The Seven Day Detox

This story concerns two people who are, both top and bottom, basically novices, and it focuses primarily on their d/s encounters rather than physical S/M. As such, there are no whips or chains, no dungeons or exotic costumes, no dilemmas, and certainly nobody trying to do things that are beyond their pay scale. In short, for the purist it may be more 'vanilla with sprinkles', as one of the protagonists puts it, than death by chocolate, and anyone seeking stronger stuff is advised to look elsewhere to avoid disappointment.

A further note - the location of this story is purposely vague, but for those for whom such things are important, consider it taking place in a medium sized western European city in more northerly latitudes; Holland or north Germany or Denmark. But in my mind there is no single location, rather a pastiche of real and imagined places.

***

"Look, it's perfect," said my wife as I gazed doubtfully at my outstretched feet from my accustomed position slumped on the computer chair, "and you said it yourself - she's done every kind of therapy and it's got her nowhere because she spends all her time talking instead of doing."

"And your solution is that I do the doing with her."

"Yes. You aren't going to get emotionally involved and she..."

"If I remember correctly, what I actually said was that she needed to break her pattern of behaviour."

"You did. And her pattern of behaviour is to come running every time that arsehole whistles, only for him to dump her once he's got what he needs. Rinse and repeat. So it's time to think of what she needs, and that's some fantasy fulfillment, no strings attached."

I waggled my toes as I pondered, my wife's expression betraying her certainty of success. But there were things to consider; our marriage certainly wasn't strictly conventional, we had occasionally swung, and I sometimes indulged her submissive tastes though I was no more than an infrequent and amateur dom. So we were neither of us experts - more vanilla with sprinkles. I knew something of 'best practice' but I had never acted as a dominant to another woman, and my wife didn't have the kind of baggage that Amanda did - the woman was a magnet for users and lightweights, and I could be taking on something I wasn't qualified for. I said as much.

"I'll be in constant touch with her," my wife reassured me, "and I'll pull the plug if I think it's getting weird."

I was defeated and I knew it. So I nodded and my wife grinned that grin wives have when they win a round they always knew they were going to win,, and I had her give me the list she'd compiled over coffees in Amanda's kitchen - her desires and her yellow lines and red lines and her safe word. I was relieved to see that her needs ran to the mental more than physical side of submission as I've never been comfortable beating someone and I'm a dunce with knots. But bossing someone around I can manage (at least for short periods of time until the effort of making someone else's decisions runs up hard against my inherent sloth).

Part One

Amanda's apartment was in a nondescript modern development in a new build suburb. Twenty years before it had been fields and now it was full of young professionals with younger families, all realizing that there had to be more to it that this. And thus the entrepreneurs had moved in, opening pop-up bars and Mongolian-fusion trattorias and ethnic florists, and good luck to all, if that's what made them happy, though it did make it a touch more difficult to find somewhere to buy a bag of potatoes and some washing up liquid and, more relevantly, an extra pack of three just in case.

I'd taken the train instead of driving, partly because I knew the parking was a mess, but also because I wanted to sink into my own thoughts. I studied my fellow passengers, idly wondering how many of them had also chosen two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon for a kinky session. Looking at them I guessed I was in a minority of one, though you never can tell. But then I turned my mind to Amanda. I'd known her very casually for about ten years, meeting her on perhaps a dozen occasions over that time, exchanging brief, inconsequential conversation, and never really considering her sexually in any way. Not that she was unattractive - she was a slim brunette who danced for a hobby and that kept her trim and proportionate, and in truth she was more beddable at thirty-six than she had been a decade before.

I thought about what she was doing right at that moment - was she trying on another outfit and rejecting it, fretting about what to wear? Was she soaking and jumpy (I'd sent her a text the evening before ordering her to keep her hands off herself, and she'd replied with a simple 'yes, sir' which I couldn't help enjoying)? Or was she utterly unconcerned, arranging flowers or marking papers or doing the crossword? And I thought about the scenario I had planned - I'd agreed with my wife that we would try one session, see how it went, and if everyone was happy I would have another week to do things from Amanda's fantasy list. I had insisted on the time limit myself, and we could always extend it if desired. But because of all this I'd decided on something simple, something that I would feel comfortable with, and looking at her list, something I'd never considered before but found intriguing.

Amanda's apartment block was five minutes from the station, startling white in the early autumn sunshine, the only apparent individuality between the flats to be seen in the furniture or drying laundry or children's toys on the steel and glass balconies. She buzzed me in without a word over the intercom, which was either positive or negative or meant nothing at all and I took a deep breath and reminded myself of who was supposed to be in control here, and then to spin things out I took the stairs, two at a time, up to her third floor apartment. I checked myself a final time in the lift lobby - I was wearing sunglasses for effect though I thought it contrived (but then, wasn't everything?), a simple t-shirt under my jacket, and combat trousers and boots, With a few days growth on my usually shaved head I looked quite intimidating, and hopefully that would give her the thrill she craved.

She must have been standing waiting by the door because she opened it the moment I knocked, barefoot and demure in a knee length, long sleeved plum-coloured dress of some stretchy material or other. I knew success or failure hinged on the first moments, and I'd said in advance that the scenario would begin the moment I arrived (if she had second thoughts she didn't need to let me in, no hard feelings) so I was a little relieved to see the hint of startled fawn in her expression as she looked at me.

Her smallish flat was spotless, as I'd guessed it would be, quite minimalist and neat (on first glance it was clear that right angles predominated), so I slipped off my jacket as I marched in and dumped it on the arm of the sofa as I passed. I could see a cloud forming on her brow at the sight of my out-of-place outerwear and I knew that I had to wrong foot her before she asked me to hang it up.

"I take my coffee with a dash of milk, no sugar," I said brusquely as I strode through to her kitchen as if I owned the place.

"Erm..." was all she could manage as she followed. In her immaculate kitchen I pulled up a chair, enjoying the clatter of my sunglasses as I casually dropped them on her kitchen table and I sat expectantly, reveling in the licence I had to be a (relatively) bad guest. She froze for a moment then rallied, turning on the kettle and bustling over to a cupboard to pull out a jar.

"Not instant," I said, "that's worse than no coffee."

"Of course," she said nervously, her back to me, and I noted a tremor as she put the jar back and reached for a packet of the good stuff.

"Sir," I added.

"Sir," and her voice was a little chastened. I was starting to enjoy myself and decided to up things a notch (well more than just a notch, actually).

"I prefer my coffee nude," I said pointedly and she froze again, a coffee mug in her hand. She turned and looked at me and saw I was serious. She bit her lower lip and though it might be a cliché it is one because it's true, and the sight of her like this sent a little tingle down to my cock, and for the first time I could envisage myself fucking her. I met her gaze and she sensed that I was getting impatient and then she smiled briefly, as if to herself, before she reached down and took the hem of her dress in her hands, pulling it up and off over her head in one swift movement.

She was wearing a very nice pearl grey matching bra and panty set under the dress, and it looked like something she reserved for special occasions. I hoped it made her feel good putting it on because it was wasted on me at that moment - my character wasn't interested in such fripperies. And I made that clear as she hesitated again, telling her nude meant nude.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, slipping her bra straps down before unhooking it. A touch of colour rushed to her cheeks, because this was the next point of no return after opening the door to me in the fist place.

"I'm waiting," I said quietly, metaphorically tapping my foot, and she pulled her bra away, letting me see her smallish tits, her nipples pink and unmistakably hard. So she was enjoying this, though I kept my smile to myself.

"Panties," I said in the same quiet voice, and these came off faster now she was getting into the swing of things, though she kept her hands hovering in front of her trimmed mound. But then the kettle boiled and she had to put the coffee in the cafetiere and get the milk from the fridge and I was able to study her body, letting her feel my eyes on her tight arse and lithe legs.

I pulled my t-shirt off as Amanda brought the coffee over and I saw the flicker in her eye again as I just dropped it on the table, though I couldn't be sure whether she was looking at my torso or feeling uncomfortable at my arrogant cluttering. But as she put the mug down on the coaster I could see she was looking at me, and I glanced at myself, trying to see through her eyes. A lot of my tone had dissipated over the previous two years, a cruciate injury having curtailed my passion for aikido. I hadn't found anything else to replace it, and though I tried o keep myself in shape I knew I was in a slow decline. Still, I didn't look bad for a man of nearly fifty, particularly in comparison to the contemporaries I saw slobbing around my neighbourhood (sports bar - curry house - kebab shop - armchair seemed to be their middle aged version of circuit training).

"Thank you," I said as Amanda stepped back half a pace and I contemplated the coffee - I could be both a bastard and polite. And now I was going to be a bastard. She was hovering, not knowing what was supposed to happen next, though naturally I knew...

"Hands behind your back," I said and she hastily complied, uncovering herself. I made sure to look directly at her mound for a second longer than strictly necessary, and enjoyed seeing the colour flare in her cheeks again, then picked up the mug and smelt the coffee, "nice. Although..."

She tensed and I continued, "it's a little disappointing to have such aromatic coffee in a room with such a filthy floor." Of course, her grey slate (or relatively expensive facsimile thereof) kitchen floor tiles were immaculate, my guess being that she cleaned the floor at least every third day and probably more often. But her fantasy was to be made to do housework nude, and here it was on a plate.

"I can wait while you make your floor presentable," I concluded, "and I will overlook the fault provided you attend to it immediately."

Did I detect a faint whiff of cunt or was it my imagination? It didn't really matter as she gulped and nodded, and I held down a mild growl of desire as I watched her body as she turned for a cupboard. She opened it and pulled out one of those squeezy mops you see advertised on shopping channels and pulled out a bucket as well.

"No," I pontificated, "you can't trust those things. Down on your knees with a scrubbing brush is the only real way to get a floor clean."

She put the mop and bucket away with a marked reluctance, then took a bowl and filled it with warm water and picked up a brush and some marigolds. She took the gloves and I felt a mild erotic thrill as she put them on with some elegance, and then she put the bowl on the floor and got down next to it, right into my favourite position.

She began along the side of the floor against her workspace, sink and stove where the sun illuminated her bare arse and I watched contentedly for a minute or two. I was going to intervene, but not quite yet - I had to let her immerse herself in her task. She scrubbed away at the clean floor, dipping the brush in the water two, three times, and then I stood and she tensed, wondering if I was going to tell her she was doing it wrong. But I was soft, much to her surprise, though I was firm. She gasped softly as I knelt behind her and touched her warm skin for the first time, feeling a rush of blood as I ran my hands over the back of her thighs.

"Legs apart, please," I said as I pressed her thighs apart, and in that position I would have achieved nothing if she hadn't immediately complied, her knees now eighteen inches apart and her cunt on show for me. I have to admit to some severe temptation at that moment, but all good things to those who wait and all that, and this was about her fantasy after all. I went back to my chair, surprising us both a little, and I continued to watch her. She moved back and worked the opposite way, and then she had to turn side on to me, giving me a profile of her tits (nice) and letting me see the flush on her face - she was definitely enjoying this, and being watched doing it, and perhaps even knowing that I knew she was enjoying being watched enjoying it, the mind being a strange thing. I didn't get it myself, but then I didn't really need to.

By now she had worked her way across most of the floor and it clearly occurred to her that a problem was looming - there I sat, combat boots placed squarely on the tiles, and she would need to get me to move if she was to complete her task. I was interested to see how she would ask, and part of me wanted her to get my boots wet so I could devise some punishment. Clever woman that she is (they don't give out PhDs to just anyone) she bought herself some time, taking the bowl of water to the sink, emptying it and refilling it. But the time was coming no matter how she tried to postpone it.

"I'm sorry, sir, but please could you lift your feet," she asked very demurely, and I mentally awarded her full marks particularly as, without a word, I lifted my legs and put them up on her kitchen table. She tried not to wince, my disregard for her furniture a fingernail scrapping down the blackboard of her soul, but she never said a word of complaint as she scrubbed away again. I idly sipped my coffee as I watched her for another couple of minutes but when she went back to the sink to empty the bowl again I decided it was time for my fun.

It only took a single stride and I was behind her, slipping my hands around her and cupping her breasts as I slid my thumbs over her nipples. They leapt to attention and I clamped my lips onto her lower neck, hearing her sigh as she dropped the bowl into the sink and leant back into me, her body heat pleasing. As the bowl thumped down water slopped out and some splashed onto the counter but Amanda didn't react and I thought "Gotcha!!", but when she reached up to the top of my head I had to bare my teeth a little, pressing them against her skin; I had no wish to have her filthy marigolds smeared over my skin.

Good girl that she was she realised and yanked them off, dropping them on the counter-top any old how and I knew another victory when I saw one. At which I told her to go to the living room and I was so close behind her as she walked that we were virtually conjoined. Once there I had her sit on the sofa while I stood before her, her pose betraying her naivety as I had to reach down and put my hands on her knees. I was firmer now as I pushed her legs wide apart, exposing her cunt, and her gasp was almost a moan.

"Suck," I ordered rudely, as I stood with my crotch almost touching her face, my fly now unbuttoned as I pulled out my cock (I'd gone commando to make precisely this moment go easily), more than half-hard by now. I expected her to be average at best so I was pleasantly surprised to find she really knew what she was doing. She licked me from base to tip before wrapping welcome lips around me, and I let out a quiet groan as I felt the warmth of her on my cock. I needed to do very little, gripping her hair in my fist and controlling how fast she sucked me (perhaps a little slower than she expected) and how deep in her mouth I was (certainly deeper than she probably preferred, but nowhere near deep throat - I find the sound of it a turn off).

I could have ended it there, and I was tempted. It might even have fitted in with her fantasy too, but I was there to take ownership for a week and so I reached into a side pocket and pulled out a loose condom in its wrapper. I gave it to her with the instruction to put it on me and she got full marks for keeping my cock in her mouth as she ripped open the foil - she had either done this before or had an acute knowledge of being submissive. Sadly, there here competence ebbed, and she fumbled repeatedly trying to roll the condom onto my cock.

"Practice with a cucumber," I grumped as I pulled the condom from her fingers and tossed it aside, reaching for another and rolling it down over my cock as she watched, her lips parted a little and the colour full in her cheeks. And when I was ready I ordered, "face down, arse up!"

She almost leapt to comply which I'd half-suspected she might, though it was gratifying nonetheless to see her cunt so eagerly presented to me and her face turned to one side, cheek pressed into the sofa cushion. I positioned myself, one boot on her parquet and the other up on the sofa, and took her arse cheeks in my firm hands, parting them as she whimpered a little. I pressed the head of my cock against her hole and waited a second before pushing relentlessly on. Her moan was low and she dug her nails into the sofa as I sank all the way into her and stopped for a moment.

Usually, under normal circumstances. I would never have taken such liberties - I would have ensured she was ready first, using my fingers and tongue to excite her before thrusting my just-slightly-bigger-than-average cock into her. But she had been aroused since she'd opened the door, and for all I knew she'd been on heat since the night before, or even since my wife had pimped me out to her the previous weekend. In short, she was wet and willing and I had no need to spin things out any longer.

I pulled back slowly, the full length of my shaft, and now when I thrust forward again I has harder. She gasped and I continued, taking her with long thrusts, only slowly getting faster. I was determined to enjoy every moment of this - my palms against her soft, warm arse, her cunt wrapped around my cock, the tremor in her voice as she told me how good it felt. But all good things must develop into even better things, and I began to fuck her harder, faster.

I changed m position slightly, my angle of penetration a little more vertical, and she moaned that it felt so deep. And then I started to spank her, and her moans became full-throated and I knew she was going to come. I take no credit for that - I'm no sex god with a monster in my trousers; it was the scenario doing it to her, but I made sure I contributed, putting my hand firmly on her back and pressing her down as I continued to spank her with my other hand. Her response was loud and not really coherent, and perhaps I should have had her ask permission to orgasm, but with everything else going on I decided to let that slide.