‘You’re…’ I tailed off. Calling him a bastard might not help.
‘What?’ He held my eyes, and I dropped my gaze. He was too good at this.
‘Er, you’re not finished,’ I said.
‘Quite right. Back down, please. We have eight strokes to go. And I think…’
I saw him put down the crop and go over to his brown paper bags, which were now ranged in a corner of the studio.
He came back with a vibrator in his hand.
‘You’re just about ready,’ he whispered, holding it against my vagina and twisting it round a little to assess my level of lubrication. It was obviously pretty high, and he pushed it inside, lining up the attached clitoral stimulator between my lips once it was fully seated. It was a fat, sleek number, curved to rest against my G-spot, just like my favourite model at home. I almost came then and there, and he hadn’t even switched it on yet. In the mirror, I saw his palm, flat against my pussy as if he was about to smack it, but he was holding the vibrator firmly against me, making sure I couldn’t dislodge it before turning it to a low pulse and retrieving his crop.
Oh, boy, that low pulse. Just too low to bring me off straightaway, but high enough to drive me twisty-turny mad.
‘I want you to come while I’m whipping you,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘I want you to beg me to make it harder.’
I moaned, unable to articulate through my storm of heightened stimulation and helpless submission. I didn’t care what I looked like in the mirror. I just wanted to take what he gave me, mindlessly and slavishly, until I could take no more.
He picked up the crop once more and hit it squarely across the centre of my bottom. The vibrator and massager both juddered, sending out extra waves. I clamped my thighs together and squeezed every muscle. I was so close.
‘Tell me when it happens,’ said Tom, as another flash of heat crossed my skin. ‘Tell me when you’re close.’
‘I’m close now,’ I wailed. ‘Sooo…oh, God…’
I was grinding again, my hips on auto-pilot, feeling the core of the sensation expand and start to rush.
‘Yes, yes, keep it up,’ breathed Tom, grabbing hold of one of my shoulders to keep me in position while he let the last six strokes lash down hard and fast. I climaxed through them, as the conflicting swirls of pleasure and pain and everything else eddied madly around my body. I was melting down and my brain had given up trying to process the separate sensations, letting them merge into one sticky mass.
As if from a distance, I heard myself calling his name. The whip lashed its last; he threw it down and bent over me from behind, his arms tight around me, his mouth hungry on my neck and face and mouth.
‘You’re amazing, fucking amazing,’ he slurred. He reached down to remove the vibrator and loosen his leather trousers. After about half a minute of rocking and kissing and crying (it was me crying, not him), he got inside me. I watched through tears, kissing the fingers that covered my mouth, as he thrust. His neck was flushed, his head raised, eyes fixed but unseeing, every shred of him given over to the fuck. His reflections multiplied and blurred as my own body found itself on the path to another orgasm, almost before the last one (or was it two, or ten?) had faded away.
Like our reflections, it was multiple and seemingly unending, and it melded with Tom’s climax, the synchrony so perfect that it seemed profoundly symbolic.
We were one and we were in tune, even as the spanking stool toppled with both of us, conjoined, still bent over it.
The hectic outpourings of our orgasms were interrupted by laughter. We laughed until we wheezed, holding each other tight, kissing, biting, rolling over and over until we lay together on the padded floor, exhausted.
Every joyful emotion in the spectrum had come together to banish the spectres of the last weeks. Nothing could break the spell now.
‘Oh, God,’ said Tom. ‘The ceiling’s mirrored too.’
I looked up and saw, sure enough, our shining faces beaming down from above.
‘Look at that pair up there,’ said Tom. ‘What a sorry spectacle. I don’t know about fast and loose – more like shagged and fucked.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But I like them. Actually I kind of love them.’
Tom’s face turned to my face, and his fingertips stroked my skin.
‘They’re good together, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘I think they should…’
‘What?’
He lay back, shutting his eyes for a moment as if to gather strength, then returned to the subject with determination.
‘I think they should try and stick together,’ he said.