‘What the hell’s this?’ I wonder aloud.
Looking over, Dimitri smirks. ‘I don’t think you want to know,’ he says. He opens a cupboard and takes out a length of chain with leather cuffs at each end. ‘So,’ he says, stretching it menacingly taut before jingling it at me. ‘What do you want to be tied to?’
‘I’m not sure. Some of them don’t look very comfortable.’
‘I think this is on purpose.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘OK, I choose one to start. Here, this table.’
I walk over and inspect it. It’s a high-set black-padded rectangle with a pair of restraining arches that would cover, approximately, the neck and the ankles. Extendable attachments at the side can be used to cuff wrists and ankles, if the arches don’t suit or the legs need to be spread. It looks so cold and clinical that I want to shudder. But I’m with Dimitri. This is exploratory fun. I’m safe.
‘OK
,’ I say dubiously. ‘So …’
‘Well, of course, you must take off your clothes. You must be naked for bondage, right?’
‘Oh.’ I laugh, nervous and feeling the cold. ‘That’s right.’
He seems to tune in to my mild anxiety, stepping forwards and grabbing the lapels of my jacket. ‘I help you,’ he offers, sliding it off my shoulders.
The slinky top and skinny jeans test his disrobing skills, but he passes easily, stripping me down to knickers and bra with expert touch. I surrender to an urge to wrap my arms around him and bury my head in his oversized and somewhat threadbare fisherman’s jumper, breathing in the reassuring scent of his rolling tobacco and joss-stick smoke and menthol. He smells outdoorsy, like a woodsman or something. Not that I’ve ever met a woodsman. What actually is a woodsman? It’s unusual in London, anyway, where nearly everyone smells of exhaust fumes.
‘You are worried?’ He hugs me tight, a bone-crushing embrace just the way I like it. ‘Hey, is only me. No big bad wolf.’
‘You could be a big bad wolf,’ I say, emerging from the sweater to look him in the eye. ‘For all I know.’
‘You really think?’
‘I hardly know you.’
‘What do you want to know? I tell you everything. We can go back to café, do this another time. Is a lot to ask, to tie up a girl when there is not time for trust –’
‘But I do trust you. I’m sure I do. It’s OK. You’ve paid for this room, we shouldn’t waste your money.’
‘Money.’ He makes a dismissive pshaw type sound.
‘Tie me to the table,’ I say softly. ‘But first, take off my underwear.’
To be honest, the feeling of being held by him wearing only bra and knickers is so sensually delicious that I can’t face getting dressed again. His bear-like warmth against my nudity makes me want to snuggle up closer and closer until we are forced to merge with one another.
He unclips my bra and the sensation is enhanced by the inevitable friction of my nipples against the scratchy wool of his jumper. His mouth presses heat into mine, tongues meeting in the middle, while he works on my knicker elastic. I rub my pussy, neatly shaved for the occasion, into the crotch of his raggedy jeans. My pubis and lower abdomen encounter strips of cold studded leather, imprinting its patterns into my skin.
One of his hands reaches down to my bottom and cups it. ‘How is this?’ he asks, breaking the kiss.
‘Oh, fine,’ I whisper. ‘Just a few tiny bruises left now.’
‘Today, no pain,’ he promises. ‘Only pleasure.’
I squirm against him, wondering how the pleasure will be delivered.
‘Now, on to this table.’
Not sure whether to put myself face down or up, I perch on the edge of the thing, hands clasped tightly in my lap.
He lifts the neck and ankle arches and instructs me to lie down on my back, which I do. The leather is cold and clammy against my back, bottom and thighs. The narrowness of the table makes me clamp my legs together.