I wriggle joyfully on the end of his cock, wanting it to stay, regretting its departure when he slides it out and slumps down on his knees next to me, brow on the sill.
‘Whatever I want, hey?’ he says when he turns his face to the side and catches my eyes in a drugged, heavy-lidded gaze.
I’m light-headed, cutting through the thousand qualifiers that spring to mind to answer with a simple, ‘Yes.’
It’s a risk, perhaps a huge and dangerous risk, but somehow it doesn’t feel like one at all.
Chapter Seven
Whatever he wants.
Whatever that might be.
I spend the week contemplating the possibilities. There are so many that I make myself dizzy.
He might want a full-time slave or he might want a no-strings Saturday shag. He might want to throttle me during sex, like that couple I’d seen on TV once, or he might want to watch while a procession of men in leather fuck me in turn.
There really aren’t any limits to what he might want. A lot of it is frightening, but then I catch myself and tell myself that I’m just trying to spook myself, like when I used to imagine all the bad things that could happen to me between my house and school. I fear the worst so that I’m prepared for it. It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.
I just wish I knew him. I wish we could just talk sometimes.
‘How was the wedding?’ asks Anton, catching me off guard.
‘What wedding?’
‘Exactly.’ He pronounces the word with savage satisfaction, trying to hold my eye accusingly. But I’m not in the mood for accusations, so I shrug and offer to make tea for the rest of the office.
He doesn’t invite me anywhere this weekend.
I am more on tenterhooks than ever for my regular Saturday tryst with Dimitri. Looking for clues as to our probable activities, I text him a question.
‘What should I wear?’
He replies: ‘Whatever you want.’
This isn’t helpful. It’s what he wants that I need to know, have to know, will die of fretting pretty soon if I don’t find out.
I text back: ‘Spacesuit then?’
‘If you like.’
Of course, I don’t have a spacesuit. In the end I go with my usual flirty dress with stockings. I feel so drab amongst the wet-look man-made materials in the café, though, especially beside Dimitri who is more like a one-man carnival than ever, trailing scarves and fringes in his jingly-jangly wake.
‘So then,’ I quaver, ridiculously nervous, my coffee cup jittering in my hand.
‘So then,’ he prompts when I don’t continue. His smile is playful, his eyes only pretend stern.
‘Just wondering what’s on the menu for today.’
‘Your choice,’ he says. Why all these curve balls? Can’t he act predictably, just once?
‘My choice? Dinner at the Ivy then?’
He chuckles and tickles me under the chin. ‘One day, I promise you. But tonight must be something we do in the schoolroom, because I have booked there. You can choose what. I have one rule.’
‘A rule? What’s the rule?’
‘What you choose, you must not have done it before.’
‘Well, that covers quite a lot of things.’
‘And it is maybe something you never planned to do. Something maybe that scares you.’ His fingertip rests beneath my chin, holding up my head, keeping my eyes fixed on his.
My scalp begins to crawl with dread anticipation. He wants me to do something that scares me. All my anxious fantasies of the past week crowd into my mind.
‘Why?’ I ask weakly. ‘Why something that scares me?’
His hand moves around to cradle my shoulder, putting me in an instantly reassuring place. ‘Because I want to make it good for you. Take your fear and kill it.’
‘Maybe it won’t be possible.’
‘If it is, I will do it. Think of a scary thing. Tell me what it is.’
I try to calm my thoughts, to come up with a workable list.
Nothing with multiple partners, for a start. That’s a scary step too far, just for now. Piercing? I picture Dimitri looming above me with a needle and a lighter flame … no. No way. My imagination takes me on a whistle-stop tour of all the most outrageous sexual practices I have ever heard of before coming to a sudden stop as something infinitely more simple, more doable, more intimate and yet just as scary occurs to me.
‘There is something,’ I say slowly, then I stop. I don’t know if I can say the words.
‘Good. So what is it?’
I hide my face in his shoulder. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Ohhh,’ he croons, delighted by my reticence, grabbing my hair and making me look at him. ‘You can’t tell me? Is it very bad? Very, very wicked? I hope so.’
‘I don’t think it’s that uncommon, actually,’ I say. ‘I guess lots of people do it. Just, I can’t imagine it feeling good. Not for, y’know, maybe for the person giving it, not so much for the person receiving.’
I really, really hope all my hedging and skirting is giving him a clue. I just don’t want to say the words out loud: they are so ugly, so bald, so crude.
‘You mean the cane?’ He frowns.
‘Nooo. Nothing to do with spanking. Something a bit more … intimate. I imagine it can be painful, all the same. And it does involve the same … body part.’
‘Ah!’ His bangles clash as inspiration strikes. ‘You mean anal sex, right?’
Was there any need to say it quite so loudly and emphatically? A number of people at neighbouring tables look over and smirk. I curl back up into the crook of Dimitri’s arm, pressing up close to his rangy, bony shoulder, suppressing an urge to whimper with embarrassment.
‘My God, why are you so shy about this?’ He hugs me tight, half laughing. ‘Is very common, I think. I suppose everybody here has done it, yes? Hey, look at me, stop hiding.’
But I only shake my head, forehead rubbing his shirt. He pinches the back of my neck and I squint up at him. ‘Can I change my mind?’
‘No,’ he says, but then he softens. ‘You really want to?’
The speck of disappointment in his voice nerves me. ‘No, no, it’s OK. I’ll do it.’
‘We’ll do it. You aren’t alone.’ He takes my hands and squeezes them. I can’t help but smile at him. I don’t know if your dom is supposed to make you smile as much as he does. Shouldn’t I be cowering or something? ‘Let’s go,’ he whispers.
We walk through a barrage of grins and whispers and I flush furious scarlet, imagining everyone watching my backside as I pass, knowing what’s in store for it.
I shudder slightly on the stairs, tensing my sphincter muscles in readiness.
‘You’ve done it before, I presume?’
‘Oh yeah. Of course.’
The fact that it’s no big deal for him is both comforting and alienating.
‘I mean, you really have done it? Not like when you told Mal and O you’d had a ton of submissives?’
‘I don’t lie to you, Rosie. With other people, I am acting. With you, I am myself.’
‘That’s … Oh, that’s really nice. That’s so sweet.’
‘What about you? You are yourself with me?’
We are at the schoolroom door now, ready to enter.
‘Never more so,’ I say, meaning it.
‘Good.’
The schoolroom is cold, but Dimitri has a solution for that involving lips and tongues and wandering hands. When the hands wander under my skirt and find my lace-covered bottom, I shiver and tense.
He breaks off, resting his forehead on mine. ‘This really is scary for you? Why?’
‘I think it will hurt.’
‘I use lube. Lots of it.’
‘All the same, I don’t see how something that size can ever fit.’
‘You are not made of wood, malyshka. You stretch. Like a rubber.’
My entire body convulses with dread.
‘To talk will not help,’ he decides. He peers ar
ound the room. ‘I wish I book the boudoir. This room not so comfortable for anal sex.’
Do you need special furniture then? He drags out a padded bench, like something from a school gymnasium, and removes one of the wooden blocks, lowering its height. ‘This may be OK,’ he says, stroking his chin. ‘You take off your dress and lie down.’
I stare at the makeshift bed.
‘Lie down, Rosichka,’ he says, unbendingly.
‘The thing is,’ I pipe, half turning, voice shaking. ‘You wouldn’t do this with a client, would you? So should you be …?’
‘I do this with clients but I use plugs. Only difference, with you I use my cock. But if you like, I can use a plug instead.’
‘No.’ I surprise myself with the speed and conviction of my reply. ‘Don’t use plugs. I want you. If I’m going to do this, I want it to be with you. Not some object.’
‘OK. So then …’ He flaps his hands, as if to ask why I’m still clothed.
I set about pulling my dress over my head while he inspects the contents of the front desk. He finds what he is looking for – a bottle of lubricant – and pops it in his shirt pocket. Then he is behind me, his hands over my upper arms, his lips on my neck.
‘You are my brave Rosichka,’ he says. His hands scoop up my breasts in their flimsy bra, kneading them gently. The tingle transfers, slowly but inexorably, from my nipples to my clit. I push my bottom back into his crotch, feeling it harden. ‘You give me your ass, I will treat it well, hmm. You trust me?’
I am boneless in his arms, belonging to him already. ‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ He finds my mouth, dips into it with his tongue until I am hot and panting, keeping up the pressure on my nipples, grinding his pelvis into my bottom. ‘Now you are going to lie down on that thing, OK. I help you.’
I want him inside me, but not like that. I want to trick him into my pussy instead. While he aids me into the required position – stomach flat on the padding, legs dangling over the side, bottom up at the edge of the seat – I make plans.
My plans are probably a bit lame. I spread my legs and try to raise my pussy to his line of sight, but it’s already too late. He has taken the bottle from his shirt pocket with one hand while the other strokes my back and shoulder blades with his knuckles.
‘You can relax,’ he says, deep and low. ‘Relax and float away.’
He puts the lube down on a desk and moves both hands to my stretch-lacy bum cheeks, massaging them for a while before pulling down and removing the knickers. He goes back to the massage. It really does feel gorgeously sensual. I want him to carry on indefinitely, and yet I also want him to move lower, find my clit, find my cunt, use them.
‘Getting wet,’ he says. ‘Getting ready.’
The word ‘ready’ makes me tense again, barricading the passage.
He taps my bottom, very lightly, but with a purposeful authority that I have to respect. ‘No, that is not right. Don’t tense. Relax the muscles.’
Struggling slightly, I obey, glad he can’t see my grimace of effort.
He parts my cheeks with his thumbs. I inhale sharply, panicking at the sense of exposure. I can’t hide this secret any more. He has it in his sights. And what if he is disgusted by it? What if it turns him off and he makes his excuses and changes course?
This has been the fear, much more than any pain or discomfort it might involve. The real fear of losing him.
‘Hello,’ he says. I feel his breath, warm in that intimate furrow, telling me that Dimitri has bent his head and is close to his target. ‘Here we are. Let’s get you ready.’
I let out the breath. No disgust there. Just avid lust. Dimitri won’t be going anywhere, and neither will I until he has taken that last bastion of my ever-fading virtue. I squirm with sudden shameful joy at the thought.
My arse is his.
He removes his hands and I hear the uncapping of the bottle. I can’t seem to stop swaying my hips from side to side, enjoying the slight friction of the smoothed suede under my stomach.
‘Hey, keep still.’ He lets a lubed thumb glide between my cheeks. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’ He says this last in a deliberate American accent, which comes off exaggerated and wrong, but I still picture him in a cowboy hat, ready to aim and fire. ‘Now enjoy.’
He runs slippery fingers up and down the crease, pressing into my inner cheeks, an act that releases startlingly pleasant sensations. My muscles seem to tremble and twitch a little, as if they know what’s coming. In a way, perhaps, they do. This kind of stimulation has an inevitable purpose. Does it trigger ancient human memories for them? The cavewoman, worn out with childbearing, offering her caveman an alternative? The wife of a Roman senator, jealous of his preference for boys? Or the woman through the ages, wanting her man to know her in every possible way? This act is as old as the hills, and practised only for pleasure, not for any other motive. People do it because they want each other, just like me and Dimitri.
Now I am calm and lulled by the idea of all my forerunners opening this part of themselves up to their lovers as an act of faith and trust. It’s nothing new. It’s safe, as long as I’m in the right hands. And I’m in the right hands.
‘Now you feel this,’ he murmurs, bending to my ear. I tighten my muscles as one cold fingertip circles dangerously close. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Oh, nice,’ I say. ‘But it’s so close. I’m worried.’
‘Don’t worry, hush. Keep it open, relax.’
The fingertip is on me now, ready for the first push forwards. I think about asking him to put more lube on it, but then I force myself to trust him. He knows what he’s doing. Let him do it.
I can’t hold back a tiny whimper, though, as my ring stretches to accommodate the end of that long slim finger. I pant quickly, the breaths high up in my chest, trying to quantify the unique feeling of penetration. It’s not like having a finger in my pussy. It feels bigger, stranger and a little uncomfortable, though not at all painful as yet.
‘I am in you,’ he says, curling it a little, swivelling it, feeling his way.
I unleash a manic giggle, flexing my ankles and feet, experiencing something akin to being tickled, but not quite.
He digs deeper, sliding in to the knuckle.
‘All the way,’ he says in a sing-song croon. ‘All the way inside. Oh yes. You can take it.’
‘Ugh, ugh, ugh,’ is my only response to this. It’s not painful, not even unpleasant. It just feels very wrong, like my body and his finger are in deadlocked opposition. But he will win.
While his finger wiggles in its new home, he kisses my captive bum cheeks, passionately, then he pretends to bite them, sucking marks on to their pristine pallor.
‘Oooh.’ I grip the worn suedette with desperate nails. I know I can’t come like this, but it feels weirdly as if I might. Maybe all the information is wrong?
Then, with a rude pop, his finger is out of me and my muscles contract as if offended by his sudden exit.
‘Oh.’ It’s a little moan of protest, and he knows it, for the next thing he does is to insert two fingers. This makes me open my eyes wide and kick up my heels, but he is firm in his intent and he continues his impaling mission until I feel that pain I have been dreading. But it’s not really the dreaded pain – it’s a pale shadow of it, a vague smarting halfway along the passage, which flares and then as quickly fades.
How does the width of two fingers compare with his cock? I find myself trying to perform a frantic estimation task in my head. His fingers are long and bony, his cock is long and not so bony. Quite thick, in fact. How much more will it hurt? What’s the factor?
He thrusts with the fingers for a while, letting me accustom myself to the invasive feel of them, the push in and the drag out, then I hear his breathing over mine and it is heavy, ragged, on the edge.
‘I take you now,’ he says. I shut my eyes and utter a silent prayer, pushing up my bottom, offering it. ‘But you must turn over. Lie on your back. I want to watch your face.’
‘Oh no!’ This really is beyond the pale. He can put what he likes up my bum, but he mustn’t look at my face while he does it! Nobody must ever see my face.
‘What?’ He removes his fingers, comes around to the side, seeks my eyes, which are pressed into the padding. ‘Look at me. Hey, Rosichka. Now.’
I turn a pouty face to his. ‘It’s too embarrassing.’
‘But I need to see you. Or you might be in horrible pain and I don’t know. You might hate every minute and I think you love it. This is important for me, to know that you are happy with how I fuck you.’
‘If I’m not, I’ll tell you.’
I know before I even say it that he won’t accept that though.
‘But will you, malyshka? I am not so sure.’
He has a point. I probably wouldn’t say anything, just let him pound away and keep my fingers crossed that he would come quickly. It occurs to me that I could learn a thing or two about honesty from Dimitri.
‘OK. I don’t know what I’ll do, to be fair. It’s a new experience, after all.’
‘So you turn over for me, please.’
‘I turn over for you.’
I have to hop off the gymnastics horse and then seat myself on it again. My rear cheeks squish and slide together, the lube at work. I’m also aware of feeling different, the after-effects of Dimitri’s fingering. The passage remains tight, but I know it can take an invasive presence. All the old jokes about anal probes run through my mind as I lie flat and peer up at Dimitri through almost-closed eyes.
He picks up my legs from their dangling position and puts them over his shoulders, then holds me by my hips, angling me so that my bum rises right off the surface. Watching my face intently, he applies more lubricant to my quivering pucker.
I shut my eyes, bite my lip.
‘This is not hurting you?’
‘No, no.’ I gasp the words out, ruffling his hair with my toes.
‘Good. Please to open your eyes. I must watch you.’
He is evil. I reconsider all my opinions of him. Kind, funny, sweet, sexy all turn to evil, evil, evil, evil.
I manage to unglue one eyelid and squint up at him. ‘Whyyyy?’ I wail.
‘Because I like to.’ That smile makes lightning flash to my crotch. His fingertips press against my bud. I watch the way his forearm twists and his wrist flexes in the commission of my anal preparation, then I look up at his face again. His eyes are alight, his cheekbones twitching, his forehead drawn with the effort of concentration.
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