Book Smart

I want to see you unadorned. You are not special. Not until I make it so.

“She was waiting for more than permission, since she already had permission. She was waiting for an order.”
― Pauline Réage, Story of O

We sit opposite each other in the small cafe. It’s a Tuesday and it’s cold, the bite of winter still sharp, my lips a little chapped, face flushed from the wind as I shuffle into the booth and remove my hat and gloves. He is watching me with amusement, my flustered twittering about, not able to look directly at him. Broad shoulders, defined forearms, strong jaw line. A little clenched, maybe he is a little nervous too, chewing on the end of tooth pick. Watching me

You’re bang on time

I like to be prompt

I had in fact been early, nervously smoking a cigarette around the corner, eye on my phone, watching the seconds tick over, trying to calm my nerves. First dates are nerve wracking. First dates when you’re vetting a Dom border on panic, especially when you’ve never done it before, even if you’ve read all of the books. I am book smart, clever. My PhD about to be completed. I spend so much time in my head. I know this.

But in this arena, I am green, naive. And it shows. My fingers struggling with my coat buttons, the heat rising to my throat. He watches, toying with the tooth pick between his teeth, his eyebrows raised a little, calm. Watching me.

I finally manage to unhook my arms from my coat, my breath high in my chest, I swallow in a bid to regain some composure as he pours me some water and signals the waitress.

Coffee?

I nod, Oat milk, no sugar please

He nods back.

Now breathe. I don’t bite

I hiccup a laugh, mortifying, but his face softens a little. The coffee arrives and warms my hands. The rain on the window a calming white noise. I spend most of the rest of the hour rearranging the salt and pepper shakers and shredding a discarded sugar packet. Tiny white confetti pile up between us as we trade questions, and my heart rate returns to normal.

He is easy to talk to, easy to look at when I muster the courage to make eye contact, and his hands make my cunt ache. Wide palms, weathered. The ghost line of a ring, but I am aware of that from our conversations on text. Clean nails, short. Not bitten. I try not to imagine them unbuttoning my coat. Grazing my neckline, his thumb on my bottom lip. I flush pink again and look away.

I think I can see what you need, and I may be able to answer the question you are looking for.

I nod. I have been honest. Open about what I what. Without having the words yet, to articulate it properly, but he seems to read my subtext. My body language, as he scoops up the small pile of white flakes from between us and resets the pepper mill in its position. The salt beside it.

He pays the bill and we leave. The next time I will see him will be in a hotel room, at 10am on a Tuesday.

He will make the arrangements. He is after all, the more experienced party. A primary partner at home that he sees most of the month, aside from the week he has in London. She knows he is serviced outside of her bedroom. That he has tastes she doesn’t share. The week is a salve for them both, a commitment that keeps their marriage viable. He has explained this. There will be no relationship. Just a Tuesday. At 10am. When he calls me.

I know this feeling too. The need to have a life that is apart. A secret place that one can step into where nothing from the mundane hum drum reality of our day to day can seep through. A garden with a key, a book you can open- lose yourself in - and then close. Where I am someone else. He doesn’t know my real name. I don’t intend on sharing it either, my chosen façade easier to slip into. He will choose a new one.

Emily

I nod. That will do. And he is Master.

Our first morning together, I stand in the middle of the hotel room. He sits in the chair facing the bed and tells me to strip. It’s cold and the air in the room has yet to adjust. The hair on my skin stands on end and I shiver as I untie the ribbon from my hair and unzip my dress. It slips to the floor unceremoniously, I can hear the traffic outside and the cleaners in the hallway. I steal a look at the door, panicking thinking they may come in at any time and find me here, in my underwear standing in front of a man who remains fully clothed.

No one will disturb us, Emily.

He stands and circles me slowly, Running his fingers under the seam of my bra, the waistband of my knickers. This will be the first time he touches me. He specifically asked for no frills, basic day to day attire.

I want to see you unadorned. You are not special. Not until I make it so.

My breath is shallow and quick, the anticipation making me wet, my underwear already soaked through. I whine a little as his fingers graze over my nipples, snapping the elastic of my bra before sitting back down.

Make yourself cum Emily.

Yes Master

I stutter the unfamiliar words and slip my fingers between my legs, already slick and slippery, I gasp as I find my clit swollen and hard. The shame floods my body, being on display like this. For a man I do not know. Who has not even kissed me. But my touch feels electric under his gaze. I drop to my knees as I slip two fingers inside my cunt, biting my lip, trying not to moan too loudly. This man who I do not know, watches my hips buck, and my face contort. I lean forward to balance myself, almost on all fours but for my right hand’s fingers inside me, pulsing. I moan as the heat builds, and rhythm of my fingers increases, the wet noise my cunt makes as it swells around my fingers is the only sound in the room, but for his breathing and mine

He stands and unhooks my bra, so it slips to my wrists and pulls my underwear down to my ankles.

Don’t stop. And don’t look at me. Needy slut. Trying to fuck yourself on your hands and knees. What a pathetic little whore you are

My pelvis dips and curves as I curl my fingers inside myself, reaching and keening for more, his eyes never wavering.

Please... I need...

Ah. No.

He pulls my underwear from my ankles and pushes the wet mess of cotton into my mouth. His hands move to his zip, the buckle of his belt, my cunt clenching, and my vision blurring, his cock straining against his underwear, before being released inches from my face, a drop of precum slick on the tip. He strokes the length of it, his hands tight around the girth, quicker now as his breath changes and I whimper, the coil of heat that’s wracked through my body threatening to explode

He holds my head still with his free hand, my eyes still averted from his face, my fingers, now three knuckle deep inside me, wet almost to my wrist, I strain against the resistance it offers and feel the pulse, the first wave crests over me, tears pricking my eyes. Just as my orgasm seers through me I feel his hot cum splash on my face, he holds me still as another jolt spills across my mouth, pushed wide with my own ruined underwear. I can feel it drip down my chin, the rough hotel carpet splattered with it. His hand wet against the tip of his cock. A low growl escaping his throat, another burst hits between my tits

Now get dressed. We’re done for today.

I sit up. Spit my underwear into my hands, my jaw aching. Use them to wipe his seed from my cheeks, my collarbone. I step back into my dress, re-adjust my bra. He zips me up as my hands are shaking too much. I find my ankle boots. My keys. He calls me a cab and I leave, my underwear balled into the bottom my handbag.

At home, under the shower as I wash his cum from my hair and rinse the sticky residue of my own arousal from between my legs, the noise from the streets outside seems to subside. The memory of his hands on my skin, that brief touch, lulling me into a dreamless sleep.

This is how it goes. For weeks.

Hotel rooms, sometimes the same ones, where I would try to see if I could see stains from our previous sessions, sometimes new neighbourhoods in London, but it didn’t matter. My view remained fixed on his shoes, the dust under hotel beds, the carpets, the tip of his cock, dripping. Occasionally he binds my hands with my bra. My face now rubbed against the floor too, denying me my release and his cum would hit my back in long white streaks. I’d get home, my clit throbbing, my need feral - and he’d make me record myself. Filthy voice notes of my desire, my shame. My orgasms in audio files winging their way to him

Filthy slut. He’d text back. And I’d make myself cum again, thinking about him listening to my whimpering, moaning, grunting his title. Master... please... oh fuck. Hoping he needed it as much I did. Knowing he didn’t. Still needing him more

The world spins along. Spring comes to the city. We continue our sessions. My knees are red raw. I wear tights whatever the weather.

I complete my dissertation. My hands do not shake when I defend it. My voice is clear and calm. The rhythm of my speech has taken on a new cadence, the low level buzz of anxiety now a very distant hum.

When we meet again, I ask him for more. I stand in front of him before he asks me to strip. The light outside rendering him a silhouette in the chair. I have found the words now, I tell him. I know what it is I desire.

And then we are done, Emily

He smiles then, carefully adjusting my collar. His fingers on my collarbone, briefly against my cheek. He leans in and kisses me then. His lips are warm and my mouth opens as the rest of my body has, to be subjugated, and realigned. I reach for the buttons of his shirt, and he stops me.

We are done, Emily.

I smile then too, now realizing the shift between us.

My name is Sarah.

He nods. Thank you for that.

The sun is high when I leave the hotel. The promise of a long summer evening ahead. The world open and free

“She could not help thinking that the expression “open oneself to someone,” which meant to give oneself, for her had only one meaning, a literal, physical, and in fact absolute meaning, for she was in fact opening every part of her body which was capable of being opened. It also seemed to her that this was her raison d’être”
― Pauline Réage, Story of O