Kinky

by Justine Elyot

  ‘Looks good,’ he tells me. ‘You like it?’

  ‘Yeah. It hurts but I could take more. Just needed a break. Not ready to finish yet, unless you want to.’

  ‘OK, that is useful information. I use this for warm-up or for long erotic spanking. There is heavier thing in the cupboard, maybe that is for punishment.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I agree, distracted by the pooling of juices between my heated pussy lips. I think back to the demonstration we saw in the dungeon next door. Will Dimitri flog my pussy? I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. A simple fingering will suffice today. Perhaps now?

  But he isn’t ready to oblige yet. My bottom must suffer on.

  ‘Shall we start again?’ He pats my recovering bum, still warm, but not particularly sore, though the skin feels tight and sensitive.

  ‘OK, sir.’

  The worst part of this is the strain on my thigh and calf muscles, I think to myself. Then I change my tune.

  Wood meets flesh in a bloodcurdling duet of pain and anguish.

  ‘OW!’ I yell in objection, leaping upright and clutching my backside.

  Dimitri laughs and taps the paddle on to the site of its first assault. ‘That is a good one, eh? Hurts a lot?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody does.’

  ‘OK, I take it easier to start. Back down, please.’

  I eye him suspiciously, but eventually resume my position, trusting him to do as he has promised.

  He applies the paddle with a lighter hand. It still hurts, but it’s bearable for twenty moderate strokes. I settle into the sensation, enjoying the uncompromising crack of the swats as they bounce and echo off the prison-white walls. Occasionally, I have to shift from foot to foot or howl out loud, until I am shifting and howling almost perpetually and then he ups the ante again, dealing six solid shockers. After the sixth I beg for mercy and he stops again.

  My bottom is throbbing, the heat searing way down below the skin. Sitting down will definitely need to be done with care.

  ‘That will bruise,’ he decides, pressing fingertips into my flesh so that I wince. ‘So I take it easier if client don’t want bruises.’

  ‘I love your … scientific approach … to this,’ I pant, rational thought being far from my own mind. ‘I never realised … being a laboratory assistant … could be this … interesting.’

  ‘Ah, my assistant.’ He seems to like this thought. He drops to a crouch to look more closely at the state he has made of my bum, thumbs pressed into the under hang of my cheeks. ‘You know, in Russia we have a saying: Without torture, no science.’

  ‘Really? Well, you’re a great scientist then.’

  He laughs and kisses my right arse cheek. I hold on to my breath while my pussy spasms. Oh, kiss me lower, kiss away my juices.

  His lips drift down and, when he speaks, his words buzz against my nether lips. ‘You don’t want the cane?’

  ‘Not today. Not ready.’ I push back. He plants a lingering kiss on my wettest spot. ‘Please, oh, please.’

  ‘I lock the door.’

  The most welcome words I could hear. I let my neck and shoulders relax and drop my forehead to the worn-smooth wood of the chair, then rest my cheek against its grain. My bottom still throbs, the skin stretched taut and sizzling, and my legs are starting to ache, the knees feeling locked, but I don’t care. I want one thing, and I want it from him.

  ‘This science, it make me want to fuck,’ he says gravely, returning to my open legs and pushing his hand between them. ‘I think for you also.’ His fingers pinch and squeeze and rub. ‘You are comfortable there? Your legs shake.’

  Maybe a bit less pressure on my feet might be good. But there is no bed in here.

  He kisses me, carefully, on the inside of each thigh, then he braces his arms around my waist and lifts me to my feet until I am held with my head in the crook of his shoulder, leaning back into him, ready to fall and be caught.

  ‘Mm.’ He kisses my neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin. ‘I think here is best.’

  He leads me to a gymnasium vaulting horse at the back of the room and lifts me on to it so that my stomach is cushioned by the leather-padded top and my legs dangle down, not quite reaching the floor.

  I hear him shuck off his robe and unbuckle the many belts. There is a snap and the smell of latex hits my nostrils. I am ready … set …

  And we’re off.

  He takes it slowly, penetrating me with care and attention to my rapidly bruising bottom.

  I like the feel of him behind me, between my thighs, standing and thrusting forwards while I flounder over the horse. I feel very small and submissive, stuck here with no choice but to take my punisher’s cock until he is satisfied that I have understood the nature of our bond. Him on top, giving it; me underneath, taking it.

  I spread my legs wider, to give him better access, enjoying the speed and friction of his movement and the way it sends him deeper. His balls swing and bang against my sex with each homeward drive. I begin to hang on for dear life, trying to keep in position for him, trying not to slump and fall into oblivion.

  Objectively, I know that my bottom must still hurt, but I don’t feel it any more; I don’t feel anything but the slow sensation unravelling through my groin and stomach.

  His hands creep around the front of my thighs and find my clit, each set of fingers playing it like a piano while he thrusts ever harder and faster.

  I come, humping my abdomen against the padded leather, digging my fingernails in until it is close to tearing. He takes hold of my hips again and gives me the final few race-to-victory lunges until he rests, embedded in me, hissing out that steaming stream of Russian phrases.

  Slowly, I become aware that my bottom still hurts. Especially when he pats it and asks how I am.

  ‘It’s really sore,’ I say. ‘But God, that was good. So good.’

  ‘Wait there. I see cream in the closet.’

  I maintain a blissful flop over the vaulting horse while he sorts his jeans out and heads over to the cane cupboard. For a fearful second, I think he is playing a horrible trick on me and he will come back with a length of rattan, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands behind me, slathering on a cool and soothing lotion.

  ‘Will you do that for your clients?’ I ask, the words coming out slowly and heavily.

  ‘What? This cream? If they like.’

  ‘No, I mean sex. I think they call it “extras”. In the trade.’

  ‘I tell you before, I don’t think so. I don’t fuck my clients. I am not prostitute.’

  ‘But what are you, then? You’d definitely be a sex worker.’

  ‘Sex worker who does not have sex.’

  ‘That’s perfectly possible. All this – the headmaster stuff – is all sexual. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but you can pretend it is not. Is different than prostitution.’

  ‘Pretending. So it’d all be a bit of a game.’

  ‘Sure. A bit of fun, for pay.’

  ‘What if you wanted to have sex with a client? And they wanted it too?’

  ‘What if, what if.’ He smears on the last of the cream and recaps the tube. ‘What is this?’

  I sigh. ‘Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Your voice. You are not fine.’

  ‘I am fine. Really.’

  He helps me off the vaulting horse and holds me against him, his lips on my hair. ‘This sex is very amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank you for it.’

  I am instantly cheered. ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘I wish I don’t have to start work in half an hour. But I must go. I book a room for next Saturday, right?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Think my bottom might have recovered by then.’

  ‘OK. But I go for the dungeon. I think we do bondage next, yes?’

  ‘Uh. Yeah.’

  ‘Good. So how about we get quick cup of coffee now. Get your coat.’

  Chapter Five

  What with one thing and another,
we didn’t get the chance to meet up again until Saturday. If he was free, I was in the office. If I was free, he was in the restaurant kitchen. We had a couple of text catch-ups during the course of the week (Him: How is your ass? Me: Bruised! And so on) but didn’t really speak.

  I spent long days longing for him, trying to keep his image alive in my mind’s eye while I wrestled with advertising copy and the many childish distractions of life in a modern media industry.

  Anton worked hard to drag me away from my preoccupations. He got free tickets to a red carpet premiere in Leicester Square, then an invitation to a private view in a local gallery. Between that and my seemingly unending sloganeering, I managed not to pine too terribly.

  On Friday afternoon, though, it nearly went horribly wrong.

  ‘You fancy hanging with me and some of the crew from the baby food account tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Anton in between bouts of Facebooking. ‘Thinking of heading up Westfield, then whatever.’

  ‘That’d be – oh, hang on. Sorry. Can’t.’

  ‘No? Date with Mr Mystery?’

  He had been teasing me about my ‘secret man’ all week.

  ‘No, just busy. Stuff to do.’ I was conscious of not looking him in the eye and shuffling stuff on the desk in an evasive manner.

  ‘Have I said something to offend you?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’

  ‘Westfield’s a bit weak really, innit? What if I said somewhere else? Where do you want to go?’

  I found the courage to look up. ‘Nowhere, mate. It’s cool. We’ll do something on Sunday if you want.’

  He brightened. ‘Nice one. Brunch? Hampstead Heath?’

  ‘Get your kite out.’

  ‘I will! Well, I would if I had one.’

  ‘Sorted.’

  Ten minutes of silence while our heads went back down to our computer screens.

  ‘Definitely a brothel,’ he said, out of the blue, pulling me away from my air-freshener radio ad.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That place.’ He jerked a thumb towards the window, indicating Kinky Cupcake.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Just saw this blatant ho come out the door. Skirt up to her arse, heels like Nelson’s Column, corset and a dog collar.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s just her style. Not very nice to call women hos, Anton.’

  ‘Style? It’s nasty. Saw a really weird guy come out of there earlier on too.’

  ‘Did you?’ I hoped to God I wasn’t not blushing too much. My heart was skittering.

  ‘Looked like one of the Village People but skinnier. I reckon they have male and female hookers in there.’

  ‘Right. Which Village Person was it? The one with the huge feather headdress?’

  ‘Nah. Which was the one with the huge ’tache?’

  My heart stopped for a beat.

  Coincidence.

  Paranoia.

  Stop it.

  * * *

  I want to ask him about it, but I manage to head myself off, concentrating instead on small talk about his crazy flatmates and the film I saw with Anton, while we sip at our Kinky coffee.

  ‘I miss you this week,’ he says, putting a hand on my thigh and squeezing.

  ‘Me too.’ A rush of scalding love, head to toe. ‘All work and no play …’

  He doesn’t know the saying.

  ‘I play a little bit,’ he says, and for a moment I think he is going to say he’s been having hot kinky sex with Tinkle Tosser while I’ve been at work. ‘We play five-a-side football, me and my friends.’

  ‘Oh, ha ha, oh, right, oh, that’s good.’

  He eyes me, a little puzzled. ‘You like football?’

  ‘No.’

  Over by the bar I notice a familiar-ish figure and I purse my lips.

  Her, simpering between two burly blokes in suits, wearing not much more than a silk bandage and a smile. She has an amazing figure, full and womanly yet somehow lacking an ounce of extraneous flab. Her laughter is infectious and forces you to look over.

  ‘Shall we get down to the dungeon?’ I ask, trying to drink my coffee too quickly and burning my tongue.

  ‘What is hurry? We have all afternoon.’

  ‘Just … can’t wait.’

  He chuckles, pats my thigh. ‘I will make you wait. That is cruel thing to do, right?’

  ‘Not too long though.’

  She is looking over. She has clocked Dimitri. One hand primps her hair while the other slides down the curve of her hip. She thrusts out her bosom. The only way she could make it more obvious she wants Dimitri’s attention is by shooting a flaming arrow across the room to him.

  She catches his eye. He nods and smiles, then turns back to me.

  A riot of cheering breaks out somewhere behind my ribs.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not too long. Is punishment for me to wait too long.’ He winks and I glow. He pushes the coffee cup away and takes my hand, leads me to the Promised Land. Well, the door to the basement stairs anyway.

  ‘Hiiiii,’ says Twat Face as we pass. ‘Great to see you here. Are you coming to the orgy tonight?’

  ‘I must work,’ says Dimitri, not stopping.

  ‘Oh well. Another time. Catch you later. Unless you catch me first.’ Giggle, simper.

  ‘Later,’ he says and we are through the door, away from the danger zone.

  ‘She’s very attractive,’ I say, feeling my way down the dark stairs in Dimitri’s wake.

  ‘So are you,’ he replies gallantly.

  ‘Not in her league, though.’

  ‘She is football player?’

  ‘Not as pretty as her,’ I translate.

  ‘I am sad when girls talk like this. Don’t say that, please.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘You say it again and I spank your ass, Rosie.’

  Shivery delight. I’m tempted to say it again, but I refrain.

  The door looks like a real dungeon door from some medieval castle – black metal studs, heavy oak, the works.

  When I enter, it looks unfamiliar, perhaps because it was filled with people last time and now it is empty. Intimidated, I take an instinctive step towards Dimitri, who puts an arm around me.

  ‘It looks real.’ The atmosphere of pain and terror dampens my ardour for a while. I cast my eyes around the gloom, seeking adjustment.

  It is lit by flaming torches. The brick, which would presumably be dark red, has been painted black. Shadows loom everywhere – exaggerated shapes of the dungeon equipment I see around me.

  Oddly designed chairs and benches line the walls, most sporting leather or metal cuffs in strategic places. Set alongside these are devices resembling old-fashioned stocks or pillories, some with benches or other equipment attached. On the stage, the cross we saw in action stands like an altar, while cages and other unidentifiable constructions dot the floor space.

  Dimitri plays with some of the furniture, most of which seems to be adjustable. I run my hand over a long bench with a square box at one end, the top of which looks like a toilet seat.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ I wonder aloud.

  Looking over, Dimitri smirks. ‘I don’t think you want to know,’ he says. He opens a cupboard and takes out a length of chain with leather cuffs at each end. ‘So,’ he says, stretching it menacingly taut before jingling it at me. ‘What do you want to be tied to?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Some of them don’t look very comfortable.’

  ‘I think this is on purpose.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘OK, I choose one to start. Here, this table.’

  I walk over and inspect it. It’s a high-set black-padded rectangle with a pair of restraining arches that would cover, approximately, the neck and the ankles. Extendable attachments at the side can be used to cuff wrists and ankles, if the arches don’t suit or the legs need to be spread. It looks so cold and clinical that I want to shudder. But I’m with Dimitri. This is exploratory fun. I’m safe.

  ‘OK
,’ I say dubiously. ‘So …’

  ‘Well, of course, you must take off your clothes. You must be naked for bondage, right?’

  ‘Oh.’ I laugh, nervous and feeling the cold. ‘That’s right.’

  He seems to tune in to my mild anxiety, stepping forwards and grabbing the lapels of my jacket. ‘I help you,’ he offers, sliding it off my shoulders.

  The slinky top and skinny jeans test his disrobing skills, but he passes easily, stripping me down to knickers and bra with expert touch. I surrender to an urge to wrap my arms around him and bury my head in his oversized and somewhat threadbare fisherman’s jumper, breathing in the reassuring scent of his rolling tobacco and joss-stick smoke and menthol. He smells outdoorsy, like a woodsman or something. Not that I’ve ever met a woodsman. What actually is a woodsman? It’s unusual in London, anyway, where nearly everyone smells of exhaust fumes.

  ‘You are worried?’ He hugs me tight, a bone-crushing embrace just the way I like it. ‘Hey, is only me. No big bad wolf.’

  ‘You could be a big bad wolf,’ I say, emerging from the sweater to look him in the eye. ‘For all I know.’

  ‘You really think?’

  ‘I hardly know you.’

  ‘What do you want to know? I tell you everything. We can go back to café, do this another time. Is a lot to ask, to tie up a girl when there is not time for trust –’

  ‘But I do trust you. I’m sure I do. It’s OK. You’ve paid for this room, we shouldn’t waste your money.’

  ‘Money.’ He makes a dismissive pshaw type sound.

  ‘Tie me to the table,’ I say softly. ‘But first, take off my underwear.’

  To be honest, the feeling of being held by him wearing only bra and knickers is so sensually delicious that I can’t face getting dressed again. His bear-like warmth against my nudity makes me want to snuggle up closer and closer until we are forced to merge with one another.

  He unclips my bra and the sensation is enhanced by the inevitable friction of my nipples against the scratchy wool of his jumper. His mouth presses heat into mine, tongues meeting in the middle, while he works on my knicker elastic. I rub my pussy, neatly shaved for the occasion, into the crotch of his raggedy jeans. My pubis and lower abdomen encounter strips of cold studded leather, imprinting its patterns into my skin.