Fifty Days of Sin (7 page)

“You’re not very open minded
when it comes to other people’s likes and dislikes,” I chide him.
“Mel can watch what she wants at the cinema, she doesn’t need your
approval!”

“Well at least her taste in
films isn’t as bad as yours, Justine,” he retorts. “I can remember
being round yours one night at university and you made me sit
through Moulin Rouge on DVD.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I
laugh.

“Ugh. It was the longest two
hours of my life. Just sitting there waiting for it to finish.”

“I had no idea I made your life
such a misery at university,” I smile at him. “Why do you still put
up with me if I’m such a nightmare?”

“Glutton for punishment,” he
shrugs.

Finally it’s time to go, and
Hannah and Roger drop me off at my house, giving me a lift in their
prehistoric Vauxhall Astra. Hannah is driving and I don’t miss the
opportunity to harangue Roger for doing the stereotypical thing by
having a few beers while his wife has to stick to Diet Coke. “Good
point,” he tells me, “but frankly, as I’ve got three pints inside
me now, I couldn’t care less.”

“Don’t worry, Justine, we take
it in turns,” Hannah assures me. “He hasn’t got me totally under
the thumb yet.”

“I’m glad to hear it!” I
reply.

“Besides, I’m doing everyone a
favour really,” adds Roger. “You know what she’s like after a few.
The last time she was drunk she insisted that I take a glass of
water up to the little men who live in the roof.”

“I don’t remember a word of it,
Justine. I think Roger’s making it all up.”

“Sorry Hannah, but I don’t find
Roger’s version of events hard to believe at all,” I laugh. “You
always were a total fruitcake.”

I thank them for the lift and we
say our goodbyes, then I’m back inside the house. I kick off my
boots, pick up the newspapers and curl up on the sofa with a big
pile of Sunday supplements. Flicking through, I find it hard to
concentrate after the wine and last night’s frustration.

I hear a message tone on my
phone. Excited, I wonder if it’s Adam. Perhaps he wants to come
over? Oh, how I would love to see him. But it’s Kathy, saying how
glad she was to see me better and what a nice meal it was. Smiling
at the thought of how lucky I am to have good friends, I connect to
the internet and put a post on my Facebook wall saying what a great
time I had – complete with a smiley face.

Wow, that alcohol really must
have gone to my head, I think, as I look at what I’ve just posted.
I’m a history lecturer at Oxford University, for crying out loud -
as a rule, I’m rather too sensible for smiley faces. In truth,
those of my colleagues who know that I use Facebook are scathing
enough as it is, just because I use social networking media. I
usually just tell them that it’s my way of keeping an eye on what
my students are getting up to. If they knew about the smiley face
I’ve just posted I’d probably be a laughing stock.

I’m leafing desultorily through
a magazine, hardly looking at it as my mind whirls with the
thoughts of what I’d like Adam to do to me, when I hear the
doorbell. I go to answer it; it’s Michael.

“Hi, come in,” I say, surprised
to see him. He doesn’t normally turn up without contacting me first
to see if it’s okay – but I don’t want to turn him away. He is
smiling, and kisses me once he’s inside the house, but he looks
slightly apprehensive. He takes off his trainers. I’ve told him to
do this a hundred times before, as he’s forever treading mud on my
beige carpet. “Well done, I’ve finally got you housetrained.” I
take him through to the kitchen to make a hot drink.

“Is it okay for me to come over
like this?” he asks, clearly conscious of the fact that he didn’t
contact me first.

“It’s okay, Michael, although
I’d rather you checked another time. I might be busy with something
else,” I tell him gently.

“I just wanted some kinky sex,”
he says with a grin.

I laugh. “At least you’re
honest,” I tell him, shaking my head at his candour. He’s far too
gorgeous for me to take offence at his forthright declaration. I’m
a sucker for that sensual mouth and those chiselled cheekbones, and
all that daydreaming about Adam means that I’m actually feeling
rather aroused.

“That’s all right,” I tell him,
handing him a steaming cup of tea. “But text me next time,
okay?”

“Okay.” We go through to the
living room and I sit down, curling my legs underneath me. He sits
next to me and starts idly stroking my knee. It feels nice.

“So how has your weekend been?”
He tells me about last night’s drunken night out with his college
friends and I tell him about my Sunday lunch. I mention that I went
out to dinner last night, but he doesn’t ask me anything about it.
He’s probably guessed I was on a date. But I think he’d prefer not
to know about any time I spend with other men, so he doesn’t ask
any questions.

We chat about his studies and
finish our drinks, and all the while he keeps on touching my leg.
His hand starts to go further up my thigh, and we sit looking at
each other in silence as he traces his fingers up and down it.

“Justine?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember what you said
before, about wondering if I had a dominant streak?” I raise my
eyebrows.

“Yes...”

“Do you think you might like to
try it? You know, the other way around?” I’m really surprised. This
is the last thing I would have expected from Michael.

“You mean, you want to be the
boss?”

“I’d quite like to give it a
try,” he says, smiling, a sexy gleam in his eye.

“Really?”

“I know it’s a probably bit of a
shock,” he admits. “But I think I might enjoy it. If you think you
would too.”

“Well, it depends how far you
intend to go,” I laugh nervously. In truth, I enjoy being dominated
– to a certain extent. I’ve had sexual partners before who have
very much wanted to take the lead. And I’ve had some nice times
having sex with my hands pinned down, or tied to the bedposts. But
I’ve never gone as far as the kind of things that I do to Michael,
and whilst I know that I enjoy a man being masterful, I’m not sure
that I could cope with anything but the mildest of pain.

“We’d have to agree a safeword,
of course,” he tells me, reaching out to my face and tucking a lock
of hair behind my ear in an oddly proprietorial gesture.

“Okay – it’s just that I’ve not
done this before. So you would have to go easy on me, at least to
start with – I don’t know how far I could go and still enjoy
myself.”

“That’s fine,” he says, still
stroking my hair. He pulls me close and kisses me. Wondering what
he’s got in mind for me is oddly exciting, and I feel myself
responding to him. In the back of my mind, I feel guilty – should I
be doing this with Michael when I’ve started something with Adam?
But after all, Adam has only kissed me. I resolve to tell him that
I don’t normally do exclusive relationships if and when it develops
into something more. But in the meantime, Michael’s hand has
strayed down to my breast, toying with my nipple through the fabric
of my top, and there’s an answering tingling down below. I’m
melting, wanting him, and there’s no way I’m stopping now.

He pulls away. “So, you’d better
tell me your safeword.”

“Oh. Okay.” I try to think of
one, but my mind has gone blank. I shake my head. “Shall we just
use yours?”

“Dalmation? Okay, if you like,”
he agrees. I have no idea why he chose ‘dalmation’ as his safeword.
But I guess it’s not something you would normally say in the middle
of sex, so there’s no way he could mistake my meaning if I had to
use it.

Then as I watch his face I see
the look in his eyes suddenly change. I tense, realising that he’s
ready now to try out domination for the first time.

“I’ve got quite a lot to pay you
back for, Justine,” he says, he voice laden with promise – or is it
threat?

“Yes, I suppose you have,” I
reply with a small smile, suddenly a little nervous. He looks
different to the way I’ve seen him before: the idea of being in
control makes him look sexier than ever. But his blue eyes are dark
and the memories of all the punishments I’ve given him in the past
flash through my mind. Could I cope if he did that kind of thing to
me?

“I think you’re forgetting
something,” he tells me.

I’m genuinely confused. “What?”
I ask.

“First, I think you can strip
for me,” he commands. I glance towards the window. “Oh, no, we’ll
keep the curtains open,” he decides. Thankfully, there are net
curtains covering the window panes – the previous owner of the
house left the existing curtains, and even though I’ve been living
here for nearly a year now, I haven’t got round to replacing them.
So no-one can see in, unless they get up close and peer into the
room. I sincerely hope nobody does.

Slowly, I peel off my top, and
then fumble with the belt of my jeans. All the time Michael
watches, no doubt enjoying the feeling of turning the tables. I’m
not embarrassed by my body, but stripping to order feels strange
and a little uncomfortable. I take off my socks and pull down my
jeans, so I am standing in my bra and knickers. “That’s enough for
now,” Michael stops me. “Now kneel for me.”

Feeling slightly unreal, I do as
I’m bid. He sits forward on the sofa, puts out a hand and caresses
my breast through the lacy bra while I kneel subserviently at his
feet. I feel my nipple harden under his touch.

“Now, I want you address me as
‘sir’,” he commands.

I gape slightly in incredulity.
“Sir?”

“Tsk,” he tuts, and pinches my
nipple. He does it quite gently, but all the same it’s
uncomfortable. “It’s not a question, Justine. Try again.”

“Yes, sir,” I respond, frowning
up at him. I’m not sure how much I’m going to enjoy this.

He pinches my nipple again,
harder this time. “Ow!”

“That’s for the surly look on
your face,” he tells me. “I expect you to look grateful, and to
address me with respect. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble through
clenched teeth.

“Hmm, I think we’ll work on that
later,” he decides. “For now, I’ve got plans for you.” I look at
him, silently expectant. “I think I’ll fuck you first.”

I suppress a grin. This doesn’t
sound like punishment, it sounds like exactly what I want. “Yes,
sir,” I answer respectfully.

“I’m going to tie your wrists
together,” he declares. “Give me your hands.” I offer him my wrists
as he stands and reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out two
lengths of string.

“You planned this!” I
exclaim.

“Very bad,” he pronounces,
reaching out and tweaking my nipple painfully again.

“Ow!”

“I expect you to be quiet and
respectful, not to comment on everything I do,” he says, binding my
wrists rather tighter than he needs to. He has only used one piece
of string, keeping hold of the other one in his hand. “I hope
you’re going to learn to behave yourself soon.”

“Yes, sir,” I capitulate, hoping
to avoid any more nipple abuse. It’s not that it’s dreadfully
painful, but it’s annoying, and a little humiliating. That said,
the whole scenario of kneeling, bound, on the floor in my underwear
is very arousing. I can feel how wet I am and I can’t wait for
Michael to be inside me. So I’m willing to endure the irritation of
Michael’s mistreatment of my breasts. For the moment.

“Now lie down.”

I do as I’m told, lying on the
rug with my hands tied.

“Oh, no, not there. Off the rug.
It’s the floorboards for you, Justine.”

I glower at Michael, but comply.
Slightly awkwardly, given that my hands are bound in front of me, I
shift off the thick, warm, comfortable rug and onto the cold, hard
wooden floor.

“That’s much better,” he says,
smiling. He kneels down next to me and takes hold of my arms,
pulling them up above my head, and then I realise what the second
piece of string is for. He ties it to the binding on my wrists and
attaches it to the leg of my armchair. So now I’m stretched out on
the floor in my bra and knickers, hands tied above my head. He
eases my knickers off my hips and down the length of my legs, and
now that I’m nearly naked, he softly brushes my clitoris. I give a
little whimper of desire and he smiles, revelling in his power.

Michael reaches
out to touch my breasts, then instructs me to raise my back off the
floor. I do so as best as I can, allowing him to undo my bra, and
then he tells me I can relax again.
Relax –
this is hardly relaxing, lying on the wooden floor waiting to see
what you’re going to do to me.
He pushes
the cups of my bra up so that my breasts are exposed, and leans
over to kiss first one, then the other nipple, teasing them with
his tongue and making them stand out hard and firm. His hand strays
down and again softly grazes my clitoris. I moan again with
desire.

I am so ready for him to enter
me now. He pulls away from me and I watch as he unfastens his belt
and unzips his jeans, pulling them down slightly and freeing his
erection from his underwear. So I’m the only one who’s going to be
naked, or virtually naked, then. He’s keeping his clothes on. He
takes a condom out of his jeans pocket and I watch as he rolls it
all the way down his length. Then he pulls my knees up and pushes
my legs apart, and he’s on top of me.

“I’m going to fuck you hard,
Justine, just the way you like it,” he tells me.

I look up at him, panting in
anticipation as he starts to rub his erection against my sex. Then
he reaches his hand up and pinches my nipple.

“Ow! What was that for?” I ask
in surprise. I am finding this new version of Michael very
difficult to cope with.

“You were meant to say thank
you,” he commands.

“Thank you,” I tell him, shaking
my head in exasperation.