“Why do you think that is?” he asked.
“I…don’t know.” I knew he wouldn’t accept this cop out, but I needed a moment to compose the words into a combination that wasn’t too mortifying.
“Of course you know, Lara. I must have an answer or I’ll have to punish you again.”
Oh God, those words. I pressed a fingertip to my clit; it was swollen and it throbbed with need.
“Because…I get aroused…by submitting to you, Sir.”
He tilted his head forward, acknowledging the truth of my answer. “And what does that make you?” he asked lightly.
I swallowed, fingering my clit more urgently now. “It makes me…I don’t know…a bad girl, Sir?”
“That’s right. It makes you a bad girl. Now I want you to stand there and finger yourself until you come. And while you do it, I want you to look me in the eye. And when you come, I want to hear you say my name.”
A keen mélange of shame and excitement and unbearable desire held me in my tracks for a second or two. Then I began to rub and circle, to flick and flutter, watching him watching me, knowing that he registered every twitch and flush, that he could see me lose my grip on myself inch by dirty inch…that he saw what I was, reduced to my basest essence, brazenly bringing myself off under his command.
I wanted so badly to shut my eyes when the first sticky swirl of orgasm began at the pit of my stomach. I had to fight to keep the eyelids up, had to arm myself with some of his icy-blue artillery and imagine the fearsome punishment I might earn for disobeying him in this regard. But once the climax blew through me, I forgot to care, and my eyelids flew wide and my eyes stared out in desperation while I panted and whimpered to the conclusion, remembering at the last minute to say the word.
“Dexter. Oh thank you, Dexter.”
“My pleasure,” he said, taking my wrists and bringing me to sit, gratefully floppy, on his lap. “Or rather, mostly your pleasure. But we’ll rectify that another time.” He stroked my hair, which was clinging to my forehead. “Good girl, Lara,” he said into the crown of my head. “This could be a very…mutually beneficial arrangement. You know I have high standards, and high expectations of you now. Please don’t let me down.”
Please don’t let me down.
* * * *
With five minutes to go until our meeting, the bills were paid, the flat was clean, I’d been to the gym my allotted three times, I’d met the two deadlines I had, the fridge and cupboards were full, I’d dealt with the court summons for non-payment of parking fines and…that was it. There was really nothing. Nothing he could reproach me for. I cast my eyes around the flat, looking for something out of place. No. It was all perfect. Well, apart from the dirty dishes under the sink and the pile of unopened post behind the sofa cushions—but he couldn’t expect me to be superhuman, surely. And besides, he wouldn’t see them.
I was already basking in the advanced glow of his approval, even as a tiny part of me regretted that I wouldn’t get a trip over his knee today. I wanted to please him. I wanted to prove that I was capable of meeting his stringent demands.
I peeked through my shiny sparkly window, looking out for the first sign of him. When I spotted his tall figure rounding a corner, laptop bag in hand, I got this heartburn sensation, then an entire tropical forest of butterflies fluttered to life. My hands were shaking! I couldn’t let them shake! What if I spilt his boiling green tea on him?
Even though I saw him press the buzzer, it still made me jump.
My voice was foreign to me as I piped, “Come on up.”
He looked almost as nervous as I felt when I opened the door to him, and he couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether to smile and be friendly, or continue with the stiff formality. Now spanking and sexual tension stood between us, a shared experience, and neither of us had much of a clue how to negotiate this brave new chapter in the story—an intimate act that nonetheless had no effect on the semi-formal footing of our involvement.
“How are you, Lara?” he asked politely, moving straight into the kitchen and unzipping his bag as always.
“Fine, thanks. Green tea?”
“Thank you.”
I had minutes of respite now, with an excuse to turn my back on him and shilly-shally with teacups and kettles. But, oh horror, there were no clean cups—just glasses.
“Or perhaps you’d prefer water? Or fruit juice?” I asked hopefully, eyeing the clean glasses in their display cabinet.
“Green tea is fine.”
Could I open that cupboard under the sink just an inch and slip a hand inside for a dirty cup to give it a quick blast under the taps? Did I dare? I jumbled it all in, in rather a rush. I wasn’t confident. But neither could I confess. I didn’t want to blot my copybook on the first meeting of the new regime.
I touched the handle of the cupboard, hoping that the whir of his booting computer and the steaming of the kettle would mask any clink or chink from inside. He was deep into the set-up, opening browsers and files and whatnot. He wasn’t watching me. I decided to chance it.
The merest crack threatened to set off a cacophonous chain reaction of tumbling china. I shut the door. Shit. Wasn’t it supposed to be quite sophisticated to drink tea from a glass? People did it, I’m sure. In posh hotels and dramas about the colonial past. Okay, there was nothing else for it. I reached for a tall tumbler and popped the teabag inside, half-filling it with boiling water then topping it up with cold from the fridge, just as he always specified. It looked quite drinkable, in a sludgy green-brownish kind of way. Shame the glass didn’t have one of those metal holders with a handle, but I wasn’t running a bloody café. It would have to do.
I plonked it down in front of him and turned swiftly back to the kettle, hoping that my speed would make up for my failure at projecting a nonchalant air. How do you do nonchalance? Should I whistle a jaunty tune or something? Ask him about the traffic?