Then there was nothing to see. The couple were on the bed. Above him.
The wooden slats of the bed sagged under their weight and pressed into Dean’s back.
‘You want it hard, don’t you? You want my big cock fucking your filthy little cunt hard and deep.’
‘Hard and deep,’ Mistress Crimson breathed.
The mattress springs squealed out as if in pain.
The husband grunted out expletives. ‘Fuck. Bitch. Cunt.’
Mistress Crimson screamed out hungry pleasure. ‘More. Harder. Yes, yes, yes!’
Dean felt like he was in a tiny, dark box with two people screwing on his back, Mistress Crimson’s sweat and sex scent dripping over him. She was an animal marking him as her own, letting everyone else know he belonged to her, that she’d had him and humiliated him.
His chest constricted, every breath was painful. That was how it should be. It should hurt. It should be this intense.
The husband let out a final loud grunt.
It was over.
Dean wanted to cry out, to let them know that he wanted more, that he could take it harder.
As far as he could tell, with a few mumbled words, the husband and wife rolled onto separate sides of the bed and fell asleep.
Dean glanced at his watch. The sex had lasted little more than five minutes. Five minutes. In that short time his whole life had transformed. He felt like a different person. He didn’t know how he’d changed, but it was definite. There was something in his being, something punching to get out of him, making his head ache with its defiant screams.
After half an hour, both bodies lying above him were snoring. He should leave, creep out while he could. He didn’t move. For a long moment he allowed himself to dream that this was his life, this was his world. Mistress Crimson owned him and kept him trapped under her bed as she pleasured herself with a succession of lovers. On occasion she let him out to clean up the mess she and her men made. And if Dean was very good, very, very good, as an extra-special treat she ordered him to lick her lover’s spunk out from between her voluptuous thighs.
Then he slowly eased himself out from under the bed. He permitted himself a glance at the couple before he left the bedroom. They looked disappointingly – normal.
Downstairs, he found his clothes exactly where he’d put them when Mistress Crimson first told him to undress. Why hadn’t she hidden them? He didn’t have time to think. He dressed hastily, and sneaked out of the front door like a teenager trying to escape curfew without his parents noticing.
Out in the cold air, breathing hurt, as if he was still under the bed. He spent a moment searching for his car keys, thinking with equal terror and excitement that he would have to wait until morning and beg Mistress Crimson to have mercy on him and let him search for his keys. But they were there, jangling in his pocket. It was only because his hands were shaking that he must have missed them first time.
On the drive home he realised that there was nothing ordinary about the couple he’d glanced in bed. They’d just had sex. They’d just had sex while he lay underneath their bed. Mistress Crimson had known he was there. Did it give her extra pleasure knowing Dean was hearing and feeling every thrust and push?
Was Mistress Crimson letting him see what a real man was like? Was that how husbands behaved to their wives?
Was that what Helena would expect once they were married?
He tried the words out in his mind.
Helena, you horny bitch, I am going to fuck you as hard as you deserve, you filthy little slut.
But he couldn’t speak them aloud. Even in his own mind, it wasn’t his voice speaking them; it was Mistress Crimson’s husband growling out each syllable.
An image opened up, like a pop-up book, of Helena being fucked stupid by the bear of a man Dean had glanced sleeping in the bed. It made him feel guiltier than anything he’d done that night. But he couldn’t close the book, he couldn’t stop seeing it.
His cock throbbed. Throbbed was the right word. It wasn’t a mild interest in pleasure that would pass with time; it was a wound that needed attention.
He managed to wait until he got home, but no longer. He closed his door, released his cock, and wanked into the material of his shirt. It seemed to him that he came before he even touched himself, and with such force and power that he imagined if he hadn’t caught his spunk in his clothes, he would have sprayed all over the hall like some wild animal literally spreading his seed.
He collapsed onto the floor panting, curled up into a small ball, and fell asleep.
* * *
When he awoke at around 5 a.m. he couldn’t recall why he was there. He stumbled to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth, which tasted thick and heavy, then went to bed, all without turning a light on.
Next time he woke up it was almost 8 a.m. He’d slept through his alarm. Even in the hurry of getting ready for work he thought of the night before. The sense that he’d had an epiphany, that he’d finally understood something important about himself, had disappeared in the morning light. All that was left was the memory and the desire.
He got home after work and went immediately to his computer, praying that he had a message from Mistress Crimson.
But this wasn’t the sort of relationship you could turn to God for help with.
He should have been praying for the strength and will to be a good husband to Helena. And he would. Just not today.
There was nothing from Mistress Crimson. He bit down on his lip and tried to hide his disappointment from himself. There was something else, though: a message from Wickedgirl. It’d been so long he had assumed that she’d changed her mind about wanting to try out domming. It surprised him how excited he was to hear from this person who he didn’t even have the basic profile information about. If he was honest, he still had doubts about whether she was a man using a female tag.
The message was a brief reply to his long introduction.
Give me your mobile. I might call you.
He replied immediately.
After pressing the send button he was struck with doubt. The lovely woman who had spoken to him on the phone, Tigerlady, had unceremoniously dumped him when he told her about meeting Mistress Crimson. Would Mistress Crimson be similarly angry if he was talking to another woman?
He started to compose another message, explaining the situation to Wickedgirl, when he saw that she’d come online.
His heart thumped. His fingers felt too weak even to type.
‘You’re a pathetic worm, Dean Matthews,’ he chastised himself.
He waited to see if she would approach him. She didn’t. But then his phone rang.
He picked it up with trepidation, and then great disappointment when he saw it was Helena calling.
‘Hi, how are you doing?’ he answered the phone.
‘Good, babe, what about you?’ She sounded different, in a way he couldn’t identify.
‘I’m good too.’
‘That’s good.’ Helena gave a small giggle, then there was silence.
They both started speaking at the same time.
Then again in unison, ‘Sorry, you first.’
‘No, Dean, say what you want to say.’ That strange quality to her voice again, but at least she wasn’t starting an argument about setting a wedding date.
‘Nothing important. I was just going to ask if spag bolls is all right tonight?’
‘Well, it was about tonight I was ringing. There’s a lot to do at work, you see. You won’t mind too much if I can’t make it, will you?’ It was as if she was asking him a question he couldn’t hear. They’d rearranged their “dates” lots of times over the years, normally by text; why did it sound as if she was asking permission now?
A message flashed up on the screen from Wickedgirl. Dean longed to read it, but he averted his eyes and tried to concentrate on his fiancée.
‘If you have to work, Hel, it’s no problem,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
‘But I m
ean if you’ve gone to a lot of effort, I can get my work done another day. It won’t matter if I don’t do it right now.’
Dean chuckled. ‘You know what my spag bolls is like. The effort is in eating it, not making it. You’re better off at work.’
‘OK. OK. If you’re sure you don’t mind. If you don’t want to see me tonight.’
‘We’ll see each other on Sunday, I’ll manage a few days on my own.’ He’d meant it to be light, but had it come out too hard, too real?
‘Sure. See you at church, Dean. Bye.’
The phone went dead.
Had he offended her? He hadn’t meant to.
He looked at the screen. He hoped he hadn’t blown it already; last time they spoke Wickedgirl had told him off for taking too long to reply.
He read her message.
Wickedgirl: How has your day been, slavetothee? Are you still looking for a mistress?
He thought about every word, but then remembered she’d already been waiting for his answer while he was on the phone.
My day’s been fine. Thank you very much for asking. Dean took a deep breath before he continued typing. In all honesty, though, mistress, I’m a little confused.
Her response was almost instantaneous. How so?
The mistress I have served in the past called me to serve her again yesterday. We had an amazing time, but then I haven’t heard from her today and I’m not sure if I did anything wrong.
Dean felt strangely relaxed and natural telling this woman he knew nothing about how he felt.
Wickedgirl: You’d know if you did anything wrong. She would have told you, or you would have sensed it. Did anything happen like that?
Dean typed his instant response. No. It was amazing.
Wickedgirl: Then I suspect you’re worrying about nothing.
It’s because she blocked me before and then got back in touch. I don’t know quite what she wants from me.
Dean was surprised how he could articulate things with this person, whether they were male or female. Perhaps it was easier typing into a screen than meeting someone. He thought of Helena and their stilted conversations.
Wickedgirl: You’re the sub. Your duty is to serve. You don’t need to concern yourself with what your mistress wants from you unless she tells you.
Do you think I should wait for her to contact me again then?
Wickedgirl: Send her a nicely composed message, email, letter, whatever, telling her how much you enjoyed being with her and how grateful you were that she gave you some of her precious time. And then you wait. It’s essential that you don’t bother your dom; you mustn’t pester them otherwise you’ll annoy them and appear desperate. You should always be obedient and patiently awaiting their pleasure.
Dean smiled as he read through her words several times. Thank you very much for your advice. I can see you’re full of grace and kindness. If my mistress hadn’t got back in contact with me I would have considered it an honour to serve under you.
Wickedgirl: You must be true to your mistress. You belong to her. I see why you were on this site and contacted me when you were lost and lonely, but now she has decided to reclaim you, all thoughts must be on her.
For a moment Dean stared at the screen and wished that Mistress Crimson hadn’t contacted him again. But this woman had told him clearly that his duty was with the person who had been kind enough to claim him.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself replying. I feel a connection with you. I haven’t felt this with anyone before, and so quickly. If my mistress ever decided she doesn’t want me, would you allow me to contact you?
Wickedgirl: Of course. But I’m certain you’ll be a good slave and do what you need to do to please your mistress so that she will never again contemplate being without you.
Something inside Dean glowed. Was that normal? It couldn’t be. Not from such a short online communication. It must be the tiredness and the buzz from last night making him take this woman’s generosity in talking to him too personally.
Thank you very much. I hope you find someone who deserves you and makes you happy. Although if you don’t mind me saying, you seem too good for this site.
Wickedgirl: Read my name, I’m wicked, not good :) Farewell, slavetothee. May your mistress appreciate and cherish you always.
Dean started to write a reply but she’d gone offline. A hollow and empty feeling replaced the earlier glow. He started to write a message to her for her to read when she next logged in, but after five minutes of typing he deleted everything he’d written. He shook his head, bit down on his lip, and started to compose a new message to Mistress Crimson.
He read it through carefully, checking for any spelling errors or typos, and then sent it. A moment later he sent another one giving her his mobile number, then he went to prepare spaghetti bolognese for one.
Past midnight his mobile rung, waking him from a beautiful dream. It was an unknown number and for a hazy moment he thought it was his dream woman, his wicked girl, stepping into his real life, then recognition of Mistress Crimson’s voice raced through his brain.
He ignored the flow of disappointment and composed himself. ‘Thank you for calling me, Mistress Crimson, I am here to do whatever you want whenever you want me to do it.’
Chapter Seven - Meat
Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t replace you.
I sent the text without thinking about it.
Or rather, I spent all night thinking about it. I’d been chatting online, trying different sites, playing along with the different scenarios that different men created; and it was all the same.
Simultaneously in the virtual world:
I was a bride doing a sexy striptease for the best man and ushers while my husband fucked my bridesmaids.
I was a college student masturbating in bed while my tutor watched through a crack in the door.
I was a whore giving blowjobs in the gents’ loos at a cheap club.
I was a MILF bouncing up and down on the cock of my neighbour’s son.
In the real world:
I was bored.
I was lonely.
I was self-doubting.
I was in love, hopelessly.
I tried playing with myself, teasing my clit with my favourite vibe, but my mind immediately filled up with the time my master left me tied up for most of the night with a gag in my mouth and a vibe in my arse and pussy. And then no sex toy could give me any pleasure, only memory and longing.
So what was left to me was the computer.
But the online flirtations were too easy, too disposable; even when I thought that was what I wanted.
A man who looked a little bit like Bruce Willis in his photo – that is, if Bruce Willis had ever taken a picture of himself with a cameraphone at full stretch sitting on a paisley patterned sofa – had an ounce of potential. A quarter of an ounce of potential.
He made me laugh with some stupid joke, and when we started talking sex he was an obvious dom, with a bit more wit and intelligence than the rest. But then he started talking about how he wanted me to buy a milk pump and start pumping my breasts until I started lactating. Which maybe I could have got into if it was my master with his silky, commanding voice and his eyes looking at me in that way which seemed to give me no choice but to obey. No maybe. Whatever my lover said, I did. Cold on the screen, though, the words coming from a stranger left me passionless.
Another man asked for my address so he could send me a pot of his spunk to drink. He assured me that he’d watched one of his online slaves drink his come on webcam.
These conversations made the world seem so big and so small. All I’d done was spoken to a handful of the millions of people across the planet who were searching for sex. Sometimes it felt like I was chatting to the same man again and again. So many of them shared a fantasy that BDSM play was me dressing up as a maid, letting them lightly spank me before sucking them off. Which was fine. But it wasn’t me.
All the hot, steamy, X-rated talk, al
l the imagined hard pounding and thrusting and screwing, was nothing more than killing time before my body was exhausted enough to fall into sleep, usually at about two or three in the morning.
And then there was all the urging and persuading and demanding. “No” seemed to be transformed across the internet. It left my computer as a point blank refusal; it arrived at their computers as a playful, coy tease inviting them to keep on asking and asking. Their requests were similar: a photo of my tits, a photo of my arse, a photo of my cunt, to cam with them, to give them my phone number, to meet with them, to fuck them.
Although maybe a tiny part of it was me: all delicate and vulnerable, my whole sexual personality based on submission, I was too polite. I kept talking to some of them when I should have ignored them, all the hurt and rejection making my body ache. I was reluctant to pass a fraction of that on to another person.
I didn’t seem to be aware of the basic rules of handling men. Like, for example, don’t fuck someone you work with. Especially if that someone tells you he’s in love with you.
Joe was fine. As fine as you can be, when you’ve put your heart out there and had a “return to sender” message stamped across it. The problem was I noticed him more, and he appeared to possess some superpower that always mysteriously manifests in these situations, of being all the places I was, involved in every project I was, attending every meeting I was, to the point that he was even at the cafe I went to at lunchtime to avoid seeing him in the canteen.
I varied between what I suspect were awful, pitying smiles, to joking within him as if we were best buddies, to being all business talk. Sometimes I acted as if nothing had happened between us, but then I made inappropriate remarks such as “the sex was great”, and “you have been amazingly lucky in the trouser department, some girl is going to be incredibly happy”.
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