A formal dinner at the home of one of the country’s oldest and most influential families – and certainly the wealthiest. The chauffeur drove us in past the security checkpoint along the U-shaped driveway enclosing the beautiful green gardens where a couple of peacocks fled from the headlights of our car. We were led inside past marbled pillars and vast slabs of ornamental quartz, through the magnificent atrium with its mosaic frieze walls and Roman impluvium running through the centre, to a vast dining hall, where stern, bearded retainers silently profferred a seemingly endless succession of silver dishes piled high with steaming food. Conversation was animated, with the younger diners comparing Porsches and BMWs, and laughing about their dogs’ air-conditioned kennels, while the elders spoke gravely of their latest publications, hefty histories of the city from the days when they had laid out the planning specifications for its most populated townships. I sat there like the rest, decked out in expensive clothes and jewellery, but as always, I felt that I was only about one-eighths present, listening, while the rest of me wasn’t really there, but somewhere far away…
On a rainy day in London, my high heels clicking sharply against the pavement as I hurried off to my last rendez-vous with the Edge. He had asked me not to watch any porn or make myself come in the 24 hours leading up to our appointment, so I was in a state of frenzied excitement, and felt like throwing myself into his arms when he opened the door to me, but something held me back, as always, and I just strolled in and began to make myself at home.
”Wait a minute,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders, and looking at me with a little smile. “Here are the rules for today: there’s going to be very little sexual contact, and you are not going to be allowed to come. Even if you feel you’re getting close, you’re not to come until I tell you you’re released from your obligations. Do you understand?”
”Y – yes,” I stammered, aghast. What kind of madness was this? I am always up for a challenge, but how much of a challenge would this even be, with no sexual contact?? And what could he possibly get out of it? Humour, no doubt, at my discomfit, but this would be our last meeting for a while – how could he really wish to sacrifice it for his own selfish amusement? I felt my cheeks burn with anger!
”This is for you,” he went on, peeling several £50 notes from a wad of cash and laying them on to the table. “…once you’ve earned it. Unless, of course, you wish to go?”
”No,” I answered. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.
”Good,” he said. “Now take off your dress and bend over.”
I did as he asked, biting my lip as the blows rained down on my bare bottom, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me whimper.
”You took that like a soldier,” he remarked. “Oh and by the way, you are released from your obligations.”
”What? Already?” I exclaimed, now utterly confused.
”Oh yes,” he smiled. “I was just messing with your mind.”
I tried to say something, but I felt almost light-headed and sat down at the edge of the bed, blinking back tears of embarrassment. I had completely believed him! I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling suddenly naked and vulnerable. But there was no time to waste on wounded pride – we had to try out the hook.
He had thoughtfully selected a truly enormous one (he claimed it was medium-sized), and as it entered my ass, I had the most curious sensation of something cold and hard pressing up against my G-spot, which began to swell in response, sending little tingles of excitement out all over my body. I could probably come from this thing alone! But I was still a little flustered and discomfited from my earlier embarrassment, so I just meekly allowed him to tie the other end of the hook to my long braid of hair.
It had seemed a tantalising idea – the thought of being impaled on a metal hook like a piece of meat, so that every time he pulled my head down on his cock, he would force it deeper inside me, but he distracts me so much with his beautiful cock, so thick and luscious and perfect for sucking – really, the best – I become oblivious to everything else; I could probably service a whole train of men while sucking him and not even notice.
He cruelly left me to remove the hook myself, and it turned out to be one of those things, like Beppy sponges, which are easy enough to get in but a nightmare to get out. I could feel the skin stretching around the giant ball – “it won’t come out” “all right, then you’ll have to get on the Eurostar with it inside you” – until finally I was free of that massive thing and placed it reverently on the bedside table.
”Do you want me to fuck you now?”
”Then say it.”
”Fuck me now… please…”
We had discussed my favourite position – it’s one I am normally ashamed to admit (missionary), but it’s the one he usually starts with, and I love it for many reasons; I like to be held down, to feel a man’s power over me, also to feel his body against mine, to watch him fucking me, to look into his eyes when I come. And then my second favourite position is doggy-style, for all the opposite reasons, because it’s anonymous, and animalistic, but also just physically, because he can fuck me so deep, and hard. But one thing we’d never tried was me on top. I used to hate this position in my younger day – I felt self-conscious, and didn’t like to be in control – but I soon realised that, in the hands of a dominant man, I could still be submissive on top, because he could hold me down onto his cock, fucking up into me, spreading my arms apart to force me upright, or pinning them behind my back with one hand and pinching my nipples with the other. It is still not my favourite, but generally, men love it, so I asked the Edge to let me try it, and I could tell right away that he didn’t like it.
“How peculiar,” he mused. “It’s like you are the one fucking me.”
”Don’t you like it?” I asked cheekily.
“No,” he said. “I think I prefer to be the one doing the fucking.”
”Well, why don’t you then?”
No sooner had I said that, than he flung me off him at once and forced me onto my knees on the bed, with my ass in the air and my face pressed down into the pillow, and he began to fuck me brutally – “I should just use you…” “Use me!” “What d’you think I’m doing, bitch?” – holding me down, crushing me, until I almost couldn’t breathe, and then I felt his warm come shooting into me, triggering wild spasms inside me, my pussy contracting around his cock to squeeze out every last drop. Mmmm…
I collapsed in his arms, and it seemed like our bodies fit so well together… ohh, but I know it’s just the oxytocin that has gone to my head again, leaving me tongue-tied, unable to speak, for I would only say something stupid and fatuous.
”Do you like that we can have this kind of down-time too?” he asked.
”Yes,” I replied. “Or it wouldn’t be as… intense.”
”It wouldn’t be as intense, would it?” he repeated, and then all of a sudden he slapped me hard across the face. Stunned and unable to react, I quickly forced a nonchalant smile in response, and then, when he wasn’t looking, I gasped in horror, reeling inwardly from the shock of this unforeseen assault! My head was still ringing as I pulled on my clothes – “But wait!” said he. “Where are you going?”
I paused, and looked to him in confusion.
“Isn’t it time for you to drink my piss?”
It was true – I had promised him this; in fact, I had listed it as one of the “services” I offered, but the truth was that my experience of this was limited to a half-hearted stream directed at my lower leg by a bemused boyfriend while sharing a shower, oh, only back when I was 18, so every time someone had inquired about it, I had either been too afraid to reply, or had replied so unconvincingly that they had, I suppose, given up in disgust. Until he came along, of course. And even he had seen that I was terrified, and so he hadn’t pressed the matter, at first, but since then we had even attempted it in Paris, so now it really seemed as though it might happen, and yet still, I couldn’t really believe it. I climbed into the shower, kneeling down as he had asked, and took his cock into my mouth, and he turned on the tap, and for a moment nothing happened, my heart was beating wildly in my throat and I almost wanted to jump up shouting, “no! don’t do it!” but then I felt the warm stream enter my mouth, and it had such a strange, new taste – like coffee – I almost forgot to swallow, and when I remembered, it was almost too late, for my mouth was filling up again, and even as I tried to swallow faster and faster, to catch up, it began to overflow and pour out of my mouth, and I gave up, there was just too much. I felt a little disappointed in myself, but mostly I just felt proud and thrilled, as I walked back down the street through the lightly misting rain, licking my lips and remembering the taste of it, and thinking, no-one would EVER be able to guess what I’ve done.
“How did you feel about it?” the Edge asked me later. “Not just whilst it was happening… but afterwards.”
Afterwards? Well, I know that I should have felt as I had always imagined and expected to feel – utterly degraded, filthy and humiliated – but the truth is that I lay in bed that night, and the next, and the next, thinking only one thing: that I wanted to do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again…