La Chaleur Humaine

I remember it as though it were yesterday, and yet, at the same time, it feels like something which happened long ago, because of where it is in my mind – in that space reserved for the things we know we never will forget. Hidden away in that darkly-lit dungeon – well! How could it not seem like a dream?

I stood before him that day, in a kind of wilted and woebegone way, but as he dragged his fingers slowly across the front of my dress, across my nipples standing out beneath the thin fabric, something stirred inside me, not gently at all, but very violently – I couldn’t ignore it, or hold it back at all. My body was like a machine, coming to life with the power turned on, when all the rest of the time it lies silent and motionless in a corner, and no-one can tell the use of it at all.

I knew that I should pace myself, that it couldn’t be that every time he touched me, I should feel my nerves racing to respond to his touch, but so it was. And when he squeezed my nipples hard, I felt a rush of – “pain and pleasure,” he said, but no, not that – or was it? In the past, it always vexed me that he would hurt me, so presumptuously, so gratuitously, twisting and pulling my tender flesh, but that was because it had only hurt me, and this time, it had not the sharpness of pain, but a kind of fullness, a kind of promise… like the smell of coffee in the morning.

I took my time undressing him, letting my fingers trail across the soft cloth of his shirt – a thicker material than last summer’s linen – and lingering, lingering, until I felt the familiar taste of him in my mouth.

When he entered me, and I felt his body against mine, in the old familiar way, my legs on either side of my head, and he asked me if this was what I’d been waiting for, I couldn’t just say “yes” – I said “yes” with my body and soul. I was brimming over with emotion when I lay back, spent, and when he leaned over me, encircling my nipple with his lips, I burst into tears as I begged him not to let me feel his teeth, for he had hurt me there once before, and the memory had scarred me, even though the assault itself had left no trace. And I cried not with fear, but with the shame and guilt of asking him to stop – of doing something so horrible, and so unlike me. But then he murmured craftily, “You picked a bad place to say ‘no’ to me – a dungeon, where I have so many implements with which to punish you for it,” and I turned my tearful eyes to him with a smile, for I knew he had forgiven me.

He took me on the swing, the black leather swing, and this was different too – strange and unnatural, but he slapped me sharply a couple of times…

We drank champagne, sitting in bed, and I tried to blow him, with champagne in my mouth, leaning over him with my lips tightly pursed to keep it from spilling out on the sheets, but I was too afraid of the mess. And then our champagne flutes stood on the shelf beside the bed and I lay with my hips raised on a plump white pillow as he pushed into me again, but the more he filled me, the more it seemed I yearned to be filled.

“It’s time for me to tie you to the cross,” he said gently. My legs shook like jelly as I climbed off the bed, and stepped gingerly onto the foot-rests of the St Andrew’s cross, my legs pulled wide apart, fastened at the ankles, as were my wrists above my head. And the cross was so construed that my breasts seemed to jut out obscenely, inviting the torture which awaited them. My screams rent the air as the switch fell upon my quivering flesh, landing always just beside my taut nipples, and never, thankfully, right across them. When at last this torture ceased, my legs were shaking violently, as they have done on only two or three occasions – in the throes of childbirth, and once after a vicious ass-fucking from the OP.

He ran his hands curiously across my reddened flesh, my nerves jumping and jerking beneath his touch, sending waves of excitement through my body. I moaned aloud and asked him to let me come, but he told me to wait, as I struggled to still that first quivering contraction, holding my breath, to hold it in. Only for a moment, and then he allowed me to release it, to release it all.

And then – just then – there came the unmistakeable sound of a doorbell. And strangest of all was that he seemed not in the least disconcerted by this unimaginable interruption, making only the vaguest concession to decency as he pulled on a coat and disappeared to answer the door. It occurred to me with a shock that he must have orchestrated this somehow, arranged for a delivery or something to be made at this precise moment, just to add to my discomfiture  – but how? And why did I hear foot-steps approaching, and the murmur of low voices in the hall?

She loomed over me, gazing at me with a kind of friendly curiosity from beneath her shadowed lids, her broad, somewhat coarse, lips hovering close to mine as he introduced us. I cowered from this unfamiliar presence, as much as I could, strapped down and exposed as I was! I couldn’t help but notice her hair – blue, and green, like a mermaid’s, and her high-heeled boots, bedecked with ribbons. While I had never felt so fully undressed!

“Would you like to leave?” he asked, vexingly solicitous. It upset me to be treated as some kind of unsporting straight-edge prude, or worse, a peevish, hyper-sensitive attention-seeker. And in front of an obvious fun-loving free spirit like her – to make me out to be the kind of petty bore who would climb off this St Andrew’s cross and absurdly storm off! I almost felt that the only way to teach him a lesson for so misjudging me would be to do just that, and see how he liked it. My wounded pride demanded it, and would settle for nothing less than a crazy show of defiance.

“Please, pour me another drink,” I said.

She removed her clothes, to reveal a frilly, flimsy undergarment which drew one’s eyes instantly to her exposed breasts, with their upturned nipples, and she crawled toward him on her hands and knees, taking him into her mouth, while my eyes followed the rippling expanse of red and green ink on her long, firm back. It was strikingly crude, almost as though it were the work of a madman, or a drunkard, and before I could tell what conclusion to draw from this, she was scrambling to her feet, and followed him into the torture chambre, where I watched her climb onto the leather swing. And it hurt me a little, to see her there, but I jumped up onto a nearby table, whose surface rattled and shifted alarmingly as I crawled across it – some kind of torture device, no doubt – to get a better view as he attempted to penetrate her.

“There’s something wrong,” he told her, at last.

“Something wrong?” she retorted boldly. “Something wrong with the swing? Or something wrong with your cock?”

I glanced up quickly from my telephone, and it seemed clear – so clear that even I could not misconstrue it – that this was my cue to speak. And not just to speak, but to take control, as it were, in the only way that I knew.

“Would you like me to go down on you?” I asked her. “Only if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind?” she repeated, in disbelief.

Her skin was smooth and silky between her legs, folded tightly like the petals of a budding flower. In vain, I tried to coax the tiny core of it out with my tongue, as she wriggled her hips toward me encouragingly, but it was when I probed her depths with my finger that she really responded, her back arching, and her muscles closing in on me, trapping me inside her. And when I rose, and saw her lying flushed and breathless on the bed below me, I felt as though she had made me a rare and splendid gift, so beautiful, that one wouldn’t care even it were counterfeit.

We sat, then, the three of us, we drank champagne and we talked, and I’m sure it was a strange, crazy scene, but drunkenly it seemed to me that I loved them, and that they loved me too.

But it stunned me, when I stumbled back from the bathroon, to see them locked in an alien embrace, their naked bodies entwined – and not mine – that was strange, but then she knelt at the end of the bed, her head bent over his groin as she ministered to his growing erection, and I crouched beside her, running my tongue across his balls, without even thinking. Then he made her lie back, pushing my head between her spread legs while he slid his hard dick into my ass. I was afraid – something could go wrong – but I loved it, closing my eyes, the better to enjoy the force of his thrusts as he rammed into me. My tongue faltered on the supine girl’s cunt as I felt him flood my bowels with come, and then he dragged me off her, to place my lips around his dick instead and suck him clean.

“Now get out of here,” he growled in her ear. “Your two hours are up.”

Two hours? I felt we had spent but twenty minutes together, and with a pang of regret I kissed her goodbye, as she pulled on her gaudy Moschino boots with boyish vigour and sauntered down the hall to the door. But I had already forgotten the taste of her by the time we left for dinner – neutral, and unremarkable, unlike her.

And oh! it felt so natural, to stand by his side at the door, waiting to be seated. We had been there before, and I remembered sitting across from him, rigid and self-conscious, as I was always, but this time I stepped in beside him so lightly and easily, full of confidence, and yet not the sinister confidence which normally graces me, when in the company of someone whose opinion no longer matters to me at all. I wore my best diamond earrings and choker and the dress of mine which he likes the best. Everything was unfolding so beautifully, and it was just the beginning.

I trod carefully on the stone steps, back to our dark lair, fumbling with the key. Still a little intoxicated with champagne and wine, I hoped he would take advantage of me, most cruelly. And he did – first, he stripped me, dragged me to the bathroom, and relieved himself on me. And then tied me up again on the cross, this time facing away from him – I shivered, thinking of what was to come, but I could only barely see, reflected in the mirror, as paced the floor behind me. First, I felt the smooth, flat surface of the ruler land upon my quivering flesh, and then the sharper, punishing cane, and never knowing when (or where) one stroke would follow the other, I had to hold my breath and just hope that I could hold out until the end… whatever it might be!

He released me at last, and helped me onto the swing again, my bottom stinging delightfully as I dragged myself up against the black leather, my legs splayed obscenely, held up by the heavy silver chains attached from the swing to the ceiling. And he entered me, pushing against the swing to set my body in motion, so that he could use me for his pleasure, like a toy. Then, tiring of this, he spotted a heavy rubber implement standing in the corner, and lifted it up. It looked to me at first like a kind of rounded club, or a mace, but when I saw it more closely, I realised it was a thick rubber paddle. I tried to escape, jumping off the swing and turning to protect my tender, already-marked bottom from the blows, but my efforts were in vain, for he pulled me towards him with one arm around my neck, holding me immobile while he thrashed my striped and stinging flesh. I cried aloud, in terror, and in pain!

I held my aching backside in both hands as we fell asleep that night, lying in each other’s arms between the pristine white sheets.

It was still dark when I woke, with a throbbing pain in my head, so that I felt it might burst. This seemed a cruel price to pay for such pleasant transgressions! I lay still in the silence, wondering how to ease my discomfort, when suddenly he awoke with a start beside me, imagining the hour to be much later than it was. I hoped he would not turn back to sleep once he realised his mistake, for his conscience presence reassured me, somehow easing the crushing pain in my temples, ever so slightly. And his fingers, brushing lightly against my nipples standing to attention…

“Now that I have you here, beside me,” he murmured gently in my ear. “I can’t keep my hands off you. You’re like a toy, a new toy for me to play with…”

The searing pain in my head seemed to drown out his words, and dull my senses, so that I was almost unaware of his hand snaking down between my legs, which opened slightly, almost unbeknowst to me, to let him in. And strangely, this disengagement of my mind seemed to release my physical self from some mental bondage, allowing sensations of heightened pleasure to tumble over me, rushing madly through my veins, overwhelming me with unstoppable intensity. And so it was at that moment, in that witching hour between night and day, with so many thrills all melting together, and almost melding into one. I have wondered many times, since then, if I could recreate that feeling, on my own, at home – or with someone else – but I know that I never could, for it could only have existed as it did, in that magical place, at the end of his fingertips. Incredibly, the pain had gone, and I felt weightless, floating, over the sheets now soaked through with the ebb and flow of my arousal. And there seemed no end to this, for however much he gave, I wanted more.

So much, that when he told me to get up, and follow him to the bathroom so he could relieve himself upon my willing face and naked breasts, I was surprised by my own reluctance. Always slavishly selfless, wishing for nothing more than my partner’s satisfaction, how could I want to keep him there, with one arm wrapped around me, cupping my breast, and the other entrenched between my legs, strumming my swollen clitoris like the strings of a harp? And he had already drawn so many chords from me – more than I could ever have imagined. But I pulled my legs together at last and swung them over the side of the bed, standing unsteadily, the floor seeming to undulate gently beneath my feet. He grabbed my hips and pulled them towards him, pushing my head and shoulders down onto the bed as he plunged into me. Then he threw me onto the bed and climbed on top of me, fucking me hard with my legs on either side of my head as I cried with pleasure.

“Why do you like it?” he demanded. “Tell me what you want from me!”

My eyes widened in horror – how could he expect me, at this moment, to formulate a thought? He had asked me only to make a fool of me. I gazed at him, beseeching him silently, but he persisted, holding me down and riding me roughly, almost as though he were dragging the words from me by force.

“I want you to take me,” I cried at last, through clenched teeth. “I want you to use me, I want to come with you inside me…”

With a mighty thrust he released his hot ejaculate into my pulsing cunt, and I moaned and squeezed him tightly inside me, wishing to draw out this moment for as long as could be!

“Now go and get us breakfast,” he told me.

I slipped on my thin black dress and my coat, and emerged from the dark depths of the dungeon, shivering and blinking in the cold morning light. It was very early, but two men sat at a table in the Italian café across the street, and they looked up at me, puzzled, when I walked in. A gangly fellow emerged from behind the bar, smiling awkwardly as he took my order.

“Do you work around here?” he asked pleasantly.

“Er… no,” I answered hastily, ignoring the expectant pause with which my answer was met, for I was by now plainly aware of the trickle of semen coursing down my legs! At that moment, the door opened, and an East Asian girl walked in, directly behind me. Pressing my damp thighs tightly together, I prayed she would not lower her gaze, to where I was certain a treacherous puddle had formed already between my legs. The man took an interminable eternity to prepare the cups and bags, and make change, which he handed over, with a show of reluctance to see me leave. I stuffed the coins into my pocket, and took flight, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard the clang of the iron gate behind me as I climbed down the stairs to our underground lair.

We sat in bed, eating and drinking coffee, and I felt hardly self-conscious at all, almost like we were old friends. We had to go soon after that, and I was sorry to leave that place, not only because it had been the scene of such sweetness, but because this marked the beginning of the end of our time together. We sat next to each other at the back of the taxi on our way to the hotel at the station, but there seemed a gulf between us. I could hardly wait to reach the safe confines of our new quarters.

“What shall we do now?” he asked me, once we had surveyed the room, and its luxurious fittings. “Would you like to have a meal?”

“A meal?!” I snorted contemptuously.

“Well, then, not a meal,” he smiled, and, turning towards the grand upholstered chair by the window, he beckoned me to follow. Once seated, he bade me lie face-down across his legs, which I did, feeling awkward and self-conscious again, as is my wont. I could feel him lift my dress up and pull my underwear down to expose me, and I felt strangely vulnerable. Surely one should feel more defenceless strapped to a cross by all four limbs than resting lightly upon a man’s knee? But there was something abject about the position itself. I felt I had offered myself entirely up to him, as some kind of plaything, for his amusement. Even without restraints, it was a position from which no degree of defiance could be envisaged.

His hand came down sharply, upon my bare flesh, but it was more humiliating than painful, to be struck in that ignominious position. But soon those playful slaps had turned into a torrent of blows, each one landing so soon after the other that I had no time to anticipate or brace myself for the impact, and I felt the familiar panic rising up within me, and cried out for mercy! He paused, and for an instant I thought he might heed my entreaties, but it was only to reach for a glass of water lying on the table beside him, and, holding it for a moment above my quivering backside, release a small stream of cold water upon it. I knew at once why, for he had often explained to me that the skin stings more when wet, and I felt honoured that I was finally to experience this!

When he deemed my punishment over, he bid me rise and remove my underwear, for it was soaked through with water, and then the rest of clothes, and then, as I had done so many times before, I knelt at his feet to untie his shoelaces, and then to undress him. And I smiled, as my fingers lingered over the buttons of his shirt – the same shirt I had drawn from his chest just the day before, when we had this whole adventure still ahead of us. And I smiled through tears, to think that it was almost over.

He waved to me from the window, as I sat in the train a couple of hours later, tired and sore, my damp clothes clinging to my bruised skin, but I couldn’t see him. We didn’t know when – and where – we would meet again. So we lived always in the present, each day as if it were our last. But oh! how I wished it could last.

I paused, on my way home that night, before the mirrored door in the hallway, and I was taken aback to see the reflection which greeted me – a shadowy apparition, startled, wide-eyed, with a slender neck like the pale stalk of a dark-petalled flower, one hand poised lightly on the door handle, to turn it, and walk through. And for a moment, I thought this was someone else – not me – on the other side of the door. It was as though I could see myself through someone else’s eyes – not the self I had grown up with, all my life, but something wild and free – the beautiful creature he had made out of me.

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