Girl Lost, Girl Found

A November evening.

The train thunders through the dark. Heading for London. First class compartment, busy with suits and open notepads; L-shapes on tables littered with frothy Costa cups. Overnight bags with handles extended, jagged shapes in straight aisles. Opposite me a couple, comfortable in their own skin - skin as dry as parchment - their conversation running on tram tracks laid down by years of marriage. In the windows, black as your eyes, I see images of you. You bound. You spread. You in pain. You in pleasure. You licking the tab on a roll-up cigarette. Your arm on my knee. The flinch in your face when I yank your hair. Adorable you. Whoreable you.

I feel like I'm crossing a border. Caching you secretly in my memory where no customs man will ever find you. Like a Christian with a crucifix in a Muslim land, I sleep with the memory of you under my pillow.

There's a space on my shelf which wasn't there before.

*

Standing outside the pub, in the street, tucked under a lighted window, you sipping on a rollup. You look good. Mine has gone out again. I'm such an amateur smoker. The lighter flickers flames around your cupped hands as you relight me. Again.

'I've tried so hard to be gay,' you muse. 'But the truth is I'm straight. I love men.'

'You said men scare you.'

'Every girl is afraid of men.'

I tell you a position I fantasised about. Fucking your throat. A smile plays across your lips. The ragged tobacco strands glow red then die. The taxi pulls up and, with a fierce kiss and a tug of your black hair, you are gone.

There's a space on my shelf which wasn't there before.

*

It's a ridiculous name for a pub: The Old Monkey. An impoverished couple sit at the next table without speaking, stupefied by indifference. There's a man who looks like he's waiting. Another couple over there in another corner. I'm at the bar looking back at you. I think you look amazing. So pretty. So interesting.

There's no tabasco or Worcestershire sauce. What's the point of a Bloody Mary without spice? I order gin, for clarity.

There's a running joke we're sharing loudly enough to be overheard.

Raven Lord Sith stands over you, his vast cloak billowing in the Divine Winds which sweep in relentlessly from the Blue Mountains of Goran. He deploys The Voice, the one that makes you hungry and horny at the same time. Or that's the idea at any rate.

'On your knees, slut,' he commands.

You look up at him. You're rolling a cigarette. Deft fingers. 'No thanks,' you say, politely, like you're turning away a man selling teacloths in the street.

'Oh,' he says. Nonplussed. The Divine winds from the Blue Mountains of Goran don't seem to be blowing anymore. His eyes squirm and he suddenly looks awkward, like a little schoolboy caught wearing the headteacher's gown. 'What? Really?' he ventures, thinks about adding the slut word but it won't come out. You shake your head. More firmly this time.

Nobody is listening in. They're too stupefied by their ordinary lives. I shrug my shoulders and give you your gin. For clarity.

You look amazing.

*

Your fingers are clawing the leather of the sofa. I'm holding the leash and fucking you with the floppy, thick dildo. You've lost control of your breath and that's turning me on. Your legs are wide, so fucking wide.

'Do you want to come?' I say.

You're groaning. You do want to come. Your body is tense with it. It's beautiful. You want to come. Your fingers are clawing at the leather. I'm fucking you with the dildo. I'm being rough.

I should have made you beg more. I got lost in your pleasure and conceded too soon. I let you come. I won't make that mistake next time.

*

Everything physical about you turns me on. Your size: petite. Your shape: boyish, gamine. Your cute, punishable backside. The width of your thighs. The way your pants look tight and smooth over your sex. Your breasts like sea-washed flat pebbles. The pigmentation of your cunt. Your wide, vulnerable collared neck. The line of your collar bone, like the blades of ice skates. Your wide mouth and soft lips, which I painted with red wine. Like blood I explained. I wish, you said.

'When were you last fucked?' I asked.

'A couple of days ago,' you say, making a face. 'But it was boring. Some young boy, romantic, vanilla stuff.'

It's like you're explaining away a MacDonalds on the way home from work.

I smack your cunt, right on the clit. You groan and open wider.

I smack you again. Right on the cunt. I'm not vanilla but this is romantic. You won't be explaining me away like a MacDonalds. You groan and offer me your cunt again. I smack it. Right on the clit.

I should have made you beg more. I should have made you plead more. I got lost in your pleasure. I should have humiliated you more. I won't make that mistake next time.

*

You want to smoke.

'Can't we just lean out of the window?'

You're standing on the sofa and manoeuvring the blind. There's a double window thing which confuzzles you. An alarm goes off. You're still wearing a collar and that tight dress is yanked down and pulled up.

You're adorable. Whoreable.

*

You have eyes that hide nothing.

'Keep them open.' I order you. I'm inches away my face prying into yours. I'm angry with you. I want to see every sensation. Every sensation. But you keep closing your fucking eyes.

The clothes pegs on your nipples are hard to take - I know it. It's fucking beautiful. Your legs are spread and you're fucking yourself with that dildo. I want to hurt you.

'How close are you to breaking?'

There's dribble coming from around the ball gag.

You lift up your hand, the one that's not fucking yourself with the dildo. You make a sign with your fingers, a small gap that says you're close. I want to break you.

I take my belt to your thighs again. You keep closing your fucking legs. And your eyes. I won't allow that again. I got lost in your pleasure.

Open your fucking eyes, I say, and finally you do. I feel like I'm gazing into deep space, flickering with points of light and the forces of gravity.

You keep closing your fucking eyes, the clothes pegs on your nipples are too intense. I got lost in your pleasure. I won't allow that next time.

*

You're on your knees, your hands cuffed behind you, my cock swelling in your mouth. It's too conventional and you're not doing it well. Your mouth is warm and wet and obedient and it feels nice but you're not doing it well.

You look adorable. Whoreable.

I make you hold still, my cock pulsing. Then I fuck. You try. Things improve. You choke and apologise. We go again. Things improve.

I should have come in your mouth but it was too conventional. You didn't do well. You didn't earn it. You need to be trained and you don't get my come until you've earned it. I want to come in your mouth but there's a thing in my head which says you haven't earned it yet.

You look adorable on your knees with my swollen cock in your mouth.

*

You're cuffed to the vertical steel girder which supports the roof, your arms just long enough. Your nipples are pressed against the steel and you're moaning. I'm fingering and fucking your ass with one plug, then another. There's no safe word. Your cunt is bare and exposed, slick with the lube I've smeared on your penetrated ass. You're pushing back on me. You're wanton. You look fucking amazing.

I should have fucked you then, cock hard, rigid with ache. I should have fucked your gorgeous cunt, impaled you, a hot knife into soft butter. I should have held you there, penetrated until you broke. I should have fucked your ass.

But the belt wasn't done with you. It cut into your thighs. The flesh is perfect for bruising, satin smooth and caramel. You flicked your legs with the pain. Spread wider you slut and you're quickly back in the position. I should have fucked you then: cunt and ass. But the belt wasn't done with you.

Your back turns me on. The contours of it. I like the shape of your ass. You look beautiful in bondage. We should have taken pictures. You look amazing.

I tell you but compliments don't penetrate you the way pain does. I should have fucked you then. Compliments don't leave stripes on that satin skin. Tomorrow it's the bruises you'll remember not the compliments.

I should have fucked you then. But the belt wasn't done with you.

*

You're over my knee, your wrists cuffed behind you. Your pants are still on and the curves of your body, the tautness of it as you hold your shape, are amazing. I slap your inside thigh hard with the palm of my hand and the sound of it competes with your first sharp scream.

Fuck I enjoyed that.

I slap you again and again. The sounds get sharper, so do your yelps. I pull your head up by the hair and slap you again. It's early in our session and I don't know how far I can go. Your legs convulse away from my questing hand and I get angry with you. Keep your legs open. You instantly comply. It looks fucking amazing. I slap you again.

Fuck I'm enjoying this. You're a slut and you're fucking adorable.

*

'Kneel for me' and you do. I'm on a chair by the table and you come into position beneath me. You look adorable. Your knees prim together. Your name is so English, it tastes of summer lawns and Victoria sponge. Time to hurt you.

My fingers wrap in your hair. Too sharp. A wince shoots across your face. Too sharp? No, you say. Please do it again.

You have an extraordinary beauty. You turn me on. I'm in your face, those eyes that hide nothing. Black, like deep space twinkling with points of light. I hold you firmly by the hair and slap your face, right to left. Your face flinches right and I'm looking hard for a message. Your face comes quickly back and I see that arousal has lit up inside you. It's the message I want. I slap you again.

I yank your dress strap down and roll your exposed nipple. Hard. Your breasts are like sea-washed pebbles. Your nipple is like a warm rubber band rolling between my fingers. It turns me on. I yank down the other strap. Your nipples are tight and fit my fingers perfectly. I slap them and you gasp. You're turning me on. I'm still holding you by the hair. I set to work, hurting you. You turn me on.

*

'Did I tell you that?'

No you didn't. You have something tattooed across your collar bone. It's the word 'Lost' written backwards. Did I tell you that, you ask? No, you didn't I say.

'I must look like a bank manager to you,' I say. You shrug and smile and talk about your other Doms. Am I a Dom? You tell me that you'll tell your friend you've been with a Dom tonight. Am I a Dom? Shouldn't I need a name? Like Raven Lord Sith or something. With a cloak that billows in the Divine Winds from the Blue Mountains of Goran.

Am I a Dom?

You turn me on. You're pretty. You're adorable. Everything physical about you turns me on. You like to say you're a slut. That turns me on. I should have made you beg more. I won't make that mistake next time. I want to fuck you. I want to strip you, drag my hot tongue through your sloppy firm cunt and, with the taste of you seasoning my tongue, I want to impale you and watch you twitching as my come spurts into you. I want to break you. I want to leash you. I want to own you. I want you to call me Master. I want my scent to bring you into heat. I want to bruise you. Am I a Dom? Controlling this feral rage to fuck within me is exquisite.

I'd like to work you with a Dominant female. You strung up and looking adorable as we patrol around you, discussing you between us. I'd like to see you used and fucked. Am I a Dom?

You like me. I'm not malnourished, and I don't wear a leather jacket with waspish arrogance. I'm old enough to be your bank manager. But you like me. You like me. Am I a Dom?

Time to begin.

*

You come to me out of the small yellow glare of the taxi light. You're cute and wrapped up in a coat, like a girlfriend. You look amazing. We embrace hello. I offer to carry your bag.

'I promise I won't ask for a tip,' I say.

You smile.

You look amazing.

There's a space on my shelf that wasn't there before.