Accredited Sadist

Have you had trouble finding stories about sadomasochism, or any type of BDSM that isn't dom/sub? Or an SM story that is both non-abusive and in the real world? You may enjoy this one.

Richie and Rachel have appeared in several of my other stories, set both before and after this, so at some point they must have met for the first time...

Submitted as part of the Pink Orchid 2024 for Women-Centric Erotica Challenge collection, for sex positivity and women as the subjects of their own lives.

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Accredited Sadist

Another Wednesday afternoon; another outside speaker giving us a lecture. Graduate students like me were 'strongly encouraged' to attend.

This guy -- Richard, according to our host -- hadn't bothered with the ironed shirt and slacks most externals went for. His well-worn Doc Marten boots accompanied faded black jeans, grey T-shirt, and long reddish-gold hair tied in a low pigtail. He was English, so he'd at least be somewhat comprehensible, unlike the Spanish guy from last week. I'm not sure that poor chap had had any audience by the end.

Richard's intro was typical. He listed his current lab colleagues. He'd done his PhD at Columbia, was working as a postdoc at Cold Spring Harbor, and was now revisiting England to make contacts, in the hope of gaining a position in a years' time. He liked New York, but after his current contract, he wanted to settle back in the UK.

His next slide, a whistle-stop biography, included his preferred name. His undergrad had been at Cambridge, apparently. The combination triggered connections in my brain.

Laura, my friend and mentor, had attended the same Cambridge college. She must be a similar age.

I leaned forward and surreptitiously texted her. 'Is "Richie Pardoe" your old mate Richie?' She'd shared several anecdotes about her friend, usually where she called him a 'right bastard'.

Her instant response read, 'Yes. Why?'

'He's lecturing us this minute.' He was explaining his field, speaking to the clock above the door, as so many speakers did.

'Hope he's not sounding too arrogant. It's his only tone of voice.' She sent another message: 'You could impress him. Ask how he's controlled for his cells being a mixed population. He's dead proud of that. Whatever it means!'

Twenty minutes later, that sentence made sense. I'd have wondered, even without the prompt. So at the end, I asked him the question. He seemed genuinely delighted someone had paid attention, and to have the chance to show off more of his work. The senior staff around, some who'd clearly disapproved of his attire, not to mention his multiple ear piercings, began to look more impressed.

Laura said Richie only meant to be rude to people about half the time. Just that he had 'the tact and social skills of your average brick'.

I got another text. 'Tell him you know me. And exactly how, if you like.'

She sent a follow-up: 'He's totally trustworthy, if you wanted to play with him.'

She meant BDSM. Laura and him used to do kinky stuff together, until he moved to America. Perhaps, occasionally, since? She'd advised me, also about five years ago now, on how to find safe kinksters to experiment with. I'd been young and inexperienced, then.

I tended to avoid men, certainly for kink. Entitled bastards, even if they weren't the fuckers rife at clubs, who just wanted to abuse a woman. But, given a recommendation...

It had been a while. I wouldn't rule it out.

I found him in the bar, after. I asked more questions about his cell cultures, because that's my thing. He seemed perfectly happy to chat to me about work, not just to the great and the good that he'd come here to schmooze. Blunt, but focused. I liked that. There was a lull, as one guy left. "What's your name?" Richie finally asked.

"Rachel Walker." I wondered what Laura might have told him about me. I'd lost my sapphic virginity to her, after all. "I'm a friend of your mate, Laura Silsden."

He blinked, failing to keep his pale angular face impassive. The guy hadn't smiled at the people he'd wanted to impress, nor exposed many other facial expressions, but that got a reaction! He took out a business card, scrawled on the back. "Test that."

I messaged the phone number. It went through. He nodded. "I'll call you, later."

The hotshots and the lab head who'd invited him wanted to take over the conversation, so I toddled off. Back to my lab, to finish my prep for tomorrow's experiment.

I was startled when my phone rang. It hadn't been an hour.

"Hi. Richie. I've had enough here. I'm going down the Royal Fusilier for a quiet pint. Want to join me?"

"I've got about twenty more minutes to do, here."

"That's fine. See ya."

I had to warn him about the flat-roofed pub by the station. "Are you sure you want to go to the Fusilier? It's not very friendly to anyone with long hair. Or an IQ above room temperature, actually."

"Exactly. Quiet. No scientists. I've been on my best behaviour for them, all bloody day! I'll be fine. What do you drink?"

"Half a cider," I replied, automatically.

"In a bit, then." He hung up.

I decided I'd better wander down to the pub, to double-check he'd not been beaten up.

It was a pleasant surprise to see a dozen no-necked clientele at the far end of the room, while Richie propped up the bar, sitting with a view of the entrance. Reading a couple journal reprints, of all things. Probably the only literature, other than the Sun or the Daily Sport, that'd ever been in the place.

The barman looked confused, then glanced at Richie, who nodded. A glass of cider was pushed towards him. I was glad of my walking boots and leather jacket; between me and Richie, we managed to exude vibes of 'just ignore us and no-one'll get hurt.'

"Ah, peace! Cheers," Richie went, clinking my glass. "I mean, I love science, like, but one needs a break from all the people. Fucking swarms of them, with all their questions... Anyway. Laura says we have a hobby in common. Is that right?"

I spluttered. It was only my second mouthful! "As in, playing?" I checked, but no-one was within twelve feet of us.

"Yeah. Kinky shit. Laura said you got in with the SM Dykes. What are you into?"

"Me? A lot. You?" I wasn't admitting to my filthy habits first.

He gave a wee shrug. An even tinier sideways glance to confirm the barman was out of earshot. "Restraints, beating, spanking. Clamps, toys. Some dom/sub stuff, mainly plain top/bottom, me generally the top."

"Er, yeah. Me too, pretty much. More often the bottom, not necessarily submissive." I tried to sound as casual as he did.

He slurped his pint. "Huh. Interested? I assume Laura's given me a good reference." His impassive face changed to a grimace. "I'm staying at the Sleepylodge by the next station. A bit tacky, but I'm guessing you live in a shared house."

"I do. With thin walls."

I hadn't had sex for a couple months, a good beating not in a fair bit more. I didn't normally go for men, with all their cock obsession and male prerogative beliefs, but occasionally one seemed interesting...

"So. Want to come by?" Richie seemed to think he was God's gift to science, but came across as just factual, when talking of anything else.

"Yeah. You're on. That's about ten minutes walk from my house," I explained.

The locals suddenly noticed that someone with tits and a cunt had invaded their territory. A pair were approaching. "Come on, let's go." I prayed Richie would follow.

Richie nodded respectfully to the aggressive chavs, then waved to the barman, calmly calling out his thanks. They all stood still, puzzled, for just long enough for us to exit.

Outside, with definitely no-one listening, Richie shrugged. "I don't normally do high-speed negotiations, really. Honest! How about you pick up some toys, whatever you like, and come over when you're ready. Once you've eaten. And we'll chat. Maybe more? Hopefully more."

"That works. Laura says you're totally trustworthy."

He smiled. Given his serious face all afternoon, it was nice to see he could. "Good. I try. Though you should be aware, I'm not a murderer or torturer or rapist: she's right. But I am a complete bastard."

I exhaled. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?" I liked this straightforward discussion.

"Ah. Yes." That smile widened.

I let him get the train. I went home, knocked back some leftovers, and chucked some favourite toys in a bag. An hour after we separated, I stood in the chipped-melamine Sleepylodge foyer, phoning the newest number in my Contacts.

"I can't open the security door to let you in, not unless he comes down," said the jobsworth on the reception desk, again.

Richie heard. "Arse. Like this place isn't aimed at the sex-work job market!" An exaggerated sigh. "One mo, I'll come down."

He'd showered. I could tell, because his long hair was damp, brushed out and tied back with a velvet scrunchie. Also because he'd flung on his jeans and boots, but not bothered to replace his T-shirt.

The guy's bare torso wasn't exactly muscular, but the glistening water and a huge helping of don't-give-a-fuck made him oddly attractive as he stomped through the door. He glared at the receptionist, holding the door pointedly open for me to walk through.

I didn't expect Richie's first act, when we were alone in the hotel room together.

He put on a shirt.

I didn't object. Rolled-up sleeves are always sexy as hell.

His words, when he spoke, weren't as confident as when he'd talked about his science. "Right. OK. You want to put yourself at my mercy, yeah? Best have a little chat about that, eh? Hm?"

I sat down on the end of the bed, there being nowhere else. Sleepylodges bill themselves as no-frills and clean. They manage the first bit consistently. This one, amazingly, had mostly managed the second.

Richie sat next to me, looking straight ahead to the TV. "I can probably provide whatever you want. Need. You sound like you actually know what you're talking about. Not just 'tried a few slaps on the arse with a Woman's Weekly'?"

"Yeah." It was so freeing, being able to admit it. "I really like someone hurting me, in the right ways."

"Uh-huh. It's great fun doing it, to someone wanting it. Asking for it, anyhow. Those mixed feelings... Tell me, what do you really want? Don't worry, I'll just say no if I'm not into it. I'm unshockable." Another of those tiny personal smiles. "People have tried."

It was rare, not having to slowly ramp up my desires when talking to a new person, constantly looking to see if I'd scared them off yet. It was one reason why I still went to the SM Dykes parties, even though there was no-one else I wanted to go out with -- who wanted me, anyhow. They'd seen me play, what I could take. I didn't need to pretend to be nice.

So I spat it out. "I want... To be made to cry. From the impact, from the feelings? But not from someone just being shit."

"You want someone to hurt your body, not your feelings?"

"Yeah. And help me through it."

"How?" It was an open question, not sarcastic judgement.

I shrugged. "Tell me I'm doing well? Touch me." I knew my face was going red. Nothing to lose. "I like being fingered, touched, played with, while I'm being hurt."

"Mm-hm. You get turned on by the pain?" He was still looking in front of him, not at me.

"I don't know. Maybe? Some types of pain? Or, more like... it opens me up, so I can respond sexually to any pleasant feelings at the same time?" A careful, tentative conclusion. Worthy of a doctoral thesis Discussion section.

"So, both together is great? Sounds familiar! Huh. Cool." He gathered his thoughts. "What types of pain did you have in mind?"

"Um... spanking. Punching?"

"Whereabouts? That's quite important! I'm not punching you in the face."

"No! Um -- keep it to my backside, my arse, anything severe. Maybe a little on my thighs or back, not much."

"How horribly sensible of you. Anywhere else?"

I had some sense he was getting at something. "I don't know. What did you have in mind?"

He stood up. He really was quite tall. "What if you were grabbed, like this?" He clawed his hand into my hair, and twisted it. I was forced downwards, bent double.

It was humiliating, being bent over so easily, but the pull of a thousand hairs at once was fantastic. Like a scalp massage.

"You like hair-pulling, then?" he asked. Certainly he did.

"That's -- that's not hair-pulling. Pulling hair is just reaching and tugging," I told him.

I aimed for his pigtail, but he deflected my arm with a martial artist's skill. "Don't even think about it! Nah, I wouldn't do that to you. It's shit."

He seemed genuine enough. "OK. What else might you like to do?" I asked him.

"Ah, well now... Do you like scratches? Like, give me your arm." He drew his nails slowly up the inside of my forearm. I breathed out. "Uh-huh, looks like you do."

"Maybe. Again, not like," -- I slashed my clawed hand through the air.

"Again, no, because that's shit. Well..." His closed mouth repressed a smile.

"Well, what?"

It struck me I'd not seen the guy laugh before. It lit up his whole face. "Eh, it can be fun, like. Two people, frantically fucking, scratching wildly, like it's a fight." Must be a good memory. He composed himself again. "Just saying. But you didn't come here to fuck."

"Didn't I?" Men always used kink as foreplay.

"Oh. Ah. Sorry." He clawed his hand in his hair, awkwardly. "I mean, sure, if you want." He looked me up and down, as if he really hadn't considered the idea until that moment. This must be what Laura had meant when she'd told me the guy had terrible social skills, but that generally he didn't mean to be offensive -- and it was obvious when he did. "Yeah, could do that."

I laughed. "I'm not going to make you shag me! Seriously? You're up for satisfying me, giving me pleasure, and not getting anything out of it yourself?"

"Who said I wasn't getting anything out of it myself?" he retorted, confused. "Watching, listening, touching..." He came to lean his chin to my shoulder. "Smelling." He nuzzled the side of my neck. "Go on. Show me what you brought."

It was probably the easiest way to explain the sensations I got off from. I tipped my bag out on the bed, and awaited his comments.

"Nice flogger. Lots of suede strands. I bet that feels heavy, if they all land at once." Richie took the wooden handle, ran the falls through his elegant hand, then whacked them, overarm, onto a pillow. I jumped at the explosive sound.

The corner of his mouth curled up again. "You like it, like that?"

Honesty was the only way. "Once you've built up to it. A few minutes of spanking, some more gentle swings, getting harder..."

He nodded, subjecting the pillow to an idle figure-of-eight beating before dropping the flogger. "What else? Ah! Just like... never mind." He unbuckled my wide leather wrist cuffs. "Good quality. You've used them before, yeah? That's your comfortable hole?"

I confirmed, it was.

"Cool. Anything else in the bag?"

Silently, I passed it to him. It contained two items. I might possibly trust him not to be judgemental, just as Laura had promised, but it didn't mean I was up to describing my kinkiest sides out loud.

The pillow received another beating. From my riding crop, this time. Richie watched my reactions as he moved from a gentle tapping, through a larger swing, to a full swing. Yes, he'd enjoy using that on me. I swallowed.

Final item. I blushed. Some kinks aren't really acceptable, even in pervy company.

He held the red plastic butt plug up to the light. Why had I dropped that in at the last moment? I didn't know where to look.

"Nice. In that case, I've got something you might be interested in." Totally unfazed.

He showed me a similar shaped plug, with a cord and a control unit. It vibrated in his hand. "Obviously, I'd put a rubber over it. You don't know where it's been!"

I chuckled, more from the relief.

"OK, you do know where it's been!" For the first time, he seemed faintly embarrassed, which made me happier. "But it might add to your... pleasurable distraction. Yeah? Right. May I interest you in any of these?"

Somehow, in the back of his suitcase, he'd found room for a couple wooden spatulas, one rough, one smooth. A large bristly hairbrush, its back fake tortoiseshell. A pair of small pliers -- no; rubber covered the jaws.

"Not seen nipple clamps before? Or not good ones?" He fingered the black rubber-coated teeth. "It's the weight that gives them their effect -- you don't want to hurt the nipple itself."

"You don't?"

"Not like that. I had a nipple piercing for a while. Didn't like it, got rid."

"Right. And these?" Boxes of hypodermic needles. "Did you nick these from the lab?"

"No comment. Ever tried play piercing?"

"No. What do you pierce? I'm not sure..."

"Oh, nothing like nipples! Just nice, smooth skin. Breasts, ideally." He glanced at mine.

"And you what, shove a needle down in?"

"No! That would damage the alveolar tissue! No, you go horizontally, shallow as possible, just under the skin."

That didn't sound painful. "Like kids do with pins in their fingertips, to scare their mates?"

"Yeah! Exactly! Only more endorphins kick in, where it's more sensitive. Some people really get off from it." He shrugged. "Others don't."

I'd enjoyed scaring the boys in primary school with 'zombie hands'. "I'll give it a go. And those quality clamps, if you'll beat the crap out of me after."

"It's a deal." Some of his phrasing did sound American, though his calm unemotional voice was more English than most of the international staff here in London. "Take your top off." He reached round to unfasten my bra. "Nice tits. Give me your hand."

He efficiently buckled the wrist cuff round, then did the other hand. "And then we clip the two together. Nice. Now raise your arms." I lifted them above my head, starting to feel that erotic tingling which accompanied making myself vulnerable to anyone. "Cool. Comfy like that? Come on."

He showed me an odd object. A foot of tough black webbing. One end wrapped round a short fat metal bar, a V-shaped chrome loop on the other end. He tossed the bar over the bathroom door, near the hinge. The latch clicked when he closed the door. "There. And we clip your wrists to that loop..."

He stepped back, looking up and down my topless body with approval.

I could step to either side. Hell, if I fought enough, the door would break and I could escape. But for most purposes, I was tied to the spot, my raised arms helping push my tits out. I nodded my consent.

"Good stuff. Now, let's have fun."

He ran a finger down my cheek. Most men, and women for that matter, would have kissed me. Richie didn't. Or rather, he kissed my forehead, tasting it, then a few kisses down my neck, and onto my chest. Then he did that sneaky small grin again, reached for both my small red nipples, and pulled.

"Ah!" I hopped from foot to foot, the intense erotic sensation forcing me to move.

His close-lipped smile broadened. He twisted. I squirmed. He did it more.

"Ah! Too much!"

"Good to know." He pushed my breasts together, trying to create cleavage. Still not much of one; I'm not well endowed. Enough, though. He pushed the breasts apart, then mauled them. Kinda pleasant, then briefly unpleasant, then pleasant again. Unspectacular, either way. He nodded.

"Right, let's try some decoration." He came back to the hallway with the items he'd stolen from either our lab or his own. Latex gloves, large. A 100ml bottle labelled with masking tape: 100% ethanol. Swabs. And a variety of hypodermic needles, different coloured bases denoting different sizes. "You don't faint or anything when getting injections, do you? No latex allergy?"