Rehearsals didn’t go well. Gareth was too gentle and I felt disconnected – an everyday feeling I admit but the part required much more from me and Martha recognized it.
When she sent the others off for an early break and beckoned for me to stay, my heart began to drum. It was the first time I’d actually been alone with Martha – albeit on stage in an empty hall with lights burning down on an unmade bed.
The fire in her eyes hit me, lit me as if she were a man, wanting me.
As she lectured me on what was required in the scene she was peeling off her billowy hippy-style top; underneath a tight white vest revealed rather than concealed her small but perfect breasts. She took an elastic band from round her wrist and used it deftly to tame her hair into a tight bunch at the back. “You have to be involved,” she was saying, “the audience must hear your outrage.” And then came the words I’d wanted, hoped to hear: “I’ll take Gareth’s part and we’ll run through that bit again.”
She noticed my blouse was still open and started to do up the poppers, still talking, and I was so excited I could do nothing except hope that she didn’t notice my rude shock of pleasure when the back of her finger brushed my nipple, clearly visible despite my bra.
She counted herself into the scene. “One and two and . . .”
With “three” everything changed with bewildering speed as she tore open my blouse and pushed me backwards onto the bed. Her strength jolted me. I cried out. She was almost on top of me but, as per the script, I squirmed away, free, sobbing, taking two steps towards freedom before she caught my wrist, yanked me back and slammed me back onto the bed. I was gasping until her lips, unscripted and violent, stifled my cries. She had her hand up my skirt and, all in a violent moment, it was inside my pants but the touch of her fingers on my skin was shockingly tender. Her marauding kiss became soft and inquisitive, searching for a response which I yielded without hesitation, eliciting a moan from me which had nothing at all to do with the script.
She got off me and the bed, still angry but this time for real and said, “Damn! No excuse for that – so got carried away – but at least you sounded involved.” She shrugged her top back on and left saying, “I need a quick coffee and a whisky.” A flicker of fingers released her hair into the light and I sat on the edge of the bed. The unravelling had begun.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the rehearsal except that the scene went better and the play moved on – and there was no eye contact between us.
My lips were still delightfully tender from the kiss when I got back to my flat. I knew I was going to masturbate and that she would star in my fantasy, the first woman ever. It was Saturday night and if the climax was good enough it would make my normally anxious Sunday more relaxed. But the accompanying sense of guilt was a legacy from my marriage.
But arousal subdued everything as I went through my routine. I took all the things I would need from the bedside drawer and chucked them on the bed.
“Tie yourself up, come on! Quick, quick, quick, else I leave right now.” Martha had joined my fantasy.
I opened the handcuffs and attached the short chain between them to the small clasp dangling from the top bed rail. I stripped, then struggled into an uncomfortably tight plain cotton bra but once I am tied up and my nipples are aroused just breathing will make them feel as if they are being touched.
On the bed I eased my vibrator inside turning it onto the lowest setting. The hum and chant of distant pleasure was both calming and exciting. I wriggled into a pair of panties, also tight so there can be no quick way to remove the vibrator.
The hum is in my blood. I have to complete the routine before it overwhelms me.
I tied my ankles together with a length of cord and my thighs with another, further imprisoning the vibrator and intensifying the feeling. I used a knotted dressing gown belt as a gag, shoving the knot in my mouth, tying it behind. Now it was almost done.
I always find the right position on the bed, hands above my head, so I am just stretching for the handcuffs. I close one cuff then the other. They’re toy cuffs, no lock, quick release, but the illusion is believable. Now everything is done, I am free and the feeling from the vibrator breaks loose.
Zigzag flick-flack feelings bloomed inside me. I imagined Martha at the foot of the bed, humming softly in the key of the vibrator, swaying to the music. I wished for her lips and the brush of her fingers.
The climax detonated far too soon in a blinding sear of tingling colour. The cuffs clanked and bit at my wrists, my legs and ankles chafed at the ropes and I bit the gag. The blind song of the vibrator irritated me, setting my teeth on edge.
The scrabble to get free after my sessions almost spoils it all; almost, the sense of shame and self-loathing returned. In the bathroom I caught sight of the marks of the gag each side of my mouth and the livid welts on my wrists. I don’t masturbate often and every time is the last time. All I really yearned for was another kiss.
Over breakfast the sense of shame and the glow of satisfaction were locked in balance and neither would go away. And then my mobile rang and it was Martha.
“Olivia, I was thinking about lunch – and you. I think I can help. The Ball and Chain do a great bloody steak. See you there at one?”
I spluttered some sort of reply and one o’clock couldn’t come quickly enough.
I dressed casual-Sunday, choosing a bra and buttoned top worthy of the play. In the mirror I looked calm and neatly dressed. Make-up disguised the fading marks left by the gag; long sleeves concealed the welts from the handcuffs. An unfamiliar flutter of excitement rippled in my stomach and doubts were trying to overshadow everything as usual.
When I first saw her at the Ball and Chain my attraction to her was almost overwhelming. Heels, tight sky-blue jeans, a burnt-orange top the perfect colour for her skin, loose but flattering, and a subtle sparkle in her sensational hair.
By the time we were seated and the food ordered I was nervous not least because, incredibly, her eyes seemed to say she was pleased to be with me.
Unexpectedly she reached across the table and touched my wrist gently. “Your new boyfriend got a bit too enthusiastic?” Her fingers caressed the welt. I knew I was blushing.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said with a vehemence which I realized, too late, revealed more than it concealed. She knew and then her words confirmed it. “Must be self-inflicted then.”
I didn’t know what to say. My shameful secret casually exposed over Sunday lunch. I felt naked in the packed restaurant, the only saving grace being that no one had noticed – except her.
Our food arrived – hers a bloody steak; mine a small omelette with Caesar salad.
When she started talking about the scene in the play I kind of switched off, hardly able to bear the fact that she’d got to the bottom of my secrets pile so easily. And then things got worse as I heard her asking, “His name was Jack, wasn’t it – your ex-husband?”
I felt like leaving there and then. She could only have picked up his name from backstage tittle-tattle. I made to stand up but a subtle gesture of her hand stayed me.
“Don’t waste good food, not when I’m paying. I think I can help. I want to help.” The warmth in her eyes held me – close.
Silence between us even in the noise, then, “Don’t run away from this scene, Olivia. Jack, inevitably, will always catch hold of you and drag you back onto that bed. What if this time you escape? That scene in the play is your key; it opens the door to your future.”
My sad life and now my sad marriage spread by implication all over the table. She probably knew everything. But then she said words I will never forget: “I know very little and that’s more than enough. In your eyes as we rehearsed I saw a naked yearning for something; it stirred me. I want to be the person who fulfils that need.”
It felt like I was inhaling the smoke in her eyes and it didn’t feel legal. I hesitated only because my lack of confidence still insisted I must be getting this all wrong, picking up wrong meanings
, messages and signals . . .
When she shrugged and said, “Of course, you might find being propositioned by another woman repulsive . . .” I reached out and touched her hand; the corresponding look of reassurance in her eyes touched me in return. We smiled. The waiter came to clear away and we ordered strong coffee but I would not withdraw my hand from hers until he’d gone.
Martha said quietly, “Now all you have to do is tell me how to get to that yearning in your eyes. You already know my passion for you.”
I found it hard to put my shame into actual words but blurted out, “Last night after rehearsal you took me prisoner, ordered me to tie myself to the bed and made me take helpless pleasure from a vibrator while you watched.”
I looked at her, expecting rejection and repugnance, finding reassurance instead. She said, “We could do that this afternoon, at your place?”
How can a million-miles-away fantasy suddenly be only a “this afternoon” away?
I nodded, sipping brandy-laced coffee, never more excited in my life, loving the uncertainty and the hot jet of safe fear.
I felt her foot under the table encouraging my ankles apart; only my skirt stopped them widening further, not me. Her toes caressed the back of my leg and I blushed not least because I wanted those toes to be pressing against my panties – but even Martha isn’t that tall.
When she thrust her hand in the air to call for the bill, I reluctantly closed my legs. An ache of expectation hummed all through me. I no longer felt naked; convinced instead that everyone in the restaurant knew my panties were wet.
But then, as we waited, she said, “Slight change of plan, Olivia. You go home and prepare for the scene. I need to pick up some things and will join you in about forty minutes.”
This was meat and drink to my negative side. It was obvious. She was running out on me. Confused, I said as lightly as I could manage, “Fine.”
And even if she did show up, which scene was I preparing for – the one in the play or . . . mine? And how’s she going to get into my flat if it’s my scene? I knew I’d got it wrong, as always . . .
“I’ll need your key,” she said and the faint tone of reassurance told me this woman could read me and that she wasn’t running away.
“Yes,” I said, unable to prevent the relief sounding in even that one word. I would use my emergency key to get in.
She smiled and as she paid the bill I coaxed the key from the key ring, excited. This was actually going to happen!
The waiter left. She held out her hand and I placed the key into the pink of her palm. She blinked, did not close her hand but took the key from it and kissed it before putting it carefully in her shoulder bag.
Forty minutes is a long time. It took less than half that to get home and shower.
The tight pants I always used were still in the wash so instead I chose a bikini bottom, blue with polka dots and tie sides.
The dressing gown belt was also still in the wash so, reluctantly, I went into Jack’s old toolbox and retrieved a roll of gaffer tape. When he was really angry he used to gag me with it. “I’ll shut you up, I’ll shut you up, I’ll shut you up” went the chant as he wound it round my head, stopping only to press it yet harder against my lips.
But on that day I refused to remember. Sometimes that’s possible. I tore off a strip and pressed it over my mouth, then another.
I had the good sense not to turn the vibrator on.
Bound and gagged, waiting for Martha, two sides of an argument raged against each other. On the one side it was, “This is silly and ridiculous. You look pathetic and disgusting.” And on the other it was, “This is the best thing you’ve ever done. Even if she doesn’t show up – that kiss on stage lasts for ever.” The teenage fervour in my reasoning overwhelmed all else and won the argument.
Relaxing a little, Martha’s lips filling my thoughts, the sound of my own front door opening jerked me into reality, making the handcuffs clank on the bed rail. I lay still.
The bedroom door opened slowly revealing Martha. The sky-blue jeans had gone. The vivid orange top had become a minidress with a chain belt, the drawstring now adjusted to make it off the shoulder. Her legs were bare. The look in her eyes reassured me she wasn’t disgusted, that she didn’t think I looked pathetic, and spoke only of approval and desire.
Entering, she put down the small holdall she was carrying, slid a band from her wrist, and raised her hands to fix her hair. This pulled her dress up higher, revealing white knickers criss-crossed by a black leather harness which passed between her legs. I knew without thinking that the whole arrangement was meant to accommodate a dildo. Uncertainty dashed with fear made me wonder whether or not I wanted to go through with this.
I hardly knew this woman. I’d wanted something beautiful to happen without knowing what. My fear coalesced into words – being tied to the bed and fucked by a dildo held no more appeal than being fucked by Jack.
But Martha’s smile fascinated me away from doubt as her body language and my kiss-memories took over.
I watched as, dreamlike, she moved quietly, slowly around my bedroom, producing from the holdall not a dildo but a small music player with tiny speakers which she placed with care on my bedside table, releasing, drawing a sound-picture of raindrops dappling on an almost still river. I closed my eyes.
She touched the gag, tracing the outline of my lips. “I’ve brought something better for you. OK?”
I nodded and before I knew it she’d ripped the tape away, making me gasp. She laughed. “It’s the only way.”
Martha rummaged in the holdall and withdrew a packet. The wipe was cool and fragrant as she soothed the area marked by the gag, her eyes on my lips, mine on hers. Then she kissed me with a passion bordering on violence but the only cruel thing about it was when she stopped.
She fished a towelling belt from the bag just like mine. It had a knot in the middle which fitted my mouth perfectly. Tying it behind, she said, “This is just for you to bite on. If you don’t like anything I do just growl out. Yes?”
I nodded.
“And remember – I would never do anything to you I wouldn’t want you to do to me.” A fleck of confession and vulnerability in her eyes was blinked away.
I nodded, thrilled by the possibility of perhaps taking charge of her sometime. Then I surrendered. The warmth of her hand brushed tingles over my body with an almost cruel sensuality, consistently ignoring my bra-restrained nipples and the bikini bottom.
I wanted the vibrator on and the palm of her hand pressing against me. Instead she whispered, “I think you might be more comfortable if . . .”
She produced pink cords from her holdall, released me from the cuffs but spread my arms and tied each wrist to one of the bedposts. I bit on the gag, not because the cords were too tight but in expectation that she was going to spread my legs and tie them apart also. A thought became a chant – please, yes, please, yes, falling deeper and deeper into the want.
She worked slowly with a firm but deliberate tenderness. The more vulnerable I became, the more helpless, the more I realized how much I wanted to touch her and for her to touch me.
When her caresses at last strayed between my legs pure pleasure lit me up. Her fingertips “discovered” the vibrator through the thin cotton. Pulling the bikini bottom aside she turned the vibrator onto the lowest setting – “my setting”.
Everything was so perfect I half wondered whether this was real or not. But I’d never dreamt anything like this before.
Even the most brilliant light casts a shadow and the “problem” I saw looming was that – with every sense in my body singing in a perfect choir – it would only take a kiss or a touch to set the fireworks off early.
With Jack this was never a problem. When he tied me up it wasn’t to pleasure me it was, I now know, to subdue me, to get rid of his anger.
I used to go into “just get through this” mode and sometimes after he’d finished, as if to prove it was all meant to be the right side of prete
nd, he would fuck me gently to make himself come a second time. Sometimes, by random accident, I would come too and it would be glorious. Hoping for more “accidents” muddled me on far longer with Jack than was wise.
I felt her untying the bikini but kept my eyes closed because if this was a dream I didn’t want to be served with a waking up order.
The vibrator stopped and its withdrawal opened my eyes. In the stillness left behind, I realized she was now kneeling between my legs, had an impressive dildo in her hands and was connecting it to the harness. My eyes told me “that thing’s too big” but, as she eased it inside, my body welcomed its presence.
She towered, the sky orange, her breasts distant moons as she whispered, “Don’t be shy, work it, girl.” She propped herself up on one hand, reaching behind my head to release the gag with the other. Each movement, via the dildo, affected me beautifully. “Work it, don’t be shy,” she said again, now on top of me, passive except for the shimmering, tantalizing hard-soft, soft-hard pressure of the kiss.
Inspired, I wriggled a little and pushed a little and once started couldn’t stop. The harder she kissed me the more I wriggled. Whispers of pleasure grew and roared. I “worked” the dildo without embarrassment as if this was my last ever pleasure.
And then she took over. With her hands either side she started fucking me with long, slow, definite strokes. The deepest point of the stroke pressed the harness against my clit for a tantalizing second, driving me crazy. An intense giddiness twist-twirled through me but then without warning she got off me.
Shock held everything still, even my breath, as I watched her untying my ankles.
As she walked from one side of the bed to the other, the proud dildo fascinated me. Ridiculously I’d half expected it to have, well, gone down a bit. When my hands were free she ordered, “Lie on your side with your back to me.”
I obeyed without hesitation even though it’s not my favourite position, thanks to Jack. But when I felt her get on the bed behind me all I wanted was to receive her. Between us we helped the dildo back inside. She undid my bra and pressed against my back. I realized with delight that she had one hand on my breast and a fingertip of the other was resting beautifully on my clitoris – a butterfly in a summer field, drinking in the sun.
The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions Page 47
