She looked innocent. I looked at her and thought of quiet corners with scuffed sci fi novellas, big jumpers, hot chocolate; pictured her hiding from the sun, studious and careful. I looked at her and thought the world would swallow her up.
I didn’t know – didn’t expect – that she had already chewed up and spat out the world long before I clapped eyes on her.
“That tea is too hot, you’ll burn yourself.”
Her voice sounded strange, cut through with an almost imperceptible sliver of harshness. I brought the cup closer to my lips.
“I said. Put. It. DOWN.”
She was wearing a pale orange sun dress, lying back into the rich leather sofa, Cleopatra-like. Regally stirring brown sugar into her own drink.
This was our third coffee shop hookup of the Summer. Usually we just sipped our drinks slowly, split a slice of something covered in chocolate and then found a quiet corner to make out in for an hour or so. Low-key. I’m older, but she’s more experienced. Both sub-leaning. We shared our secrets – the ones that made our blood run cold with anticipatory glee – and committed them to memory. I tied her wrists with Alice-blue ribbon and beat her with a crop one evening, but that was an anomaly. The exception to the rule. She leads, I follow.
I put the cup on the table and watched her set down her own and take up mine; pursing her lips to blow across it. I had kissed her lips a dozen times or more, but never really looked at them before. Never looked at them and shivered at their queer pinkness. Unnaturally pink against her unblemished face.
“That’s better.” she said at length, satisfied the drink had cooled. She switched her attention to the slab of cake on the tray between us and I knew that everything had changed but I didn’t know how or why. Only that it made my heart sing.
She makes sure I look after myself. Get off the bus a stop or two early to walk a little further. Step outside in the sun for a few minutes. Eight glasses of water each day.
“Ten glasses. And no toilet breaks past 4pm.”
I don’t question this. She knows best. The decade between us is a small step. My beautiful tormentor.
We had a dinner date at 7. She had me remove my knickers at 7.30pm – “You may go to to the toilets but only for this, you’re not allowed to go, yet.” and place them on the table in full view of anyone passing us by.
More water. I pressed my thighs together and examined the menu, knowing she would order for me. Refill my water glass. Pinch my thigh with her sharp nails under the table.
“My chubby little pet.” She said approvingly.
The walk to my house was agony. And all the way there she held my arm and teased me for my discomfort, pointing out dark alleyways that she could order me to and make me pee where drunks and uncouth men do likewise. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You filthy little whore.”
I couldn’t reply, my own damp underwear gagging me from response.
Exhibitionism was never the plan though.
The front room was stiflingly warm. I removed her coat and shoes and set them neatly in the hallway. When I returned, she was stood with the wand in her hand, buzzing noisily. She pointed to the arm of the sofabed and I bent over it gladly until I registered the sturdy frame digging into my stomach and pressing against my perilously full bladder.
But it was too late. She was up against me with the wand. The wand on full power. The wand on full power jammed without warning against my cunt, not seeking out my clitoris at all, merely the fat, inviting folds of my vulva.
“Stupid little slut is desperate to come. Stupid little slut is desperate to pee. Stupid little slut is desperate.” she chanted slowly, evenly, pushing the wand against my tortured flesh harder, beyond orgasm to pain.
“Stupid little slut is going to make a mess that Miss is going to make her clean up, isn’t she?”
“Yes Miss.” I moaned into my gag, writhing against the device; arms clutched against my chest, crossed and folded inwards.
The buzzing cut out abruptly and the next thing I knew, she had shoved the Doxy under my nose – the heat of my cunt and the heat of the motor rising from the silicone head with the scent of me – deep and satisfying and disgusting and exhilarating. The fresh scent of the brink of orgasm melting into the sour taste of the work day on my tongue. Sour and savoury. Compelling.
She gently removed the gag and kissed my cheek.
“You’re doing so very well.” she whispered, smoothing the hair out of my eyes. “And you look so beautiful. I want to fuck you so much.”
Too drunk on experience to answer her, I closed my eyes and nuzzled her outstretched palm. The nuzzle had been established as a non-verbal yes. I heard the smile in her voice as she kissed the top of my head and muttered “Good girl”
I heard her leave the room, tracing her journey around the flat and her soft steps as she returned. Her fingers were inside me.
“So wet. Disgustingly wet.” she laughed, approvingly. Even so she slathered me in ice-cold lubricant and pushed the head of the phallus into me, fucking me shallowly and making my legs shake.
“You’re thinking how I have neglected your pretty nipples, aren’t you, girl?”
She taunted, every so often pushing the six inch length of the silicone cock inside me fully before withdrawing to her teasing, agile strokes.
“Because they are pretty. So large. The way their colour switches from pale ochre to darkest pink when you become a turned on little slut. I love how they look. I can picture them now, pushed up against your cheap black bra and your cheap black dress.”
She began to fuck me harder, pushing the rising tide of my orgasm versus my desperation to pee and knowing the necessary pleasure in both of those things – in these two sides of my depravity. She had the device in her hand once more, she turned it on once more. She jammed it between my shaking, damp thighs once more but higher, closer to the neediest part of me, against my straining, reddened clitoris and held it tightly between our bodies with the weight of the two of us, her hands busied against my hips – pinching the fat flesh the way she pinched my nipples. Smacking it the way she slapped my face.
When I came, it hurt. My face was wet with tears and I let go to my orgasm with something like regret, wishing I could have held it and kept it safe within me for hours or days longer. But it was never mine really. Everything belong to her. Everything as I wept and screamed from somewhere within my belly.
She withdrew with one hand soft and steadying on the pit of my back. I felt her lean down and kiss the dimples just above my buttocks. She daintily took the hem of my skirt and brushed it down over my arse.
Silently she took my hand, and walked me to the bathroom, to relieve myself. As I sat, she wiped my face with a smooth, wet flannel.
She kissed my forehead again and stepped away for a moment, returning with a small glass of milk and two Oreo cookies. She watched me eat them with as much delight as if she’d baked them herself.
“Now.” She said, sitting on the edge of the bath “Would you like a bath first, or a nap first? You’ve had a busy day.”
“A nap please?”
She smiled and nodded.
“I’ll go and get a blanket for you. I’m so proud of you, you clever, sweet girl. Mine.”
This last made me shiver again, and tilt my face towards the light of her. Her kiss ended me. Owned me. Reminded me who I was and who I would be.