When I first resolved to write this blog, my intent was to preserve those moments in time which I wish to remember forever – my best moments. Those very moments which seem, at the time, impossible to forget. Until one does…

‎I sat at the jardin des Tuileries, with the unnatural April sun beating down upon my furrowed brow as I peered into my little compact case, applying my make-up, my haphazard picnic melting into a little puddle of chocolate beside me. I knew I looked ridiculous, in my beautiful lace dress, in the middle of the day, with that blazing sun overhead, but I was in a part of Paris where people look ridiculous – that’s just how it is – so I wasn’t out of place.

‎”I’m stuck in traffic,” he said.

‎”I’ll be in the hotel bar,” I typed back.

‎”Hope you like Red Velvet.”

Red Velvet? Some signature Right Bank concoction, perhaps? I dared not reveal my ignorance by asking. But it was just the upholstery. I felt, at once, a lot less over-dressed. I ordered a kir, and within seconds I was, somehow, completely drunk.

‎”Let’s get out of here,” I said, when he arrived, with his familiar, easy smile. We scampered up to the hotel room.

‎”Do you want me to thrash you first or fuck you?” he asked politely.

‎I hesitated – tough question. This fleeting drunkenness would wear off within moments and then it would not be so easy to withstand the thrashing. But on the other hand…

‎”Fuck me,” I decided, swiftly undressing, and kneeling at his feet to untie his shoes. A few minutes later we were lying side by side in bed, and I was not so drunk any more, but much more satisfied. He stroked my wet and well-fucked pussy gently with his fingers, teasing me and bringing me just to the brink.

‎”Tell me when you’re ready to come,” he warned me.

“I’m ready,” I breathed.

‎”Then get up,” he ordered me. “It’s time to thrash you.”

‎I followed him eagerly into the living room. Much as I love to come, it isn’t as special as getting thrashed, which happens much less often, after all. He made me bend over, with my hands on the desk. I smiled in greedy anticipation, with a little tremor of fear as I glanced back to see him standing there with the cane grasped in his hand. But my smile vanished as the first series of blows struck my bare flesh. He always hits so hard… I had to beg him to stop. So he did.

‎Disappointed and ashamed, I followed him back into the bedroom.

‎”Shall we try the candle wax?” he offered. I nodded, grateful for this chance to redeem myself, and, lying back on the bed, watched him light a candle over my naked, trembling body. He tilted the flickering candle adeptly over my bare breasts. I screamed in pain as the first drops of wax hit my skin. Perturbed, he held the candle a little higher, to give the wax more time to cool on the way down. But it hurt so much more than I’d imagined! I have quite a good tolerance for heat normally. (And this did turn out to be true – I just did not realise it at the time!) Well, damn – another instance of gross cowardice!!

‎”Take off your stockings,” he told me.


‎”Just roll them down, if you prefer.”

‎I did as he asked. Holding my legs apart, he gently kissed my inner thighs. I trembled with anticipation. He breathed lightly over the surface of my skin, teasing me. Then, moving down, he began to lick my swollen clitoris, pausing ever now and then to blow across it, toying with me, never letting me get too close without bringing me back from the edge. I began to push gently against his tongue, yearning for release. He pressed on, building me up, until the first shudders overtook me.

‎”Can I bite your inner thighs?” he asked.

“Yes!” I cried, steeling myself, and then shrieking loudly as his teeth sank into my flesh.

‎”Now the other side…”

‎He forced my thighs apart, reminding me never to close my legs in his presence, and asked if I was ready to be fucked. I agreed, giggling contentedly. He pushed my legs back and entered my soaking wet pussy, fucking me gently at first, then turning me around on all fours and burying my head beneath a pillow so he could thrust into me harder and harder, ravaging me, until he came with his cock buried deep in my pussy.‎

‎So quickly, it was time to get out of bed and go to dinner. I re-applied my make-up, which was smeared all over my face, and we set out in the rain towards the restaurant. It was deserted – we were the first ones there. The hostess led us to a table by the wall, which I was afraid might be a little boring for him, as he could see nothing but me. But I was just too happy to care, chattering away of all manner of things, so easily and freely. I felt so close to him, it seemed strange that there should be even the length of a table between us.

‎The dusk swirled around us as we left the restaurant, startled tourists slipping by us, everything was just a haze. We entered the darkened room, our hands instantly seeking out one another’s skin as though we hadn’t just spent the whole afternoon in bed together. Crawling under the starched sheets, the outside world seemed to have all but vanished – oh, if only! I felt as though I were seventeen years old, running away from home again. And what if we were to… but I knew we were living on borrowed time; I felt each moment ticking by.

‎”Tomorrow,” he said. “I shall bend you over the bathroom sink, tie your wrists to the taps, and gag you with a wash-cloth before I thrash you.”

My eyes widened.

‎”Yes, please, the Edge,” I said, as I kissed him goodbye.


One thought on “Real Things in the Darkness

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