A girl on a bench.
A girl on a bench in a park
A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun.
Wearing a yellow sundress, just a fraction too small. Her belly presses against the unforgiving cotton fabric in large, beautiful ripples. Her breasts are unseemly but the weather so hot and the park so vast, she takes the risk to bare her flesh.
A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun wearing a yellow sundress which strains with the fullness of her breasts.
I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.
And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.
This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.
I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.
“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.
He’d never taken a dick pic before, or so he said.
Me, I scoffed.
“Unlikely. Not even to check for lumps and bumps, assess a decent shave job?”
He seemed offended that I asked. The only millennial who had not got to grips with phallic photography. Incredible.
I changed tack.
“May I see it, please?”
“Why?” He replied, cagily.
“I like dicks. I like you.. Stands to reason I might like whatever you’re packing in those boxers. You don’t have to say yes, obviously. But the idea of your cock turns me on.”
And I left it at that for a few days whilst he percolated his answer.
“I’ll help you tidy up.”
He smiles shyly at me as we collect fistfuls of beer bottles, paper plates and shredded crisp packets. Soon the front room is habitable, almost. I stretch upwards, suddenly tired. It’s 3am, no wonder.
“Can I sleep on your sofa?”
We both look down at the suite. Cameron is unfurled along most of it – he was my ride here, the reason I ended up at this party held by my #1 crush, who is at my side watching my brother snore contentedly. He didn’t wake up once as we crashed about him.
“Well, you could…..” Tris agrees.
“I’ll think of something. Time for the washing up.”
He doesn’t stop me, just takes the glasses off me to dry, and pops them back in the cupboard, in silence.
We head to his room silently too – I swear I’m only going to get my bag, check my phone. Maybe call a cab and kick Cam until he’s awake enough to come home.
I’m suddenly too hot and though I should be thinking about leaving, I pull off my cardigan and reach down into my bag for a hairband to keep my hair out of my flushed, sweaty face.
“Why don’t you just crash here?” his voice behind me, he’s taken his shirt off, too. His chest is wide, defined by the hair that’s as dark as his head. I feel like I’m drowning as I look at him.
“Time for games” he said. Tuesday. Early work finish day. New underwear day.
I had got home before him, so was lying face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling when he arrived, the skein of rope lying across my stomach. Naked.
I heard the door unlocked, opened, shut.
“Just going for a piss.” He called out. He wasn’t, he was just making me wait. Teasing.
“Resting bitch face isn’t actually a thing.” He said when he finally walked through the doorway, most unimpressed with my pouting. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.”
He held the paper bag above his head.
“Freshly laundered, Madame.”
Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”
You already knew I loved being filmed and photographed; watching back on clips of myself being violated or made love to makes me wet, almost instantaneously. I love the weekends when, if I’m good, you set me up at the computer and make me watch them without touching myself – sometimes you even tie my wrists behind my back so I can’t, whilst you edit the best bits and then email them to your colleagues as a reminder of just how good I am. Just enough of my face to see the come dribbling down over my lips. Unrecognisable at office functions in my grown up dresses and cocktails and mild political views.
There was one evening. I replay it a lot when I’m alone. There were only minutes, a brief meeting in wintry darkness, midnight in a cab rank. Me leaving a team building works night out, you leave a gig.
We agreed to meet before we travelled home. You stood with your hands in my pockets, pinning me in place, drawing my thick winter coat around us as we kissed and I worked my knickers down as surreptitiously as possible and as soon as my cunt was bare one of your hands was reaching out, teasing me.
I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.
In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.
Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.
It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.
Perhaps it’s because my own accent is so colourless that I focus a lot on those of other people. The way vowels flatten or harden. How my name sounds different from different mouths.
I’m reading ballet stories, where everyone either speaks in RP or painstakingly recreated Northumbrian dialect. At night I dream of being courted by well-spoken boys in shirts and waistcoats.
I’m learning French and German at school. German to me is the sexiest language with its harsh, gutteral sounds. All power and precision. But it’s French which develops the deftness of my tongue.
I partly pick my place at university based on the two languid scouse boys in my interview group. Neither one ends up taking the course.
My first boyfriend is from Birmingham. He’s an acting student. When I tell him about the scouse lads who got away, he affects the Liverpool twang and my heart skips.
My posh fling. My poorly thought out, much regretted posh fling. The lisping, heartbreaking Dom with the arrogance only a man raised with too much money can possess. I allowed him much more of myself than I should have because of that voice.
My darling, from the sweet point between Manchester and Liverpool, has a voice which makes me ache with love.
Nursing my broken heart, I am suddenly surrounded by echoes of him in unexpected and unwanted visitors, hailing from his small corner of the world, tempting and tormenting in equal measure.