Kinky (7 page)

He looks over his shoulder, pensive, disappointed. ‘I guess you are not a sadist,’ he says. ‘Not a, what was it, switch. But please, Rosie. I need to feel it. Don’t think about my pain. Tell yourself this is what he wants. He wants to learn. OK? Please?’

I take a moment to recover. I see his knuckles, white from gripping the edge of the desk. He wants me to do this
.

I pull back my arm again, shut my eyes for a moment and try to disconnect the act from its consequences. He is a cushion, a mannequin, something that doesn’t feel pain.

I open my eyes and slice the cane through the air. Its sinister whistle makes me cringe, but I keep it moving until it makes contact with Dimitri’s bottom, which quivers. His hips roll and he gasps, but there is no cry.

At first, the line I have drawn is white, then it begins to darken rapidly while Dimitri pitches back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reaches behind to touch the welt, running a fascinated fingertip along its length.

Appalled at myself, I drop the cane back on the desk. ‘Oh God, that must have really hurt. I’m so sorry.’

He lets go of the desk and turns back round, hitching up his jeans with one hand while the other continues to rub his bottom.

‘Well, yes, it hurt,’ he confirms.

There isn’t a sniff of an erection. Seems he’s no switch either.

‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

‘No, I don’t like pain. Not my thing. But now I know what it feels like, so I thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I put a hand on his cheek and stroke it. ‘I didn’t enjoy it either. Well, maybe a little bit.’ I smirk, feeling like a super-villainess in a latex catsuit.

‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, bending to my ear. ‘I am getting my revenge. It’s your turn now.’

I flutter. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Mmm, oh dear, my dear.’ His hand cups my buttocks, a menacing gesture if I ever I felt one. ‘You are wearing no panties!’

‘Oh. So I’m not. I knew I’d forgotten something.’

He chuckles darkly and kisses the underside of my ear. ‘Bad mistake.’

I falter for a moment. ‘Dimitri?’

‘Umm hmm?’ His fingertips bunch the skirt of my dress, rubbing it up and down my naked bottom.

‘Why do you want to hurt me? Why do you like it?’

‘Hey.’ He draws back his neck, finding my eyes with his. ‘Because you want me to. Is no other reason. Because I want to make you hot. Turn you on, you say, no?’

‘Yeah. You want to turn me on. OK. Just asking.’

I can see why people would want to be dominated, I just have some trouble getting why others want to dominate. It’s hard not to question the impulse or suspect that there might be an agenda of hatred or abuse behind it sometimes.

What if it turns out that Dimitri hates women, or British people, or is just working out and passing on some horrible experiences from his past? I think that might break my heart. I know I barely know him but …

Anyway, I believe him. There’s a transparency and a zest about him that make it easy to accept that he is simply enjoying himself, and living for the moment. As to whether he wants to pleasure
me
or simply pleasure a Random Submissive Woman, the jury’s out. I hope it doesn’t stay out for long though.

‘Good. So bend over.’

The time for angst has passed.

Dimitri takes me by the upper arm and leads me to a chair – maybe the one that Trixie Twinkle Twat was standing on that time – then places a hand on my stomach, gently pivoting me into the prescribed contortion until I am bending over, palms flat on the seat, bum up, legs hip width apart.

The hem of my dress flutters reassuringly around my thighs, but not for long, because Dimitri’s next act is to lift it up, revealing my helpless bare bottom to his disciplinary gaze.

Damn it, I’m wet already. Can he tell?

‘Bad girl,’ he says, grazing my inner thighs with his fingernails, almost up to the split lips of my crotch. Oh, he can tell. ‘What shall I do with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘Sir.’ The addition feels natural, and he seems to like it, making a low sound of approval.

‘I’m going to punish you, Rosie. I’m going to use different things and see how long it takes for you to ask me to stop, OK?’

‘OK, sir.’

‘If you need a break, you tell me. If you can’t take no more, you tell me. Right?’

‘Right.’

He claps his hands together and rubs them, ready to get down to work. ‘First I use this leather, OK? I start easy.’

Despite this reassurance, I clench my fists and tense up. The first contact of strap on skin is a caress, however, and I soon relax into it, enjoying each little flick of warmth as it travels slowly across the full area of my rear.

‘Mmm.’ I give my verdict. ‘Feels nice. Really nice. Erotic.’

‘Oh yes? I go harder.’

He is as good as his word, putting a little more force behind each stroke so that they sizzle rather than tickle, the heat building with each little set of snaps.

I begin to wriggle, trying hard not to break my position, then he goes harder still and the strap cracks down, lines of solid heat burning the width of my bum.

I get to twelve, I think, then I plead for a break.

He rubs my spine while I gather my breath and my wits, moving his hand lower and lower until it caresses my hot bottom.

‘Looks good,’ he tells me. ‘You like it?’

‘Yeah. It hurts but I could take more. Just needed a break. Not ready to finish yet, unless you want to.’

‘OK, that is useful information. I use this for warm-up or for long erotic spanking. There is heavier thing in the cupboard, maybe that is for punishment.’

‘Maybe,’ I agree, distracted by the pooling of juices between my heated pussy lips. I think back to the demonstration we saw in the dungeon next door. Will Dimitri flog my pussy? I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. A simple fingering will suffice today. Perhaps now?

But he isn’t ready to oblige yet. My bottom must suffer on.

‘Shall we start again?’ He pats my recovering bum, still warm, but not particularly sore, though the skin feels tight and sensitive.

‘OK, sir.’

The worst part of this is the strain on my thigh and calf muscles, I think to myself. Then I change my tune.

Wood meets flesh in a bloodcurdling duet of pain and anguish.

‘OW!’ I yell in objection, leaping upright and clutching my backside.

Dimitri laughs and taps the paddle on to the site of its first assault. ‘That is a good one, eh? Hurts a lot?’

‘Yes, it bloody does.’

‘OK, I take it easier to start. Back down, please.’

I eye him suspiciously, but eventually resume my position, trusting him to do as he has promised.

He applies the paddle with a lighter hand. It still hurts, but it’s bearable for twenty moderate strokes. I settle into the sensation, enjoying the uncompromising crack of the swats as they bounce and echo off the prison-white walls. Occasionally, I have to shift from foot to foot or howl out loud, until I am shifting and howling almost perpetually and then he ups the ante again, dealing six solid shockers. After the sixth I beg for mercy and he stops again.

My bottom is throbbing, the heat searing way down below the skin. Sitting down will definitely need to be done with care.

‘That will bruise,’ he decides, pressing fingertips into my flesh so that I wince. ‘So I take it easier if client don’t want bruises.’

‘I love your … scientific approach … to this,’ I pant, rational thought being far from my own mind. ‘I never realised … being a laboratory assistant … could be this … interesting.’

‘Ah, my assistant.’ He seems to like this thought. He drops to a crouch to look more closely at the state he has made of my bum, thumbs pressed into the under hang of my cheeks. ‘You know, in Russia we have a saying: Without torture, no science.’

‘Really? Well, you’re a great scientist then.’

He laughs and kisses my right arse cheek. I hold on to my breath while my pussy spasms.
Oh, kiss me lower, kiss away my juices.

His lips drift down and, when he speaks, his words buzz against my nether lips. ‘You don’t want the cane?’

‘Not today. Not ready.’ I push back. He plants a lingering kiss on my wettest spot. ‘Please, oh, please.’

‘I lock the door.’

The most welcome words I could hear. I let my neck and shoulders relax and drop my forehead to the worn-smooth wood of the chair, then rest my cheek against its grain. My bottom still throbs, the skin stretched taut and sizzling, and my legs are starting to ache, the knees feeling locked, but I don’t care. I want one thing, and I want it from him.

‘This science, it make me want to fuck,’ he says gravely, returning to my open legs and pushing his hand between them. ‘I think for you also.’ His fingers pinch and squeeze and rub. ‘You are comfortable there? Your legs shake.’

Maybe a bit less pressure on my feet might be good. But there is no bed in here.

He kisses me, carefully, on the inside of each thigh, then he braces his arms around my waist and lifts me to my feet until I am held with my head in the crook of his shoulder, leaning back into him, ready to fall and be caught.

‘Mm.’ He kisses my neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin. ‘I think here is best.’

He leads me to a gymnasium vaulting horse at the back of the room and lifts me on to it so that my stomach is cushioned by the leather-padded top and my legs dangle down, not quite reaching the floor.

I hear him shuck off his robe and unbuckle the many belts. There is a snap and the smell of latex hits my nostrils. I am ready … set …

And we’re off.

He takes it slowly, penetrating me with care and attention to my rapidly bruising bottom.

I like the feel of him behind me, between my thighs, standing and thrusting forwards while I flounder over the horse. I feel very small and submissive, stuck here with no choice but to take my punisher’s cock until he is satisfied that I have understood the nature of our bond. Him on top, giving it; me underneath, taking it.

I spread my legs wider, to give him better access, enjoying the speed and friction of his movement and the way it sends him deeper. His balls swing and bang against my sex with each homeward drive. I begin to hang on for dear life, trying to keep in position for him, trying not to slump and fall into oblivion.

Objectively, I know that my bottom must still hurt, but I don’t feel it any more; I don’t feel anything but the slow sensation unravelling through my groin and stomach.

His hands creep around the front of my thighs and find my clit, each set of fingers playing it like a piano while he thrusts ever harder and faster.

I come, humping my abdomen against the padded leather, digging my fingernails in until it is close to tearing. He takes hold of my hips again and gives me the final few race-to-victory lunges until he rests, embedded in me, hissing out that steaming stream of Russian phrases.

Slowly, I become aware that my bottom still hurts. Especially when he pats it and asks how I am.

‘It’s really sore,’ I say. ‘But God, that was good. So good.’

‘Wait there. I see cream in the closet.’

I maintain a blissful flop over the vaulting horse while he sorts his jeans out and heads over to the cane cupboard. For a fearful second, I think he is playing a horrible trick on me and he will come back with a length of rattan, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands behind me, slathering on a cool and soothing lotion.

‘Will you do that for your clients?’ I ask, the words coming out slowly and heavily.

‘What? This cream? If they like.’

‘No, I mean sex. I think they call it “extras”. In the trade.’

‘I tell you before, I don’t think so. I don’t fuck my clients. I am not prostitute.’

‘But what are you, then? You’d definitely be a sex worker.’

‘Sex worker who does not have sex.’

‘That’s perfectly possible. All this – the headmaster stuff – is all sexual. Isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but you can pretend it is not. Is different than prostitution.’

‘Pretending. So it’d all be a bit of a game.’

‘Sure. A bit of fun, for pay.’

‘What if you wanted to have sex with a client? And they wanted it too?’

‘What if, what if.’ He smears on the last of the cream and recaps the tube. ‘What is this?’

I sigh. ‘Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Your voice. You are not fine.’

‘I am fine. Really.’

He helps me off the vaulting horse and holds me against him, his lips on my hair. ‘This sex is very amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank you for it.’

I am instantly cheered. ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

‘I wish I don’t have to start work in half an hour. But I must go. I book a room for next Saturday, right?’

‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Think my bottom might have recovered by then.’

‘OK. But I go for the dungeon. I think we do bondage next, yes?’

‘Uh. Yeah.’

‘Good. So how about we get quick cup of coffee now. Get your coat.’

What with one thing and another, we didn’t get the chance to meet up again until Saturday. If he was free, I was in the office. If I was free, he was in the restaurant kitchen. We had a couple of text catch-ups during the course of the week (Him: How is your ass? Me: Bruised! And so on) but didn’t really speak.

I spent long days longing for him, trying to keep his image alive in my mind’s eye while I wrestled with advertising copy and the many childish distractions of life in a modern media industry.

Anton worked hard to drag me away from my preoccupations. He got free tickets to a red carpet premiere in Leicester Square, then an invitation to a private view in a local gallery. Between that and my seemingly unending sloganeering, I managed not to pine too terribly.

On Friday afternoon, though, it nearly went horribly wrong.

‘You fancy hanging with me and some of the crew from the baby food account tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Anton in between bouts of Facebooking. ‘Thinking of heading up Westfield, then whatever.’

‘That’d be – oh, hang on. Sorry. Can’t.’

‘No? Date with Mr Mystery?’

He had been teasing me about my ‘secret man’ all week.