“Hi!” I beamed brightly, sidling up to the Fortnum and Mason shop assistant. “I don’t know anything about champagne, so could you advise me, please? What’s a good choice for a special occasion?”

“They’re all the same,” the mustachioed fellow replied coldly.

“They’re all the same??” I repeated in disbelief. “How can they be all the same?”

“They all taste the same,” he insisted, and then, to clarify, he added, “like champagne.”

“But isn’t there one which stands out from the rest?”

“Yes,” he relented finally. “This one.”

“I see,” I said, studying the £379 price tag on the bottle of Dom Perignon he had indicated. “Is there – er – a runner-up?”


“There’s a problem with the ferries – I’m going to be at least an hour late,” he messaged me.

An hour late! I wondered what to do with this unexpected time to kill. I could go shopping, meet a friend on the high street for coffee or just spend an hour or so in the bathroom beautifying myself and haranguing him with “how much longer???” messages. A difficult choice…


“How much longer???”

“I’m in the lift.”

I rushed to get into position, kneeling naked on the floor, with the door ajar, and then he was there, with his dick in my mouth, reaching down to flick my hard nipples and send ripples of excitement rushing through my body. Then he pulled me up, I undressed him, and he took me into the bedroom and fucked me into that easy, relaxed and sex-addled state, full of giddy lust and dumb infatuation.


We carefully followed the narrow staircase down to a sunless, underground chamber. A savage place, full of all kinds of menacing equipment. I clung to his side, intimidated by this unfamiliar environment, and by the incongruously matter-of-fact owner, who showed us around, unabashed – a far cry from the tittering blonde receptionist at the Love Hotel in Paris. The walls were lined with dildos of varying proportions, and in the centre of the room hung a leather swing, surrounded by chains. A St Andrew’s cross stood in one corner, and a spanking bench in another, with a variety of whips and canes laid out around it.

“What would you like to try first?” he asked.

“How about this?” I suggested, heading straight for the bed, and perching tentatively on the edge of it.

He smiled indulgently at me, and pulled back the sheets.


“Please, the Edge, may I come?” I begged him, squirming against my shackles as I hung on the cross.

“You may not,” he said sternly, tweaking my nipples and then brushing his fingers ever so lightly against my engorged clitoris.


“Shall I fuck you in the arse now?” he offered, interrupting my post-orgasmic reverie in a corner of the bed.

“Oh, yes, please, the Edge!” I cried eagerly.

He drove into me with gusto, pushing me down into the bed, fucking me hard, until I felt that slow trembling beginning in my legs, and rising up through the rest of me, my skin flushed and hot, and a wave of something incredible emanating through me, from the core of me, and at the same time, as if in response to me, I felt him push hard and deep inside me and I knew that he was filling me with come, shooting it deep into my ass, coating my insides with it, and we fell into a shuddering jumble of limbs, and I barely knew where one of us ended and the other began.


“Do you want to come?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then get off that swing and go bend over the spanking bench.”

I wriggled out of the swing, the chains all jingling loudly behind me – what kind of place was this? some kind of dungeon?? – and bent over the spanking bench. I had noticed the Delrin cane lying there when we left for dinner. It had sent a chill through my spine to see it there! And he had already given me eight strokes with a wooden walking stick – earlier, before dinner. But now I was in a kind of crazy euphoria and I wanted more, now, everything. I accepted the nauseating pain with something almost like fervour, I could even have endured more – anything. I squirmed back into the swing at his behest, oblivious of my raised welts rubbing against the cold leather, and with a controlled push he set me once more in motion, the swing propelling me straight onto his waiting erection…


“Drink it,” he ordered. “Drink it all down.”

“No… no, I can’t.”

“You can. You can and you will. And don’t forget to thank me afterwards.”


We lay in bed side by side, naked, with my legs draped over his, and his come inside me. My whole body seemed to be pulsating gently, like a star. I was in that heady, lovely, giddy, crazy state of sex-intoxication where the slightest touch could send me reeling into another full-body orgasm. So it wasn’t even that surprising when the thrill of his fingers on my nipples seemed to spread instantly all the way through all my four limbs. I squirmed against his body, pressing my damp cunt against his thigh. He pinched my nipples hard, I let out an anguished yelp, which quickly turned into a sigh of pleasure as he resumed his gentle caress of the underside of my breasts. And there was no hurry, none at all, no need to rush this along to get to the main course, for no-one knew where we were that night, and we weren’t expected anywhere else until late the next morning. He was all mine, and I was all his. I choked out a quick request for permission to come, just as my pussy began to tremble in the first spasms of ecstacy. It seemed to go on for longer than ever, and stronger than ever, until finally the tremors died down, and I lay limp in his arms, unmoving. And still he kept fondling me, my nipples numb and unresponsive at first, and then, gradually, tingling, and I felt it starting all over again, slowly building, and the second time even more powerful than the first. I felt so full of happiness, I could burst.


“So how was it?”

“Horrible,” I mumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed in my pink and white summer dress, the light fabric stretched tautly against my bare breasts, and – my face flushed with shame to think of it – their always-erect nipples. “Everyone was staring at me.”

“They weren’t really,” he informed me, calmly taking a bite of his croissant. “You just thought they all were, and that’s what matters.”


“Thank you, the Edge,” I murmured, wriggling down on the bed to take his dick into my mouth and run my tongue languorously up and down the shaft, swirling it around the head, and taking him deeper and deeper until I was lapping at his balls with my face buried in his groin. And then, choking, gasping, coming up for a breath of oxygen before I did it all over again.


We stood in the living room, face to face. I felt that dull ache in my head as I struggled to keep my emotions in check. All that planning, all that stress, all that anticipation, had been for just these 22 hours which we had spent together. How quickly they had flown! Always caught up in the moment, I hadn’t kept track of how few we had left, until now, until the very end. As though to console me, he began to caress my breasts. How futile an endeavour! It was almost exasperating, for how could he expect me to feel a thing through the fabric of my dress and the substantial Wonderbra which had, by now, regained its rightful place beneath it? And yet, gradually, the faint sensations began to build up across my skin, and I felt that corresponding tug down below as something deep within me stirred. Soon, I was begging him again for one last moment of pure joy before we said good-bye.

“We didn’t even get to drink the champagne…” I paused at the door, suddenly remembering.

“Oh, just give it to your husband,” he laughed, and turned away.


Standing in the kitchen at my brother’s flat, talking to my cousin on my phone, I absent-mindedly turned on the tap and held an empty glass beneath it. And, all of a sudden, I remembered standing here exactly one year before, to the day, the last time I had filled a glass with water from this tap, for a man lying on the bed in the spare room – a stranger, but a stranger who had known me as intimately as only a handful of people in living memory had known me. His modest request for water had thrown me into a panic – the kitchen was unequipped and I was lucky to find a solitary drinking glass in the cupboard. There was nothing to wash it with, so I just had to hope it was clean enough… but what did that matter? Who was this guy to me, anyway? What were the chances that I would ever even see him again…?


One thought on “The Kind of World Where We Belong

  1. Hmmm … it would seem you have come a long way filling his requests in a single year … I can imagine how he sees you as a drink of fresh, cool water … an oasis from his everyday life. It would appear as you see him that way too. Nice writing btw … very enjoyable


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