‘I’m close,’ I whisper.
‘I see that.’ He stops, holds himself stock-still, biting his lip.
‘Oh, don’t stop, please.’ I rotate my pelvis, trying to urge him back on track.
He pulls out.
I sit up, on one elbow, fighting my way back, reaching out for him. My tender bottom doesn’t like this move and I hiss with sudden pain, but I have to get him back inside me.
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘On your knees now.’
He turns me over, putting me on all fours. In one way, I am grateful for the opportunity this gives me to hide my face from him. In another, I’m not.
‘Oh, look, look, look at this,’ he croons behind me, smoothing his palms over my bottom. ‘So pretty. OK, we do it this way now.’
Gloriously, he is back inside me, a good hard shove until his flat stomach meets my curving arse cheeks, adding to the heat that hasn’t even begun to recede yet.
A groan of appreciation falls from my lips. This feels too good, indecently, obscenely good. His hands on my hips, then one clutching a big hank of my hair and tugging on it as he rides me, his skin on mine, banging into it, making the cane marks throb anew. It’s a wild conjunction of every sensation and I surf it joyously until the moment nears again. Must I tell him again? Couldn’t I keep it a secret?
‘I’m close,’ I mewl, a mite sulkily, dreading another withdrawal.
‘Good, that’s good.’
He keeps going.
Yes, that’s good! I agree wholeheartedly.
I am laughing with delight when the wave crests, bathing in it, letting it wash all over me from my beaded brow to my curled-up toes, paying special attention to that sweet rear sting.
I say some words that don’t make sense, might as well be the Russian ones he is coming out with now, as he jolts, in, in, in, hard, giving me his all.
We fall, slack-jawed and spent, together on the leather.
‘I do love you,’ I tell him. Is it the first time? Have I said it before? I can’t even remember.
‘I know, of course.’ He yawns. ‘And for me too.’
I am still wearing the fleece-lined flipping hoody. No wonder I’m so hot. It clings to my skin almost as tightly as he does.
‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ I say sleepily, ‘that you can read my thoughts when I can’t read yours.’
‘You can’t?’
‘No, of course not. They’re in Russian. I don’t speak a word of Russian.’
He laughs. ‘I teach you. But you help me with English also.’
‘Deal.’
We must have fallen asleep like that.
The next thing I know, there’s a loud knocking on the dungeon door and O’s voice, sounding very quiet and far away, asking us if we’re done in here.
At first it seems like part of a dream, as does Dimitri’s solid warmth beside and around me but, as my wits slowly sharpen, I realise I am really lying half dressed on a bondage bed in a dungeon with the mother of all sore bottoms.
Dimitri mutters in Russian, then shouts, ‘You wait a minute, yes?’ at the door.
He turns to me. ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t plan to sleep. I wanted to put the cream on you.’
For a fuzzy moment I think this is a euphemism, then, when he reaches down and pulls a tub out of his jeans pocket, I realise what he means.
‘Oh! That’s a nice thought. We can’t, though, can we? Time’s up.’
‘Ah, she can wait. Turn over on your belly, yes?’
I hesitate for a moment, looking over at the door. I don’t really want to see O again. I feel there’s a certain froideur between us after that scene earlier in the week.
But Dimitri rubbing lotion on my poor stinging bottom … well, that’s too good to turn down. I roll over and rest my head happily on my arms.
He slathers on the ointment in generous whorls, covering each stiff welt in moisturising balm. The smell of it is gorgeous, the feeling of it on my skin even more so, especially administered with Dimitri’s magic touch.
‘What’s up? Do you need some help?’
We both snort gently at O’s well-meaning offer.
‘We’re fine. Just give us a minute.’
‘I have some clients here with me. They’ve booked for ten minutes ago. Dimitri, please can we come in?’
His fingertips glide along the lines between my cane marks like skaters.
‘Two minutes,’ he says.
‘Oh, I can’t wait for you, whatever you’re up to. I’m coming in.’
‘No!’ I squeal, but the key is turning in the lock.
‘Hey!’ exclaims Dimitri, hurriedly capping the tub and making a lunge for his jeans.
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ O stands in the doorway. I am too late to even think about getting my knickers and jeans back on. I slump on the bondage bed, imagining her eyes – and those of the other clients – taking in my sheeny-shiny stripy arse. ‘You booked for one hour and … What lovely work!’ She waltzes over, cooing in rapture.