Kinky (6 page)

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He mock salutes and races to the gents’ with my handbag, looking so like the world’s least convincing transvestite that I can’t help giggling.

I look down at myself, naked apart from a ruined bra, sitting on a filing cabinet. The metal is cold against my backside, but I’m heating it up quickly enough. I reach around and unhook my bra. It seems pointless to keep it on, after all.

When he emerges from the toilets, condom packet in hand, I become conscious of the fact that he is still fully dressed whilst I am starkers. The inequality of the situation needs to be redressed, I feel. Or undressed.

He slings my handbag back on the desk with a pleasingly cowboy-like nonchalance and stands in front of me, hand on hip, condom brandished, crooked smile in full effect under that moustache.

‘So,’ he says.

‘So, you’re wearing too many clothes. And I’m getting cold up here.’

‘Cold? Oh, that’s not good.’ He shimmies back up to me, clasping his hands together in the small of my back, leaning his forehead against mine. ‘I don’t like cold.’

Behind me, I can feel his hands waggling about, tackling the condom wrapper. It’s not going to do much good unless those jeans come down, though, so I reach towards his belt buckle. Except there’s a problem here – he has more than one. He is wearing about five skinny leather belts of different designs, all interlinked and looped around each other. I sigh, lips brushing his.

‘Why so many belts?’

‘I don’t want to pack them.’

‘Oh right.’ One down, the other four are quick enough to unbuckle. They fall aside like a gateway of tooled leather, allowing me to concentrate on unbuttoning his fly. Here it comes. The exertion causes me to pant slightly, my hot breath mingling with his. I prepare myself to push down the jeans then the underpants – but there are no underpants. An unexpected cock emerges from the disintegrating denim, causing me to squeal inelegantly.

‘You bad, bad man!’ I exclaim with a delighted laugh. ‘No pants!’

‘OK, you got me,’ he said softly. ‘When I come here, I have plan to fuck you. I think maybe I can be lucky so I don’t put on them.’

‘You didn’t think about the condoms though?’ I put a hand on his cock, running my fingertips gently up the shaft, admiring its firmness.

‘I don’t want to be too hopeful. In Russia we believe in fate.’

His hands unclasp and he brings the unwrapped condom around, removing my fingers so he can skin it on.

‘So, I am ready,’ he whispers. ‘You are ready?’ He answers his own question by fingering my pussy, gathering my wetness as evidence.

‘I’m ready.’

‘I know.’ He pulls my thighs apart and around his waist again, takes his cock in hand and guides it to my willing slit, rubbing it around in my juices before surging forward.

I cry out and hang on for dear life around his neck, adjusting to the strange fullness, something I have not felt for some time.

He keeps one arm anchored around my waist while he uses his other hand to stroke my clit, holding himself heroically still for a moment.

He kisses me. ‘Feels good?’ he asks.

‘Oh. You don’t need to ask. Yes.’

‘OK. Hold tight.’

I cling like a spider monkey while he shunts back and forth, building up speed. The cabinet rattles underneath me, then it begins to rock, but I couldn’t care less, every part of me focused on the friction inside me. He angles himself perfectly and crosses my sweetest spot, keeping the pressure on my clit at the same time. In a fog of exquisite, tormenting sensation I feel the burn at the pit of my stomach that signals the first steps on the stairway to orgasm.

‘Oh, yes, hard, do it hard,’ I mutter in delirium, wanting to spur him to his own. He slams the cabinet into the wall, thrusting like a madman, holding me in a tense armlock. My end is near, the sensation rising and spreading. I bury my face in his neck and start to whimper.

He says something totally unintelligible but wildly sexy-sounding – presumably in Russian – and that’s what finally gets me there, bucking and writhing against him while he utters god-knows-what into my ear.

God-knows-what gets louder and more emphatic, almost vengeful in tone, until it breaks down into a formless roar and he makes his final blinding thrusts before holding himself still inside, head thrown back, beautiful throat exposed, hands gripping me to the point of bruising.

Christ. He’s completely taken me. One night, one fuck, and I’m in love.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Help.

I still have no idea how I made it through the day without getting fired.

I bluffed through the campaign meeting with the rapidly extemporised slogan ‘What the Nose Knows’ – madly, the account manager loved it. No accounting for advertising taste, obviously. Nobody commented on the smudgy black line on the paintwork behind the filing cabinet either. A few people noticed the dark circles under my eyes, especially Anton, but I put that down to staying up all night working on the campaign.

At the coffee shop around the corner, he props me up with a large macchiato after work and quizzes me on some aspects of my story that he feels don’t add up.

‘So were you in the office when there was that security alert?’ he asks, biting off the end of his biscotti.

‘Security alert?’

‘Yeah, broken window on the ground floor at the back. Apparently, the alarms were activated but the police never showed up. Nobody can get hold of Whatsisname the night watchman.’

‘No, I guess I went home before that.’ I yawn.

‘The weirdest thing about it is the missing tape from the CCTV. Just gone, man. Mental! Conspiracy!’

‘I can’t really think straight, Anton. Do you mind if we just talk about really straightforward, really unchallenging stuff?’

He winks. ‘Same as always then?’

My phone bleeps and I try to peer through the blur to read the message. It’s from Dimitri. My heart leaps and I suppose I probably blush like a fool.

‘You meet me tomorrow?’ it says.

‘Sure. When and where?’

‘Meet me 12 mid of day outside the Kinky Cupcake.’

‘OK xxx.’

I wait a moment to see if he will send me anything more, with the crucial kisses, but he doesn’t, so I sigh mildly and put my phone away.

‘Who was that?’ Anton is frowning.

‘Just a mate. From home.’

‘No it isn’t. Your eyes did that looking up to the left thing that’s meant to be a classic sign of a fib.’

A plague on pop psychology and body language analysis.

‘Anton.’ I’m surprised and a little perturbed at how much this seems to matter to him. ‘It’s personal. OK?’

‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ he accuses. ‘You went all misty and pink. You’re in love. Who is he? Not Dale from upstairs or I’ll puke.’

‘Jesus, no! Look, I’m too tired for this. I’m going. Thanks for the coffee. Have a good weekend.’

I sail off with my handbag clutched to my chest before he can argue.

* * *

The next day is rainy so I hurry along the Shoreditch alleyways with my umbrella and raincoat. Only I know that underneath the waterproof veneer, I am wearing only a swishy jersey dress and stockings. If going commando is good enough for Dimitri …

To my relief and near-surprise – because I was starting to wonder if I’d dreamed him – he stands in the archway of the Kinky Cupcake door. No umbrella, fatally wounded leather jacket the only thing standing between his rangy body and the elements. His moustache drips when he kisses me an enthusiastic hello.

‘This is London,’ I tell him. ‘It rains.’

‘Oh, rain.’ He shrugs vaguely. ‘It’s nothing. In Moscow right now is first winter snow.’

‘You’re a tough cookie,’ I say, swooning slightly at his manly disregard of the weather.

‘No.’ He points one finger at the dark brick behind us. ‘I am a kinky cupcake. Shall we go in?’

‘OK.’

We nod to the doorman and head up to the café, which is half full of damp Saturday shoppers popping in for their quota of rubber and depravity before the football scores. Actually, a rubber outfit would be good in this weather. Maybe I should get one.

‘So,’ I open, bringing coffee and Danish pastries to the table, ‘what are we doing here?’

‘I book a room,’ says Dimitri, teeth flashing as he smiles his wicked smile.

‘You booked a room? Here?’

‘Yeah. I need to practise my skills for my new career.’

‘Oh, that.’ I bite my lip. I still can’t quite believe he means to go through with it. ‘Is it expensive? To rent the room?’

‘I pay for an hour. Is quite expensive, but yesterday I find a job for while I wait for good-paying clients.’

‘Good idea. What’s the job?’

‘In a kitchen.’ He shrugs. ‘It isn’t for ever.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘So drink your coffee. I book the room one till two.’

‘Which room did you book?’

‘The schoolroom.’

‘I see. And what might we be practising?’

‘I am going to whip you,’ he says, infinitely casual, dabbing coffee from his moustache with a napkin.

‘Lovely.’ I shudder and have the urge to hug myself. I have this sense of being in exquisite danger. Danger I have signed up for.

I linger over the coffee, keeping an eye on the clock, while we discuss my advertising campaign, his associates in the squatty-sounding dive he is staying in, his new kitchen-portering job, until the time comes and I can divert him with light chatter no longer.

He holds out his hand. ‘Come.’

I hope so.

But first I have to descend with him into that sinister basement where all things dark and dreadful take place. No events are taking place this lunchtime – those are reserved for the evening hours – so the corridor is quiet. In the medical room, there seems to be a little activity going on – another booking, presumably.

Dimitri pushes open the door to the schoolroom, as white and bare and chalk-dusty as I remember with its row of little desks and its cupboard of pain.

It is to this last that Dimitri addresses himself, opening the door and pulling out a gown of coarse black material.

‘This fits me?’ He puts it over his shoulders and flaps about like a vampire bat, trying it out for size. It’s a little short on him, but the effect transforms him from pure gypsy to, I dunno, scholar gypsy.

‘You look a bit like Dracula,’ I say, doubtfully. ‘Maybe the mortar board?’

‘The …?’

‘Square hat thing.’

‘This?’ He perches it at a jaunty angle and tosses his head so the tassel swings.

‘Why didn’t my head teacher look like that?’ I wonder aloud, then I squeak when he finds the cane and swishes it dramatically through the air.

After a few moments of fencing with an invisible opponent, he flexes it in both hands and fixes me with an evil grin. ‘So, my naughty girl, are you ready to bend over?’

‘Um. Could we start with something a little gentler?’

‘Of course. Actually, I am thinking perhaps first I need to know what this things feels like.’

He rummages in the cupboard, producing a number of implements and laying them in a fan shape on the nearest desk.

‘You mean, you mean, I use them on you?’ I pick up a varnished wooden rectangle with a narrow handle at one end and smack it experimentally into a palm.

‘Sure. If I become an expert dom, I want to know what submissive is feeling. Otherwise how do I make best decision of what to do?’

‘That makes a lot of sense.’

‘Of course.’

Without further discussion, he whips off the cloak, turns his back to me and drops his jeans.

The sudden revelation of his tight backside causes me to cover my mouth with a hand. ‘Oh,’ I say, when I’ve caught my breath. ‘Right. So, what shall I use first?’

‘Your hand, maybe.’

I approach him with tentative steps and bend a little, inspecting that gorgeous arse at closer quarters.

‘Yes? You can start.’

My first smack is hardly worthy of the name, pathetic really, more like a tap.

He exhales impatiently. ‘What was that?’

I land a harder one. My palm tingles but his butt doesn’t change colour at all.

‘Did you start yet?’

Cheeky bugger. I pull back my arm and whack.

‘Ah. I felt that one. Harder now.’

I look at my palm, which is an angry shade of pink just from that one stroke.

‘It hurts my hand,’ I object.

He sighs. ‘Try the leather one.’

I pick up a short, thick strap and flap it half-heartedly.

‘Do it hard!’ he shouts, making me jump.

‘Sorry,’ I snipe, then I snap it down. I’m rewarded with my first flinch of the day.

‘OK,’ he says, putting a hand on the faint red stripe I’ve made. ‘That is a sting. Try the wood.’

I notice that he braces himself with one hand on the teacher’s desk for this one. He is expecting it to hurt. I wish I could see if it was having an arousing effect on him, but I’m at an angle to his rear that makes peeking impossible. Damn it.

I take the wooden rectangle and slap it smartly down. He hisses, but asks for a harder blow all the same.

This one makes a fierce red mark across the central part of his arse and he shakes his head vigorously while the force of the blow sinks in.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘That is harder. Deeper pain. Now, OK, I think the cane.’

I pick up the length of rattan but I’m a little concerned. I don’t know what to do with the bloody thing. What if I seriously injure him? I lay it softly across his bottom. He reaches around and pushes the tip away from his hip, further towards his arse crack.

‘Don’t you see how he did it that night? Was like this.’

I’m glad
somebody
was taking notes. I was too busy trying to stop myself masturbating in the street.

‘A good stroke, Rosie. I want it to hurt.’

I’m scared, I can’t deny it. I tap the rod, the way I think I must have seen someone do in a film or something, and draw back my forearm, then I hear the whoosh of air as the cane rushes forwards and, just as I see Dimitri’s shoulders tense, my arm freezes and I can’t do it.

‘Sorry, sorry, I just can’t. I just can’t hurt you.’