‘Like that, you mean?’
‘Harder, please, ma’am, grab it, squeeze it, please.’
I drop to my knees and breathe on it.
‘Oh God, you bitch!’
‘That’s no way to talk to your mistress.’ I reach around and smack his arse, then pour more hot breath on his shaft and his tight, hard balls.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am! I hate being teased. I hate not being in control. Oh God, please suck it.’
He undermines his plea by trying to twist away from me, presenting me with a pale flank instead. I smack him again and hold him by the hips, enjoying the latent power held captive under my palms.
With the very tippy-tip of my tongue I draw a slow upward line from his root to his head. I make it last. He tries to throw me off course, thrusting into my face, but he can’t get the purchase he needs to succeed.
I laugh as I lick, pinching into his hips, wriggling my rubber-cased arse where he can’t fail to see it. I give a taunting little flourish of tongue when I reach his frenulum and then pop off and back right away, smiling at the pained lines on his forehead.
‘Oh Christ, Sophie, please …’
‘Open your eyes. I’ve got something to show you.’
Once his gaze is satisfactorily level, I turn around and bend over, feeling my bum cheeks strain against the constricting rubber until I worry it might split. But it doesn’t and I spread them as wide as I can and shake them, then put my hands flat against them, pressing my fingertips in to the taut shiny-black second skin, peering up at him from between my legs.
‘Come over here. Let me out of this,’ he says.
‘You still haven’t got that quite right, have you?’
I straighten up and jump around to face him. I pull up a chair, some kind of bondage device with cuffs on the arms and legs, but I ignore those, sit myself down and sprawl with my legs over the sides.
‘And guess what?’ I reach down to my crotch. Velcro tears asunder, revealing my sex. ‘Easy access! Good, eh?’
‘Oh God.’ He stumbles forwards when I put my hand inside the dark, furtive opening and start to rub.
‘Ooh, juicy. I must have enjoyed whipping you more than I realised. Actually, it’s probably the rubber. So tight and hot, holding me in, clinging.’ I lift my fingers to my mouth and suck them.
He looks as if he might faint, all that colour draining away. The stiff baton obscuring his lower abdomen must be getting uncomfortable now.
But that’s not my problem, is it?
‘Think I’ll pick myself a vibrator,’ I say casually, strolling up to the toy cupboard to select a nice number with a clitoral stimulator. ‘This’ll do.’
I resume my legs akimbo posture, switch on the vibe and push it slowly and cleanly up inside my cunt, holding Lloyd’s eyes every second of the way.
‘Can you see it going in? Do you wish that was your cock?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he whispers, transfixed.
‘Well, it isn’t going to be. Not tonight. Your cock gets nothing tonight. It’s spoilt and overindulged. It needs to learn to take turns.’
His lips are turned down and he’s breathing heavily. He looks half crushed, half homicidal. I’m quite relieved that the cuffs are so effective.
The vibe slides in to the hilt and the clit buzzer begins its work. I push and thrust with it, grinding my hips in the chair, throwing back my head and losing myself in the sensation. Every now and again, I peek over to look at Lloyd.
‘Open your eyes! You have to watch this!’
‘I can’t … I’m so hard … please …’
‘You concede then?’
He wrenches up his eyelids. ‘No I fucking well don’t.’
‘Watch then.’
I work myself well and thoroughly, making sure my G-spot gets plenty of attention, letting the vibrations pulse gently through my swelling clit. I get close, and then I pull the thing out, wanting more of Lloyd’s desperation and frustration before I come.
‘I preferred when you were whacking me!’ he yelps when I plunge the vibrator back in. ‘This is way more cruel.’
‘So sorry.’ But the murmur is a reflex, not sincere, because I am too focused now on the tide lapping slowly forwards once more, creeping up, getting ready.
When I come, I try not to make a sound but just let the breath ebb from my body, controlled, unhurried. Although my eyelids flutter, I can still see most of what Lloyd is doing and it intensifies my pleasure to know that he is in his predicament, restrained and erect and raring to fuck me.
‘I think,’ I say, sounding slightly drunk as I try to swing my legs back over the chair arms, ‘it’s time for your treat now. I’m gonna uncuff you, but don’t you even think about touching me, OK?’
‘Hard to make that promise, Soph.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m asking you to make it.’
‘All right.’
I start to unbuckle the straps of leather encircling his wrists. They are pink and a little sore looking. He lowers his arms stiffly. ‘I want you to go over to that piece of furniture I got out earlier and bend over it.’
‘What?’ He puts his head to one side, examining me as if aiming to look into my mind. ‘What’s the plan, ma’am?’
‘You’ll see, boy. Now do it.’ I let my palm ring out on that still-welted backside.
He growls, then realises that submissives are not meant to growl and lunge at their mistresses, shrugs and slopes over to the bench.
‘Get that behind nice and high,’ I command as he positions himself. I tie his wrists again, and his ankles. Don’t want any misdirected kicks, not when I do what I’m planning to do. ‘Just keep still while I go and get my equipment.’
‘What equipment?’
‘Aha. Wait and see. Don’t move.’
‘I can’t bloody well move anyway. You’re going to whip me again, aren’t you? Oh my God, you’re going to get a dildo and …’
Now he’s on the right track. But I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so I simply shush him and grab the harness from the cupboard.
He must be able to hear it jingle and clink while I attach it to my pelvis. The cock part of it draws its centre of gravity down, the weight is a little disconcerting. What would it actually be like to have a cock, I find myself wondering. Does it get in the way of stuff all the time?
‘Have you guessed what it is yet?’ I tease, practising a few different poses, grabbing hold of the dildo part and pointing it towards his distant pink bottom.
‘Something with metal … a harness of some kind.’
‘Now I just need to choose the right lube … maybe some of this tingle gel, eh?’
‘Oh, Sophie!’ He says my name with such reverence. ‘I never dreamed you’d go this far. Are you really going to …?’
‘Fuck your arse, darling? Yes, I am.’
‘Oh sweet Jesus.’
‘You drove me to it. All your goading at me to concede. All your smugness about how sure you were I’d fail. This counts for several successes at once, I feel.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. You haven’t done it yet.’
‘You haven’t done this before then?’
There’s a pause.
‘Actually, yes,’ he admits.
‘With a girl? Or a boy?’
‘Boy. Experiment.’
‘Good experiment? Or not?’
‘Pretty good, actually.’
‘Definitely the tingle gel then.’ I sigh heavily. ‘I was all excited about taking your virginity. That’s one thing I’ve still never done.’
‘Noted.’
‘I’m going to stop telling you things. I’ve never been pleasured in a sheik’s harem by eight naked oiled male models either. Is that noted too?’
‘No, because I think you’re lying.’
I’m close to him now. He needs to start feeling the seriousness of his position and he needs to start feeling it now.
I keep adjusting the harness as I walk, not sure how it’s mean
t to sit. Like this? Like that? I pull it as tight as I can, the fake cock bowing out in front of me.
I put my hand on his bottom and he flinches. I know his sphincter has tightened.
‘Dear sweet Lloyd. How do you like it? Hard and fast, or slow and sweet? How do you like your arse fucked?’
‘I … can’t remember.’ His teeth are gritted.
I squirt some lube on the exposed part of my fingers and slot them between his cheeks until I feel that wrinkled texture amid the softness. Tight, squeezed shut. Can I do this? Will I tear him?
I get it nice and slick and slidey then I push it forwards a tiny bit. I’m as tense as he is, every muscle of my face pulled into a grimace.
He breathes in short puffs. I know he’s making an effort to remember what he always tells me during anal sex. Bear down, push back, relax.
It takes just a moment of screwing my finger left and right and I’m in. How peculiar it feels to press against the narrow walls of his passage, so hot and so tender.
He makes an incoherent noise, and I remember I need to be domming it up big style, talking him through this.
‘You’ve got a finger up your arse, boy – how does that feel?’
‘Uh, quite nice, ma’am.’
‘Does it? Because you’re going to have more than a finger soon enough. How’s the tingle gel?’
‘Tingly.’
He illustrates this with a wiggle of his arse and a tightening of the muscles, closing around my finger like a trap. Where’s the prostate? Is it near here or further up? My strap-on and I will investigate its location.
‘Are you ready?’ I pull out my finger, watching the aperture close up again like one of those doors in space operas with multiple triangular blades that meet and seal up the exit.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ he says with some effort.
‘Right.’
I stand there, taking deep breaths. I’m more nervous than he is. Oh for fuck’s sake, I should just get on with it.
‘If you want to concede …’
I attach a limpet hand to one of his hips, press the dildo between his cheeks, find the target.
‘I don’t think so.’
I push forward, just a little, waiting for his response.
He is gasping, but not crying out or anything. That’ll be good, right? I panic slightly, wanting the reassurance of flesh on flesh, of being able to feel his passage expand to fit me. This is so foreign and so sterile. I might as well have fixed him up to some machine that pumps the dildo in and out. The most I can hope for is to press my latex-covered thighs up against his, once the thing is in completely, and hold that limited contact close.
I should say something like, ‘Feel my giant dildo stretch you wide, boy’ but instead I say, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh, Soph, I’m fine. I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Just do what you have to do.’
If I don’t finish this off, he will be insufferable for ever.
But it is still with some regret that I push the sleek black silicone deeper inside him. I stop for a moment while he groans and convulses, then carry on until I am close, closer, then all the way in, the harness straps patterning his bum cheeks, my rubbery thighs leaning into his.
‘Oh my God.’ I look down at where my strap-on ends and he begins. ‘It’s all the way in. That’s got to be uncomfortable.’
‘S’fine.’ His voice is thick and slurry now. ‘Oh, oh God. I forgot how it felt.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not really. Do you mind … take it easy … to start off.’
‘OK.’
I jiggle and circle my hips, watching the end of the strap-on move inside his opened hole. ‘I want you to know,’ I blurt, hardly knowing what I’m saying.
‘What?’
‘That … oh, I don’t know. That you should let me know if it hurts you.’
‘Is that what you meant to say?’
I swallow the words. ‘Yes. Will you do that for me? Let me know if it hurts? And I’ll stop.’
‘Scout’s honour, ma’am.’
I pull out, then slide it back in again. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat. I take my cues from his shuddering breath and his heartbreaking little moans, sometimes slowing, sometimes jerking it in more roughly than before.
‘You want this?’
‘God, yes, God, keep going.’
‘Are you going to come?’
‘What do you fucking think?’ His breath is harsh now, so fast I almost expect steam to rise from his head. I thrust, thrust, thrust, and then he howls, loud and clear, trying to break the cuffs that hold his ankles and wrists in place with the violence of his straining.
I don’t know what to do with the dildo while he is coming – I just keep it shoved up there, hoping this is the right way to prolong his ecstasy. Or maybe I should keep fucking? Oh, I don’t know. I’m so glad I’m not a dominant type of person; there’s so much to consider.
I wait for him to flounder into a post-orgasmic doze, then I retract my weapon with infinite tenderness and care, until his twitching gap is unfilled, having nothing but the memory of penetration to keep it wide open.
I take off the harness, fling it to the floor and unbuckle his ankles.
His legs swing, heavy and useless, together.
I move around to his front. His eyes are shut, his face gormless as it is in sleep. Perhaps he is asleep. I unbuckle the wrists, kissing each one as it is freed, then I stroke his hair while he recovers, picking plastered strands away from his cheek and forehead. I want to take him off the bench, sling him over my shoulder and drop him onto a bed. It’s a weird, topsy-turvy, confusing feeling. I feel as if I’m him and he’s me. It’s all the wrong way round.
‘Hey, Lloyd,’ I whisper. The latex catsuit is fiendishly hot and uncomfortable now. I’m desperate to get out of it. ‘Are you awake?’
A long ‘hmmmmmm’ is all I get.
I crouch down a little, cup his face in a hand (the one that didn’t poke a finger up his bottom). My nose rubs his, my lips brush against the corner of his mouth, then move to his ear.
‘Wake up. You’re free. I’d say I passed that one, wouldn’t you?’
I yelp as his hands, quick smart, land under my armpits, holding me tight. He burrows his mouth into my neck, feasting on it.
He lets go and jumps to his feet, facing me from the opposite side of the bench. ‘No more ma’am?’ he says, with a crooked smile. ‘Who’s going to clean up the mess then?’ He looks down at the underside of the bench, which drips with his ejaculate.
‘Oh, go on then. If you must. Lick it up, boy.’
I watch, grinning at his expression of disgust, as he obeys me on his knees.
‘Never again,’ he vows, looking around for his clothes. ‘But it was an experience. Did you enjoy it?’
‘Partly. I didn’t so much enjoy it as learn from it.’
‘And what did you learn?’
He turns to face me, pants in hand, eyebrows raised.
‘That you’re a dick,’ I tell him. ‘And that latex catsuits are only sexy for one hour.’
‘I can’t say I agree with either of those findings.’ And then his hands are on my shiny arse and his mouth is on mine and the power is exchanged once more.
Chapter Four
I know the city better than I know myself. Sometimes I think its chaos and dirt are a reflection of me, feeding off me and me off it. At other times, I see its grandeur, its capacity to be everything to every person. It fulfils all dreams, including the bad ones. This is what I try to capture in my photographs: the Janus-faced metropolis, beckoning you in, spitting you out.
For every girl posing outside Oxford Circus TopShop, fake-tanned to the gills and scouting for model scouts, there’s a railway station bag lady.
Innumerable coins with innumerable opposite faces, this is the gold that paves the streets.
I’m out with my camera, down by the river, when I get the text.
Challenge Time. Wherever you are,
whoever’s around you, take off your knickers. L x.
Suddenly our little morning scuffle makes sense.
‘I think you should wear a skirt today,’ he’d said.
‘I’m going out, though. Pulling an all-nighter with the camera. Want to take some shots of the urban wildlife. I told you that yesterday, didn’t I? Since you’re working all night.’
‘Yeah, I still think you should wear a skirt. In fact, I insist.’
I turned around from the wardrobe, eyebrow poised for war. ‘You insist, do you?’
He approached me from behind, clasped his hands around my midriff and spoke into my ear. ‘I insist because I want to think about the night air circulating around your thighs and passers-by putting their hands up your skirt while you’re busy snap-snap-snapping.’
‘Oh yeah?’ My voice betrayed my desire for him to continue with this.
‘They’ll ask you what’s under there. Can they take a look. And you’ll carry on taking your photos and just nod. And while you’re capturing a pile of tyres on the canal bank or something, they’ll push their hands up your thighs and get your skirt all wrinkled and rucked until it’s right up under your bum. One of them gets his hand behind and squeezes your cheeks, nice and slow, while you work. The other person’s fingers creep inside your knickers and feel you up. They don’t ask your permission, they know it’s implicit, especially when they feel how wet and hot you are up there. “Mm, think she wants it,” he says. “I know that,” says his mate. “Dirty, dirty girl.” Their fingers meet and mix all over your cunt and your arse. They explore every crack, every space, every shallow little soaking wet fold. They carry on even when other people turn up, a bit tipsy from the pub, and form a little crowd. They make you come, over and over and over and when they’re done …’
‘Fuck’s sake, Lloyd. What’s the time? Have I got time to …?’
‘I’d say so.’
We fell back into bed.
So I’m wearing the skirt.
I’m wearing the skirt in the busiest section of the South Bank, surrounded everywhere by mooching culture vultures and pleasure trippers and fire-eaters and whatnot. I’m trying to shoot those precious minutes before sundown, trying to get the exact quality of light that signals the danger in the air, the approaching shift from benign tourist trap to grimy hustlers’ paradise.
Game Page 6
