We meet at last at a train station; it is difficult to tell which, one
of the old grand ones, maybe Marylebone.
You are of course beautiful; breathtaking in black, leggings that seem
to continue stretched on your powerful thighs forever. Your hair is long
and all caught up in a tight bun that makes you seem slightly severe, a
little like a cross schoolmistress. Your perfume is musky, and I just
want to follow around in your cloud.
I can barely speak, and for the first time since I was 11 or 12 feel
very very shy.
You tell me we are going shopping, and immediately I am excited. But
still bashful.
You take my hand, and lead me underground to the tube station. We get
out at Oxford street, and I am like a child as you walk me past shop
windows glittering with prizes, past La Senza and Knickerbox, where
satins and silks softly wave at me past pronuptia, where the gowns and
garters tease me, into Soho, where the tone changes, and we start to fit
in, and at the same time attract attention.
You hardly say a word, pulling as I try to linger at the windows, and
stare at the beautiful women all around.
We clatter down some basement steps, into a very seedy looking tattoo
parlour.
In no time I am stripped to the waist, but you are not paying attention
to me, issuing instructions to a woman with cropped bleached hair, who
descends upon me, and with no ceremony pierces my nipple, washes and
cleans my breast roughly, and you tell me to get dressed.
I have to discard my bra, as even though I am small, it presses upon the
ring, which stings.
I tell you it hurts and you ignore me.
We start to walk the way we came, and still in silence, in sunshine, in
pain, I begin to cry.
You scold me, like a child, and tell me you will simply let go of my
hand, and lose me here in this big dirty city.
I could not bear this, and try to stop crying.
We walk for what seems to be hours and at last you take me into the
shelter of a department store.
Will we head for lingerie? I hold my breath as we mount the escalators,
and we emerge into a world of shoes and boots.
I do not have a choice, again, you all but ignore me, issue brisk
instructions, I am measured, and without my trying them on, a pair of
boots that seem as long as I am are wrapped and paid for. I am allowed
to carry the bag.
We stop next for lunch, and we drink wine, or I drink wine, probably a
bottle and you drink mineral water.
It is not dark or even late when we descend into the tube again, but
when we reach the station, I am falling asleep.
I do not remember getting on the train, but you whisper softly to wake
me when it is time to get off in a strange and unfamiliar place. It is
the first sign of tenderness you have shown me.
We walk for a little way, and I am weary, carrying my bag, turning down
suburban streets, into a huge door, and into a clean white space.
I am still tired, and you tell me that I should rest.
I sleep in your bed, which seems huge and cold, while you do something
downstairs.
When I wake it is dark, and could be any time. You are naked and perfect
your hair down over your round and hypnotically perfect breasts.
Without being asked, I start to undress, I have fallen asleep fully
clothed, and pull off my jumper to reveal my t shirt, and my t shirt to
reveal my own breasts, the left one is an angry purple, and the sight of
it reminds me, and the pain starts again.
You hand me a long white gown, which is sheer and almost invisible.
Despite this I slip it on over my clothes, and only then tug at my long
skirt which falls to the ground.
I know you can see my white cotton knickers, and my ivory white hold
ups.
I know I am very very wet and wonder if it is visible how excited I am.
"I want to make love to you, in here, please"
You do not need my permission, but as I lay on the bed, you motion for
me to stand up, and you lead me round to the long white leather boots,
which I know to put on.
I struggle to put my foot past the ankle, and when I do I feel wetness,
warmth. I know you have been busy, and when my foot finds its place I
feel your warm piss fill up the barest space between my skin and the
leather. The other is fuller, and it spills over the sides. I try to
catch it, to taste it, but watch as it soaks into your carpet.
I lay back on the bed, and you lie down next to me, first caressing my
right nipple, then my ringed left, through the sheer rough slip, and
when a spot of blood sparkles on me, you lick it off me, sit upright
over me, and smile.
I remember you sitting on my chest, and the warmth as you soaked me
again, I remember you gently tugging at my cotton knickers with your
teeth, and nibbling at me as you fumble to stuff them in my mouth. I
remember my own taste, and yours, I remember a time that seemed to last
forever, while you were riding me, singing, and feeling you inside me,
in my behind and in my very hot hole, whose warmth seemed to fill me.
I remember the dark rich chocolately odour as your tiny anus balanced
over my nose, your clit teasing my darting tongue, while you busied
yourself, and I remember another explosion of your hot piss, followed by
mine, I remember waking, while you slept, slipping to the bathroom for
water, and catching my reflection, lipstick all over my bosom, a little
shit around my lips, my slip soaked through, and a smell that I fell
asleep with again.
