I want to set the room right before you come home. Fresh begonias, perky in a pot atop the table. Pink against the blue tablecloth hanging over the mahogany. I’m at the sink, washing up, not because you’ve asked me to, but because you haven’t. These are the spaces I make my own. An unspoken task I take on to show you. A swept floor, an oiled bench.

You barrel into the room with the noisy pace of the working world. Bags slammed down, the coat strewn and the shoes kicked high. You’re ready to melt into the sofa, when you notice the way I have stacked the stray books, unpacked the groceries and filed the flim-flam of flyers in the bin. Your mouth breaks into a smile. Unbidden I kneel at your feet and we silently watch the world beyond the verandah through the window.

As we sit you plant your hand flat on the back of my head, gently gripping and releasing the finger tips. You drag five paths through my thick hair, arriving at a handful to gently pull. My chin tips up to meet the fingers of your other hand. They cup me, stroking and squeezing my throat from larynx to clavicle. And I hear your deep breathing, I feel the press of your leg against me as you drop your hips. Soon your sticky fingers are introduced into my mouth, and I taste the day’s pent up stresses.

You turn my head to face you, raise your legs and land them on my shoulders as you pull me close to the source of your desire. Your thighs part and hitch up the skirt as you pitch up the curved wetness of your cunt into my face. Your hands each holding a lock of hair, you pull me in tighter, deeper, darker, wetter, my arms braced to stop me falling, my face is full of you.

When I came to you I had nothing but the clothes I stood in. My life was my belongings. You gave a house to my body and a home to my service. You mete out tasks to perform. My need is to give pleasure and feed off what that provides.

Now I am naked and feeding on you. I part those warm labia with my wet lips and kiss you inside. Tenderly I trace the shape of your clit, its hood flushed with blood, lapping quickly with my flat tongue like deer at a mineral lick. I go deeper, letting you envelop me as I press upon your swelling bud. You press down on me, clutching tight in desperation like I’m a prodigal child who will never be unclasped from your spasmed grip. You swallow up my sounds and voice in your vigour.

And you have no words to give me. Just the increasing beat of your heart through your dress, the scratchy pressure of two days’ growth between your legs and the warmth of your flesh. Your heat puddles at my chin, I gnaw with urgency as I feel the quivers of your orgasm approach.

Later, in the gathering dusk, you doze while I tidy the clothes. Your scattered possessions mixed with my belongings.



The whip grips the folds of my flesh as it unfolds with a sting in the tail. I grip the folds of sheets, pulling harder, my hands apart, above my head, legs spread and lashed to the bedstead. Again. I count. Softer now, barely audible, until she’ll choke the word louder from my throat.


And I bury myself into the covers, my hips trying to hide from the next stroke.


I run my tongue over cracked lips. And the air is suddenly cool on my sodden face, smeared with tears, spit and sweat, as she tugs back my head with a handful of hair. Her own blood-red cupid’s bow at my ear, softly: “I. Can’t. Hear. You.”


“Better. Bitch”

I can feel the welt rising at the top of the back of my leg, every time it touches the curve of my ass there’s an electric shock. I flinch. I swear. I can feel my face falling. I can’t do this.


Then I’m alive to her. An adrenaline shot like whisky surges through me, before she can move I howl “FIVE. FIVE FIVE FIVE”. My shoulders now braced, hips cocked like a breech-loading gun, the feelings flowing to my fingers. I. Am. Alive.

I don’t bow, I don’t bend – my flesh will mend, the bones will yield but not break. When the blow lands I feel you filling me, my swelling self tumescent with the urgency of your own need to strike, whip and punish me. The heat of my wounds rising in your own cunt, weeping, pink, freshly flushed flesh.


And I’m riding this, moving with the motion of our connected selves. I tingle, overcome with the sensory overload that’s too much for my mind to process. The colour of the walls, every sound deafening – the clock, the street, the creaking stretch of a leather basque.


And by seven there is only the noise of the wind in my ears. A rush as the wider world collapses into us. The bed, this room, nothing else. My pounding heart rattling my ribs, seeming to force out the nubs of my nipples.


I break. I subside into the ties binding me to this bed. Once again that shrouded fog of submission, like laudanum smothering my resistance. I’m held fast, stretched and fully given to you. Bruises mark the scraped skin in orderly rows, as lines written in punishment.


And I’m yours. And you’re mine.