A Brief Encounterbyjon.hayworth©
I was drinking a coffee in the college refectory after delivering my first of a series of talks and workshops on the art of writing erotica, when I felt rather than saw, her looking at me.
I looked across to where she was two tables away, sitting with a group of other women, all aspiring writers I surmised, but she was not a part of the group - I was the sole focus of her interest.
She was a brunette, a bit flat chested, but most certainly attractive – and a wide generous mouth of the sort I always find sexy. I did not have any other lectures that day.
I returned her frank stare - holding eye contact with her. Her lips parted, her tongue sensuously flickered across them. I got to my feet and picked up my bag. Signalling her with the slightest inclination of my head, a wink and a movement of my eyes in the direction of the door. Without waiting for her to acknowledge my summons, I strode out of the refectory. In the lobby I stopped by a notice board turned and watched the doors, seconds later she came through them.
"My room is probably better than yours," I placed an arm around her and led the way to the accommodation block where the Summer School tutors and lecturers had been allocated rooms.
As we walked she told me that her name was Ginnie. To this piece of information I quipped, “I hope you're not!” and she dutifully laughed.
I closed the door behind us and adopting the direct approach asked, “have you read any of my books?”
“What do you know about BDSM?”
I knew she was hooked when she looked me in the eye and without hesitation replied, “I have never tried it if that is what you mean.”
“Are you willing to experiment?”
“Yes I'll try anything, but what happens if I don't like it?”
“You say we stop and that is the end. To be absolutely frank with you Ginnie straight sex, what is sometimes called Vanilla does no more for me than a wank.”
“Are you always so direct?”
I grinned, “do you always make, 'take me eyes' at strange men?”
“Touché,” she laughed. “So what happens now? Are you going to paddle my backside or flog me with a whip or something like that?”
“No I am not. Pain can be and often is part of a BDSM scene, but for me it is only a part of the whole. The essential thing is submission and trust. You submit to my will and trust that I would not do to you or order you to do anything that was really dangerous.” I paused, getting started is sometimes a problem and so it was now. “Ginnie hold the hem of your skirt and lift it above your head so you expose yourself to me.”
Nice legs, trim flat stomach – no Venus but then I am no Adonis I thought as I glanced at her pantyhose and panties. “Lower your skirt.” She had a nice face when she smiled and that big mouth was begging to be filled. “OK now I want you to go to your room, take off the pantyhose and your panties – when you return only wear a garter belt and stockings. No panties, I want you naked under your skirt.”
“Are you serious?” I saw the doubt in her eyes.
“Ginnie this is lesson one, I would not instruct you to do something if I did not mean it. Now go and do as you have been told.”
Once Ginnie had gone out of the door I began to prepare the room. I took out the toys from the metal photographers case I always kept them in. I washed and disinfected the two vibrators and the butt plug, although at this stage I did not know if I would use them. On the bed I laid the Cat-o'-Nine-Tails, a paddle and the school cane – next to them I placed the handcuffs and the spreader bar. I set up my tape recorder.
I looked at my watch - she had been gone about five minutes. If she came back, she would do whatever I asked her to do, within reason, and if she did not come back I had expended very little time or energy.
From Ginnie's Journal Like many others I had some misgivings when I arrived at the summer school and saw on the time table a slot entitled, The Art of writing erotica. Was this some sort of a rip-off, maybe porn writers are cheap to employ? I knew very little about real erotica, the hottest novels I had read were Jacky Collins and Jilly Cooper – the genre that in the eighties were called “Bonkbusters”.
When Don Aretino stepped up to the lectern, he looked like an ordinary man, I don't know what I expected a writer of erotica to look like, but it was not ordinary.
He used a scanning look that seemed in turn to make eye contact with everyone in the room. “Why write about sex?” he asked, “Answer because I know about it, because I do it, because I am lazy and can do all my research in bed,” this comment got the ice-breaking laughter he had wanted. “And finally I enjoy sex - therefore I enjoy my research. Oh I should have said anyone who is embarrassed by talking about sex, anyone who does not enjoy sex, anyone who cannot spell cock or cunt may if they wish be excused from this module of lectures and workshops.”
No one stirred – not even the people who earlier had been threatening to boycott his lectures. Personally I was enthralled, he used “Rude Words” so unconsciously that they slipped off his tongue as if they were a natural part of his vocabulary – which I suppose they were.
Something attracted me to him as if I was an iron filing and he was a magnet. Maybe it was his arrogant honesty. After delivering his talk he set up a flip chart and began a workshop on constructing a story line for an erotic story. Pages of the flip chart were covered with Mind Maps. When it was time to end the session he closed the flip chart, “I hope you have made notes, because I shall be using these ideas in future stories. Now there is a lesson for all you aspiring writers – never let an opportunity slip through your fingers.”
In the refectory, when we communicated wordlessly, I knew we were right for each other. I was even more certain in his room. No one has ever told me to stand and lift my dress, yet when he commanded me, I did it. Showing myself like that I felt deliciously naughty – it was an almost childish pleasure. The one thing I did feel was guilt, and the one person I did not want to think about was Tim, for a few weeks during this summer school I was free and I intended to enjoy that freedom.
In my room I put some more make-up on before peeling off the pantyhose and my panties – how did he know I possessed a garter belt and stockings?
Walking along the corridors of the accommodation block, on my way back to his room, I was intensely aware of my nakedness. O.K. It was imagination, but I was sure everyone I passed could see that beneath my skirt I wore nothing but a garter belt and a pair of seamed stockings. I could feel their eyes, feel their heads turning looking after me, seeing my naked butt through my skirt.
As I took each step I knew that I should stop, turn around, return to my room, and put my panties back on. Then pack my bags and drive home away from this temptation away from the act of betrayal I was going to commit – but as if I was possessed by some unseen power I was drawn along that corridor back to him.
What would he do to me? My imagination ran wild inventing and reinventing different scenarios with every step I took. Was I to be striped and whipped? Would he tie me up? This took my thoughts down another mental alleyway – would he use rope or handcuffs? Constantly one possibility triggered a thought process that conjured another separate yet linked range of possibilities. The mental maps I constructed in my head as I returned to his room would have filled acres of paper, if only I could have transcribed them – I would learn later, he would have said I should have found some way to do that.
In some way he had already transformed me. It was as if when he made me lift my skirt and reveal myself he had stripped away my good self, and unlocked some other aspect of me.
This side of me was not totally unknown, I had often enjoyed the danger of flirting with men, but until today I had never stepped across the line. Why had I gone with him to his room? - I was not that naïve, I had known going with him would lead to sex. From his earthy lecture and workshop I had known that for him sex was not solely confined to loving relationships.
This thought drew back the veils from a forgotten period of my own life. Before meeting Tim, in my first two years at university I had enjoyed the freedom the pill had given women. Sex had been a fun thing and I had participated enthusiastically.
Go back now before it is too late, a voice I thought was my conscience urged me as I stood outside his door.
A single word greeted my knock, “Enter.”
Opening the door I entered the semi darkened room. Standing with his arms folded in the middle of the room, dressed in leather jeans and stripped to the waist he cut an imposing figure. I did his bidding when he said, “close the door.”
“Remove all your clothes except for your garter belt and stockings.”
I should have anticipated that he would strip me by giving me imperious commands, but I had not. For a moment I hesitated – trying to comprehend what was going on – I had just arrived at the conclusion that he was testing me when he reacted to my not obeying him. “Ginnie when I give an order I expect you to obey immediately. Your disobedience will be punished.” As he spoke I dropped my skirt onto the floor and began to undo the buttons of my top.
He sat down on the bed, “over my knee.”
This might be fun, I thought, knowing that my bottom was going to be smacked – something that had not happened since I was very young. I draped myself across his knees. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine ... Forty-four,” I corrected myself – he might have looked at my file.
“Thirty-nine from forty-four is five, double that is ten, that is how many smacks you will receive, five for being slow and five for thinking of lying about your age, the sin of vanity and you know your lord does not like that.”
I had no time to think about the underhand jibe before his hand landed on my left buttock. I gasped – not because it was particularly painful – more because it happened without warning. “One,” I said when he instructed me to keep count.
“Two,” I counted when the second slap warmed my right buttock.
“Three,” I tried to quell the excitement in my abdomen.
“Four,” I parted my legs as hot sticky fluids welled up and over flowed from me.
“Five!” I yelped in a mixture of pleasure pain and shock, his target had been between my parted legs and my swollen vulva stung.
“Control yourself do not allow yourself to cum unless I tell you that you may do so. For unauthorized cumming we will start from one again. Is that understood?”
“Yes but I don't know if I can control myself – if you do things to me that will give me an orgasm.”
“You can control your orgasms if you use self control, and if you do not you will have a very sore butt!”
The next ten minutes turned into a battle of wills, I counted and fought against my body's desire to orgasm. Fighting against his fingers trailing sensuously in my crack as he slapped teased and tormented me trying to make my body disobey his command.
With the tenth smack counted, he released the hand that pressed into the small of my back holding me over his knees – and in my naivety I thought I had won. I had forgotten he wrote the rules – I began to get up. I knew that I had made a mistake when he said, “Did I tell you to get up?”
I lay back across his knees. “No you like that too much. Kneel on the floor in the middle of the room – you must know how to kneel properly.”
Instinctively I knew he wanted me to kneel straight-backed. He walked around me, looking critically at my posture. “Very good for a beginner, I guess you get lots of practice,” he said gently nudging my knees apart with his booted foot.
His erect cock sprang out at me when he unzipped his jeans, “open your mouth.”
An unnecessary instruction as my lips were opening to accept his cock. I was curling my tongue about to stimulate his bell-end when he grabbed my head and thrust his cock into my mouth. Instinctively my throat gagged trying to eject the intruder. But his grip was more powerful forcing me to swallow and accept what he was doing.
The stiff leather of his jeans and the brass teeth of the zip abraded against my face as he rammed his cock into my mouth, driving the bell-end into my throat. If I had not swallowed I would have choked. I have never been raped, but at that moment I felt as though I was being raped.
I was like a rag doll in his hands, a toy for him to use. I knew my mouth was no more than a receptacle for his cock. I was there for him to use, for his pleasure. I had no control over what was happening to me – I was afraid I could choke to death – and it seemed to be going on for ever and a day. Paradoxically I was also aware that this sense of danger made it the most exciting sex I had ever known.
Feeling his cock swell I guessed he was nearing the end – I was more certain when I felt the pressure of his grasp on the sides of my head increase. I was thinking what does he expect me to do when he cums? Should I swallow? I was still thinking when he solved the problem.
Without warning he jerked my head back away from his cock. His semen hot and sticky jetted from his cock in a series of gobbets that landed hot and sticky on my face and stung as it splashed into my eyes. Stringy ropes bound us together. He pushed himself into my mouth – I licked and sucked, polishing his glans with my tongue when he said, “lick me clean.”
My face was stiff beneath the mask of rapidly drying semen. He pulled his cock out of my mouth. I knew I should feel dirty and used, that I should be angry with him. I cringed when he said, “now you are my cum slut. Tell me what you are.”
I was fast getting the rules I had to play by, I did not want to be put over his knee again. “I am your cum slut,” I replied dutifully. As I said the words I felt a warm sense of belonging and realised I was happy to call myself, his slut. If he had told me to crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass, I would have done it for him.
He held a mirror in front of my face, then he said, "you can see what a cum slut looks like." I barely recognized the face – at the front my hair was matted stuck with spunk - my eyes were red - my mascara had run, the black smudges on my cheeks looking like clown's tears. I should have felt embarrassed or guilty or both, but I did not. I only hoped that this was not all over.
“I want you to stay looking like that,” he said when I lifted my hand towards my face.
“Stand up.” He pushed his hand between my legs, his fingers parting my labia began to explore the sensitive slot. His finger pressed not too hard yet firmly against my aroused nubbin as the heel of his palm kneaded my mound. “You're very hairy, I want to shave you.”
Shave my bits! The idea had never even entered my mind – oh I was not that innocent, I mean I had read about shaving and Brazilians and so on in Cosmo' but the idea of doing it myself had never entered my mind. “Okay,” I heard myself saying.
Two minutes later I was sitting on the edge of the bath as he trimmed away a lifetimes growth with a pair of nail scissors. The cool shaving foam felt so sensual that I came before either of us realized what was happening – he tried to act angry but I could see the laughter in his eyes. The razor glided over my abdomen in different directions until my belly and the mound over my pubic bone were as smooth as a billiard ball. I stood up while he shaved my nether lips – a far more fraught experience. No matter that he asked me to trust him, and how often he promised he would not cut me, I was unable to stay relaxed as the blade moved within millimetres of my clitoris.
When I went home I would have to use my creative imagination to explain why I had been tonsured!
He stood up and told me to wash away the soap, reminding me that I was not to clean my face. I stepped into the shower stall, unhooked the spray head to ensure I did not wash any of the dry goo from my face. I had never been so aware of the eroticism of warm water spraying onto my vulva. I could feel my labia swelling as the blood flowed into them. My finger felt the hardness of my clitoris – touching myself was not something I usually did, but at this moment I was fascinated by my state of arousal.
The shower curtain rustled as it slid back. “Cum slut stop fingering yourself.” This instruction was punctuated by a flip with the towel that made my buttocks glow. The heat in my slapped backside was mirrored by the glow in my abdomen, my legs parted as I came at the touch of the towel.
“Out of here!” he growled.
Like a whipped puppy I followed him back into his room. The cool air on my depilated mound made me acutely aware of my nakedness. Instinctively my hand moved to cover myself, he reacted to this by saying, “turn your back to me, stand still, put your feet two feet apart.” I did as he commanded. I felt his breath on my neck as he blindfolded me. “Now bend over and grasp your ankles.”
As I bent over I felt my buttocks parting and knew that I was totally exposed to him and that he would be able to see my distended nether lips and my anus. I was certain that my entire body was flushed beneath his unrelenting gaze. He did not move a muscle, nor say a word.
In the silence time seemed to stand still. I did not even know if he was in the room or not – had he crept out leaving me a statue in an obscene pose decorating the centre of his room? Was this some cruel joke? Now he had established his mastery over me, had he left me to be found by someone?
His chuckle sounded like a fast running brook, he realized that I had held my breath in an attempt to hear his breathing. “Did you think I would leave you?”
“I ... didn't know,” I replied hesitantly, “it was so quiet and I feel as if I have been here in this position for an eternity.”
“I was admiring the view – did you know the lips of your pussy are puce when you are aroused.”
“I have never looked at myself when I am aroused.”
“How old are you? Forty-four! And you have never watched yourself? I think it is about time you started noticing things – the art of being a good writer is to observe.” It was some relief when I heard him say, “stand up, remove your blindfold and come over here.”
The light hurt my eyes, blinking I waited a few moments after I had removed the blindfold, before I moved over to the bed.
I lay on the bed as he instructed, with my knees bent and my legs wide apart. He placed a mirror at the foot of the bed and adjusted it until I could see my vulva. I had heard about vibrators. I had seen pictures of them. I had even considered buying one, but doing so had been a problem – I had to consider Tim. I had never handled a vibrator until he handed me this buzzing pliable cylinder. “Pleasure yourself and watch at the same time.”
Handling it with caution – as if I was afraid it would bite, I touched the vibrating tip against my clitoris. A tingle coursed along my spine. I touched the tip to my clitoris again and once again felt that delightful stream of electricity flow through my body. My erect nipples were tingling in sympathy. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of my vagina appearing to open of its own accord as if lewdly inviting the vibrator to enter it – not wanting to see any more I turned my head. But my curiosity was too strong an impulse to suppress - I looked once more. In the mirror I saw myself on the bed, but in a pose I had thought was reserved for sluts and whores in pornographic films, not that I had ever actually seen a porn film.
Unable to resist the demands of my body I inserted the vibrator just into the entrance to my pussy – an action that instantly caused my abdomen to convulse as it squeezed out yet another orgasm.