“Tell me what you’d do.”
“To me,” I said. “I want you to explain what you’d do to me.”
“Isn’t it a first date a bit soon for this?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “In fact, I think it’s the perfect time.”
“Really?” he asked, smiling his cute, crooked smile.
“Yes. Look - I’m forty-one,” I said. I was aware the alcohol was making me a bit louder, a bit braver, a bit more reckless than usual. But the tiny bar was humming with the sound of a dozen of similarly-booze fueled conversations - I doubt if anyone was paying attention to ours, despite the risque nature of what we were discussing. “Time is of the essence when you reach our age.”
“Good things come to those who wait,” he said, still smiling.
“I don’t disagree,” I replied. “Yes - on the one hand, we do need to take the time to get know each other. Of course we do. But, I also believe that if there is a short-cut, why not take it?”
“I can see the logic,” he said, lifting his huge glass, and taking a sip of his gin. “And you think there’s a short-cut to be had when it comes to sex?”
“I do,” I said. “I really do. Look - I’m not going to lie: I like sex. I enjoy it. But, over the last decade, I’ve not had a huge amount. And, the sex I have had, has been… well, underwhelming. As I said, I’m forty-one. I haven’t got the time for bad sex, or for men who have no sense of adventure… life’s too short. I want excitement. I want a bit of naughtiness, of kinkiness… I want some fun!”
And, speech over, I lifted my goldfish bowl-sized glass, and downed what was left of my rhubarb-flavored gin. Looking back later, I knew I’d already had more than enough. God - the speech about sex was evidence of that! But there was little chance of me calling it a night, and heading home.
I’ve been on six dates in the last year. Six. Four of whom I knew I would never see again seconds after meeting them. But there were two I had genuinely liked. Liked enough to want to see again. Liked enough to want to sleep with. And both had disappointed me. Just like my ex-husband, their idea of sexual adventure extended no further than a quick five-minute tumble, nothing more exciting than a quick, perfunctory fuck via the missionary position, and then sleep. I wanted more than that.
I was a forty-one year divorcee with two kids, a mortgage, and a job that - although I loved - left me emotionally spent. I loved being a therapist - loved it; it was my calling, my passion. But I also wanted some fun in my life. And I hoped - prayed - that the good-looking English teacher with the Tom Hiddlestone-hair sitting next to me could give me that.
He’d done well so far.
Whereas the previous none-too dirty half-dozen had all selected the most beige, personality-less places to meet for our first dates (all bland, anonymous, chain pubs or restaurants), Marcus has chosen a speak-easy. It sat on one of Liverpool’s busiest roads, but no sign advertised it’s presence. The exterior was dark, slightly shabby, and it’s large windows were covered with huge, drawn blinds. You had to knock on the battered door, and - if the cosy, cramped interior was full - a doorman would politely tell you to come back later. We got lucky; despite being a Friday night, there was a corner booth free.
The small room was lit with an array of vintage chandeliers, all dimmed. But, as your eyes got used to the gloom, you could see that no tables or chairs matched; the table nearest ours was a small, ornate dining-table, the kind my grandmother used to have in the kitchen of her semi-detached house, whereas our booth had probably been salvaged from a 1950’s style-diner.
But, despite the lack of uniformity, it all worked; whoever had sourced the furniture possessed a good eye. Although it had all obviously been designed with care, it still felt pleasingly chaotic, and rough-and-ready. It really did have the air of an illicit, Prohibition-era drinking den. Intimate, decadent, almost seedy, it was the perfect place to share secrets.
And this is where we were safely cocooned now, and had been for the last two hours, steadily working our way through the range of gins they stocked. Speaking of which…
“I’m going to get us more drinks,” I said, standing, and inching my way out of the booth. “And when I come back, I want I hear what you’d do to me if given the chance.”
“No pressure,” Marcus said.
“Pressure is good,” I said. “I need to see how a man performs under stress. Besides, you’re a writer…”
“I’m an English teacher, at present…”
“Who wants to be a writer. And writer’s are supposed to have good imaginations, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose we do.”
“Then use it,” I said. “On me.”
Dodging the other tables, I crossed the small room, towards the bar. Like the rest of the fixtures and fitting, there was no attempt at uniformity. The huge, oak bar wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Western movie. The kind of kind you’d ordinarily find Clint Eastwood draped over before he started dispatching a few ne’er do wells, en route to cleaning up the town.
“What will it be this time?” the young hipster barman asked.
“Surprise me,” I said. Drunk on good gin, and good company, I appeared to be in the mood for surprises.
“My pleasure,” the barman replied. He reached under the bar, pulled out another two over-sized glasses, and began filling them with berries, sprigs, and - of course - lots of gin. As he worked, I glanced over to the booth. Marcus was watching me, still wearing that cute, crooked smile of his. Would he take the bait I’d dangled? Even if he did, did he have the imagination? The courage to…?
“Here you are,” the barman said, gesturing to the two glasses in front of him. There was more foliage in the glasses than in my garden. “Elder-flower - enjoy.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, handing over a twenty-pound note. “Keep the change.”
I threaded my way back to the booth, and plonked the glasses down on the semi-circular table.
“Right,” I said, shimmying my way back to where I’d been sitting. “I took charge of the drinks - your turn now.”
“Do you like that?” Marcus asked, cheekily raising an eye-brow. “Someone else taking charge?”
“Truth be told, no-one ever has before. But I’m more than open to the prospect.”
“Okay… okay… let me think…” he said, lifting his glass, and taking a fortifying gulp.
“Come on,” I chivied. “You had all that time while I fetching these,” I said, gesturing to the elaborate concoctions doubling as our drinks. “Spill the beans.”
“Alright,” Marcus finally said.
He turned, facing me, and leans in.
“Earlier that day, I would’ve sent you a text message, telling you to arrive at my house at eight.”
“What if I’m late?” I asked.
“I expect you be punctual, Miss Malone,” he said, seriously. “I’ve given you instructions - and I don’t approve of them not being met…”
“Then I’m definitely late,” I interrupted, cheekily. “Deliberately so. I want to see what happens if I incur your disapproval,” I added provocatively.
“You knock on my front door. As you’re late, I have no problem making you wait. Leisurely, I make my way from the living room to the hallway. Finally, I open the door, and tell you to come in. I then close it, making sure I lock it. You go to kiss me, but I pull away.”
“You’re late, remember. I’m not in the mood to be kind.”
I felt a wave of heat wash over me.
“I tell you to take your coat off, and hang it up. Which you do.”
“See, I can follow instructions…”
“Then I spin you around, pinning you against the front door.”
I could feel my heart begin to beat faster as a million butterflies set flight in my tummy.
“I pull your arms behind you, and hold your wrists in one of my hands. Using my other hand, I remove the tie I put in my pocket before you arrived. Wrapping the tie around your wrists, I bind your hands together. Tightly.”
I shudder as under the table, free from prying eyes, I could feel one of his fingertips begin to caress my thigh.
“Don’t stop,” I tell him.
“The story or touching you?” he asks.
“Both,” I reply. “Keep going with both.”
“I press against you, pushing you firmly against the cold glass of the door. You can feel my hard cock in the palm of your bound hands.”
As he spoke, his fingertip inched its way up my inner thigh. Instinctively, I looked around, to see if anyone was watching us. No-one was.
“I grab hold of your hair, and pull your head back. Leaning forward, I whisper in your ear.”
“What do you say?” I said, breathlessly.
“”Don’t struggle, slave.””
His fingers touch the lacy edge of my underwear.
“Oh, I think I will struggle…”
“Then I’ll press you even more firmly against the cold door,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Keeping hold of your hair in one hand, I’ll put the palm of my other hand against your mouth, hand-gagging you, silencing you.”
Slowly, his fingertip moves across the outside of my briefs.
“And I’ll tell you one last time, “Don’t struggle, slave.””
Through the fabric, I could feel him gently edge towards my clit.
“I’ll spin you around, and with one hand holding one of your forearms tightly, the other holding your hair, I’ll push you, propelling you to the living room.”
“I might resist…”
“I’ve got hold of you tightly,” he said, his fingers circling my sweet spot. “And I’m strong; I’ll be able to control you. You can try and struggle, but I’m too powerful for you. Once we’re in the living room, I’ll make you stand there. Whilst I look at you. Studying my prize. Then, once I’m satisfied, I’ll take off your skirt, then your knickers.”
Under the table, I could feel him slowly, gently, massage my most private of private parts.
“Now your bottom half is exposed, I’ll manhandle you towards the table. I bend you over, so you’re face-down. I’ll pull your legs apart, spreading them. I’ve got another two ties on me; I use them to tie each of your ankles to one of the table legs.”
His fingers are moving faster now, wanking me through the sodden fabric.
“Because you’ve been late, directly disobeying my instructions, I’ve decided you need a very particular punishment. You need to be taught a lesson. You need breaking in.”
“I need spanking…”
“Don’t tell me what to do, slave,” he spat. His finger stopped rubbing, and he firmly placed his palm against my pussy. And pushed. “I’m in charge.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“You talk to too much. That’s what I’ve realized once I’ve tied you down; too much noise. So, I pick up the ball-gag I’d bought that afternoon. I lean on you, and - reaching forward - ram the large, black rubber ball in your mouth. I fasten it, making sure I pull the straps tight.”
He lifted his palm, and his finger resumed caressing my clit.
“I leave you there, waiting. Wondering what’s coming next. I know you want a spanking, but would that be enough? No, not tonight; you’ve been particularly bad - a spanking just wouldn’t do. You need something firmer. The next thing you feel is something cold drip onto your bare arse. Lube.”
“Don’t stop,” I tell him, panting.
“I spread the liquid around your pucker, before - gently - inserting a finger. I want to test the size. I remove my finger, but only because I’m getting ready to insert something else…”
“Are you going to fuck me?” I ask. “Fuck me in the arse?”
“Oh, yes. Inch by long inch, I slowly fill your arse with my massive cock. The lube helps, but my dick is long, thick - it consumes your hole. It fills you, completely. I move it out…”
His finger is rubbing faster…
“... before ramming it back in again. In and out. In and out. Harder and harder with each thrust…”
I could feel my thighs begin to spasm…
“... harder and harder…”
My heart was beating so quickly I was afraid it would burst from my rib-cage…
“... the gag masks your groans…”
I closed my eyes…
“... harder and harder, until one final…”
My body pulses, and I groan.
My thighs clamp shut, trapping Marcus’ hand.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
I open my eyes to look at him. He’s smiling. The cheeky sod knows it was more than okay.
I sit there, in the near-darkness, spent, luxuriating in the just-come glow.
“Do you want to make the appointment now?”
“Sorry?” I say, dazed.
“For tomorrow night,” Marcus said, reaching fro his drink. “Shall we say, eight o’clock?”
“Yes,” I reply, slowly. “Eight o’clock would be perfect.”
“Please be late.”
“Oh, I will be,” I say. “Don’t worry - I’ll definitely be late for our second date.”
And maybe then I’d struggle to arrive on time for the third… perhaps even the fourth as well…
“Right,” Marcus said, after draining his drink. “My turn to get the drinks in. Your turn to handle the filth.”
As he traversed the small, dark room, my mind began to whirl.
And I started to think about all the naughty things I’d do to my good-looking English teacher with the Tom Hiddleston-hair.
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