So instead I say, ‘I want you to do whatever you want with me.’
He pushes in to the hilt and holds himself there, his breath wavering. ‘You really? You mean that?’
‘Whatever you want. I’m yours.’
His fingers work on my nipples with furious speed while he fucks me harder, into the wall, making my knees bend with every thrust.
‘You turn me on,’ he says, at least I think that’s what he says. I’m starting to blow my lid, the steam rising. ‘I make you come so hard.’
‘You do, you do.’ He does, he does. My knees give way and only his cock holds me in place while he works himself to his orgasm, pinning me to the windowsill, gasping and grabbing me hard in his effort not to make too much noise.
I wriggle joyfully on the end of his cock, wanting it to stay, regretting its departure when he slides it out and slumps down on his knees next to me, brow on the sill.
‘Whatever I want, hey?’ he says when he turns his face to the side and catches my eyes in a drugged, heavy-lidded gaze.
I’m light-headed, cutting through the thousand qualifiers that spring to mind to answer with a simple, ‘Yes.’
It’s a risk, perhaps a huge and dangerous risk, but somehow it doesn’t feel like one at all.
Chapter Seven
Whatever he wants.
Whatever that might be.
I spend the week contemplating the possibilities. There are so many that I make myself dizzy.
He might want a full-time slave or he might want a no-strings Saturday shag. He might want to throttle me during sex, like that couple I’d seen on TV once, or he might want to watch while a procession of men in leather fuck me in turn.
There really aren’t any limits to what he might want. A lot of it is frightening, but then I catch myself and tell myself that I’m just trying to spook myself, like when I used to imagine all the bad things that could happen to me between my house and school. I fear the worst so that I’m prepared for it. It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.
I just wish I knew him. I wish we could just talk sometimes.
‘How was the wedding?’ asks Anton, catching me off guard.
‘What wedding?’
‘Exactly.’ He pronounces the word with savage satisfaction, trying to hold my eye accusingly. But I’m not in the mood for accusations, so I shrug and offer to make tea for the rest of the office.
He doesn’t invite me anywhere this weekend.
I am more on tenterhooks than ever for my regular Saturday tryst with Dimitri. Looking for clues as to our probable activities, I text him a question.
‘What should I wear?’
He replies: ‘Whatever you want.’
This isn’t helpful. It’s what he wants that I need to know, have to know, will die of fretting pretty soon if I don’t find out.
I text back: ‘Spacesuit then?’
‘If you like.’
Of course, I don’t have a spacesuit. In the end I go with my usual flirty dress with stockings. I feel so drab amongst the wet-look man-made materials in the café, though, especially beside Dimitri who is more like a one-man carnival than ever, trailing scarves and fringes in his jingly-jangly wake.
‘So then,’ I quaver, ridiculously nervous, my coffee cup jittering in my hand.
‘So then,’ he prompts when I don’t continue. His smile is playful, his eyes only pretend stern.