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That Sort of Thing

by | longer works | 0 comments

They were at a gallery opening. Freshly painted white walls covered in neat rows of colorful canvases. People milling about sipping red wine. The room was abuzz with a hundred conversations, sounding like a tipsy beehive.

Mitzi Parker, the assistant to the gallery owner, eyed the crowd and spotted two friends she had been meaning to introduce for months.

She swept over to Valentine first, taking her arm and pulling the pretty redhead halfway across the room, her mind set on the perfect match she imagined the two of them making.

“Val, this is Mark,” Mitzi said, tugging the arm of the tall man in a smart black suit, so that her two friends faced each other awkwardly.

“Mark is a writer!” Mitzi said with raised eyebrows.

Valentine smiled at him shyly and he looked down at his glass of wine with slight embarrassment, feeling pressure to be as interesting as his introduction sounded. 

“Nice to meet you,” Val said, shaking his hand as her eyes lingered on the perfect knot of his thin black tie.

“You too,” he said with a laugh, watching Mitzi the matchmaker walk away. 

Val wore a red wrap dress that clung to her curves. It was not low cut enough to be scandalous, though it was sultry enough that Mark made a point of not focusing on it for too long.

“Interesting work,” he noted, pointing his glass at the painting in front of them.

The painting was mostly streaks of blue and black, as if the canvas was a dirty window that was just hit with rain.

“I’m not sure I get it,” he said with a frown.

“I don’t know, there is something in the depth of the blues,” Val said moving a little closer.

“The way everything bleeds down, it just seems so sad, like life draining away.”

He nodded and sipped his wine somberly.

“I guess I’ve never been one for paintings. I think there is a lot of beautiful work, but I always seem to be looking at something and not seeing all the deep things everyone else sees. I’ve always been far more of a book person.”

“Well, I think it’s fine to just enjoy something for its beauty,” she said with an understanding smile.

His smile had some edge to it that made her both nervous and giddy.

“What do you write?” Val asked.

Mark continued looking at the painting silently. After a pause that lasted long enough to bring back the initial awkwardness of their introduction he turned to her and said, “All sorts of things. I just got a piece in Wired about internet dating.”

“Oh, I’ve tried that. What did you have to say about it?”

He shrugged.

“I guess that it has its time and its place. It isn’t for everyone, but at certain points in certain people’s lives it can be extraordinary. Give me your email and I’ll send it to you,” he said taking a pen and a business card out of his pocket.

She scribbled her name and email and then looking up at him again her phone number.

“Valentine, hm? That’s quite a name,” he said with a crooked smile, moving closer and whispering in her ear, “I’m glad we were introduced. I noticed you the minute I walked in. You have these sort of hungry eyes. You were standing in the corner watching everything, taking it all in, devouring the whole party.”

She felt her face redden as she smiled.

“I’m off for more wine, would you like some?” he asked holding up his empty glass.

She shook her head. As he walked away she cursed herself for not having a witty rejoinder for his “hungry eyes” comment. His hand on her hip and his mouth near her ear made her swoon.

In the busyness of the gallery, Val lost track of Mark. Mitzi came back with an eager grin.

“So, what do you think of him?”

Val rolled her eyes.

“He’s a charmer, I hope he comes back,” Val admitted.

Mitzi looked around.

“Oh, I think he’s stuck talking to some literary people over there. I think they’re all fascinated and horrified by him.”


Mitzi’s grin grew even more eager. Val recognized the look of her friend when she had some gossip.

“Yeah, didn’t he tell you? He writes erotica. Really dirty stuff from what I’ve heard. He’s good though and that agent keeps trying to get him to tame his stuff down so he can get a contract with one of the bigger publishers.”

“Really? What kind of stuff?”

“I’ve never read any, but I heard it’s pretty risqué,” Mitzi shrugged.

Val looked around for Mark again, wondering what sorts of things the well dressed man wrote. Wondering if she could get up the courage to ask him. Hell, she blushed from a simple compliment, what would asking him about his dirty stories do to her? 

Mitzi rushed off to welcome two women in fur coats and Val went back to examining another painting.

After finishing a second glass of wine, Val looked down at her phone to see that it was nearly eleven and she swore to herself she would be home by ten thirty. She cursed and turned around only to bump into Mark again.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, glad he wasn’t holding a drink.

“My fault, I’m already spinning a little from three glasses of this wine. Sorry I didn’t come back, I was cornered by a gang of jackals,” he said looking over at the two older women Mitzi had pointed out.

“I saw, sorry I couldn’t save you, I didn’t have a gazelle carcass handy,” she said.

She moved a bit closer, wishing he would put his hand on her hip again. She chided herself for craving something so silly.

“So, where were we?” he said, clearing his throat.

“Damn, we were talking art and writing, but I have to go. I’m out past my bedtime on a school night.”

“That’s too bad,” he said with a genuine frown.

“Well, give me a ring-I mean a call, or an email,” she said, so bold she shocked herself.

He brightened.

“I will, that sounds lovely.”

“Lovely?” she thought. Seemed like an old fashioned way of putting it, but she liked it.

Valentine googled “Mark Norfolk” the minute she got home, rolling around in bed with her laptop, still wearing the slinky dress she wore to the gallery. She learned that risqué turned out to be a bit of an understatement.

There were spankings and rope, leather, voyeurism, even some whips and chains, but none of that was all that shocking. It was the roleplaying and the taboo stuff that really confused her. From the girl who liked to feign sleep while her friend came and took advantage of her, to the boss and secretary, to the adult couple who liked to pretend to be a little girl and her dirty daddy, it was all forbidden and often hit some dark place inside of her. It all seemed wrong and hot at the same time, making her blush and squirm and make bargains with herself that she would stop reading after the next paragraph.

She never stopped though. She finished every story she found, her bottom lip raw from being bitten and her fingers wrinkled from spending too much time between her legs. She read until almost three in the morning, falling asleep with her laptop next to her pillow.

That Monday at work the stories floated around in her sleepy head. His dirty games and twisted fantasies were waiting for her every time she slipped into a daydream. She couldn’t shake them.

After lunch, she snuck away to the little-used basement bathroom to look for more stories on her phone. She found some anthology and bought the ebook. After devouring the first hot chapter, she pushed her hand under her pantyhose and hoped no one could hear her moans and labored breathing.

After work, she went to the bookstore and found the few things he had in print. She covered the books with a few innocuous magazines so that only the cashier would know her dirty predilections.

Tuesday she awoke feeling guilty and ashamed. When Mark’s email came asking to take her out for drinks or a bite to eat, she wanted to tell him off. She wanted to call him a pervert. Still, he hadn’t told her about the stories or even pointed in their direction, she had found them on her own. He didn’t know the inner debate his words had started inside of her.

It was obvious to her that she shouldn’t go out with him. She didn’t reply to his email. 

That night she dreamt of short skirts and knee high socks and being bent over his lap. In her dream she did exactly what he said and he patted her head and called her a “good little slut.” In the morning she rolled around under the blankets until her bedclothes became twisted and uncomfortable. Then there was nothing to do but strip and look up his little webpage and read one of his stories again, with her hands between her naked thighs.

When she came she let his name escape her lips once.

Thursday she sent him apologies for not getting back to him sooner and wrote that a drink would be lovely. He replied wondering if that Saturday night would work and although she fought with herself before sending a reply, they soon picked out a time and a place.

The main problem with the time frame was that she had ran out of words. She had read all the stories on his webpage and had the few books he had published in print. She even got an anthology he only contributed one short story to and paid extra to get next day delivery.

When she was in the world of his stories, the shame only came after her orgasms. Her face red hot just as she imagined her ass would be if he had his way.

Friday night, without work to keep her mind busy, Valentine had nothing to distract her from both the want and the shame. The truth was, shame was quite familiar to her. The cold in the pit of her stomach that came on after her orgasms were tinged with nostalgia. 

There was another time, another hundred times, when she was younger and more casually curious about the world, when she would fall into those kinds of binges on words. 

In libraries or Internet forums, she would greedily swoon when she would hit on veins of stories in some new world. It could be a fetish she had never heard of or fandom of a show she had only seen a handful of times or some sub-sub-genre that was new to her.

Then minutes would become hours and hours would become days and she would be Alice falling down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. 

This time was different though, this was a man she had met. The safety of anonymity was gone. He was flesh and blood, not a dead French poet or some pixelated icon. 

Closing the browser she remembered why she had stopped going through those specific looking glasses.

When she was just out of college she dated a man called Colin, who had been the leader of their group thesis project in marketing. 

He was charming in a way that made her confused about why he liked her. In her mind he was too smart to like her. He was too handsome to want her. Still he made her feel sexy and brought her out of her shell and, after six months of dating, when he asked her to move in she did so even though it meant breaking her lease and costing her a fortune. 

Her secret weakness, the dirty stories she hid and gorged on between the cycles of guilt, became an even deadlier skeleton in her closet when it was not only her own conscience that judged her, but someone she loved.

The inevitable came when Colin found a folded up wad of printed stories from a particularly depraved British erotica forum in her gym bag.

“You don’t like this sort of thing, do you?”

The “sort of thing” in this case was people who pretended to be animals, treated like pets and put into cages. These human pets were alternately cared for or beaten. The cages had been the real fascination. At one point Val had even subscribed to a dog crate catalog, which she had occasionally masturbated to in the bathtub, picturing the grid patterns that would be pressed into her knees as she helplessly waited to be freed by her master.

The question hung in the air there between them and though she never did answer, he never looked at her the same way. 

Whether his judgement was right or wrong never really occurred to her because Colin was the smart one. He was also the moral one. She remembered the heated indignation in his voice when a friend once bragged about cheating on his taxes and getting away with it. 

Colin was a good man and the look in his face was the same looked she would give herself in the mirror after that. 

When he left he assured her it wasn’t her it was him, but she knew that’s what good men said. 

The day of her date with Mark she almost canceled a dozen times. She made herself promise not to read anything of his that day and almost made it. In the bathroom as her curlers set she absently opened up one of his novels that was sitting on her commode. Instantly she was pulled into the bedroom of a secretary seduced by her boss. The poor girl was being disciplined against her desk, the firm hand of the barrel chested business man pounding again and again across her ass. Instantly her blood started pumping faster.

Looking up from the book she remembered that the person who had written those dirty words would soon be sitting across from her.

Had he done all the things in his books? How much of it was fiction? She imagined some was made up but there was a root of truth.

Would he know that she had been reading his work? Would her blush give everything away?

Val got to the bar early, planning to have a pre-date drink to steel her courage. In those few minutes she convinced herself the the whole thing was a bad idea and she should just leave. She paid her bill and walked out the door, looking for a cab, but there he was.

She smiled and tried to act normal, shook his hand and let him kiss her cheek. His cologne was strong, but somehow smelled right on him. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a soft blue dress shirt.

As he led her into the bar his hand touched the base of her back for the tiniest moment and she remembered reading the male leads in his stories doing that and how the women swooned over it and she cursed the tiny muscles between her legs for contracting in delight.

They talked about the weather and about all the friends they had in common. She mentioned a love of cooking and he told her about some little place in Paris that made the best duck. 

She thought it would be nice to suck his cock in the bathroom of the fancy SoHo bar they were drinking at, how she would walk out of the men’s bathroom first, her lipstick smudged and her knees red from kneeling on the tile and everyone would know.

He asked her if she was alright. She nodded and said that she had a long day. 

“So what do you do?” he said, but his eyes showed that it was a formality.

She mumbled some definition of her boring job. She was in advertising. She wondered if he would like her to call him sir or daddy. The thought made her spill her martini.

He got her napkins and looked concerned. Suddenly, as she dabbed at her breasts, getting the vodka out, the words just bubbled out of her mouth. 

“I-I read your stories.” 

He raised an eyebrow. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a monogrammed handkerchief. She was shaking a bit.

“Plural?” he asked.

She seemed confused by the word. 


“You didn’t say ‘I read one of your stories,’ you said ‘I read your stories,’ plural,” he said calmly, putting the handkerchief back in his jacket pocket and sipping his whiskey. 

He studied her and she felt herself shrink under his gaze. The shame came to her again, and again it was swirled with want and started the same chemical reaction that made her late for work the morning before.

“Which stories did you read?” he asked, sipping from a tall glass of water.

She wanted to lie, but her tongue, like the rest of her body, was a traitor.

“I don’t know. All of them,” she whispered.

He seemed to be trying hard not to gloat as he sipped his drink. She was put off by his cocky smile, but her thighs muscles were flexing as she remembered bits and pieces of his stories.

“Any favorites?” 

She couldn’t answer, her face was burning and red. He sipped his drink and watched her, waiting for her to answer but no reply came.

“I don’t know,” she said, the fear in her voice made it sound foreign to her, “many of them were… not the sort of thing I’m into.”

He eyed her with concern. There was a pause that grew into tense silence.

“Well, I suppose that’s too bad,” he said sadly.

“Still if you read them all you must have liked some of them,” he postulated, stirring the ice cube around in his glass.

She looked down at the bar, feeling her face grow hot.

“Well, yes, I mean, there is a lot of good writing there. I mean, the one with the blonde girl-” she started then she silenced herself as the smiling bartender came back and asked how the drinks were.

Both of them nodded at him and he thankfully took the hint and went back to drying glasses on the other side of the bar.

The embarrassment overtook her and she stewed in silence as he waited for her finish her story.

“Well, this may not be the right place to talk about those sorts of things,” he said finishing his drink in one large sip.

“Yeah, probably not,” she whispered, her face glowing red.

There was another long uncomfortable pause. He seemed, for a moment to be enjoying the awkward silence, but then it dragged on and his smile faded.

“We could go to my apartment and finish the conversation,” he said.

As always, want and guilt battled in her head. She wanted to go home with him. She wanted to do all the dirty things in his stories, but she didn’t want to be a bad person. She didn’t want him to think of her as easy. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror, knowing she had let herself go so far to the dark side.

“Maybe that’s not a good idea,” she mumbled, though it wasn’t what she meant to say.

Mark nodded somewhat somberly.

She sighed, wondering if she had ruined the night. Wondering if all she would have was his stories. Looking up at him she saw again that he was handsome. Not the kind of guy she usually went for, a little more old fashioned, with his three piece suit and his cufflinks, but she liked it. She liked him.

“Maybe we could meet in the middle?” he said with raised eyebrows.

“I mean, I would like to talk to you more about stories and other not safe for public things, but I don’t want to push you. Maybe we could go to your place or a quieter bar?”

She gave him a crooked half smile as scenarios ran through her head. All of them involved him fucking her at some point. Most of them involved her liking it.

He looked into her eyes.

“How about we decide now that we will only talk and flirt and maybe kiss,” he said with a smile.

She liked that idea, though she wondered if either of them could go through with it.

“Just-” she tried to find the right phrasing.

“Just promise you won’t try and sleep with me. Even if I seem to want to. I don’t want to be that person, somebody who goes to bed with someone on the first day,” she said, both blushing at her boldness and her prudishness at the same time.

He thought about that and nodded.

“I promise I will not fuck you tonight, no matter what either of us says or wants.”

She saw a flicker of both lust and disappointment in his eyes.

He looking over at the bartender and signaling for the check.

“So will you come to my place then?”

She fidgeted and eyed his shoes.

“Yes,” was the only thing she could get out.

As they exited the bar into the cool night air, a line of cabs descended on them. He grabbed one and opened the door for her to get in. She stood there, the cab driver and the writer both looking at her. Her body was all fight or flight, her heart racing, but finally her want took over and she slipped into the backseat. He followed with a smile.

As the cab slid through the humid night he eyed her as she eyed her knees. He moved a little closer and she stayed where she was. He slipped a hand onto her bare knee, just under where her skirt had ridden up and she gasped through tight lips. 

She put her hand on his, though she didn’t push it away.

“Did you read the one about the girl who got fingered in the cab?” he whispered into her ear.

She flushed and nodded quickly. His hand moved up her leg a bit and she whimpered.

“Did you like that one?” he asked, moving his hand away.

She whined and her eyes pleaded with him.

“Yes,” she whispered, her hand going up to his wrist, pulling it back to her leg.

He let out a little laugh. Every time he chuckled she felt like he was laughing at her. She was confused by how the feeling made her wetter.

By the time they got to his place his fingers were just at the edge of her panties and her hand was tight on his, not letting it go father nor letting it escape.

His apartment was in a somewhat rough, but very trendy, neighborhood. The living room was large and spartan with a single huge bookshelf. She felt bold and adventurous being there, the tension of the bar somewhat alleviated by his promise and the touching in the taxi. She accepted the bourbon he poured her and stood by the window wondering when he would kiss her.

He sat in a large leather chair and sipped his drink, letting the two ice cubes jingle in the large tumbler, and watched her as she looked out the window.

“You mentioned the story about the blonde,” he said, with his eyes on her legs.

His gaze made her feel sexy. She sipped the bourbon and winced a little as it burned in her throat.

“Right. I think it was one of your earlier stories. There was a man and a blonde girl. She was younger than him. They were in a restaurant and he was telling her what to do,” she said, trying not to look at him so that she could speak without being embarrassed.

“What did he tell her to do?”

She took another sip, for courage.

“He told her to pull up her skirt when the waiter wasn’t near,” she whispered.


“And touch herself.”

He smiled again. She wanted his hands on her, like in the cab. She wanted him.

“Pull up your skirt,” he said.

She scoffed.

“I’m not one of the girls in your stories,” she said with a laugh.

“Aren’t you?”

She put the drink down on the windowsill, unsure what to do.

“I think you are,” he said with a smirk

She wanted to be angry or rebellious, but she just whimpered.

“I want you to pull up your skirt and show me your legs, show me your thighs and your pretty panties. Did you wear pretty panties tonight?” 

She squirmed and let out the tiniest moan.

“Maybe,” she said into her shoulder.

“Did you wear them because you wanted to show me?”

She felt like she was going to cry and she wasn’t sure exactly why. She had the hem of her dress in her hands and she pulled it up a few inches.

“I want you to show me all your secrets. You read my stories, but I haven’t gotten any of yours,” he said softly. 

He sounded kind and mean all at once and it made her head spin. The bourbon was strong and sweet, it wasn’t the kind of thing she drank but it felt like the right thing to drink at that moment.

“I want to, but I’m scared,” she said and she pulled her dress up more. The window was open a little and she felt the cool air on her thighs.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he said.

“I want you to be scared and pull up your skirt for me anyway,” he said.

She did. She pulled it up, feeling silly, like a little girl.

“Your panties are wet,” he said with a little chuckle.

She felt her face grow hotter.

“Pretty pink silk panties with a wet spot,” he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think of saying.

He chuckled.

“I like that you’re sorry,” there was an honesty and a little surprise in his voice.

“Now pull down your panties for me.”

She did. Smooth silk and lace on her bare thighs, her nerves a little more electric from the fear and the whiskey.

She closed her eyes and heard him take a deep breath and then sigh.

“Did you slip your fingers in there when you read those stories?” he asked gently.

She shook a little as she nodded in the affirmative.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

She nodded, her eyes cast down again, unsure where to look.

“Show me,” he said softly.

She shook her head, no.

“Show me.”

She swallowed, her body and mind confused and aroused.

“I thought you were going to, like, spank me or something,” she blurted, her face red.

He chuckled.

“If you do what I tell you maybe I will.”

She grew more flustered.

“Isn’t a spanking a punishment?” she said, sounding a bit bratty.

“Do you really think anything I could hit you with would make you more uncomfortable than this?”

She pouted.

“Maybe you won’t get anything you want until I decide to give it to you,” he said and she let herself slip into his words.

Her eyes closed as if she were hypnotized and while one hand held her dress the other moved down her body, stopping at her belly.

“Don’t you see? This is one of my stories and you are the slutty girl being made to do all sorts of things for my entertainment.”

She whimpered, wanting to tell him that she wasn’t slutty, she was good, but her treacherous hand moved further down, pulled like a magnet to the wetness between her legs.

“I like the way your body reacts to that word,” he sighed as he played with the single syllable. 

“Slut. Slutty little whore. A slutty little whore with her dress pulled up, fingering herself just like she did when she read all those dirty stories that ‘weren’t her sort of thing.’”

Her throat was tight and her face felt hot as if she were about to cry. Her fingers met the top of her slit and she wanted to stop, she wanted to pull her dress down, tell him off, but then she was just barely grazing her clit and her fingers were moving down to the epicenter of heat and wetness as if it they falling into a well.

“Your fingers are small, wouldn’t it be better to have mine slipping inside of you? My fingers are thick. Or maybe you need something more than fingers? Maybe you are a real slut who can only be satisfied by a cock,” he said and with her eyes closed tight she wasn’t sure if she was really there with him or it was all a story.

“I want-” she whispered, but she couldn’t finish her begging. 

“Tell me what you want, maybe you’ll get it.”

She whimpered again, a wounded bird cry from a girl who didn’t know what she wanted. Her fingers were pushing deeper into her, her thumb making hard circles around her clit.

She wanted to be like the girls in his story. Maybe she wanted him to be like the men in his story. They didn’t ask, they just did things. 

“It’s very pretty to watch,” he said, his voice closer. She didn’t open her eyes.

“It doesn’t take very long for you, does it?” he asked with a new cruelty in his voice.

She shook her head, a few dark curls falling over her face. It was strange how adult it all was and yet how it made her feel small, like a little girl.

She felt warmth on her leg, his hand on the inside of her thigh, gripping tightly, then squeezing. The pain was new and sharp and complex. She let out a throaty yelp, but her hand didn’t stop moving against her pussy.

“You have to stop now, little slut. No coming, not yet,” he whispered into her ear.

Her hand paused and then he took her by her wrist and turned her so that she was facing the window, bent at the waist, hands on the windowsill, shaking.

He pulled at the knot at her side, the one that kept her wrap dress together. As he did the soft smooth material slip open. He pulled the dress off her shoulders and let it fall in a black puddle in the chair next to them.

Then she was in nothing but her pink bra, her panties still around her knees, and her thigh high stockings. She didn’t wear stockings often, but most of the women in his stories wore them. She had almost went all the way and gotten a garter belt, but she had never worn one before and wasn’t sure, so she had gotten the thigh highs with elastic tops.

As she stood there she wondered if she looked silly. She wondered if he thought she was beautiful.

He put his hand on the base of her back and put a little pressure there. Somehow it calmed her, stabilized her.

“Are you going to spank me now?” she said without looking up.

His hand moved to the smoothness of her ass. Her posture was excellent and she arched her back, pushing her butt into his hand.

“You’re like a cat in heat, do you know that? Pushing your ass out, begging for it.”

Again her instinct was to deny it, but as she fought to find the words the first smack came.

She was prepared for pain and that was there, a little, but more it was like some wild new feeling, like the first time she kissed someone. Her knees almost buckled and electricity seemed to shoot from his hand to her ass and then right to her clit.

The second and third smacks came quickly and she braced herself against the windowsill to take them.

“Breath,” he said rubbing her ass.

She took a deep breath, realizing she hadn’t taken one since he first bent her over.

“Open your eyes,” he said, and when she did she wanted to hide.

Outside the window was a busy nighttime street. People probably couldn’t see her, since they were three stories up, but she wasn’t sure. 

He pushed her a little farther forward and she let out a yelp as her nipples came into contact with the cold glass.

More smacks came and a heat was growing on her ass cheeks. That was nothing compared to the fire between her legs.

After that round of spanking his fingers moved down, dipping towards her thighs, then between them. She gasped out loud as his fingers moved across the length of her slit, dragging her wetness up so that his fingers could slip and slide across her.

Before she could stop herself she ground down on his hand, trying to get more contact with his fingers. He chuckled again, moving his hand away a little, leaving her wiggling and begging.

“You’re dripping wet. Such a little slut, trying to hump my hand. Dripping wet and begging to get fingered,” he laughed.

She pouted and whined and mumbled “please?”

He gave her a few more gentle strokes and then stopped.

“Which was your favorite story?” he whispered, a mocking tone in his voice.

She looked back at him and bit her lip.

“I don’t know-” she started and he hit her hard, so hard it startled her. 

The pain was sharp and new and it made her a little frightened. Warmth radiated from where his hand struck her ass and after the initial sting her body swelled with pleasure.

“You know. You know lots of things. You’re a smart little slut. Smart and pretty and wonderfully obedient. Now tell me the stories you go back to over and over. Tell me the ones that make you cum,” he asked again, his voice hard.

She didn’t want to say. The embarrassment of admitting she read his stories was one thing, but to get into details was mortifying.

He spanked her several more times in quick succession.  She whined and yelped and tried to get away from his hand, but he held her in place.

She stopped squirming when she felt his hard cock press against her hip. Even through his pants she could feel the heat of it. She felt a smile well up in her as she realized she had done that. She had made him hard.

“I like the ones that are mean,” she said between labored breath.

“I like,” she buried her face in his lap so she didn’t have to see him when she told.

She sounded like a little girl, confessing that she skipped school.

“I like the ones where two or three men are just using a girl. I like it when they talk about her like she isn’t even there and they-” she paused and then felt his hand raise up and hurried to tell more, to stop him from hitting her again.

“They have sex with her- and-” she fumbled for the words, but not before his hand came down on her ass again, so hard she shouted.

He laughed and then smoothed his hot hand over her red bottom. His fingers dipped down between her legs and she instinctively parted them to give his fingers access.

“You were saying?” he said 

She bit her lip and tried to find the words as his fingers moved into the wetness between her legs.

“The stories when they use a girl,” she said as his finger found her clit.

The feeling was too intense. It was as if she could feel every ridge of his fingerprint agitating every nerve of her clit.

“Filling up every one of her holes. Just fucking her for their own pleasure and ignoring her moans or her screams,” she said, sounding hypnotized. 

“Ah, those stories. Those are lovely,” he said with a sigh.

“Can I use you, Valentine? I’d really like to—how did you put it? I’d like to fill up every hole and use you for my pleasure,” he purred into her ear.

She pushed her hips against his hand again, one of his fingers slipping into her.

“You-you can’t just ask that,” she whined, “you have to, just do it, like in the stories.”

He laughed slowly, a deep dark laugh.

“Yes, but that’s where life has to differ from stories, Val. I need to hear you say it. Plus I want to hear you say it. I want you to ask me to use you. I want you to say please.”

She let out frustrated little noises as his finger pushed deeper into her. She rocked back and forth, getting more of his thick finger.

“Please-” she said.

“I don’t know how to ask,” she whined.

He said nothing, but rubbed his fingers against her wetness and then slipping a second finger into her. It stretched her in a way she hadn’t felt in a while.

“You can do all sorts of things you think you can’t do, Valentine. Now ask me and make it pretty,” he whispered into her ear.

“Please, um, sir? Please use me,” she said between ragged breaths, “use me how ever you want.”

“Sir,” she added, closing her eyes and praying she said it correctly.

He stopped fingering her and brought his fingers to her lips, rubbing her wetness against them.

“Why should I?”

She knitted her brow at that. Wasn’t she pretty enough?

“Because I-I want you to?” 

His hand cupped her pussy, the pressure not enough to get her off, only a constant reminder of how close he was.

“Really? You can do better than that. I thought you were in advertising. Come on, little slut, sell yourself,” he said in the same cruel and playful tone that confused and aroused her before.

She didn’t know what he wanted. She knew it was a game, like in his stories, but her head was too full of want to figure it out.

The slap came quick, it wasn’t very hard, but she hadn’t been slapped across the face since she put her hand too close to the oven as a child and her mother scolded her.

She was snapped out of her fear for a moment and she stared at him directly in the eyes questioningly.

“Tell me why I should fuck you,” he said, looking right into her eyes.

“Because-” she tried desperately to think.

“Because I’m greedy,” she whispered.

He smiled.


“I’m-” the words were there, in her head, from the stories, coming from that dark place she went to when she fingered herself.

“I’m a greedy little-” she wanted to say it but the word stuck in her throat.

He let go of her and she felt herself slip off his lap. She was kneeling on the floor next to the window looking up at him. 

She looked down at the floor and flashes of stories came into her head again. She remembered other girls on their knees. She remembered how much she wanted to be on her knees and how much the thought scared her and suddenly, in her mind, a little switch went off and without moving she went from being on her knees in front of him to kneeling in front of him.

She looked up and wondered if his knowing eyes knew.

“Could you, please, fuck me, sir. I think you would like it. I think, I could be, good, for you. I mean, I could be a good little-” she choked, her eyes burning a little with the heat of the words. 

“I think I could be a good little slut for you.”

He watched her. A beat that seemed an eternity. He knelt down, kissing her forehead.

“I think you could be just that,” he sighed, petting her warm sore ass.

She pressed her face against his chest and pushed her ass back against his hand and felt her body purr with want. 

“It’s too bad I promised I wouldn’t fuck you,” he said with a smile.

She pouted and whimpered and was glad when he didn’t laugh at her.

He helped her dress and sat with her. He made her tea. 

As she sipped at the too hot liquid she looked up to see him watching her from his leather chair.

“I like you,” he said with a plain but happy tone.

She didn’t know what to make of that at all.


He laughed.

“I think we should have another date soon. I think we should come back here and I should play with you some more, without any promises.”

She took another sip of tea and felt herself smirk and grow warmer.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, truly unsure.

Eventually he put her in a cab. She went home a little numb and confused. She thought she would be up the whole night worrying, but she ended up sleeping more soundly than she could remember sleeping in a long time.

The next day the guilt came down on her far stronger than after reading any story.

What was she thinking? She didn’t even know him and she went to his house? She let him spank her? She let him touch her?

Her eyebrows furled as she remembered that except for the spanking he didn’t touch her very much at all. Oh, there was a little fingering. She had almost forgotten. 

Plus he didn’t have her do anything to him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been alone with a man after a date and he hadn’t at least tried to get his dick sucked.

Then the thought of going down on him flooded her mind. She wondered if he would pull her by her hair, like in the stories.

Looking down at her computer, her finger hovered over the mouse, like her finger would hover over her clit, like her mind hovered over the thought of Mark and all the things he could do to her, all the things he had done to her already.

As she thought about it all a small digital bell went off and a number one popped up next to her email icon.

“I’m flattered that you have read my work. I’m a bit confused that you said you ‘weren’t into’ many of the things I wrote about. Could you explain a little more about the things you read that you are into and the things you aren’t into? Charmed, Mark.” 

She looked through the stories she had saved to her computer and the others in her ebook reader and the soft cover books next to her bed. She was surrounded by his words and it made her wet and anxious.

“It’s hard for me to write about this. I guess I’m sort of a prude. I don’t know. I like your stories very much. Every one of them. I just feel very guilty after I read some of them. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get over that. The dirtier they are, the more they turn me on and the more they make me feel bad after.”

Valentine hit send.

Since it was Sunday she tried to keep busy while waiting for his reply. She made herself a big breakfast, took a long jog, slowly and meticulously read the entire New York Times.

When her phone buzzed she jumped like a frightened cat.

“You’re not a prude. Part of the reason I write the things I do is because they play with the ‘bad’ things we aren’t supposed to like. I felt guilty for many years about my desires too, but in time I realized I don’t hurt anyone (who doesn’t want to be hurt.) I may play games about power roles, but I don’t want or condone playing with anyone who doesn’t or can’t consent. I play with big feelings with adults. You are an adult.”

She read the first paragraph over a few times. She wondered if she would ever get to a point where she didn’t feel so guilty. She wondered if he was right. She wondered if she felt so wrong because the things he wrote about and did were actually wrong.

None of that stopped her from reading on.

“Now on to our next date. I think Friday would work well for me. How does that sound? And since reading my work gives you such intense conflicting emotions, I would like you not to read any of my work until then, save my emails.”

She pouted at this last sentence. It wasn’t fair. It was confusing, just like so many of the things he wrote. Confusing and arousing and frustrating and hot.

Valentine finished the paper. She whipped up a salad for an early dinner and watched some random documentary, but couldn’t concentrate. She ended up pacing around her apartment and, as she often did when she was nervous, cleaned.

Looking at the clock she realized it was still only six. She had a long evening alone, then a long week of work. Friday seemed a million miles away and the want was building every second. It was like there was a ticking time bomb between her legs and ever little tick rubbed at her clit.

Her cure, or at least her temporary solace was a quick session with one of his stories. A quick plunge of her hand down her panties and the race to climax. Then she remembered she couldn’t do that. Or could she?

It was stupid, really. She could do whateverw she wanted. Sure, it was interesting and kind of hot that he had told her she wasn’t allowed to read his stories, but as she sat on her bed, ten miles away from him and his cool loft and his cock and his deep rumbling voice, she knew that it was just another game.

“I mean, he doesn’t really expect me to do what he says when he’s not around,” she said to herself as she cleaned up her bedroom some more, putting the collected works of Mr Norfolk on her bookshelf.

She put her ebook reader next to the books, her hands feeling itchy. She thought about the ridiculousness of not reading something she wanted to read. She let out a little laugh. She reached up for the book that was especially dirty, with a story about a pushy lawyer who used his secretary and leant her out to his partners and even took her home and had her babysit for his kids. There was something about the meanness of the male lead that was past Mark’s usual. The character was properly sadistic.

“So why aren’t you reading it?” she whispered.

Her thighs clenched together as she thought about Mark. She remembered how he had a little stubble last time and how she had briefly felt it on her cheek. She remembered his hand on her wrist and how ironlike his grip was.

She found instead of the book she was reaching for her phone. She opened his last email.

“8 on Friday is perfect,” she typed in reply.

The words looked bare, almost stupid. Certainly not weightily enough to communicate what she was feeling. She deleted them.

“I was just standing in front of my bookshelf, looking at all of your books. I wanted to read the one about the mean mean lawyer. I wanted to slip into your world again,” she typed, her knee shaking.

“But I didn’t. I want to be good for you, sir,” as she wrote those last three letters she wondered if it sounded silly.

She didn’t delete them.

“Eight on Friday is wonderful or any time you would like to have me,” she wrote, promising herself she wouldn’t delete anything and she would send him her real thoughts.

“I ache not having your words or your hands until then. It really actually physically hurts, sir,” her face was hot and she was biting her lip.

“But I guess you will like that. I hope you like that. Thank you for your rules, sir,” she wrote and before she could stop herself she hit send.

It felt like dropping something off a bridge. She could imagine her hands clutching at air, trying in vain to get the email back. 

She imagined his cocky smile, maybe even a laugh. “Pathetic little slut,” he would say. Her pussy contracted at the thought. She realized that she was soaking wet. Actually so wet her jeans were slightly dark at the crotch. 

She opened the button on her pants and as if he knew what she was about to do, her phone buzzed.

“That was a perfect letter,” he wrote.

Her heart fluttered and raced. Pride mixed with embarrassment and relief.

“So perfect I would like to see you earlier. Are you free on Wednesday night? I can shift things around and have you over then, if you can continue to be good for me.”

She rocked on the bed, smiling.

“And since you like my rules so much, I will be glad to add another one. Since you now don’t have to wait a whole week, I think it would be best if you didn’t touch yourself until you see me next. No touching your pussy at all other than to wash it. If you are such a dirty needy girl you have to do something, you may squeeze your left nipple.”

She whined. It was salt on the wound. The need to slip her fingers inside of herself tripled and then quadrupled. She squeezed her legs together.

She held her phone and considered. She could back down. She could tell him it was too much. Was it though? Three days and three nights without masturbating? It should have been easy but she shook and whined and slammed a fist into her pillow.

“Yes, sir,” she typed, seeing that she was pouting like a little girl in her reflection on the phone’s shiny screen.

“Yes to Wednesday and yes to your very very mean new rule,” she typed quickly.

She whined as she looked in the mirror across the room. There was a deep blush on her cheeks and down her neck, disappearing under her blouse. It was the most delicious agony yet.

She reached up and rubbed her left breast, finding the nipple already hard and making a visible bump on her shirt. She squeezed her nipple and it felt like she was pulling a string that was tied tightly to her clit.

She closed her eyes and imagined Mark slapping her hand away. She imagined him slapping her across the face. She imagined him tying her down and laughing as she squirmed with need. She even pictured him leading her by a leash to a large metal cage, like a misbehaving pet.

She had to stop or she would really hurt herself. Her nipple already felt sore. Her cunt throbbed angrily. 

She still had three days.

The nights were the worst. Valentine had never been one to excessively masturbate, at least not in her mind. Though to be honest she didn’t think about it much. It was just something she did. She never thought to keep count.

As she laid on her soft cool sheets she realized that since she had found Mark’s story she had been going at it like crazy. Three, four, even five times a day. Her body had become used to it. Going cold turkey was driving her crazy.

Still, more than her body’s needs, it was his rules that drove her mad. It was this loop of need and shame and frustration. She couldn’t touch herself because he told her not to. She wanted to touch herself because of how hot it was that he told her not to. Over and over again.

By Tuesday she was useless at work. She thought of calling in sick, but then she would be trapped in her apartment with books that she couldn’t read and nothing but lust to keep her company.

As stupid as the thing about her nipple sounded, she realized quickly it was the meanest thing he could have done. She didn’t want to touch her nipple, in fact her nipples had never been particularly sensitive, but as her only outlet she found herself moving back to her left nipple over and over again, even if it was sore. Especially because it was sore.

Her nipple, and her use of it, became just another thing that kept her horny and awake.

“I hate him,” she scribbled on a legal pad over and over again as she sat through a meeting.

In the bathroom she pulled her shirt up quickly and pulled the cup of her bra down. Her nipple was red and puffy, the skin around the areola dusted with little red dots from constant abuse. She closed her fingers around it slightly and felt the hot skin.

Had pain been part of it all along?

It’s funny but Valentine had never really considered pain, she had never hurt herself, she had never asked someone to hurt her, and yet there it was and along with the humiliation of his rules it was all she could think about. 

After all, the spanking was supposed to be about being humiliation, wasn’t it? She was a bad girl, over his knee. And it was that, it was a dirty game and she was a little girl over his lap, but more than the game, it was his hand on her ass. It was the rhythm of the bright arcs of electricity that flashed through her brain. It was the out of control feeling of him holding her down.

More than the fantasy, it was the reality that made her body squirm, even thinking about it for a second. One of his hands on her ass, resting, waiting. His other hand on her back, holding her down.

“No, no, no,” she said into the mirror.

She heard footsteps and quickly straightened herself. She looked into the mirror, into her own eyes, and swore she would get through the day.

It was a long Tuesday, but not nearly as long as Wednesday.

She left the office after lunch. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She went home and took a shower and as she thought of sitting in her living room waiting for another five hours, she decided she needed pampering. 

As she walked to the spa near her house she told herself it wasn’t just to have someone touch her in some way. She got a manicure and a pedicure and on a lark she even opted for a Brazilian, remember how Mark had waxed poetic about smooth hairless pussies.

Her body was primed. Sitting still while getting her nails done was almost impossible. The waxing was one of the most intimate and brutal of her life. She wondered what the women thought of her. She wondered if they knew how the pain of hair ripped off of her had a whole new dimension in her head.

Back at home under a third shower of the day, Val gave in and squeezed her nipple a few last times.

Her thoughts were becoming unfocused. The need was this huge looming thing. His apartment was where she would get what she needed.

She ended up wearing a little black dress that was too short and probably too light for the cold day. If she turned the right way she was sure someone could see her garters and the lacy tops of her stockings. She liked it. She didn’t look like herself.

“Slut,” she whispered into the mirror as she put on a dark red lipstick.

Wearing her longest coat she left early and found herself at the subway station near his apartment with forty-five minutes to kill.

Slipping into a coffee house she sat nursing a latte and fiddling with her phone.

“Dear sir, I’m early. I’m eager. I don’t know if I can explain in person how crazy your rules have made me. I don’t think I’m ready to say it to your face without losing my nerve. I’ve been wet for three whole days. My poor nipple is red and sore. I’ve never been so hungry for anyone in my whole life,” she wrote and sent.

She waited and crossed her legs. The silky feel of her hairless pussy surprised her. It made her far more sensitive, which in turn made her far more miserable.

“Come here now,” was all the reply read.

She was surprised to see his warm smile as he opened the door. Perhaps she was expecting him to grab her and rip her clothes off the minute she got there; not that she would have minded that in the least.

The Mark at the door was different than the last two times she had seen him. Different still than the cocky well dressed picture on the book jackets. 

There was something strange about seeing him in jeans. Val had gotten used to his formality. Looking him over, though, even in his casual state he looked fancier than most people she knew. His jeans were new looking, raw denim or something. His sweater was cashmere. His boots were well worn black leather. He exuded luxury.

He took her coat and smiled at her outfit. He kissed her on the cheek but she felt dizzy and numb.

As she sat in his big leather chair and waited for him to finish what ever he was doing she felt small and inconsequential. She also felt horny and couldn’t stop fidgeting.

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary. She took a deep breath and realized she hadn’t eaten since her very early lunch.

He walked by her again, taking a box from the bottom of his bookshelf into the kitchen. She heard water running and when he came back his sleeves were rolled up and he had a serious look on his face.

“It’s not going to be like last time,” he said in a firm monotone.

She nodded.

“Tonight I’m going to use you.”

She nodded.

“Say yes.”

She swallowed and took a deep breath.


“Now ask me to use you, so I know you really want me to,” he said seriously, but with a smile in his eyes.

She swallowed. She couldn’t say that, but somehow the words bubbled out of her mouth, seemingly without her control.

“Please use me, sir, like you used the girls in your stories.”

He smiled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She purred into his fingers.

Thankfully he didn’t make her eat dinner first.

He took her hand and led her to his bedroom. The large bed had black sheets and six huge pillows. It was opulent, dense and firm as she was sat on it.

Next to the bed was a long narrow folding table with a black tablecloth covered in a variety of items. Some of the items that caught her eye were a very large antique looking magnifying glass, a hand mirror, a hairbrush, a pile of coiled light brown rope, a plug in back massager, and a range of sex toys, most of which frightened her.

She turned to see him smiling knowingly. He had caught her looking fearfully at the toys.

“You’ve read many other dirty things besides my books, haven’t you?”

She nodded.

“So you know what a safe word is?”

She nodded again.


She shrugged.

“I don’t know. I can’t think right now. Could you give me one?” she asked weakly.

The desire that had been building was crashing against fear, making her stupid with lust.

“Well, I’m a fan of ‘red’ and ‘yellow.’ You can say ‘yellow’ if something is getting too intense and you want to slow down. You can say ‘red’ if you want things to stop all together,” he explained as he picked up a box and placed a few more items on the table.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He watched her and she squirmed under his gaze.

Moving forward he kneeled on the bed behind her. Her breath caught as he touched her shoulder. How could something as simple as his hand on her shoulder made her body flood with pleasure?

He unzipped the back of her dress, pulling and pushing her to get the thing off. Then he expertly, but unceremoniously removed her bra.

He chuckled behind her and she pouted. He took her chin in his hand and moved her face up so that she saw the mirror on the wall. 

“I can already tell you were a good girl,” he said into her ear.

She watched their reflection as his finger moved across her red nipple. She jumped as if his fingertips were electrified.

“If you are going to move around like that I’ll have to tie you up from the start.”

She shrugged again. It seemed like her only means of communication now, pouting and shrugging. Words seemed impossible.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her straight, making her keep her eyes on her reflection.

His hands had a strength in them that surprised her. He didn’t seem that much larger than she was, nor stronger than men she had been with before, but there was a way he moved her, a way he moved his body, that made it so he was able to completely control her. He posed her and tossed her around like a rag doll, examining her as he growled words in her ear.

“You were a good girl, weren’t you?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Tell me.”

She choked on her tongue, trying to respond.

“I-I was good.”

“What were your instructions?”

“I-I wasn’t supposed to-” she started, but it was too embarrassing.

His fingers tightened in her hair.

“Use your words, Valentine.”

The sound of his voice using her name made her swoon. She steadied, leaned back against him. She closed her eyes and took a breath and swore to herself she would do what he said. She wanted to do what he said. The shame might come later, but she had wanted this or something like it for so many years.

“You told me not to read your stories. I didn’t, sir.”

He smiled.


“And. Not to-it’s embarrassing,” she said trying to look away from their reflection, but getting pulled back by the hair.

“Not to touch myself, except for my-left nipple,” she said, letting out a little laugh realizing how silly the last part sounded out loud.

“Is that why your left nipple is red?”


“Because you couldn’t stop yourself from touching the one part you were allowed to?”



She whimpered.

“Because- I’m a slut,” she said, so low only the fact that he was so close let him hear.

“Good girl,” he said, letting go of her hair.

She smiled at her reflection. The two words making her inexplicably happy.

“Now take off the rest of your clothes,” he said getting up off the bed.

She stood up and undressed, rather quickly. Shame, self consciousness, anxiety, all seemed bated by the want. She realized this was probably his plan, but she didn’t care.

She saw him pull of his sweater, revealing a tight black t-shirt and under it more muscular chest and arms than she expected. 

He moved forward and she instinctively took a step back. He pushed her against the wall, which was cold against her skin.

He kissed her. At first it confused her, everything about his movement made her expect violence, but his lips were soft and his kiss sweet and almost as hungry as she felt.

She let herself fall into the kiss. He hands snaked around her and grabbed her ass, pulling her against him. Soon the kiss deepened and all fear evaporated for a moment.

Mark seemed to be pained as he pulled away, but he collected himself.

“I’m glad you followed my rules. There will be more of them, but for now, get on the bed.”

She slipped from his embrace and climbed on the bed, looking from behind her shoulder as she crawled cat like into the center of the mattress.

He walked towards the table next to the bed, his hand moving over the variety of items before settling on the rope.

She didn’t really see him move at first, because he was so quick, but she suddenly felt her legs pulled from under her as she was flipped over. Her hands were pulled above her and the rope coiled and wrapped around her wrists. Then there was a tightening and a flash of knots and flourish before he pulled her wrists and attached the rope to something at the head of the bed.

Then her legs were being pulled apart and as much as she wanted to do anything for him, she felt herself fight instinctively.

He tied each of her legs in some complicated manner she didn’t understand from her vantage. Her legs were each bent at the knee, ankles tied to thighs, then by the knee each leg was also tied to the headboard of the bed.

This left her legs spread wide and her body mostly immobile.

She started breathing heavy and fast, never having been so exposed, never having so little control over herself. She closed her eyes and tried to keep calm. She told herself it would all be okay. She reminded herself of how much she wanted him.

Then a wave of want broke through the fear again as she realized she was in the exact place she had fantasized about. Like the cages and the confinement and all the other bondage dreams. She really couldn’t move. She was really at his mercy. The realization almost made her come.

Then he slapped her.

“No, no, little girl. No closing your eyes. No going into your head. You’re going to stay with me while I use you,” he said with a big smile.

The first slap was across her face, but the second slap was against her breast. The pain was bright and when he slapped her flat against her breasts three more times it left the skin humming.

The next slap was just above her pussy, right on the sensitive newly waxed skin.

“Well, well, well. Someone has been paying attention. Perfectly waxed. I hope you are not going to be too good or I won’t have a reason to punish you anymore.”

She whimpered as his fingers moved down, almost touching her clit, which felt huge and swollen and like the epicenter of her whole being.

His nails dragged across her thighs, then her stomach, then her breasts, then down down until they again almost touched her clit.

“Please!” she felt the word leap from her mouth.

He only laughed.

She watch as he went to the table again and picked up a short leather strap of some kind. She swallowed, wincing preemptively.

The pain came like a bright flash. Fire across her inner thigh. Once, twice, three times, more, she couldn’t count.

“I’m sorry!” she said, feeling like she had no control over her words.

“Ouch, ow, no sir, please!” as the sting of the leather bit into her other thigh, then her breasts, then, with a pain like brand, it touched her sore left nipple.

She tensed her whole body and felt the strength of the rope that held her. She felt the rough material of the rope, how it bit into her wrists and ankles and legs.

The tears came fast. She didn’t expect them. She had taken the spanking last time, but the strap and the rope were all too much.

“I’m sorry! You said I was good! Please!” she shouted.

Then the tears were pouring down the sides of her face and he was holding her. He kissed her cheeks and eyes. He kissed her lips and she just kept whispering that she was sorry. She didn’t know for what, but it was for everything. She was sorry for being ashamed. She was sorry for being so wanton. She was sorry for crying.

When his warm fingers slipped between her legs she jumped almost as much as she did at the bite of the strap.

Her body was so ready for pleasure that it seemed impossible. Still his fingers didn’t connect. He teased her thighs and the lips of her pussy and even down to the puddle of wetness, but never fully hitting the places she needed.

Her breath came in hisses. 

“I’m going to keep you here all night,” he whispered.

“You are going to suck my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, please, yes,” she cried.

“And you are going to crawl and beg for me to hit you more.”

“Yes, sir, anything, yes.”

He moved from her and took something else from the table. She watched as he stood up next to the bed and pulled of his thick black leather belt. Then he pulled off his boots, unbuttoned his jeans, pulled off his shirt.

His cock was thick, she tried to sit up to see more of him. She wanted it in her mouth. She wanted him so badly she pulled at the rope to get to him.

“No, no, down girl,” he said pushing her down.

She watched as he stroked his cock slowly. It was hard, ridged, threatening looking. Her eyes were glued on it as he tore a condom wrapper and slowly slipped the transparent material over his skin. 

That meant he was going to fuck her. Her body shook. He was really going to do it. The days and nights of waiting and wanting. He was going to do it.

He got back on the bed. He moved in-between her open bound legs. She held her breath until her lungs burned and then took gulps of air.


She felt herself still crying. The hot tears running down her face, wetting her ears and hair.

“Please fuck me, sir. Please, please, please, oh god please,” she said, the word please becoming a mantra.

He laughed his slow rumbling laugh at her need.

His cock touched her slick lips. She froze. He tapped the meaty thickness against her clit and she let out a deep hoarse groan.

“You have to be a good girl if I do this,” he said with a calmness in his voice that made her angry.

“I will, please!”

He slapped her across the breast again, hard, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. There was only the need to feel his cock inside of her.

“You have to be a good girl and come for me when I fuck you. Can you do that?”

She whimpered. She had never come from only penetration, but she thought she just might at that moment. 

He sensed her trepidation.

“I want to, sir. I will try. Please, sir, just put it in, please,” she whined.

He laughed and moved against her, getting something else from the table.

His cock moved against her clit again and the muscles of her stomach tightened. 

He moved lower and the head of his cock was pressing against the opening of her sex. She tried to move forward, to push herself against him, but to no avail.

He moved a millimeter forward, then another, then her body went crazy as he was pushing his whole cock into her.

Then all there was was his cock. The world was just him fucking her. It was like finally, after years of thirst, she was drinking. The itch was being scratched. Her mind was scrambled by pleasure.

Then something unthinkable happened. He turned on a vibrator.

Now, Valentine had a vibrator, but not like this one. This was industrial strength. This was a plug in massager. She didn’t even know what was happening. He was fucking her, but the buzzing was making her whole body into one big erogenous zone.

Before she really understood what was happening an orgasm unlike any she had before was coming, like a tidal wave. And he was still fucking her. He fucked her harder as the orgasm came, in slow motion. He kept fucking her as the orgasm started at her toes and shot up her body until she was screaming.

He was still fucking her as the vibrator stopped and her screaming stopped and then she was motionless, panting, realizing he was now really using her body. He was done giving her pleasure and now he was fucking her like a toy. The knowledge swelled and warmed her. She wanted to make him come. She wanted to be a good girl for him.

Weakly she whispered, “thank you, sir. Please use me. Please, sir. Come inside of me, sir. Please,” and she whispered this over and over again until she heard his rough groans and felt him pound into her and then collapse on her.

The rest of the night went as promised, though after the first orgasm she only remembered bits and pieces.

Mostly she remembered how scary it was that he seemed to read her mind. He seemed know exactly what she wanted and then toyed with her until she begged for it before deciding whether to give it to her or not.

And when she said the words that were darkest and took steps towards the shadows of her greatest shame, there was no damnation. There was no judgement in his eyes. There was only pleasure. There was only, for a moment at least, a world altering catharsis, like all the pieces were falling into place and the fears that filled her were revealed to be nothing but ghosts.

In the morning Valentine felt the guilt even before she woke up. It swirled and festered in her dreams, like a sickness deep in her belly.

She awoke with a start and saw him yawning and stretching next to her. He looked over and smiled, his eyes bright and kind.

He kissed her as she went to cover her face in shame. He pushed her hands away and kissed her again.

“You were wonderful. You were perfect. That was amazing. The most amazing. Perfect, perfect, perfect,” he said into her neck as he tangled his limbs with hers and kissed her again and again.

She felt on the edge of tears, but for that moment she chose to believe him.

“I-I’m not bad?” she asked in a tiny hurt voice.

He put his hand on her cheek and she closed her eyes and pressed her face against his palm.

“You were amazing. The best girl.”

It made something snap inside of her. She folded herself into his arms and let him kiss away her tears.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

As she held him she felt him harden against her and smiled into his chest.

“Sir?” she whispered as they rolled around and kissed.


“Could I, um, could you use me one time? Before I have to go to work? Please? I just need a little more,” she said feeling bold as she rolled around and found herself on top of him.

“Hm, I don’t know, you don’t want to be late,” he said.

She looked over at his table and found a condom, feeling strong and for a tiny moment in control. She ripped the package open and looked down at his cock, hard and poking out from between her legs.

“Please sir, I’ll do anything, sir,” she whined playfully.

He watched her as she unrolled it carefully onto his cock.

“Okay, but remember you said that. My rules get much more difficult,” he said, but his cockiness was gone and need filled his eyes.

She moved up and sank down on him, both of them gasping loudly.

They ended up taking the day off, both of them determined to spend the day finding out exactly what sorts of things she was into.


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