Lloyd, leather, pain, warmth, luxury, shock, lips, teeth, tongue, bite, lust, need, want. These things float in and out, up and down.
It takes me a while to work out that the twelve strokes have been given.
Regretfully, Lloyd breaks lip contact, stroking along my cheekbone with a butter-soft fingertip. ‘You did it,’ he says. He kisses my forehead then stands to shake hands with the domme. ‘A fine job,’ he says. ‘Exemplary. Thank you very much.’
‘Pleasure was all mine,’ she says, laying a hand on my burning buttocks. ‘Well, maybe not all mine. I think you might find her quite … receptive … to whatever needs you might have.’
They can all see how wet I am. I wish I could clamp my thighs together, but it just isn’t possible.
Mistress Nasty departs, with a brusque, ‘Daniel! Heel!’
Lloyd uncuffs me and helps me to my tottering feet. The room swoops and blurs around me. There seems to be a lot of fire and shadows.
When the skirt falls back down, he clicks his tongue with disapproval and takes it off. Everyone is to see what has been done to me. I am not to hide it.
I let him pull me into his arms for a tight embrace. I don’t know what to feel. Am I angry with him? Am I grateful to him? Am I happy or am I traumatised? Something about this experience has thrown me into confusion; its power lingers, seeping into every move, every thought. I wonder if this is what he wanted.
But I don’t have to ask what Lloyd wants. I know what he wants. I just don’t know if I can give it.
‘Where shall we go?’ he asks, holding me close.
‘Somewhere private.’ I hide my face in the whispery silk of his shirt.
‘I’m not sure there is anywhere private here.’
‘I want to be alone with you.’
‘OK. I’ll see what I can do.’
He leads me out of the dungeon, not on the leash this time, just hand in hand. I imagine the number of double takes from people turning to check out my bright red bottom, and the thought makes me realise how very much I would like to come soon. I need to find a private place with Lloyd and have him screw the wits out of me – not that I have many left.
Our best solution is a compromise – a divan in an upstairs room called the Boudoir that isn’t quite as exposed as the others, tented beneath a large expanse of parachute silk. People will be able to see our outlines moving beneath it, but not our faces.
He puts me on my back and fingers me with those wicked supple leather gloves on before I can utter a word.
‘I should have done this back down there,’ he says, spearing two, then three of the slim black intruders inside my cunt, keeping a thumb on my fat clit. ‘I should have made you come while they watched you. Would you have liked that?’
‘Mmm.’ I try to lift my sore bottom up so it doesn’t make contact with the mattress, but he won’t let me.
‘I asked you a question, Sophie. Would you have liked that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I gabble, wanting the head of steam released quickly. He keeps slowing his pace, though, every time I think it’s coming.
‘Another time, maybe,’ he says, speeding up again. ‘I think you should get your arse whipped in front of strangers again. I think I should do it often. I think it’s what you need.’
I come hard, onto those shiny fingers, my bottom chafing on the velvet.
‘I don’t know though,’ he says, wrenching down the leather trousers, pulling wide my legs. ‘Maybe you’ll be better behaved now.’ He pulls me upright, moves me on to my knees, pushes my head down into the prickly pile. ‘Maybe you’ll do as you’re told.’
He fucks me hard, bruisingly, gripping my hips and pummelling my hot bottom until it’s even hotter and stings even sharper.
‘Maybe you’ll see what’s staring you in the face,’ he pants. ‘And stop giving me the run-around.’ He smacks my thigh in what seems like genuine punishment.
‘Don’t hurt me.’ My alarm is genuine. There is something a little bit feral about Lloyd tonight.
He sighs, slows down, strokes the hand-shaped glow on my thigh. ‘Don’t be stupid. You know I’d never hurt you.’
A strange comment from a man who has just beaten seven bells out of his girlfriend’s arse, perhaps, but it makes a kind of sense. The pain he inflicts is no more than skin-deep, and it isn’t even real pain. It’s pleasure pain, play pain.
He’s telling me my heart is safe with him.
He’s telling me he wants my heart.
I give him the next best thing, my orgasm, and he gives me his. The sex is good, hot, fast, hard, passionate, amazing, but is the orgasm enough any more?
Into the dying throes of my climax, a knot of fear intrudes. Have I found the point of no emotional return?
Chapter Eight
‘I think you should always wear those gloves in bed.’
I’m lying with my head on Lloyd’s chest, semi-mummified in rumpled bed sheets while his leather-gloved hand strokes my sore nipples.
‘Maybe I will then. That sounded like one heck of an orgasm.’
‘It was. You’re a genius. I don’t know where you can go after this. Any stronger and my head’ll blow.’
‘Well, make the most of the afterglow, madam, because it’s your last for a while.’
I try to sit up, but my cotton cocoon prevents me. ‘You what?’
He waits for my confusion to hit its peak before deigning to reply. ‘The next challenge. No orgasms for a week.’
‘That’s a shit challenge! How’s that even … ugh, Lloyd. Why?’
He laughs, pulling me down, ruffling my hair. ‘Because I don’t think you can do it.’
‘You don’t think I can go a week without coming? It’s easy and, what’s more, it’s really boring. Come on! You can do better.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find it easy at all.’
‘What’s difficult about keeping my legs crossed and my thoughts pure for seven days?’
‘Quite a lot, I think you’ll find. There are challenges within the challenge. All will become clear.’
I crane my neck to look up at him. ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Nothing I can say to change your mind?’
‘Not a word.’
‘And what are you going to do for these seven days? Won’t your right hand be worn to the bone by Sunday?’
He shifts a little, retracting his softened cock from my bottom. ‘I don’t remember making any vow of celibacy,’ he says lightly.
I manage to sit up properly this time, bolt upright. ‘You mean you’re going to …?’
‘Why don’t you wait and see? While you’re up there, put the kettle on, eh?’
***
I know I’m a hypocrite. It’s not as if I own Lloyd. I’m not even a possessive type of person. We’ve done threesomes, we’ve done swinging, we’ve added people to the mix and then multiplied. But all of that has made us stronger – if we can get everything we need from each other, why would we ever go elsewhere?
I suppose what I find so hard is the thought of Lloyd having sex that excludes me. When he’s had other women before, I’ve watched or joined in. What if he finds he likes the novelty? What if he wants to extend the openness of our relationship still further? Would I be OK with that, if it was what he wanted?
Goddamn, he was right. This challenge is hard, and it hasn’t even started yet.
On Monday I throw myself into my work, making sure I wear my most conservative trouser suit and lowest heels. If I don’t look sexy, I won’t feel sexy. Or so I hope.
It seems to do the trick, at least until I retire to Lloyd’s apartment for the evening.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yeah, got something in the kitchen earlier. What are you watching?’
Lloyd is lounging on the sofa in his dressing gown watching some kind of CCTV footage. When I get closer and recognise the feather-patterned hotel wallpaper, I realise it’s a film we made a few months ago. Of us.
‘Sit down and watc
h,’ he invites, making room for me beside him.
‘Uh, I think I’ll take a shower.’
‘No, it isn’t optional. It’s compulsory. Sit down and watch or you incur a fail.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ I grump and huff, but I take my seat beside him, dodging away when he tries to put an arm around me.
‘No you don’t. Come here.’ He pats his thigh imperiously.
I discard my jacket and grudgingly allow myself into his embrace. On the television, there is the crackling of a cheap microphone and some giggling off-camera.
‘So, Sophie,’ he murmurs into my ear, ‘have you been a good girl today? No crafty hands down pants, I trust.’
‘Shut up. I’ve been working.’
‘Working the johns in the bar?’
‘No, you twat. Working in my workplace.’
‘Give us your fingers.’ He takes my hand and sniffs the fingertips. ‘Hmm, I suppose you’ll pass. Strip down to your underwear.’
I remove the black trousers and plain jersey top. I didn’t dare risk the silk camisoles this morning – the feel of silk next to my skin would not have been helpful.
When I sit back down I am wearing large cotton knickers from a Marks and Spencer multipack and a matching boring bra.
‘Very utilitarian,’ says Lloyd admiringly, capturing me in his arms again. His dressing gown is silky, slinky, against my skin.
I see myself saunter on to camera, rather more exotically garbed in a sheer black lace-edged mesh dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. It has suspenders and stockings sewn on to it. I give the camera the finger and shake my hair over my face. God, I hate cameras. I was drunk when we made this film – it was the only way I could do it. ‘Look at you,’ says Lloyd, giving my thigh a squeeze. ‘What a sexy little tramp, eh? Look how hard those nipples are.’
I stiffen. How am I going to get through this? I could pretend to be a film censor, who watches skin flick after skin flick all day long and has become desensitised to it. But desensitisation can’t happen just like that, so I abandon the idea. Perhaps I could just keep my eyes unfocused, or slightly to the right of the action.
I try it, but it’ll be tough to sustain for longer than five minutes.
The only other option is to concentrate on fooling around with Lloyd – but where will that get me? Up arousal creek without an orgasm, that’s where.
Lloyd pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing my neck while the TV-me bends over and shows the split nutmeg of her – my – whoever’s – pussy to the room.
‘You were wet,’ whispers Lloyd. ‘Tight, hard nipples – oh!’ He touches mine, which are prodding the M&S cotton with some force. ‘Are you cold, Sophie?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘The opposite? Aw. All lubed up and nowhere to come.’
TV-him is in shot now. He drags TV-me over to the bed and we start making out. It occurs to me that I don’t know what happens in this film. I can’t remember. I am glued to the sight of his lips on mine. Kissing is so sexy; I could watch montages of kissing scenes all day. When his tongue slides in, I squirm on Lloyd’s lap.
He mirrors his TV-self, tipping my head back and giving me his most thorough attentions, all the time keeping one eye on the screen. I hadn’t realised that the challenge would involve touching, or any form of intimacy. Suddenly, I am flooded with the realisation of exactly how difficult this is going to be.
Especially when the flood of realisation is accompanied by a different kind of flood, in my knickers.
Lloyd kisses like a bandit, all plunder and bravura confidence, taking what he wants because he wants it. I’ve always found that hotter than hot, and I’m not about to stop.
He breaks off when TV-us stop writhing. TV-him has got me over his lap. There’s no way I can watch this without the prickle of heat between my legs turning full forest fire.
‘Oh, you’re going to get spanked,’ he crows. ‘Just the way you need it. Look at that little white arse – it won’t be that colour for long. That dress doesn’t even cover it. Tut.’
I’ve never watched myself get spanked before and I’m fascinated. Part of me wishes I could see my face, but a bigger part is relieved that I can’t. I’m pretty sure I’d screw an already sketchy collection of features into nightmare configurations.
‘What am I getting spanked for?’
‘Duh. For having a little white arse.’
He tightens his grip on me. TV-him raises his arm and brings his hand down hard. The sound is lovely. I never hear it properly when I’m on the receiving end; maybe it’s muffled by my own mind working overtime on sensation analysis. But on TV, it comes across beautifully, a sharp, crisp percussion.
Of course, it’s interesting to see my bottom under the palm, the way it flattens and then springs back into shape, the way it blushes pink, then pinker, then red, then redder. But what I really can’t take my eyes off is Lloyd. His face, his intent focus, the set of his jaw, the determination. Christ, that’s sexy. Sexier than the strong arm rising and falling, sexier than the hand printing its emblem onto my heating skin. His missionary zeal makes my hairs stand on end.
‘I think you’re enjoying this.’ His voice cuts in to my reverie.
I take the breath. Hadn’t realised I needed to.
‘Do you wish you were her?’
‘I am her.’
‘Do you wish you were in her position?’
‘No. Today I like watching. And besides, what’s the point of a spanking today? A spanking without sex. It’s like a birthday with no presents.’
TV-him stays his hand. TV-my bottom is cherry red. He rubs it considerately, saying words I can’t quite catch, low croons of post-spanking pre-sex seduction.
I’m saying something, fussing – I think I’m refusing to show my face on camera. He gives me one more smack to my bottom, then shrugs and says, audibly, ‘OK then, if you insist.’
He kneels up on the bed and I, with my back to the camera, lower my head to his cock. He holds my shoulders while I suck, throwing his head right back so his Adam’s apple juts out.
I like watching his breathing quicken and his neck flush. I like watching my head bob up and down while my spanked bum jiggles with the effort I’m putting in.
Back on the sofa, the flesh-and-blood Lloyd moves the hand that has been resting flat on my stomach down, gliding over the cotton knickers until he reaches my crotch.
‘Oh, these are damp,’ he says. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Can we watch something else? Antiques Roadshow, perhaps.’
‘No way, it’s just getting to the good part.’ He slides his fingers inside my knicker elastic, planting them firmly inside my pussy lips.
That’s where they stay for the rest of the tape.
TV-Lloyd removes my mouth from his cock while it’s still hard and lets me hide my face in the duvet, presenting my thighs, bum and cunt to the viewer instead. He gives the invisible audience a guided tour of these, spreading lips and cheeks, pointing out little crevices and areas of interest. Chief among these is my vagina, which he then pushes some fingers inside, coating them in juices, which he smears over my thighs.
‘What do you think?’ Lloyd whispers into my ear.
‘The lighting could be better.’
‘No, what do you think is going to happen to her?’
‘Shall we make a bet?’
‘I think you’d win. Come on. What?’
‘Well, at an outside guess, I’d say you stick your cock inside her.’
‘Inside her what?’
‘Ah. Good point. I seem to remember a sore pussy the next day, so …’
‘Well, look, you win.’
TV-him has inserted his cock into the correct orifice. I feel like a winner. I also feel like an enormously sexually frustrated person, watching the way he bangs into me. Because of my self-imposed restriction on shots of my face, all we get to see is Lloyd’s back view, but the way his gluteal muscles tense and flex is a sight I feel privileged to behold.
But that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the challenge. After all, there’s nothing to stop me hiding away in the toilets at work and seeing to myself. He’d never know. All the same, the daring naughtiness of doing it right under his nose appeals to me. So I work the hips in infinitesimal rotation, increasing the clitoral pressure in tiny degrees.
‘You want to come, don’t you?’ he says, just as his TV incarnation collapses on my back.
‘No,’ I say, but my breath is all weird and catchy.
‘You’re such a liar. I know what you’re doing. Well, you can come if you want. Be my guest. I’ll finger you if you like. But it just means a fail.’
‘You think you’re such an evil mastermind, don’t you? This is nothing.’ I try to wriggle away from the hand planted in my pants, but I can’t.
‘I’ll have to up the ante then.’ He starts kissing me again in that full-blooded Lloyd way. I try harder to elude him but it’s useless. My pulse is hammering, my blood raging around my body in a race to get to my cunt. I start to feel light-headed and desperate.
When he breaks the kiss, I gasp as if I’ve just run a marathon.
He takes pity on me, removes his hand.
‘You passed that one. OK. Well done. But I’m not finished. Not by a long way.’
***
I have to spend the next day at work without any underwear.
In the morning, Lloyd lays out my silkiest shirt, my shortest, tightest skirt, a pair of lace-topped hold-ups and nothing else.
‘What’s this?’ I frown, emerging from the shower to find the clothes I’d brought back in the wardrobe.
‘Second challenge within a challenge. Spend all day commando.’
Game Page 15
