It’s a beautiful sunny day, yet I find myself stuck on a stuffy train, delayed for far too long in the middle of the English countryside. The carriage is silent, save for the tinny hiss of music seeping out from someone’s headphones. My fellow passengers wear that familiar, resigned expression beloved by commuters – downturned mouth, eyes fixed resolutely on smart phone screens.
I feel restless and fidgety and hot. My mind drifts back to an encounter from earlier in the day, still so vivid that it produce a little jolt at my core as I carefully unfold each detail in my mind.
He’d worn a beautiful suit, the kind of suit so exquisitely tailored that it whispers rather then bellows. Much like him, I’d thought. I’d shut the bedroom door and stood before him. His eyes had looked into mine with a directness so hot that I’d dropped my gaze, his natural authority prickling along my spine. He’d gently placed a finger under my chin and tilted my head up towards him, our eyes locked once again. He’d stared down at me, before asking
“Are you going to behave?”
I nodded mutely, suddenly desperate to do exactly as he told me – to submit to him completely. I felt a hot twinge of desire between my legs.
He sat down on a chair in the middle of the room, whilst I remained standing. He’d told me to come closer, and then closer still, so that I stood between his legs. I wanted so badly for him to touch me, eager to feel his fingertips trace softly up my thighs and into my knickers. But no. Remaining motionless, he told me to remove the cream silk blouse and tight black pencil skirt I had chosen to wear for him. I began to undress hurriedly, carelessly, anticipation spurring me on. “Slower” he barked, and I forced my trembling hands to unbutton at a more measured pace. “Control yourself”, he growled.
I knew that he hated rushing. He prefers to take his time with me. Once down to my underwear, he nods his permission, and I begin to remove these too. I shiver slightly as my bra straps fall away from my shoulder blades. I slide my black lace knickers over the curve of my as-yet unmarked bottom and drop them to the floor.
Now I’m stood in front of him wearing just my stilettos. “Turn around”, he instructs. “And slowly”. As I turn, like a little ballerina in a music box, my skin prickles as I feel his eyes inspecting me. After my full rotation, he stands up, so close I can smell a hint of cologne, and feel the trace of his erection pressed against my hip, straining against that beautiful suit. “Elbows on the chair” he murmurs, and I bend, forearms flat against the crushed velvet of the seat. My legs are spread and my back arched, and my perilous heels push my bottom up in the air. I feel vulnerable and exposed, frozen in the delicious moment between silence and impact.
I remain still for what seems an eternity, as he waits for me to steady myself. I feel my mind grow quiet and some residual tension leave my body. I know he will cane me, and I know it will hurt, but at this precise moment I want it more than anything. My nipples grow hard and my head swims with lust. He stands beside me, placing one hand on the nape of my neck, the other resting possessively on my backside. He bends down, and asks, sotto voce:
“Are you ready?”
And then, with a jolt, my train rumbles back into life, forcing me out of my fantasies and into the harsh glare of the carriage. I glance around, certain that my fellow passengers must be able to spot my arousal. It seems, however, I have gone undetected, and I remain a respectable-looking girl with an unopened book and a distant twinkle in her eye. As the train picks up speed and the flat green patchwork of fields begin to whip past in an endless blur, I smile to myself, shifting in my seat to feel the warm red stripes he has left across my bottom.