A Christmas Story, Part 3

I really shouldn't post this yet, and instead hold it back to build up a bit more of a buffer between writing and publishing. But as always, I'm just too keen to get this out to you, the readers. I hope you enjoy it - comments and feedback, as always, appreciated.

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Three: The Body and Its Hidden Pleasures

The clock reads 9:40pm.  I’m nearly ready. The day’s exhaustion catches up to me. Hunger, too; my stomach growls, and I feel a little weak, especially in the legs. Part of me just wants to crawl into bed, pull the pillow over my head and call it a day. Instead, I’m pouting in front of the mirror. I layer on another coat of gloss, purse my lips and find my smile. I give my tits a little shove, make sure they’re secure in their home for the night, but what I wouldn’t give for a little boob tape—in the rush to pack, I didn’t think to pack any. I’ve got be careful, it wouldn’t do to bobble free coming downstairs, God, how humiliating would that be?  A final glance in the mirror, tug at the dress and it’s time for dinner. I’ve kept him waiting too long already.

            But the effort’s been worth it. My hair’s brushed out, fresh makeup on, legs smooth and freshly shaved in stockings. Even managed to get the nails done, stripped and repainted a glossy, seasonal silver. I’m nearly glowing by the time I head downstairs with carefully poised steps, pushing hunger and tiredness to one side. Anxiety, too, haunted as I am by what happened in the shower. All in all, it’s taken longer than expected, certainly longer than he likes. Dinner is already served, and the food is cooling. I can tell he’s annoyed. But he’s also amused by the delay. Girls, I see him think, how can it possibly take them so long to get ready?

            But any irritation he’s holding back is immediately forgotten when he sees me. I’m wearing the little black dress he picked from the closet. It’s a favourite of mine, which is why I brought it. I think it’s a good match to what he’s wearing. He’s swapped his work suit for a fine pair of grey slacks, and a white, fitted button-down shirt and dinner jacket. Mr Connor looks good. I envy his chunky cuff links and heavy watch, his relaxed pose, the easy comfort of his clothes; but I also like my dress.

            The halter-top bares my arms and shoulders, leaves my back open to just above the waist. A bra would ruin the look, so I’ve gone without, trusting to the lined bodice to keep the girls in line. It’s just about up to the job. I just need to be careful, delicate in my movements. A daring style for a girl with a chest as healthy as mine, but I love the way it shows off my slender arms and neck. There’s a long neck sash, too, it drapes down between my shoulder blades and that’s fun, I think it makes me look elegant. A slender silver bracelet completes the look and beneath it all, I’ve slipped back into the seasonal, sparkly red panties and added the matching garter belt and now I’m thinking, maybe somebody will get to see it after all.

            “You shouldn’t have,” I say, holding my hand to the dangling chandelier earrings that tug at my lobe. Heavy and beautiful, they sparkle in the candlelight. A gift, waiting for me on the bed after the shower, a little box sitting atop the small pile of clothes. “It’s too generous. It really is.”

            “It’s Christmas,” he says.

            “But—I didn’t get you—”

            “You’re here. That’s gift enough.” He pours out two glasses of wine as he speaks. “And it made me happy, buying those for you on the way home. The happiest I’ve felt buying a gift for a woman in a long time. You’re young,” he says. “And don’t know what it’s like, falling out of love with someone, with someone you’ve been with for over twenty years. Buying a gift for someone becomes a chore rather than a pleasure—when the surprise is gone, and you just buy what they tell you to buy. But picking those for you tonight?” He smiles. “I enjoyed it, thinking about you and wondering which you’d prefer, the little diamond studs, or those dangling ones, or there were these little sunburst ones with amber—considering which one best said ‘Cindy’, and I imagined how you’d react to each, how they’d look on you, whether you’d wear them to the office and it put me in your head for a moment and I felt—” he trails off. “I guess I felt young, too.”

            The way he openly admires me as he says it, the idea of him thinking of me so intently—it makes me feel a little funny inside. I incline my head and feel the earring’s weight. “They’re lovely. Thank you. But please tell me it’s the only gift?”

            He smiles guiltily, like a naughty boy secretly pleased with himself.

            Dinner’s a big fillet of white fish, dotted with slices of lemon, on a long oblong dish sitting between us. Flecks of dill sit brightly against the white flesh. The crisp white wine pairs well with it. Tenderstem broccoli and glazed carrots sit around the fish, and there’s a side dish of buttered potatoes. He didn’t cook any of it but bought it ready made on the way home. Useless in the kitchen, he admits with a shrug. Married young, never really a bachelor—never learned how to properly cook.

            But it’s tasty, much nicer than the cheap microwave pasta I had waiting for me back home. Company’s good, too. We relax into the meal and talk, at first about work but eventually for ourselves onto different topics. He’s keen to talk about his divorce. I’m keen to listen and not talk about myself. And it’s easy to forget that this isn’t actually a date, or that he’s my boss, and that I’m just a receptionist half his age. This isn’t a nice restaurant but his home, and I’m spending the night. Easy to forget that we’re both men, too, though I’m the one wearing the little dress that barely clears my stocking tops.

            I point my fork at the fish. “Is this a family thing for you?” I ask. “Fish, I mean, at Christmas.”

            He nods. “Mom’s from the Czech Republic. Traditionally it’s carp, but good luck finding that ready made on Christmas eve. Not a fan of the green stuff,” he says, and flicks a sliver of dill, “but they’re mad for it over there and somehow, it just doesn’t taste like Christmas without it.”

            “I think it’s great,” I say, and smile. I smile for him, but also because I’m thinking of Dmytro, and how he’s maybe sat at a table somewhere eating something similar. I look forward to telling him next time I see him.

            He nods. “First time in years I’ve had it. Lily hated fish as a child. And Rose had her own family traditions. Mine sort of got pushed to one side and left there.”

            I cut into my fish and stay silent.

            “Sorry,” he says. “I won’t keep mentioning her, I promise.”

            We finish off the food and it feels great to finally have a full belly. It’s getting late by this time, about ten-thirty. It occurs to me I drank the wine a little easily, or too quickly. The first glass hit an empty stomach. The room’s not exactly spinning but it’s not quite right, either. And now the full stomach’s making me drowsy. He leads me over to the living room and we sit on the sofa. He’s smiling a secret little smile and looks inordinately pleased with himself.

            “What is it?” I ask him.

            He disappears for a moment and returns with a wrapped gift.

            “Mr Connor!” I cross my arms across my chest. “I said no more presents.”

            “Please,” he says. “It’s another tradition, okay? A single gift on Christmas eve.”

            “You already gave me a gift.”

            “I’m bad at counting. Go on. It’s—for tonight.”

            The paper comes off and the box beneath is from an expensive lingerie chain. The gift inside is wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper, resting on a bed of dark velvet. I careful break the seal with a nail and unwrap the paper. Black silk and neon pink lace unroll into a gorgeous short slip. There’s a matching pair of sleep shorts, and it all feels delightfully cool and smooth. For all the clothes back at home, there’s nothing like quite like this, not of this quality and I have a rough idea of how much it must’ve cost.

            My breath catches in my throat as I look at him, holding the gift to my chest. “It’s gorgeous. You shouldn’t— it’s too—” and seeing the look in his eyes, I shake my head and smile. “Thank you. It’s—gorgeous.”

            “I’m glad you like it. I hope I got the size right.”

            I kiss him on the cheek, then his hand is at my waist, holding me close, and he kisses me on the mouth. I grin through his kiss. I tap him on the nose and step back. “Easy boss. How about I try this on upstairs, let you know if it fits?”

            His eyes sparkle. “Do I get to watch?”

            “Mr Connor!” The outrage is fake, as I turn my back on him, but the cheeky grin real when I look back over my shoulder. “But maybe model it for you—later.”

            Back in the room, I hold the slip against myself in the mirror and it really is exquisite, not just a sexy wisp of boudoir nothing but something a woman might actually wear to bed. It’s sexy as hell but also elegant, and the thought of wearing it for him leaves me feeling a little funny. I think of Chad, and Julia, and imagine wearing it for them, too. Then, with a shake of the head, I lay it on the bed and return downstairs.

            It’s only as I return to the living room that I notice something odd about the room and by extension, the house.

            “There’s no decorations!”

            He looks pained. “I know, I know. I just—couldn’t be bothered, I guess. Doing it all for myself.”

            I frown with mock anger. “Well tomorrow, mister, we’re putting some up.”

            He groans. “Really? On Christmas Day? We’ll be taking them down the next day!”

            “Uh uh,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. “They stay up for as long as I’m here.”
            “And how long’s that for?” he asks.

            An awkward silence falls between us.

            “How long do you want me here?” I ask in a small voice.

            He looks at me seriously and takes my hands in his. “How long do you want to stay?”
            I shake my head. “No.” And again, “no,” I repeat. “You’re in charge. You have to—decide and tell me.”

            “I’m not going to force you to—”

            “You can’t,” I interrupt. I lean in close and lay a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Force me to do anything.”

            He seems to consider this for a moment. Crossing over to a drink cabinet, he retrieves a bottle of whisky, pours himself a finger and holds it up to the light. He swills it around then looks over at me. It’s as though he suddenly remembers that I like the stuff too, because he smiles and pulls out a second tumbler and pours another glass. He joins me again on the sofa. I’m aware of the distance between us. He raises his glass in salute. We clink glasses and he takes a sip. I don’t drink and instead watch him as he closes his eyes and savours the moment.

            But when he opens his eyes, he appears troubled. “This isn’t right,” he says. “You know it, and I know it.”

            I don’t say anything.

            “I’m forty-five,” Mr Connor says. “Forty-six in a few months. We married young, Rose and I, straight out of school. She was pregnant within a year, and then we had Lily. And looking back, it was too soon, too quick, we barely had time to get to know each other as a married couple before we found ourselves as parents. But it was still good, and Lily was amazing. But as time went on, little things started to build up, you know, and some not so little things. Like—” he hesitates, picks at an imaginary piece of lint on his shirt—“well, I told you, didn’t I, that night? The thing I learned about myself at a party, when I was still at school, with this girl, she wanted me to be in charge, in control and I discovered I enjoyed being dominant and for the girl to—submit.” He looks at me then, eyes burning over the rim of his tumbler. “It wasn’t Rose’s thing. I tried to get her to have a go, once, framed it as a bit of naughty fun one night and surprised her with some cuffs, a few toys, tried to make a game of it and tie her wrists to the bedposts. God, the look she gave me! It was stupid. Rose doesn’t even like lingerie, matching her bra and panties is as far as she’s ever gone. She called me a pervert, said—other things, things that made me feel like a bad person, like there was something wrong with me. Later, I’d also get angry but at the time I felt—wretched, absolutely terrible. And that was that. We never talked about it again. But my interest never went away. It’s not why we divorced. A lot of other stuff built up over the years. But my interest never went away, and I’d be lying if I said my—desires—didn’t play a part.

            “But I never cheated on her.” His face twists into a scowl, one he hides beneath a quick drink. “Turns out, she can’t say the same. And I can’t tell you how much that hurts. But at the same time, part of me doesn’t blame her. Over time, I turned increasingly to porn, to fantasies that couldn’t be shared with her. And the more I explored my fantasy, the more I pulled away from her. Our sex life sort of fell apart. And again, it wasn’t just this, there was work and parenting and of course it wasn’t just me, Rose carries half the blame too, though she sees it differently.

            “And I tell you all this, Cindy, because—because this, right here and right now, having you here and with me, what happened in the shower, what is this but me living out a fantasy I’ve supressed for twenty years? I’ve got this absolutely gorgeous—don’t blush, it’s true!—this sexy twenty-year old girl who just happens to be my subordinate, staying with me for—a night? A week? And I don’t dare tell you, Cindy, the thoughts going through my mind, the fantasies I’ve playing out.” His jaw clenches for a moment, and then he forces it out: “The things I want to do to you, if you let me; the things I’ll do—if I—can….”

            He trails off and abruptly stands. He walks over to the large bay window at the front of the house and stares into the darkness. Beyond him, Christmas tree lights glimmer, and a few houses remain lit from within with ongoing festivities. There’s a fresh dusting of snow covering everything, it must have snowed while we were in the shower.

            With a groan he turns to face me, and his face moves with powerful emotions he can barely control. “I’m just another fucking pervert, aren’t I? Just another male bastard in a position of authority exploiting another young girl, it’s wrong and so fucking stupid, it could cost me everything. My job, and I can’t even imagine what the divorce lawyers would make of this. Or what Lily would think. Christ. You’re her age, younger even!” He covers his face with both hands and takes a deep breath. “What the fuck am I doing?”

            Eventually, he sighs and returns. Michael sinks heavily into the sofa, elbows on knees, head hanging low.

            I’ve waited patiently for him to finish. “For fuck’s sake,” I say. “Get over yourself, will you?”

            He looks up, frowns.

            “Stop treating me like a fucking child,” I say. “I’m twenty years old, I’m a goddam adult. Twenty-one in a few weeks. I’m not a kid. Christ, you old men, you think you know everything, and you think we know nothing. That’s the real problem here, that’s the only thing that’s wrong here. Because I know, okay? I know what the hell I want. And what I want is you, you got that Michael?

            “How dare you assume I’m here just because you asked me? How dare you assume I’m here because of some goddamn power dynamic? Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I’m here because I damn well want to be here?

            “I get it, okay? It’s great that I’m, like, the manifestation of your fantasies, I’ll be honest, that’s pretty fucking hot, you know, embodying the memory of that pretty little thing you tied up twenty years ago. Knowing that when you look at me, you see that submissive little slut, desperate for a spanking. Or maybe instead you see a sweet, demure girl in need of a firm hand. Maybe both. Whatever.

            “The problem is, over all that, you also can’t help but see your secretary and receptionist, a girl who is quite literally paid to do what you tell her, like some kind of prostitute. And so, I get it, you feel guilty because you’re a good boss—fuck that, you’re a great boss and so you worry I’m here against my will or something.

            “And I say: fuck your guilt and fuck you for stripping me of my fucking agency. Like, did you ever think that maybe this is my fantasy, too? A power fantasy where I get to give up the power, lay back, follow orders? Maybe I want you to take charge, tell me what to do, call me a good girl when I do what you say, and punish me when I don’t.”
            My words have a visible effect on him. His face turns a little red, and the way he’s sat I can see he’s aroused. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt and allows me to continue.

            “And if that’s just too good to be true and you can’t believe that, yeah, you got lucky, after twenty years you’ve got this sexy, hot little bitch ready to play out your fantasies, then here’s another one for you. Try this one on for size.”

            I take a deep breath.

            “Maybe I was just lonely, okay?”

            My next breath is more ragged than the one before, and then I continue before courage fails me. “All my friends fucked off, okay, they haven’t even bothered to message me, and I’ve got no family, and I’m alone, and there’s no one else. I’m—alone, and I couldn’t face being on my own tonight, or tomorrow. Not—at Christmas—it was too much and I imagined going home tonight and—” and I can see myself, half naked and dead drunk, sunk deep in my chair in my tiny dark apartment, staring out the balcony window into the darkness beyond and the distant lights of the city, forcing myself to stay awake, desperate to dodge bad dreams—“I didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”

            Christ, and now the tears. And I don’t know where any of this is coming from, and it’s not what I meant to say, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Tears dribble down my face. Concern fills Michael’s eyes, and now he tries to interrupt:

            “Cindy—”

            “Shut up.” He looks surprised, abashed. “Still my turn, Michael, okay? Just give me this, and I promise, I’ll shut up, I’ll be good. And I’ll listen. Twenty years. Jesus. That’s a long time. If you want to talk about your divorce, your ex-wife, Christ, go on and stop fucking apologising. I’m not your girlfriend, I don’t feel threatened and I’m happy to listen, okay? Honestly, I am. I—like listening to you, to the sound of your voice.

            “And as for your kinky little fantasies,” and here I lean forward and force a watery little smile, “okay, sure, maybe you want to tie up young girls, take charge, give them a spanking. Yeah, that’s perverted; you’re a pervert. But then I guess so am I, and did you ever think that maybe you’re my fantasy?”

            That muscle in Michael’s jaw jumps, and his fingers curl into his knees.

            “You keep telling me I’m young. Fine. Well guess what, all that stuff you wish you’d explored when you were a kid? That’s where I am, right now. I’m exploring. Dear God, am I ever. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve experience this past year. Things I never imagined, believe me. You’re not the only one, okay, I’m going through shit of my own, too.”

            I swallow a burst of hysterical laughter. “It’s been a hard couple of months. Like, really hard. Every day, it takes everything I’ve got to just hold myself together. You fantasize about control?” I raise my tumbler to my lips with shaking hands. It’s my first sip and the warmth of the whisky burns my throat and feels good as I swallow. “You can’t even imagine. What it takes, to keep a hold on—the anger, the frustration. The fear. And the guilt—God—and I’d love nothing more than to just—” and here a deep sigh escapes me, an expression of utter exhaustion—“let go, just for a day, a week and—”

            “Be yourself?” Michael says.

            “No,” I whisper. “Anything but that.” I carefully put my glass down and wrap my arms around myself. “I’d much rather be the—the person you think I am. I think I like her; she seems like a good girl.”

            After that, we sit there for a little bit in silence. Slowly, I uncurl and relax. Mr Connor does the same, leaning back into the sofa and sighing. We both slowly drink our whisky. At one point, he stands and pours himself another couple fingers. He holds up the bottle. I nod and he splashes some into my glass. Then, we sit side by and side and drink. He’s sitting closer than before, now. I can smell him, feel the heat of him.

            The whisky is good. “Speyside?” I ask.

            He gives a little smile. “You’ve got a good nose.”

            “For a girl?” A twinkle in my eye belies the scowl.

            “Ha, no. I’m not touching that.”

            We touch glasses, enjoy another sip and lapse back into contemplative silence. I’m thinking about my little speech, about who I am and how I ended up here, and what I want. Noticing my stockings are exposed, front garter tabs visible, I absently tug my dress down. After tears, an instinct to check my makeup gnaws at me. My dress; garters and stockings; makeup. The humiliation ought to be crippling, but I can’t summon the energy to be ashamed. Instead, I want to burrow into the crook of his arm, close my eyes and sleep.

            Meanwhile, he’s doing his own thinking. Maybe he’s regretting inviting this basket case of a girl into his house. His brow is slightly furrowed, like he’s concentrating on a puzzle.

            Outside, it begins to snow. I stand, smooth my dress down and surreptitiously check my stockings. One of the six tabs is loose. Absently, I reattach it. Sweeping hair and neck sash over my shoulder, I pad over to the window. It’s wonderful outside. Falling flakes flock, flutter and swirl. The air looks crisp and clean, the snow bright and fresh. Part of me wants to run out and catch a snowflake on my tongue. But mostly I’m happy to be indoors, where it’s warm, and my stockinged toes can curl happily into thick carpet.

            He steps up behind me and slides an arm around my waist. I let him draw me in. I cuddle closer, hold his arms tightly. He makes me feels safe and wanted. His chin sits lightly on the top of my head. For a few minutes we simply watch the snow fall. It feels good, watching this with someone. As the snow thickens, the brilliant light of the moon becomes diffuse, as do the coloured Christmas lights across the street. Soon, all is swirling white, hypnotic loops and whirls of snow.

            “Beautiful,” I whisper.

            He draws me back to the sofa. We sit down next to each other, but closer now. Our knees touch. My hands are in his. He reaches up and tucks a bang back behind my ear. I smile at the intimacy of his touch. “Beautiful,” he says.

            I blush, my eyes slide away then return to him. It’s time to try this again. “Hi,” I say, extending my fingertips in a girlish handshake. “My name’s Cindy Bellamy. Nice to meet you.”

            A smile tugs at his lips. He takes my hand firmly, gives it a single shake. “My name is Michael Connor. Nice to meet you, too.”

            “I work at Volumina International. I’m a receptionist there.”

            “What a coincidence. I’m the branch General Manager.” His hand trails along my bare back, gently rubbing. “I guess that means I’m your boss.”

            “It would seem so.” My fingers work his shirt, undo the second and third button. I slide my hand into his shirt. I feel hard muscle and little curls of hair across his chest. My touch is cool against the warmth of his chest.

            “Cindy,” he says. “That’s short for Cynthia, right?”

            My other hand rests on his lap. I feel how he swells there, and smile. “Everyone says that. It’s Lucinda, actually.” I feel an odd pride at the way my appearance, my touch excites him.

            I’ve always taken pride in pleasuring women. The thought of touching another man so intimately once disgusted—angered—terrified me. But it was always the pleasure that mattered most. The pride. Now I can see that the recipient of that pleasure has almost always been nearly irrelevant. The power held over them—extracting the moan, hiss or cry of ecstasy—and control, a knowledge of the body and its hidden pleasures that so often surpassed their own: this is what I’ve always sought. And always, they’ve given me what I want. A hundred women, and not one can say she walked away from me sexually unsatisfied.

            After all, what was it that Darius called me? A needy little prick? A pathetic loner. Maybe. But that lost boy of long ago discovered early there was power in pleasing others. Years later, I discovered my affinity for doing so. It was so very easy. Bodies thrummed under my touch and spoke to me in the euphoric language of flesh. All I did was listen.

            And so, what does it matter, then, if beneath my palm rests softs breasts or a chiselled chest, a cock instead of a pussy?

            I dig my nails lightly into his flesh and lightly claw the skin, and he releases a pleased, quiet hiss. “Michael, it’s an old-fashioned name, isn’t it?  Not too many of you left around.”

            “Biblical,” he says.  “Like John, Gabriel or David. Not too many of those left, either. At least in my age group.”

            I smile wanly.

            He brushes his fingers through my hair, and I lean into his strong hand.  “Michael was an archangel,” he says, thumb tracing little circles across my cheek.  “One of seven. Fought Satan.  Slew dragons.”

            I fan my fingers across his chest, feeling the muscles there, the strength beneath the skin. The contrast is stark. His hand is on my chest too, now, but through the flimsy dress all he finds is softness. “How’d you like to slay my dragon?”

            “Jezebel,” he murmurs.

            “Hardly.”  I laugh.  “I’ve got the stars at my head and the moon at my feet.”

            “Wasn’t the woman of the Apocalypse pregnant?” He winces. “Please tell me you’re not pregnant.”

            I blush bright red. “That’s not what I—”

            “I’m joking.” He gives me a little nudge. “Relax.” Drawing me closer, I nestle in the crook of his arm, continuing to draw idle circles through the loops and whorls of chest hair with my nails. “Though I’m surprised. That was… Revelations, right? Didn’t take you for the religious type, it’s… uncommon? For girls your age.”

            “Had a boyfriend back in high school.” I’m making this up on the spot. It was Akiko who had a thing for Apocalyptic literature, Anglo-Saxon poetry like the Wanderer, and all that dystopian stuff from Oryx and Crake to 1984, We to the Hunger Games. But that strikes me as being outside Cindy’s scope, beyond her education. She’s a high-school dropout, after all. “We didn’t date for long, but I went to church with him a few Sundays. Made a powerful impression, let me tell you. Very Christian, you know, part of that Pentecostal revival thing. Lots of happy-clappy stuff, but also real fire-and-brimstone preaching.”

            “Doesn’t sound like your kind of boy.”
            “I was trying to be good,” I say, and drop my gaze. “And he wanted a fallen girl to save. At times as a teenager, I could be a… a naughty girl.”

            “I can’t imagine.” His hand at my chest has casually slipped inside now, the halter top giving easy access. His hand is hot against my bare breast. Gently, he rolls the nipple between forefinger and thumb, pinches me lightly. I stiffen, hiss—and then relax, as under his touch warmth blossoms.

            “That’s—” I moan, wiggle deeper into his arms. “Mm.”

            “Naughty?”

            “Not fair.”

            He laughs softly. In retaliation, my hand at his groin feels his ready hardness. He grows under my touch. I rub slow circles and feel him stiffen further. For a short time, we stay like this, our breathing deepening as we sit on the sofa, his tender ministrations at my boobs, my hand over his cock.

            “You should stop,” he says, voice husky.

            “What if I don’t want to?”

            “Stop,” he says, more firmly.

            I jerk my hand back as though stung and look up at him, a little hurt. “Am I doing it wrong? Doesn’t it feel good?”

            “It feels—” He bites off the last word. He’s angry, but not with me, and throws his head back into the sofa. A long hiss escapes from him, like a balloon deflating. “It feels fucking amazing.”

            “Then why—”

            “Because I can’t!” he shouts. His sudden outburst makes me jump. Visibly restraining himself, he speaks in a voice that trembles with the effort of control, through clenched teeth. “Because… what you’re doing, it feels good, but I can’t—it’ll end in disappointment.”

            My hand still rests over his crotch, though the bulge there wilts quickly. “Feel fine to me.”

            “Impaired ejaculation,” he says. “It’s a thing. Started a few years ago, not long after I turned forty. I get hard. I just can’t finish. During sex, it—builds up. Feels great and then—something happens, like a switch being flipped in my brain, and—I go soft and that’s it.” He lifts his head from the back of the sofa and looks at me. “Sorry.”

            I look at him quizzically. “Why?”

            “I don’t know. It’s not physical, believe me, I’ve been to doctors. Tried all kinds of pills, the blue ones, others too. I work out, take vitamins. Apparently, it’s psychological. Work stress, possibly. Or depression.”

            “No, you idiot,” I say kindly, patting his groin. “Why are you sorry?”

            He frowns. “Because you want a man. A real man. An alpha, to take charge. And—pleasure you. You didn’t come over for cuddles. You said it yourself: you’re exploring, you want fantasy. You came over tonight to—”

            “Fuck,” I finish.

            He speaks through an ugly scowl. The self-loathing is evident. “Legs spread, on your back, pounded until you scream. Feet in air, cock buried balls deep in your cunt. On hands and knees, ass high and face down, moaning my name into a pillow.

            “You’re here for—fantasy—not—” he stutters— “not the pathetic reality of a middle-aged man with an erectile disfunction. You deserve—”

            “A good spanking?”

            He glares at me. “I’m being serious here.”
            “No,” I say. “You’re being a fucking idiot. Again.”

            Michael’s still got his hand inside my dress, and this time when he pinches me, it hurts, it’s unpleasant. I hiss and jerk back, clap my hand over his but he doesn’t let go. “Don’t call me that.”

            I glare at him, try to pry his hand loose but he doesn’t let go. “Then stop acting like one, sir. Is that all you are, a cock? Is that what makes you a man? For fuck’s sake, a few hours ago you had me seeing stars in that shower, you realise that? I actually blacked out. You ever cum so hard you black out? I could barely stand after you left, that’s how hard I came, I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard before. I had like, three, four orgasms? Little ones, and one great big, oh-my-God what’s-happening one. So don’t give me any of that alpha male bullshit, this woe-is-me pathetic divorced man crap. You’re fucking amazing. I don’t need your cock inside of me to moan your name into a pillow. Just your touch, and your voice, telling me what to do. The only way I’m leaving disappointed is if you keep those wonderful fingers of yours to yourself.” Now he lets go, releasing my breast from his angry hold. My nipple throbs, fat and hot.

            Leaning close, I whisper in his ear. “So, please sir, can you put your finger in my pussy?”

            When he does, I cry out at the intensity of his touch. Almost instantly, I’m wet again and when he stops, I wiggle and moan and nearly beg him to continue.

            “You’ve been naughty,” he says, eyes glinting. “Calling me an idiot. Talking over me, interrupting. Keeping me waiting for dinner.” He’s counting them off, those wonderful fingers ticking each infraction.

            “And swearing?” I say in a little voice, chewing my lip.

            “Yes, swearing.” He holds up his hand. “That’s five, then.”

            “Um, no sir. That’s only four, sir.”

            “Excuse me?” Mr Connor frowns. “Now it’s eight, girl.”

            When he puts me over his knee, I don’t struggle but wait in hot silence. He takes fastidious care in sliding my dress up over my waist. One of my tits pop free from its bodice, nipple engorged and pointing heavily towards the ground. He grunts approvingly at the sight of red panties, sparkling lace and mesh thong threading smooth, curved pale flesh, and the high waisted garter belt, satin straps framing my ass. When my hands instinctively drop to protect my cheeks, he tuts and grabs my wrists and roughly yanks them to one side. A moment later he’s taken the long satin sash from around my neck and tied my wrists together with it. I don’t fight him. I don’t want this, but I also don’t not want this. I’ve been naughty, goading him, talking too much.

            I’m a bad person, and I want him to make me feel good.

            With one heavy hand pressing down between my shoulder blades, he pins me to his lap. I lie there, feeling helpless. A shiver runs through me. My cheeks flame red with shame and anticipation. Two months ago, he spanked me over his desk. Somehow, being over his lap is even more humiliating—and arousing. His erection pushes into my thigh. His other hand rests against my ass. One finger draws up and down my crack, then he massages each cheek, kneads, warms my skin. A finger skims low, slides across my labia, penetrates me and I can’t believe how wet I am. When he draws the finger out, I hiss, and my hips twitch. I squeeze my eyes shut. His touch disappears from my bum. I feel his body tense as he raises his arm, the way he draws in a deep breath and holds it.

            My ass, my thighs clench in anticipation.

            And then his open palm slams down on my exposed ass. I squeal in shock and surprise and pain—because it hurts, really fucking hurts—he went easy before, but not this time. I kick my legs, try to wiggle away and he presses down hard on my back. “Stop!” he barks, and his voice cuts through me, it’s like my bowels run to water and my legs go weak. I go limp over his lap and lie there without moving as my ass burns from the first smack.

            “Count it out,” he orders.

            “Wa—one,” I whimper.

            “Louder.”
            “One!”

            And two, and three, each impact stronger and hotter and more painful then the last. The entirely of my body shudders with each blow. Mr Connor’s hand drives me deeply into his lap. Outrage and anger flare with the third blow. This isn’t a game, this is fucking abuse and this isn’t what I signed up for! I don’t want this. He’s taking his anger out on—me, his frustration and depression and everything else, on my poor ass—four!— but my anger melts into a deep, liquid sense of betrayal rooted in pain, and then the tears start, big heavy tears rolling down my cheeks in deep, foundation gouging, mascara-smearing rivulets, how could he hurt me like this? I thought he—and on the fifth I’ve got to reach deep to gasp out the number, snot and spit spraying with each sobbing breath. The burn in my backside, the humiliation is too much, I draw a deep, shuddering breath to beg him to stop, stop—the shadow of his hand rises over me—he draws back his arm—time slows to a crawl.

            I am outside myself, floating and see myself, see this pretty girl over a man’s lap. Her ass in the air. Overlapping handprints in fiery red pattern her flesh. A garter clasp has snapped free, the strap dangles loose. Black tears and red lipstick streak her face. Heavy earrings jounce and flash and so do her nails as she struggles, arms bound. Both tits have popped free of her dress now, squashed and jiggling rudely either side of his thighs. The right nipple remains swollen and inflamed. She is panting and—

            And she could escape this spanking, so easily. She could end this with a word, or by other means. If she wanted.

            But she doesn’t. She doesn’t want this to end. Each hit drives her deeper into his lap, forcing vulva back and forth across his thigh. Through the fog of distance and detachment, she feels the man’s hand, as it rests briefly against her flesh, massage, stroke the skin, and his finger disappears each time between her legs. He touches her, fleetingly. With each savage blow, an evanescent sensual caress. Pain and pleasure; guilt and outrage; and submission.

            Distance and detachment crumbles; an ecstatic heat blossoms.

            When his hand next lands, an incoherent noise I barely recognize as coming from my throat fills the room. Then, the final blow. There is an explosion behind my eyes, literal fireworks. Liquid luminosity lapping at my brain, a symphony of heat. I am filled, utterly. My body clenches, jerks in the throes of orgasm. His hand is thrust between my legs. Two fingers plunge deep into my cunt. My face is a tight rictus mask of ecstatic release. Arms strain, wrists twist within their bonds. Like ice, sharp and bright and frozen in time; I clamp down on those impaling digits and my whole body strains to breaking and… I melt, and just fucking dissolve into nothingness.

            Something profound shifts within me. The intensity of sexual release is beyond anything I’ve experienced. I want—no, need to feel it again. It’s too much and terrifying and yet I can’t bear the thought of never feeling that pleasure again. I’ll do anything to feel that level of bliss again. I’ll throw myself over his knee, beg, anything. This terrifies me, this vulnerability. The need, the want. Submission to another’s desires; to his desires, so utterly.

            But there’s more still, and something deeper I can’t yet recognize has dislodged and with it rises a terrible sadness.

            “Hey, hey, are you okay?” Crying like a hurt child, tears streak my face. He cradles me in his arms. I’m shaking. And no, I’m not okay, but I’m beyond words even as an echo of earlier passion resonates in my pussy, the pulsing aftermath of orgasm. I grab hold of him and bury my face in his neck. He holds me, smooths down my hair. He doesn’t know what’s going on. How could he? I don’t, either.

            Eventually, he gently pries me away. Dark grey eyes clouded with concern stare into me. “What’s wrong?” But I’m beyond words. My hands tremble as I raise them to cradle his face. Something terrible and wonderful rises in my throat and before I begin to bawl again, I pull him into a kiss. I whimper into his open mouth and my tongue dances with his. My hands coil and roam around his head, fingers threading through his hair, and hold him close. I kiss him as deeply and passionately as I ever have anyone, and a terrible ache rises in my chest and seizes my heart so fiercely I can barely breathe.

            Gradually, these intense emotions subside. I pull back. His lips and cheek are smeared with my makeup. I bite my lower lip and drop my eyes, suddenly deeply embarrassed. “Cindy,” he murmurs. Mr Connor cups my chin and gently raised my eyes to his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect—”

            I kiss him again and when we break, I laugh breathlessly. “Don’t.”

            He strokes my hair, touches my bare shoulder.

            I slide off his knee to the floor next to him.  I kneel in the deep carpeting and look up at him. Though less powerfully than before, I am still gripped by an intense—admiration—for this man, and a desire to please him. I want him to call me a good girl. I want to make him happy. I don’t even know if it’s possible, but I want him to feel as good as he made me feel. From my position at his feet, I fumble with his belt buckle.

            “You don’t have to—”

            I glare at him.

            “It won’t—”

            “I want to,” I pout. There’s a childishness to my voice, petulance even.

            Mr Connor sighs. He sits back, and with a wry smile and wave of his hand indicates, go on, if you must. With enthusiasm and intent, I go down on him. I lick and kiss and wrap my lips around the head and bob up and down along his length. I keep eye contact and make appreciative noises. My tits jiggle free. My hands roam across his flat stomach, curl into his thigh, my nails dig deep. I bring all the blowjob skills I’ve acquired these past months to bear on this man’s cock, everything I’ve practiced over the past few months.

            And—it’s not enough, my enthusiasm outstrips my skill. Jonas, Caleb and Tom, and a singular date a few weeks ago; that’s the full extent of my experience. A dozen blowjobs, give or take. I should feel deeply ashamed, to have even this minimal experience. Instead, I’m frustrated—irritated by my lack of experience. I want to make this man happy, and the shame I feel—an embarrassment that raises a hot red flush in my cheeks—isn’t at the fact that I’ve got a man’s cock between my lips, but rather that having it there, I fail to make him cum.

            His hard cock softens, wilts in my mouth.

            Looking up mournfully at him, I give the head a final little kiss. “I’m sorry.”

            He shakes his head, laughs. “Don’t be. That felt—wonderful.” He pats me on the head. “You really are a good girl, aren’t you?” he says, and a final tremor shudders through me.

            After he tucks himself away, he picks me up off the ground. I do a little to sort myself out, twisting my dress back into place, fixing the loose garter, shoving my tits back into their bodice. “It’s late,” he says.

            The clock behind him reads a few minutes past midnight. Reaching up on tiptoe, I kiss him on the nose. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

            He grins and then suddenly, scoops me up in his arms. I give a little squeal of delight and throw my arms around his neck. He staggers a little under my weight but quickly recovers. “Merry Christmas, Cindy.”

            Mr Connor carries me upstairs, to my room. Gently, he deposits me on the bed. For a moment, I feel—hurt, rejected—that he doesn’t bring me to his room. Then, I feel relieved. He sits next to me for a moment on the bed. He strokes my shoulder and passes his hand down my bare back and I lean in for a final caress.

            He holds me close and when he pulls away, again he’s the nervous boy. “I’ve never done this kind of thing, you know. Brought a girl home like this. But—I’m glad you came, Cindy, I really am.”

            I kiss him gently on the cheek. “Me too.”

            He rubs the back of his neck and grins. “If you need anything – um, I’m downstairs, okay?”

            After he leaves, exhaustion wells up. It’s tempting to just collapse into sleep, but no, a girl’s work is never done. I strip out of my dress and underwear and take out the earrings and carefully place them to one side. Then, I slip into the gift he gave me at the start of the night. The slip fits perfectly, as do the shorts, and both feel divinely cool and smooth against my skin. Tired as I am, I can’t help but take a moment to pose and check myself out in the mirror. Silk hugs my curves and drapes perfectly across my tits, my ass and skims the top of my thighs. Dark pink lace makes a gorgeous contrast to the shiny black body, highlighting the curves of my chest, skimming my upper thigh. I cross over to the bathroom and brush my teeth and wipe away the mess of the night’s makeup. I cleanse and moisturize. Then, I stare into the mirror at my unadorned face. There’s something going on behind those green eyes. I’ve changed in some way I don’t understand. After some time, with exhaustion nipping at my heels, I trudge back to the bedroom and collapse into the bed. The room is cool and silent, the bed is soft and warm, and the slip slides smoothly between the sheets. Sleep claims me almost immediately.

            Sleeping, I dream.

            It’s the same dream as always, the usual nightmare. Windowless little room and the rhythmic throb of distant music. Dirty yellow light and the radio in the corner. This time, rather than lying prone, Persephone sits at the edge of the bed. Her hair is long and black, as though the shadows of the room detached and wrapped themselves around her head. She rubs at her wrists. There are angry red welts there. At her feet, severed pieces of rope. But there is another rope still tied tightly around her naked ankles, binding her to the bed. Persephone looks down at herself and then up at me. Deep disappointment is etched into her face.

            “He’s coming,” she says. “Do something.”

            But I can’t. I’m equally bound. As in waking life, I’m also a girl in the dream. Standing, my arms are tied behind my back and a strong rope bind those bonds with those around my ankles. The taut ropes pull my shoulders back and my chest thrusts forward and pain burns along my back. I’m wearing the schoolgirl outfit this time, the skirt barely clearing my crotch. I struggle and strain. Heavy footsteps approach from behind the door. My tits bounce and I try to break free but it’s no use, I’m not strong enough, I’ve never been strong enough.

            Disdainfully, Persephone turns away from me and lies down on the bed. With a violent crash, the door bursts open. A hulking figure with burning eyes lunges out of the darkness and—

            I jerk away, gasping, hand at my throat.

            “No,” I whimper. And then again, “no.”

             Arms wrapped tightly around my chest, I flee the room and walk downstairs. The house is silent and dark and bright moonlight shining off the fallen snow casts deep shadows lengthwise across the front room. I stop and stand there and stare out into the night. My heart still pounds in my chest and the air feels cool against my face. I am damp with sweat. My fists clench and unclench at my side. A sob struggles with a scream in my throat. I swallow both down and focus on the soft spark of streetlights against snow and ice. The world outside glitters. I could slip into my shoes and walk out into the cold and simply disappear.

            Instead, I turn away. Walking softly, I creep to his room. His door is slightly ajar. Hesitating only briefly, I nudge the door open. His bulk is a shadow across one half of the bed. He sleeps on his side, his breathing low and steady. I slip into his room and then into his bed. His bed is large and soft and his presence a warm comfort. There is a rumble from deep in his throat, a muffled question as he rolls towards me. I surrender myself to his arms. He holds me close. I feel safe. And this time, when I sleep, I do not dream.

***

A note on inconsistencies: You may have noticed an inconsistency - Mr Connor speaks of his erectile defunction as though nothing happened between them at the Halloween party. I'm aware of this and it's something I'll have to go back and fix in the final edit/revision.