Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (9 page)

He replied immediately.

After pressing the send button he was struck with doubt. The lovely woman who had spoken to him on the phone, Tigerlady, had unceremoniously dumped him when he told her about meeting Mistress Crimson. Would Mistress Crimson be similarly angry if he was talking to another woman?

He started to compose another message, explaining the situation to Wickedgirl, when he saw that she’d come online.

His heart thumped. His fingers felt too weak even to type.

‘You’re a pathetic worm, Dean Matthews,’ he chastised himself.

He waited to see if she would approach him. She didn’t. But then his phone rang.

He picked it up with trepidation, and then great disappointment when he saw it was Helena calling.

‘Hi, how are you doing?’ he answered the phone.

‘Good, babe, what about you?’ She sounded different, in a way he couldn’t identify.

‘I’m good too.’

‘That’s good.’ Helena gave a small giggle, then there was silence.

They both started speaking at the same time.

Then again in unison, ‘Sorry, you first.’

‘No, Dean, say what you want to say.’ That strange quality to her voice again, but at least she wasn’t starting an argument about setting a wedding date.

‘Nothing important. I was just going to ask if spag bolls is all right tonight?’

‘Well, it was about tonight I was ringing. There’s a lot to do at work, you see. You won’t mind too much if I can’t make it, will you?’ It was as if she was asking him a question he couldn’t hear. They’d rearranged their “dates” lots of times over the years, normally by text; why did it sound as if she was asking permission now?

A message flashed up on the screen from Wickedgirl. Dean longed to read it, but he averted his eyes and tried to concentrate on his fiancée.

‘If you have to work, Hel, it’s no problem,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘But I mean if you’ve gone to a lot of effort, I can get my work done another day. It won’t matter if I don’t do it right now.’

Dean chuckled. ‘You know what my spag bolls is like. The effort is in eating it, not making it. You’re better off at work.’

‘OK. OK. If you’re sure you don’t mind. If you don’t want to see me tonight.’

‘We’ll see each other on Sunday, I’ll manage a few days on my own.’ He’d meant it to be light, but had it come out too hard, too real?

‘Sure. See you at church, Dean. Bye.’

The phone went dead.

Had he offended her? He hadn’t meant to.

He looked at the screen. He hoped he hadn’t blown it already; last time they spoke Wickedgirl had told him off for taking too long to reply.

He read her message.

Wickedgirl:
How has your day been, slavetothee? Are you still looking for a mistress?

He thought about every word, but then remembered she’d already been waiting for his answer while he was on the phone.

My day’s been fine. Thank you very much for asking.
Dean took a deep breath before he continued typing.
In all honesty, though, mistress, I’m a little confused.

Her response was almost instantaneous.
How so?

The mistress I have served in the past called me to serve her again yesterday. We had an amazing time, but then I haven’t heard from her today and I’m not sure if I did anything wrong.

Dean felt strangely relaxed and natural telling this woman he knew nothing about how he felt.

Wickedgirl:
You’d know if you did anything wrong. She would have told you, or you would have sensed it. Did anything happen like that?

Dean typed his instant response.
No. It was amazing.

Wickedgirl:
Then I suspect you’re worrying about nothing.

It’s because she blocked me before and then got back in touch. I don’t know quite what she wants from me.

Dean was surprised how he could articulate things with this person, whether they were male or female. Perhaps it was easier typing into a screen than meeting someone. He thought of Helena and their stilted conversations.

Wickedgirl:
You’re the sub. Your duty is to serve. You don’t need to concern yourself with what your mistress wants from you unless she tells you.

Do you think I should wait for her to contact me again then?

Wickedgirl:
Send her a nicely composed message, email, letter, whatever, telling her how much you enjoyed being with her and how grateful you were that she gave you some of her precious time. And then you wait. It’s essential that you don’t bother your dom; you mustn’t pester them otherwise you’ll annoy them and appear desperate. You should always be obedient and patiently awaiting their pleasure.

Dean smiled as he read through her words several times.
Thank you very much for your advice. I can see you’re full of grace and kindness. If my mistress hadn’t got back in contact with me I would have considered it an honour to serve under you.

Wickedgirl:
You must be true to your mistress. You belong to her. I see why you were on this site and contacted me when you were lost and lonely, but now she has decided to reclaim you, all thoughts must be on her.

For a moment Dean stared at the screen and wished that Mistress Crimson hadn’t contacted him again. But this woman had told him clearly that his duty was with the person who had been kind enough to claim him.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself replying.
I feel a connection with you. I haven’t felt this with anyone before, and so quickly. If my mistress ever decided she doesn’t want me, would you allow me to contact you?

Wickedgirl:
Of course. But I’m certain you’ll be a good slave and do what you need to do to please your mistress so that she will never again contemplate being without you.

Something inside Dean glowed. Was that normal? It couldn’t be. Not from such a short online communication. It must be the tiredness and the buzz from last night making him take this woman’s generosity in talking to him too personally.

Thank you very much. I hope you find someone who deserves you and makes you happy. Although if you don’t mind me saying, you seem too good for this site.

Wickedgirl:
Read my name, I’m wicked, not good :) Farewell, slavetothee. May your mistress appreciate and cherish you always.

Dean started to write a reply but she’d gone offline. A hollow and empty feeling replaced the earlier glow. He started to write a message to her for her to read when she next logged in, but after five minutes of typing he deleted everything he’d written. He shook his head, bit down on his lip, and started to compose a new message to Mistress Crimson.

He read it through carefully, checking for any spelling errors or typos, and then sent it. A moment later he sent another one giving her his mobile number, then he went to prepare spaghetti bolognese for one.

Past midnight his mobile rung, waking him from a beautiful dream. It was an unknown number and for a hazy moment he thought it was his dream woman, his wicked girl, stepping into his real life, then recognition of Mistress Crimson’s voice raced through his brain.

He ignored the flow of disappointment and composed himself. ‘Thank you for calling me, Mistress Crimson, I am here to do whatever you want whenever you want me to do it.’

Chapter Seven - Meat

Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t replace you.

I sent the text without thinking about it.

Or rather, I spent all night thinking about it. I’d been chatting online, trying different sites, playing along with the different scenarios that different men created; and it was all the same.

Simultaneously in the virtual world:

I was a bride doing a sexy striptease for the best man and ushers while my husband fucked my bridesmaids.

I was a college student masturbating in bed while my tutor watched through a crack in the door.

I was a whore giving blowjobs in the gents’ loos at a cheap club.

I was a MILF bouncing up and down on the cock of my neighbour’s son.

In the real world:

I was bored.

I was lonely.

I was self-doubting.

I was in love, hopelessly.

I tried playing with myself, teasing my clit with my favourite vibe, but my mind immediately filled up with the time my master left me tied up for most of the night with a gag in my mouth and a vibe in my arse and pussy. And then no sex toy could give me any pleasure, only memory and longing.

So what was left to me was the computer.

But the online flirtations were too easy, too disposable; even when I thought that was what I wanted.

A man who looked a little bit like Bruce Willis in his photo – that is, if Bruce Willis had ever taken a picture of himself with a cameraphone at full stretch sitting on a paisley patterned sofa – had an ounce of potential. A quarter of an ounce of potential.

He made me laugh with some stupid joke, and when we started talking sex he was an obvious dom, with a bit more wit and intelligence than the rest. But then he started talking about how he wanted me to buy a milk pump and start pumping my breasts until I started lactating. Which maybe I could have got into if it was my master with his silky, commanding voice and his eyes looking at me in that way which seemed to give me no choice but to obey. No maybe. Whatever my lover said, I did. Cold on the screen, though, the words coming from a stranger left me passionless.

Another man asked for my address so he could send me a pot of his spunk to drink. He assured me that he’d watched one of his online slaves drink his come on webcam.

These conversations made the world seem so big and so small. All I’d done was spoken to a handful of the millions of people across the planet who were searching for sex. Sometimes it felt like I was chatting to the same man again and again. So many of them shared a fantasy that BDSM play was me dressing up as a maid, letting them lightly spank me before sucking them off. Which was fine. But it wasn’t me.

All the hot, steamy, X-rated talk, all the imagined hard pounding and thrusting and screwing, was nothing more than killing time before my body was exhausted enough to fall into sleep, usually at about two or three in the morning.

And then there was all the urging and persuading and demanding. “No” seemed to be transformed across the internet. It left my computer as a point blank refusal; it arrived at their computers as a playful, coy tease inviting them to keep on asking and asking. Their requests were similar: a photo of my tits, a photo of my arse, a photo of my cunt, to cam with them, to give them my phone number, to meet with them, to fuck them.

Although maybe a tiny part of it was me: all delicate and vulnerable, my whole sexual personality based on submission, I was too polite. I kept talking to some of them when I should have ignored them, all the hurt and rejection making my body ache. I was reluctant to pass a fraction of that on to another person.

I didn’t seem to be aware of the basic rules of handling men. Like, for example, don’t fuck someone you work with. Especially if that someone tells you he’s in love with you.

Joe was fine. As fine as you can be, when you’ve put your heart out there and had a “return to sender” message stamped across it. The problem was I noticed him more, and he appeared to possess some superpower that always mysteriously manifests in these situations, of being all the places I was, involved in every project I was, attending every meeting I was, to the point that he was even at the cafe I went to at lunchtime to avoid seeing him in the canteen.

I varied between what I suspect were awful, pitying smiles, to joking within him as if we were best buddies, to being all business talk. Sometimes I acted as if nothing had happened between us, but then I made inappropriate remarks such as “the sex was great”, and “you have been amazingly lucky in the trouser department, some girl is going to be incredibly happy”.

All the time I was embarrassing myself at work and murdering my evening finding people I didn’t care about on the internet, all the time I was creating detailed sexual scenarios with total strangers, I thought of my lover. I wanted to be on his doorstep, kneeling, begging, asking him to have mercy and keep me safe from myself.

I made up mental speeches.

‘My body aches for you. Truly it aches; throughout the day I am in physical pain, my head, my stomach, my limbs, my heart. I feel every fibre of my clothes chafing against my skin, a constant irritant, and reminder that you’re not touching me. I need the warmth of your hand on my naked flesh. I need to spread my thighs and feel my body mould around you. I need to be bound, blindfolded and gagged, my muscles tense as I listen for the swish of the cat o’ nine tails in the air before it lashes against me.

‘I need your guidance. I need your order. Without you nothing feels right, nothing can ever be right. I don’t need to be separated from you to know this. It is the truth of my life. It is the centre of my soul.’

And that is where I always stopped, before my mind drifted off into song titles as if all the music that had been playing on the radio in the background throughout my life was now my only means to communicate.

I just died in your arms tonight.

Take these broken wings.

How can you mend a broken heart?

Don’t leave me this way.

Against all odds, take a look at me now.

How am I supposed to live without you?

I want you back.

Etcetera etcetera.

I resisted phoning him. Not because I was strong. Because I was scared. If I didn’t speak to him, I could fantasise, I could believe; if I did speak to him and he rejected me, there was nothing left. Nothing.

I thought of telling Joe that I was a free agent, that we could go out to dinner together, hold hands in the middle of the pub at work dos, spend our free time fucking like rabbits. And it made me feel so very tired.

That is why I hastily sent the text to my master, barely looking at the phone as I pressed the letters in, not giving myself the chance to rethink.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t replace you.

When the reply buzzed through, quicker than I dared hope, my hands were actually shaking.

I’ve been feeling the same. May I phone you?

There were tears on my cheeks before I realised that the text was not from my lover. It was from someone I’d inputted as Slave. I brushed the salt off my cheeks and recalled one of the early men online, who had vaguely interested me enough to ask for his mobile number.

I sighed, deep, deep, breaths, then texted back a simple
yes
. I’d had enough of these virtual conversations; it would be easier to actually hear a human voice.

The phone rang. I answered it.

‘Hello, mistress.’ His accent was plain, perhaps a slight West Country undertone, but nothing much. There was a clear tremor of excitement in his voice, though. ‘Thank you for this great honour.’

A pause.

I opened my mouth, but had no words. There was still too much disappointment and that wouldn’t be fair to him.

He continued. ‘I hope it doesn’t sound silly, but I really felt a connection with you in the conversations we had. I’m not normally an emotional person. I can’t tell you how it made me feel to receive your text today and know that I wasn’t being silly, that you felt the same.’

Another pause.

My mind was blank.

‘Mistress, may I ask you a question?’

Silence.

‘Are you still there?’

Silence.

‘Are … Are you a man?’

I laughed.

His voice filled with relief. ‘Oh mistress. You have a beautiful laugh.’ There was a certain note of sweetness to his voice when it was relaxed.

‘For a man?’ I teased.

He gave a small giggle. ‘For anyone.’ Then he took an audible breath. ‘I haven’t offended you, have I?’

‘Is it such an insult to be mistaken for a man?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not a real man, I’m a pathetic worm.’

I laughed again, although I don’t think he meant it as a joke. ‘So, how are things going with your mistress?’

‘She likes me to take my clothes off, do her cleaning, and then lie naked under her bed while her husband and her have sex.’ He rushed the words out like a confession.

‘Does the husband like you under the bed too?’

‘I’m not sure if he knows that I’m there, mistress.’

‘What does your instinct tell you? How many times have you done this?’ Catching myself in the mirror, I was surprised to see I was smiling, a genuine, amused smile.

‘So far I have been under the bed four times. I don’t tend to follow my instinct, mistress, I prefer facts. I don’t trust feelings the way some other people do. Is that a problem?’

‘You prefer facts to feelings? Then I suppose you’ve never been in love.’

‘I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve never really thought about it, mistress.’ He sounded unsure, defensive.

I shook my head at my reflection. Wicked girl indeed. The one and only internet man I’ve spoken to and straight away I’m noseying about in his private life.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I kept my voice casual. ‘Tell me more about being under the bed. What do you do when they finish having sex?’

‘I creep out and drive home at an appropriate time.’

I found myself laughing once more at the absurd image in my head of this man with the too-normal profile and looks, with his polite words and sweet voice, crawling about under a married couple’s conjugal bed. ‘And do you enjoy this?’

‘I – um – don’t know quite how to answer that, mistress. It wasn’t quite what I imagined … I’m not sure’

‘Do you have sex with your mistress?’ I interrupted him.

‘Oh no. I haven’t earned that yet.’ His tone seemed to indicate I was the ridiculous one for suggesting such a thing. ‘She says she’s going to let me lick her out soon. I’m learning that a lot of sex is about the brain.’

I frowned. ‘You mean that sex is 90 per cent mental?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

What person who played on the BDSM scene didn’t know that true sexual intensity came from the crazy, dark fantasies of the sub and dom merging together into something beautiful and irresistible. Had I understood him right, that he was learning? Maybe his mistress was training him in Tantric sex or something?

‘I’m free today if you want to meet.’ The words spilled out of my mouth without me thinking about them, but I didn’t regret them. It sounded right.

‘Oh yes, mistress. I would make myself free for you.’

‘That’s very nice of you.’ Then his repeatedly calling me “mistress” sunk in and I made a slight effort to be what he wanted. ‘I can only meet you, of course, if you’ll be of interest to me.’ It sounded weak to my ears, but it would do.

‘What sort of slave would I be if I couldn’t amuse my mistress?’ A note of smugness that hadn’t been present before dominated his voice. Suddenly he seemed identical to all the other men I’d spoken to online.

‘I’m not your mistress.’ Still he had amused me, so I told him a time – two o’clock, which gave him plenty of time to drive down to me, a place – a small, independent bookshop that had a tea shop and did homemade cakes (I would eat well if nothing else), and hung up.

I purposely spent no time getting ready. This wasn’t a date. This was a distraction.

My mother had sent me the magazine article about meeting men online, with certain sentences underlined. I’d read it and, like a good little girl valuing her own safety, I now told someone where I’d be, making extra sure this time I sent the text to the right person.

Meeting a slave I found online. It’s our first meeting. He seems harmless, but letting you know as I hope even with this separation thing, you’re the guy who keeps me safe.

I got an immediate response which made my heart thump.

Darling, if I am the only one you’re telling, please let me know all the essentials. Where (somewhere public I insist), when, his name, occupation, cock size. I’ll always be the guy who keeps you safe; make sure I’m the only man you take risks with.

I glowed. And almost got myself run over rereading the text as I crossed a road. But if that had been my last moment, it would have been a good one. My lover cared. That was enough to make my whole life fulfilled.

I replied to his text thus:

The place is where you spend too much money and then purge your guilt by binding me extra tightly and whipping every part of my exposed body. If you need an extra hint, it’s where you bought the cream cake which you smeared over my breasts in the car park and licked off as you fucked me on the back seat of the car. The time is now.

At the bookshop I browsed about the aisles, running my fingers over old book spines and thinking about my lover. I actually forgot the real reason I was there. I was 15 minutes early, but the wait was nothing. I was walking on air. I was dancing on clouds.

A text buzzed through from Slave. A few customers glanced over at me, and I put my phone to silent before I read what he’d sent.

Mistress, please may I ask you what you look like? How will I recognise you when we meet?

You’ll know or you won’t know who I am,
I replied.

Then, after a second’s thought, I sent him another text telling him to be holding a pink carnation.

Then came a succession of texts saying he couldn’t find a flower shop, he didn’t know where one was, he didn’t know this area, he was lost, he was sorry, he was going to be late. Would I prefer him to be on time without the carnation, or late with the carnation?