Different angle

I meet Teacher for a lunch and walk. We are no longer lovers. The man who discovered and freed the natural slut in me, is now a friend.


I watch his hands (and beautiful hands they are, large with long thick, confident fingers) as he takes me through the minutiae of the workings of my camera. They are no longer fingers that left angry red marks on my bottom or pinched my nipples as I stood in front of him, dressed like a schoolgirl, with my shirt open, ready to be used. They push the camera buttons expertly, slide small latches and push little wheels, like they used to push me outside of my comfort zone, guiding me to the unexplored parts of me.

His focus and single-mindedness that I used to find unnerving and exhilarating in equal measure, are now are calming lotion for my impatient questioning.

His voice, once seeping darkest fantasies into my ear, now feels comforting as he kneels behind me, talking me through aperture settings and exposure.

I sit on the stairs in the beautiful Georgian building we are exploring together, taking picture of myself in the large Victorian mirror, my image distorted by the old looking-glass. 

When I look at the picture at home, I notice him behind me. He's kneeling, with his camera, taking picture of me. I am the Hitchcockian peroxide blonde, with big vulnerable eyes, he is a ghostly presence behind me, face obscured by the camera, ever watchful. I like him there. It feels safe. And in one epiphany moment I realise that I always felt safe with him the way I probably never felt with anyone else. And knowing that feels good.

A conversation one day

Teacher used to tease out the most well-though out pieces of me. Like this one.

Well, I was thinking being at a garden party with lots of adults, and just running around, in plimsolls, short skirt and cotton panties, as you do and then being cornered by my Dad's friend somewhere quiet. 

I can totally feel the tension but I don't yet quite know what it means so I am bit scared and shy at the same time. I sort of know that being touched and stroked till I gasp is not quite what I should expect to happen from an older man but I am getting wet and shaky and the novelty and excitement of it is just to hard to resist especially as you clearly know what you are doing gently stroking me through my knickers which by now are very wet although I am still keeping my legs together like Mum told me girls should do. I can still hear the party in the background and I am thinking that someone may come and find us but all I am thinking about is that I want this to continue. 

My nipples are so hard underneath my little cotton bra that it's almost painful and as you starts pinching them in a languid, reassured way I am ready to be fucked senseless. As I observe your tongue tease the dark flesh of the nipple I don't even know that exactly means.. But then you just push my hand on your cock and as I get my hand around it, all warm and smooth and hard I suddenly I get it and open my legs.

Enough of that... I...

Daydreaming

Planes. Strange creations. The humming engines, the closeness of others.

I, for one, am exhausted.

I fall asleep, curling into a comfortable ball in my cashmere blankie which always (I mean always you mean customs man who made me pay extra for it!) travels with me.

I drift off to sleep. The dreams that come are those of his cock. Not sure why but his cock always held power over me. One sighting of its smooth, olive skinned, girthy, comfortable length had my mouth salivate in a desperate bid to please. I had it in my mouth, in my pussy, forced, trained, calmly talked into taking it all down the throat.

He used to wank over my face too. Let me touch myself at permission. Then suddenly force the gorgeousness of it in my mouth and fuck it leisurely in long strokes, talking to me slowly, seeping his dirty fantasies into my sodden face. I never minded the saliva, the snot, the choking. I loved that cock in my mouth and by Jove, I'd make him squirt over my lips, dripping with cum.

For a bit I was obsessed with it.  Once, I went for it so much with licking, sucking, dripping sloppy need that he was in my will for once. I massaged his balls with a hand sodden wet with my saliva, gorging, gagging feasting on his cock, sucking at the shaft, running my tongue down, with my lips just clasping the girth. I felt him come from  miles away. That beautiful smooth column, trapped in my mouth. He came shuddering, in strokes. I drank him like a nectar. Careful not to miss a drop of the salty musky cum, sucking it out of him hungrily.

He stroked me over my hair.

"That was quite intense"

I said nothing. I knew it was.

Conversation

Him: What have you been imaging lately? Anything you want me to do?

Me: Well, fuck fantasies.  Just fuck me very hard, let me suck your cock till I gag, be very rough with me and have me on my knees for most of the time - that makes me very happy.

Him: Sunday?

Me: Yes.

Sometimes one has to cut to the chase.

 

Quick

"Wait here", I order the cab driver.

 I walk in and the porter is waiting.

"I understand you have my wallet?", I say in an imperious way.

I left my wallet in a cab coming back home last night and he found it.

"Yes madam"

I pick it up and walk out.

And then I turn back and walk back in.

The porter is watching me.

I get into the lift, press 9 and go up.

He is not expecting me at all but I don't care.

He opens the door, really surprised.

"What are you doing here?"

I stare at him, say nothing, drop to my knees, looking up.  

He knows what I want. He unzips his trousers and  feeds me. Right to the back of my throat. He fucks my face so feverishly I am surprised at the intensity of it.

When he finishes, his sperm trickling down my mouth, I simply get up, wipe my lips and leave. He's there, spent, with his trousers around his ankles, vulnerable. But I have to go.

"Goodbye", the porter is being polite.

"Goodbye", I say, smugly.

I get into the cab.

"Back home please"

Zips

I stand proud and tall in his bedroom. He's behind me not touching me.

I feel his breath on neck.

"Any zips?", he asks in a curt, strictly fact-finding way.

"No"

He takes my dress slowly off me like it never belonged to me in the first place. He never rushes, you see, always taking his time.

I am waiting patiently for once.

I catch my reflection in the full length wardrobe mirror. So does he. My nipples pierce the lace bra I am wearing. You can see the goosebumps on me.

He runs his fingers along my stockinged thighs. Then he takes in the curve of my bottom. He stops in the small of my back.

He strokes my back with a single finger, from the small of my back   right up to my neck. I gasp helplessly and shiver.

"Turn around"

"No", I say, disliking the effect he has on me. My legs tremble.

The finger in the small of my back turns into a hand which unceremoniously pushes me down, face down on the bed as his hand delves between my legs, his fingers wet within seconds of opening me up.

"Legs apart"

"No", I say again, knowing full well the refusal will come with consequences.

I get severely punished for my insolence as his large hands leave angry imprints on my bottom with every stroke.

The pain is exquisite and very well deserved. As is his hard cock in my mouth, his hand grabbing my hair, long strokes deep into my throat, choking me into a tearful snotty mess, to ensure that I got the message.

Playing young

I like playing young. Nothing ever freaked out my debauched mates as my admission that every now and again madame enjoyed a bit of Daddy play. Well, stone the fucking crows.

It came so natural to me that I was unaware that this sort of thing may really spook some people. Yet, on a pragmatic level, I am a consenting adult, indulging in a bit of fantasy play. Freud once said that the father will always be a blueprint for all male relationships a woman will have, conversely, so will the mother in man's life. 

My father, a brilliant man, an intellectual, a real force of nature and ultimately flawed character, was always an immense influence in my life. He brought me up to be a mouthy, confident and utterly convinced of my brilliance, with a heartfelt conviction that I can do whatever I want to do and that a strong sense of self will get me places. In the great scheme of things, where your parents knock you and try to mould you into improved avatars of themselves, it was not bad going. Granted, he was a massive arsehole at times and treated my mother badly. But that was their relationship. I am my own person.

That said, my childhood was happy and the part of me that likes playing young, in a persverse way, wants to connect to that time, with the added layer of sexual satisfaction.

An important lover of mine unlocked it in me, instantly. After he dominated me the first time he tested me. 

"What would you like to call me?", he whispered, his breath hot and burning my cheek.

'NFI', my first response. Not fucking idea. The whole fetish universe may as well have been a Martian invasion. Totally unfamiliar.

"Master?"

"Ewww", I thought. 'I am  not in a fucking circus.'

"Daddy?"

Silence from me that spoke volumes.

"Say it"

As the word fell from my lips, the world lit up.

As he fucked me, heavy and relentless, I was calling him Daddy and loved every minute. And for the record, not once I thought about my actual Dad. I was just lost in sensation of being young, curious, sexually just on the cusp and experiencing something quite extraordinary.

As I said, nowt wrong with playing young. 

Boundaries

We wake up. I am warm and comfortable. He cuddles me and I respond by pushing into him sleepily like a kitten.

"I want to watch porn with you. Show me what you've been watching", he says.

I stiffen. No pun intended.

Watching porn is my thing. It's my private pursuit and I don't want to share. It's just something I like to be mine.

"No. It's my thing", I say and push my face into his chest shyly.

He doesn't get it. He pushes me.

"It's my thing", I repat childishly and refuse to budge.

And in the end, he takes his laptop, and starts watching it. Without me.

I am laying there, my face on his belly.

"What is it?", I ask.

"None of your business. You didn't want to watch it, did you?", he says curtly and pushes my head down.

As he fucks my face, I can hear the soundtrack to it in the background, the sordid moaning and strangers being fucked. I am totally detached. I have left my mind and oscillating somewhere on the ceiling, watching myself.

When we are done, I jump out of the bed without looking at him. I have a shower and come back to bed.

He says nothing but clearly senses that something isn't right.

In a surprisingly gentle gesture for him, he reaches out and strokes my arm. It's a quiet intimate move, unlike him.

"You haven't fucked me today yet", I say coldly in a business-like manner. I am getting my control back one way or another.

He smiles at my insatiable insolence, and flips me over, as always, ready. And he does fuck me. Narrating the porn he has just seen. Two men, one woman. My favourite. He tells me how he will take me to a sex club and watch me being used by people.

I listen to his heavy whisper, but I don't come, I keep my my eyes closed.

Then I go and have another shower. Alone in his bathroom, something happens. I start crying. Bit fat tears roll down my face. I am sobbing, my face drenched. I never cry, you see. This takes me by surprise. I am not sure why I am crying. It just comes out of me in droves, the emotion, the feeling, the heavy heart. I am quiet and exhausted by the end of it.

I come back and he asks

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, totally. Need to go."

Then I leave. It's a warm rainy day. I walk down the road and cry again, in an involuntary bout of soppiness. And then it hits me. He pushed a boundary. My secret self.

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.

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.

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'

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.

Daddy

"You won't tell Mummy, will you?", he says, heavy on top of me. 

"Why Daddy?' I ask. My eyes and my pussy wide open.

"Mummy would not like it darling. She'd be jealous."

"I won't tell Daddy, I promise. Will you buy me a Barbie?"

"Yes, of course I will. I will do anything for my little girl"

The Epiphany 2 of 4

It's the morning after.

He pounds me punishingly with his cock. That is the only way to describe it. Relentless pounding.

'That's the first fuck of the day', I say with the memory of the 12 fucks that preceded this one.

'Correct', he replies in a matter of fact way.

I am tired and fucked out. My entire raison d'être in the last 24 hours has been to be his fuck toy. It's new to me.

He has broken me with the spanking and just relentless fucking. I had an epiphany (details here) and I want him to go so I can enjoy it on my own.

But he doesn't go. He just sits there in my bed, dark stocky and solid, checking his messages on his iPhone.

I have a shower and come out of the bathroom in a towel. I carefully avoid eye-contact. I catch my iPhone on the table. Seven missed calls and God knows how many messages. I have disappeared for 24 hours and the world is not happy.

"Sooo...", I start the 'get the fuck out of my house' conversation.

"Yes", he is still typing without looking at me.

"Sooo", I start again

"We are going back to mine. Then we are going for a long walk, then I am going to fuck you again. Get your shortest dress and your high heels"

I stand there in the middle of the room thinking 'How fucking dare you?" As my resentment bubbles up he looks up at me again. Just checking.

"Okay", I say meekly and go to my walk in wardrobe to look for the specified garments.

I gather my slutty Miu Miu dress and a pair of Gina stillies and drop them into a Tate Modern shopping bag that's just sitting there.

I turn round again, thinking, "Why the fuck am I doing all this?"

Another alarming thought. 'What the fuck is his name?"

I look at him and I am blank. This man fucked me for 24 hours and his name is as elusive as my emotions.

We walk out into a cold January day, sunny and crisp. He makes me take the bus as well. The conversation is awful. He likes photography and I am an arts geek.

"What's your favourite photographer"

"I don't have one"

"Henri Cartier-Bresson is my favourite", I offer.

"I see a picture, I like it"

That's it. I begin to dislike him for his inability to engage. I am so socially skilled that in tests I come out as a functioning psychopath. I don't like people not connecting with me.

The bus comes. I put my RayBans on and fall asleep on his shoulder.

He wakes me up in Battersea. I hate Battersea.

His flat is a man's flat. Minimal, tidy but messy.

'I am going to take a shower' he announces.

As I hear the boiler kick into action I get off the sofa I was lounging on and dart around. Bills, letters, anything. "What the fuck is his name?!"

I spot a neat row of Christmas cards on the shelf. I grab the first one. And in a mirrored, naive child writing here it goes "Dear Uncle Jeremy"

Relief.

When he comes back into the room wearing his bathrobe and asks me for my breakfast preferences I smile comfortably.

"It's okay Jez. I will have whatever. Toast with Marmite will do"

Such a small word. So much fun dealing with the consequences.

Yes Sir

I am wearing a schoolgirl outfit. I just got spanked for being in charge of the possy of the trouble makers.

"Did you smoke behind the bike sheds?'

'No, I didn't!"

"I heard about this trip where you sucked off the boys on the bus. Is that true?"

Pouty little lips, tugging at my skirt, my fingers playing with the school stockings I am wearing.

"No!"

"You did, didn't you? You little whore"

"No, Sir, I didn't I swea.."

My excuses are cut short by a swift physical turn. Grab by the hair, lift of the skirt.

Short, decisive spank.

"Ouch ouch ouch'

Another one. And several more in a swift succession.

My bottom is smarting and I am whimpering now.

"But I..."

"Did you or did you not suck off some of the boys?"

My little blonde head bows in submission. I get pushed on my knees.

"I will not tell anybody about this", he says in a considered way. "But you need to please me. Open your mouth"

A hard fragrant gorgeous cock hovers between my lips.

"Maybe", I mumble feverishly while he pulls up my skirt and fingers me.

"Maybe?', he asks me. 'MAYBE?! You are wet, you little slut'

I suppose I am. I suck greedily on his cock.

"Good girl"