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.
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