by Serena Dahl
Michael bought the cane himself for me to use on him. I would never have bought it myself such a thing – for one thing, I wouldn’t know where to get one. It’s a fearsome looking thing, and I’m not sure how I’d stand up to the pain if someone took to my bottom. But for now, I need to use it on Michael.
“A dozen strokes,” I tell him as he continues to kneel on all fours obediently on the bed, his erection standing ramrod-straight underneath him. “Count them for me.”
“Yes, Dr Gardiner.”
I bring the cane down on his behind for the first time. The noise is terrible; but Michael doesn’t make the slightest whimper. “One,” he counts.
I bring it down again. “Two.” And again. “Three.” I can see him bracing himself hard for each impact. “Four,” he counts as I hit him again. The cane is starting to paint pink strokes on his bottom. “Five.”
He’s clearly fine, and I know he wants this to really hurt, so I move my arm back further for the next few strokes, bringing the cane down harder on his flesh. I can see sweat start to trickle down the side of his forehead and by stroke nine he is trembling all over and crying out with each impact. Still I have to finish it, so I carry on, but I can’t help holding back a little – it’s so against my nature to hurt another human being so badly, even though I know he’s loving every minute of it, and if he didn’t like it he could easily use his safeword.
Then my phone rings.
Clearly, I can’t answer it. I’m in the middle of a sadomasochistic sex session with Michael. But I can’t help glancing at the display. Adam. It’s Adam calling. Oh, no, how I want to answer the phone; but I have to leave it. I’m gutted.
I know I have to carry on as if nothing had happened, but I can’t help wishing I’d been able to take the call.
I give Michael his last punishment. “Twelve,” he pants at last, and I drop the cane. “Thank you,” he adds finally.
“Good boy,” I tell him. “Now stand.”
He does as he’s told, getting off the bed and waiting for what’s coming next. I take a condom out of the bedside drawer and roll it onto his big, hard erection. “I’m going to kneel on the bed now, and you’re going to fuck me. Nice and hard.”
“Yes, Dr Gardiner.”
I get onto the bed on all fours, still in my bra, holdups and dressing gown, and then Michael is behind me, pushing my dressing gown up out of the way and my legs further apart, touching me between my legs with his hands, feeling how wet I am from the orgasm he gave me earlier. I think of Adam again and for a moment I imagine that it’s him touching me there; and then Michael rams himself hard inside me, and I gasp with the impact.
He props himself up with one hand as he holds my breast with the other. It’s like he’s consumed by pent-up sexual energy, given an outlet at last, slamming hard into me again and again. I cry out as his whole length rams in and out of me. His hand on my breast is not a caress, it’s a grip, almost painful. But the savagery of his thrusts is so exciting, it speaks so clearly of his desperate need to fill me over and over again, his ungovernable desire for me, that I revel in the feel of it. Oh, Adam, what would it feel like if it was you doing this to me?
All I can feel is Michael mercilessly slamming into me again and again, and all I can see in my mind’s eye is Adam. The first time I saw him across the street; his mesmerising grey eyes, his lean, muscular body under a slim-fitting T-shirt, the mouth I long to kiss. I can feel Michael, but in my head it’s Adam. Oh Adam, Adam, I love it when you fuck me hard.
And then Michael comes, pushing inside me one last time with desperate force that makes me cry out again. I feel him pull out of me, and then I collapse forward on the bed, shutting my eyes.
I stay like that for a minute on my own, and then Michael is lying next to me, stroking my hair. “Are you okay, Justine?”
“Yes,” I laugh, turning my head to look round at him. “You took me at my word, didn’t you? That really was hard! Are you sure you don’t have a hidden dominant streak?”
He just smiles and plants a little kiss on my lips, still stroking my hair. I shut my eyes and enjoy the sensation.
But I’m still imagining that the hand caressing me is Adam’s. And I can’t wait to be alone, so I can return his missed call.
I know the sex I have with Michael is good, but if I’m thinking of another man when I’m with him perhaps it’s time I ended it. I can’t help feeling guilty.
Five
Tuesday, 27 March
I SHUT THE DOOR ON MICHAEL with a certain sense of relief. I never let him stay the night. I have to be up early for lectures and the last thing I need is a hot student, all rumpled hair and tempting hard muscles, persuading me to get back into bed.
As soon as I can, I run up the stairs to grab my phone. Adam’s there in my missed calls, but he’s left no voicemail and hasn’t sent me a message. For a moment I consider playing it cool, leaving it for a day or two and calling him back.
But I really, really want to speak to him. So I hit the “call” button.
“Hi,” comes his voice down the phone. Oh, how I love that deep, sensual voice.
“Hi, it’s Justine. I got a missed call from you? Sorry, I couldn’t get to the phone.” I decide not to add, because I was beating the crap out of a final year student before getting him to go down on me and then fuck me like an animal.
“Hi, yeah, I just wondered how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine. Really good now.”
“All healed?”
“Yes, hardly an ache left. It’s lovely to be walking around and not be in any pain at all. It’s not the sort of thing I normally appreciate, but I will try hard to remember the relief and learn to value my good health in the future.”
“Yes, I suppose we all take it for granted until something goes wrong. Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you.” There is a pause, a silence. Not an awkward silence. I can almost hear him smiling.
“So, it would be nice to see you again soon. If you’d like that,” he adds.
I don’t have to think twice about this. “I’d like that.”
“How about dinner one evening soon?”
“Okay... when were you thinking?” He asks if I’m free on Friday, but I’m not: I’m seeing Edward, so we agree on Saturday. Instantly I regret telling Adam that I wasn’t free: I wish I had agreed on Friday and then cancelled my existing date. It’s against my principles, though, to mess men around and I don’t want to hurt Edward. So, Saturday it is. It’s Tuesday today. Five days to wait.
Adam says he’ll pick me up from my place. We agree to head to The Old Bank for dinner. His suggestion, but I approve wholeheartedly – I love the food there. We chat a little more, and when the call ends I know I have a very goofy smile on my face. I’m surprised how much I’m affected by this man.
So – a date. Well, it did seem that he was interested in me, as he kept visiting me all throughout my stay in hospital, and he’s been over to my house several times. Sweetly, he brought a home-cooked casserole the first time, as if I couldn’t look after myself – which was partly true, I was in a bad way for the first week or so that I was home from hospital. But I have such an efficient mother that my freezer was already full of hearty, nutritious fare to help me recover. When he left, he kissed me on the cheek, leaving me with the kind of silly smile I’ve got plastered on my face right now.
The second time, he came laden with a bag of absolutely delicious cookies – bought though, not cooked by his own hand, black mark! - and a DVD. When it was time for him to go, he gave me another kiss on the cheek. I felt less like a modern woman in control of her life and more like a teenager with a bad crush. My daydreams in between his visits became even more frequent; Adam was fast becoming my favourite thing to think about.
Then the last time he brought flowers and wine, and we chatted. The time flew – I found him sensitive, funny and interesting – but when he left I found we’d been talking for nearly three hours. When
he left, I was expecting my usual peck on the cheek. Instead he lightly grasped my chin, and lifted my face to gently kiss my lips. I swayed on suddenly unsteady legs as I looked up into his eyes; he looked down, looking slightly amused, and moved his hand to stroke my hair. “Goodbye, Justine,” he said, and then he was gone. I remember feeling like my legs would give way beneath me.
So what will dinner bring? He must have been taking things slowly because of my injuries, but will this pace carry on, or is he going to make more of a move this time? Or did that kiss not really mean anything? Surely a kiss on the lips is a sure sign that he wants to be more than friends. And the way he touched my hair – so tender and gentle. My tummy turns over in anticipation. But what will he make of my lifestyle?
Ordinarily, I am completely upfront about my sex life when I take on a new partner. They need to know that I won’t promise that they’ll be my one and only, and I don’t expect, or even want, exclusivity from them. But I haven’t broached the subject with Adam – as I wasn’t sure where I stood with him. If something develops, I will have to tell him. It’s not in my nature to be dishonest about it. But what will he make of it? Normally I just feel that a new man can take me as I am or leave me. There’s plenty more fish in the sea. Somehow, though, I’m more anxious than usual about Adam’s reaction. I really don’t want to put him off.
But I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I don’t know how strong his interest is; and a guy like him must have women dropping at his feet every hour of the day. Normally I make my position clear with a new partner before anything physical happens – I can usually tell if sex is on the cards. But I’m not sure I’ll have the confidence to broach the subject. I’m more hung up on Adam than I can remember being about anyone. It’s making me less sure of myself. How will I tell if he’s really interested?
And almost as importantly, I’ve gained a bit of weight since the accident. All Mum’s (and Adam’s) home cooking, plus my inactivity, have piled on the pounds. Should I launch into a severe period of short-term weight loss? Or is the poor nutrition that goes hand in hand with a crash diet a sure-fire way to make myself look haggard and trigger a spot on my chin? And what am I going to wear?
My brain is buzzing with activity when I get into bed. So, despite the wine and my tiredness from the session with Michael, I cannot drift off. I do a lot of outfit planning, a lot of conjecturing about dinner on Saturday – and what will follow after – and a lot of thinking about a certain delicious, tender kiss, before I eventually fall asleep.
Six
Saturday, 31 March
I ALREADY KNEW THAT ADAM WAS sensitive, funny and attentive. And our dinner date on Saturday doesn’t disappoint. He starts by holding my chair out to help me seat myself at the table: very chivalrous. I may be a feminist of a sort, but I’ve no objection to good manners.
We get on like a house on fire. We have so much to talk about – family, friends, our taste in films and music. We don’t agree on everything but even arguing is fun with Adam.
He sticks to fizzy water as he’s driving, explaining that he would until recently have had one glass of wine. After all, he would still be under the drink-drive limit. But seeing me being hit by a car has made him resolve never again to risk compromising his reaction speed with alcohol when he drives. Of course, I can drink as much as I like, so he keeps refilling my glass – and the welcome warm glow of alcohol is soon spreading over me, making me even more receptive to Adam’s particular brand of charm.
I am still surprised at myself. For one thing, he is older than the men I normally go for. Still younger than me, but late twenties. He’s probably only two or three years my junior. And the degree of attraction I feel for Adam is unusually strong. When I catch myself staring a little too hard at his mouth, thinking of his soft kiss the last time we parted, I feel an ache of desire spread through my tummy.
Part way through the evening, as I pause over my delicious goat’s cheese, pear and beetroot tart and toy with the stem of my wine glass, he puts his hand on mine, briefly, enveloping mine in its warmth; and I catch my breath, unable to speak for a moment as my head reels with the shock of my electric reaction to his touch.
I’m glad I made an effort with my outfit. After a huge amount of deliberation, I opted for a black pencil skirt, not too short, but not too long either, and a sheer black blouse. I carefully selected a black bra with lace cups to wear underneath, so that Adam would get a glimpse of pretty underwear through my top. To match the bra, I’m wearing my favourite black knickers. I seem to remember an ex fondly nicknaming them my ‘sexy pants’. Lastly, my sexy-but-classy heels from L K Bennett. Sexy but classy is, in fact, the look I’ve aimed for tonight, so I finished it off with careful, but not too obvious, makeup. I focussed on my eyes with gel eyeliner, mascara, smoky grey eye shadow, and then I used an old favourite lipstick that’s close to the real colour of my lips. A brush of glow on my cheekbones finished the look. I hadn’t spent so long getting ready for a date in years.
In the days before our date, I cut down my portion sizes and made sure I went easy on my salt intake, but in the interests of my wellbeing I resisted the temptation to crash diet. I seem to have lost a couple of pounds anyway, probably because the lower sodium diet has reduced my fluid retention, so that’s good enough for me.
Adam is looking gorgeous, dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue shirt. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to run my hands through his unruly light brown hair, trace my fingers down to his collarbone, unbutton that crisply ironed shirt. But instead I sit opposite him, making conversation, and yearning for some physical contact.
I made sure I didn’t break my own code of conduct last night, telling myself it would not be fair to cancel seeing Edward, so we had our long-postponed date at last. But the attraction I felt for him previously had dissipated. For the first time in a long while, I went home alone after a brief kiss and nothing more. I think Edward assumed that I still hadn’t recovered completely from my accident, and wasn’t well enough for the physical side of things yet. It was, perhaps, convenient to let him believe that – I had no wish to hurt him.
But of course, the reason is Adam.
We order dessert and I cannot resist the chocolate pot with salted caramel. Adam chooses the treacle tart and tells me about his mother’s world-beating recipe for the same dish, painting a picture of his family life in childhood with a fondness that makes me think how nice it would be to meet his parents. He is the baby of the family with two older brothers, George, the eldest, and Clive, the middle child; the sibling rivalry he describes sounds friendly enough to me – they seem to be on good terms. George was married recently, and a few weeks before the wedding Adam went to Barcelona for the stag night.
His description of the outfit they made George wear has me in stitches. Poor guy – they dressed him as a woman, and he even had a long blonde wig. I can just imagine the leg hairs poking out of the holes in his fishnet stockings. Honestly, the things men do to each other on their stag nights. Hen nights make me cringe too - the way women get dressed up with L-plates and necklaces with penis pendants. Not my kind of look at all. Good thing I’m never intending to get married, I think to myself.
Adam finishes his dessert and admits that it’s almost – almost – as good as his Mum’s.
“High praise,” I grin at him.
“And how was your chocolate thing?”
“Lovely. As you can probably see by the fact that I’ve eaten every single tiny trace of it.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ve wanted to treat you to something nice ever since I got you run over.”
“You don’t still feel bad about that, do you?” I ask with a rising blush. By discussing this, we’re acknowledging to each other that I was so mesmerised by the sight of Adam that I completely lost my head. It’s a little embarrassing. “You know it wasn’t your fault really. I should have been paying attention.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re better and we can do this.”
>
“Do you think we’d have spoken to each other if I hadn’t walked into the path of a car?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“Really?” My curiosity is piqued by his emphatic answer.
“Of course. I’d have invented some other reason to strike up a conversation and ask you out to dinner.”
“What, just in the middle of the street?”
“I don’t see why not. I might have come over and tripped you up instead, and then told you I felt so guilty I’d have to take you out for the evening to make up for it. Or just whacked you over the head with a frying pan and dragged you back to my place.”
“Hmm,” I muse with raised eyebrows and an incredulous smile. “I don’t recall you carrying a frying pan as you were walking down the road.”
