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.

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"

The Epiphany 1 of 4

It was simple. It really was.

I went to a fetish club. My second time, with a good trusted friend. The sort that knows you really and is able to nudge you out of your comfort zone without you even knowing. I walked in, tall, proud, in a skin-tight body suit with a sheer panel at the front, showing off my breasts, stockings, and thigh-high boots. I was playful and inviting yet choosy. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I was sure as hell I was looking for something. There was something stirring in me. I was perusing the crowd and the men were mesmerised as I was passing by. My Scot was watching me and guarding me closely. Several approached. While I am easily engaged and enticed, The Scot was giving them a brush off. 'Not good enough' he pronounced. I trusted him. I was still searching.

He was stocky, heavy and dark. Not my type at all. But that was not the reason why I chose him out of the crowd. That became clear later. Our eyes met over the bar and I smiled, to be then distracted by an offer of a drink. As the shot of Tequila hit my mouth, I looked again. He was gone.

I put the glass down and just walked through the crowd. There he was. His broad shoulders right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and beamed. He was very happy to see me.* The Scot smiled approvingly at last, and then obligingly disappeared.

The in-between was inconsequential. I was in my usual mode of a princess who bestowed her grace on a potential favourite. We had a drink, chatted a bit. I talked a lot, dispensed amusing one-liners and ordered him around. A bit of banter.

'I am a bit of a leg man'
I smiled smugly.
'I have a surprise for you then. I have outstanding legs'
'Good'

And then I ordered him to mine. He followed. We bumped into The Scot, queuing to the couple's room for his own bit of fun. He checked if I was okay, in a very fatherly fashion, then gave a stern look and a quiet word to my prey. We were free to go.

When we got to mine, we talked a little. Getting to know each other. Not hard. My flat is all about me, full of pictures, books and mementos. A reflection of me in a very small space. If you look hard enough, you will know who I am.

I was a little manic still. I radiate energy on a quiet day and coming straight from a buzzing club had me restless. I stripped to my body suit, put on a pair of stilettos and twirled.

'You do have very good legs' he smiled.
'I know'
'And a very good arse' (That I didn't know - always hated my arse)

Then we went to bed. If I am honest, I don't remember the first couple of time we fucked. We simply did because that was the point of it all. I still didn't know why I wanted him to fuck me. He was not my type. Dark, quiet, stocky with shaved head. I like slim, eloquent, very tall and foppish. Yet, I played along. I was sensual, playful and responsive but ever so slightly detached. I liked him fucking me in a way that one likes having a good dinner, or watching a pleasant movie. I haven't fucked for a while so it just did the trick. He was heavy on top of me, always missionary, not very adventurous. Thick cock with just the right length and pulsating girth. His cock was like him. Heavy, relentless and just pounding me.

'You are very sexual. I like how you respond to me'. That was the second and last complement that night.

We chatted a bit more. I was dominant, overly-intellectual, and a tad dismissive because he just wasn't fast enough to keep up with my manic energy. He was almost incongruous, impassive. Not reacting much to me at all. I was getting bored. My mind kept wandering off, as if questioning him being in my bed in the first place.

We were lying next to each other spooning after fucking leisurely for the third time. I was detached, staring at the wall, away with my thoughts. He kept fingering me deeply, and I was writhing obligingly, connecting only with the physicality of it, impaling myself on his fingers and raising my bottom. And that's when it happened. He pulled out his fingers and spanked me.

What the fuck..? Before I had the chance to finish verbalising that thought in my head, he spanked me again. And again. The rush was immense. I cannot describe it because epiphanies are famously hard to put into adequate words.

'You like it, don't you?' His tone was no longer impassive. It was a voice of someone who found the light switch in a dark room and and he now knew exactly where he was, being very pleased with himself for doing so.

I said nothing. I just raised my bottom again and felt his palms falling on it in a sharp stroke. And another. Then he stopped. I was quiet. Just shivering like a trapped animal. No more thoughts racing through my head. No longer detached. Very connected, suddenly very conscious. He slid his fingers inside me and I felt myself dripping out onto his hand, hot and bubbling, in a stream of fresh, thick juice.

He simply turned me over and fucked me. This time it was different. He was at last in his element. He went darker, no longer indulging any of my casual insolence. I was a limpet, wrapped around him obediently. He was brutal, impenetrable, and finally started talking.

'Filthy little slut'

And that was a beginning of a very long affair.

Being spanked the first time is like the first kiss. You never forget it.


*He later told me he came up to me at the bar but I was surrounded by men and he wasn't sure whether it was right to approach me. Thank fuck I knew he was the right one.