Perhaps, looking back, the signs were plain to see. For me though it was a building realisation: the accumulation of small signs and steps. Early on in our relationship, in bed together I made some small remark about wanting her to be my sex slave.

Suddenly alert she asked me “So what would that involve exactly?”

I made some vague reply about “making yourself available for my merest sexual whim.” Was the sex a little more frantic than usual? Perhaps.

I became aware that she liked me to pin her hands in the final throes of our lovemaking; once, held her arm behind her back. I discovered she liked sex most when it was a little rough; found she liked to be penetrated in the arse.

Out of the bedroom, she was confident, outgoing, and often pushy. She worked as an executive in a city firm: ambitious and full of energy. How to describe her? She was thirty going on twelve. Hazel eyed and stunningly attractive she had a way of suddenly looking like a little girl, and occasional tantrums to match

When did the journey really start? It is hard to identify a single point but perhaps the night we traded fantasies comes the closest. We lay, in bed, adrift in the dark of the night-time, talking quietly. She told me about fantasising having sex on the beach at night. Gradually we realise we have an audience.

I told her another story; adapting it as I took cues from her reactions:

“We have guests coming for dinner. Before they arrive, I help you dress. I will not let you wear any underclothes. Instead, as you stand naked, I put a belt around your waist and tighten it. I take another belt. I loop it through the first belt at the back and pass both ends between your legs. I fasten it around the front of the first. I tighten it. You feel it tighten into your sex – a constant pressure. You wear a dress over the top. It shows, on close inspection, that you are not wearing a bra. Aroused, your nipples stand out.

I judge though that the look is not too revealing. As you move there is occasionally some sense of the belts beneath the dress. Will our guests notice? It is hard to tell: perhaps? We will never know. English courtesy will not allow them to mention it.

Later as they arrive, I whisper to you that I have placed something on the bed. ‘If you leave it there I will use it on you tonight, when they have gone. If you put it away, I won’t mention it again.’

After a few minutes, you make some small excuse and leave the dining room. On the bed, you see that I have placed a riding crop. You return to the room. You join freely in the conversation, but I can see that you are preoccupied, a little flushed. You leave the room several more times.”

“What happened when they left?” she asked. “You tell me! Did you move the riding crop?” A short silence, then quietly in the back of her throat, “no.”

“Ah,” I replied. “Once they had gone, I made you undress. I left the belts in place. I asked you how many blows of the crop you deserved. What did you tell me?”

She pressed closer to me in the dark and paused. I could feel her breath, warm against my face and neck. Her breasts firm, aroused, pressing against me like pine cones. My leg, between hers could feel her like a furnace against my thigh. Eventually she spoke.

“I said six, but you told me it would be twelve.”

“Where did I beat you?”

“On the bed – – oh I see; on my bottom.” Then, she went on more uncertainly, “and … on my tits … Oh god I’m so turned on!”

I took both her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. I slowly scraped my fingernails down her neck, then across her taut breasts. She made small noises in the back of her throat. I took a nipple between my fingers and squeezed, gently at first then, harder, pulling and twisting.

“Please,” she asked, “pleeease.”

She arched her head back and I pressed my teeth against her throat. I bit her gently then took more of her neck in my mouth and bit harder. Her body arched. I moved lower, sucked a nipple into my mouth, caressed it with my teeth and pulled.

Still holding her wrists in one hand, I stroked between her legs with the other. She was hot and wet. I plunged my fingers into her heat. I trailed wetness as I pressed my hand under her and found her tighter entrance. I entered her arse with first one finger then two: my thumb in her cunt. She bucked under me.

“Turn over,” I growled at her. She turned under me and I pinned her arm behind her back. I slipped my cock into her cunt from behind and she writhed. Wet, I pulled out and pressed against her arse.

“Yes” she whimpered, “yes.”

I pushed, hard, enjoying the slow opening and tightness and then the sense of space inside. I pushed my hand beneath her and found her cunt. I pressed and squeezed, all finesse gone. She pushed her arse back against me as I thrust in and out of her. My orgasm burst in on me as hers began. She cried incoherently breathing faster and faster. It seemed to take hours and was over in seconds. I felt as if I was emptying all of myself deep into her.

As my excitement subsided, my cock still inside her, I worried that I had hurt her. For a while she didn’t speak.

Then “that was so good,” she said, “I love you, I love you!”

Murmuring quietly to each other we fell asleep, kissing gently.

July 2018
« Feb