Читать книгу Game - Justine Elyot - Страница 6

‘Someday my prints will come,’ I sing, checking through the mail while Lloyd pores over a spreadsheet at the desk. ‘But not today.’

He glances over. ‘No sign of the photos? She said it would be a couple of weeks.’

‘It’s been a couple of weeks.’

‘Yeah, fourteen days exactly. Cut her some slack. She probably wants to hang on to them a bit longer for her own personal use.’

‘Ugh, shut up. I don’t want them used as masturbation aids. Unless it’s by me.’ I open a big A4 envelope. ‘Cool, Fashion Forward wants to do a shoot in the restaurant and a couple of the penthouse suites. They’ve sent a contract.’

‘Uh-huh. What’s that one?’

He points to a less glamorous envelope, a thin brown one tossed aside to be dealt with once the post with posh watermarks has been opened.

‘Dunno, looks like … it isn’t stamped.’ I look sharply up at Lloyd. His face answers my question, a little bit tense, a little bit excited.

He feigns absorption in his spreadsheet, but I can tell he’s watching me from the corner of his eye. I slide a fingernail under the loosely gummed flap, watching him back.

A compliment slip flutters out, one of the hotel’s own.

On it, in Lloyd’s handwriting:

Whip me, hurt me, any way you want me

As long as you want me, it’s all right.

I hold it out to him. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

‘I booked one of the dungeons at Fetish Fantasy.’

‘We’ve done that before. More than once.’

‘Not this way. As the note implies, I don’t want to be in charge this time.’

‘You never are in charge.’

‘I don’t want to play at being in charge this time,’ he amends. ‘I want you to get your kinky boots on and practise flexing that whip hand.’ He leans forwards in his chair, his pupils skittering from side to side, his lips wet. ‘I want you to hurt me.’

He sounds like he means it. But …

‘When have you ever been interested in pain?’

‘I’m not. I’m dreading it, actually. I’m hoping you’ll be more into the mental domination stuff.’

‘I’m not really into any domination stuff,’ I point out. ‘I’ve only ever been on the receiving end.’

‘Well, that’s what makes it a challenge, isn’t it? It’s new, it’s exciting, you get to wear loads of fucking sexy gear … you don’t look convinced.’

I blink at him, trying to imagine what his face looks in pain. I don’t want to imagine it, though. I really don’t.

‘Come on, Soph. You’d have killed for the chance to do me some serious damage not so long ago. Now’s your chance to let it all out. Show me the red-in-tooth-and-claw Sophie, the take-no-prisoners Sophie, the woman who’s always one hundred per cent in control.’

‘That’s why I like submission,’ I grumble. ‘It’s a holiday from all that.’

‘Well, have a busman’s holiday then. Or am I sensing the delicate aroma of …’ He sniffs the air. ‘Failure.’

‘Fuck off. It’ll be easy enough. Just … I don’t know. Nothing. It’s fine. Let’s do it.’

Lloyd claps his hands with apparent delight. ‘Can’t wait for you to walk all over me in your spike-heeled thigh-high boots,’ he claims.

‘I’m not sure I believe you. But neither can I.’

‘Great. I’ve booked it for midnight. They suggest you get there half an hour beforehand to pick out your costume and select your instruments of torture and terror. I’ll see you there.’

He launches himself out of the chair, kisses me passionately until I almost fall over, then waltzes off to take his lunch break.

I sit myself down in the chair he has vacated and stare at the computer screen, a sea of meaningless figures in rectangular boxes.

It strikes me now as more than a little odd that I’ve never done anything like this before. Call myself a hussy … Yet somehow I’ve always managed to signal my desire to submit rather than dominate before the action has reached its crisis. Nobody has ever asked me to hurt them, though one man once wanted me to tie him up and tease him. That was easy enough, though, just a bit of fun.

This seems much more serious.

***

By eleven thirty I am in the giant fancy-dress wardrobe at Fetish Fantasy, being shown around by its proud mistress, Zuleika.

I have in mind something skintight and shiny, and she obliges by finding the perfect figure-hugging number in wet-look latex. Once she has talcum-powdered and trussed me into it, I peer at myself in the mirrored wall, searching for bulges of unforgiving flesh, but the rubber nips it all in, giving me a catwoman silhouette I think I might wear more often.

When I turn around and look over my shoulder at the generous swell of my bottom, I almost purr with satisfaction. Lloyd is going to love that.

But he’s going to have to be content with looking at it.

Tonight, he gets nowhere near my arse.

‘So, I think we were thinking of killer heels,’ I tell Zuleika, but she is well ahead of me. Already she has picked out the ideal pair, and she sets to work lacing me into them, threading through the hooks and eyes until I am crisscrossed to the thigh and towering on five inches of potential murder weapon. The world looks different from up here.

Zuleika grins, her eyebrows disappearing into her bright pink fringe. ‘It’s a new view, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘You look down on people.’

I’ve never been remotely statuesque, but my inner goddess peeks out now from her clamshell-tight hiding place. I can almost see her in the mirror. What else do I need to coax her further?

‘How do you want your hair? Some dommes like it in a really tight high plait or ponytail. Or you can have it loose.’

My hair isn’t really long enough to flow gloriously and luxuriantly and all that jazz, but I’m not sure the high hairline look suits me either.

‘Can I just do some kind of hairband?’

A black sparkly number pushes any errant wisps out of my face. I paint my eyes black and my lips red and grin at myself.

‘I have this urge to call everyone “darling” now,’ I tell Zuleika. ‘In a stagey drawl. Oh, daaaaaaarling, do as you’re told, sweetie, or I might have to hurt your lovely little … well, you get the picture.’

Zuleika narrows her eyes and smiles. ‘You’re missing the critical accessory,’ she says. ‘What’s it to be, Miss Whiplash? Flogger? Riding crop?’

‘Both.’

In the dungeon, I take a good look around, mentally listing the things I might want to use. I need to prepare for this scene, since it’s so foreign to me, and making a rigid plan comforts me and gives me confidence. I like the cuffs that hang from a hook in a ceiling – tick. I like the blindfold, but then he won’t get to see me as a glorious vision in latex, so no tick for that. And a strap-on … hmmm. Now, that could make an interesting finale …

There is a knock at the dungeon door, an echoing clang that makes my heart thump.

I arrange myself so that one foot is on a chair, leg bent at the knee. I hold the riding crop diagonally across my chest, tapping its leather tip over my shoulder. I thrust out my breasts and hold my chin up.

‘Enter.’

He pushes the door open slowly. I tense my cheek muscles so as not to smile when I see the look in his eyes. Is that awe? I think it might be.

‘Christ, Sophie –’

‘You’re late.’ I let the crop slice the air, loving its brutally efficient sound. ‘And you may call me “ma’am”.’

‘I’m not late,’ laughs Lloyd, checking his wristwatch. ‘It’s the witching hour, on the dot. Ma’am.’

‘I don’t care to be contradicted, boy, and neither do I like your tone.’

I point the crop at him, removing my foot from the chair and swaying as elegantly as I can on the vertiginous heels towards my quarry. I stop when the crop makes contact with his chest.

There is still some residual amusement in his expression, but it’s quickly being replaced by a kind of fascinated dread.

I move the crop up and tap the underside of his chin, once, twice, thrice. ‘You are going to learn to do as you’re told tonight, boy,’ I tell him. ‘And you can start by getting out of those ridiculous clothes.’

They aren’t really ridiculous – jeans and a dark top, suede lace-ups, dull socks – but I’m trying out the taste of belittling language on my tongue, testing it for bitterness. Besides, Lloyd deserves to suffer, doesn’t he? For being such a bastard shaggable gorgeous twatface.

He hesitates, waiting for me to retract the crop, I suppose.

‘Go on!’ My voice rings out, twenty times more confident than I feel. ‘Strip.’

I step back and slap the crop in the palm of my hand while he lifts the top over his head. The dungeon is flatteringly lit with low, flickering candle-style bulbs – not quite as atmospheric as real flame, but I guess a BDSM club needs to keep a closer eye than most on health and safety. The shadowy light casts patterns over Lloyd’s pale bare chest and gives his hair a copper shine. He isn’t meant to know that my mouth is watering, though, so I try to remain impassive while he removes shoes and socks then drops his jeans. After stepping out of them, his hands move to his underpants, but I wave the crop and shake my head.

‘No, no. I want to take those off myself. Come over here.’

He moves closer on his bare feet until we are eye to eye. It is odd to be so much taller; we are practically the same height now.

I put down the crop and rest both of my hands in their fingerless latex gloves on his hips. I curl my forefingers inside the elastic of his boxers and then let go so it snaps back lightly against his skin.

‘Why do you wear these, boy?’

‘What, pants?’

‘No, boxers. Why do you wear this style?’

‘Er, why do I wear them? Well, they’re comfortable, I suppose. Loose. I don’t feel hemmed in.’

‘Why might you feel hemmed in?’

He gives me a quizzical look. He has no idea where I’m going with this. I’m not sure I do either.

‘Well, as a man, I have certain anatomical features, which you may have noticed.’

‘You have a cock. I’ve noticed. I’ve also noticed that it seems to rule your life, boy.’

‘Said the pot to the kettle.’

‘Excuse me! I don’t have a cock and besides, that’s highly disrespectful and I’ll have to punish you for it.’ I give him my darkest frown. He visibly subsides. ‘What I mean to say is that you wear that particular style of underwear because it doesn’t hurt you when you get hard. Don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’ Shifty eyes flick down to the floor.

‘Because you’re a disgusting pervert who can’t look at a woman without getting an erection, aren’t you? You’re a sleazy sex-mad creep whose mind never leaves the gutter …’ I have to stop. I’m going to laugh. This is so hypocritical, and if he doesn’t make some wisecrack that completely kills the scene after about five seconds more of this, he isn’t the man I think he is. ‘Let’s just have them off, shall we?’

I wrench them down, almost bending his cock out of shape so that he hisses in a breath.

‘Fragile, is it?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Why is it hard? What are you thinking of, to make it so hard already?’

‘I’m thinking of your arse in that shiny outfit, actually, ma’am.’

‘Dirty, dirty boy.’ I reach out and grip his balls, giving them a good squeeze. ‘You’ve got lots of juice stored up for me, haven’t you? Lots and lots of it. I expect you’d like to release a little bit of that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t … say no,’ he gasps. He is looking at me with stunned respect. I think he’s enjoying himself more than he expected to.

‘Good. You won’t be saying no tonight. Not to me – because I won’t allow it. You’re my boy for the night and you’ll do exactly what I want.’ I let go of his testicles and bat his cock from side to side with a cruel finger. ‘Springy,’ I comment. ‘Such a nice little toy for me.’

The intent look on his face suggests that he is waiting for me to wrap my hand around it, maybe give it a few pumps up and down. No way, boy. Not yet.

‘Turn around,’ I order. ‘Let me have a look at your arse, since you seem so preoccupied with mine.’

Since Lloyd took over the hotel management, he’s been availing himself of that free gym membership like a man with an addiction to kettlebells. His backside is a piece of sculpture, firm and tight and round and biteable as an apple.

It seems a shame to harm it. But harm it I must.

I smack one rubber-gloved hand down on his right cheek, such a lovely sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lose control of a breath.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he says flirtatiously, wiggling his hips. ‘Do you want me to bend over too?’

‘No. I want you to crawl over to where those cuffs are hanging. Get on your hands and knees. Now.’

I send my obedient serf on his way with a polished toe to his rear, stalking him and swishing the crop, making it land in light little pats on his skin.

‘On your feet.’ I encourage him with a slightly harder stroke.

‘Are you really going to beat me with that thing?’ he asks, appealing to my mercy. ‘I mean, really hard?’

‘Of course I am. You were unforgivably insolent just now. I have to punish you for it.’

‘Oh God.’ He is rueful but compliant, holding up his wrists for me to cuff.

‘Regretting this? I’m not failing it, if that’s what you were hoping. Not a chance. I mean to pass this test with flying colours.’

I click the cuffs shut, then pull on the length of chain that acts as a pulley, lifting his arms so that they are way over his head. It’s hard work, because I’m lighter than him and have to rely on his co-operation, but he helps me tighten it until he’s on tiptoes. He did this to me once and my arms were sore for two days. Revenge is sweet.

Except it isn’t. Sweet is the wrong word. Grimly satisfying on only one of many levels. Aside from that, I feel sorry for him. He looks so helpless I want to rescue him.

‘You can just concede this and we can go home,’ I whisper to him.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make you hurt me.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Well, you can always concede this and we can go home.’

‘I’m not letting you win!’

‘Right. Best get to it then, ma’am. And make me scream.’

I pick up the flogger, a gentler instrument, and study its plaited strands. He is evil. He knows there’s a very good chance I won’t be able to hurt him.

I swoosh it against his backside.

‘That tickles,’ he says laconically.

I ply it harder. God, he looks good in bondage. That element of the punishment is pleasing me a great deal. His body, stretched and supplicating, cries out to be touched. But his voice doesn’t cry out at all.

I keep going, doggedly, trying to change the colour of his pale bottom and not getting very far.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he says, ‘but have you started yet?’

‘Argh!’ My frustration puts weight behind my stroke, and the next one hits the spot, rewarding me with a grunt.

Gradually, his skin flushes pink, but it takes a lot of flogging by me and gritted teeth by him to get to that point.

‘I’m going to use the crop now,’ I tell him, worried I might wear out my arm.

‘OK, but you have to do it hard,’ he says.

‘Do you think you could stop topping from the bottom for a few moments?’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s important. This won’t work if you don’t really lay it on. I want you to make me beg you to stop.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to see what you’ll do. I kind of need to see what you’ll do, actually.’

‘You should have a safe word, like I do when it’s the other way round.’

‘No, I don’t want a safe word. I want you to carry on. If you want to win this, you have to carry on.’

‘You’re asking too much of me.’

‘Fine. Then concede it.’

‘No.’

‘Hurt me then. Whip me till I cry.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Lloyd.’

‘Just do it.’

Sheer frustration makes me lay the first stroke much harder than I intended.

‘Ohhhh.’ He howls and pants, pulling at the cuffs.

‘Shit, I’m sorry! Oh, that looks sore.’

A welt rises, long and red and solemn. I touch it with my fingertips. It’s so hot. But he does this to me, so why should I feel guilty? Besides, it looks good. It suits him. I make up my mind to give him twenty. I can take twenty myself. More on a good day, so it shouldn’t be a problem for Lloyd. But then, I like a bit of pain. He doesn’t.

‘It’s OK,’ he puffs. ‘Go on. More.’

He manages to stay silent for the second and third, but his shoulder blades are so tense that I’m the one wincing. His flesh flattens under the whip then bounces back. It’s interesting to watch. I’ve seen video footage of him whipping me before, but it’s different when the handiwork is your own. I find myself taking pride in my work, wanting to keep the strokes even and symmetrical.

At the same time, I want to look at his face. I need an angle that will show me both. I find a stance that allows me to watch his head in profile while still examining the welts that rise on his backside. With each stroke he throws back his neck and I see the curving line, interrupted by his Adam’s apple, ending in a jumble of facial features contorted with pain. He starts to make noises around the fifth stroke, weird grunts and exhalations. I almost give up. Is this what I am like when he does this to me? And, if so, how can he carry on?

But he knows I want him to.

I know no such thing.

The sixth stroke is much gentler. I don’t even mean to hold back, but I definitely do. It’s cheating, I know, but I repeat this technique with the seventh. It doesn’t even leave a mark.

‘No,’ he says. ‘They don’t count. Not hard enough. Count them again.’

‘You’re telling me what to do.’

‘These are my rules, Sophie. Count them again or this is a fail.’

‘But you aren’t enjoying it. I’m finding it a bit upsetting, actually.’

‘Nobody’s forcing you to do it.’

‘Fine.’ I throw down the crop. ‘You win. One fail. I can’t do this to you.’

He looks round at me, almost losing balance and falling sideways. ‘Why can’t you?’ he asks. He is smiling through the sweat, pleased with himself at finding a challenge that has defeated me.

‘I’m not a sadist, and you’re not a masochist. I can’t make it any different. I’m not going to hurt you unless you’re going to enjoy it. It’s not fair to ask me to.’

‘I never said I was going to play fair.’

‘I can’t imagine why I expected you to, to be honest. What a mug.’

‘So the pain thing is out of the window. But that doesn’t mean this scene is over, does it? If you want to order me about a bit, feel free. There’s a lot more to domination than whacking seven bells out of your sub’s bottom, after all.’

‘Yeah.’ I think of the strap-on. My lips quirk upwards. ‘You’re right. I still have some plans for you.’

‘There, you see. You can still swerve another fail.’ He rattles the chains with his straining cuffs. ‘I might need to get out of these, though. Feel like my arms are about to drop off.’

‘You give a lot of orders, don’t you?’

Suddenly, on a whim, I pick the crop back up and give him one heartfelt final swipe, scoring a beautiful deep crimson line across all the others.

He shouts out in stunned alarm. ‘Oi!’

‘Just making sure you remember who’s running this scene, boy.’

I put my rubber-gloved hand on his bottom. The heat pulses against my bare fingertips and I enjoy running them over the slight ridges the crop has raised. I take the crop and slide it between his trembling thighs. The flat leather end nudges his balls; I push them to and fro while the handle slides over his perineum.

Now the noises he makes are different, low sighs and Os of pleasure. ‘Ahhh, nice,’ he manages to vocalise.

I angle the handle upwards so it parts the cheeks of his bottom, and push it up into the cleft. I grind it round and round, closer in. I wish I could see his face now. I pull the rest of the instrument through his thighs and press the handle up against his arsehole.

‘Oh God,’ he says harshly, urgently. ‘What are you doing, Soph?’

‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I twist the handle against that helpless bud.

‘Lube? Maybe? If you’re … you know. If that’s what you want to do to me.’

I laugh a cruel domme-ish laugh. ‘Relax. I’m not going to bugger you. Not yet.’

I put the crop away and move around to face him. He looks strained and flushed, his normally pale face florid and shiny. His eyes are bulbous and staring.

‘Sophie, please,’ he whispers.

I see his cock standing erect, reaching all the way up to his navel. ‘You want something?’ My hand hovers around it, never quite touching it.

‘Oh yes, touch it.’

‘I think you’ve forgotten the formalities, haven’t you?’ I wave my fingers, trying to achieve a fanning effect that he will feel.

‘Please, ma’am, please touch my cock.’

‘I don’t think you deserve it.’

I graze the swollen head, barely, with my fingernails. He convulses, shuddering out a long sigh.

‘Like that, you mean?’

‘Harder, please, ma’am, grab it, squeeze it, please.’

I drop to my knees and breathe on it.

‘Oh God, you bitch!’

‘That’s no way to talk to your mistress.’ I reach around and smack his arse, then pour more hot breath on his shaft and his tight, hard balls.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am! I hate being teased. I hate not being in control. Oh God, please suck it.’

He undermines his plea by trying to twist away from me, presenting me with a pale flank instead. I smack him again and hold him by the hips, enjoying the latent power held captive under my palms.

With the very tippy-tip of my tongue I draw a slow upward line from his root to his head. I make it last. He tries to throw me off course, thrusting into my face, but he can’t get the purchase he needs to succeed.

I laugh as I lick, pinching into his hips, wriggling my rubber-cased arse where he can’t fail to see it. I give a taunting little flourish of tongue when I reach his frenulum and then pop off and back right away, smiling at the pained lines on his forehead.

‘Oh Christ, Sophie, please …’

‘Open your eyes. I’ve got something to show you.’

Once his gaze is satisfactorily level, I turn around and bend over, feeling my bum cheeks strain against the constricting rubber until I worry it might split. But it doesn’t and I spread them as wide as I can and shake them, then put my hands flat against them, pressing my fingertips in to the taut shiny-black second skin, peering up at him from between my legs.

‘Come over here. Let me out of this,’ he says.

‘You still haven’t got that quite right, have you?’

I straighten up and jump around to face him. I pull up a chair, some kind of bondage device with cuffs on the arms and legs, but I ignore those, sit myself down and sprawl with my legs over the sides.

‘And guess what?’ I reach down to my crotch. Velcro tears asunder, revealing my sex. ‘Easy access! Good, eh?’

‘Oh God.’ He stumbles forwards when I put my hand inside the dark, furtive opening and start to rub.

‘Ooh, juicy. I must have enjoyed whipping you more than I realised. Actually, it’s probably the rubber. So tight and hot, holding me in, clinging.’ I lift my fingers to my mouth and suck them.

He looks as if he might faint, all that colour draining away. The stiff baton obscuring his lower abdomen must be getting uncomfortable now.

But that’s not my problem, is it?

‘Think I’ll pick myself a vibrator,’ I say casually, strolling up to the toy cupboard to select a nice number with a clitoral stimulator. ‘This’ll do.’

I resume my legs akimbo posture, switch on the vibe and push it slowly and cleanly up inside my cunt, holding Lloyd’s eyes every second of the way.

‘Can you see it going in? Do you wish that was your cock?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he whispers, transfixed.

‘Well, it isn’t going to be. Not tonight. Your cock gets nothing tonight. It’s spoilt and overindulged. It needs to learn to take turns.’

His lips are turned down and he’s breathing heavily. He looks half crushed, half homicidal. I’m quite relieved that the cuffs are so effective.

The vibe slides in to the hilt and the clit buzzer begins its work. I push and thrust with it, grinding my hips in the chair, throwing back my head and losing myself in the sensation. Every now and again, I peek over to look at Lloyd.

‘Open your eyes! You have to watch this!’

‘I can’t … I’m so hard … please …’

‘You concede then?’

He wrenches up his eyelids. ‘No I fucking well don’t.’

‘Watch then.’

I work myself well and thoroughly, making sure my G-spot gets plenty of attention, letting the vibrations pulse gently through my swelling clit. I get close, and then I pull the thing out, wanting more of Lloyd’s desperation and frustration before I come.

‘I preferred when you were whacking me!’ he yelps when I plunge the vibrator back in. ‘This is way more cruel.’

‘So sorry.’ But the murmur is a reflex, not sincere, because I am too focused now on the tide lapping slowly forwards once more, creeping up, getting ready.

When I come, I try not to make a sound but just let the breath ebb from my body, controlled, unhurried. Although my eyelids flutter, I can still see most of what Lloyd is doing and it intensifies my pleasure to know that he is in his predicament, restrained and erect and raring to fuck me.

‘I think,’ I say, sounding slightly drunk as I try to swing my legs back over the chair arms, ‘it’s time for your treat now. I’m gonna uncuff you, but don’t you even think about touching me, OK?’

‘Hard to make that promise, Soph.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m asking you to make it.’

‘All right.’

I start to unbuckle the straps of leather encircling his wrists. They are pink and a little sore looking. He lowers his arms stiffly. ‘I want you to go over to that piece of furniture I got out earlier and bend over it.’

‘What?’ He puts his head to one side, examining me as if aiming to look into my mind. ‘What’s the plan, ma’am?’

‘You’ll see, boy. Now do it.’ I let my palm ring out on that still-welted backside.

He growls, then realises that submissives are not meant to growl and lunge at their mistresses, shrugs and slopes over to the bench.

‘Get that behind nice and high,’ I command as he positions himself. I tie his wrists again, and his ankles. Don’t want any misdirected kicks, not when I do what I’m planning to do. ‘Just keep still while I go and get my equipment.’

‘What equipment?’

‘Aha. Wait and see. Don’t move.’

‘I can’t bloody well move anyway. You’re going to whip me again, aren’t you? Oh my God, you’re going to get a dildo and …’

Now he’s on the right track. But I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so I simply shush him and grab the harness from the cupboard.

He must be able to hear it jingle and clink while I attach it to my pelvis. The cock part of it draws its centre of gravity down, the weight is a little disconcerting. What would it actually be like to have a cock, I find myself wondering. Does it get in the way of stuff all the time?

‘Have you guessed what it is yet?’ I tease, practising a few different poses, grabbing hold of the dildo part and pointing it towards his distant pink bottom.

‘Something with metal … a harness of some kind.’

‘Now I just need to choose the right lube … maybe some of this tingle gel, eh?’

‘Oh, Sophie!’ He says my name with such reverence. ‘I never dreamed you’d go this far. Are you really going to …?’

‘Fuck your arse, darling? Yes, I am.’

‘Oh sweet Jesus.’

‘You drove me to it. All your goading at me to concede. All your smugness about how sure you were I’d fail. This counts for several successes at once, I feel.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. You haven’t done it yet.’

‘You haven’t done this before then?’

There’s a pause.

‘Actually, yes,’ he admits.

‘With a girl? Or a boy?’

‘Boy. Experiment.’

‘Good experiment? Or not?’

‘Pretty good, actually.’

‘Definitely the tingle gel then.’ I sigh heavily. ‘I was all excited about taking your virginity. That’s one thing I’ve still never done.’

‘Noted.’

‘I’m going to stop telling you things. I’ve never been pleasured in a sheik’s harem by eight naked oiled male models either. Is that noted too?’

‘No, because I think you’re lying.’

I’m close to him now. He needs to start feeling the seriousness of his position and he needs to start feeling it now.

I keep adjusting the harness as I walk, not sure how it’s meant to sit. Like this? Like that? I pull it as tight as I can, the fake cock bowing out in front of me.

I put my hand on his bottom and he flinches. I know his sphincter has tightened.

‘Dear sweet Lloyd. How do you like it? Hard and fast, or slow and sweet? How do you like your arse fucked?’

‘I … can’t remember.’ His teeth are gritted.

I squirt some lube on the exposed part of my fingers and slot them between his cheeks until I feel that wrinkled texture amid the softness. Tight, squeezed shut. Can I do this? Will I tear him?

I get it nice and slick and slidey then I push it forwards a tiny bit. I’m as tense as he is, every muscle of my face pulled into a grimace.

He breathes in short puffs. I know he’s making an effort to remember what he always tells me during anal sex. Bear down, push back, relax.

It takes just a moment of screwing my finger left and right and I’m in. How peculiar it feels to press against the narrow walls of his passage, so hot and so tender.

He makes an incoherent noise, and I remember I need to be domming it up big style, talking him through this.

‘You’ve got a finger up your arse, boy – how does that feel?’

‘Uh, quite nice, ma’am.’

‘Does it? Because you’re going to have more than a finger soon enough. How’s the tingle gel?’

‘Tingly.’

He illustrates this with a wiggle of his arse and a tightening of the muscles, closing around my finger like a trap. Where’s the prostate? Is it near here or further up? My strap-on and I will investigate its location.

‘Are you ready?’ I pull out my finger, watching the aperture close up again like one of those doors in space operas with multiple triangular blades that meet and seal up the exit.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ he says with some effort.

‘Right.’

I stand there, taking deep breaths. I’m more nervous than he is. Oh for fuck’s sake, I should just get on with it.

‘If you want to concede …’

I attach a limpet hand to one of his hips, press the dildo between his cheeks, find the target.