After the 15th phone call, before she had time to call the 16th person, Dean stood up and took Helena’s hands in his. She dropped her mobile to the floor and pulled away to retrieve it. But still, in the brief moment of physical contact, something stirred deep inside Dean. He imagined Helena wearing nothing but thigh-high boots and holding a whip.
‘Helena.’ He pronounced the name as if he’d never spoken it before. It felt like the sound originated from deep within the bowels of his soul and travelled through his whole being before it reached the air.
Helena blushed. ‘You’re excited. I’m excited. But it’s not long to wait now, babe.’
She stepped backwards and then stepped forward again and gave him an awkward hug. Dean tried to hold onto the warmth of her body a moment longer before letting go and moving away himself. The colour rose to his cheeks.
‘Perhaps I should go. We should say a prayer and then I’ll go,’ Helena said.
She dropped to her knees. An unworthy image from the internet porn he watched flashed into his head, of what women often did in those films when they were kneeling before men. Quickly he knelt beside her, but not too close. They said a prayer of thanks. Then another awkward hug and Helena left.
Dean pressed his face against the cold surface of the wall. At least she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her. He chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. He had a fiancée; a quarter of an hour ago he was thrilled imagining they might have sex for the first time, and now he was relieved that they hadn’t kissed.
So far all their kisses had been sloppy, teeth-crashing things, filled with the emotion brothers and sisters might have when they kissed each other. Not that he knew what that felt like; in his family brothers and sisters did not kiss each other, did not speak to each other.
He pushed his back against the door and took a deep breath. He would have to learn how to kiss properly. That was a good place to start. How could he expect to satisfy Helena in the way a man should satisfy his wife if he didn’t even know how to kiss her? The internet was full of advice, he was sure he could find some technique tips on there. With a clear conscience he went to his spare room and clicked his computer on.
An hour later he was sitting naked in front of his webcam giving his most private fantasies to a woman he’d only lightly flirted with online before.
‘Do you want to know a secret, little slut?’ the woman who identified herself as Crimson whispered into the computer screen.
Her webcam was set up so he could only see her mouth. The image of her lips filled his computer screen. He could see fine lines in her bright red lipstick where it cracked as she spoke.
‘Yes, please, mistress.’
‘I know who you are. I recognise you.’
Every muscle in Dean’s body froze. What if she was one of his clients? Someone he was supposed to be helping recover from their addiction. He could lose his job. But he didn’t recognise her voice. None of his clients had ever whispered the things she’d been whispering to him, though. Did people have different voices when they were being sexual? He could lose his job.
He waited. Her lips were closed and smiling; she was obviously waiting for his reaction.
‘I am honoured that you would remember seeing such a pathetic worm as me.’
She laughed. ‘I live near your church. I’ve seen you and your too-good friends milling about. I think I saw you today with a gorgeous blonde. Is she too-good, worm? I’m going to give you my address. Come and see me. Wear a coat, nothing else.’
‘When would you like me to visit you, mistress?’ His voice was quavering.
‘Now.’
Her webcam went blank, but an address appeared in the message area of the window, then she went offline. Was she preparing for his arrival? The thought excited him. He moaned into the empty air as his cock throbbed.
He tried to steady himself, be the unemotional, logical man that Helena said she loved.
He’d gone online fresh from being congratulated by Helena’s family, his mind swimming with images that he was going to get married and become a mature, normal, sexual adult, at least ten years later than every other normal person, but it was going to happen. Instead of doing legitimate research on how to please his wife-to-be he had clicked onto the sex chat site, his favourite one that had been the cheapest to subscribe to. The woman he ended up camming with turned out to know him, to live near the church, had seen him with Helena earlier this very day. And she’d invited him around. Why had she invited him around? These sex sites were notoriously difficult to get real life meets out of, probably because most of the dirtiest and most provocative females were really men with avatar photos borrowed out of lads’ mags. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a sign from God, putting temptation directly into his path, to show him how wrong it was, to lead him towards change and a better, purer life.
Dean pulled out a long coat from the wardrobe. It was one of Helena’s that she left there along with two spare skirts, a variety of tops, and countless pots of cream and make-up in his bathroom, a hint that one day she might stay the night. His own coats were all short so it would have to do. He looked at himself in the mirror. The coat was a maroon colour, a shade most men wouldn’t wear, and it had a definite feminine cut to it. He had a feeling that the cam lady would like it on him.
He slipped on his Sunday shoes and drove to the address she’d given. He had a moment before he knocked on her door when he feared she might be dangerous. What sort of woman invited a man around to her house when she’d only met him on the internet? The sort of woman who had an enviable collection of axes, chainsaws, and all things sharp?
As he rang the doorbell he had a greater fear that this might be a set-up, a big joke at his expense. He visualised standing in the middle of a room surrounded by beautiful women laughing at him, but the idea of the humiliation caused a hardening and a rush of heat under Helena’s coat that belied the coolness of the evening.
He checked the time on his mobile and vowed he would not wait more than five minutes for the door to be answered.
Seven minutes later, the door cracked open and he saw a sliver of a face above the chain.
‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘I came straight away. I am worm80, my name from the internet, not my real name of course. The man from the church.’
‘Open the coat.’ The voice was the same husky whisper he’d listened to in the warm safety of his home.
He fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons which seemed to have been made too large for the holes.
‘Are you wearing your wife’s coat?’ It was a bored voice rather than the accusatory one he deserved.
‘She’s not my wife. We never even officially began dating. We’ve never had sex,’ he blurted out, feeling somehow more of a need to justify himself because of her obvious indifference.
‘Open the coat, worm.’
He pulled it apart, revealing his naked body. She made him stand there for what in the inconsistency of time was an hour, but according to the rule of the clock was only a minute. Then she clicked the chains off her door and let him in.
‘I wouldn’t have let you in if your cock was too small. We all have our prejudices, and mine is men with tiny dicks.’ She held a box of matches in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She put the cigarette between her lips and gave him the matches to light it.
He breathed in the cheap sweetness of her perfume as he leant in to her. He took in the curves of her body, the grey streak in her dyed red hair, and the lines on her face which gave her an aura of maturity and experience which he found incredibly alluring.
‘You might be footloose and fancy free, sugar, but I have a husband. So you take your lady friend’s nice coat off and get on with the cleaning. If you do a good quick job I’ll let you lick me out afterwards.’ She walked off into one of the doors off the hall and he followed her.
She sat on the sofa, stretching her legs out over the cushions, and began to flick through a gossip magazine. She held her cigarette away from her
to one side as if it was nothing to do with her.
‘The cleaning stuff is under the sink and in the stair cupboard.’ She flicked over another glossy page without looking up at Dean.
They hadn’t spoken about cleaning in their messages this evening; it had all been bondage and leather. He’d read about it in some of his novels, though: people who got turned on by cleaning. Kneeling down and scrubbing her kitchen floor, however, he had the feeling he was being taken for a fool. The sense of humiliation stirred inside him. This wasn’t cyber chat, this wasn’t fantasy, this was real. He was naked in a strange, sensual woman’s house cleaning up crumbs and ridding the hall carpet of dubious black stains while she relaxed in her lounge, reading celebrity sob stories.
His cock throbbed to such an extent he feared making a new stain on her floor. Dean thought of another pathetic internet slave being called over to clean up spunk.
Lost in his thoughts, he did not hear her approach him. He yelled out as the cigarette scorched into his flesh.
The woman came to stand in front of him. She squatted down and took his chin in her empty hand.
‘You haven’t been trained, have you? You’re not a pain slut, are you?’ Her voice was kindly, but had a chiding note to it that made Dean fully aware of the erection between his legs.
‘I’m sorry, mistress, I don’t quite know what you mean.’
‘The little stub I gave you with my cigarette was nothing. I doubt it’ll even leave a mark, but you screamed out as if I was about to murder you.’
Dean coloured. ‘It was the surprise. If you try me again, I’ll behave better. If you tell me what to do, I’ll try and do it.’
The woman walked to the kitchen and stubbed her cigarette out in a saucer. She came back in the hall and took Helena’s coat off the hook where Dean had left it and held it open for him.
‘I won’t be angry with you. I confused the potential in the things you said online with reality. I should have asked you about your history. Although if I was the type of woman who did sensible things like that, I wouldn’t have invited you over in the first place. I was intrigued by the whole church thing but, like I told you, I have a husband. He takes up most of my effort; I don’t want to be wasting my spare time with a slut who isn’t trained. Find someone who’s experienced and willing to invest in you, and I’m sure you’ll do fine.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘You don’t want me to lick you out, then?’
The woman laughed and pushed him through her front door, giving him a little pat on the bottom before she slammed the door behind him.
Dean didn’t manage to complete the short drive home. He pulled over in a lay-by and wanked himself off. He then sat, still panting, as he relived every moment of the most erotic experience of his life.
Chapter Three - Broken
The morning after the night before I fumbled around the floor for my creased clothes and left my lover’s house. He gave me a curt nod as I was getting dressed in the half-light, then closed his eyes and put his hand to his brow in what seemed like a private gesture. I felt I’d already gone before I’d even pulled my knickers on.
I fed the Siamese before I left. I even stroked it and allowed it to rub its hair over my dark stockings. It was an act of desperation, and if the cat could communicate with its human that is what it would say in a sneering, hateful voice.
It’s strange how our souls, the essence of us, can be broken up, but the outside carries on working like normal.
Although I suppose it isn’t normal to cut short important business calls to send texts on each and every hour to your lover.
Pleading texts:
Please I didn’t mean what I said about fucking other men, I only want you. I don’t need any test. Please ring me and tell me everything is all right between us and I’ll do whatever you want for ever.
Sexy texts:
I’ve been thinking of you. My skin is sore. My knickers are moist. I want to wrap my lips around your cock and suck and suck and suck. I want you to thrust hard into me until I choke. I want my face to be covered in your cream.
And, worst of all, badly worded, falsely casual texts:
How’s your day going? Work is boring. A few of the girls are thinking of seeing the new Brad Pitt film. I might tag along. You got any plans for this evening? Want me to come around if you like?
I read somewhere that love is like madness; you act the same, the same chemicals screw up your brain, making it impossible to take logical decisions, and that’s how it was for me. A small, sensible part of me questioned what the hell I was doing while the rest of me skipped around in circles singing “hey nonny nonny”.
Our relationship did not work with me texting him every hour. We did not bother each other with the minutiae of our days. It was understood that everyday life was mundane and soul destroying; it was understood that we were dark, wicked escapism. And yet at one o’clock I texted my lover telling him I was about to eat a BLT sandwich followed by a strawberry full-fat yoghurt and a Yorkie chocolate bar.
If I put on weight just more of me for you to love, hey! I wrote. And I pressed the send button before my brain could interject.
My colleagues asked if I had had a good weekend. They mistook my hyper mood, my edginess and distraction, for happiness. A mistake easily made.
‘You’re always the life and soul of the party, but today you’re even more – well, more you, if that’s possible.’ Joe raised his eyebrows and smiled a come-hither smile. Normally he only flirted with me at the more drunken work parties.
I looked him up and down in a way I hadn’t bothered with before and imagined him naked. I suspected there were spectacular muscles under his anonymous work suit. He often yackered about his latest marathon times, and he did those Iron Man contest things, plus he used up his holiday time in big chunks and disappeared to countries I’d never heard of with just a rucksack and himself. That could hint at a darkness, a need to be on your own and disappear into nature. And being an Iron Man conjured up visions of dominance and control. Or was it just too much testosterone and male competitiveness? I smiled at a vision of Joe on top of me holding a stopwatch, shouting out in ecstasy, ‘I beat my last record of hard thrusting by 9.6 seconds – 9.6 seconds!’
‘What’s so funny?’ He leant in a little closer to me as if we were sharing an intimate joke. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Something you would love to know, but I’m not going to tell you.’ I glanced at the time on my computer screen and sat down in my cubicle. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
Joe walked away with a look of disappointment on his face and I quickly typed my hourly text.
Just flirted with a colleague. Is that what you want? Should I lead him into the stationary cupboard, bend over and slowly hitch up my skirt? I’ve never been into the sex at work thing, but I’ll give it a go if you think that is what I need to experience. Then I’ll come back to the best man I could ever know and beg for you to whip my tits and spend the rest of your life punishing your naughty girl.
After work I did not go to the cinema with the girls and, as kindly as I could, I cut short Joe’s attempt to ask me out for a drink. I went home, lay down on my bed without getting changed, gripped my mobile in my right hand, and stared up at the ceiling.
My mind, already adjusted to the situation, stirred me every hour to send a text and then I returned to my comatose state for another 59 minutes.
This was my week, and the week that followed. The only variety being when the land line rung; I rushed to it, filled with hope it was my lover, only to find someone trying to get me to change my phone line or my electricity provider or enquiring about the safety of my window locks.
‘Fuck off. I’m waiting for an important call.’ I put the phone down before they had time to reply. Misery begets misery; spreads much quicker and easier than happiness.
Then he did phone.
My heart thumped and my hand shook. I was almost too scared to answer the cal
l when his number flashed up.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ I whispered into the receiver before he could speak.
‘Are you a good slave?’ His voice was as deep and sensual as ever and my body responded.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ I repeated, louder this time.
‘Are you a good slave?’ His spoke in exactly the same silky, rich, alluring tone as if it was the first time he’d asked that question.
‘Yes, sir. I am. You’ve always said that I am.’
‘Then why are you texting me through the night? When are you sleeping? You know how important it is for you to look after yourself.’
‘I’m confused. I don’t know what you want.’
‘That’s the point, it doesn’t matter what I want. This is your time. You need to be free of me. You’re so young and I need to know that you’ve discovered your own sexual identity rather than been pulled into my desires.’
I took a deep breath. I wouldn’t start crying. If I was being dumped, this was a novel way of doing it. Just thinking that I might be being dumped sent yearning like electricity through my body. I couldn’t survive without him. I wouldn’t let him discard me.
I took another deep breath and let my yearning control me. ‘I’m discovering my sexual identity right now. My fingers are between my legs. I’m so wet for you.’
He didn’t say anything, but he was still there; I could hear his breathing. I flicked my thumb over my clit and moaned into the phone.
‘I’ll come and see you. I’ll wear that little pleated skirt you like, my knee-high boots, no underwear. I’ll wait on my knees on your doorstep. I’ll wait all night, all day, for the rest of my life until you let me in. My arse is yearning for the touch of your hand. I need to be spanked. I need so much to be spanked. All of me. I’m thinking of you teasing my pussy. I’m imagining your cock is rubbing against my clit, spanking my pussy. I’m tied to your bed, helpless, straining against my binds, bucking my hips up into you, begging you to fuck me. Please fuck me. Please fuck me.’ I closed my eyes and writhed alone on my bed. ‘Are you hard for me? Are you thinking about me?’
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