In which I dream of Dr Butler’s cunt

Since Boris disappeared after our session, I have daydreamed about Dr Butler. Strangely enough, she is always my little strumpet. She stands there like a doll, letting me handle her, betraying no emotion.

One recurring fantasy is, I strip her down. I pull off her simple blouse. Beneath it is a sheer bra, her pale pink nipples clearly delineated beneath. I take that off, stroke her pale, delicate limbs. Remove her shirt. Underneath she wears no knickers, with black suspenders, attached to black stockings. First I lead her over to me, press her full breasts together, rub my thumbs over her nipples. She moans.

I lead her over to a chair, where I put her over my lap and part her pussy with my fingers. She is well lubricated, and I play with her clit until it is as hard as a little pearl. Then I leave her, on the edge of orgasm, and stroke her beautiful smooth bottom.

“You know why you’re here, of course,” I say, letting my hand slap against her bottom cheeks. They wobble a little on impact. I smile and feel my pussy prickle with pleasure as I see her bottom cheeks reddening.

“No, why am I here?” she replies, in a pleasingly submissive voice.

“Because you’re a bad, a dirty girl. I know how much you’ve been dying to fuck me.”

“But I haven’t.”

Slap.

“Shut up. Don’t lie to me. I know how much you want me. I’m not like that, I don’t sleep with girls. I think that girls who touch each other are sick little cunts. Don’t you agree?’

“Not really, I….”

“Now, I want you to get all these dirty thoughts out of your head, you hear me?”

Slap.

A little harder this time. I thrust a finger into her pussy and tickle her G-spot.

I remove my finger and pick up a switch lying on the floor beside me. I am practically salivating, thinking about what her bum will look like, all criss crossed with red marks.

“You're a dirty bitch,” I say, letting the switch fall onto her orbs. “Say it!”

“I’m a dirty bitch!”

“Yes, you are. You whore. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“No.”

I bring down the switch again.

I push a finger into her pussy and it contracts around my fingers. “Yes, I think you’re ready now.”

I lift her from my lap and bring her over to Boris, who is reclining naked on the bed.

“It’s such a waste, I think,” I say, sitting her down beside himm. “That such a pretty girl should only desire women.”

“But I don’t only fancy women.”

“Oh really,” says Boris, stroking her tufts of pubic hair. “That's interesting.”

Soon I am lying back on the bed and Boris is positioning her with her legs splayed, her cunt hovering over my mouth. Aah, now her pussy lips are mushed against my mouth. I open my lips, drinking her in and spreading her open so I can torment her clit with my tongue. Her cunt is so warm and sweet and wet, I could stay there forever, lapping away.

Meanwhile, Boris is lubing up her arsehole and sliding his thickness into her.

I look up at her, head thrown back, pulling at her nipples. Her face is wracked with pleasure.

And as Boris fucks her from behind, her cunt fucks my face, and now the two of them are coming, and I don’t care that I’m not, because she’s bucking away against my face and I feel this rush of pleasure shoot out of her, like a bullet.

Today, at the session, I decide not to tell her about her cunt fucking my face. Instead, we discuss my shoplifting. Since our last session I have not lifted a thing.

“Why is that, do you think?” she asks, while I remember her bottom as I slapped it. I get the equivalent of a hard on, and try to focus.

I tell her about Boris, about Niko, about the sex. I hope she will be well and truly shocked, but she just nods occasionally and says, “Go on,” while she scribbles in a note book. The depraved bitch! Maybe she’s heard it all before. I almost feel like inventing some strange fetish like having to be wrapped in fur to come. Would that interest her? More to the point, would it get her off?

She wants to talk about my childhood again.

I say, “Why? Don’t you want to talk about the shoplifting?”

“No. What is your mother like?”

“She is a slut.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I just never liked my mother. I don’t see her very often. All I can remember is how, about a year after dad died, she started sleeping with lots of different men. One day I woke up in her bed and she was on one side of me, and a strange man was on the other. I felt sick.”

“Do you think this man may have molested you?”

“No. I didn’t mean—“

“I know.”

“I just meant that you shouldn’t bring your lover in the bed with your child.”

“No.”

“I think she ruined me, in the sense that I don’t think I could ever have a child.”

“Why not?”

“I would be afraid of turning into her. I mean, I suppose I already am her, only, you don’t bring a child into that sort of lifestyle.”

“But you could stop the lifestyle, couldn’t you?”

“Dan doesn’t want kids.”

“Do you?”

I think about the baby trousers I lifted in Harrod’s.

“Maybe. Sometimes I think I do. But just because you want something doesn’t mean you have to have it. Anyway, I’m here to talk about my shoplifting, aren’t I?”

“Maybe you simply don’t want to stop.”

“What kind of a stupid comment is that?” I shrieked. I don’t remember feeling that angry since my last row with my mother. “I’m sorry. I do want to stop.”

“Why. Because you feel bad about doing it?”

“No. Because if I’m caught again, I might get a criminal record.”

This evening, Dan called. We talked about my session. He feels I am making progress.

Maybe I am.

I go to sleep after masturbating, thinking about that cool, collected bitch and what it would be like to see her composure crack while she humps my face.

A brief moment of relief

At last, Boris turned up today!

He took me round to a grimy flat near Victoria Station. This wasn’t a step towards intimacy. It was the flat of his friend, Niko. I didn’t particularly fancy Niko, something about his eyes, pale blue and too close together, his stature too squat and apelike, but as he looked me over it was clear I was going to have to accommodate him.

This occasionally crops up in a group sex situation. You don’t fancy one of the participants. But rather than cause a fuss, you just put them to work. As long as you don’t have to kiss him/her or pleasure them orally, why sweat it? So I put Niko to work between my legs. I even let him fuck me, while I sucked Boris’s cock. After a while, I was so turned on, I even let Niko kiss me. The taste of myself, sharp and salty with an underlying honeydew sweetness, was so arousing, that soon I was shuddering away, with a man’s cock inside me, who I didn’t even fancy!

So it all worked out in the end!

My new shrink

Dan left for New York this morning, so he couldn’t really check up on whether I’d gone for my appointment with the analyst. I decided to go anyway.

Dr Butler is a stern, slim woman with straw coloured hair done up neatly in a ponytail.

I asked her whether I could call her by her first name.

“It’s Sue,” she replies. “But I prefer it if my patients call me Dr Butler.”

She rarely smiles. She is also very attractive, with delicate wrists and narrow knees. Exceptionally finely turned ankles.

There are times during our session when I would have liked to take her bare feet in my lap and stroke them. There are also times when I would have liked to peel away her silk blouse and pull down her bra straps and take her nipples, one by one, in my mouth. To finger her softly, then harder, harder, until she grabbed my palm and ground herself against it, as she jerked and bucked and climaxed against it.

But I don’t tell her that. I don’t think she’d be too impressed.

Instead, we talk about my childhood.

I tell her my memories of when my father died. I was very young when he was killed in a car accident. We were living in Kenya, where he was a diplomat. And when his body was laid out in the coffin, I recall these bright blue butterflies, that settled on his face. I giggled, and was told to be quiet.

The butterflies were shooed away by my mother, the young widow, all in black, her white blonde hair hanging in tendrils around her cheeks. Her face ashen grey, blue eyes sparkling with tears.

I tell her how this event has invaded my dreams. The same dream, that repeats itself over and over. In the dream, my father sits up, brushes the butterflies away himself and beckons me into the coffin. While the gathered crowd gasps and looks at him in horror, I hoist myself up and climb in eagerly.

My mother runs up to me, grabs the hem of my dress, which rips. I clutch onto the warm body of my father, as the lid of the coffin snaps shut. Now we are breathing together, breathing shallowly in the hot, breathless air. No one can touch us now. I stroke his hair, his soft wavy brown hair.

“I have never felt happier than that, when I am in the coffin with my father,” I say.

“What happens then?” asks Dr Butler.

“I wake up.”

I leave the session feeling lighter than I have for a while, go to the nearest department store and buy a pair of silver grey high heeled shoes. Well, have you any idea how difficult it is to steal shoes, unless you happen to be someone one-legged. Then you can just lift the left shoe from the display stand.

I suppose I shouldn’t joke about these things. Dr Butler would disapprove.

I stole baby clothes

Boris hasn’t called. I wonder if I will ever see him again. Today I stole a knitted pair of baby’s trousers in the junior department of Harrod’s. If you knew me at all, you’d know just how weird that is.

Dan has made me an appointment with the psychoanalyst next week. I really don’t want to go, but when its come to me stealing kids’ clothes, something’s obviously seriously wrong.

I got caught!

I saw Boris a few times during the week. Each time was more intense than the last. Then yesterday he said he had to go on a business trip and I pretended I didn’t care, while inside I was dying.

Dan is so pleased that Boris has left. He hasn’t said so, but when I said he’d gone he got this smug, satisfied look on his face.

I suppose I was rubbing it in his face a bit. Seeing me all full of welts brought the situation home to him. That I am now the property of another man. I am no longer the free floating sexual libertine I was with him, where there were no boundaries, no jealousies.

Now there are jealousies all right. It’s true, I do favour Boris, for now. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I do.

This morning, I went shopping in Oxford Street. I bought myself some expensive new clothes, kid leather ankle boots, some silk underwear that lies coolly against my skin while it heals from Boris’s man handling.

And then, I don’t know what happened. I lost sight of what I was doing, I suppose.

I’d sworn off the stealing. I’d hoped the impulse had left me.

Turns out it hasn’t.

In a red haze of sorrow and longing for Boris, I lifted a cashmere sweater and shoved it in one of my carrier bags. I got a sharp, cool thrill. It was almost like Boris was watching me do it. I glanced around quickly, he wasn’t, but I could have sworn his eyes were on me.

Turns out someone else was watching me. I was walking out of the store, Selfridges, laughter tickling the inside of my belly, when a plain clothed security guard tapped my shoulder.

I played dumb for a bit, until he searched my bags. He made me accompany him to the back office. When I started to cry, they said they wouldn’t press charges.

When I got home I told Dan.

He wasn’t very sympathetic. In fact, he was furious.

“I have a problem,” I admitted.

“This isn’t the first time,” I said, once he’d stopped shouting.

He drank a lot of whisky, until his eyes became red rimmed.

“I’ll get you help,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He meant, of course, a psychoanalyst. I said I didn’t want one.

But he insisted. Sometimes Dan can be very insistent.

We had make up sex. Very easy, the love between us flowing. I came in great ragged peaks and we fell asleep in each others arms.

Boris called me this morning.

"Why didn’t you call me before?" I said. It rushed out before I could stuff the words back in my mouth.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” he replied. “Maybe I should have made the boundaries a little clearer. Or maybe you’re simply a slow learner. Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” I stutter. “Of course.”

“I will call you when I want to call you. And one day I will no longer call you. And you will accept it. Do you want to accept these conditions? Because we can forget it right now. You do know you are totally disposable?”

“I know I'm disposable. I am worse than nothing. Can I meet you today?” I cringe. The way I was going, I'm surprised he didn’t put the phone down on me.

“If you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer a spot of shop lifting?” Boris says, giving a dry laugh.

No I most certainly did not. Instead, I went to his hotel in Covent Garden.

I was so pleased to see him, I almost cried. The whole room felt brimming with light. Flowers everywhere. The beautiful big bed, the sheets so clean and soft.

He tied me to the bed and put a thick vibrator up inside my arse. He kept pushing it in and out, stopping and starting, stopping and starting. It was so frustrating and yet insanely pleasurable at the same time. I teetered on the edge of orgasm for what seemed like hours, until I was reduced to just a hole, brimful of sensation. I was getting there, slowly, approaching orgasm like a parched traveller who sees a river on the horizon. Then, abruptly, he went out of the room and made himself a cup of tea. A fucking cup of tea. He brought the tea back in and made me drink it and while I held the hot tea in my mouth he wanted me to give him a blow job. The warm liquid does something for him, don’t ask me what. I was glad to do it.

After he came, he got out a cane and said I would have to punished. For the way I had spoken to him on the phone.

He untied me and had me kneel at the side of the bed. I trembled, hardly daring to show him how much I longed for his ministrations. First he slipped his fingers into me, and rubbed and rubbed at my G-spot until I came all over his hand, and then, while I was still shuddering beside the bed, the lashings of the cane rained down and down, until all I could see was just a red firey glow, and his eyes, pinholes of darkness, burning through the blaze.

"Are you sorry now?" he said, twisting my hair in his fingers and yanking it back.

"Yes,” I whimpered. “I’m sorry."

"For what are you sorry?"

Pleasure and pain were blurred together inside my tired aching brain and I could no longer remember what I was meant to be sorry about. But the cane came down, harder and faster now. It really seared me, like a hot iron pressed into flesh.

"I am sorry for the way I talked to you on the phone," I managed to spit out eventually.

And after I thought I could take no more, he hit me once again, and this time the skin was lacerated, and blood flowed.

It was almost over. Then he slicked the cane slicked between my legs and an orgasm shuddered through me, like an earthquake.

Now there were fireflies inside the pale empty cavern of my head. The room was flooded with blackness.

He lay beside me on the bed and we cuddled.

I felt my heart rip open and felt Boris drip in. Oh no. Not that. I don’t want to get involved. Not with him.

And yet, a little voice says, too late. You are.

It is too easy to get involved with Boris. Boris makes no demands on me. None. Whereas Dan at least requires me to wash his clothes, to occasionally cook meals, to listen to new ideas for documentaries he wants to develop, which are sometimes staggeringly dull, while Boris just watches me, intently, like a cat watches a mouse, before it pounces. It’s a predatory expression, but it also, in some bizarre way, makes me feel loved.

Because, of course, everything I have told myself about Boris is false. I’ve told myself not to get involved, because it makes no sense to get involved. And yet, my heart says, of could I want to get involved with him, because just being with him gives me such a charge.

I remember that time we went shopping together. Just walking around the streets and looking in shop windows and laughing together, like you do when you first know someone and are just so blown away with being with them that you can hardly believe your luck, that this person is as fascinated by you as you are by them. And it all comes back. How could you have forgotten how it felt to be this alive? You knew it once, that time before, when you fell in love, before it all crumpled to dust under your fingertips.

Boris and I have it. We have that connection.

That is what I miss with Dan. That sense of connection. That is what is missing, although it seemed to be there more at the beginning. When you think about all the love affairs you have ever had, it is at the beginning, when there is that strangeness, that fascination with another person, that there is a sense of closeness. And sometimes I think this perception is an illusion, for doesn’t it always break down at some point, and all that is left is this human stripped down to the bone, and now you know the person, you really know them, and once you know them, the closeness and intimacy is gone. That is what I have noticed. And it would be the same with anyone else. At the beginning, that ache, that longing, to know that other person. How addictive, how almost impossible to withstand it all is, and how repetitive is the cycle, and so full of disappointment, because the human is so limited, and the ability to love is so limited, and yet some of us keep going, forever searching for that elusive person who will make life easier. If only such a person existed!

And so I think, maybe with Boris it can always be like this. Because we will always be stuck at the beginning.

Because he has shut me out. Because I will never know him.

Maybe it can stay this way forever.

I wonder with who else he has this kind of anonymous relationship with. Instead of feeling jealous, the thought of him being with other women arouses me.

I leave the room in disarray. The sheets smeared with my blood.

This evening I made love with Dan, and think about Boris. That hasn’t happened before.

I am sunk.

Today Dan woke up full of energy and suggested going on a hike. I wasn’t too keen. I wanted to stay in all day and pine and wait for Boris to call. More than anything, I wanted to be alone. But then I realized that a day alone would make me restless, and that I’d probably end up stealing something. And was that really what I wanted? A day of pining and stealing and masturbating until my fingers were red and sore?

Well, yes, that’s exactly what I did want, but it was time to move on, to pull myself together. It was time to forget about Boris.

Maybe a hike was just what I needed. A long walk that would stamp out my disappointment, that would get rid of the gnawing, septic pain that was imbedded in me, like a splinter under a nail, growing each day. Growing and growing until now I was just a shell of longing, a nothing, a nobody, until he called.

I had to ask myself, was the pleasure of seeing him ever going to be worth the agonizing periods in which he was away from me?

I knew the answer, of course. Five minutes with Boris was going to be worth days of cold longing. Him inflicting his cruelty on me would turn me into a shivering wreck of pleasure immediately.

So, while the tormenting thoughts chased themselves around my brain, we drove two hours west of London, to a place called X. I don’t want to tell you exactly
where we went, because if you have any kind of voyeuristic tendencies, and I believe some of you do, you’ll probably be tempted to hare off down there
immediately after you hear what goes down there, and I want the place kept nice and quiet, thank you very much.

Because it was a warm day, I was just wearing a tight red sleeveless t-shirt and jodhpurs, with knee length leather boots. Not because we were going riding, but
because Dan likes the way my bum looks in the tight stretchy material. I wasn’t wearing panties, and while I was still lethargic and choked with bitter resentment about Boris, I had no doubt that once we started to walk and I was pumped up with energy, I might fancy some al fresco action.

Dan was whistling away. He hasn’t mentioned Boris since our conversation last week. I think he knows he hasn’t been in touch. To be honest, I think he’s pleased. He’s glad that he’s top dog again.

He’s wearing these worn out jeans I like, that are pretty tight around the crotch, and as we walk, I can feel myself getting distracted by the way his cock looks, pressed up against the threadbare material. He’s also wearing a white tshirt, jean jacket and walking. His hair is all mussed up and there’s a light sheen of sweat on his brown, and the more we walk, up muddy paths, through beautiful valleys, the less interested I became in the autumn foliage and the more I become to take a break and have a bit of sexual relief.

I’m just pulling Dan over and unzipping his flies, when I hear shouting.

“What is that?” Dan asks, prone in the grass, with me straddling him.

My fingers stop unzipping him and I jump up.

“It sounds like a woman, doesn’t it? Do you think someone’s being attacked?” I say, anxiety zipping through me. I race towards the patch of wood from which the cries are coming. Leaning forward, I pull back a sinewy rope of briars, ripping my flesh in the process. As I suck the blood from my fingers, I hear a series of high pitched painful gasps, followed by a long drawn out guttural moan.

Dan comes up behind me and I put my finger to my lips to shush him.

“I can’t see anything,” I whisper.

Still standing behind me, he reached for a branch and moves it aside. The branch makes a dry raspy sound as the leaves rustle against each other.

“There,” he whispers, pointing to the left.

In the middle of a clearing is a naked young woman, her hands tied up above her head, her body roped to a tree. A man holds a switch in his hand, letting his strokes rain down on her, on her breasts, her thighs, her arms. The man before her wears dark green cords and a beige shirt. He is middle aged but handsome, sporting a goatee, his mouth set in a cruel smile. My clit jumps. Something about his demeanour reminds me of Boris. I pull open my zip and rub my smooth cunt, one finger dipping into the dripping hollow.

“You like what you see?” Dan says, pulling up my t-shirt so that my breasts can bob free. As he starts to caress my breasts, they swell under his hands. My index finger is busily working my clit in tiny circles.

The woman writhes against the confines of the rope, which has left red welts on her white skin. I wish it were me, oh how much, you’ve no idea. Dan is rolling my jodhpurs down, pulling off the boots, then kneeling down behind me. Splaying my legs, he begins to tease my clit with his tongue, at the same time probing a finger up my arse and rotating it back and forth in the way that he knows drives me crazy. I shove my cunt back in his face, while I watch this slight pale woman, her hair long and black, her large pendulous breasts shuddering as they're marked by the switch, the faraway look in her eyes, as if high on pain. And all I can think is, “You lucky girl.”

I reach a climax against Dan’s mouth, while the man, maybe because he is tired—it doesn’t look like the woman has had nearly enough—puts down his switch, and
walks over to the woman. Now Dan’s cock is inside me, pumping away from behind, while I steady myself against a tree. The other couple can’t see us and I love that. Love the fact that another orgasm is building inside me and they don’t know a thing about it.

The man is untying the woman and now she's getting dressed, pulling on a long black skirt and peasant blouse and combing her hair. Then they spread out a picnic blanket and opened a rucksack and lay out some food. A pie, some tomatoes, a bottle of wine.

And while they talk to each other, in low, civilized voices, I can’t help noticing the man had left the switch lying by the tree, next to the coiled up rope. And in the stillness I ram myself back against Dan, not being able to stem my cries. The couple look up, curious, anxiety in the woman’s eyes. I duck behind the tree, hoping they haven't seen me.

Dan and I stifle giggles as we tuck in our clothes. Dan is all for sneaking away, but I tell him I have a better idea and to follow me.

There’s a path running behind where the couple is sitting, so Dan and I double back and start casually walking towards them. When we reach the couple, I say, “Oh hi, I was wondering if you might be able to help me. Do you know the area?”

The man smiles, appraising my breasts. “Yes, why?”

“Well, I just wondered if there was a pub near here. We’ve been walking for hours and we’ve worked up quite an appetite.” I give him a lewd smile as I say the last word.

“Yes, of course,” says the woman, and begins to give us directions.

“Or maybe,” the man cuts in, “you’d like to join us?”

“Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to impinge on your picnic.”

“No trouble at all,” he says, gesturing for us to sit down.

Dan seats himself, but I hesitate, staring over to the tree onto which the woman was so recently bound.

“Oh,” I say, once I’ve walked over to it. “Look at that, someone’s left some rope here.” I lean down and pick up the switch. “And what on earth is this? Dan do you have any idea?”

The man colours and looks into his glass of wine. “I don’t know what it could be. Didn’t notice it was there.”

“Oh Dan,” I say, giggling. “Do you know what I think this is?”

“No, what?”

“Well, do you remember that horrid documentary we saw on Channel Four the other night about people who like to well, to hit each other?”

“Yeah,” says Dan, shaking his head in disgust. “God, what awful people. Perverts, sadists, the lot of them. You don’t think one of these deviants has left this in the woods, do you love?”

“Maybe. Ooh, yuck, I don’t want to think about where it’s been,” I say, dropping the switch as if it were on fire.

“Would anyone like some pheasant pie?” says the woman, evidently trying to change the subject.

And so we have a glass of wine and a slice of pie, while I chatter away, acting like a ditzy young women who’s hardly slept with a soul apart from her husband. And I can tell that the man, whose name is Thomas, is absolutely beside himself withexcitement. That he’s dying to put his switch on my lovely firm backside.

And I want him to. At the same time, I didn’t want to relinquish mysense of power. Consequently, I decide to ‘accidentally’ spill some wine on my t-shirt, before shrieking with horror.

“I hate feeling all sticky, don’t you?” I say to the woman, Stella, as I pull the t-shirt over my head. Her eyes are popping out of her head as she gazes at my pert tits, which I mop clean of wine. “I think I have a change of clothes somewhere,” I say, opening my rucksack.

“Oh yes, here we are,” I say, pulling out a white vest and putting it on.

“Well, we must be off,” I say. “Thanks so much for the picnic.”

I could see the bulge in Thomas’s pants. I loved the surge of power it gave me. I was inflicting pain on Thomas because of the pain Boris had inflicted on me by cutting me loose. Stupid, yes. Immensely satisfying? That also.

I loved the fact that he would never have me.

The sweetness of the act fizzed in my mouth like a Refresher for the rest of the day.

Boris hasn’t called. But then he didn’t say he would. Until he does, I live in tense limbo.

I stole some makeup in Liberty’s today. First I talked to an assistant at the counter about moisturizers and toners. And while she was bending down to get some samples out of a drawer, I stole a box of eyeshadows. As luck would have it, they were grey and sand colours, just the shades that flatter my blue eyes.

I didn’t get as much of a thrill this time. But my fingers still ache to steal things, however small.

If I am caught I will stop.

This evening while I was in bed with Dan, he was between my legs, giving me head, when he looked up and said, “You seem distracted. What is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Of course, I knew. I was thinking about Boris.

He moved up the bed and kissed me. I tasted myself on him. Mmm, like honeydew melon. I sucked all the juice off his tongue. I was trying to distract him, in a way, to distract myself. I didn’t want to talk about Boris. But Dan knew all right.

“It’s that man you met, isn’t it?”

I put my cheek on Dan’s chest. “Yeah.”

“What is it about him?”

“I suppose,” I said, “I never really knew what it was to want to be completely dominated by someone. With us, when we play those roles, it’s just fun, but with him…”

“Oh sweetie,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “You know I can’t ever really bear to hurt you.” In the past, the only time I’ve been properly dominated it’s been by other men, and Dan likes to watch me being used and made to feel pain, and pushed to my limits. And I remember loving it, and catching Dan’s eye while it was happening and this thrill going through me. And yet, I know I don’t want him there when I’m having sex with Boris.

I sit up and prop myself up on my arm, my bare breasts grazing his chest. “Honey, I don’t want you to hurt me. I want him to hurt me.”

“You’re sure you’re not getting a bit too emotionally involved in all this?”

“I can handle it.” My hand moves down my stomach and starts to rub my clit. “Now, why don’t you finish off what you started?”

He shrugs, moves down my body and parts my legs. Then he slides his tongue deep into my pussy, in and out, snakelike, until my pelvis is bucking against his stubbly chin. He looks up at me, my juices smeared over his lips. He looks unkempt, his lips sore. I can see I’ve been taking a long time to finish, not that Dan cares, but still, I care. Every time I think I’m going to come, something holds me back.

“I’m so close,” I murmur, rubbing my fingers over my breasts and pinching the nipples. “Just a little more, please.”

He gets back to work, licking my clit softly while he shoves two fingers into me, deeply, roughly. I grab his hair and start to moan. My orgasm comes up in little tingles, radiating up my thighs and shooting out of my clit in a searing peak of firey pleasure that almost feels like pain.

And as the orgasm continues to pulse I wrap his head in legs and he lies against my wet open pussy. We loll together in the darkness and I think, this is intimacy. This is a union of love and pleasure and wanting to please each other. And even with the open marriage and the perfect sex, I still feel the stirrings of something.

It was good. It was great. And yet.

It suddenly occurs to me that this is no longer enough.

Boris phoned this morning. Thank God. I’d gone almost insane, waiting for his call.

Could he see me today?

I had to teach a class in the morning, so told him I’d see him in the afternoon. My breath was hot, heavy, as I put down the phone. Happiness enveloped me immediately.

We walked around Covent Garden and he told me that he was very into yoga, t’ai chi etc. He said he’s also a very spiritual person. I find that hard to believe, but said nothing.

I’m happy just walking around with him. I hook my arm through his and bask in pretending we are a couple. How silly and conventional I am, under all my pretences of sophistication.

Oh, we had so much fun. He is a man who likes to shop, who likes to sit outside the changing rooms and wait until I come out and show him a new dress, a new skirt with a split up to my butt crack.

At one point he just opens the door of a changing room. I’m standing there, wearing only my panties.

“I’ll be out in a minute. I just need to try this dress on,” I say.

He barges in, his masculine presence, his hugeness, choking the space between us and sucking the air out of the room.

“Take them off.”

“What?”

“Take your panties off. I don’t want to hear another word out of you, you stupid bitch.”

“I’m sorry, I—“

Oh, I think, I like this game, I like it very much.

I pull down my red satin panties.

“You are shaved,” he says, slipping a finger between the lips of my vagina. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He bends down and picks up the crumpled pair of panties, and shoves them into my mouth, and presses his hand tightly over my mouth.

It’s hard to breath. I’m all stiff with shock. With his other hand he’s rolling my nipple between his fingers. He leans down, and takes the other nipple in his mouth and starts to suck.

Eventually, his hand leaves my mouth and I can breathe a little, but not much, after all, the panties are still in my mouth. I hate how uncomfortable they feel. I want to spit them out. But of course, I don’t dare to.

He plays with my breasts for a long time. Sucking and squeezing them, running his nails back and forth over their plumpness, until I can feel my cunt stiffening with arousal, juices running down between my thighs. I’m so slippery and my clit is tingling.

I want.

I want him to fuck me.

But this isn’t about what I want. I keep forgetting.

He opens the fly of his trousers and draws out his uncircumcised cock. Long and thick, I fall to my knees, dying to feel it deep in my mouth, to feel his cock tickling the back of my throat.

I reach into my mouth to pull the panties out, but he slaps me across the face.

“No, you stupid cunt. I’ll do it.”

He pulls the panties out.

I reach out and caresss his cock, but just as my lips touch the head he says, “It’s not that easy. You must beg for it. Go on. Beg.”

“I want your cock in my mouth. Please fuck my mouth, please.”

All I get for my trouble is a cruel, heartless smile.

“No. Maybe later. Maybe. Now, why don’t you try on that pink flimsy dress? Oh, and leave your bra off this time”

Suddenly he is sunny and cheerful. The dark side has disappeared.

I want it back.

I try not to feel like a petulant child, but I do. I wanted his cock in my mouth so bad. To feel his cum choking the back of my throat.

Instead, I try to enjoy the rest of the day. After a while I really do begin to enjoy myself. I like being spoilt.

He pays for every thing. He buys me things.

He buys me three dresses, stockings in pale lavender lace, a bustier. Then he takes me to a hotel, puts me face down on the bed and ties my wrists to the bedposts with rope. Then he forces my legs apart and pours cool lube all over my arse. He prizes my arse cheeks apart and fucks me hard, so hard. He even rubs the lube all over my clit and teases and torments me while I stuck my bum in the air, so that he can get the full length of himself into me. Oh I am so hungry for him. I am so scared he’ll stop fucking me before I’ve come. It goes on and on forever, and I don’t come for ages. When I do, it feels like a river breaking out of a dam.

Dan arrived home this evening. Big, beefy, he grazed his stubbly cheek against my smooth one. He chattered away about his trip, but I was barely listening. I was still high, thinking about Boris and the way he’s made me scream with pleasure.

This evening, Alan and Penelope came round.

He is really tall, about six foot four, a Scot with a great sense of humour and a huge cock. I mean, really huge. I don’t know how Penelope puts up with it. Maybe you stretch down there when you’ve been married to someone that well endowed. I prefer to suck him, but even that’s a bit of a mouthful. Usually I just end up putting baby oil on my tits and squeezing them together while he fucks them. Well it’s a bit of a laugh isn’t it? A porn visual. He delivers the money shot, with cum flying all over the place. Makes it more dramatic for Dan, if he’s watching. Or sometimes he isn’t watching, he’s doing Penelope one way or the other. She’s a very accommodating girl.

Today Dan and Alan just lay back on the sofa opposite our bed and let us girls do all the work.

Penelope, small and slim, as self-contained as a cat, kept licking away between my legs but it was hard to stay in the present. All I could think about my afternoon fuck with Boris.

In the end my genitals went numb, and I actually faked an orgasm.With a girl!

The guys didn’t notice, but I think Penelope did. She smiled at me afterwards like she knew. But she seemed to understand, squeezing my arm and kissing me softly on the lips as we said goodbye.