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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.
