I was 26 when I met him— R. I was working as a lawyer— I was doing pretty well; I had always been smart, and having a pretty face, nice manners and a good figure never hurt anyone either. I was no dummy, swept off my feet by a charmer.
It was just that he was remarkable. Rich, handsome, easy manners; very casual but also very personal when he spoke to you. I met him at a party, where he made it clear he liked me, liked my looks— in a very direct way, without any bullshit, but managed to be flattering and engaging. I was charmed, in spite of myself.
I liked him too, and liked his friends, and basically invited myself back to his flat, where he entertained me for a little while, and then, delightfully, uninhibitedly, masterfully, fucked my brains out. I had never been taken to such heights, or felt it so intensely. I thought I was in love.
I realised over the next weeks, though, that I wasn’t in love. I was in lust.
His sexuality was totally direct, without being in the slightest crude. The impact on me, what it showed me was possible, was incredible, and infectious. Whenever I thought about him, I thought about the way he fucked me, the way he made my body feel. And I began to be addicted. I was losing interest at work— still managing perfectly well, but no longer 100% there, fully fired up. Increasingly, I would be thinking about the next time I would see him. Specifically, about when, where and how he would fuck me next.
And those times were not as frequent as I liked. He had made it clear from the start that he had other girls, other cities, other phone numbers. There was no exclusivity, no pretence, no dishonesty, no false promise. But as he managed all this very smoothly and suavely, and as I wasn’t in love, I didn’t mind too much.
He was very frank, too, which helped. He talked with me about how what we had was all about the sex, but then showed me how that didn’t need to be a limitation. He praised my body, my responses, my openness. He helped me become even more open, spending time caressing my naked body, opening me— my thighs, my arms, my lips, upper and lower, telling me how he liked me, making me practice, try things different ways, getting me used to, and increasingly keen on, the idea of myself as a sex-object; displaying myself for him, letting him see every flicker of my response as he fucked me, or teased me; hiding less and less of my intimate responses as time went on.
He had me look at porn on the internet, tell him which pictures I found exciting, showed me pictures he found exciting, got me to study them, to see what it was that made them sexy. Then he had me set up scenes for him, things that excited him, learn to understand what got him hot. He pushed me to look at more and more extreme images, constantly widening my boundaries, constantly making me accept my own desire and his, stoking it, feeding it.
And I was hooked on it.
I was doing everything I could to get him excited, so that he would want to fuck me— although I wasn’t jealous of the other girls in a normal way, I knew I was competing for his attention— I wanted more, all the time— more. I was buying, and wearing, increasingly sexually obvious clothes, working out, doing yoga, having frequent beauty sessions so that I would always be at my best for him, liking the knowledge of myself as someone who knew how to reach, and help others (well, him) reach heights of sexual intensity and pleasure which were extraordinary.
My life was becoming suffused with sex, and sex was what I thought about more and more. He began to talk about this with me, and I was honest with him, told him I thought I was becoming wanton, and it got him turned on (and me too, to be saying out loud how much I loved the feel of his cock deep in me, the way it dominated my whole consciousness like that…), and we would have more incredible sex, and so I told him more.
He told me that he wanted me to learn to be able to fully take his cock into my throat. It was not particularly long, but quite thick, from my limited experience, and I had never really tried this before, but I worked hard at it, got better, became eager to serve him like this, loving the involuntary grunts I could get from him when I took him deep and soft, and, more darkly, loving the sluttishness of it. He trained me never to use my hands, my arms as protection— to leave them loose at my sides, to let him control me, and that lack of control became important to me, exciting, a key ingredient in reaching ever greater heights of sexual immolation.
I told him about my decision never to be out of high heels, never to wear pantyhose again, always suspenders and stockings. He suggested that I should start wearing corsets and I did; told me he liked to see girls in chokers, and bought me some, and I never showed myself to him without one, then started wearing one all the time— even in bed— simply because he said he liked the idea of me being used to wearing a collar, like a slave girl.
The images, scenes, he showed me were clearly tending in a certain direction— he didn’t attempt to hide it;
“Do you see how he is forcing her to take him deeper into her throat than she wants, pushing her down? He doesn’t care if he makes her cry, if it hurts her, if it frightens her. “
“Making her masturbate with that dildo in front of his friends— do you see the look in her eyes? She is humiliated and excited at the same time.”
“She is liking the aggression, do you see? She is a slut, and she knows it. She can’t help herself moving with him now, trying to kiss him, even though she is being violated in front of her friend, even though he is hurting her.”
I knew that this was dark and dangerous stuff; but I was turned on too, and I wanted him so much. Besides, he never really hurt me or forced me beyond my real limits— took advantage sometimes, yes— but always I found I responded strongly when he did.
When I was at his apartment, now, I was often naked but for corset, stockings, heels and choker, and usually in some lewd pose or other, often with his fingers inside me. He would meet me at the door and have me strip as soon as I came in, then I would guide his fingers to my breasts, my sex, seducing him all the time, rubbing myself against him, holding my tits out for him, licking him softly, touching my pussy to show how ready I was; asking very meekly, very sincerely for his cock in me.
“Which hole, pretty?”
“Any hole you like, Sir— I just need to be fucked …”, and I would smile, and giggle, but we both knew that it was true— that if he told me he wouldn’t fuck me that day, that I would beg, cajole, try to entice him, that my neediness could easily be exposed, that I was easily brought to a point of offering him licence to use me in ways that were transgressive.
He broke me into anal sex like that, and, as with the throat fucking, I grew to love it, to love being the vessel for his excitement, to be explicitly excluded from the pleasure, dependent on his choice as to whether my clit would be allowed stimulation or not.
I wasn’t stupid, wasn’t blind to what was happening, what he was doing to me, and sometimes I got scared about it. This was not the way my life was supposed to go, after all— was this an insanity that had gripped me? An addiction? Had he brainwashed me? Drugged me? I knew that all these thoughts were paranoia really, but still…
There was no barrier to discussing this in our relationship, and I raised it one day as we lay, sweaty and sated.
“You’re frightened…” he said; “Frightened of what?”
“Well, you know, this … this incredible, wonderful— really… all consuming sexual thing… And …and the way we … keep moving … going … well … deeper …”
I was blushing.
“You don’t like it?”
“No!, No, it’s not— you know it’s not that— you know I … I love it— I … need it… but that’s just it— I worry that …I’m … I’m becoming … well, like, like an addict…”
He propped himself up on one arm and put his hand on my sex, still tender, then put three fingers straight into me.
I tensed automatically, but then opened myself for him, blushing a little, but still grateful for his little flicker of approval as I made it as easy as possible for him;
“Addicted to what? to pleasure?”
“Oooh ye-e-es, ah! Yes … but ,, but not just ooooh… pleasure , but , you know, it … keeps getting … more…”
He took his hand away, sat up, looked straight at me;
“Let’s get this clear, you little wanton. The reason you are here is because I keep pushing you, or stepping forward when you make an opening. If not for that, we would have parted friends months ago.”
He pulled his fingers from me and sat up, pulled me up so I was looking up at him. He was relaxed and cool, smiling a little, but I had no doubt that he was serious. He spoke slowly and without ambiguity;
“Let there not be any games between us. You are a slut; that’s right— I called you a slut. Are you not a slut? You like to be fucked; you liked to be fucked hard, and you like to be demeaned, exposed, shamed— to have your wantonness made explicit. If you’re frightened, it’s because you are frightened of yourself. No, don’t think you can cover this up with a giggle. This is serious. I’ll make it clear to you. For the next two weeks, we will go backwards— safer, less demanding. Then we’ll see what you want.”
I tried to work up some outrage at this direct and brutal laying out of his view of the situation, but it just didn’t happen— all I could manage were some little gasps and a slowly spreading blush. I looked down, feeling the power and truth of his words sinking in. Was I really a wanton, a slut? In truth, not just in our role-play fantasy? I wanted him to relent, make it a joke; at the same time I was terrifically excited by the knowledge that, at some level at least, what he had said was the deep truth.
Later, I tried to seduce him as usual, but he was as good as his word— for the rest of the afternoon, and for the next weeks, he acted as if we were a normal couple with a ‘normal’ sex life. He wasn’t stupid or rude about it, smiled and laughed, had a sense of humour— but he wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. We went on dinner dates, he refused to fuck me except in bed, with the lights out, asked me to behave decently when I flashed my knickers at him, wouldn’t let me watch porn— french art-house films instead.
I broke before the two weeks were up, went down on my knees in front of him and begged him, told him I understood. He smiled;
“Well, I’m glad you understand yourself a little more. Let’s have a game of scrabble. I’ll see what I think about it all”
He wouldn’t fuck me that night— told me he was thinking our whole relationship over. I knelt and begged him to treat me any way he liked.
The next evening, I arrived at his house, dressed as provocatively as I dared to be, given that I had to get from the car the the door of his apartment. When I came in, I smiled, but he looked seriously at me, a hard expression in his eyes— a little frightening— he had never looked at me quite like that before;
“Is … is there a problem?”
“No, but I need you to turn to face the wall. Now!”
My heart thumped, and I nearly cried; it was going to be alright— we were back on track— but now he was going to frighten me again. Flushed, I turned to face the wall. He put some sort of restraint on my arms, above the elbow, quite tight, then slipped a leather hood over my head, zipped it closed at the back. There were breathing holes, but no eyeholes. He pushed me down onto the floor, face first, hoisted my ass up, pushed my knees forward, pulled my panties aside and pushed his stiff cock into my arse, hard, without lubrication. It probably hurt him more than it did me, and it bloody hurt me, and I cried; but my tears were those of relief….
After that, he was less friendly, more formal, and more exacting. And I responded to it, my gratitude getting me over the withdrawal from a level of tenderness and softness that had been a part of the relationship, but which was now receding.
Once I was accustomed to this, it got easier, actually, because I didn’t have to worry— I just had to do as he wanted. There was no relationship, really— it was all about sex. We didn’t go to dinner together. He would book me for later, coming to my flat after he had eaten with some-one else. I waited for him, semi-naked, on my knees— he had keys. He spent less time pleasing me, now, and more time pleasing himself, or making me please him, and I liked that too— somehow it seemed right. I had angered him, I had offered to allow him to do as he wished with me, and this was what he wished. I still got incredible sexual pleasure, but now there were evenings when he used only my mouth and my arse, and didn’t permit me to come, and I still loved it, saving memories to masturbate to after he’d left. He almost never stayed the night any more. What cuddling and kissing we shared was to do with sex, now. Afterwards, he showered and dressed, hardly looking at or speaking to me— although I was required to stay naked, on my knees, legs spread— he liked me with my hands behind my head, lips parted, and I liked to pose for him.
He started spanking me, too, for little misdemeanours, and I found that exciting, too— especially the way he fucked me afterward, his cock like an iron bar. I even began to be ‘naughty’, so that I would get spanked.
Alone sometimes, thinking about what was happening, I still got frightened— more than ever in fact, but now I knew I needed him, needed whatever it was he did to me, and so I suppressed my doubts, and after a while we seemed to have reached another ‘level’, and I was happy enough, I thought.
Then one day, he asked me to take a day’s leave, a Friday— to be at a certain place by mid-day, to dress with care, that we were going out for lunch.
I was immediately breathlessly excited, and made myself unpopular at work by taking a day in the middle of an important project. I just did it; I hardly cared. I was worried underneath that my career was suffering, but there was no way I would pass up time with him, or do anything that might annoy or disappoint him.
Besides, there was something about the way he spoke to me that made me think he was going to push me further, and it made me realise that I had not been totally happy— I had been growing bored; because I wanted this— whatever it was. Wanted it very much. He was right— I wanted it to go further— deeper. Darker. My breath caught in my throat at these thoughts— I had no idea what they meant, and I was too scared to try to imagine, so I concentrated on getting ready.
I was determined to be as perfect as possible for him, to express my gratitude and hopefully deserve whatever it was he had in store for me. I didn’t dare think what it might be in case of frightening myself. I spent a careful hour preparing myself, shaving, plucking, perfuming, make-up (he liked a very natural but actually rather labour intensive look— I was to look immaculately natural, in waterproof long-lasting products, that would survive a session; hard to apply, expensive; I loved it).
I chose the most provocative outfit I dared for a public date; really high heels with ankle straps and a little platform to the sole; a short, flared, high waisted skirt with an open fronted blouse in thin starched cotton over a strapless half-cup bustier that made my breasts very obvious, the nipples clearly standing out.
He’d told me he’d collect me from a corner near the park, but he was late. Alone, standing in such provocative clothes, I began to feel quite vulnerable. Men in builder’s vans whistled at me, shouted about my breasts. Still he didn’t come. I was getting chilly, nervous, but dared not leave. It was half an hour at least until he came. I was almost crying as I ran across the road to his car, but I dared not reproach him. I made myself smile— and indeed, as soon as I saw him, I was happy again.
He was rather cool, through lunch, having seated me in a prominent position on the terrace of the park cafe, so that I was ogled a fair bit. There was something different about him, something strange— just as calm and confident, just as captivating, but still … different. All my nerves resurfaced, my belly fluttered inside, though he smiled at me and complimented me on my choice of clothes.
He talked about how it was with us— how it had been recently— almost entirely sex; asked me how I was feeling about this. And I— I answered, truthfully, blushing, that— that it was good, good for me— because, now that he didn’t have to give me a whole evening, he was fucking me more often than he had been before.
“So you’re pleased that I consider you as just a girl I can fuck whenever I need to come? That I feel very free to treat you like that— fuck you hard and fast if I want, just come in your mouth or ass, and leave?”
It was— harsh— to hear him say that, and in a public restaurant, too, where I was quivering at the idea that someone might be listening in; but when it came down to answering him, it was simple to be honest and sincere (though it made me blush to hear myself);
“Yes. Yes. I’m pleased to … to be treated like that— that you feel free with me in that way.”
He looked calmly but long and steadily into my eyes after that, and I blushed more, but held his gaze as long as I could, feeling my nipples harden and my sex heat up, until at last I couldn’t cope any more and dropped my gaze.
At last I leaned forward and said, as quietly as I could while being heard;
“Please. Please will you take me somewhere now, right now, and fuck me— hard and fast, just like you said. Spank me too, hard. Please.”
He stayed impassive for a while longer, while I trembled and blushed, so needy, so exposed. And then he smiled at me, almost sweetly— a smile I hadn’t seen for weeks, and reached out to caress my cheek;
“Sorry, pretty— we’ve an appointment, and if we do anything else, we’ll be late. But thank you— that was exactly what I needed to hear. You are, as always, a remarkable creature.”
He drove to a scruffy part of town— not our normal sort of place. The traffic was terrible, but no matter that we were sitting in a jam, he didn’t speak, or look at me, and I didn’t have anything to say to him, I realised. Instead, I hiked my skirt right up so that my panties almost showed, and undid almost all the buttons on my blouse, spread my legs and reached my hands behind the headrest and locked them there, making myself passively available for him, as he’d had me do on a long country drive once. He didn’t touch me, or give any sign that he’d noticed, even. It was wonderful how this deliberate spurning affected— me had my heart beating, my cheeks burning. It was terrible and glorious, all at the same time, what he could do to me (but wasn’t I doing this to myself?), and how simply.
When we had finally parked in a dingy industrial area, he walked me to a nondescript steel door between shabby shopfronts, and after a wait we were buzzed in. Inside there was a corridor and stairs, and I faltered for a second as I took in the decor. Wild, elaborate, grungy tattoos— hundreds of pictures, of all sorts of markings. Not only tattoos, but piercings.
R looked at me.
“No questions, no talking. It’s time for you to be marked. Go up the stairs, second left. I’m behind you.”
He was calm as ever, his voice wasn’t harsh or stressed— perhaps if it had been I would have failed him, then— I was on a knife edge. But as it was, I controlled my panicky breathing and, after a few seconds, dropped my gaze and obediently started up the stairs. My heart was going 19 to the dozen— I could feel a vein throbbing in my neck, and I had to consciously make myself breathe. But I made myself walk as elegantly as I knew how, and stopped looking at the the pictures. I was doing what he wanted. This was it— the next thing. We were at the door. I stopped, unsure. R knocked.
“Yeah”
R opened the door and pushed my shoulder. I walked in, knees weak, chest heaving— I could feel my breasts moving, knew that my stiff nipples would be obvious to whoever.
My God, to him! The biggest man I’d ever been close to— huge— maybe 6’8″, wide shoulders, body-builder muscles, rippling under a sea of tattoos, visible because he wore only a singlet and knee length shorts. Straggle hair, backwards cap, neatly stubbled beard. A caricature, but a real man, in front of me, now.
“You’re R?”
His voice was as gravelly as the caricature suggested. I was blushing pink, feeling very small and delicate, like a little girl, next to this mountain of muscle and bone and masculinity.
“That’s right.” R sounded as calm as ever.
“This the filly?”
I had never been called a ‘filly’ before in my life. Another time it would have made me laugh, but now it almost made my cry. I was so scared, all of a sudden. A strange sort of fear, though— hot, jittery, weakening. I suddenly recognised it, this fear. The serious, grown-up version of the fear that preceded a spanking. And with that recognition came the knowledge that I was wet between the legs. God, no— this couldn’t be real?
“She’s the one.”
“Huh. You c’n stand over there— good view, but not in my way— OK?”
“Just so.”
The mountain turned to me again, eyes running over me slowly. He had no expression at all beyond a slight, habitual smile.
“Blouse off, skirt off. Panties too, if you’re wearing any. On all fours on the bench, facing the mirror. Head down, ass up, legs spread. Quick now, you’re late.”
And he turned away, leaving me quivering. I’d been told what to do. I knew something was coming, and this was it. But could I? I wanted so much to look at R, but he was behind me, and somehow I knew that I mustn’t— that what he wanted was for me to obey. To my relief, he helped me.
“Do as he says, slut.”
He’d been calling me ‘slut’, and ‘wanton’ more often recently— and I’d got to like it. But he’d never used the words in public, let alone in front of another person, in front of a stranger. You’d never have guessed, though— it sounded as if ‘slut’ was my name, and that he was bored with it, too. It was like a slap in the face— shocking, painful. I was frozen for a few seconds, before a wave of sexual excitement hit me. He had told this stranger what I was; a slut. Of course; it was true, after all. I’d idly considered the thought before— that being a slut for one man only made little sense— the word implied a pervasive character— a woman of loose sexual morals— an easy fuck. That was what slut meant. And so here I was, stripping naked in front of a stranger.
I began to remove the blouse, fingers clumsy, pulse racing, knowing I was getting turned on by the idea of stripping for the big stranger; now the skirt, bending down, feeling my breasts swaying, wondering— hoping he was looking at them, that he liked them, blushing. Straightening … now the skimpy panties, breath fast, panting, nipples painfully stiff, sex moist, ashamed and trepidatious, jittery, and— undeniably— turned-on.
But as I straightened, my eye caught on a picture on the wall, a young woman, sluttily dressed, ‘tramp-stamp’ tattoo on her buttock, visible above the G-String that was all she was wearing apart from the tiny cropped T-Shirt and high heels. It was so tacky! This wasn’t me! I hate tattoos!
I stood, frozen, feeling so weak, so stupid, tears trembling in my eyes— just knowing I wasn’t able to do this… I don’t know how long it was, but eventually, as if at the other end of a cloth tunnel, I heard my voice, trembling, saying;
“I … I can’t do … can’t do this … Not … not a tattoo … I … I’m sorry— I … I just can’t. Please— please don’t make me…”
Not daring to look up, desperately wishing I wasn’t naked now, but too scared to do anything about retrieving my clothes. I just wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and hide.
Silence.
I was quivering, knees weak, feeling their eyes on me— on my breasts, on my haunches, on my thighs, on my belly— on my sex… I wanted to hide my breasts, but I knew that this was not permitted me— I suddenly realised how much training R had imbued in me— the number of things I knew he expected, the number that were forbidden, and a shiver ran through me. He had trained me already, prepared me for this— and I hadn’t even known it; I was filled with respect for him, for his mastery, grateful that he chose me, that he had been prepared to do so much work on me…
The silence was almost loud now, so fearfully did I await the resolution of this disobedience.
At last, R stood and came to me; his voice was calm and relaxed, without any hint of anger or disappointment;
“You can be handcuffed and strapped down, or you can do it voluntarily. It will be more humiliating and probably more frightening to be strapped down. The choice is yours.”
And he caressed my sex, quite gently. I dared not clamp my thighs together, as I fervently wished, and he laughed, softly, genuinely amused;
“My, but you’re wet, pretty. Quite the little wanton! Let’s hope he chooses to use your pussy— for your sake. His cock is entirely in proportion, you know. Quickly now— you have a few seconds only before the choice is lost to you.”
He leant in and kissed a nipple, and suddenly, I knew that I had no choice. Silly girl— testing him again! As if I could live without his approval.
Trembling, I moved toward the bench. R stepped back, to take his seat again, calm, unruffled— he had been totally confident.
I climbed onto the bench, facing the mirror as suggested. Was I a horse— only needing a little gentle nonsense in my ear to get me to obey? Because I was obeying, against my wishes. This was a test, I knew that it was, and some ruthless animal part of me which was determined that I would pass had taken over.
I was blushing, tears on my cheeks, feeling terribly, terribly sad— but in the softest possible way, without the slightest anger or resentment. In fact, I realised, it was quite the opposite; I felt foolishly, abjectly grateful to R. For what? I didn’t really know— for having coerced me into this? For having saved me from worse humiliation? For putting me in the situation where I was forced to display myself so lewdly to this man-mountain, this giant who would apparently be having sex with me— using a hole of his choice in the near future? Perhaps for all of these things. But the gratitude was certainly real.
I positioned myself, conscientiously, on the low, padded bench, burning with shame at the lewd position, images from porn swimming into my head, telling me just how shamefully slutty I must look, but trying my best nevertheless, head down, ass up, thighs splayed, pussy thrust up and out.
I heard something and realised it was me, panting, a little whine on each intake of breath. I was quivering. Was I going to be fucked by the man-mountain like this— fucked without any preamble at all?
“This the mark you want”
“Yes, that one, the sans-serif.”
Apparently not. I was going to be marked first.
I hate tattoos. I’d always said I’d be the last person on the planet to get one, and now here I was, naked, lewdly spreading my sex, buttocks perkily in the air, about to be tattooed with heaven knew what, without the slightest say in the matter. And all I could think about was how obvious the wetness at my sex must be. I was so focused on R at this moment. To have brought me to this— to this incredible experience, an experience I could easily have never come within a million miles of. The fear was the most exciting fear I’d ever felt. My chest heaving, I was unbearably, gloriously conscious of the naked, spread condition of my sex, of my vulnerability.
“Sign, please.”
A small clipboard was slapped onto the leather pad near my hand, and I almost giggled at the absurdity of this bureaucracy intruding on such intensity. But I dared not, and instead quickly scrawled something illegible with the pen; like an illiterate, the thought came to me, *not a smart lawyer*…
The clipboard was whisked away; my wrists were strapped, then my legs, just below the knees, and a cushioned frame was wedged beneath my belly, forcing my buttocks even further upward.
R had said I wouldn’t be restrained! But now, here I was, restrained anyway, fixed in place, helpless. What use was outrage to me here? Who would listen? What good would it do? I swallowed it, even while understanding that I was constantly being pushed across boundaries. R would say what he wanted, tell me what he wanted, and do what he wanted— he didn’t much care whether that involved tricking me or betraying me. He took it for granted that I would accept it. And I, in turn, was so grateful that he understood what I needed.
He was right about it being frightening though— it was terrifying not being able to move. Unable to stop myself, I tugged at the restraints, humiliating myself, blushing at their laughter.
“It really does frighten her, being restrained. It’s cute to see. Funny thing is, it turns her on too. Her puss will be wetter than ever…”
No! he couldn’t have said that, not here, not now, in front of this man I don’t know! I struggled some more, blinking back tears.
“Scream all you want, pretty. Ain’t but a little one.”
Immediately a high-pitched buzzing started, followed by an intense, but actually quite manageable pain at the top of my right buttock. I gasped, but that was all. It was happening. I would have a tramp stamp— would be marked, permanently, as a slut.
My nipples, stiff now, rubbed against the leather padding of the bench. I realised how turned on I was. The giant was going to fuck me— with R watching. He would find me wet and ready for him, however desperately I wished that he would not.
He took me while I was still strapped— that was the most notable part of the affair. For all his dick was big, he was no cocksman, used my pussy simply, in a businesslike fashion; then remarkably quickly he was jerking inside me.
And that was it— I’d been tattooed and fucked by a complete stranger, strapped down, naked, without permission; he had come inside me without a condom, while my boyfriend watched, in a grungy tattoo parlour. I felt terribly dirty, and I was crying weakly as I was released from the bench, as the aftercare instructions were given— still naked, still trying to stand attractively, feeling the giant’s come running down my leg. No-one offered me a mirror— I had no idea what my tattoo looked like.
I was dismissed to clean up. No, I was not to take my clothes with me, R said. I was passive, accepting, meekly obedient. Something had happened to me. Later I thought it was that some veil of pretence had been ripped from my eyes. The pretence being that R and I had a relationship other than my sexual service to him— a hangover from before, but delusional even then. He liked to fuck me, I encouraged him to fuck me, just as he liked it— that was it— that was how I liked it, too. Only now it was totally explicit.
There was a mirror in the small bathroom, and I looked at the tattoo; dark blue, a large, block-letter ‘R’, and the year, smaller. It was a property mark— graphically rather beautiful, in its austerity— but still, a property mark. R had had me marked as his property. I tried to get angry, but there was nothing there. I looked again. I knew that I liked it; that I was pleased— flattered even. Did I belong to him? No— not really— silly idea! Although … work aside, I might as well have belonged to him, I thought. It made me quiver. I wanted him to fuck me, right there and then. Fuck me as his marked property.
Re-entering the little studio was hard, because I was naked, and because I knew, now, that both men considered that I was, in some sense, property. It was exciting to me that R knew this— something dangerous and sexy between us. But the giant— the stranger who had fucked me while I was strapped to his bench— he didn’t deserve to see me naked.
There was no option, though— I couldn’t go to R in some pathetic cringe. And so I walked, as best I knew how, across the small room, to R’s side. My chest was heaving, betraying my intense emotions. Neither of them paid the slightest attention. R turned me, pushing my shoulder, then had me bend down, so he could see the tattoo clearly, then confirmed his approval to the giant in a calm, businesslike tone.
Immediately, then, he roughly kicked my feet apart, and thrust, direct into my ass, without niceties; hurting me, my face pushed down into the bench. He reached under me— and I understood I was to come for him, in front of the man mountain. I couldn’t have resisted if I had tried, and in fact it was a glorious, rippling orgasm of lasting power, and I could not keep silent. I wasn’t acting, but R could not have asked for more if I had been. I was demolished, panting my gratitude weakly, feeling simultaneously worthless and exalted.
He had me clean his cock for him, too, on my knees, in front of the giant, and I found myself making it as clear as possible how servile I was, leaning in to take R all the way in in one smooth movement, hands behind my back, unsure whether I was crying or panting with desire. Both, probably.
I dressed myself then in front of them, weeping a little, unable to look up.
Time to go. It seemed expected, so I found myself saying ‘Thank you’ to the tattooist, who grinned at me, almost laughing at my feeling the need to be polite, while I blushed.
Once we were in the street, I turned to R, who was looking at his watch;
“Thank you,” I said.
And I meant it. The idea that he had marked me with his name was growing in significance with each passing minute, and I knew that I would be fizzing about this for days. Being fucked by another man in front of him— him using me in turn, in front of the stranger, that too, was new, and would fill my thoughts for weeks.
He grinned at me— a quick, formalistic movement of his lips, almost bored.
“Indeed, you should be grateful. I don’t mark many. Wasn’t sure if you’d be worth it, a few weeks ago. I can’t offer you a lift, I’m afraid. Taking someone to the theatre. There’s a cab office up the street I think.”
And he was walking away, without a backward glance.
I was desperate, of course— tears in my eyes at this deliberate callousness. But I was impressed as well, in spite of myself. Impressed at his calm confidence in my subjection. Impressed that he had judged me so well— that I was going to accept being abandoned like this, would walk, meekly, to find the cab office in my extravagant heels, the tattoo beginning to burn on my buttock, go home and spend the evening alone, reviewing the many red lines I had been pushed across in those two hours, and how far I had fallen, while he went off to enjoy an evening with some other woman— with whom no doubt he would be entertaining, witty, respectful, lover-like. That there was no will in me to protest. That I was more grateful than ever.
Crazy. Crazy hot…
