing darkness washing over me in an overwhelming wave of comprehension of just how much I feel.

I don't want you to know that I am sad because that's not attractive. I paper over the cracks of my emotions and muster the last notions of self-control to be happy. It doesn't work. I know. And you know.

I get stoned and drunk to numb the pain. I stumble around in my stillies being unreasonable, weird and sketchy.

But really. I am just being sad. And vulnerable. And hating the fact that I am that way because I want to be strong, and smart, and sassy and always the one with the last word.

But you make me that way because I am all but open myself with you. A trembling shivering flesh of honesty. And I like it that way even if it hurts sometimes. I spent half of my life being someone else and I don't want to be like that anymore.

I suppose we are all just a bunch of sinners, crashing around in the dark. And I am still looking for the light switch.

Alcove

I am at the swanky hotel in Central London having a couple of drinks with friends. One-liners are traded, Dirty Martinis are flowing.

I decide to pay a visit to the ladies.

As I walk down the long corridor, I spot a cheeky little alcove. A nook with a coffee table and an opulent armchair.

And on cue, I remember being pulled into that alcove once, pushed against that very armchair and trying to bolt.

Then a firm grip on the back of my neck persuaded me to stay in place, and a hard cock was was placed between my wet thighs. As I arched and gave in, begging for more, he simply walked away, and left me there, crouching on the edge of that chair, my arse in the air and the card to the hotel room placed on that glossy coffee table.

I smile and walk on.

Teacher 1 of 3

I am very careful getting out of the cab. I am wearing a long smart coat but underneath, I am all schoolgirl. Tartan mini skirt, a pair of innocent checkered knickers, knee high socks, white shirt and a House Prefect badge. I am a stickler for detail like that.

I walk into the building. The bored concierge gives me a cursory glance. 

I breeze past him and wait for the lift. I feel his eyes on my back and turn around. He is staring at me.

When I walk into the lift and catch a my reflection in the mirrored walls I know why. My coat has a split at the back and under all that demureness, you can see my legs, the socks and the fact that the skirt barely covers my arse. Oh well.

He opens the door. In character. He is wearing a pair of jodhpurs, boots and a tailcoat.

I am so fucking nervous I shiver like a leaf. In all honesty, I am always a bit scared of him anyway but tonight, I am positively terrified. I haven't done this before. It's an uncharted territory. I may as well be trying to climb Mount Everest in a pair of fucking flip-flops.

He walks me into the living room. There is a desk and a chair in the middle of it. He tells me to sit at it.

I do and I stare at the floor and play with the hem of my skirt, just like a girl.

"Do you know why you are here?"

I shake my head.

"Speak up", he says. 

"No", I say. My voice is odd. Girlish and petulant, not like mine.

"Of course you don't", he muses

"You are here because, quite frankly, I have had enough of your behaviour. You are rude, out of control, disruptive and a terrible influence on other children. I have no choice now but to exclude you. I will call your parents today and they'll have to take you home"

Funnily enough, he does hit the spot. I have been expelled from school when I was 14 and had exactly the same conversation back then.

"No", I wail and grab his hand. "Please, I will be good from now on .Please don't tell my parents!"

"Get up", he says.

He is now standing right next to me, very close but not touching me. I feel his presence with every nerve.

"Maybe we can sort this out. But you will have to be very good. Starting now. First of all I am taking this away. You do not deserve it"

He takes off my house prefect badge. As his hands brush against my breast, my nipples harden. He notices, smiles and leisurely starts unbuttoning my shirt.

"No, please no", I whimper and cross my arms. 

He grabs me by the throat and hisses into my face.

"Now, you little slut. Do you want me to call your parents now or are you going to be good? It's your choice"

Indeed it is. 

The Aftermath

"I need to go"

I jump out of bed and have a quick shower.

When I come back, he's sitting up, wearing his glasses and reading cricket news online. He looks quite cute in his glasses actually. More vulnerable.

"Where is my dress?"

"In the living room I think", he says smiling. Yes, it must be. That's when I last wore it, before being tied up and handcuffed.

I walk into the living room. It's like a fetish equivalent of 9/11.

A lone stiletto is languishing in the middle of the room, right next to a roll of bondage tape, cat o'nine tails (that's what he used on me, it hurt as fuck), a beautiful  pair of leather handcuffs and some bondage rope.

I was a feisty mouthy escort last night. I arrived late (on purpose), wearing slutty make up and no knickers. He punished me accordingly.

Then I notice his camera on the sofa, lens cap off.

He likes taking pictures of me when he torments me. Cheeky fucker.

I pick it up and start flicking through the pictures.

Here is a good one of me. Kneeling in the middle of the room, blindfolded, my hands cuffed on my back, my dress hiked up. I look helpless, the whiteness of my flesh contrasted against the dark hems of my hold ups.  

Another one of me lying down on my belly, when I threw a strop, called him a cunt and refused to suck his cock, my arse covered in whip marks as a result.

"Are you okay?", his voice comes from the bedroom.

"Yeah, fine. Just admiring your work my dear"

I take the camera to the bedroom.

"What did I tell you about taking photos of me?"

"Oh" he smirks smugly. "I forgot about them"

"I am sure you did", I say calmly and press the delete button.

The other me

As Roger Sterling once said on Mad Men:

You wanna be on some people's minds. Some people, you don't.

I open my dirty tricks email after a while of not checking it. I do that every now and again, although the steady traffic has ceased a some time ago when I decided to take a break from the relentless exploration.

The message waiting for me reads:

"How is my favourite, lithe, rampaging feline...? I miss her."

 

The reply is simple: "I don't."

Send.

And with that, I  close the window.

I don't want to just play anymore. I want to feel something too.

Natural slut

'Touch yourself'

I am lying there, my legs open towards him.

I love touching myself. He knows it and lets me play with myself an awful lot when we fuck.

He's masturbating too, staring at me so intensely, I can hardly bear his gaze and close my eyes. As the orgasm starts building in me, and my mind starts swirling with the all encompassing release he orders me to open my eyes.

I open them briefly. He is now above me.

'Look at me', he says.

As I involuntarily close my eyes again lost in the moment, a sharp slap brings me back.

'I said, look at me' 

My eyes remain closed as I say calmly: 'I will look at you. But only if you come in my mouth.'

I am fully expecting a slap again. I am not allowed to be demanding or set the agenda. Not in this bed.

Yet, it never comes. I do.

And as my fingers apply the last feverish stroke to my clit, he spills into my mouth, and I suck every single drop out of him, greedily, my eyes defiant and wide open, his stare still fixed on mine.

'You really are a natural slut, you know', he says thoughtfully and smiles.

'Thank you', I say with a newly-found easy confidence. 'I know'

Drinking

I like to drink from his lips.

I like kissing as foreplay.  And I love the way he fucks me. But when the two are married together, it's pure heaven.

It was the kissing, his mouth on mine, connected.

For once, I forgot about whining, whimpering, screaming, moaning, talking dirty , or really, being fucked. I just wanted more of the wet, sloppy, drooling sensation, more of his mouth juice just seeping in between my lips.

One thing I forgot to mention... his tongue was like his cock, buried deep inside me, penetrating the core of me, his body falling heavy on me, like his lips. All at the same time.

The Epiphany 4 of 4

When we get back, he makes me watch a Pixar cartoon on the telly while I am resting with my head in his lap. We sit on the sofa together in some weird couply approximation of normality. Me and a total stranger whose name I could not remember only this morning.

When the movie is over he orders me to 'get my things'. I take a shower, put on the dress on and the tights, slide into my high heels and return to the living room. He is sitting on the sofa, relaxed, taking me in, as if inspecting merchandise but he's not entirely pleased.

'Take your tights off'

'Why?'

It's accompanied by an impassive stare, and a very clear instruction. The fact that he never raises his voice is unnerving. And very persuasive. 

"Take your tights off."

So, I take my tights off, fumbling and swaying in my heels. And stand up in front of him again. His eyes wander leisurely up and down my body for a while.

"Pull your knickers down half way down your legs."

I slide my knickers off in a daze and they fall to the floor in a neat pool around my heels. I stand and wait.

'Did I tell you to take them off? Put them back on. I want them half way down your legs. Understood?' He shows no emotion, no excitement, nothing. It starts to unsettle me.

"Oh fuck you", I think. I try to get them back on but the lace gets caught in one of my stilettos, I trip and I collapse on the floor in a petulant mess.

'Put your knickers back on'

'No!', I finally snap.

I lay there, in a defiant heap, my dress hiked up, my arse exposed, my face down. He gets up and leaves the room. When he's gone, I get another flash of 'What the fuck am I doing?' and just as I start noticing the surface of the carpet on my elbows, he comes back. 

There is a riding crop in his hand.

"Get up. Put your hands on the wall." 

One look at the whip, the leather popper at the end of it, and I decide not to argue.

As I take position, he hikes up my dress further and strokes my bottom quite gently, his hand caressing the curve of it, from the small of my back, down to my thigh.

"Very good arse", he states in a matter of fact way.

And then the first strike happens. A swift, piercingly painful lash.

I have never been whipped before. As several strokes follow in swift succession, the burning pain becomes unbearable. I wriggle, put my hands on my arse to protect it, and he simply lashes over them as I whimper and meowl in protest.

'Hands off'

He reaches between my legs. As he opens me, I can feel the wetness spilling onto his hand. My knees are trembling, I am confused, tearful, nearly blinded by all this sensation, but like with the first spanking, completely lucid and connected. He slides his fingers inside me and says calmly, with a hint of satisfaction in his tone: 'You are dripping. You like being punished because you know you deserve it you filthy little slut'

And it's precisely that smug, assured satisfaction in his tone that suddenly riles me.

'Fuck off and leave me alone', I say, choking on tears of genuine outrage, and move off the wall to turn to him. Surprisingly, he lets me do that but only to push me on my knees, force his cock between my lips and fuck my mouth again, leaving my face in a state of snotty, teary mess.

He then drags me to the bedroom, making me crawl on all fours all the way there, throws me on the bed, and fucks me. Heavy, unrelenting and on top of me, pinning me down, whispering into my ear. A crude, dirty, insulting and humiliating vernacular fills my head. He knows I'm out of my comfort zone. He's testing me. And I am just taking it in, feasting on these words, barely participating yet but not finding even the most extreme of his fantasies odd. It feels natural, a jigsaw falling into place.

I haven't come yet. Not today. I am too focussed on the experience and the game and the rules, that my own pleasure takes a back seat, it doesn't even seem to be on my mind. I am in a class, and I want to learn.

When he's done with me, he does not ask me if I want to go to sleep. He simply switches off the light and holds me down. He is a heavy sleeper, quiet, warm, not moving at all. A solid foil for my fidgety nerviness.

In the morning, I wake up first. I can see my reflection in the full length wardrobe mirror. I feel sticky, fucked out and tired but very lucid at the same time. My reflection tells me it's still me. But deep down I know it's a different me.

He senses my alertness, and without saying anything, he reaches between my legs and masturbates me with his thick long fingers, patiently stroking my clit until I finally come pushing into him helplessly. As I spasm and arch, he muses, delving his fingers deep into me. 'You really do get most beautifully wet'. And then fucks me again, long and hard.

It's 8.30 a.m.

As I rest, looking into the wardrobe mirror again. And at that moment, I am back in the room.

I jump out of his bed, start putting my clothes on, smoothing my hair, methodically gathering up my bits and bobs, careful not to forget anything.

'Are you going already?', there is a hint of surprise in his voice, at the change in me.

'Yep, I need to go back to the real world now', I reply. The inadvertent choice of phrase is not lost on me.

'This was fun", he says.

'It was', I say without looking at him.

'See you around' I add as a goodbye, as it's polite to do so although I don't really mean it. I don't have his number, he doesn't have mine.

'Definitely', he smiles.

I don't kiss him goodbye. Just wave awkwardly and leave.

It's cold and cloudy outside, light rain covers my face in a sobering cool mist.

And for the first time in the last 48 hours, absolutely everything makes sense. I smile, light up a cigarette and walk down the road with my head held high. A new, different me. A woman, not a girl. And it's only the beginning.

The Epiphany 3 of 4

I am eating the toast he made me, as he watches me intently, sipping tea.

'I am not feeling well. May have a cold', I sniffle.

He brings me a Lemsip and a glass of water. 

The food, the medicine is very functional. It's like he wants me to be well because I have a purpose for now. I am his fuck toy. A new one too. He knows he bagged himself something else. A wiling little fetish virgin. I don't. Yet.I just go with it.

He leaves the room to get dressed. He tells me. He likes running a real-time narrative of his activities.

I get up and wander over to his bedroom. He's there. Fully dressed and lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

'Come here'

I lay next to him and snuggle up, spooning, with my back to him.

'Are you offering your arse to me?'

In actual fact, I am not. I am just snuggling up. But he has other ideas.

I can hear his flies being unzipped. He turns me over and I am faced with his cock. Hard, thick, smooth, olive-skinned, like the rest of him. 

'Suck my cock'

I hesitate.

'But I..."

Don't get to finish my sentence. He grabs hold of my hair and pushes my head down, his cock filling my mouth completely, choking me. I disconnect for a moment. Like it's not happening. I have always liked sucking cock, but never with strangers. It was a boundary I would not cross. Yet, once again, I acquiesce. His smell is beautiful. Naturally musky and yet fresh.

I lock my palms around his girth, catch my breath and start slowly work my tongue from the shaft, sucking on the smoothness of its head. I am shy and gingerly. A very clear instruction follows, one that I will always adhere to from now on, although I don't know it at the time.

'No hands'

To be fair, I don't really get to suck his cock anyway. I can't. Because he starts fucking my mouth, and soon my tongue gets lost in the sensation, his hand grabbing hold of my hair, using me like my mouth is just an extension of my cunt, his cock sliding relentlessly into the surprised openness of my throat. He gags me, my eyes streaming with tears, my face covered in my own saliva and snot as I repeatedly choke. I am taken aback by the force and intensity of it. I have never been fucked in my mouth, you see. When he finally comes, his seed trickles out slowly onto his belly from between my swollen lips.

'Good girl' 

There. Having your mouth fucked makes you a good girl apparently.

"Your face is a mess' he notes, with a degree of satisfaction. I sense he likes it. A clear demonstration of his possession of me.  He turns me over and holds me in a comfortable grip. I note he never strokes me or plays with me. He just holds me. Like you'd hold a pet.

We sleep for a bit and then get up. I check my phone. Three new messages. He watches me intently, preempting any opportunity for me to leave.

'Just tell them you are okay and that you will call them later'

I know he wants me here, in a uninterrupted flow of availability, and oddly, once again, the usually mouthy me just gives in to the notion of having no say in this equation.

'We are going for a walk now', he says and hands me his laptop open on Times Out website. 'Find something for us to see'

I suggest V&A. My favourite museum. I babble excitedly for a moment about some awesome exhibition or another. He ignores it and we head for Museum of London instead. 'Whatever', I think, full of resentment. We walk through parks and wander through streets. I am not enjoying it. I am so uncomfortable around him when I am not horizontal and being fucked, the hours drag. He makes me have dinner in a restaurant too. I am trying to tell the usual set of my exceedingly amusing stories and trivia which I seem to store like some sort of fact-processor and all of them fall flat. Good Lord, this is hard work.

We finally get back to the bloody Battersea. As we are walking along the Battersea Something Road/Street/Rise (that place just has no discernible centre), my mind starts wandering off. I am considering stopping right now, saying goodbye and leaving. 

And, as if sensing my hesitation, he simply announces out of the blue, without looking at me:

'When we get back, I am going to punish you very harshly and fuck you again'

And that makes me stay.

A little

I wake up. Stomach cramps. I am on my period.

He sleepily recognises that I moved a little. 

Hand on my neck and another in the small of my back.

I gasp.

It takes so little to have me ready.

His cock, smooth and hard, teases the crevice of my arse.

I gasp again.

Within that two minute window I arch and stretch like a cat and I push against him as he puts his hand on my mouth before I even make any noise.

And within these two minutes, without much ceremony, his cock enters my arse.

I am not arguing.

No point.

Beautiful girl

I am not into girls. Loud and clear. I love looking at them, I appreciate the aesthetics but I am just not that into them. I know my male readers will sigh in disappointment. Could not give a fuck, quite frankly.

But she was different. I chanced upon her in a gay nightclub. We connected inconsequentially over a need of a lighter and because, unusually for a woman, I am incredibly friendly to other females, even if, and especially if, in fact, they are attractive.

And she was. Under the layers of awful make-up, under the long bleached blonde hair, beyond the Geordie accent lay a classic beauty. Full lips, strong nose, beautiful eyes. Very Rita Hayworth, bar the baby chicken hair.

I was transfixed. I got chatting to her and all I did was listened. And she was interesting, you know. If you only listened to her gentlemen. An air stewardess with a soul. She talked passionately and constantly. I probed gently. She talked more. The tedious arsehole boyfriend, the agony over being too fat, too thin, or really, as it translates, inadequate.

'Wow, you are amazing', she said, childlike in amazement. 

And for the record. I was not callous. I seriously and genuinely listened to her.

Then, in the club I simply said:

'Come with me'

In the ladies, I undid her hair, swept it all to one side. Applied heavy eye make up, some serious blush on these sculpted cheekbones and lipstick.

From a suburban stewardess into Jerry Hall at her prime in 3 minutes. Fuck me, she was gorgeous.

She followed me like a puppy for the rest of the night.

'You are the nicest person I have ever met'

One look at her and I knew. In her world men were danger and women were sniping enemies.

And my dark heart melted. I was very nice with her because she deserved it.

There was a part of me that almost wanted to fuck her (and again, I am not into girls), and I could have done. She was putty in my hands.

A guy came up to us in the club.

"I just wanted to say that you look beautiful together"

We did. My short haired quirky edginess, next to her straight gorgeousness. Any man's fantasy.

But I got a cab and dropped her off home with promises of seeing her again.

As she walked, I saw her profile, the hair still framing it, looking like something out of Helmut Newton. She was walking tall and proud and yet shy at the same time, turning at the crossing to shout out to me:

'Call me!'

I will.

My arse

Well, I am funny about my bum. Not in the strict sense. I have an exceedingly good arse so I like it to be stared at, admired, stroked and caressed. And even more so spanked, caned and whipped. If I notch up a welt or two or an unsightly bruise, I am a happy woman. But still. I don't necessarily like to be fucked up my arse. 

As I said, I am funny about it.

I have done things in my relentless pursuit of sexual exploration that at first I found incomprehensible. And so did my friends, constantly amused by my exploits.

Schoolgirl, escort, secretary. Turning up in a hotel wearing nothing but a smile and a long coat. Being fucked by a virtual stranger in an alleyway in Soho. Talking so fucking dirty it made the air turn blue with things so taboo, even thinking of them seems very wrong. Being tied down, whipped, spanked, caned.

Yet. Taking it up the wrong 'un. No.

Even when one of my favourite lovers suggested it once, I just said coldly "I AM FUNNY ABOUT MY BUM', and stonewalled it. It needed capitals because that's how strongly I felt about it.

On that particular day, we fooled around for a bit on the sofa as you do. Kissing intensely, saliva coating our mouths. I wetted your cock with my mouth, sucking greedily, inadvertently lubricating it with my needy lips and as your cock nestled at my pussy I said no. I was on my period. Boundaries and logistics... blah blah...

We kissed a bit more. My breasts were heavy with menstrual tension. My nipples dark pink and painful, yet appreciative of the drenched sucking you meted out with your lips. I was on top of you, stretching, rubbing, begging to be fucked.

And then you flipped me over and played with me, your fingers opening my pussy, your cock probing around. Suddenly, the tip of your cock, playfully based at my arse was no longer just there. It was there because I wanted it to be there. You got that pretty quickly.

'Touch yourself', you ordered.

And so I did. As my clit was swelling in response to my teasing fingers, I could feel your cock, opening my arse and sliding into the cavity of it. It hurt. But the thought of you taking me that way was so incredibly powerful that I simply could not think of anything but just pushing my arse out and opening a bit more for you to take me. To posses me fully. To take what was rightfully yours.

I ended up stretched out, helpless, with your hard thick gorgeous cock up my arse, biting the pillow under my mumbling mouth as the sensation just overwhelmed me. Your slow pulsating girth filled me up time after time, and my fingers were feverishly taking me up to a shattering climax.

'Does it feel right?' you asked thoughtfully. Nice.

'Yes' I gasped (or said something approximating a word) not wanting you to stop while your cock was penetrating every single boundary I ever had.

I have been done up my bum at last.

I am feeling very right about it now. And not at all funny.

Neck

It's Monday morning and after the tedious ritual of 'How was your weekend. Good. How was yours? Good' exchanges I finally sit down. And then jump up as my workmate exclaims:

'Bloody hell, what happened to your neck?!' 

Quite frankly, I have no idea at first.

But then, the flashback comes of him holding my neck down repeatedly, as he wrestled me into submission.  It all makes sense now.

'Oh, I had my hair done over weekend. Must be the reaction to the dye'

It flies. For now.

I promptly trot off to the ladies' and peruse the damage with the help of my compact powder mirror.

A distinct finger-shaped bruise makes my mind wander back to that moment when he had to restrain me quite harshly this morning and then slapped me. I was whingey, ungrateful and what's worse, slapped him back. In the end, I was pressed against a wall, my whole body melting into the hard cold surface, as his cock, penetrating me, relentlessly delivered the discipline I needed. And probably the several fucks that proceeded this one did not help my neck either. Like the one just before we had to leave for a Sunday lunch with friends and I sat on his lap roly-pollying, pawing and asking for attention like a cat you left outside for too long. 

'Don't tempt me'

Red rag for a bull, that one. I get even more kittenish and naughty at the mere sound of 'Don't'. A quickie over the kitchen counter followed, where my neck was once again subject to restraining, and I was subject to an unceremonious fucking.

He had no choice to be fair. I was pretty badly behaved on both occasions.