Dee's Story

Dee's Story.

1.

The first thing you should know about me is that I hate tie-dye. Really really hate it.

My mom was a child of the 60's, a groupie, she followed bands, artists, anyone who had a space on their van and a reefer spare. I'm not sure she ever had a real job other than being a groupie, but to earn money she made tie-dyes, T-shirts, skirts, scarves, anything and everything. My arrival didn't change anything, except that every single thing I wore was fuckin' tie-dyed.

I grew up backstage, at concerts, in pubs, anywhere the band played, whichever band mom was following, ok, whichever musician she was screwing, same thing really. One of the 'rock stars' mom followed was legendary for fathering illegitimate children, I once heard him answer a question about it, "when I eat beans and fart, why should I care which bean caused it?" He was not my father, at least I look nothing like him and besides, on my birth certificate under 'Father' it says 'Artist'. That is one of two things I know about my father, the other is that I inherited his talent.

Mom claimed I could draw before I could walk, all I know is that it's a gift, part of me, a big part of me, probably the best part of me.

Few people know about my childhood, it's not something I talk about, not because it was awful, in some ways it was a child's dream. I never went to school because we were constantly moving, living in vans, caravans, sometimes in hotels or other peoples houses, I helped mom with the tie-dying, kept out of the way and sketched constantly with pencil or pen, on anything I could get, mostly the backs of posters and discarded set lists.

My prized possession was my satchel, the straps were broken when I found it, but Rhonda fixed them for me and I took it everywhere, all that I valued was inside that satchel, every sketch I'd made, all carefully folded away, I still have it, that, my birth certificate and £32.78 was all I had when I left. Sixteen years old and still wearing fuckin' tie-dyes..!!

There was no dreadful reason for running away, just a lot of wants. I wanted to wear proper clothes, I wanted to be myself, I wanted a life of my own, not to be dependant on who Mom was screwing and how successful they were. Plus I was no longer a little kid, the tit fairy had eventually arrived and although she wasn't overly generous she left enough that people noticed. A sixteen year old girl surrounded by roadies and musicians, most of whom spent their free time drinking or getting high is never going to remain a virgin for long, one way or another I was going to lose my cherry, willingly or not. Well fuck them..!! I beat them to it. Her name was Rhonda and she ran a leather stall, travelling around the country to concerts and fairs. We bumped into her quite often and I'd known her for years, long before she repaired my satchel straps, long enough to trust her, not completely trust her, but enough.

Rhonda had the hots for me, I had the hots for anything that wasn't tie-dyed. So we made a deal, my cherry for a new pair of jeans and one of her leather jackets. The next morning I left. I think of Rhonda more often than I think of my Mom.

People make such a fuss about sex. I think the less sex they have the more they want to dictate how other people should have it, or not have it. They love telling everyone how not to have it. I grew up with it, the posters, the language, the roadies shagging anything in a skirt, it was just there, part of life. It is life. But until the tit fairy arrived it was not part of my life.

Rhonda changed that.

She was cool. Amongst a crowd of characters she stood out. Rhonda was all woman, her own woman, she stood up for herself without ever being butch, she was sexy without being a tease, most of all she hated tie-dye..!! My kind of woman..!!

That one time with her changed my outlook on life forever. It started one afternoon, her stall was set up ready for the next day, the stage across the field looked like the storming of the Bastille and sounded like Armageddon in stereo. The rain that day was torrential, the roadies cursing worse than usual, inside Rhonda's battered caravan the aromas of leather mixed with fresh brewed 'real' coffee. To this day I'm addicted to both.

I had been sketching a young groupie, a Swedish girl who had spent all summer hooked on heavy rock and roadie cock. When the rain started she had stripped off her clothes and gone out into the field, dancing around to pulsing beat of the never ending sound-checks. That girl could dance, really dance, her body gyrating in a way that made language superfluous, long blonde hair flying, body clad in raindrops and mud, her bare feet hardly touching the ground. I had been sitting under a tree, crouched over trying to keep the paper dry as my pencil traced her image, my fingers as always assuming a life of their own as they sought to keep hold of the pencil as it flicked and swooped to the rhythm of the girls body.

The sketch was almost complete when Rhonda's voice broke through my concentration. "My god, one look at that drawing and I can taste her." To this day I'm not sure it she was thinking aloud. Something I've never understood, just because I draw girls does not mean I'm a lesbian, anymore that drawing sheep makes me a shepherdess. Ok so now I am a lesbian, but why do people assume that just because of my subject matter? It's about as logical as the 'short skirt makes you a whore' brigade, with their endless tirades of bullshit.

Inside Rhonda's caravan we traded, her coffee for more sketches, she had a good eye and an honesty I appreciated even more than the coffee. We talked of art and craft, designs and desires, those desires soon focused on those she had for me. "How come I rarely see you? I know you're always around."

"When you go back-stage, have you ever noticed a flight-case..?" I asked her, watching her face as she thought about my question and how it might relate to hers. "They're everywhere, but no one case stands out, that's me, I find a niche and get comfortable, if I stay still I can see everything, everyone, yet nobody sees me, or rather nobody registers that I'm there." I grinned. "Just 'cos I've never been to school does not make me dumb."

"You've never..? Oh my.." Rhonda stopped talking and just looked at me, not a scare stare, her expression reflected a new appreciation, a greater understanding, and as I was soon to find out, a greater desire. "I want you." No subtlety, "more than that I want you to want me to." It took a moment to work my way through her words, "If you do, then we're going to make love, not fuck, fucking is good, but meaningless to the soul, making love is sharing souls, it has meaning."

"I'm a virgin."

"You've never..? Oh my.." Rhonda paused, "I really must stop saying that.."

I stood up, stepped back from her so she could see me properly, "you want this?" I asked, twirling once, my tie-dyed smock wafting around my body. "I like you Rhonda, I like you a lot, but if you want my cherry, I want something in return." Her eyes narrowed, her smile beginning to form a scowl, "no, I'm not after much, just clothes, any clothes, so long as they are not fuckin' tie-dyed..!!

Her scowl dissolved into laughter. "Deal, but clothes first," she paused to look at me, a hard look as if to drive her words home, "and they're yours to keep, even if we don't make love, understood?"

As good as her word she looked me up and down carefully then stepped out, splashing through the puddles to her van, returning quickly, yet even that short time left her hair soaked and clothes dripping. "Undress."

"You too, you're soaking."

"More than you know, sweet cheeks." Her grin promised much, her eyes promised more.

I stripped of my smock, kicked off the worn sandals and stood naked as Rhonda undressed, she wore more and took longer, not that I minded, I was quite happy absorbing every detail of her body, smooth creamy skin that was tight enough to hint at the muscle beneath, only her hips carried a little extra, and the extra padding did nothing to hurt her beauty, not a magazine beauty but her looks and body oozed sensuality.

Gathering up my discarded clothes she 'marched' them to the waste bin, humming the funeral march theatrically, the bin closed, I wanted to cheer.. so I did..!!

Rhonda produced a pair of kick-ass leather boots. She called them 'semi-biker', the leather jacket looked worn, "It's not second-hand, it's just been out on display too long, too much sun and rain, but it'll last you, and it's better than giving you a new one that some prick will steal, or accuse you of stealing." Her words made perfect sense, besides I didn't care, a leather jacket of my own..!! The fit was loose, but again as Rhonda pointed out, "you'll grow into it quick enough and come winter you'll want more clothes underneath it."

Standing there naked but for the boots and jacket I needed to thank her. I express myself better with a pencil, but right then a sketch was just not enough, I stepped right up to her and hugged her tight, our eyes locked, then our lips, her hands moved to pull me closer, her body still damp, except her pussy, that was soaking, as I soon found out..

But not too soon 'cos the kiss lasted forever, my first real lovers kiss, Rhonda's lips moved over mine, teaching as they enticed, her tongue joined in, adding another lesson, I was a good student, dutifully practising and repeating everything they taught, until Rhonda's grip on my ass tightened and her nipples burned my tits. "Jeans later, bed now." Breathlessly she eased me out of the jacket and reluctantly paused to help me off with the boots, then we merged together again, flowing into one another, into bed, into ecstasy.

Her kisses spread out across my body, my fingers spread across hers. She moaned, then kissed lower, slower, until I gripped her head and pushed her down, my legs opening as she tasted me. Rhonda ate my pussy. Swallowed my cum. Never stopping until long after I had mirrored every loving kiss and tongue tease, I tasted her, swallowed her. I ate her pussy. It was evening before we left the bed, left our sweat on the sheets and our cum on each other's faces.

As the coffee brewed we clung to one another, eyes glazed, tongues licking between kisses, bodies drained, thighs wet, my pussy throbbing, my clit as sore as my nipples, I wanted coffee, food, but then I wanted more of Rhonda, much more. Just as well, because she wanted more of me, my cherry, and late that night she had my ass too.

In time I learnt about dildos and all the other kinds of toys, but not with Rhonda. She loved me with her body, nothing else, she taught me how to pleasure my body, her body, a woman's body, lessons I've never forgotten. That night I cried out as her fingers finally pierced me deep, cried louder when much later they withdrew. She filled me so full for so long she left me feeling empty, as if I needed to be full to be complete, full of her fingers, her tongue, as full as I must have made her feel when I copied her every move, thrusting and licking until she too screamed and clutched my head tight between her thighs. By the time her tongue found my ass I could refuse her nothing, the sensations burned hotter as her tongue went deeper, then her fingers stoked the furnace in my ass and my pussy exploded, erupting far beyond my control, splattering her with the lava of love.

With practice came confidence, ever the eager student of her lessons in loving I finally took charge, no longer simply copying, I began to lead, Rhonda happily following as I had her kneel, body bent far forward, my hands opening her up as my tongue sought out her ass, she tasted of lust and cum, my tongue delved deeper, my fingers followed until she was bucking and writhing, panting for breath and begging for more. That night I gave her more, gave her everything, willingly.

Rhonda was all woman.

The next morning I shared a last coffee with her, kissed her one last time, grinning at the taste of myself on her lips, knowing I tasted of her. Boots and jacket, jeans and satchel, I had entered her caravan a girl, I stepped out of her caravan a woman, the T-shirt she gave me was from a Spanish leather supplier. I don't know if Rhonda understood Spanish, or if she chose that T-shirt on purpose, translated it said, "leather makes me hot, whipping makes me wet." I only learned that later though..

I spent the rest of the summer in Blackpool. I hadn't planned on it, I just walked to the main road and stuck out my thumb, the truck driver who stopped was headed for Blackpool, so that's where I went. It was easy to lose myself amongst the tourists, and I soon found that if I sat near the steps to the beach I could exchange sketches for money, pencil portraits, caricatures, whatever they would pay for. In the evenings I'd mingle with the crowds, on a good night I ate fish and chips wrapped in Newspaper, the real way, before the health nazi's banned it. Steaming coffee in paper cups with the funfair noise and flashing lights. On a bad night I just had coffee.

At night I slept on Tina's sofa, paying rent by tidying up and doing her washing. I met Tina the first week, both of us seeking shelter from the rain in a late night cafe that catered to taxi drivers and whores. Tina was not a taxi driver. She had a flat just off the 'Golden Mile' and worked the streets between taking care of her regulars. She used to be a dancer at the Pavilion, until she got pregnant, the guy she thought to marry turned out to have a wife and an aversion to responsibility, he was gone before she miscarried and crawled into a bottle. In her words she 'drank herself onto the streets'. Tina worked late and slept late so we hardly saw each other. Every morning I would take her washing down to the launderette, sit and sketch was the sheets and towels tumbled, then carry them back to the flat and fold them up neatly, the kettle boiling as I dusted and wiped, no hoover, it would have woken Tina, she took care of that later. My chores done I'd head back out, rain or shine, a sunny spot on the steps or a shelter near the pier, either way I'd sketch the day away, selling what I could, waiting for something, not yet sure of what I wanted that something to be.

Summer disappeared, packed away like the deck chairs and donkeys, the families went away and Blackpool died. The famous illuminations drew crowds, but they were different, here for the lights and the booze, the Pavilion shows and the funfair. I said good-bye to Tina and hit the road again, my thumb got me a ride to Bradford, the driver expected 'a little fun,' he was disappointed. I left him cursing when I leapt out as he stopped at the next traffic lights. My cheery "thank for the lift," apparently less than he expected, tough.

2.

Bradford was wet, cold and somehow uninviting, so I moved on to Leeds, not far but what a difference. Especially as it was there I met Chris.

Tucked away along a busy side street I found "Brush Strokes" and "Frames & Dames". They shared a single front door which gave access to them both. On the left was what I knew I was looking for, an artists supply shop, "Brush Strokes". Whilst to the right was what I didn't know I was looking for, a small gallery specialising in the female form, some kinky, most in some form of undress, all of it truly art, no crass porn or garish prints.

Christine, Chris, was the Manager for both, tall and commanding, dressed in leather, I only went in to buy a sketch pad, but..

Years of sketching people has taught me a lot about them, their posture, their body language, the way they moved, all formed a part of their character, at least to me. Movement and posture reveals a lot about people, a lot more than they realise, especially the difference between that which is conscious and that which is natural, unconscious. Lots of people hold themselves differently in certain situations, puffing themselves up like bantam hens, few can ever hold the posture for long, soon they get distracted and revert to their natural stance.

The very first thing I noticed about Chris was her poise, an economy of movement combined with perfect comportment, just her silhouette drew my attention, fingers seeking a pencil, my natural reaction to anything that interested me, draw it..!!

Tall and svelte, wide shoulders, a swimmers body, sleek and toned. Long black hair, glossy and dense, woven into a single long braid that coiled like a snake or flicked like a lioness's tail. Her eyes seemed black, yet shone like polished onyx, passion turned them a deep purple, passion changed her a lot. Her eyes captivated me, so open that the iris was fully visible, floating in pools of pure white, yet her eyelids could appear hooded if her mood changed, icy anger or scorching passion, her moods reflected in those eyes, never her feelings.

Maybe Chris reminded me of Rhonda? She certainly had that same way of following her own path, ever sure of who she was and where she was going, but Chris added a steely determination and precise control. Rhonda's naked body oozed sensuality, Chris's projected power.

Soon after I had arrived in Blackpool I had changed my hair to suit my new look. The hairdresser didn't understand what I wanted until I drew it. "Can you do that?" I asked.

"The Junior could do that..!!" For some reason she seemed to think that cutting my long tresses was sacrilege. Tough.

"Great..!! Is she cheaper?" I grinned, enjoying her spluttering and hoping to save my money.

Chris watched me as I entered the shop, I wondered briefly if she thought I was going to steal something, in time I would be able to read her expressions, back then I often misread them.

The sketch pads were certainly good quality, that I recognised, but I wanted what I knew, and the makes were not ones I recognised, not surprising since I normally bought my pads in the 'pound shops' and from Saturday market stalls. Chris watched me as I examined several different pads, comparing texture and grain. "So you sketch?" Her tone not exactly disbelief, but certainly close to condescending.

"Yes, a little, do you?" Take that snob..!!

"No I don't, but I do recognise talent and I have an eye for what sells." An honest answer, I wondered if I'd misjudged her..?

"And what does sell here?" After all, I needed to either sell my work or get a job, and soon.

"Why don't we just cut to the chase?" Her eyes flicked to my satchel, "you seem to have some of your work with you, let me see and I'll give you my opinion, unlike that sketch pad, my opinion is free." Hmm, maybe she does think I'm a thief?

Nothing ventured etc, "Ok, thank you." I slipped the straps from my shoulders and bent down, undoing the twin buckles that held the flap closed, I didn't need to search, I know exactly were every sketch is, withdrawing a certain sketch I stood up and unfolded it, laying it out on the top of a display cabinet.

Chris was silent for a long moment, still studying it as she spoke, "you drew this?"

"Yes."

"Prove it..!!"

I did my best to smile sweetly as I dug in my pocket, trying my best not to give away my acute lack of funds. "First I need to buy the pad, this one please." I returned the others to their places, holding out a much folded and slightly torn twenty pound note.

Chris took the note, but made no move to ring up the sale, she just stood there, eyes focused on me, waiting, challenging.

Flipping the pad open I stepped back, taking my satchel with me as I sat down, the pad balanced on my thigh. "Comfortable? This will take a few minutes.

Chris never moved.

I took a pencil from my jacket pocket and started, my fingers as always trying to hang on to the pencil as it flicked across the pad. My pencil is not magic, it's just an ordinary artists pencil, it's just that when I sketch I always feel as if the pencil is controlled by my eyes, not my fingers, they are just along for the ride.

I've never seen my face as I work, later Chris told me how I looked, even had me work in front of a mirror, I hated seeing my reflection, but I did get to see what she meant, why she was so surprised when I stood up and after grabbing my satchel walked over and held up the sketch for her to see.

The sketch I had first shown her was one I'd drawn from memory, Rhonda sprawled naked upon her bed, partly in shadow, and to the side, a quarter view from behind, myself, dressed in the clothes she gave me, busy sketching her.

The sketch I'd done as Chris watched me was almost identical, except that in place of Rhonda is was Chris herself sprawled on the bed, dressed as she was right there before me, whilst in the sketch I was naked.

She said nothing, just looking, turning to look at me, then back to the sketch. Maybe it was a minute, it seemed like an hour, then she turned away, moved across to the till, I presumed to ring up the sale of the pad, that is until she came back, holding out the twenty pond note I had given her, along with four more. "Sold. Thank you. I apologise, now please come into the office, we need to talk."

I smiled. "Is there coffee involved?"

Chris returned my smile, "there is always coffee involved." I caught the glint in her eyes, "coffee and more, so much more."

I needed no second invitation, so after slipping the sketch pad into my satchel and fastening the buckles I followed her through a door behind the counter and into the office.

The room was quite large, a big window on the far side let in light and through it was a small yard and the back of the next row of shops. Chris's desk blocked part of the view, her chair on the far side so she faced into the room, her back to the window, the light catching the gloss of her hair, the white walls prevented her face being in shadow. What looked like kitchen cabinets filled the right side of the room, the cupboards mostly labelled with their contents, the worktop scattered with stock, except the closest part, a small inset sink separated the debris from the kettle and a real, working, filled and ready to go coffee machine..!!

"Help yourself, I take mine black, no sugar."

I busied myself making us both coffee, happy that there were no silly little cups, just decent sized mugs, perfect..!! I even slipped off my satchel before I carried hers across to set it on a coaster atop the big hardwood desk, mine was fortunately still on the counter, fortunate as when I turned around I noticed the picture on the opposite wall, not a picture, a giant photo print. I gasped, my body stock still as I just stared. "Fuck me..!!"

Behind me the sound of a deep chuckle and a soft, "later."

It was easy to understand why the picture hung there, exactly opposite the desk, directly in Chris's eye line, yet hidden from anyone looking into the office from the shop. The photo was.. Well it was art.. Poetry.. Perfection. Not to mention very, very kinky.

The girl was spread-eagled between two posts, her feet upon a scarlet carpet, in front of her a huge mirror, maybe a mirrored wall like a dance studio? Behind and to the side of her leather clad woman, a Mistress? Holding a long whip, actually the whip was in motion, caught as it speeded towards the naked girl's body. The reflection in the mirror showed her front, her face, the crimson marks of the whip, her eyes. Oh my! Those eyes, that expression..!! At the bottom of the picture, where the scarlet carpet blended into black shadow a series of smaller pictures like a tapestry filled the width of the print, each obviously taken in succession, each showing progressively more whip marks, making it very plain that the picture was of a real whipping, not a faked piece of theatrical fantasy.

I stood there, coffee forgotten, Chris, everything, nothing mattered right then, nothing but that picture. It was not just the subject, or that it was real, it was the way it was composed, no hint of glare from a flashgun, no reflection of the photographer, that drove me nuts as I tried to calculate the angles, how the fuck was it done?

"CRACK..!!"

I spun around, half expecting another shot. Chris just smiled, the leather whip still in her hand, she had obviously just brought it down across the desk. I looked at her expression, looked down at the whip, looked up into her eyes.

"Drink your coffee, then sit down, and face me, or you'll not hear a word I say." She smiled. "I understand, that photo really is rather special."

To this day I can still recall just how much conscious effort it took to sit down opposite Chris and concentrate on what she was saying, her questions, my replies. All I really wanted to do was look at that photograph.

I'm glad I did pay attention though, because by the time we'd each consumed two more mugs of coffee I had a job, staff discount and a place to stay, though Chris made it perfectly clear that staying with her was not just an act of kindness, she wanted me in her bed, I'd not shared a bed or my body with anyone but Rhonda, sharing Chris's bed seemed like a bad idea, sleeping with my new boss was bound to end in tears, despite her assurances it would not affect my job, right then I decided I had nothing to lose, and I was fast becoming enthralled by those eyes.

As Chris locked up the shop I stood on the pavement, wondering if I was being stupid, should I just thank her and go? I pulled the jacket tighter, the chill wind and evening drizzle were no match for my jacket, Rhonda was right, it was big enough for me to grow into, and it kept me warm and dry, Rhonda.. Thinking of her brought back the memories of that one day together, her body, my body, the touches, the feelings.. Mind made up I followed Chris, all of twenty feet to the door at the side of the shop, what the..?

Before I could work it out, Chris had unlocked the door and beckoned me inside, as the door closed I realised there was nothing but a flight of stairs, no rooms, nothing, just the stairs. Maybe I'm just not used to houses? Vans, caravans, hotels and even tents on occasion, those I know, have always known, but houses..?

The simple answer was that Chris lived above the shop, but for whatever reason they were completely separate, in fact I found out later that she bought the shop first, the flat above only came up for sale later, which was fortunate because at the time she could not have afforded both anyway.

Like her outright hatred of being addressed as Christine, exactly why she always described herself as the manager, never as the owner remained a mystery, as with many things, Chris kept that to herself.

The flat was larger than I imagined and the décor was very much Chris, leather, strong dark colours, not masculine in the slightest, but a long way from dainty femininity.

I gladly accepted her suggestion that I shower whilst she got dinner, not that I stank, but a shower or even better a bath would be wonderful, especially a private one that didn't need cleaning before I felt comfortable using it, so I slipped off my satchel and jacket, depositing both on one of the big leather sofas before making my way through to the bathroom that Chris had indicated with a wave of her hand and an admonition to "make myself at home." Pencil case in hand I stepped into the bathroom, and stopped dead. A long held fantasy come true, a real roll-top bath, claw feet and everything, such a bath had long been a fantasy of mine, ever since a TV commercial for a chocolate bar had featured a woman relaxing in just such a bath, the water overflowing as she lay luxuriating with said chocolate.

As the bath filled and steam began to rise, I slipped out of my clothes and unzipped my pencil case. Afraid that a spillage might ruin my sketches I carried my meagre washing kit in a pencil case that fitted into one of my jacket's inside pockets. Toothbrush, paste, soap and flannel, a comb missing it's handle, the bare essentials, the flannel had often doubled as a towel. I checked the level of the water then whilst it filled I brushed my teeth and put everything away, one glance had confirmed I'd need neither soap nor flannel.

Soaking in the bath was heaven, it was so long and deep I could immerse myself completely, which I did, grinning to myself as I remembered the woman in the advert, my turn to luxuriate, and I made the most of it, there is a lot to be said for scented body wash, I could easily get used to it.

A knock on the door and a slightly muffled call of, "ten minutes," had me scampering to get out of the bath and dry off, careful to rinse the bath and leave everything as I found it, all but the now damp towel, so big and fluffy and... I looked at my clothes, they could really do with washing, ok, later, taking Chris at her word to make myself at home I did the opposite, back home, well back before I walked away I would never have left a bathroom before I'd dressed, here was different, so I hung the damp towel over it's rail and wrapped a fresh one around myself before opening the door, a last check to see everything was back as I found it and I headed off to join Chris.

From the look in her eyes my attire met with her approval, from the aroma her choice of dinner met with mine. Take-away Italian, 'Pasta Carbonara', and lots of it, garlic bread and side dishes, a feast..!!

Chris sat on the sofa, the meal spread out on the long low coffee table before her, I chose to sit on the floor, cross-legged, my back resting against the other sofa as I settled back to enjoy a really good meal, ok, a take-away, but it was good, and compared to much of what I'd eaten recently, it was excellent.

We spoke little whilst we ate, but that was fine, Chris was drinking sparkling water whilst I was drinking water from the chilled jug she had brought from the fridge, we took our time, no rush, both intent on the food and each other. Chris did nothing to hide her study of me, so I looked right back at her, returning her gaze, I didn't care that she was able to see a lot of me, not that I was exposing myself, the towel was big enough so that wrapped around my chest it covered my tits ad hung down to almost mid-thigh, even sat as I was it was not gaping open, it was just that the way her eyes caressed me felt good.

More coffee. I helped clear away the remains of the meal, empty containers into the bin, the few dishes quickly washed and dried. The kitchen looked weird, not strange just.. "I don't cook." Her words explained everything, the kitchen was complete, everything needed was there, just unused, another piece of the Chris jigsaw fell into place.

"I do, at least a little." When it was too cold to sit outside I had often gone to the crew kitchen, if there was one, exchanging warmth for helping out, mostly washing up, wiping down, but when they were not rushing around, or when they knew me better, they would show me what they were doing, sometimes let me try for myself.

Coffee in hand we returned to the lounge, Chris resumed her place on the big sofa, whilst I returned to my spot on the floor, or would have if Chris had not stopped me. "No, not there, come sit here on the table," she indicated the spot in front of her, exactly where her plate had been whilst we ate. I settled myself on the low table, taking a long sip before putting my coffee aside, careful to put it out of harm's way. Her eyes flashed as I reached for the top edge of the towel and pulled it open, no finesse, I just opened the towel wide and let it fall around me.

"What you see is what you get... if you want..??" I knew what I wanted, Rhonda had opened the flood gates but until Chris nobody had made me feel 'right'. Chris did, did she ever..!!

"MMmm.. Nice, very nice." Her voice just a little husky as her hands reached out to my hips. Having taken the first step I was a little lost as to what to do next, Chris solved my dilemma by easing me forward until I sat astride her thighs, her open thighs.

As we kissed that first time I hesitated, just for a moment, mind racing with all Rhonda had told me, warned me, as we had laid exhausted between orgasms. The moment passed and I moulded myself to my leather clad lover, decision made, I opened my mouth to her tongue, soon my body opened to her fingers, she set the pace, showing me her softness, but always with a hint of the steel beneath, Chris was in charge, right then that was fine with me.

3.

Being naked whilst Chris was still dressed was a new sensation, the feel of my bare body held and moulded against leather was arousing, not as arousing as what Chris was doing though.

I cried out when she pinched my nipples, really pinched them, fuck that hurt..!! My body froze, my head snapping up as I screamed into her face, eyes watching me, she was smiling..!! Smiling and still pinching, I was tensing to rip myself away, to grab my clothes and run, the look in her eyes made me pause, her words stopped me dead.

"Stop." Her voice commanding. "Feel." Her hand dropped to my pussy, fingers releasing my nipple, the pain increasing as blood rushed back, "feel," her fingers entered me, three fingers, deep, easy. I was so wet, and her fingers felt so good, her kiss made it better, her tongue writhing against mine, overpowering mine, it took a while to realise my nipple still hurt like hell, trapped by her finger and thumb. I caught myself about to scream, then bite it back, let the pain mix with the feel of her fingers inside me, pleasure and pain, as I let both flow through me I lost all control, my body rigid as the orgasm struck, so sudden, so intense, it felt scary, like maybe I was having a fit?

Right then I could only feel, I had no control, no experience, nothing to compare with, Rhonda had made me cum, given me my first orgasm, but nothing like this, nothing like Chris, I sunk deeper into her arms as I panted for breath and moaned at every aftershock. I knew I had a lot to learn, I wanted to learn, I lifted my head to kiss her, "thank you, thank you, thank you." I used kisses for punctuation.

Some things I will never forget. Some of that night is hazy, but certain things stand out, glistening on the beach of memory. The sound of her heels on the wooden floor as she led me to her bedroom, a leather clad woman taking her rag doll to the toy-box. Undressing her that first time, the smell of her, kissing her skin as I pealed back the leather. Watching us in the mirrored headboard as I knelt on hands and knees, her fingers buried in my hair as her strap-on thrust in and out of my ass and her fingers spanked and pinched my ass and clit. The look in her eyes as she shaved my pussy. Watching her eyes roll back as I ate her to orgasm the first time.

Late in the night we slept, Chris on her back, me snuggled to her side, my head on her shoulder, her long black hair sticking to my breasts, still damp with sweat and cum. It felt so good, just to feel her warmth, her arm around me.

I awoke to a stinging slap on my ass. "Coffee..!!"

Chris sat cross-legged on the bed as we drank our coffee, her smile made me want her, I drained my mug and put it in the nightstand, but as I reached for her she grabbed my wrist, "Oh no you don't my little minx, we have things to do and a shop to run." Still gripping my wrist she dragged me out from beneath the covers and into the bathroom, spinning me around to sit me on the toilet, "hurry up, I want to scrub your back," she grinned and left me there, whilst she headed for the shower.

Growing up as I did, embarrassment was never an issue, I spent a lot of time alone, content to go unnoticed as I watched and sketched, but that does not mean I was shy, if I want something I'm far from shy, it's just that I've never been in the spotlight, only the shadows, Chris put me very much in her spotlight and I found I liked it, liked it a lot.

Back in the bedroom I realised I had done nothing about washing or at least rinsing my clothes, Chris was way ahead of me. A pair of leather trousers whistled past my head, "try those on," I did, not a perfect fit, but good enough, "now this" which looked like a plain white T-shirt, but proved to have a logo on the front, the logo seemed to draw attention to my tits and my barely concealed nipples, it wasn't big, just perfectly centred on my chest, a three-quarter rainbow with arty script beneath, 'caran d'ache'. With my boots I looked different, Chris obviously approved, judging from the way her hand moved on my leather clad ass.

Just before we headed out the door Chris stopped me, holding me tight as she kissed me long and deep, until my heart raced and I felt my pussy tingle. Then she placed her hands on my shoulders, pushing me back so we were at arms length, "up here we play, downstairs we work, understood?"

I lifted my arms, palms flat together, and whilst doing my best 'karate kid' bow, "yes ma'am."

"Very funny grasshopper, now lets go earn the money to play."

And so started my first day working for Chris. Not a well paid job, not that I cared, but the perks were wonderful, when not busy I could still sketch, although I couldn't go wandering to find new subjects, and of course sharing Chris's flat and bed was great too.

I understood style, maybe not as they teach it, but from seeing it in action, the way bands, at least the bigger ones dressed and acted to present an image, more interesting was the art, the posters and album covers, all different but all selling the band's image. For the first time I began to think about my style, my image. It took a while but slowly I build my own style, my own image, not just clothes, but me, myself, time to decide how I wanted to live my life. Chris was not responsible for it, but she did give me the chance to make it happen. For the first time ever I was earning money and putting down roots, not permanent ones, I was not that naïve.

As the weeks passed I grew up, I learned to use the shop's computer, learned how the gallery operated, dealt with customers and artists, suppliers and even models. Chris was an inspiring teacher, always willing to help me learn, and quick to back me up if there was a problem. Sure she was getting an assistant at a bargain basement price, but whilst I was aware of that it never bothered me, after all, I couldn't afford the lessons I was learning.

Chris's lessons didn't stop with work either, she liked her sex often and kinky, I just liked sex, she lead, I followed, sometimes warily, sometimes eager to rush ahead, sometimes so much she needed to restrain me, literally, on occasion.

At weekends we played. As soon as the shop closed at five we were off, we met up with Chris's friends, went to parties, travelled to kinky events all over the country. My introduction to kink was eclectic, revolving around Chris's preferences at first, though as time passed I wanted to try things that she had already tried and rejected. Mostly she would indulge me, but sometimes she refused. At first it was for reasons that made perfect sense, later it seemed she wanted to control me, as if concerned that I might get into something she disliked and the friction would tear us apart.

From that first night it became a habit to be naked in the flat, even though Chris remained dressed. As I learned more about sex, the endless kinks and of course BDSM, I began to understand my own sexuality, separating what sounded fun from that which was fun in practise, fantasy from fact, much like my sketches evolved to reflect my adventures. At parties and events I found images that inspired me to sketch, sometimes even paint, something I'd never had the chance to do as much as I'd have liked, but which the gallery in it's quiet moments afforded me the time to do.

I found myself drawn to the faces and the bodies, especially those lost in pleasure or pain, or both. As Chris and I played with ever more intensity I found I could relate to those images, my sketches all the better for understanding.

A few times we had attended kinky fancy dress parties and events, it was Chris who decided where we went and how we would be dressed, not that I minded, even when after four of five of those parties she had me in little more than collar and chain, 'slave' to her 'Mistress' apart from a few unwelcome overly aggressive gropes and a lot of touching up, it was fun, at least it was cool, the venue had no air-conditioning and the dance floor was full of people sweating their way to dehydration, most so close it was almost an orgy of mutual masturbation.

Chris and I often got mistaken for Mistress and slave, but whilst I understood the confusion the truth was that we only played with the D/s roles. Chris was without a doubt a strong woman, her personality and our living and working relationship put her firmly in charge, but that was not her kink, or mine. Chris was happy to go as the mood took us, sometimes soft tender lovemaking, at other times hot and heavy fucking, no holes barred and toys aplenty. The first time I buckled on the strap-on and pushed Chris down on the bed was definitely a night to remember, and not the last time, even though she very often rolled me onto my back and 'rode' me as she bucked her hips and fucked herself even as I was fucking her. Hands reaching around to spank her ass, the look in her eyes as her passion slipped it's leash was awe-inspiring, for when Chris let herself go and dropped her need to control, the sex became something else, carnal and elemental, a raging inferno that consumed us both in wild outrageous lust. Those occasions left us both drained and sore, often bruised for days, rare as they were I treasured every one.

It was my desire to capture that unbridled emotion that led to a whole new experience, one that Chris refused to be a part of. It was not lack of interest or even jealousy, just her lack of knowledge and unwillingness to see me harmed. In fact it was Chris herself who provided the solution.

Sometimes our lust was not confined to each other. At first it felt strange to be so intimate with someone else, but once I understood that it was an extension of our pleasure, not something that Chris wanted to fill a space I could not, then it ceased to be a concern and I immersed myself in every new encounter.

Few things failed to excite me, perhaps because sharing a bed with two or more others provides for sensations that are just not possible between two lovers. Simple things like having two mouths and four hands all intent on driving me crazy was such a turn-on, the intensity of surrendering and just letting go was something so indescribably erotic that it often featured in both my drawings and my dreams.

So when Chris introduced me to Antonia, Toni, it was not a shock at all, the surprise was that Chris would not be taking part, although she promised to remain close. With that reassurance I readily agreed to what Chris had arranged, after all, I could hardly complain, I was after all getting exactly what I had asked Chris for so many times, I was going to get whipped..!!

Exactly why I wanted to be whipped is hard to explain, even though it made, and makes perfect sense to me. Partly it was to try yet another kink, just as I'd tried so many other things with Chris, but mostly it was to feel what it was like, to understand it in a way only possible through experience. My sketches of people being whipped still lacked something, I had even tried using the big photo in Chris's office to base my sketches on, it helped, but only for that image, well that and some other photo prints that had arrived more recently from the same studio, the same photographer too I was sure, every print was just as awe inspiring as the one in the office. I made sure not to mark them as I almost literally drooled over each one, not just the image but the way each was taken, the angles and the care taken to make every one look real, even a quick glance was enough to see that each was real, every detail correct because everything in the image was absolutely authentic.

Chris had arranged it for one Saturday evening, to give me the maximum time to recover before going back to work. Chris hardly ever took a day off, and I simply had nowhere I'd rather be.

Saturday was usually busy, which meant we hardly had time for coffee or lunch, and I had no time at all to think about the evening. Only when we were in Chris's car and headed out of Leeds to Toni's house did I start to get nervous. There was no way I was going to back out, too stubborn maybe, certainly too intent on improving my ability as an artist. I wanted to be able to capture those emotions, I needed to, if that meant pain then I'd accept it as the price of knowledge.

The Toni we had met before was not the Toni who greeted us as we arrived, at least where I was concerned. I knew that she was a Mistress and had a slave, though I'd not met her I had seen her at a few events. From the moment I entered her house she was "Ma'am", apparently I was not to address her as anything else, not to speak unless spoken to, I was there to learn, to be whipped and was expected to abide by her rules, even though she and Chris talked as friends. Oh well, if that was what was expected, then I would comply. I had by then experienced enough kink and BDSM to respect those who took it seriously, after all the whole point of coming here was because Toni, Ma'am, knew her stuff.

Whilst Chris sat drinking coffee and I made do with a glass of water, I got "the lecture," a safe-word, and some explanation of what to expect, then a last chance to chicken out, like I was going to..!! Ma'am knew why I wanted to be whipped, at first her reaction was less than enthusiastic, according to Chris, Ma'am had little time for anyone who did not take such things seriously, however having been shown some of my work she decided that I was serious. Now I was about to find out just how it felt to be whipped.

Being naked was no problem, even the feel of the wide padded cuffs that fitted snugly around by wrists and ankles did not make me feel different, though Ma'am fussed a little to get the perfect fit, something I was grateful for later, but that at the time seemed a little excessive. It was the walk to the Dungeon that brought home to me just what I had let myself in for. This was no light-hearted play room, this was a real Dungeon, the equipment solid and made to last, to restrain and suspend, to do other things as well, though what they were I didn't want to think about right then.

Ma'am positioned me between two very solid looking posts that looked as if they supported the floor above. I found myself standing spread-eagled between them, unable to quite reach them, whilst the padded cuffs I wore were securely fastened to them by short lengths of chain and snap-links.

I could not see Chris, I knew she was close, she promised, I guessed she was somewhere behind me. Ma'am stood before me, her words sealed my fate and brought my nervousness bubbling to the surface. "Scream all you like, nobody will hear you, and I enjoy it." Her smile as she spoke was enough to have me pulling at the chains, "to late now," her tone almost gloating, "either you submit to everything I do, or you chicken out and use your safe-word," her voice hard, the challenge very obvious, "if you chicken out, don't ever think of coming back, understood?"

I tried nodding, too nervous to risk speaking, that apparently was not acceptable.

"UNDERSTOOD?"

"Yes Ma'am, I understand."

I didn't expect the blindfold.

4.

Nothing. No pain, nothing. I had invested so much emotion, so much expectation, only for there to be nothing.

The blindfold fitted so well that I couldn't see anything, not even light or dark, the sides covered my ears, not intended to block out all sound, they just muffled everything, except there was nothing to muffle. I tugged at the chains holding the cuffs, not to get loose, just to check they were still there, my mind working overtime, perhaps it was a joke? Perhaps nothing would happen?

I forced myself to relax, trying to stop my mind from racing. Little by little I felt my body relaxing as I concentrated on one part at a time, willing my muscles to relax.

I screamed.

I felt so stupid, the snap of the leather as it struck me was a shock, but not painful, it stung just a little and left my ass tingling a little. I didn't scream at the next one, or the next. I was quite proud of myself. I think I smiled, I know I felt happy, relieved, I was finally going to find out what it was all about, what gave those people the looks in their eyes, I needed to understand how it felt, the mix of emotions, sensations, now I would.

The strokes were relentless, endless, the only variation was where they struck, sometimes seemingly random, other times concentrated in one place, my ass, my upper back, thighs, tits, stomach, those on my inner thighs were the worst, not because they were more forceful, but because each time I expected the next to strike my cunt. Yes, my cunt, somehow with the threat of being whipped there, it seemed wrong to think of it as my sex, my pussy, if the whip was going to strike me there, it was my cunt.

I had tensed up again at the beginning, now as the whipping continued I found myself relaxing, the regular strokes stung, but their perfect timing and the soft tingling lulled me, even the constant changes of target became part of the routine. Not at all what I had expected, no searing pain, no feeling of my skin being flayed as I writhed in agony, part of me was disappointed, another part relieved, whilst all the time I was aware that what was happening was out of my control, I could only accept whatever was decided, how hard, how long, how painful.

The stinging grew slowly, seeping through my body, my senses. Little by little my only thought became the stinging, so gradually did it build that there was never a point where it began to hurt, it was like watching the sunset on a summer evening, day becoming dusk, dusk becoming night, so slow you only realise it is dark when you decide to walk home and someone shines a torch.

A sound distracted me, a low moaning, almost crooning. As it grew louder I realised it was me, the stinging had built in intensity so much I could no longer contain it, the moaning seemed to release it, release me.

That was when I realised I was free, not free to go, not at all, but free to let the stinging out, to moan, to scream, to express my feelings, it felt strange, liberating, an unexpected gift. A gift I accepted fully.

I wondered at the strength needed to control the whip, to keep the speed and force so perfectly uniform, so precise, I tried to distract myself with thoughts of how it must look, how it must feel, the power, the control, but I could only imagine, that was not enough, not to distract me, my moans turned to screaming sobs, not words, just sounds of release, the sound of pain escaping my lips.

Then I noticed that the strokes were not all the same, that those on my inner thigh were different, they seemed to slap more, my skin there felt different, tingling, stinging, but... Oh fuck..!!! I was wet, dripping, aroused, fuckin' hot..!! For a moment I felt betrayed, my wanton cunt dripping, coating my inner thighs, all because I was in pain, my cunt was a traitor..!!

Often when I sit and sketch I find my body and mind separate, my mind immersed in the sketch, unaware of my bodies needs, until the cramp bites or the cold becomes freezing, even thirst and hunger take time to get my mind's attention. All this I knew, was used to, yet right then it surprised me, shocked me. Even as my body was in pain my mind was preoccupied with understanding why, not caring that my body was screaming out for something, anything, make it stop, make it more, make me cum, make me pass out, just make something happen, anything to relieve the cruel endless rhythm of the whip.

My throat dry, sore from screaming, hoarse from moaning, I realised I was sobbing, tears hot and wet on my face, salty burning on my lips. Sobbing became begging, pleading for it to stop, for it to end, hit harder, stop hitting, I no longer cared what, just do something, change the rhythm, please..!!

Oh fuck it hurt..!! Really hurt, my body so tender, muscles strained, shoulders burning from supporting my weight as I hung there begging, wanting it to stop, wanting the end even more, I needed to know, needed to feel the final coup de grace, the pain of enlightenment, of finally knowing. I feared more pain, I feared it stopping, not knowing even more.

Why Ma'am chose to remove the blindfold I don't know, the sudden change from pitch black to seeing momentarily checked my pleas, the light was not bright, even so it hurt my eyes, my vision blurred at first, then cleared to reveal Chris standing staring at me. Our eyes locked and she leapt forward, screaming, "No..!!, No..!!" Over and over she screamed that one word as she hurled herself at me, wrapping me in her arms.

I tried to shake her off, tried to tell her to stop, but it was too late, the rhythm of the whip was broken, and with it went my consciousness.

I don't remember what happened after that, I remember being conscious, I remember the pain when Chris held me, remember even my clothes feeling painful against my skin, but what happened, what was said, I have no idea. The first clear memory was later in Chris's car driving home, her apologising over and over for agreeing to help me, for arranging the time with Toni, Ma'am.

Everything was too raw for me to say what I felt, so I just sat there, whimpering every so often as the car bumped or I moved, tried to get comfortable, Chris cared so much, was so sorry, how could I explain that when she threw herself at me I hated her, hated that it had stopped, hated that I would have to go through all that again. That one thought burned brighter than the pain, I would do it again, and next time nothing would stop me.

Chris did everything she could to care for me, desperate to hold me, drawing away every time I flinched at the slightest contact. I undressed as we entered the flat, pealing off my clothes hurt but brought some relief, Chris had rushed ahead to prepare a bath, the water still flowing as I gingerly lowered myself into the warm water, heaven..!!

I lay there soaking so long that I had to add more hot water twice before Chris finally ordered me from the tub. Standing before the big mirror I turned left and right, looking for signs of the whipping. All I could see was large areas of reddened skin, no bruises, no cuts, just very red, very, very tender skin wherever the whip had been.

That night I did not expect to sleep, surely I'd never get comfortable? Chris ordered me to bed, I obeyed and lay there trying to relax, for a while I felt drained, then I must have slept.

I awoke sobbing, shivering as if freezing, Chris woke and took me in her arms, hugging me close, talking so softly, soothing me, I could not hear her words, they didn't seem important, I just focused on her voice and her arms, and slept again.

When I awoke again it was midday Sunday. I felt like I was glued to the bed, unable to move, everything ached. No hurt, no pain, just the deep ache of sore muscles. The need to pee drove me to the bathroom, then curiosity drove me to the mirror. No angry red, just a pink hue, like a blush, my body sore but not sensitive like the night before.

Coffee..!! My nose sniffed the aroma, I followed my nose to the kitchen, Chris smiled and waved me to a chair, placing a big mug of fresh coffee and a pint glass of water in front of me. "Drink love."

I drank, and drank, the first sip igniting my thirst. I alternated between sips of rich fresh coffee and cool water, Chris fussing over me, kissing my head, my cheek. My hatred had faded in the night, leaving me back where I was, cared for by Chris, caring for her, our bond renewed.

That night we went to bed early, our need mutual, we made love, slow, tender love, the kind that flows from kiss to cum, laying together, bodies touching, lips brushing, the exhilaration of orgasm fading towards a slow build as we worked our way back to bliss.

Monday morning, eyes open, mouth tasting of pussy, body smelling of sex. The warmth of my lover against my own. Perfect.

I slipped out of bed and made coffee, returning to bed to awaken Chris with a kiss and her morning nectar. So started another week, my recovery amazed me and surprised Chris, testament to the skill Ma'am had displayed until...

For weeks I ignored the nagging thoughts of what might have been, busying myself in the shop, the gallery, weeks became months. Sometimes the need surfaced, in dreams, in quiet moments, but never as strong as when we had another delivery from Cambridge.

Every delivery set my heart beating faster, eagerly unwrapping each consignment, taking my time to study every photograph, each brought back the need. The subjects varied, different models, different themes, different scenes, all shared one thing in common, the skill of the photographer.

The technicalities aroused me as much as the image, especially my favourites, the 'Impossibles', those pictures that were so perfectly composed that I struggled to work out how it was done, how the angles worked, how anyone could create such a perfect composition.

We celebrated our first Anniversary. Chris going as far as shutting the shop for a whole week, the first time ever, We went away on holiday, sand, sea, making love in the suite's huge bed, fucking beneath the palm trees, we played, we swam, we danced until dawn and slept 'till noon. A week in paradise.

As the months passed we grew closer and grew apart. We lived and worked together, we played together and with others but at work we were all work. Chris slowly relinquished the gallery to me whilst she concentrated on the shop. I appreciated her trust in me and worked my ass off to build the galleries customer base and the growing following for high quality pictures of BDSM themes. Meanwhile Chris was taking advantage of the internet to build the shop's mail order business.

Our shared intimacy grew all the time, we were more than lovers, we loved each other, yet we were not in love with one another. There was a part of Chris that remained aloof, her desire to control always lurking in the background, the times when she let loose and let herself go were always memorable, yet few and far between, their rarity making them all the more priceless. Yet her need for control did not cross over into the desire to dominate, she remained resolutely kinky but never committed to a role. I too found myself holding back, the need suppressed but still just as overwhelming, those times when it surfaced brought back memories of that night, her stopping the whipping too soon, at those times the hatred burned bright.

Once we played with others, but apart, a first, a measure of our trust in one another? Keeping each other by setting each other free? A lack of jealousy? Or perhaps a turning point in our relationship? Once became twice, twice became often.

We knew who and where the other played, we kept no secrets, shared each others experiences, used them to tease and arouse, to precede lovemaking or trigger the lust that drove us to unrestrained fucking. Chris of course had a wide circle of friends with whom she could play when time and opportunity arose, I was still making friends, not something I had much practise in. Few of those I had ever known would count as friends, at least by my definition. I found myself drawn to those who were submissive, those who had felt the whip, listening to their descriptions, sating the need vicariously through them. Until I met Emily.

My interest was piqued when a few people warned me off her, none seemed willing or able to say why, just that she was, "bad news." Such unsubstantiated rumour was about as effective as the 'wet paint' sign, you just have to touch it to see if the paint is indeed wet. Where Emily was concerned, the sign was correct, and it was I who was wet.

Emily was a submissive, sexy and an artist. She worked in a small local pottery where she no longer simply painted on a pre-decided pattern, having done that since leaving school Emily now had an almost free hand to decorate the ceramics as she chose, often getting the potters to make an item in a particular way, one that complimented her designs. The next natural step was designing an entire range, a task she was on the verge of completing. As an experienced submissive her tales were fascinating, I could listen to her for hours as she recounted scenes she had experienced, others she had witnessed, best of all she never seemed to tire of my questions, even accepting my need to be whipped and why it was so important to me. That she was sexy is not a biased opinion of her on my part, not at all. Emily had a way about her that simply drew the eye, her lithe body seemed to flow, hips swaying as if in invitation. Most of all her smile, so open and welcoming, the girl just oozed sex, knew it, yet was unaffected by the knowledge, an attitude that made her all the move attractive.

I first met Emily at a local 'munch' held every Sunday afternoon. How we had never met before was shear chance for we both attended the munches often, whenever we had the time. After that first meeting we seemed to bump into each other all the time, at munches, parties, in the street. It seemed that fate was throwing us together, something we both found amusing, neither keen to complain.

Emily was the first person I had ever invited into the flat, well, not just the flat, others had visited before, but Emily I intended to invite into our bed, to share her with Chris, an invitation Emily eagerly accepted, in fact she pounced on my suggestion with excited relish and a lot of very affectionate kissing and... well I could guess the 'and', but as we were in the supermarket right then so I managed to resist joining her in anything more than kisses.

Loaded with shopping and Chris's favourite take-away selection, Emily and I entered the flat, to be greeted by Chris, from the look in her eyes Emily was welcome, very welcome. No doubts at all about how the evening would end.

I put away the shopping whilst they unpacked the take-away, I undressed from habit, joined by a smiling Emily who stripped as well, the two of us taking our places side by side across the low table from Chris. It might have been the food that made her drool, after all it was her favourite selection, but perhaps it was not the food...

5.

That first night was almost perfect, Emily fitted in to our lovemaking as if she had always been a part of us, whilst Chris took advantage of her submissive nature and pulled out all the toys, taking control whilst Emily and I acted as her slaves, except for Emily that was all she wanted, I could here it in her voice every time she said, "yes Mistress."

Chris and I enjoyed kinky sex, any sex, the flavour of the moment decided by our moods, often by Chris's mood, but that was mostly because I was normally happy to go along with whatever she suggested. I'm not submissive though, certainly not like Emily, I might seem like it to some, the way I habitually undress in the flat, the way I often play the slave to Chris's Mistress role, but that is all it is, at least to me, playing a role, kinky but not who I am, not all of me.

Almost perfect, it felt kind of greedy to want perfection, in a lot of ways it was perfect, sharing Chris with Emily, Emily with Chris, the extra hands and lips adding to everything, almost perfect, except that Emily seemed to bring out a dominant streak in Chris that I'd never seen before, and Emily's habit of referring to Chris as 'our Mistress' seemed a little precocious, almost possessive, neither of these things spoilt the night, they were just there, nagging at my thoughts, not just that night but long after.

In the weeks that followed our triad grew, Emily became a part of our lives, sharing our bed, sharing everything, sometimes the two of us would go out, sometimes all three, and on occasion Chris and Emily went out together. We seemed to fit together, whatever the combination, it even made the nights when Chris and I were alone more special, so much so that Chris seemed able to let go completely more often, triggering one of those special nights when we slipped all control and let ourselves go, nothing was off-limits, we held nothing back, each driving the other to grater excesses, until finally exhaustion took us both, slipping from nirvana to unconsciousness until the alarm clock jarred us awake, tired and bruised to begin another day.

Then there was the auction.

By then I was running the gallery almost without Chris's involvement, she still took care of the finances of course, but I had proved myself to her and she trusted me to run things, to build it up, which led to the auction.

It was inspired by the huge photograph in Chris's office. I still could not get enough of seeing it, sketching it, getting lost in it. Every so often amongst the pictures and paintings we bought and sold, another work by the same photographer would appear, those I took special care with, allowing myself time to enjoy them first before ever putting them on display. Then there was the club. We had been there often enough, mostly to their regular 'munches', but recently Chris and Emily had become regulars, always as Mistress and slave, always returning bright eyed and randy as fuck, not that I was complaining, not at all.

My latest idea to increase sales and promote the gallery was to hold an auction at one of the regular munches, each piece carefully selected from our stock of the more extreme BDSM themed pictures, paintings and sketches. I even included every single one of the photographs and prints from my special stock, those done by the unknown photographer. The club's organisers had greeted by proposal enthusiastically, deciding to add to the auction by opening it up to their members, who were invited to 'auction' their submissive partners. At the time I thought it a giggle to include girls as lots amongst the artwork, it would at least guarantee a good and attentive audience.

The day of the auction we arrived early, Chris's car full of the last lots, the bigger and more expensive ones, and Emily, who Chris had decided to include in the 'auction'.

Everything was ready by the time the munch officially started. Those who were to be auctioned had arrived or been brought early and now were displayed along with the artwork, all scattered around the walls, hung from hooks (artwork) or chained up (submissives) each with a small card detailing their providence and their lot number. All of the artwork had a reserve price, as did some of the girls.

The viewing went well, everyone seemed to spend time looking at all the lots, some of whom uttered occasional shrieks when a pinch or spank caught them unawares, as planned the auction did not start until everyone, well everyone except the lots, had eaten.

The auction started out well, the artwork all selling for more than the reserve, in the case of the first 'special' prints, by a wide margin. I was sad to see them go, but confident that there would be more. The first of the girls went for a surprising amount, considering that the new owner would have to return her at the end of the munch, but as all proceeds were destined for a local children's charity, perhaps that accounted for the generous bids? Then again there were a few girls that I'd gladly bid on, if I had the time.

Whilst the auction was running I was busy in a side room, packing materials and our portable credit card machine, wrapping each lot as it was bought and taking the money, except for the girls, their 'sale' was handled by two of the club officials. Being in the side room I didn't see the commotion, but as I found out later it was not pretty.

For her own reasons, Chris had Emily hooded and gagged for the auction, but once on the stage, the auctioneer decided to remove the hood to let the buyers see her face, it was then that the trouble started. It seemed that Emily had omitted to tell us everything about her previous relationship, especially the part about her leaving her Mistress without warning or explanation, or that the woman was inordinately jealous. Her shouts of "she's mine," interrupted the bidding and when Chris jumped in it got both nasty and physical, the woman trying her best to strike Chris with a short crop whilst loudly accusing her of kidnapping and stealing her slave. The club organisers settled the matter by ejecting the woman from the club, physically carrying her kicking and screaming to the door. Leaving a stunned Chris and a very tearful Emily amongst the confused audience. Emily was of course withdrawn from the auction and Chris smuggled her out the back doors and home, leaving me unaware until later when the auction ended and I had begun packing away.

By the time I got home Chris had calmed Emily and extracted enough of the story to understand what had upset her so much, before forcing her to take a mild sedative and putting her to bed. We discussed it quietly, sharing a late supper in the kitchen, neither of us understood the intricacies of a real life Mistress/slave relationship, but both of us were determined to protect Emily, even if she should have warned us before.

In the weeks that followed, Emily became increasingly submissive, focussing on Chris who she constantly addressed as Mistress. I never felt excluded, it was just a little too much for my more free and easy style of kink, a little too much for Chris as well, I thought, though perhaps Chris was humouring her?

I began to venture out on my own more, with friends, but without Chris, always returning home, always welcomed back, it seemed like just another twist to our ongoing relationship.

About that time we obtained another set of the special pictures, this time a series, the sequence showing a real-life whipping, no chance that it was staged, every detail was authentic. My long repressed need rose up demanding attention, the prints became my obsession, for the first time ever I found myself unwilling to put them on display, I knew I could sell them for a healthy profit yet I invented all sorts of reasons to delay, each day I'd study them, one by one as the scene unfolded, print by glorious print, my need surfaced, strong and primal, always lurking in my thoughts, soon I promised myself, soon.

Three of us were dancing together at a lesbian bar one night when she approached. I'd noticed her checking us out, all of us, or so I thought, a little surprised when it was me she singled out. There was something about her that spoke to my need, a look in her eyes when she thought I was not looking, an edge to her voice, the way she held herself, as if controlling some urgent desire.

At first we danced. Her height and my lack of heels brought her tits to my attention, and what tits..!! Her nipples moved beneath the sheer silk blouse, holding my gaze, their gyrations hypnotic, almost as seductive as her honey husky voice. We danced for hours, then nearing dehydration she led me off the dance floor and away to a quiet corner where I gulped down two huge bottles of water, watched by an open-mouthed waitress. My seductress had offered me wine, but I asked instead for another bottle of water.

"You never drink?" She smiled as she sipped her wine.

"Sometimes, but in clubs I stick to water, always in bottles, nobody is going to find it easy to doctor my drink." I returned her smile.

"You're worried about date-rape?"

"Depends." I grinned. "You can't rape the willing, and I'm very willing, for the right person..." I let my words taper away.

"That will be one very lucky person." Her eyes flashed, their message clear.

"Lady, I don't ignore my friends and dance for hours with just anyone..." I watched the smug satisfaction spread across her face. "But I don't leave with anyone I didn't arrive with either..." That wiped the smugness off her face.

"Perhaps another time?" Her smile now warm and inviting, still that hint of something hidden, still that edge that called to my need.

"Sure, if you call, we can go somewhere, to dance, or..." I flashed her my best smile, my need approved.

We swapped numbers, then she moved closer, her scent was still fresh, even though we were both still hot from dancing, and not just sweat, as she found out a while later when our kisses deepened and her fingers eased up my thigh to my dripping pussy. Whilst she teased my soaking sex I cupped her tits, they really were natures own, much to my surprise, it was not that they were huge, not even large, just perfectly formed and in need of no support, my fingers traced every curve as my tongue writhed around hers. Maybe I could sketch her, preferably after we'd worn each other out, I grinned to myself, then moaned into her mouth as her fingers flicked my clit.

All too soon the lights went up and the music stopped, we drew apart, both even hotter than before, both sure we'd meet again. She winked as she licked her fingers, taking her time to suck each into her mouth, tongue twirling around, one, two, three, four, all had been buried deep inside me as I screamed my orgasm into her eager talented mouth.

My friends were waiting by the door, their knowing grins a prelude to the banter I knew to expect.

"Not leaving with her?"

"No, I'm a good girl I am."

"Duck..!!" They both crouched low, giggling, "damn those flying pigs."

"Yeah, yeah and you two are both virgins, seeing as you've two holes left untouched..."

"Two?"

"Yeah, two, unless someone's had your ear holes..."

The banter continued as we headed for the taxi rank, splitting the fare as usual.

Back at the flat I found Chris laying on the big leather sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, Emily curled up in her arms, eyes glazed from an endorphin high, I stripped off and showered before joining them, telling Chris about my evening and my seductress, only as we headed for bed did I notice the fine red lines across Emily's back.

My explanation of my nights adventures had the same effect as always, Chris and I each becoming more aroused, Emily still zoned out in her own little world as we embraced and kissed, fingers seeking out familiar places, tongues tasting each other, bodies tingling as we drove each other higher.

'Splat'. "Oww. Bitch" I reached back to rub my ass, Chris moving over me, holding my wrists behind my back.

"I want your ass" Her voice low, smokey, her teeth at the base of my spine.

"Fuck me, Bitch, fuck me hard." I moaned as her fingers found my dripping cunt, twisting in my juices then thrusting into my ass, spreading open my rosebud, stretching me as she reached for the strap-on. "Oh yeah..!!"

Her hands on my shoulders, pulling me back as her hips bucked forward, driving hard and deep, my body lost in lust, then the pull of her fingers in my hair, her hand upon my cheek, spanking my ass as she impaled me, taking me, using me, filling me up as she bend me back like a bow, the dildo loosed like an arrow to pierce my centre. Hitting the spot, puncturing the last of my control as I fell into space, lost in my own little corner of nirvana as Chris drew me into her arms, soothing kisses and whispered love, the dildo still buried inside, filling me up, filling my dreams as I slipped away.

The next morning I walked a little stiffly, my ass tender from Chris's exertions, the soreness made me smile, my lover knows me so well.

Later I found my seductress's number, I wonder if she will make me as tender?

6.

We exchanged a few calls, each filled with tease and innuendo, my seductress fluent in the language of unspoken lust. Finally we arranged to meet again, this time at a restaurant, at least we would start there...

For my night out with the girls at the lesbian bar I'd dressed as we had agreed, short skirt, crop top, no underwear, and shoes, a change from my beloved boots, but no heels, I've never worn heels. For my date with my seductress I reverted to my customary attire, jeans and a T-shirt, my biker boots and leather jacket. For once I left my sketch pad, not planning on needing it, I hoped to be to busy, to distracted, I wanted to be seduced and fucked. Something about my seductress spoke of a hidden desire, one that promised a very intense encounter.

With Chris aware of where I was going and who I was meeting, or at least her description from my 'confession' the previous week, I set off early, the restaurant was on the edge of the city centre, I could have taken a taxi, but it was not that far and besides the walk would do me good, and give me time to enjoy the anticipation.

Arriving with ten minutes to spare I found her already installed in a booth at the back of the room, the high backed booths allowed a little privacy and ensured excellent service.

As I slid into the booth, choosing to sit opposite her rather than beside her, my seductress greeted me with a very dirty smile, dirty sexy that is.

"Oh nice, I prefer this look on you, the tart look is sexy but not you, the biker chic suits you"

"Not sure I can say the same," I replied, grinning, "I kind of miss the dancing nipples." She wore a skin tight wraparound dress, those amazing tits completely covered, only their perfect curves defying the cut of the dress as easily as they defied gravity.

"Tonight I have something special in mind, are you open to a little challenge?" Her eyes flashed, that hidden desire wafting like smoke deep in those tempting pools, my need awoke instantly.

"Sure, I'm 'open' for a lot of things..."

"Excellent, then just for tonight, I'm in charge, all you have to do is follow my lead and cum as often as you can manage."

"Sure... Umm... Yes Misst.... Ma'am." There was now way I was going to spend all evening calling her Mistress, I didn't even do that for Chris, so Ma'am would have to do, even though it brought back memories of Toni, memories that had my need drooling, straining to be released.

"I've already ordered for us, and just bottled water," she paused to emphasise her words, "I think we'll both want clear heads, for later." That look in her eyes again, my need breaking it's leash, bounding forward, eager.

The service was excellent, dishes came and went, we ate mostly in silence, yet still I felt her, the way her body moved, the look in her eyes, the smiles and knowing looks, all worked their spell. I have no idea what we ate, the food was not important, all that mattered were the thinly veiled hints and my own unrestrained need. If she had touched me, even fleetingly I think I might have cum right there and then.

I was ready to leave as we finished our starter, more ready with each passing course, my seductress flexed her skills and I almost melted then and there. Even the rich fresh coffee failed to distract me. I know I tried to split the bill, fumbling for my purse as she laid a card on the small tray, an appreciative waiter palming the generous cash tip that accompanied her card.

"Cum little one, time to go."

"Yes Ma'am," oh fuck.! I almost obeyed her literally, could feel my pussy clench and my clit throbbing.

I slid off the bench seat and stood, feeling her hand cupping my ass possessively, her touch electric, her voice low, throaty as she steered me out of the restaurant, all the time talking softly, urgent whispers promising much. "I know you almost came, little one, you'll cum soon enough, I promise, tonight you'll get everything you deserve, everything."

Her hand stayed on my ass, fingers tight, her car was close, low and sleek, she opened the passengers door, "Unfasten your jeans."

For a moment I stared at her, a joke, yes? Then the hidden desire in her eyes grew, flashing, my need responded, my hands moving unbidden to comply, jeans unfastened, "now push them down, a little more, now get in." Yeah, sure, like that's gonna work, I twisted around, lowering my bare ass into the low bucket seat, her hands on my head, my shoulder, adding support whilst I twisted and squatted. Images of porta-potties flashed in my mind, not sexy, I dismissed them with a shudder and dropped the last few inches, lifted my legs, knees bent as I slotted myself into the seat. The door closed. For a moment I wondered what to do, then I grinned to myself, who was I kidding? I wanted to play this game, so why hold back? I sunk a little deeper into the bucket seat, parted my legs as much as I could and reached up, hands grabbing the bars that framed the headrest.

She oozed into the drivers seat, "very good, little one, now hold still." The silk scarf was cool, another blindfold, oh well, here we go again, I felt it tighten as she tied it, "much better, now you're cumming home with me." The inflexion in her voice unmistakable. The seatbelt clicked.

The engine roared into life, I'm not a car freak, but this one felt like a fighter jet or a star-fighter, "Yes, Captain." I grinned and spread my knees a little wider.

"Captain?"

"Captain Janeaway, this is a star-fighter, right?" I'm not really into space movies, but I do like the writers sense of humour, 'ok, this character's a bit of a wanker, lets call him Hans Solo....'

"A Mercedes SLK, so close." I felt her fingers brushing my thigh, confidently easing up to my still soaking pussy. "If you drip on my leather seat, you'll lick it up, understood?"

"Yes Ma'am." Ok, so I'd be licking leather, her warning was about a litre late.

"Hold tight little one." The engine note changed, I felt myself pressed back into my seat, her fingers thrusting into my cunt.

"Oh yes..!! FU..." The word died on my lips, my breath stolen as she added two more fingers and thrust deeper. I gasped, trying to inhale. My seductress was good, very good, her long fingers and clipped nails filled me, owned my cunt, I just hung on to the seat and tried to ride her hand, later I'd lick the leather, right now I wanted to cum, and cum, and cum.

"Almost there, little one." Yeah, the bitch knew that, we both knew that, she meant nearly home, but we both knew I was nearly *there*, I had been nearly *there* since she drove four fingers deep into me. I didn't reply, I just whimpered.

Her fingers withdrew, leaving me feeling empty, hips jerking, seeking stimulation, the car slowed, manoeuvred, her door opened, closed, then mine opened. "OH...!!"

No warning. Her fingers thrust back inside me, hooking, her other hand pulling the scarf free, cupping the back of my neck, "swing your legs out," I obeyed, tried to stand, aided by her fingers in my cunt and her hand on my neck, different, it worked, I was standing, blinking in the harsh light of her garage. "Strip." Her voice less satin, more steel, the desire almost surfacing, my need taking over as I stripped off my clothes and folded them, a small pile on the tiled floor. "Now turn around, kneel down and get licking."

I licked, tasting myself, warm and slick, my tongue flicking out to get every drop, swallowing it all, feeling it go down, deeper, I could picture it flowing all the way down to my still dripping pussy, even as her hand roamed my ass and owned my cunt, my rosebud too, right there on my knees we both knew who was writing the script, for that one night I was hers, utterly. No question.

She kept me on hands and knees, her fingers in my hair, gripping tight, leading me by her side into the house, across more tiles, carpet, through doors, the last sounded heavy as it clicked shut. Her weight on my back, astride me, hands reaching for my wrists, ankles, the cuffs wide and tight. The sound of chain tinkling and rasping. "Up." I stood, her hand on the back of my neck, pushing me forward, stopping me. "Be still." I froze, my need burned.

My legs were spread wide, ankle cuffs chained to rings set into the floor, my arms lifted high, wrist cuffs fitted to the spreader bar that rose as she cranked the hand winch, lifting my arms high, stretching me up until my heels no longer touched the floor. "Now you are mine, now we can start."

"Yes Ma'am" My need spoke to her. "Yours, all yours."

Across the room the wall held the key to my need, whips, all kinds and colours, each one an answer to my need, the need. I felt like a spectator, somehow detached, aloof, watching them, woman and girl, miss and Ma'am, the one in control, dominating the room, the other hanging quietly, filled with a need that called out for the whip, the pain, the knowing.

All my life I have lost myself in my sketches, now I felt that warmth, the safety of watching, hidden away unnoticed, eyes catching every detail, pencil flying as I tried to hold on.

"You want this, don't you?" She brandished the whip, menacing, triumphant.

"Yes, Ma'am, I want it." I bit back the fear, let the need burn it away. "I need it, Ma'am, please?"

Two blows, left and right across my tits. I screamed.

"Yes..!! Scream for me, scream all you like, I want to hear you scream, bitch..!!"

I looked up then, looked into her eyes, the desire no longer hidden, the smoky lust gone, just cold cruel revenge.

"You and your Mistress stole my slave, now you pay. Payback is a bitch, and the Bitch is me...."

I tried to speak but the whip wrapped around my back and ripped away my breath, she moved behind me, arm still swinging, the whip cracking and slicing, no mercy, no words, just pain and more pain.

I watched myself screaming, watched the need dying inside me, watched as she whipped me, anger robbing her of accuracy, not that she seemed to care, she just carried on swinging, sobbing with each stroke, her words a mantra of revenge. "Bitch!" "Thief!" "Slut!" over and over until the blood trickled down around my toes, my body long ago limp, hanging empty, whilst I watched.

Nobody to stop her this time. No Chris to spoil it, to save me. Only the blackness that rose up, drowning me.

The screaming started again, the burning, the bitch was laughing as she shook the salt, watching it cascade down over my back, sticking to every open bloody wound. She laughed, laughed in my face, slapped me left and right, then left me hanging.

"I'll be back later, to do your front."

7.

I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. We were staying at the home of the lead singer, front man of band that Mom was 'with' at the time. The previous night's party had faded with the darkness, everyone was sleeping, Mom too, though I didn't know who with.

I liked the dawn, the peace, nobody around, not even security, not there at the house. The swimming pool was mirror smooth, the water warm as I sat on the diving board swinging my legs and watching the sun's reflection on the water. I had found a wristwatch, heavy and gold and had picked it up intending to take it inside, but as I toyed with it I dropped it. I remember watching horrified as it fell into the water, sending ripples out across the mirror like surface as it dropped down to the bottom of the pool.

Aghast at my clumsy stupidity I didn't stop to think, just slipped off my smock and jumped in after it. I remember the conscious effort to open my eyes underwater, as I struggled deeper. Only after managing to grab the watch did I think about what I was doing, back then I couldn't swim very well, had never tried to hold my breath underwater, not properly, clinging onto the watch I struggled up towards the surface, lungs hurting with the need to breathe, the surface so bright, so far away, the darkness closing in as I ran out of air.

The darkness faded and I burst into the light, gasping for air, fighting the pain, fighting to thrash my arms, to swim, to live. I screamed when my arms couldn't move, screamed and fought until the voice spoke, the voice close to me, arms around me, the guard pulling me from the pool. I opened my eyes, he was a girl, my arms were cuffed above my head and the pain, oh fuck the pain, I screamed, screamed into the hand that clamped across my mouth. For a moment the darkness returned, the need to breathe, then the voice, barely a whisper, "I'm sorry, so sorry, please don't scream, we need to get away, now, fast, please don't hate me, I can't be gentle." The darkness faded and the pain returned, so much pain, too much, I wanted it to stop, it had to stop, it was too... I closed my eyes and drifted, my mind and body separating as before, the oh so familiar sense of watching myself, my mind focused on the detail, intent on my subject, unaware of my hunger, my thirst, the loss of feeling in my leg folded beneath me as I sketched.

I don't know how I did it, maybe I didn't? Maybe the pain was just to much and it overloaded my senses? All I remember is feeling detached, watching the girl releasing me, her voice broken by her sobs as she pulled my arm over her shoulder, the other arm around my waist, dragging me, supporting me, saving me.

I watched us leave the room, followed us down the corridor and through a utility room to a back door, the white tiled floor smeared with red as we crossed to the door. I remember her face, the terror in her eyes, the words she repeated over and over, "I'm sorry. Fucking psycho bitch. I'm sorry. Fuc.." The patio was smooth and cold, the garden shed ahead. She pulled open the door, tools, a mower, a dog cage. She led me to the cage, reached inside and pulled out a blanket, laid it across the top of the cage, then gently lowered me forwards onto it, legs spread, body resting on the frame, just as well, I didn't think I could stand on my own, not right then. "I'll be back." The darkness rose up, drowning me.

I lay there in the darkness, trying to ignore the pain, the slow dripping that pooled at my feet and soaked into the blanket. Somehow I managed to keep detached, my mind ignoring my body, a nagging voice kept urging me to think, to act, to get myself away, but that meant loosing concentration on being detached, so I ignored the nagging and stayed detached, trusting that something would happen, and it did, the girl returned, agitated, frightened, but still willing to help me when she could have just run and saved herself.

"I grabbed these from the laundry, we need to get out of here, fast, and get you help." Her hand closed around my ankle, lifting, slipping a tennis shoe on my foot, lacing it up tight because it was several sizes to big. Then the other foot, her hands at my waist fitting a wrap-around skirt, then, "this is going to hurt, sorry, but you have to wear something." It felt funny, it was not until later I realised it was a black dustbin bag, holes ripped for my arms and head. Her quick thinking saved me a lot of later pain as the plastic didn't stick to the cuts when the doctors did their best to patch me up.

A lot of what happened is kind of blurry. In shutting out the pain and separating my mind and body I shut out what was happening as well. I only remember the parts that broke through, when the pain was to sharp, to unexpected, like when I had to bend my back to get in the car, and later to get out again at the hospital. I do know that the girl kept saying sorry to me and in between promised the driver she'd 'look after' him after he dropped me off...

The hospital I just don't want to remember. Not ever. Somehow I made it from the car to the doors, then it's sketchy. I know they wanted to know my name, to know what happened, the doctors, the nurses, the police. I never said a word, the doctors said it was shock, the police persisted for a while, the nurses took longer.

I don't remember the fire, I only knew about it because the policemen were discussing it, unaware of any connection, I'll never know if the girl started it for revenge, or the bitch used it to destroy the evidence, I do know it was started in the laundry room and that the bitch survived. Too bad.

Slowly my back healed, I could move, at first without flinching, then without thinking. One day I managed to look at myself in a mirror, happy I could twist enough to look as I studied the damage, the overlapping cicatrises, some freshly pink, a few still angry red.

Maybe it was because they'd grown used to me, perhaps it was because I never spoke, whatever the reason they discussed me without ever acknowledging my presence. When those discussions turned to more surgery, I chose to leave. That night I simply dressed in the few clothes I had, the Jean Jacket the girl had brought me from the laundry, a pair of jeans one of the nurses had found for me, a oversized T-shirt, the tennis shoes. I slipped past the nurses station and away into the darkness.

It took a while to walk home, back to the flat, to Chris. I had no key, no one was there, so I walked around the back to the yard behind the gallery. The cellar door had a key-code lock, inside it was dry, a little musty, I curled up on a pile of dust-sheets and slept, for the first time since that night I could relax, I was home, I was safe.

The urgent need to pee awoke me. I slipped out of the cellar, making sure the lock clicked shut, then hurried around the front of the building, it was dark, I must have slept the day away. I jammed my finger on the doorbell whilst hopping from one foot to another. Chris's voice on the intercom, "it's me," I almost screamed, the buzzer never had a chance, I was in the door and up the stairs like the proverbial ferret up the drainpipe, sidestepping Chris's welcome as I dashed to the bathroom, "I gotta pee......."

Chris followed me into the bathroom, her voice harsh, her eyes soft, "where the fuck have you been..?"

Maybe I should have blushed, maybe I should have just told her right then and there, but I was to busy enjoying blessed relief as squatted on the toilet, relief not just from my bladder but from being home, seeing Chris. It was then that I looked at her, properly looked at her, at the whip she held in her right hand.

Something clicked in my head and I knew, I just knew, as I wiped myself and stood to pull up my jeans I looked into her eyes, and she looked away...

Brushing past her I dashed to the bedroom. From the rings in the ceiling above the bed hung Emily, her back to me, her skin glistening with sweat and criss-crossed with feint red lines, fresh from Chris's whip, the whip that she could never bring herself to wield upon me, she had no problem using on Em.

"She moved in after the fire, nobody knew where you were, I..." Chris reached out to me, first with her arms, then with her heart, "I can, with her, I couldn't with you, I love you," she seemed to crumple, as if she guessed my reaction.

"I love you too, maybe I always will," as I spoke I slipped off my Jean Jacket and pulled up the over-sized T-shirt, exposing my back. I never meant to cause her pain, that was not my intent, she deserved to know and showing was easier than telling. I pulled my T-shirt back down and grabbed my fallen jacket, "I got what I needed, I just didn't know the twisted bitch was Em's Mistress..." Chris recoiled at my words, her face twisted, cheeks smeared with tears.

"No guilt, no blame, what we had was special, now I'm gone." I fled, out of the door, grabbing the gallery keys as I passed their hook by the door. Chris's voice calling out, pleading, but I didn't stop, couldn't stop, not then, maybe not ever, if I stayed it would be worse, the poison would spread and one day all that we had would be vile and rotten, better to go and keep the sweet memories.

From the gallery I took my satchel and a single print, the best of the 'impossibles'. I could have gone back for my things, even taken money from the safe, I took nothing but my satchel and the single photograph.

Running through the rain I wasn't even sure where I was going, right then my only conscious destination was 'away'. It was only after I'd hitched a ride that I realised my destination, the only place I could go, the only person I knew would understand.

I was heading south, to Cambridge, to the source, I was taking the photograph home.

* * *

Excerpt from "Degrees of Freedom"

* * *

I've never met anyone else quite like Dee. I have described her as running the gallery with a careless efficiency, smoothly transforming from introverted artist to effervescent sales girl quicker than... But that hardly scratches the surface. In her still short life she has experienced a great deal, a lot bad, some very bad and she is the only girl ever to get into my life, my studio, my bed and my heart in one day. That does not mean we are close, at least not in relationship terms, we've never lacked opportunity, just the desire. Dee is special.

The day we met it was pouring with rain, I had been alone in the gallery all day, no staff, no customers. At five minutes to five the door opened and 5'6" of drenched misery entered, closed the door, looked around slowly and spoke. "You need me... and I fucking need you... where's the kettle?" I would of thrown her out, but she smelt that bad I didn't want to get that close to her. By way of explanation she took a soggy wad of paper from her Jean Jacket pocket and unfolded it before passing it to me. The photo had been taken three months earlier, a private commission, there were only three prints in existence and one was framed in my studio. "That's your work." It was not a question. She unfolded a second soggy mass. "This is mine." It was a pencil sketch of the exact same photo, except the viewpoint was 180 degrees out. The detail incredible, really incredible.

The conversation that followed ended in Dee taking a shower whilst I put the kettle on. Anyone who hitch-hiked the length of England's second longest motorway without a penny in their pocket just because of a photo I'd taken deserved a shower and a coffee. I never actually offered her a job, I never got the chance, Dee simply told me I needed her to run the gallery and she was here to start work. No mention of money, in fact I wasn't sure she cared if I paid her. Showered and wearing clothes I'd fetched from the studio stock, Dee sat at the counter, one hand clutching a steaming mug of instant coffee, the other holding a pencil that seemingly had a mind of it's own as it flew over the paper. In less time than it took to drink her coffee she had sketched the gallery, not as it was, but as it ought to be. She was right, I did need her.

With no money and no place to go, I took Dee home with me, fed her, watched her decimate my stock of instant coffee then put her to bed in the spare room. Later in the night I awoke to find a slim figure standing by my bed, she spoke just one word. "Please...?" One word that spoke volumes, reaching out to her I drew her into my bed, held her tight as she spooned up against me and felt her shaking as we both tried to sleep.

It wasn't her scream that awoke me, it was her elbow striking my face. "BITCH...!!!" Her voice high pitched, distraught, the elbow again, but this time I rolled away, out of range, reaching out for the bedside light as Dee thrashed around in the grip of her nightmare. It took a while to wake her, longer for the nightmare's grasp to loosen, "I'm sorry, so sorry." Her tears running down her face, dripping onto the too-thin body, drawing attention to marks I'd not seen in the darkness. "I'll go, I'm sorry. I'll just go.." I reached out to her, at first with my heart, then with both arms, slowly Dee let herself be held, accepted my forgiveness, or so I thought. I awoke much later to find her curled up on the floor besides my bed, wrapped in two bath towels. Over morning coffee she admitted she had needed company, comfort, but was frightened of striking me again, thus the bath towels and the carpet plan. We never shared a bed again, we did share an understanding, gradually Dee opened up to me and I learnt her story, along the way she turned my struggling newly opened gallery into a thriving success and accumulated a staggering number of sketches, cartoons, caricatures and more than a few paintings. Few of which she let anyone else see, especially those she drew whilst perched quietly in a corner of the Dungeon.

* * *

The End and