Weekend distraction

(With thanks to Mike for his tireless help with proofing and editing - you know who you are!)

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Jessica left her office, or to be more precise, her Chambers, in Lincoln's Inn, near Fleet Street in London and negotiated the underground.

It was a sultry summer evening and the train was hot and crowded. She could have taken a taxi, but that just seemed like an unnecessary expense, and anyway, the tube journey was making her hot and sweaty and she knew he would like that.

Exiting the train at Clapham, in south London, she walked a few hundred yards to an Edwardian mansion block of flats. She rang the bell and was immediately buzzed into the building.

She walked up three flights of stairs, and was mildly annoyed that she felt a little out breath. She kept herself pretty fit, with swimming, tennis and Pilates, and it was an affront to her self-esteem to feel that simply climbing some stairs was an exertion.

The door to the flat was, as she expected, ajar, so she pushed it open and went inside, closing it firmly behind her.

There was nobody in sight and she was drawn to her own reflection in the full-length mirror across the hall. She studied herself, looking demure and professional in her black two-piece business suit, the barrister's uniform.

For that was her profession. She was not just a barrister, but a very senior one at that. For those who care about such things, she was a "KC" or "King's Counsel" - the very top tier of the legal profession in the UK.

So, at forty eight years old, she had a big job. She worked really hard and was very successful professionally. But she didn't always feel quite so successful in her personal life.

The face looking back at her was beautiful in a (she ruefully recognised) slightly faded way. Her hair was cut in a neat bob. Dark brown, with a little grey showing at the temples. She had meant to touch up her hair dye that week, but her case-load had been manic and she just hadn't had the chance to get to the hairdresser's.

It was a well structured face, with grey eyes, good cheek bones, a patrician nose and firm jaw line. A little sun damage from time spent as a young woman in southern Europe, resulting in crows' feet at the corners of her eyes and irritating grooves from her nose to the corners of her mouth.

She realised these were inevitable signs of age, but she resolutely refused to resort to Botox or similar. She wanted to age gracefully - in her looks at least. She was quite prepared to age disgracefully in many other ways! With that thought she went through the next part of the familiar routine.

She removed her jacket and skirt and hung them on a coat rack attached to the wall next to the door. Next, she removed her shoes, silk slip, bra, panties and stockings. Now, completely naked, she checked herself in the mirror again.

Even though her body was, objectively, extremely sexy she, as always, noticed only the flaws: slight belly and stretch marks from childbirth; breasts although never large, drooping a little; a bit of cellulite on her thighs and a slight loosening of the skin on her upper arms. Her body had also suffered a little from the Mediterranean sun, but her breasts and bottom were smooth, white and unblemished where they had been protected by the swimsuits which she had (ahem, usually) worn.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that the man waiting for her in the room at the end of the corridor desired her body. He desired it more fiercely than anyone she had ever known. And he would do things to it, and with it, that nobody else had ever done.

She was aware that her therapist, her girlfriends and her younger self would all tell her that she had to love her own body first and not rely on the approval of a man. And she knew they were right. But being lusted after by a hot twenty-something did boost her, sometimes rather fragile, ego!

Her younger self, she further reflected, would have been shocked by some of the things he was going to do to her. But her current self now knew that her younger self, whilst principled, nubile and unlined, had known almost nothing about sex!

She looked again at her full-length reflection and noticed the two weeks of growth in her pubic hair that was developing into a bush again. But she knew that would be dealt with shortly.

She took a small notebook and her reading glasses from her bag and then walked, naked, down the corridor to the rear of the property and knocked at the door at the end.

"Come in."

A tall, dark haired, young man was waiting inside, sitting in a leather armchair. He was dressed simply in a pair of faded jeans. Nothing else. His feet were bare, as was his lean torso.

He wasn't a muscle-bound gym jockey, but he was slim, lean and hard. She knew he had rowed competitively to a high level at university and that he still trained and sculled regularly, which kept him in very respectable shape.

Next to him was a low table with a number of items arranged on it. She didn't need to look. She knew what they were. He gestured to the other leather armchair opposite.

She handed him the notebook and her glasses then, as usual, settled into the chair, reclining backwards, and hitching a leg over each of the arms, displaying herself to him completely.

Neither spoke.

The man then knelt in front of her chair and examined her pubis closely. He stroked the growth of the pubic hair, and then, rather unceremoniously, opened her pussy lips to reveal the pink inside. He leant forward to put his nose a couple of inches from her pussy and inhaled. He looked up at her, smiled, and said simply "Good."

He had a generally serious countenance, perhaps saturnine wouldn't be overstating it, but when he smiled his face lit-up, and his kind eyes looked directly into her soul. The kind eyes always reassured her. The things that she knew he was going to do to her over the ensuing minutes and hours, indeed over the course of the weekend were potentially frightening, but those eyes were always there and they made her feel safe.

He always insisted that she not wash on the days she came to see him. He hated the smell of soap, masking what he regarded as the delicious, natural, scent of her vagina. She always felt slightly uncomfortable until this "sniff test" had been passed. It was also part of the process of his humiliation of her. It turned him on, so it turned her on.

On one occasion, early on in their relationship, she had been tempted to cheat, and had washed her pussy in the office lavatories before leaving to visit him. She hadn't really believed he wanted her truly "au naturel". But she was wrong.

He had detected it immediately. He was angry. He made her stuff an entire bar of soap, painfully, into her pussy and then put her knickers back on. She had to keep it in there for the whole evening. And he refused to touch her.

Finally, when he allowed her to remove the soap, he had given her a bathroom nail brush and told her to scrub herself clean, while he watched. This was incredibly uncomfortable - as the stiff nylon bristles scoured her pussy - and humiliating, but she complied. She didn't have to of course. She could have just left. But that wasn't how their relationship worked. She had never made the same mistake again! Humiliation, pain and power exchange were at the heart of their relationship, and this was just another manifestation of that. And she craved it.

She made herself comfortable for the next phase of preparation, leaning backwards and closing her eyes. He ran his fingers through her pubic hair, giving it a gentle tug.

"This needs to go doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, it does."

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She thought she could see the twitch of an amused smile

"Are you sure?"

"Yes"

He slapped her across the cheek. Not hard, but not gentle either.

"Yes, sir!" is what you mean.

She said nothing, biting her tongue.

He slapped her again, harder this time.

But nonetheless she relented "Yes sir."

"That's better."

He smiled in satisfaction, picked up a pair of scissors from the table, and began to trim her bush. He grasped her hair between his fingers and pulled it taut. Pulling slightly too hard as he did so, causing her to gasp a little. He started to snip.

When the hair was uniformly fairly short he squirted shaving cream from a can directly onto her pubis. She, as always, started in shock as the cold cream hit her body, but then relaxed as he massaged the foam into her bush. He then proceeded to shave her.

His approach was business-like, rather than sensual. Firm but not rough. He manhandled her labia, pulling them to create the correct angle so that he could shave her completely smooth. Getting into all the nooks and crannies.

She, as usual, closed her eyes to hide from the humiliation and shame. He had done this many times before, but it was always the same for her. Shame and humiliation were core to her sexual being. She loved it, but it was still difficult for her. And yet she thrilled to his touch. The impersonal way in which he handled her most intimate areas.

Then he made her turn around and squat with her knees on the arms of the chair, head down, in order to display her arse crack. In this position the feeling of vulnerability and exposure was extreme. He applied foam here also, massaging it in thoroughly, and then meticulously shaved her clean.

Finally, when she was completely hairless, he rubbed soothing cream into her skin to reduce irritation. Although - or really because - this was so humiliating, she always secretly loved this process of being manhandled, surrendering herself to him, with no say in how it was done.

The reason he shaved her himself on arrival, rather than having her shave herself in advance, was that he hated stubble. He wanted her as freshly shaved and smooth as possible - as well as simply enjoying the process of humiliating her.

She settled back, facing him again. Legs over the arms of the chair as before. Then as usual he asked "Shall we go through the diary?" offering her the notebook.

In addition to desiring her body he also desired her mind. And he sought to control both...

**********

They had met at a party three years or so previously. He had been invited by his physiotherapist, who he had been seeing for a back injury from rowing.

She was a compact thirtysomething blonde with very strong fingers and even stronger thighs with whom he had enjoyed a flirty and distinctly unprofessional relationship in the consulting room, which they had never quite consummated.

She had a serious long-term, and somewhat older, boyfriend with whom she lived and, while open to a bit of fun, was not looking to compromise that, so they had amicably agreed to not to take it all the way, despite an intense mutual attraction

The two lasting legacies of this relationship for him were, however, a new appreciation of the erotic possibilities of the "TENS" electric therapy machine and (separately) his introduction to Jessica.

The former is another story, but the introduction to Jessica came because his physio was unselfish enough to have invited him to a party she was hosting, in order to meet some of her more suitable and, importantly, eligible, friends.

Jessica had also attended this party, fresh from the completion of her divorce, and was being encouraged by her friends to find a guy to welcome her back into the world of dating - or as they actually put it, rather less delicately - "to give her a jolly good see-ing to".

She had not really wanted to come out that evening, but her friends had bullied her into attending. When she arrived at the house her worst fears seemed to be confirmed as everyone appeared to be at least ten years younger than she was.

She had resigned herself to a tedious evening squashed into a crowded kitchen, making small talk, when she spotted a tall dark haired young man across the room. They made brief eye contact and she immediately was attracted to him.

She also realised that he was probably 20 years her junior, so that seemed like a non-starter and she returned to her rather dull conversation.

However, a few minutes later she felt a gentle tap on her elbow and, turning, she looked up to see the tall young man towering over her and smiling. She was startled

"Hello," he said "I thought I would come and introduce myself."

"Why?" Jessica asked. The words blurted out before she engaged her brain, and she blushed. Then she backed up, embarrassed and tried again "I mean 'Hello. Nice to meet you'".

He laughed good naturedly at her confusion and embarrassment, and they started to chat. They hit it off and, to her great surprise, and to cut a long story short, she ended up at his flat that night.

They had had good, though pretty conventional, sex that night. He was an enthusiastic and creative lover.

She recognised that it was a fairly low-bar comparison as for her, coming out of a fifteen-year marriage, even just being taken from behind, doggy style, felt pretty exotic.

But he seemed genuinely enthralled by her body, and used his fingers, tongue and cock in ways she had never experienced before. He had licked and sucked every inch of her.

Exploring her with his tongue; opening her up and consuming her. She felt almost worshipped and, once she was able to relax at the idea, enjoyed the way his tongue explored and used her body.

They hadn't done anything particularly kinky that night. He had taken her a number of times, his youthful cock spearing into her, opening her up; "Cleaning out the pipes." she thought to herself with secret amusement.

He took her initially in a straightforward missionary style before turning her around onto all fours, spreading her legs and penetrating her from behind. He was forceful. Very forceful. Not rough. Not aggressive. But in control. He manipulated her body, positioning her as he wanted her.

She felt the strength of his arms and chest as he fucked her, holding her tightly. There was no escape. She didn't want to escape! She relished the sensation of being held and "taken".

As he fucked her from behind, his strong hands grasping her hips and buttocks in a vice-like grip, she felt his thumb probing her anus. She flinched.

"No!" she whispered and he immediately withdrew.

"Fuck," she thought "why did I say that?"

He paused and massaged her glutes with his strong thumbs instead, as he thrust into her. She moaned appreciatively at this and then reached round with one hand and guided his hand back to her anus.

"Sorry. Please don't stop."

He chuckled amusedly and his thumb started to massage her anal ring. Then he pushed harder and his thumb slipped into her anus, where it continued the massage, but from the inside.

"Fuck, fuck!" she moaned, as she came to a a shattering orgasm with both holes full.

He held her tight as she subsided from the orgasm.

He whispered "Maybe I should take you there next time?"

She said nothing but closed her eyes, pulled him close, and kissed him hard.

Shortly thereafter he fell asleep - "So, still like other men in that respect!" she mused - and she looked at him, indulgently, as he slept.

There were some other tiny hints which, with hindsight, were signposts as to the direction in which the relationship would go.

He was gentle but forceful. He didn't ask her, he guided her or told her what to do. And he instructed her in a way which seemed not to countenance any argument.

He was never rough and he never raised his voice. On the contrary, he often would whisper his commands to her.

It just seemed natural to obey. When he said "Open your pussy for me." as a prelude to going down on her, she really couldn't think of any reason not to, except for embarrassment.

And it was very clear that he did not expect her to demur. Here she was, a forty-five year old woman being told by an attractive twenty-two year old man she hardly knew, to spread her pussy lips so he could admire her and put his tongue inside...

The following morning, after a sleepy wake-up fuck he had made her breakfast. He had slipped on a pair of boxer shorts ("health and safety" - he said with an ironic grin as he made eggs on the stove-top) but had instructed her not to get dressed.

He had insisted she eat breakfast in the nude. He didn't ask her. He told her. Once again in a quiet but commanding voice. A voice that didn't have any expectation of being disobeyed.

She realised that she didn't actually have to obey. There was no threat here. But that was what he commanded her to do, and she realised that she relished surrendering control. And once again initial embarrassment gave way to a thrill of eroticism as she got used to the idea that this sexy young man wanted to see her naked. His eyes hungrily devouring her as she walked through the flat from bedroom to kitchen to sit at the breakfast table.

And so it began. She realised that she wanted him to tell her what to do, and she wanted to obey him.

The things he did tell her to do were things that she wanted to do, or have done to her, but years of social convention, and a stifling marriage, had conditioned her that these were "wrong".

Under his command they became "right" and a whole world of erotic possibility suddenly was opening up for her.

After breakfast he, aroused at the sight of her naked body, had a full erection sticking up out of his boxers.

She straddled it and slid down its length. They fucked intensely, looking each other in the eye. He tentatively slapped her bum while fucking her and she had felt as though an electric shock went through her.

She felt his cock swell further inside her. She had moaned gutturally as she squeezed his cock and ground her clit against his pubic bone.

That was three years ago. And they had been seeing each other, every couple of weeks, ever since...

******

"Yes" she replied, and took the notebook from him.

Although the question "shall we go through the diary?" sounded innocuous enough, it wasn't quite what it seemed. The notebook was her masturbation diary.

He knew that, as a single woman, with a strong sex drive, and extreme sexual appetites, if she was only having sex in her fortnightly visits to him, and not seeing anyone else, she was also masturbating regularly.

In fact, even if she was seeing any number of other people, he was pretty certain she would still be masturbating regularly!

So, as part of her humiliation, he made her keep a diary of when she masturbated, as well as the ideas, fantasies or people about which, and whom, she masturbated.

Of course "made" was a subjective term. He couldn't actually "make" her record these most intimate thoughts, as he had no way of verifying their veracity, but it was a matter of honour, and trust, between them that she was truthful.

From her perspective, if she edited out the parts that she found embarrassing, then it took the edge off the experience. It was like cheating at Solitaire - it was just cheating herself.

The whole point was humiliation and self-exposure. If she edited it, it became a rather pointless charade; mundane rather than dangerous. So she recorded her masturbations faithfully.

He handed her the notebook and her reading glasses. She otherwise remained entirely naked and exposed, legs splayed, for him.

"Please begin."

She put on her glasses and opened the notebook. As always the juxtaposition of her reading glasses and her naked body caused a rush of desire in the young man. The glasses accentuated their age gap, and hence the slightly taboo nature of their relationship. She knew this, and gave him a slow look as she put them on. He bit his lip in order not to show any reaction.

From the table he took a short, stiff leather strap, about eight inches long, with a wooden handle at one end. It was about the size of a leather bookmark, but made of thick hide, stitched around the edges.