Kinky(21)

I spread my legs wider, to give him better access, enjoying the speed and friction of his movement and the way it sends him deeper. His balls swing and bang against my sex with each homeward drive. I begin to hang on for dear life, trying to keep in position for him, trying not to slump and fall into oblivion.

Objectively, I know that my bottom must still hurt, but I don’t feel it any more; I don’t feel anything but the slow sensation unravelling through my groin and stomach.

His hands creep around the front of my thighs and find my clit, each set of fingers playing it like a piano while he thrusts ever harder and faster.

I come, humping my abdomen against the padded leather, digging my fingernails in until it is close to tearing. He takes hold of my hips again and gives me the final few race-to-victory lunges until he rests, embedded in me, hissing out that steaming stream of Russian phrases.

Slowly, I become aware that my bottom still hurts. Especially when he pats it and asks how I am.

‘It’s really sore,’ I say. ‘But God, that was good. So good.’

‘Wait there. I see cream in the closet.’

I maintain a blissful flop over the vaulting horse while he sorts his jeans out and heads over to the cane cupboard. For a fearful second, I think he is playing a horrible trick on me and he will come back with a length of rattan, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands behind me, slathering on a cool and soothing lotion.

‘Will you do that for your clients?’ I ask, the words coming out slowly and heavily.

‘What? This cream? If they like.’

‘No, I mean sex. I think they call it “extras”. In the trade.’

‘I tell you before, I don’t think so. I don’t fuck my clients. I am not prostitute.’

‘But what are you, then? You’d definitely be a sex worker.’

‘Sex worker who does not have sex.’

‘That’s perfectly possible. All this – the headmaster stuff – is all sexual. Isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but you can pretend it is not. Is different than prostitution.’

‘Pretending. So it’d all be a bit of a game.’

‘Sure. A bit of fun, for pay.’

‘What if you wanted to have sex with a client? And they wanted it too?’

‘What if, what if.’ He smears on the last of the cream and recaps the tube. ‘What is this?’

I sigh. ‘Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Your voice. You are not fine.’

‘I am fine. Really.’

He helps me off the vaulting horse and holds me against him, his lips on my hair. ‘This sex is very amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank you for it.’

I am instantly cheered. ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

‘I wish I don’t have to start work in half an hour. But I must go. I book a room for next Saturday, right?’

‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Think my bottom might have recovered by then.’

‘OK. But I go for the dungeon. I think we do bondage next, yes?’

‘Uh. Yeah.’

‘Good. So how about we get quick cup of coffee now. Get your coat.’





Chapter Five



What with one thing and another, we didn’t get the chance to meet up again until Saturday. If he was free, I was in the office. If I was free, he was in the restaurant kitchen. We had a couple of text catch-ups during the course of the week (Him: How is your ass? Me: Bruised! And so on) but didn’t really speak.

I spent long days longing for him, trying to keep his image alive in my mind’s eye while I wrestled with advertising copy and the many childish distractions of life in a modern media industry.

Anton worked hard to drag me away from my preoccupations. He got free tickets to a red carpet premiere in Leicester Square, then an invitation to a private view in a local gallery. Between that and my seemingly unending sloganeering, I managed not to pine too terribly.

On Friday afternoon, though, it nearly went horribly wrong.

‘You fancy hanging with me and some of the crew from the baby food account tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Anton in between bouts of Facebooking. ‘Thinking of heading up Westfield, then whatever.’

‘That’d be – oh, hang on. Sorry. Can’t.’

‘No? Date with Mr Mystery?’

He had been teasing me about my ‘secret man’ all week.

‘No, just busy. Stuff to do.’ I was conscious of not looking him in the eye and shuffling stuff on the desk in an evasive manner.

‘Have I said something to offend you?’

‘No! Of course not.’

‘Westfield’s a bit weak really, innit? What if I said somewhere else? Where do you want to go?’