Kinky

by Justine Elyot

  ‘You bad, bad man!’ I exclaim with a delighted laugh. ‘No pants!’

  ‘OK, you got me,’ he said softly. ‘When I come here, I have plan to fuck you. I think maybe I can be lucky so I don’t put on them.’

  ‘You didn’t think about the condoms though?’ I put a hand on his cock, running my fingertips gently up the shaft, admiring its firmness.

  ‘I don’t want to be too hopeful. In Russia we believe in fate.’

  His hands unclasp and he brings the unwrapped condom around, removing my fingers so he can skin it on.

  ‘So, I am ready,’ he whispers. ‘You are ready?’ He answers his own question by fingering my pussy, gathering my wetness as evidence.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘I know.’ He pulls my thighs apart and around his waist again, takes his cock in hand and guides it to my willing slit, rubbing it around in my juices before surging forward.

  I cry out and hang on for dear life around his neck, adjusting to the strange fullness, something I have not felt for some time.

  He keeps one arm anchored around my waist while he uses his other hand to stroke my clit, holding himself heroically still for a moment.

  He kisses me. ‘Feels good?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh. You don’t need to ask. Yes.’

  ‘OK. Hold tight.’

  I cling like a spider monkey while he shunts back and forth, building up speed. The cabinet rattles underneath me, then it begins to rock, but I couldn’t care less, every part of me focused on the friction inside me. He angles himself perfectly and crosses my sweetest spot, keeping the pressure on my clit at the same time. In a fog of exquisite, tormenting sensation I feel the burn at the pit of my stomach that signals the first steps on the stairway to orgasm.

  ‘Oh, yes, hard, do it hard,’ I mutter in delirium, wanting to spur him to his own. He slams the cabinet into the wall, thrusting like a madman, holding me in a tense armlock. My end is near, the sensation rising and spreading. I bury my face in his neck and start to whimper.

  He says something totally unintelligible but wildly sexy-sounding – presumably in Russian – and that’s what finally gets me there, bucking and writhing against him while he utters god-knows-what into my ear.

  God-knows-what gets louder and more emphatic, almost vengeful in tone, until it breaks down into a formless roar and he makes his final blinding thrusts before holding himself still inside, head thrown back, beautiful throat exposed, hands gripping me to the point of bruising.

  Christ. He’s completely taken me. One night, one fuck, and I’m in love.

  This wasn’t part of the plan.

  Help.

  Chapter Four

  I still have no idea how I made it through the day without getting fired.

  I bluffed through the campaign meeting with the rapidly extemporised slogan ‘What the Nose Knows’ – madly, the account manager loved it. No accounting for advertising taste, obviously. Nobody commented on the smudgy black line on the paintwork behind the filing cabinet either. A few people noticed the dark circles under my eyes, especially Anton, but I put that down to staying up all night working on the campaign.

  At the coffee shop around the corner, he props me up with a large macchiato after work and quizzes me on some aspects of my story that he feels don’t add up.

  ‘So were you in the office when there was that security alert?’ he asks, biting off the end of his biscotti.

  ‘Security alert?’

  ‘Yeah, broken window on the ground floor at the back. Apparently, the alarms were activated but the police never showed up. Nobody can get hold of Whatsisname the night watchman.’

  ‘No, I guess I went home before that.’ I yawn.

  ‘The weirdest thing about it is the missing tape from the CCTV. Just gone, man. Mental! Conspiracy!’

  ‘I can’t really think straight, Anton. Do you mind if we just talk about really straightforward, really unchallenging stuff?’

  He winks. ‘Same as always then?’

  My phone bleeps and I try to peer through the blur to read the message. It’s from Dimitri. My heart leaps and I suppose I probably blush like a fool.

  ‘You meet me tomorrow?’ it says.

  ‘Sure. When and where?’

  ‘Meet me 12 mid of day outside the Kinky Cupcake.’

  ‘OK xxx.’

  I wait a moment to see if he will send me anything more, with the crucial kisses, but he doesn’t, so I sigh mildly and put my phone away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Anton is frowning.

  ‘Just a mate. From home.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Your eyes did that looking up to the left thing that’s meant to be a classic sign of a fib.’

  A plague on pop psychology and body language analysis.

  ‘Anton.’ I’m surprised and a little perturbed at how much this seems to matter to him. ‘It’s personal. OK?’

  ‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ he accuses. ‘You went all misty and pink. You’re in love. Who is he? Not Dale from upstairs or I’ll puke.’

  ‘Jesus, no! Look, I’m too tired for this. I’m going. Thanks for the coffee. Have a good weekend.’

  I sail off with my handbag clutched to my chest before he can argue.

  * * *

  The next day is rainy so I hurry along the Shoreditch alleyways with my umbrella and raincoat. Only I know that underneath the waterproof veneer, I am wearing only a swishy jersey dress and stockings. If going commando is good enough for Dimitri …

  To my relief and near-surprise – because I was starting to wonder if I’d dreamed him – he stands in the archway of the Kinky Cupcake door. No umbrella, fatally wounded leather jacket the only thing standing between his rangy body and the elements. His moustache drips when he kisses me an enthusiastic hello.

  ‘This is London,’ I tell him. ‘It rains.’

  ‘Oh, rain.’ He shrugs vaguely. ‘It’s nothing. In Moscow right now is first winter snow.’

  ‘You’re a tough cookie,’ I say, swooning slightly at his manly disregard of the weather.

  ‘No.’ He points one finger at the dark brick behind us. ‘I am a kinky cupcake. Shall we go in?’

  ‘OK.’

  We nod to the doorman and head up to the café, which is half full of damp Saturday shoppers popping in for their quota of rubber and depravity before the football scores. Actually, a rubber outfit would be good in this weather. Maybe I should get one.

  ‘So,’ I open, bringing coffee and Danish pastries to the table, ‘what are we doing here?’

  ‘I book a room,’ says Dimitri, teeth flashing as he smiles his wicked smile.

  ‘You booked a room? Here?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to practise my skills for my new career.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I bite my lip. I still can’t quite believe he means to go through with it. ‘Is it expensive? To rent the room?’

  ‘I pay for an hour. Is quite expensive, but yesterday I find a job for while I wait for good-paying clients.’

  ‘Good idea. What’s the job?’

  ‘In a kitchen.’ He shrugs. ‘It isn’t for ever.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘So drink your coffee. I book the room one till two.’

  ‘Which room did you book?’

  ‘The schoolroom.’

  ‘I see. And what might we be practising?’

  ‘I am going to whip you,’ he says, infinitely casual, dabbing coffee from his moustache with a napkin.

  ‘Lovely.’ I shudder and have the urge to hug myself. I have this sense of being in exquisite danger. Danger I have signed up for.

  I linger over the coffee, keeping an eye on the clock, while we discuss my advertising campaign, his associates in the squatty-sounding dive he is staying in, his new kitchen-portering job, until the time comes and I can divert him with light chatter no longer.

  He holds out his hand. ‘Come.’

  I hope so.

  But first I have to descend with him into that sinister basement where all thin
gs dark and dreadful take place. No events are taking place this lunchtime – those are reserved for the evening hours – so the corridor is quiet. In the medical room, there seems to be a little activity going on – another booking, presumably.

  Dimitri pushes open the door to the schoolroom, as white and bare and chalk-dusty as I remember with its row of little desks and its cupboard of pain.

  It is to this last that Dimitri addresses himself, opening the door and pulling out a gown of coarse black material.

  ‘This fits me?’ He puts it over his shoulders and flaps about like a vampire bat, trying it out for size. It’s a little short on him, but the effect transforms him from pure gypsy to, I dunno, scholar gypsy.

  ‘You look a bit like Dracula,’ I say, doubtfully. ‘Maybe the mortar board?’

  ‘The …?’

  ‘Square hat thing.’

  ‘This?’ He perches it at a jaunty angle and tosses his head so the tassel swings.

  ‘Why didn’t my head teacher look like that?’ I wonder aloud, then I squeak when he finds the cane and swishes it dramatically through the air.

  After a few moments of fencing with an invisible opponent, he flexes it in both hands and fixes me with an evil grin. ‘So, my naughty girl, are you ready to bend over?’

  ‘Um. Could we start with something a little gentler?’

  ‘Of course. Actually, I am thinking perhaps first I need to know what this things feels like.’

  He rummages in the cupboard, producing a number of implements and laying them in a fan shape on the nearest desk.

  ‘You mean, you mean, I use them on you?’ I pick up a varnished wooden rectangle with a narrow handle at one end and smack it experimentally into a palm.

  ‘Sure. If I become an expert dom, I want to know what submissive is feeling. Otherwise how do I make best decision of what to do?’

  ‘That makes a lot of sense.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Without further discussion, he whips off the cloak, turns his back to me and drops his jeans.

  The sudden revelation of his tight backside causes me to cover my mouth with a hand. ‘Oh,’ I say, when I’ve caught my breath. ‘Right. So, what shall I use first?’

  ‘Your hand, maybe.’

  I approach him with tentative steps and bend a little, inspecting that gorgeous arse at closer quarters.

  ‘Yes? You can start.’

  My first smack is hardly worthy of the name, pathetic really, more like a tap.

  He exhales impatiently. ‘What was that?’

  I land a harder one. My palm tingles but his butt doesn’t change colour at all.

  ‘Did you start yet?’

  Cheeky bugger. I pull back my arm and whack.

  ‘Ah. I felt that one. Harder now.’

  I look at my palm, which is an angry shade of pink just from that one stroke.

  ‘It hurts my hand,’ I object.

  He sighs. ‘Try the leather one.’

  I pick up a short, thick strap and flap it half-heartedly.

  ‘Do it hard!’ he shouts, making me jump.

  ‘Sorry,’ I snipe, then I snap it down. I’m rewarded with my first flinch of the day.

  ‘OK,’ he says, putting a hand on the faint red stripe I’ve made. ‘That is a sting. Try the wood.’

  I notice that he braces himself with one hand on the teacher’s desk for this one. He is expecting it to hurt. I wish I could see if it was having an arousing effect on him, but I’m at an angle to his rear that makes peeking impossible. Damn it.

  I take the wooden rectangle and slap it smartly down. He hisses, but asks for a harder blow all the same.

  This one makes a fierce red mark across the central part of his arse and he shakes his head vigorously while the force of the blow sinks in.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘That is harder. Deeper pain. Now, OK, I think the cane.’

  I pick up the length of rattan but I’m a little concerned. I don’t know what to do with the bloody thing. What if I seriously injure him? I lay it softly across his bottom. He reaches around and pushes the tip away from his hip, further towards his arse crack.

  ‘Don’t you see how he did it that night? Was like this.’

  I’m glad somebody was taking notes. I was too busy trying to stop myself masturbating in the street.

  ‘A good stroke, Rosie. I want it to hurt.’

  I’m scared, I can’t deny it. I tap the rod, the way I think I must have seen someone do in a film or something, and draw back my forearm, then I hear the whoosh of air as the cane rushes forwards and, just as I see Dimitri’s shoulders tense, my arm freezes and I can’t do it.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I just can’t. I just can’t hurt you.’

  He looks over his shoulder, pensive, disappointed. ‘I guess you are not a sadist,’ he says. ‘Not a, what was it, switch. But please, Rosie. I need to feel it. Don’t think about my pain. Tell yourself this is what he wants. He wants to learn. OK? Please?’

  I take a moment to recover. I see his knuckles, white from gripping the edge of the desk. He wants me to do this.

  I pull back my arm again, shut my eyes for a moment and try to disconnect the act from its consequences. He is a cushion, a mannequin, something that doesn’t feel pain.

  I open my eyes and slice the cane through the air. Its sinister whistle makes me cringe, but I keep it moving until it makes contact with Dimitri’s bottom, which quivers. His hips roll and he gasps, but there is no cry.

  At first, the line I have drawn is white, then it begins to darken rapidly while Dimitri pitches back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reaches behind to touch the welt, running a fascinated fingertip along its length.

  Appalled at myself, I drop the cane back on the desk. ‘Oh God, that must have really hurt. I’m so sorry.’

  He lets go of the desk and turns back round, hitching up his jeans with one hand while the other continues to rub his bottom.

  ‘Well, yes, it hurt,’ he confirms.

  There isn’t a sniff of an erection. Seems he’s no switch either.

  ‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

  ‘No, I don’t like pain. Not my thing. But now I know what it feels like, so I thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I put a hand on his cheek and stroke it. ‘I didn’t enjoy it either. Well, maybe a little bit.’ I smirk, feeling like a super-villainess in a latex catsuit.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, bending to my ear. ‘I am getting my revenge. It’s your turn now.’

  I flutter. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Mmm, oh dear, my dear.’ His hand cups my buttocks, a menacing gesture if I ever I felt one. ‘You are wearing no panties!’

  ‘Oh. So I’m not. I knew I’d forgotten something.’

  He chuckles darkly and kisses the underside of my ear. ‘Bad mistake.’

  I falter for a moment. ‘Dimitri?’

  ‘Umm hmm?’ His fingertips bunch the skirt of my dress, rubbing it up and down my naked bottom.

  ‘Why do you want to hurt me? Why do you like it?’

  ‘Hey.’ He draws back his neck, finding my eyes with his. ‘Because you want me to. Is no other reason. Because I want to make you hot. Turn you on, you say, no?’

  ‘Yeah. You want to turn me on. OK. Just asking.’

  I can see why people would want to be dominated, I just have some trouble getting why others want to dominate. It’s hard not to question the impulse or suspect that there might be an agenda of hatred or abuse behind it sometimes.

  What if it turns out that Dimitri hates women, or British people, or is just working out and passing on some horrible experiences from his past? I think that might break my heart. I know I barely know him but …

  Anyway, I believe him. There’s a transparency and a zest about him that make it easy to accept that he is simply enjoying himself, and living for the moment. As to whether he wants to pleasure me or simply pleasure a Random Submissive Woman, the jury’s out. I hope it doesn’t stay out for long though.

&
nbsp; ‘Good. So bend over.’

  The time for angst has passed.

  Dimitri takes me by the upper arm and leads me to a chair – maybe the one that Trixie Twinkle Twat was standing on that time – then places a hand on my stomach, gently pivoting me into the prescribed contortion until I am bending over, palms flat on the seat, bum up, legs hip width apart.

  The hem of my dress flutters reassuringly around my thighs, but not for long, because Dimitri’s next act is to lift it up, revealing my helpless bare bottom to his disciplinary gaze.

  Damn it, I’m wet already. Can he tell?

  ‘Bad girl,’ he says, grazing my inner thighs with his fingernails, almost up to the split lips of my crotch. Oh, he can tell. ‘What shall I do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘Sir.’ The addition feels natural, and he seems to like it, making a low sound of approval.

  ‘I’m going to punish you, Rosie. I’m going to use different things and see how long it takes for you to ask me to stop, OK?’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  ‘If you need a break, you tell me. If you can’t take no more, you tell me. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He claps his hands together and rubs them, ready to get down to work. ‘First I use this leather, OK? I start easy.’

  Despite this reassurance, I clench my fists and tense up. The first contact of strap on skin is a caress, however, and I soon relax into it, enjoying each little flick of warmth as it travels slowly across the full area of my rear.

  ‘Mmm.’ I give my verdict. ‘Feels nice. Really nice. Erotic.’

  ‘Oh yes? I go harder.’

  He is as good as his word, putting a little more force behind each stroke so that they sizzle rather than tickle, the heat building with each little set of snaps.

  I begin to wriggle, trying hard not to break my position, then he goes harder still and the strap cracks down, lines of solid heat burning the width of my bum.

  I get to twelve, I think, then I plead for a break.

  He rubs my spine while I gather my breath and my wits, moving his hand lower and lower until it caresses my hot bottom.