A direct order. I can never defy one of those, and I didn’t want to anyway. His suit was well cut and, while he must have been in his forties at least, he had that still, calm air of authority that floored me and filled my dreams.
He stood, gesturing me up, and I followed him to the bar, where he bought me – without asking what I would like – a mineral water, plus a whisky for himself.
‘I don’t want to be accused of taking advantage of tipsiness,’ he told me, nudging the water glass down the polished bar top. ‘Now, let’s sort a few things out. You strike me as curious about certain aspects of human sexuality, am I right?’
I coughed into my glass, feeling as transparent as the crystal waters within.
‘Is it obvious?’
‘To me it is. Probably not to the world in general. How curious are you?’
‘Moderately.’
‘There’s nothing moderate about what I do … What’s your name?’
‘Cherry.’
‘Stuart.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Well, Cherry, I like to be master in my own bedroom, if you catch my drift. Does that interest you?’
I gulped. What should I say? I rather thought the fiery spreading blush on my face was saying it for me.
‘It might,’ I muttered.
‘Does it or doesn’t it? I don’t have time to waste.’
His stern tone caught me right between the thighs.
‘Yeah. I suppose it does,’ I admitted, a mite sulkily.
‘Good. Though I think we’ll need to discuss your tone, young lady.’
Oh my God, he was killing me. “Young lady”. I was positively pre-orgasmic, especially when he raised an eyebrow in a way that couldn’t say “you’re getting spanked” any louder or clearer.
‘Drink up,’ he ordered. ‘Are you here alone?’
‘No, with a friend.’
‘Good. You can tell her you’re going home with me, and that you’ll call her by eleven so that she knows you’re safe.’
‘I’ll … tell her that.’ I looked around the bar for her, finally locating her in a darkened alcove, snogging some guy with a beard like a King of Leon. Sex on fire indeed.
I passed on the message, slipping it between her and the hairy one like a credit card of information. Her reply was a swallowed grunt.
‘I’ll be at home then,’ I reminded her brightly, feeling a broad hand descend on my shoulder. SM Stuart was not about to let me get away. I had been hooked like an unsuspecting fish, and now I was in the net I wouldn’t get out until I was being sizzled over the flames of his fire.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked, yanking me backwards, away from the bar.
‘Near South Parade Pier.’
‘Good. Not too far.’
It wasn’t until we were in the taxi that the insane foolishness of the idea hit home. Taking a strange man home for kinky sex – how on earth would that stack up on the risk assessment form? Not well at all, I realised with a sickening lurch of the stomach.
But then he pulled me towards him and into a long, hard kiss, and the lurching became something else, something much sweeter and less easily dismissed, something that squeezed all of my good sense into a tiny ball and batted it down between my legs, which were trembling.
It was mad and it was stupid, but I wanted sex – real, good sex – so much that I was prepared to follow my cunt wherever it led me that night.
Stuart’s mouth was firm and hungry, and his hand landed with a wondrous heaviness on my thigh, edging up the hem of my skirt, kneading its way to heaven, regardless of the taxi driver.
Luckily, the ride was not long enough for him to reach my stocking tops. The skirt was mid-thigh when he paid the fare, helped me out of the cab, and escorted me, hand on elbow, up the path to my apartment block.
Once inside the door, he held me out at arm’s length and said, ‘You’re wearing stockings and suspenders, aren’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Sounds to me like you were out looking for somebody to take you home and fuck you. You don’t wear stockings if you don’t think they’ll be seen.’
‘They make me feel sexy,’ I defended myself.
‘You want to feel sexy because you want a good seeing-to, Cherry. Am I right?’
I chewed my lip, avoiding his eye.
‘Maybe.’
‘I’m right. And what kind of girl wants a good seeing-to, hmm?’
He pulled me closer, sliding one hand down my hip and around to pat a bum cheek. Oh, I could see where this was heading. And I liked it very, very much.
‘A bad girl,’ I said softly.
His lips quirked, and his hand fell a little harder on my quivering bottom.
‘That’s right, Cherry. A bad girl. And what do bad girls get?’
Good sex.
‘They get punished?’
‘Try adding a “sir” to that.’
‘They get punished, sir.’
‘Nice. And true. They do get punished. But first, since you’re dying to show off your naughty underwear, I want you to stand over by that chair and lift your skirt for me.’
He dropped my arm and nudged me back a couple of feet, so that I was in a good position for him to rake his eyes from my bob-cut hair to my strappy sandals. Standing with his arms folded and his brows gathered, he waited for me to follow the instruction.
I felt like laughing and shivering at the same time, but I did as I was told, turned up the hem of my skirt and lifted it coyly to my waist.
‘Oh yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Very nice. And do you call those knickers?’
I stared down at my shaking hands on the fabric. They weren’t exactly substantial, it was true. I was glad I hadn’t opted for the Spanx tonight after all – though, on second thoughts, they would at least have been appropriate.
The knickers I was wearing were tiny breaths of lacy air, patterned with glittery starbursts. I only knew they were there at all because they were soaking wet at the crotch. I wondered if the damp patch was visible. If not, it was certainly sniffable. I could smell myself all right.
‘Turn around,’ he said, and I was grateful to remove myself from the intense scrutiny and present my back view instead. The knickers weren’t thong-backed, but they stretched tightly across my rear, almost transparent, so that he would be able to follow each curve to its conclusion.
‘That’s a lovely bottom you have there,’ he commented, moving up behind me. ‘No, don’t let go of the skirt.’ He put a hand on my lacy cheeks and rubbed them slowly up and down. I let out a tiny moan, bending my spine infinitesimally forward to give him optimum access, hoping for a quick dip between my legs. ‘And one that needs a lot of attention, I think.’
He removed his hands and sat down in my armchair.
‘Now put your lovely bottom over my knee, Cherry, where it belongs.’
Christ, I was more turned on than I’d ever expected to be outside my horniest fantasies. For a dizzying moment, I thought this was worth any risk, even though my rational mind knew that only a brain-dead, sex-crazed zombie would entertain that thought.
I drooped over his lap, trying to work out how to get over it in the most dignified manner, though God knows what any remnants of dignity were doing in my fevered brain at that point. Unable to compute logistics, I kind of threw myself across the middle section of his thighs, kicking my legs in the air until he smacked them down so my toes brushed the carpet.
‘Now, think about where you are,’ he said softly, his hand renewing its hypnotic circular pattern across my exposed bum cheeks. ‘Take a moment for the full humiliating reality of your position to sink in. Where are you, Cherry?’
I clenched my thighs, his low, authoritative voice tickling the space between them like a sonic vibrator. I wished I’d had more to drink. It would have made the verbal aspect of this scenario so much easier.
‘I’m over your knee.’
‘That’s right. But you missed a bit, Cherry. An important little word.’ His palm hovered dangerously over my rear curves.
‘I’m over your damn knee?’ I hazarded, with an irrepressible snort. Oh dear. It seemed I was discovering a hitherto-unknown minxy side of myself.
The smack was swift and remorseless. I yelped, quivering beneath his hand.
‘I’m surprised at you, young lady,’ he told me. ‘I see I’m going to have to deal with you quite thoroughly. No, the missing word you are looking for is “sir”. Now, repeat the sentence for me, Cherry.’