Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (8 page)

No. No.

My lover occasionally smoked; outside his back door, leaning against the wall, staring up at the night sky (it always seemed to be late at night when he reached to the back of the pasta cupboard to retrieve his emergency box).

‘Forgive me,’ he’d said. ‘It’s a filthy habit.’

‘I like filthy things,’ I’d said, but felt secretly ashamed of how attractive and sexual I found him with the cigarette between his lips and the way he breathed out thin curls of smoke into the cold night air.

My lover had never pressed the fiery end into my skin, though, and the thought of doing it had somehow never crossed my mind until now. He’d melted candles and let the wax drop onto the bare skin of my stomach. He’d cut off a lock of my hair and burnt it in the bathroom sink.

I’d once read an erotic novel with branding in it and been excited, titillated, and relieved that the burning flesh was held safely within the pages of a book.

I focused back on slavetothee. His tag was “willing to please and serve to your demands”.

Willing?

My whole being, every nerve ending, every skin cell, every muscle fibre, yearned to be kneeling before my lover again.

Willing. This wasn’t about love. I wasn’t even sure it was about passion. This site was about trying, with the least possible hassle, to find someone who would fulfil your base sexual needs and not judge you.

That was how it worked, wasn’t it? If watersports was your thing, you didn’t need to have the courage to approach girls in the club; then, after many dates and lots of expensive presents and less expensive compliments, summon the bravery to confess that what you wanted most in the world, more than anything else she could ever do for you, was to have her squat over you and let her warm piss stream down on your face. All you had to do was log on to a site like this one, find someone who had it in their profile, and type out a few exploratory chats in the comfort and safety of your own room.

slavetothee’s next line was “obedient, looking to worship a strict mistress who demands obedience”.

Lots of emphasis on obedience. Wasn’t that assumed in a sub/dom relationship, though, or what was the point? Although I supposed there were those bratty types who constantly liked to fight and be reined in.

There was nothing else that interesting in his profile; the thing that stood out was how uninteresting it was. No drugs, no tattoos, no piercings, clean shaven. He lived about 50 miles away, not too far. But he was looking for erotic mail or chat. That could suit me. No meetings. No puppy eyes begging me to love him. I could tell my lover I’d had new experiences without actually having new experiences. No mess. No hurt.

But how did I go about this?

No thinking.

I typed a quick reply telling him to give me his mobile number, then shut the computer off and went to see if there was any reality show on telly that could kill enough time before bed.

No thinking.

Chapter Six - Crimson

Dean didn’t think he had ever been as familiar with anything in his life as he now was with the square foot of carpet he stared down at. He knew the exact proportion of the leaves to the flowers, how many petals, how many fronds; the spot which for a long time he puzzled over being an asymmetric part of the pattern, but eventually decided was a food stain, probably curry.

He tried to follow the plot from the voices on the television; he thought it was about a man having an affair with his wife’s sister, but then one of the women – he didn’t know which as he kept getting confused between the wife and the sister, making the plot seem more convoluted than it probably was – said she was a lesbian and he gave up trying to work it out.

Thinking about anything except the woman’s feet resting on his back became more and more difficult with every passing minute, until it was impossible. She didn’t move at all. There was no respite, no relief. He never realised that such a small part of a lady’s body could feel so heavy. The material of her tights irritated his skin; the heels on her shoes were digging into his flesh to the extent that he seriously imagined them sticking right through and protruding out of his ribs.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, worm?’ Mistress Crimson asked in a voice that sounded like she already was fully aware of the answer.

‘Could I have a break, please, mistress? Or could I please ask you to move your feet a bit if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?’

She pulled her feet away and prodded him in the side. As soon as the pressure was removed, Dean regretted asking her to move. He thought of the silky material of her tights against his skin, how close he was to touching her, and it sent a thrill of regret and excitement pulsing through him.

‘That wasn’t even half an hour. I don’t know why I changed my mind and bothered to contact you again. What use are you? No wonder that blonde doesn’t want to marry you.’

If only that was the truth, Dean thought.

‘I’m very pleased you did contact me,’ he said. ‘I really want to serve you and learn. Would you like me to do some more cleaning?’

‘Stand up and let me have a proper look at you.’

Dean stood up. He kept his hands by his side but he had a childish urge to use them to preserve his modesty. He was more conscious of his nudity now than when she’d commanded him to undress on his arrival.

He looked at her as she gazed at his body. Her face didn’t look impressed; it looked more like she was suppressing laughter. Was this part of the mistress act to further humiliate him, or was it the true effect he had on women when they saw him naked?

‘Would you like me to do some more cleaning, like I did last time?’ He repeated his question more to break the silence than anything else, but ever since that day when she’d invited him over, he’d wanked up to three times a day mentally reliving each and every moment of the encounter. He hadn’t believed his luck when he’d heard from her again.

‘Yeah. You can go and scrub the oven out. And make sure you do it properly.’

Despite the work and cleaning fumes that made him choke, Dean’s cock was alive with yearning and desires. He longed to study himself in a mirror to see whether Mistress Crimson’s heels had left permanent marks in his skin. She was so confident, the way she told him what to do without a doubt that he’d obey her. Her husband was blessed.

Dean was blessed that she’d chosen to see him again. There were a hundred reasons why she wouldn’t and none he could think of for why she would want his company again.

A fit of coughing struck him but he resumed his scrubbing with extra fervour. If he could get all these black bits out and discover the shiny metal underneath, maybe she’d reward him by letting him lick her out this time.

The thought made him hard.

But how did you lick a lady out? How did you give her pleasure?

If only there had been time to do some research on the internet; he smiled at a stray thought about how amazing the internet was, that sitting at his computer he could read a study on Genesis, research the old wiring in his flat, and find tips about performing cunnilingus for the first time. How his life would have been different if it had existed when he was a kid. But maybe it wouldn’t have; if somehow his family had been able to afford a computer he would never have been allowed near it.

That was the past, though. This was the present; being naked on his knees in a near-stranger’s kitchen, scrubbing through years of filth and built-up grime in the faint hope that she might give him a sexual treat.

He experimented twisting his tongue around his mouth and lips. What would a woman taste like, feel like?

Another stray thought flashed up into his mind. This one wasn’t so easy to dismiss.

Helena.

What he was doing wasn’t cheating, though. There was nothing like traditional sex between him and Mistress Crimson. The closest they’d got to touching tonight was her heels resting on his back. Dean’s body reacted with pleasure thinking of the heels, the stockings, against his flesh. Would Helena do that for him after they were married? When they settled down in front of the telly after their evening meal, could he strip off and be her footstool for the rest of the night?

But no. This was going to stop. He was like a smoker finishing off their last packet before starting a clean life of abstinence and healthiness.

‘What the fuck are you doing, worm?’ The harshness of Mistress Crimson’s voice shattered his thoughts.

For one awful moment he was scared he was going to burst out crying, or else come. He recovered himself and spoke in a clear voice. ‘Cleaning the oven like you told me to, mistress.’

‘Didn’t you hear the car pull up outside? It’s my husband! Get upstairs. Hide under the bed and stay quiet whatever else you do.’

It was only when he was squeezed under the mattress, wedged between discarded shoes, handbags, and general junk, with something unknown and sharp sticking into his thighs, that Dean thought logically about the situation. Mistress Crimson, hearing the car, could have grabbed his clothes, which were in a neat pile in the lounge beside where she was sitting, brought them to him in the kitchen, and he could have escaped out of the back door.

It was easy to be logical after the event, though. She’d probably panicked, as he’d done, and at heart, she was surely too kind to push him outside into the cold night stark bollock naked.

The husband took an age to come inside. Dean lay still, hoping that Mistress Crimson had hidden his clothes well. He didn’t want her to get into trouble on his behalf when she had been so nice to take pity on his patheticness and let him come and visit her again.

A deep voice rumbled up the stairs. Her husband. Dean couldn’t make out the words, nothing more than a low growl.

Mistress Crimson’s voice was unmistakable. ‘Come upstairs, babe, I’ve missed you.’

Footsteps on the stairs.

Dean held his breath.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Dean was certain he would be seen. He waited, his body tensed, for the shouting and anger.

‘You have missed me, haven’t you, you horny bitch?’ The voice somehow didn’t sound as menacing in the same room as it had when the man was downstairs.

Dean softly exhaled.

‘You better believe it,’ Mistress Crimson purred. ‘I’ve been so busy cleaning the house up to surprise you when you came home.’

‘I know. I saw. But that’s not the only thing you been busy with, is it? You’re sopping wet. You been frigging yourself while I was away, you dirty little slut?’

Dean’s heart beat fast; the crude language equally offended and excited him. The idea of calling a beautiful mistress a slut and a bitch and describing her as “sopping wet” went against all the politeness and respect he desperately cultivated within himself. But the words played again and again through his mind, seeming more obscene each time. He dared to move his head slightly and peek across the floor. He saw a glimpse of Mistress Crimson’s heels before some item of clothing – a rough work shirt? – fell to the ground and blocked his already limited view.

Then there was nothing to see. The couple were on the bed. Above him.

The wooden slats of the bed sagged under their weight and pressed into Dean’s back.

‘You want it hard, don’t you? You want my big cock fucking your filthy little cunt hard and deep.’

‘Hard and deep,’ Mistress Crimson breathed.

The mattress springs squealed out as if in pain.

The husband grunted out expletives. ‘Fuck. Bitch. Cunt.’

Mistress Crimson screamed out hungry pleasure. ‘More. Harder. Yes, yes, yes!’

Dean felt like he was in a tiny, dark box with two people screwing on his back, Mistress Crimson’s sweat and sex scent dripping over him. She was an animal marking him as her own, letting everyone else know he belonged to her, that she’d had him and humiliated him.

His chest constricted, every breath was painful. That was how it should be. It should hurt. It should be this intense.

The husband let out a final loud grunt.

It was over.

Dean wanted to cry out, to let them know that he wanted more, that he could take it harder.

As far as he could tell, with a few mumbled words, the husband and wife rolled onto separate sides of the bed and fell asleep.

Dean glanced at his watch. The sex had lasted little more than five minutes. Five minutes. In that short time his whole life had transformed. He felt like a different person. He didn’t know how he’d changed, but it was definite. There was something in his being, something punching to get out of him, making his head ache with its defiant screams.

After half an hour, both bodies lying above him were snoring. He should leave, creep out while he could. He didn’t move. For a long moment he allowed himself to dream that this was his life, this was his world. Mistress Crimson owned him and kept him trapped under her bed as she pleasured herself with a succession of lovers. On occasion she let him out to clean up the mess she and her men made. And if Dean was very good, very, very good, as an extra-special treat she ordered him to lick her lover’s spunk out from between her voluptuous thighs.

Then he slowly eased himself out from under the bed. He permitted himself a glance at the couple before he left the bedroom. They looked disappointingly – normal.

Downstairs, he found his clothes exactly where he’d put them when Mistress Crimson first told him to undress. Why hadn’t she hidden them? He didn’t have time to think. He dressed hastily, and sneaked out of the front door like a teenager trying to escape curfew without his parents noticing.

Out in the cold air, breathing hurt, as if he was still under the bed. He spent a moment searching for his car keys, thinking with equal terror and excitement that he would have to wait until morning and beg Mistress Crimson to have mercy on him and let him search for his keys. But they were there, jangling in his pocket. It was only because his hands were shaking that he must have missed them first time.

On the drive home he realised that there was nothing ordinary about the couple he’d glanced in bed. They’d just had sex. They’d just had sex while he lay underneath their bed. Mistress Crimson had known he was there. Did it give her extra pleasure knowing Dean was hearing and feeling every thrust and push?

Was Mistress Crimson letting him see what a real man was like? Was that how husbands behaved to their wives?

Was that what Helena would expect once they were married?

He tried the words out in his mind.

Helena, you horny bitch, I am going to fuck you as hard as you deserve, you filthy little slut.

But he couldn’t speak them aloud. Even in his own mind, it wasn’t his voice speaking them; it was Mistress Crimson’s husband growling out each syllable.

An image opened up, like a pop-up book, of Helena being fucked stupid by the bear of a man Dean had glanced sleeping in the bed. It made him feel guiltier than anything he’d done that night. But he couldn’t close the book, he couldn’t stop seeing it.

His cock throbbed. Throbbed was the right word. It wasn’t a mild interest in pleasure that would pass with time; it was a wound that needed attention.

He managed to wait until he got home, but no longer. He closed his door, released his cock, and wanked into the material of his shirt. It seemed to him that he came before he even touched himself, and with such force and power that he imagined if he hadn’t caught his spunk in his clothes, he would have sprayed all over the hall like some wild animal literally spreading his seed.

He collapsed onto the floor panting, curled up into a small ball, and fell asleep.

*               *               *

When he awoke at around 5 a.m. he couldn’t recall why he was there. He stumbled to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth, which tasted thick and heavy, then went to bed, all without turning a light on.

Next time he woke up it was almost 8 a.m. He’d slept through his alarm. Even in the hurry of getting ready for work he thought of the night before. The sense that he’d had an epiphany, that he’d finally understood something important about himself, had disappeared in the morning light. All that was left was the memory and the desire.

He got home after work and went immediately to his computer, praying that he had a message from Mistress Crimson.

But this wasn’t the sort of relationship you could turn to God for help with.

He should have been praying for the strength and will to be a good husband to Helena. And he would. Just not today.

There was nothing from Mistress Crimson. He bit down on his lip and tried to hide his disappointment from himself. There was something else, though: a message from Wickedgirl. It’d been so long he had assumed that she’d changed her mind about wanting to try out domming. It surprised him how excited he was to hear from this person who he didn’t even have the basic profile information about. If he was honest, he still had doubts about whether she was a man using a female tag.

The message was a brief reply to his long introduction.

Give me your mobile. I might call you.