Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (14 page)

‘Shut up before I change my mind.’

In his car I let silence rule as I ruffled through his bag. He’d obviously been scared of failing this time. There were two different sets of love beads, one vibrating; a beginners’ butt set with four different slim dildos of increasing length; a curved black dildo of significant width; and a small round glass butt-plug, around two inches at its widest. He’d also bought some sex toy cleaning wipes and a bottle of lube.

I replaced it all back in the bag and stared at his profile for a while as he drove. He was a cautious driver, keeping to speed limits, and only overtaking the slowest vehicles: lorries, caravans, older men crawling along the motorway in sports cars. I thought of being in the car with my lover. Often he ordered me to drive and he might read a book or doze on the backseat of my little runabout. I preferred it, though, when I could sit in the passenger seat gazing at his hands on the wheel, knowing what the hands which now effortlessly weaved his beloved Jaguar in and out of traffic could do to my body.

I looked up and down Slave’s figure. ‘Hold the steering wheel at the top with both hands. Sit up properly. You’re sloppy. You’re chauffeuring your mistress to your home for the first time, at least give the appearance that you care.’

He adjusted his posture. ‘Sorry, mistress. I do care so very much. This is such an unexpected honour. I know I haven’t earned it by pleasing you, that you are blessing me with this treat all from your graciousness.’

I raised my right hand. ‘Stop a minute, Slave. Do you mean these things or are they part of your game?’

‘Mistress!’ The indignation in his voice sounded genuine. ‘Whenever anyone has said to me online that this is a game, I’ve told them they’re wrong. This isn’t about playing around, it’s real. Just like you’ve taught me.’

I put my hand on his knee. ‘Dean.’ His real name didn’t feel natural to my tongue, but I forced myself to use it. ‘Do you ever want a break from this? Some vanilla time? We don’t have to be 24/7. This is your choice. I’m not guiding you either way.’

He answered immediately. ‘No, Mistress Beatrice. I like everything exactly how it is. I don’t want to change.’

I stared out of the window for the remainder of the journey. He stopped outside a small estate of maisonettes. I sat still and waited for him to come round and open the car door for me. I stepped out without looking at him. He closed the door behind me and knelt on the pavement.

‘Mistress? Before when you asked if I wanted vanilla time, were you giving me an opportunity because I’d told you how jealous I was of the way you spoke to your friend? And I was too stupid to take it? Can I change my mind?’

‘You didn’t choose vanilla time, which means you don’t get to ask me questions without permission. Give me your keys and tell me which one is your flat. I will text you if I require your presence. Until then, remain here squeezing.’

He obeyed and I walked alone into his home. I admired his – bravery? Recklessness? Commitment to being a sub? Kneeling in the street where he lived, anyone could see him. Earlier, I had wondered whether he got things wrong so I would end whatever the thing was between us. Now I thought he wanted to be seen and found out. He wanted to be forced into a choice between his Christian life and his sexual life. I was uncertain which one he’d choose.

I moved around his flat, opening kitchen cupboards (he seemed to live on supermarket own brand pasta), going through his bathroom cabinet (stockpiles of aspirin and ibuprofen gel) and his wardrobe (unbelievably neat for a single man). In his lounge there was a pile of magazines. That’s when I texted him to come and join me.

He rang the doorbell. I stood in front of the door, looking at his outline through the tinted glass. There was no reason to make him wait, apart from my own whim. I pressed my own body against the door, feeling the coolness of the glass against my cheek and through my clothes. He raised his hand and touched the other side of the window. I counted – one, two, three, four, five – then I opened the door.

I walked through to his lounge and he followed me, carrying his bags full of underwear and sex toys. I stretched out over his sofa. He waited in the door way for his next command.

‘Put your new clothes on, slave, show me how pretty you can be.’

I gazed at him as he undressed. He was awkward, staring at his feet as he moved. He rolled his socks up in his shoes, lined his shoes up precisely against the wall.

‘May I have permission to leave the room please, mistress, to hang my suit up so it doesn’t crease?’

‘No.’

It was only as he was placing his jacket over the back of a chair that I realised he’d asked a question without obtaining permission. He told me how much he adored me because I was so hard on him, such a perfectionist, so demanding, missing nothing. It was too late to ask him to squeeze his balls; if he was aware of the slip himself hopefully he thought I’d ignored it out of kindness, or my refusal was his punishment.

It was difficult to think all the time, to always have to concentrate on his behaviour, to guess what he desired without letting him know I was doing what he wanted.

He took off his shirt next, then his trousers, finally his white boxers. The skin normally concealed under his clothes was pale, making him seem fragile and young. I could have called him over, let him rest his head on my breast, ordered him to cry and release all the pain from his childhood; his lost mother, his abusive stepmother, his separation from his siblings.

‘Put on your new underwear,’ I said.

He struggled with it all. But he tried. And eventually succeeded. The clasp on the bra was like his own personal Mensa test. He fiddled around with the knickers for a long time, attempting to fit himself in comfortably. One of the stockings snagged on his toenail.

‘You’ve named me Beatrice. I’m going to name you Daisy. That is the name you’ll use in all your contact with people on the scene. Understood?’

‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.’

I beckoned him with one finger to come closer, then to turn around in front of me. He needed gloves and make-up. I thought of getting a lipstick out of my handbag, a scarlet one, and painting his face with it. I could picture myself getting up and smearing it over his mouth with one hand while the other one fondled his nipples through the material of his bra.

But it was too intimate. I’d chosen my cosmetics to suit my master and match his desires and tastes.

‘Daisy, tell me, why do you have so many wedding magazines in your home?’

He answered immediately. ‘I told you, mistress, in the email when you asked about my employment history.’ He bit his lip and took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, mistress, I shouldn’t assume you read the emails or texts I send you. I’m sure you have much more amusing things to do with your time. If you don’t mind me telling you again, I’ll explain.’ Another deep breath. ‘I used to work for a friend doing wedding photography, when I still lived in Devon. I still occasionally photograph weddings for someone at church or friends, so I like to keep up to date with prices and trends.’

‘Why do you need to keep up to date with prices? Surely you don’t charge your friends?’

‘Not much, mistress. Well below market rates. I wouldn’t charge you anything, of course.’

I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘You think I’d want to get married? It’s an outdated concept that has a history of trapping and abusing women.’

There we were, neither of us quite lying, neither of us being honest, both of us choosing to believe the other.

‘Sorry, mistress. I hope you’re not offended, but I’ve sometimes had fantasies of being married to you.’

I laughed.

He continued speaking. ‘Not like a proper marriage, but just so all my material goods and finances would officially be yours. I’d sleep in a dog bed in the kitchen and make you breakfast in bed each day. I’d bathe you ready for your dates when you’d go out and meet real men who could satisfy you. And I’d put you to bed when you came home and then go back to my dog bed in the kitchen when you were peacefully asleep and had no more need for me.’

‘The dog would sleep in its own bed. You would lie on the cold floor, and if you’d really pleased me I’d let you have a tea towel as a pillow and a dishcloth as a blanket.’

We both smiled at the ridiculous image, but his cock had hardened as I spoke and was pushing out of his knickers.

‘Get your new lube and finger your arse,’ I said.

He got the lube, broke the seal, then stared helplessly at me. ‘What do you mean by finger my arse? Do you mean press a finger inside me? Is that safe, mistress?’

I sighed and put my head in my hands. ‘I’m willing to let the odd stray question slide, but you take my kindness and abuse it. For that disrespect you’ll push your whole fist up your arse.’

‘Mistress, is that even possible? I’m not sure I can do that.’

I stared at him.

He met my eyes for a brief moment before dropping his gaze. ‘Pants! I’m sorry, mistress. I’m a cock-loving slut and don’t deserve you. I didn’t mean to ask another question and I didn’t mean to look at you. And of course I can, and will, do whatever you tell me to do.’

‘Start by playing one finger around your arse, then insert it up to the first knuckle, up to the second knuckle, then the whole finger. Then two fingers. Then three. And so on. And, Daisy, do not ever say “pants” again in my hearing. Or, for that matter, anyone else’s hearing. You’re a grown man, not a 12-year-old Girl Guide.’

‘Sorry, mistress.’

‘Stop doing things you need to apologise for and just get on with your task.’

‘Yes, mistress.’

He lubed his first finger and reached down the back of his knickers.

‘Turn around so I can see,’ I said.

He did, lowering the knickers down his thighs so I could watch his finger sliding around his star hole. He pressed in about the length of half a fingernail.

‘That feels very odd, mistress.’

‘Do you have any wine, Daisy?’ I asked in a bored voice. ‘I didn’t see any in your fridge.’

‘I have a bottle of red I use for cooking.’

‘I’ll find it. I’m going to get drunk, chat to some of my friends on your PC, maybe I’ll get myself off watching porn. Then I am going to go to sleep in your bed. You are going to stay here until you’ve got your fist up your arse. I suspect you’re going to have a long night.’

*               *               *

Later, I lay in the dark on Slave’s bed, resting fully clothed on top of his sheets. He was still in his lounge. A couple of times he’d called out for permission to go to the toilet, which I, being such a kind, generous mistress, granted. I then forbade him from speaking to me until he completed his task, so I didn’t know what he did if he needed relief after that.

He wouldn’t complete it.

My master had never even attempted to fist me and I’d had his cock stretching my arse more times than I could count. I moved onto my side and played a finger around my tight hole now. I smiled, recalling how I’d been when my lover started anal training me.

‘I’m not doing anything with animals,’ I’d said in all seriousness.

‘My dear, I may be hung like a very well-endowed horse, but why on earth do you think anal sex involves our furry friends?’

‘I read on the internet something about hamsters and matches. I know we go to some strange places, but I’m not up for that.’

He laughed. Then the laughter stopped. He grabbed my hips, pushed me down onto the floor, and raised my legs onto his shoulders. My skirt ruffled around my waist.

‘Little bitch, I want to fuck every part of you and I’m going to fuck every part of you. It’s not your choice.’

I gazed up at him, smiling and panting. He stared at my sex. His hands slid over my bare skin. He flicked a thumb over my clit; a tease rather than a seduction. His fingers ran down between my naked buttocks. I tensed, a subconscious action that had no connection with the lust and desire of my mind.

He slapped my breasts, then returned his hand to my arse. He teased me in the way he sometimes did with a whip; soft flirtations followed by hard strokes. He spent a long time gently caressing the fullest, fleshiest part of my bottom, then suddenly dived his fingers fully inside me.

As I remember it the only lube he used was spit. That is what I focused on at the time; him spitting on me. When I was a child my mother said spitting was the most disgusting habit, that only the dirtiest, worst-behaved children with unspeakably bad parents spat. I watched my lover’s glob of saliva leave his lips and be dragged by forces of gravity down to my body as if it fell in slow motion. It fascinated me more than his fingers probing inside me; somehow I’d grown into a woman who loved a man who spat on her. And it felt so beautiful and true. This was where I was supposed to be and this was what I was supposed to be doing.

After that first time I felt sore and conscious of a part of my body I hadn’t thought of before. But in retrospect, in contrast with what followed, my lover showed uncustomary gentleness when he introduced me to anal.

Later there were toys, there was hard, dry fucking, there was me in a toilet cubicle at work desperately rubbing my arse, trying to recapture the ecstasy I felt when my lover touched me. He created an itch deep inside me that only he could soothe. Is that a correct way to describe the way he made me feel? Yes. I’ve scratched my arse raw attempting to relieve the longing my body felt for him.

I touched myself gently now, a light tracing around my arse with the tips of my nails, teasing the sensitivity of my skin. Then I used all my strength to press into my skin. A moan slipped through my lips, but it wasn’t the same, it was a poor imitation. I needed my master.

I got up off the bed and softly moved to Slave’s lounge. He gave no indication that he was aware of my presence. From my position his face appeared creased and aged with effort. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle as he pushed two fingers inside him. He was up to the second knuckle.

Silently, I withdrew back to the bedroom. I rubbed my thumb over my clit with no expectation of orgasms. I waited for tiredness, until I felt disconnected from Slave, from his flat, from the bed I lay on, from my own body. Until I was nothing more than a collection of atoms held together by luck. In my dreams I dispersed and floated throughout the world; I was part of the air. I found my lover, I entered and filled all the cavities of his body. And then I was finally still.