Day upon day for almost a week, I hover by the door at 11am. I alter all my appointments so I can be at home when the post arrives, although most days all that I get are circulars and bills. Every rattle of the letterbox and there I am, hand ready to grasp whatever he has sent, whatever it is that gets thrust into the slit by the uniformed body on the other side of the door. My heart pounding, I realise I’m doing exactly as he told me to. Waiting. Waiting for him to have his pleasure.
Would he really send me a bottle of his semen through the post? What the hell does he expect me to do with it? I feel my pulse race as I think of a couple of possibilities. Neither are overly appealing on my own.
There’s a rustle, and some swearing on the other side of the door, and a thin box slips through the letterbox. I snatch it. Try and read the postcode. It’s all smudged; impossible to tell where it’s come from. My mouth goes dry at the sight of a chessboard, drawn on the back of the box, with ‘BURMA’ written underneath it, and a winky face. Surely he doesn’t live there? With a shaky hand, I begin to open the box, and just as I’m about to remove the contents, it dawns on me: something he used to say to any girl that walked past him when we were in halls. I remember, one day, nudging him as he received a filthy look from Helen on the top floor.
“What the hell have you done this time? What are you on about? What’s up with Helen?”
He’d grinned. “BURMA—Be Undressed Ready, My Angel!” And he’d winked at me.
Something deep inside my stomach begins to roll around, making me feel squiffy. A reminder of the past. Like I need one.
The contents of the box are made up of a long, white envelope, a small parcel wrapped in red, and a folded piece of paper. That’s it. I can’t feel anything bottle-shaped. I let out a sigh, just a little bit relieved. Opening the piece of paper, I read:
Well, my little Slave Girl, have you been waiting? Did you really expect me to send you a bottle of my spunk? Ha, ha! When you receive the contents of my balls, my cock will be firing it into you, and make no mistake. Open the parcel. I expect you to keep it in your bag at all times, until I say otherwise. And then open the envelope, and you’ll know what to do. This is what I expect…
I read the list of items, the heat in my cheeks growing, my breath shallow and fast. I need to go shopping. I peel apart the tape and uncurl the wrapping, my eyes widening at the sight before me. There. On the wrapping, lays a black, leather collar. And not an animal one, either. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I start to open the white envelope, wondering just exactly I’m going to find there. More items on his wish list, maybe? What I actually find when I pull it from the envelope is a train ticket from London to Manchester. I just stare at it, and something resembling a giant stone falls through my innards. Is that where he is? Or, maybe he’s planning on flying in. Maybe it’s a cover, so I’ll never know where he is. He still could be in London. He still could have come through that door when I was tied to the bed… My head begins to ache, and with it, an uncontrollable throb begins between my thighs. Wetness pools in my entrance as I read the details on the ticket: 3.30pm. Seat reserved in the quiet carriage. Today.
What the hell should I do? I’ve got an appointment with a new client at 4, and I’ve arranged to meet Mike in Leicester Square at 7. It’ll be the first time we’ve actually spoken since…the other. Texting had been difficult enough. I couldn’t tell how he felt from just a few stilted words sent over the course of half an hour. He just said he’d meet me. If I cancel, he’s going to think I don’t want to see him. That I don’t care.
I send an email to my client, bite my lip and send a text to Mike, and begin to pack my bag. All I get is a text that says, “OK.” I press my lips together, sigh, and note that there’s not enough time to go shopping. Am I going to be in trouble? Will I be punished? I feel my knickers grow damp at the very thought.
There’s not a soul in the carriage anymore. The last passenger, the small man with the grey suit, the briefcase and the laptop, and who has spent the last hour pretending to work while casting his dark gaze through long lashes at me across the table, has disembarked. I wonder if he noticed how I have been riveted to his grey tie and the lapels of his jacket, two tones darker than the tie? Mmm, suits and ties… Did he notice how I pulled my bag onto my knee; how my right hand remained below the level of the table top for increasing lengths of time? Did he see it slide into the waistband of my skirt, and how the elastic gripped my forearm as my finger rolled over my knickers, and I swelled there, too? Maybe he’ll be wearing a suit. If he turns up.
Alone on the train. My head burns with images of him from long ago; the tops of my thighs ache with want. The nerves at the surface of the soft flesh on the inside of my thigh come alive under my fingertips. I wonder what he looks like, now? His words on the paper burn into my brain—“When you’re on the train, fuck yourself. If you don’t, I’ll know.”
How can he know? There’s only me here.
My fingertips trace circles on my inner thigh, higher, higher, until they reach lace. I think about the man in the suit; of crisp white shirts; of undoing buttons, all the way down to the trouser zip. Of sliding it down, and hearing that soft, buzzing sound they always make, so I can slide my hand inside and… I trail my fingers over the front of my knickers, and I sense my back beginning to lose connection with the seat as it arches itself, wanton and uncontrollable.
My hand slides inside, finding my clit, wet with anticipation. I roll my index finger over and over its mound, feeling it harden more at every thought of him. Sliding my finger back through my drenched folds, I let it enter me, my juices coating my finger. It is not enough. I need more. So two fingers fuck me, as I manoeuvre my thumb over my mound and press, hard. The wetness soaks the base of my fingers; I move them faster as I push a third in, wanting, wanting it to be him. I close my eyes and imagine it is his length that opens me wide, his fingers that know through instinct how to make my clit rise to his touch. I remember how he could make me come, just by staring at me across the table in the Students’ Union bar. I remember everything.
The conductor is in the next carriage. I can see him through the rocking Perspex panels in the connecting doors. He is coming. Closer. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. My desire for him wraps around my head, encases me in its arms, and I use two hands now. My finger-cock fucks, and the hand I substitute for his drives me on until I am on the brink, and I buck and writhe on the seat. My bag falls to the floor, and I am exposed, my pleasure on display as I throw my head back and I just…can’t…stop…my breath comes fast, panting little gasps into the air…nearly…yes, oh God, yes. My hole tightens around my fingers as I come through the pleasure-pain of my hard, finger-fucked clit. A guttural moan escapes me, and I see nothing clearly for a moment or two. I slide my fingers back to the outside world and breathe deeply through pursed lips as the heat that floods my skin warms the air around me, and slowly dissipates.
When I look up, the conductor is pressed up against the door, his mouth open beyond the circle of steam he has created on the Perspex. And I bite my lip as he gives me a long look, then walks down the length of the carriage. Was he the spy, sent to make sure I did as I was commanded? I can only think of him as a spy, now. He’s surely happy in his work. And I wonder just what might be slithering its way down the wall beyond the door, and how many congealing white spatters might be in the crotch of his navy trousers. God, I hope he doesn’t tell anyone. What the hell possessed me?
So, I am alone until the train stops. I feel the anticipation, the anxiety, wash over me with every rock of the carriage and, as the red Victorian brick of Manchester begins to swamp the landscape, and the towerblocks stutter the horizon through the glass, I have to stop myself biting through my lip and making it bleed. A fuzzy, sickening excitement permeates my nerves and preoccupies my thoughts as I step off the train. The hand that holds my overnight bag begins to shake terribly, and I’m grateful that there are few contents, pretty much all clothes, or I might have dropped it and smashed something.
The orders were on the folded piece of paper. I can still see the words—
You can bring whatever underwear you like, but make sure it’s in the colours that turn me on. I love black. And pink, on a sub of mine. Wear a teddy. And stockings and suspenders.
What about my other clothes? Wouldn’t we be going anywhere? Was I supposed to bring a nice dress, or something? The paper answered that, too.
Don’t bring anything that I can’t rip off with my teeth. You won’t be out of my sight once I get you where I want you; I won’t let you.
Well, I’ve already broken most of the dress rules. I did manage the suspenders, though. How strict is he planning to be, really? Our cat-and-mouse game—he thinks he knows me, knows how my desires work. But I’ve held back. I can’t tell him in an email what I really want. I can’t say it in a text. And I sure as hell can’t open my mouth and let him watch me make an idiot of myself on the iPad. I’ve waited so long; the last thing I want to do is say it out loud. To end the game.
I scan the platform, my face beginning to flush, and my heart beating double time inside my wrong underwear. I haven’t done as commanded. Will he meet me at the station, so I can avoid a lonely ride in a strange taxi to a hotel I’ve never stayed in? I have the address. The folded piece of paper is in my bag. With the collar, still half wrapped in the red paper. I flush crimson at the thought of it. Just what will he do with that?
I go rigid, my breath coming to me in gasped, inconsistency. Thrill? Or terror? I don’t know. Whispered words entwine in my hair, and I feel that familiar hot pain enveloping every part of me from my waist to my knees. Swirling around my head, brushing my face, there’s a smell of sandalwood. I’d know it apart from any other scent, anywhere.
“I want you. Be my love slave. My little slave girl.”
I remain motionless, entranced by the soft lilt of his voice. His fingers brush my hair to one side and sweep it over my left shoulder. Soft lips touch the back of my neck and my eyes close as expert kisses work their way up, until they caress the skin just behind my right ear.
“Yes. Oh, yes,” I whisper. As his kisses trickle down the side of my neck, I smile, and murmur, “Sir.”
His hands are on my shoulders, turning me around. There he is, in front of me, alive and real, dressed in a white shirt and a black pair of trousers, just like the very first time I met him. Black and white. The irony makes me shiver inside. Nothing black and white about our relationship at all.
“Sir?” He lifts my face by the chin and smiles; that same smile that threatens to make me lose my faculties, as it almost did once before. It seems an age away, now. Time feels displaced.
His warm, dry lips find mine. The kiss lasts forever, or seconds; I don’t know, or care. I’m in his arms and nothing else matters. After all that has happened in the last few weeks, still nothing else matters. My heart feels as if it will split open at any moment as he pulls his lips from mine, and he stares into my eyes, seeking, probing, delving into my very soul.
“I’ll master you yet.”