Back to Vanilla

by Jennifer Maschek

  He ran the fingertips of his left hand across her clavicle, from one bare shoulder to the other, avoiding the allure of the heightened cleavage, but pausing to rub the black lace that hemmed the purple silk and velvet garment between his finger and thumbs.

  “A beautiful choice, my dear,” he said, “and it fits you so well.” And here his hand slid quite precisely down her side to the dark netting that encircled the lower half of the dress, which was neither knee length nor short enough to be a mini.

  “And now, you know what your master would like, I think…” Alasdair took Tamsin’s hand and walked with her through to the bedroom, which was dominated by a large pine-framed bed on to which were attached, she noticed, four black leather restraints – two at the headboard and two at the foot.

  In the room, he stood with his back to a full-length mirror and, with her gaze following his hands, he undid the zip on his suit trousers, keeping the jacket on, and told her to remove her boots.

  “And now, that delightful mouth of yours, slut, needs to be filled, for which, you’ll be wanting to get on your knees.”

  For ten minutes, maybe more, she had not said a word. Kneeling down in front of him, she looked up as he nodded with straight-faced encouragement, his eyes making it totally clear that she was to take the almost fully erect cock from his zip.

  Using her right hand, she did this, looked up at him again, to be clear, and grasped the shaft, pumping with her hand. Briefly. Just enough to pump him fully up. Just enough. And then she let go with her right hand, looked up at him and slid her mouth right the way down and back up again.

  He let this happen several times, before touching her on the head, and at this, she opened her eyes. She found herself staring directly at her own image in the mirror behind him, which made her pause briefly, and here, totally aware of why she had slowed, he grasped her hair tighter so his hand created a small ponytail at the top of her head, which he used to pull her mouth back into action.

  “Don’t be shy,” he murmured, as she bobbed. “Eyes open, and take it all it your mouth.”

  Tamsin watched herself, not thinking, just watching, the pace set by his urging grip, until, guided by that same hand, she stood up and turned her back to him.

  She let out a deep, heartfelt sigh as he unlaced the back of the dress that had been clinging so tightly to her for the past 10 hours. “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure, my dear, and now we make you even happier,” her Meister said, still devoid of expression. He laid her on the bed, legs fastened open by the foot cuffs, hands stretched and tied above her head. “You’re comfortable?”

  She had decided, despite his guidance to the contrary, against a safe-word, although they had discussed at length how far she felt she could go, and Tamsin knew she could slip easily from the Velcro bindings of the ties above her head. Still not saying a word, she watched as, back to her, he rummaged in the chest at the foot of the bed. The entire length of her tingled and she was consumed by curiosity and excitement as she stared at his bent spine.

  What he produced looked so much like a vintage carpet beater, made from interwoven willow reeds, that she sniggered, partly with disbelief, but he stilled this with a raised eyebrow.

  “Uh huh, but you know this is happening, cunty-girl, because why else have you come?” And he flicked the paddle, first over the soles of her feet, which made her giggle louder, and then a quick, sharp snap across her lightly furry pubic mound, causing her to flinch with the shock.

  “Not happy?” he asked. Her eyes had hardened sharply and for a moment it looked like she wanted to slip out of those bounds and punch him.

  Taking a long, deep, focusing breath, she relaxed back into role. “Happy,” she replied.

  At this assurance, he repeated the same action three times – never hard, though each with a hint more force than the previous – and her eyes never left his hand. He loosened her bindings, put a blindfold on her and turned her freed body around, so she that lay, face down, before refastening her.

  She couldn’t say how long he lightly tapped the backs of her legs with the beater, each whack slightly harder, moving up towards her bottom, where he paused and she waited. Her whole skin prickled, her breath on hold, awaiting the next move of the beater, knowing that this would be a harsh one on soft flesh and readying herself for it.

  The shock of a soft feather, maybe two or three, suddenly running down her thighs and calves released the air from her lungs and, no longer giggling but smiling, she relaxed into that feeling, knowing it wouldn’t last, soaking it up while it did.

  And then thwack. With no clue what would happen next, she allowed him to untie and refasten her, as her body flinched and relaxed and she mmm-ed and ahhh-ed. No thought. No concept of time. Just there.

  Every inch of her skin was alive and desperate for something… touch, softer, harder… and when, at last, he penetrated her, it was first with his fingers, one, two, three, maybe four, maybe his whole fist, and then, or maybe first, she later discovered, with a three-wick candle. By this time, she was gone.

  Trusting this man implicitly right now, she lost all sense of what was what and when and how and just felt. They were on slightly different journeys, perhaps, but with a mutual focus that was tangible, that charged and crackled through the air, fuelling each action.

  Whether it was his hand or something else, it was the repeated thrusting invasion of her body that finally pushed her over and into an exposed mass of sighing, sobbing, panting with a raw awareness of every tiny part of herself, so that when it slowed, this thrusting, and she gradually left that zone, still weeping gently, her body and mind reconnected in an absolute and utter state of relaxation and relief.

  “Happy girl?” he said, lying beside her on the bed and rolling on to his side to free her arms and legs. And, too weary to speak, she nodded her very-happy-girlness in response, her lazy, faraway-eyed smile backing this up.

  “You truly were, you are, a very, very good LittleGirlLost… you know that, don’t you?” he asked tenderly, looking directly into her eyes, stroking under her chin with his middle and index finger. “Very good. Your Kindly_Meister is immensely pleased with his own precious little slut.

  “Right now, though,” he said, taking off the shirt and trousers he had worn throughout, stroking her hair back from her damp face, and sliding himself inside her, “we give that cunt of yours what she’s truly crying out for.”

  10. slUtty-fUckgal

  It was 27 minutes before their planned first date when Megan got off the bus at the stop two doors down the road from Costa Coffee. She took a breath so deep it presented as a sigh, followed by several slower, more steadying breaths. At the last exhalation, she pulled her head up straight and walked in, directly to the counter, looking in no direction save forwards. She was deliberately early enough to be there, waiting, when he appeared.

  She ordered a medium latte and sat, facing the door, before scanning the coffee shop. It was a Tuesday morning during summer half term, and the place was half-empty. Several men in suits tapped away on smartphones, but most of the occupied tables were filled with chattering mothers and bickering kids. Anticipating this, Megan had gone several stops out of her own school’s catchment area, to avoid the delighted calls of “Mrs O’Hare!” that generally greeted her wherever she went, as amazed children realised that school staff occasionally also ventured out of their classrooms and into the real world.

  Three quarters of an hour later, he still hadn’t arrived; her cup was empty and her casual face was starting to look less so. Trying not to stare at the time on her phone was becoming pointless, and she directed her eyes down at the screen, as if the meaning of life were etched into it.

  And this was how he found her. She looked up and Randy_Waterhouse was standing there looking down at her. She was pleased to note that he looked like his photo, and what she saw was the tall, skinny, blond late-40s guy she’d been chatting to for three-and-a-half weeks, mostly online but the odd phone call too
, although if she were honest with herself, she’d have admitted that nothing had ever come close to the frenzy of that first time. But she had tried, and with each message, each photo, each exchange, they had taken things further and further and further.

  “So, here we here,” he said, as she looked up and smiled. “Finally here.”

  “Waterhouse… Mark…” she said. “I don’t know what to call you. In my head… in my head I think you’ll always be Randy_Waterhouse. But, please, don’t just stand there; you’re making me even more nervous. Do sit, please.”

  He got them both a coffee, while she simply sat and watched the guy who had, just the night before, spoken of mercilessly anally fisting her after a bukake session in the woods behind his house, while they both, with maybe 15 miles between them, rubbed and tugged and buzzed themselves to separate but well-timed orgasms.

  As their communications had burgeoned over the previous weeks, they had shared greater and greater extremes of fantasy. And in her case, 43 years old now and having notched up 20 years of monogamy, it had been purely that: fantasy.

  She’d first met Rich at 15, when he’d been a university friend of her big brother Joe’s. At four years older, they’d hit it off instantly as friends, her being well used to the joshing of older boys, and their paths had occasionally drifted together over the six years that followed. When Joe chose Rich as his best man, it had been a while since he’d seen her, and it was certainly the first time, at 22, that he’d met the woman who had grown out of the girl he had known. He liked what he found.

  In the 20 years and three kids that followed, through the myriad challenges life had thrown at them, there was no doubt they’d worked well as a family. They kept bouncing back, keeping on – she had made sure of that. But this, this now, was something apart from him, something solely hers, and these were, she thought, the first tentative steps in a journey with no fixed path or destination. Randy_Waterhouse was simply a stop on the route, and that first hurdle, she reasoned, was generally the most difficult.

  She watched him intently now, as he stood at the counter. His relaxed-fit denim jeans, she noticed, were worn a little too high, leaving a hint of sock exposed over his mid-brown loafers, and his brown T-shirt was tucked neatly below the waistband. She swallowed down the vague unease that had plagued her for the past few days, and smiled a thank-you at his return to the table, carrying two full cups on a tray.

  “I only have a short time until my lunch break finishes,” Waterhouse began. “We’re very busy, which is why I was late.”

  “That’s, erm, fine. I mean, I’ve never done this kind of thing before… um, the coffee thing, but I guess it’s really a chance to suss each other out a bit, more than anything. I mean, as people. In the real world. You work nearby?”

  “Just round the corner. Accounts,” and he raised the red-strapped staff card he wore around his neck to show her. “I guess that shows you I exist in what you call the real world. And you?”

  “Well, I don’t have an ID card on me, if that’s what you’re asking… but I’m still pretty much me, I think. Do you normally ask women for proof of identity?”

  Her nerves had begun to fade in the wake of what was rapidly turning into a bizarre little exchange, and it slowly dawned on her that what she’d consistently put down to wry wit might very well be a total absence of humour.

  “But, seriously… it’s good to meet you, like this, at last. Seems weird, knowing each other so well, but not really at all. How does this normally go?”

  “I like,” he said, “just to meet for coffee first.”

  “Okay. Coffee’s good. Sane. Anything else would be madness, though God alone knows, I’ve had quite a few much more extreme offers across cyberspace. You’d not believe the things guys expect you to do, so soon, and on a first meet. I mean, hell, does anyone do that?”

  He seemed a little distracted, not just his eyes, but his head darting around too, taking in the sights of this generic café. She assumed that she had slipped into her habit of talking way, way too much when she was nervous. Perhaps it was time for a few questions; maybe what she perceiving as disinterest was simply shyness.

  “But, hey, you must have some tales to tell yourself, though? I mean, you’re so much more experienced than I am… How long have you been doing… this… you were married, right?”

  He snapped back with a start, as if dragged from some private reverie.

  “Yes, married, 11 years. But these things… it was difficult.”

  “You have children?”

  “No,” he nodded. “She, it wouldn’t have been right; she suffered from chronic depression and it was enough for us to make sure she got through each day. Children weren’t an option. I looked after her, until one day, I stopped. She went back home – lives with her mother now. We stay in touch.”

  “And then you went online?”

  “My friend, a woman, suggested it. Not long ago. So I tried. I’ve met one or two women. Mostly very nice. Coffee. Nothing more really.”

  “So your experience… the experiences we talk about..?”

  A quizzical look answered her unfinished question, so she went on.

  “I’ve met, as you know, no one. But the suggestions… I mean, come on… am I really, outside of my craziest fantasies, outside of my head, about to meet two guys, Big Cock and Make-You-Cum, for a night in Big Cock’s attic room in Leyton? With a takeaway promised for afterwards… before if I’d prefer?”

  Taking his silence for interest – he was now focused, staring intently at her, rather than flitting – she continued.

  “It’s just nuts. Or am I to take the virginity of Lonely Boy, aged 37, who hasn’t left his parents’ home since May 1998? Or get into a taxi sent by some guy or other who looks like a serial killer photofit to take me to his home, where he’ll introduce me to the delights of anal, and probably his gang of burly mates, before sticking me back into a cab?”

  By now she was sniggering at her rendition of the absurdity of the world that had led them both to that precise spot.

  Randy_Waterhouse, on the other hand, was looking deeply flustered.

  “Shhh. Hush, please. Keep your voice down.” He raised his hands, flat, and moved them down, as a visual cue to echo his words.

  “Sorry?” Her giggling had come to a sharp halt. “My voice? Hush?”

  “Keep it down. You’re attracting attention. People are… looking at you.”

  A cursory glance around the place showed nothing, just the same people sipping the same cups of coffee; same old, same old.

  “They are? I don’t think so, and anyway, Mark, what does it matter? Isn’t that why we’re here? You and I? Isn’t it what we do? It’s what we’ve talked about for days.”

  “I think we should go for a walk. Our coffee is finished. I have 15 minutes before I need to get back. A bit of fresh air will do me good. How does that sound?”

  It sounded excellent. Maybe he was right to be freaked out. This was weird, without doubt it was. Maybe it had been as much a fantasy for him as her. Or maybe, as she’d thought, he was a normal guy with a secret life and her own inexperience meant that she was lacking in the finesse and discretion such encounters required, under covers, in dark corners. Megan desperately searched for a way to fit this mismatched jumble of pieces together so things made some kind of sense.

  They left the café, him leading, and turned right up the high street, and this pattern continued – her trotting a step behind him the whole time.

  “You work near here, then?”

  “Not far. It’s good to be out and about. Breaks the day up a little. I like to walk. Are you a fan of science fiction?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s good to get out. A little, yes. I mean, my sister was a massive Gary Numan fan in her teens and through her I got into Philip K Dick. Love him. Blade Runner’s my favourite film, I think, of all time.”

  “Hmmm. I was thinking of a different type, perhaps, of author. For example, I’m a big fan of Neal Stephenson. Yo
u won’t know him, but that’s my kind of book.”

  “Never read any, but he rings a bell… name spelt an unusual way? N-e-a-l? Maybe… sure I’ve seen him on our bookshelf at home… my husband is a massive reader.”

  “That’s him!” he almost shouted, suddenly animated. “Cryptonomicon – best book ever written. You must read it.”

  And the next ten minutes were taken up by a plot summary as she practised her listening skills, watching his face intently as he spoke.

  “It’s about a hypothetical, top-secret military unit whose purpose was to run around the fringes of the war planting fake evidence intended to throw the Nazis off the scent. Brilliant, the way the book alternates between the 1940s and the present day – and I don’t even think he started with that as a plan.

  “The man’s a genius. Simple. An absolute genius. You need to read him. You must.”

  Having reached that point of the main road where the shops began petering out towards suburbia, they stopped and, in turning round to walk back, paused and faced each other.

  “I’d better go. Work’s in this direction. I do hope we can meet again.”

  He leant in to kiss her cheek, the first and only hint at a desire for physical connection throughout the encounter. Megan side-stepped into a wriggling manoeuvre to escape his grasp, reminding herself, with an internal smile, of the long-suffering Penelope Pussycat from Pepé le Pew.

  “Perhaps,” she smiled, holding out her hand. “My life is quite hectic at the moment. I’ll get back to you.”

  In the distance, Megan could see the 365 drawing closer to the bus stop with enough people waiting in the queue to guarantee that she could reach it in time with a minimum of effort. She turned sharply on her right heel, and, for the first time in many years, sprinted down to meet the bus.

  ********************

  Back home, with an overriding desire for someone to confirm her own sanity, Megan logged in to her latest chat service of preference in the hope of speaking to the one person with whom she had shared the details of her planned date.