‘You don’t want the cane?’
‘Not today. Not ready.’ I push back. He plants a lingering kiss on my wettest spot. ‘Please, oh, please.’
‘I lock the door.’
The most welcome words I could hear. I let my neck and shoulders relax and drop my forehead to the worn-smooth wood of the chair, then rest my cheek against its grain. My bottom still throbs, the skin stretched taut and sizzling, and my legs are starting to ache, the knees feeling locked, but I don’t care. I want one thing, and I want it from him.
‘This science, it make me want to fuck,’ he says gravely, returning to my open legs and pushing his hand between them. ‘I think for you also.’ His fingers pinch and squeeze and rub. ‘You are comfortable there? Your legs shake.’
Maybe a bit less pressure on my feet might be good. But there is no bed in here.
He kisses me, carefully, on the inside of each thigh, then he braces his arms around my waist and lifts me to my feet until I am held with my head in the crook of his shoulder, leaning back into him, ready to fall and be caught.
‘Mm.’ He kisses my neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin. ‘I think here is best.’
He leads me to a gymnasium vaulting horse at the back of the room and lifts me on to it so that my stomach is cushioned by the leather-padded top and my legs dangle down, not quite reaching the floor.
I hear him shuck off his robe and unbuckle the many belts. There is a snap and the smell of latex hits my nostrils. I am ready … set …
And we’re off.
He takes it slowly, penetrating me with care and attention to my rapidly bruising bottom.
I like the feel of him behind me, between my thighs, standing and thrusting forwards while I flounder over the horse. I feel very small and submissive, stuck here with no choice but to take my punisher’s cock until he is satisfied that I have understood the nature of our bond. Him on top, giving it; me underneath, taking it.
I spread my legs wider, to give him better access, enjoying the speed and friction of his movement and the way it sends him deeper. His balls swing and bang against my sex with each homeward drive. I begin to hang on for dear life, trying to keep in position for him, trying not to slump and fall into oblivion.
Objectively, I know that my bottom must still hurt, but I don’t feel it any more; I don’t feel anything but the slow sensation unravelling through my groin and stomach.
His hands creep around the front of my thighs and find my clit, each set of fingers playing it like a piano while he thrusts ever harder and faster.
I come, humping my abdomen against the padded leather, digging my fingernails in until it is close to tearing. He takes hold of my hips again and gives me the final few race-to-victory lunges until he rests, embedded in me, hissing out that steaming stream of Russian phrases.
Slowly, I become aware that my bottom still hurts. Especially when he pats it and asks how I am.
‘It’s really sore,’ I say. ‘But God, that was good. So good.’
‘Wait there. I see cream in the closet.’
I maintain a blissful flop over the vaulting horse while he sorts his jeans out and heads over to the cane cupboard. For a fearful second, I think he is playing a horrible trick on me and he will come back with a length of rattan, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands behind me, slathering on a cool and soothing lotion.
‘Will you do that for your clients?’ I ask, the words coming out slowly and heavily.
‘What? This cream? If they like.’
‘No, I mean sex. I think they call it “extras”. In the trade.’
‘I tell you before, I don’t think so. I don’t fuck my clients. I am not prostitute.’
‘But what are you, then? You’d definitely be a sex worker.’
‘Sex worker who does not have sex.’
‘That’s perfectly possible. All this – the headmaster stuff – is all sexual. Isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but you can pretend it is not. Is different than
‘Not today. Not ready.’ I push back. He plants a lingering kiss on my wettest spot. ‘Please, oh, please.’
‘I lock the door.’
The most welcome words I could hear. I let my neck and shoulders relax and drop my forehead to the worn-smooth wood of the chair, then rest my cheek against its grain. My bottom still throbs, the skin stretched taut and sizzling, and my legs are starting to ache, the knees feeling locked, but I don’t care. I want one thing, and I want it from him.
‘This science, it make me want to fuck,’ he says gravely, returning to my open legs and pushing his hand between them. ‘I think for you also.’ His fingers pinch and squeeze and rub. ‘You are comfortable there? Your legs shake.’
Maybe a bit less pressure on my feet might be good. But there is no bed in here.
He kisses me, carefully, on the inside of each thigh, then he braces his arms around my waist and lifts me to my feet until I am held with my head in the crook of his shoulder, leaning back into him, ready to fall and be caught.
‘Mm.’ He kisses my neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin. ‘I think here is best.’
He leads me to a gymnasium vaulting horse at the back of the room and lifts me on to it so that my stomach is cushioned by the leather-padded top and my legs dangle down, not quite reaching the floor.
I hear him shuck off his robe and unbuckle the many belts. There is a snap and the smell of latex hits my nostrils. I am ready … set …
And we’re off.
He takes it slowly, penetrating me with care and attention to my rapidly bruising bottom.
I like the feel of him behind me, between my thighs, standing and thrusting forwards while I flounder over the horse. I feel very small and submissive, stuck here with no choice but to take my punisher’s cock until he is satisfied that I have understood the nature of our bond. Him on top, giving it; me underneath, taking it.
I spread my legs wider, to give him better access, enjoying the speed and friction of his movement and the way it sends him deeper. His balls swing and bang against my sex with each homeward drive. I begin to hang on for dear life, trying to keep in position for him, trying not to slump and fall into oblivion.
Objectively, I know that my bottom must still hurt, but I don’t feel it any more; I don’t feel anything but the slow sensation unravelling through my groin and stomach.
His hands creep around the front of my thighs and find my clit, each set of fingers playing it like a piano while he thrusts ever harder and faster.
I come, humping my abdomen against the padded leather, digging my fingernails in until it is close to tearing. He takes hold of my hips again and gives me the final few race-to-victory lunges until he rests, embedded in me, hissing out that steaming stream of Russian phrases.
Slowly, I become aware that my bottom still hurts. Especially when he pats it and asks how I am.
‘It’s really sore,’ I say. ‘But God, that was good. So good.’
‘Wait there. I see cream in the closet.’
I maintain a blissful flop over the vaulting horse while he sorts his jeans out and heads over to the cane cupboard. For a fearful second, I think he is playing a horrible trick on me and he will come back with a length of rattan, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands behind me, slathering on a cool and soothing lotion.
‘Will you do that for your clients?’ I ask, the words coming out slowly and heavily.
‘What? This cream? If they like.’
‘No, I mean sex. I think they call it “extras”. In the trade.’
‘I tell you before, I don’t think so. I don’t fuck my clients. I am not prostitute.’
‘But what are you, then? You’d definitely be a sex worker.’
‘Sex worker who does not have sex.’
‘That’s perfectly possible. All this – the headmaster stuff – is all sexual. Isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but you can pretend it is not. Is different than
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