Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel (20 page)

His bedroom
. It was the same as it was the last time I was here. It was the same as it had appeared in all my fantasies of the past months. Yet it was different. Somehow it was lighter; less shadows and more sunlight. He released me and stepped over to draw the curtains.

I smiled. That was more familiar. For the first time I noticed there were two sets of handcuffs on the bedposts. ‘Are those for me, or are they for someone else?’

He looked at the bed with an expression I couldn’t interpret.

I persisted. ‘Have you been seeing other women? Another woman? A man? Someone younger than me? More intelligent? One of your students?’

He laughed. ‘Do you think that I want to marry you so I can have the thrill of being unfaithful to my wife? Do you want pain so much that you are creating the jealousy of my prick getting hard for a student?’

‘Yes.’ I bit down on my lip. ‘Not a student, lots of them. One special clever, witty one, and lots of others in constant orgies. All of them obeying you and being better sluts than me. Occasionally I’ve thought about you getting back with your wife, your real wife, not me. And you tie her up and punish her harder than you’ve ever punished me because she hurt you so much. Because you loved her so much more than you’ve ever loved me.’

He came over to me and held my face between his hands, tilting it so I gazed up at him. ‘It’s all creating narratives and not real, but if my ex-wife hadn’t fucked off and I’d still been married, even then, I don’t think I would have been strong enough to resist you. I would have tried, but you have a power over me that doesn’t compare with anyone else I’ve ever known. You, my twisted-up little fuck, are the love of my life.’ He kissed me tenderly at first, but then my lips were between his teeth, my hand was down his trousers squeezing his balls and his fingers were probing between my buttocks.

He threw me face down onto the bed, pinning me down with his weight, forcing the oxygen out of my lungs. ‘These handcuffs are yours. They’ve been ready for your return. I am never going to let you go again. I gave you your chance, now you’re going to be chained to my bed until the end.’

He clicked the handcuffs around my wrists.

I gabbled out words, panting for air. ‘Yes. Yes. I do. Until death. Until death do us part. Death won’t part us. I’ll follow you into the dark. I’ll never let you go. If I die first. I’ll haunt you. You’ll taste me in your tears. You’ll fuck other girls and hear me in their screams.’

‘I am only interested in hearing your screams.’

I lay and listened to him moving around the room. He was removing his clothes, putting them away, throwing something in the bin, searching for something. He was beside the bed. A swishing sound cut the air apart. My body tensed, my cunt was wet; Pavlovian responses. The cat o’ nine tails slashed across my buttocks.

‘Darling. Darling. I’ve missed you so much.’ I cried.

The cat tore into the skin of my back.

My body shook with sobs. ‘Never leave me again. Promise you’ll never leave me again.’

He stroked my hair away from my ears and leant over, close to my face. ‘It was you who left me.’

‘I didn’t. I couldn’t.’

A quick movement and the cat’s claws were on my thighs. I yelled out, the room filled with my pain and ecstasy. There was no space for anything else. My head throbbed. My body seemed to shrink and enlarge at the same time, became everything, became nothing.

My master left the room.

I listened for his presence around the house and heard nothing. He was silence, a wisp, a shadow. A dream. Love.

No, love wasn’t silence. It was the sound of men at war, the clattering of swords and shields, battle cries and screams of death. It was the taste of poison on your lips, the bite of an asp, a dagger through the heart.

My flesh became cold despite the heat outside. I was in a different world to the people enclosed in their cars safely driving past this house, their minds intent on shopping lists, family visits, the football results. None of them knowing, or caring, about a young woman (was I still young?) naked apart from stockings and heels, handcuffed to her lover’s bed and waiting almost patiently to be filled with his come again.

Or maybe they were all like me, hiding behind the mundanity of work and duty their true selves. Maybe they hid so well that no one, including themselves, could ever find them again.

I was struck by a deep thirst and hunger. I’d had an espresso when I woke up and that was all. My body was fuelled only by caffeine and yearning. I pulled on my handcuffs, knowing they wouldn’t come loose. The metal cut into my skin. I did not move to make myself more comfortable, the same way I didn’t call out, asking my lover if he could bring me a drink of water.

I took deep, slow breaths from my stomach and concentrated on the steady beat of my heart.

When my lover returned it was sudden. The door was opened, he was on me, his naked skin pressed against mine, biting my shoulders. He parted my thighs with his knees; his cock slid into my moist cunt as if it was returning home. I raised my hips.

‘You want to be fucked like a bitch?’ He put his hands either side of my head and I arched my back against his chest.

He was warmth. He was life.

‘Fuck my arse,’ I said.

He was moving inside me gently, ignoring my efforts to grind against him.

He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. ‘Ask nicely, slut. You’re forgetting your good manners.’

‘Excuse me, sir, would you please be so kind as to bugger me senseless. I would very much appreciate it.’

He climbed off me.

‘Please, sir, a proper gentleman shouldn’t ignore a damsel in distress.’

‘You are nowhere near being in distress yet, my dear.’ He was getting something from a drawer, hopefully lube.

‘Perhaps you could do something about that too.’ I twisted my head to try and see him.

‘Eyes front, soldier.’ He spanked my arse in the same place he’d hit me with the cat earlier.

I yelped.

He laughed.

He was on the bed behind me. I spread my legs wide for him. Cold lube was rubbed between my buttocks.

‘Thank you, sir.’

But it wasn’t his hot cock that forced into my tight hole. The thing being pressed inside me was a string of love beads, cool and hard and unrelenting. He did not give my body a chance to adjust; he pushed them in as fast as they’d go.

‘Your cunt is mine.’ He thrust between the lips of my sex. ‘Whoever else has had you, your cunt is mine.’

‘Everything I am, everything I’m ever going to be, is yours.’ I pressed back into him.

He remained statue still as I fucked him. I thrust back and forth, pulling on my handcuffs until my wrists were sore.

I looked over my shoulder at him, and he smiled indulgently. Being able to look at him, to know him again with all my senses, not to have to rely on my misty memory, that broke the orgasm in me as much as the pleasure of my cunt squeezed around his cock.

He tugged the love beads out at the peak of my orgasm. And before I had a chance to settle my breath, his hands were on my buttocks, spreading them, and his prick was forcing its way inside me.

I made an attempt to reposition myself, but he pushed my hips down into the sheets. His cock was slow in spreading me, so I could feel and concentrate on every millimetre of him pressing into my body.

He lay down on top of me, all of his weight squashing me. I gasped. He stretched his arms over mine. We were one being. He didn’t move inside me. We were still.

‘I love you.’ We spoke at the same time, one soft whisper teasing the air.

Those too oft spoken words, three little syllables to try and balance out and justify all the hurt and wrongness.

We claimed them in that moment to try and express that which was impossible to express.

The choice of a life apart was no option. It was barrenness, the constant ache of loneliness; it was our minds as arid deserts, our bodies as broken machines.

Whatever constituted our souls was so entwined that we dared to believe in forever despite all evidence to the contrary.

All the billions of adults covering this world, and every time we would choose to fuck each other.

The image of each other twisted around our hearts.

That was our love.

Epilogue – Happily Ever

We got married in a cave in Australia.

I found it on the internet and somehow it seemed appropriate.

We had a long honeymoon. My husband took a sabbatical; I was unemployed. When my office became a victim of the recession I volunteered in the first round of redundancies. Marcus had an awkward (on his part) conversation with me. I winked and told him I’d nearly forgotten about the sexual harassment and it had nothing to do with me wanting to leave. ‘You shouldn’t joke about those sorts of things,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said in all seriousness. ‘I shouldn’t.’ I think despite, or because of, his one-time attraction to me, Marcus was glad to see me leave.

Joe and I had a joint leaving do. Joe said it was the push he needed to take the ultimate deep sea plunge. A miracle had happened and he’d met a woman who was as “special” as me. She was filthy rich and had made an offer for him to be ostensibly employed as her chauffeur, but in reality he would be her 24/7 personal slave, her true companion. Did I feel a twinge of regret for a possibility disappearing? Yes. But it was only a twinge, a simple kneejerk reaction. Joe possessed an unbelievable body, was funny and warm and open-minded with sex, but he wasn’t my lover.

The day before my lover became my husband we fucked each other sore. We had none of our usual toys with us, so we improvised.

We stripped the hotel bed bare and he bound and gagged me with sheets and pillow cases.

I rubbed my cunt against a chair leg.

He teased my clit with the corner of the room service menu.

The hotel body lotion became lube.

The handles of teaspoons and toothbrushes pried open my arse.

He spanked me with his bare hand.

I pretended to be the maid.

He dragged me fully clothed into the shower. That was my favourite thing, or the thing I remember most; holding each other as the hottest water possible fell onto us and the room disappeared into steam.

We were both tired for our wedding. He wore the suit he wore for formal occasions at work. I had a red dress with a sweetheart neckline. We asked for the word “obey” to be kept in the marriage vows. We paid a fellow guest at the hotel, a random woman who claimed to be having an adult gap year, to take the wedding photos on her camera phone. She emailed us 20 photos which all looked like us, not glamorised or romanticised, just us. My husband printed one out in miniature to put in his wallet.

For our honeymoon we had no sex. We did things we thought married couples might do; visited famous landmarks, went to restaurants recommended on travel websites, bickered over directions. I wrote a postcard to my mother telling her I’d got married, but in the end I dropped it in the bin and sent my brother an email with the news, leaving it to the gods whether it was important enough for him to take time out of his studying and share with the rest of the family.

I bought Bill Bryson’s book about Australia and read the funniest anecdotes and the things I thought might be of interest about how many casinos there are in Australia, how many poisonous animals, how vast it is as a country etc., out loud to my husband. He bought Peter Carey’s
Oscar and Lucinda
and read the whole heart-breaking, hope-destroying story of obsessive love to me.

‘I make you laugh, you make me cry,’ I said to him. ‘Is this going to be a microcosm of our married life?’

‘This is a microcosm of our whole relationship, my dear,’ he replied.

At night and in the mornings we lay naked on top of the bed covers, gazing at each other but never touching. We’d silently agreed that we were doing our honeymoon in reverse, without the sex; instead we were being a couple, asking each other boring questions and sharing the details of our life as if we were endlessly thrilled by ourselves.

When we were on the plane home I put my jacket over our legs and we wanked each other off. We were discreet, but I suspect everyone around us knew what we were doing.

Back at his house, which was now my house, we resumed our normal fucking. Sometimes we ventured out of the four walls of our bedroom. We went to couples’ Tantra weekends, a place where the women are treated like ponies, a few dogging sites, one swingers’ party where we didn’t swing, a pub which was hired every month for people who liked throwing custard and cream and jelly at each other (especially at the more curvaceous of women), and we went to fetish nights at clubs and private BDSM parties.

Whether we were watching or involved, these were voyeuristic nights out. It reminded me of when I was a teenager going out clubbing with my friends because with a lot of make-up and a pair of heels I could pass for 18. I did it because I could and because it was a laugh, but the true me, the happier me, preferred being alone in my bedroom with my headphones on, dancing around in the dark to the same tune repeated again and again.

What my husband and I had, what we did, wasn’t something that could be acted out in public. But still, watching doms sitting on their subs’ faces was a more interesting hobby for us to do together than the book club or rambling association, which were the suggestions my husband always came up with whenever we had an empty evening together.

It was on one of these nights out that I saw Slave for the last time.

My husband decided fairly late in the evening that he wanted to watch other people fucking. It was past 11 when we got dressed and went to a party. It was in a warehouse. So many of these things seemed to be in old warehouses; buildings that were constructed for industry now utilised for the kinkiest of orgies.

We walked into the midst of the leather-clad people. My husband wore his smart casual clothes, I wore a light summer dress which was too thin for the night air, wedge-heeled sandals and my hair pulled back in a loose pony tail. At these events I always drew more stares for the everyday normality of my attire than the sluts clad in net body stockings and the mistresses in their outfits which revealed stunning bodies.

The host of the event was a professional dominatrix who also organised frequent parties for friends. She called herself Adora and was an imposing figure of over six foot in her thigh-length boots. I had never seen her without her well-heeled boots on so, like many things regarding her, I could only guess at her real height.

When we arrived she was almost immediately beside my husband, her arms around him, giving him a lingering kiss on his lips.

‘Have you fucked her?’ I asked my husband one time. ‘Which one of you was in charge?’

‘There doesn’t always have to be someone in charge,’ he replied.

‘There does. Even if it’s not explicit someone’s always got more power than the other. And you didn’t answer my question,’ I said.

But that was the end of the conversation and we both knew it.

‘You look mesmerising tonight, Adora,’ my husband said, keeping his hands on her corseted waist.

Adora was apparently mesmerising every time he saw her. She had an ageless quality to her that intrigued me. She did not dye the grey out of her hair and there was a deepness to her voice and a confidence in her composure that made me think she was over 50, but her face and neck were smooth. There weren’t even any tell-tale age spots on her hands.

‘I always dress to please you, darling, even when I hold out little hope that you’ll accept my invitations.’

‘I’m not as young as I once was. The excitement of seeing you too often would put my heart at great risk.’

My thoughts drifted away from their mock flirting, which could go on eternally. Adora never acknowledged me and I was never a part of their conversations, which was fine. I was here as a sub, there shouldn’t be any reason for her to notice me. I focused instead on the marks that were still visible on my wrists from the time a couple of weeks ago when my husband had twisted my arms behind my back and cuffed me before proceeding to abuse my arse.

Then my mind snapped back to the present. Adora clicked her fingers. The gesture wouldn’t have summoned my attention; she was always clicking them, clapping her hands, ordering her minions around. I probably didn’t even notice it at the time, and my memory has inserted it in retrospect. It’s what happened afterwards that was significant.

A slave came trotting up to her, his head bowed even though he was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand and a platter of vol au vents in the other. It was a slave I’d never seen in Adora’s presence before. He was naked apart from a leather chastity device and a pink collar with the name “Daisy” engraved in white lettering.

I gazed at the slave’s slim, exposed body as Adora chatted at my husband.

‘This one is a real gem, a true find. I discovered him through a mistress I had never previously rated, but she had this man in her possession and he has been incredibly well trained. It is no exaggeration to say he’s the best I’ve come across. I saw his worth immediately and he’s now serving a probationary period with me. It is a formality, though, I can’t foresee any problems. He’s a perfect slave: discreet, obedient, and he disdains safewords.’ She said more. I wanted to listen, I wanted to know, but her words became formless and incomprehensible to me.

Without saying anything to my husband, I walked away from the group and tried to focus on the event.

I wandered around watching; pretending that I could fill my eyes with enough visions and forget about Adora’s “gem”. Pretending that I could forget I’d once seen the man who now held the dominatrix’s refreshments getting fucked on the floor of his lounge under my command.

There was enough going on that I should have been distracted from myself and that small moment in my past.

The party was in full hardcore swing. Literally. A man was trussed up in a swing frame with a woman dressed in a latex nurse’s uniform fisting him.

Susie Doll, Adora’s transsexual slave, was overseeing a queue of people waiting to fuck a fair-skinned woman secured in a device similar to stockades.

There was a person lying abandoned in the floor, a discarded toy. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female as they were bound in a black, whole body straitjacket, complete with hood, the only visible gap being breathing holes at the nose.

There were various groups sitting around chatting with naked slaves on all fours acting as chairs.

For no obvious reason I stopped by one of the contraptions Adora loved so much. A woman dressed in nothing but a black peephole PVC bra, with countless piercings, and a flame tattoo that covered most of her back, was held upside down on a metal wheel. I thought I recognised her as one of the mean girls that Adora kept around, but in truth I never paid too much attention to the individual identities of the other guests; they were one body, one face acting out the communal BDSM yearning.

There were three youthful looking women kneeling by the constrained mean girl. I gazed at their slender bodies and breasts which were little more than buds.

‘Are you ladies old enough to be here?’ I asked.

It was a stupid question. Of course they were old enough to be here; Adora was very strict about whom she let in and no one under 21 would be in this room. They just looked so tender, and right now I felt inexplicably protective of them.

They turned to me, obviously disconcerted by my appearance and trying to decide whether I was a mistress or fellow sub before they made a mistake in their reply.

The mean girl spoke for them and gave my question the answer it deserved. ‘Fuck off back to your daddy, bitch, before he realises how ancient your cunt is and finds himself a tighter replacement.’

I smiled. There was an undeniable quality to a woman who could squeeze such venom into her voice when she was hanging upside down and her head was at knee level. I imagined Slave would appreciate her abuse. I stopped smiling for a moment.

A sissy slave arrived carrying a silver tray heavy with three bottles of champagne. He was dressed in a French maid costume, with smoky black eye make-up, applied with more skill and patience than I’d ever achieved. Did Adora ever have Daisy dressed in this manner? I recalled how I had made him dress in woman’s underwear and how he’d struggled with the bra strap.

I stared directly into the sissy’s face. He met my gaze briefly before coquettishly lowering his eyes.

I realised I couldn’t remember the colour of my little slave’s eyes.

The sissy put the tray down on the floor, uncorked the first bottle, and handed it to one of the girls. She waited while he opened the other two and passed them to her two friends. Then they stood up and poured the champagne into the upside-down mean girl’s spread cunt lips.

When the bottles were spent the sissy slave worked the machinations to turn her the correct way round; the three girls fell forward and lapped at the bubbly liquid as it ran down the mean girl’s legs.

I would have watched longer, more out of a sudden deep lethargy than curiosity about how it would all play out, but I thought I heard my husband calling my name. His voice, the prospect that he wanted me, made all else insignificant.

I turned abruptly and knocked into someone. Someone who was holding a massive sponge cake filled with cream and fruit that slammed against her chest. It happened so quickly that laughter spilled out of my lips before I could check myself with a reminder of where I was. My other immediate reaction – to reach out and help the woman and give her my apologies – was also wrong.

The manner in which she jerked back from me and glared at me displayed that she was a dom, and an angry rather than amused dom. I stepped back away from her with my head high. I knew the expected response was for me to drop to my knees and supplicate before her. I knew I was never going to do that. We stared at each other. A dollop of cream slid off her bodice onto the floor.

‘Clean that up,’ she commanded.

Adora appeared before I replied, which was probably for the best as the words resting on my tongue would have only made the situation worse. I glanced around, but there was no one else I knew with her.

The woman spoke to Adora, but continued to stare straight at me. ‘This slut has been incredibly disrespectful. She deliberately humiliated me and then laughed in my face. I don’t expect that kind of treatment, especially not here, at one of your events. Look at the way she’s dressed, she doesn’t belong here. Why have you let her in? I thought you were supposed to have standards? This is all a joke to her. I want to know how you’re going to punish her.’ A moment ago I had been the audience, now I was the entertainment; people were stopping their own games and looking over at us. A few took up the cheer of “punish her” – not in a vindictive way, I was just a new potential addition to their fun. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for the woman I’d bumped into. She looked at me as if I had devised and delivered an insult that questioned the right of her and her whole lineage to exist.