I was immediately breathlessly excited, and made myself unpopular at work by taking a day in the middle of an important project. I just did it; I hardly cared. I was worried underneath that my career was suffering, but there was no way I would pass up time with him, or do anything that might annoy or disappoint him.
Besides, there was something about the way he spoke to me that made me think he was going to push me further, and it made me realise that I had not been totally happy — I had been growing bored; because I wanted this — whatever it was. Wanted it very much. He was right — I wanted it to go further — deeper. Darker. My breath caught in my throat at these thoughts — I had no idea what they meant, and I was too scared to try to imagine, so I concentrated on getting ready.
I was determined to be as perfect as possible for him, to express my gratitude and hopefully deserve whatever it was he had in store for me. I didn’t dare think what it might be in case of frightening myself. I spent a careful hour preparing myself, shaving, plucking, perfuming, make-up (he liked a very natural but actually rather labour intensive look — I was to look immaculately natural, in waterproof long-lasting products, that would survive a session; hard to apply, expensive; I loved it).
I chose the most provocative outfit I dared for a public date; really high heels with ankle straps and a little platform to the sole; a short, flared, high waisted skirt with an open fronted blouse in thin starched cotton over a strapless half-cup bustier that made my breasts very obvious, the nipples clearly standing out.
He’d told me he’d collect me from a corner near the park, but he was late. Alone, standing in such provocative clothes, I began to feel quite vulnerable. Men in builder’s vans whistled at me, shouted about my breasts. Still he didn’t come. I was getting chilly, nervous, but dared not leave. It was half an hour at least until he came. I was almost crying as I ran across the road to his car, but I dared not reproach him. I made myself smile — and indeed, as soon as I saw him, I was happy again.
He was rather cool, through lunch, having seated me in a prominent position on the terrace of the park cafe, so that I was ogled a fair bit. There was something different about him, something strange — just as calm and confident, just as captivating, but still … different. All my nerves resurfaced, my belly fluttered inside, though he smiled at me and complimented me on my choice of clothes.
He talked about how it was with us – how it had been recently – almost entirely sex; asked me how I was feeling about this. And I – I answered, truthfully, blushing, that – that it was good, good for me – because, now that he didn’t have to give me a whole evening, he was fucking me more often than he had been before.
“So you’re pleased that I consider you as just a girl I can fuck whenever I need to come? That I feel very free to treat you like that – fuck you hard and fast if I want, just come in your mouth or ass, and leave?”
It was – harsh – to hear him say that, and in a public restaurant, too, where I was quivering at the idea that someone might be listening in; but when it came down to answering him, it was simple to be honest and sincere (though it made me blush to hear myself);
“Yes. Yes. I’m pleased to … to be treated like that – that you feel free with me in that way.”
He looked calmly but long and steadily into my eyes after that, and I blushed more, but held his gaze as long as I could, feeling my nipples harden and my sex heat up, until at last I couldn’t cope any more and dropped my gaze.
At last I leaned forward and said, as quietly as I could while being heard;
“Please. Please will you take me somewhere now, right now, and fuck me – hard and fast, just like you said. Spank me too, hard. Please.”
He stayed impassive for a while longer, while I trembled and blushed, so needy, so exposed. And then he smiled at me, almost sweetly – a smile I hadn’t seen for weeks, and reached out to caress my cheek;
“Sorry, pretty – we’ve an appointment, and if we do anything else, we’ll be late. But thank you – that was exactly what I needed to hear. You are, as always, a remarkable creature.”
He drove to a scruffy part of town — not our normal sort of place. The traffic was terrible, but no matter that we were sitting in a jam, he didn’t speak, or look at me, and I didn’t have anything to say to him, I realised. Instead, I hiked my skirt right up so that my panties almost showed, and undid almost all the buttons on my blouse, spread my legs and reached my hands behind the headrest and locked them there, making myself passively available for him, as he’d had me do on a long country drive once. He didn’t touch me, or give any sign that he’d noticed, even. It was wonderful how this deliberate spurning affected — me had my heart beating, my cheeks burning. It was terrible and glorious, all at the same time, what he could do to me (but wasn’t I doing this to myself?), and how simply.
When we had finally parked in a dingy industrial area, he walked me to a nondescript steel door between shabby shopfronts, and after a wait we were buzzed in. Inside there was a corridor and stairs, and I faltered for a second as I took in the decor. Wild, elaborate, grungy tattoos — hundreds of pictures, of all sorts of markings. Not only tattoos, but piercings.
R looked at me.
“No questions, no talking. It’s time for you to be marked. Go up the stairs, second left. I’m behind you.”
He was calm as ever, his voice wasn’t harsh or stressed — perhaps if it had been I would have failed him, then — I was on a knife edge. But as it was, I controlled my panicky breathing and, after a few seconds, dropped my gaze and obediently started up the stairs. My heart was going 19 to the dozen — I could feel a vein throbbing in my neck, and I had to consciously make myself breathe. But I made myself walk as elegantly as I knew how, and stopped looking at the the pictures. I was doing what he wanted. This was it — the next thing. We were at the door. I stopped, unsure. R knocked.
“Yeah”
R opened the door and pushed my shoulder. I walked in, knees weak, chest heaving — I could feel my breasts moving, knew that my stiff nipples would be obvious to whoever.
My God, to him! The biggest man I’d ever been close to — huge — maybe 6’8″, wide shoulders, body-builder muscles, rippling under a sea of tattoos, visible because he wore only a singlet and knee length shorts. Straggle hair, backwards cap, neatly stubbled beard. A caricature, but a real man, in front of me, now.
“You’re R?”
His voice was as gravelly as the caricature suggested. I was blushing pink, feeling very small and delicate, like a little girl, next to this mountain of muscle and bone and masculinity.
“That’s right.” R sounded as calm as ever.