Greater Expectations (17 page)

An infused aroma of incense and lavender wafted along her hallway and got stronger the closer I got to the bedroom. As I entered I saw there was some sort of red cloth–a scarf or handkerchief maybe–placed over a bedside lamp that really softened the light. It created a really comforting and altogether seductive ambience. My newfound confidence evaporated as I realised that this was not simply her bedroom; this was her lair, her den, her domain, her inner sanctum–that place where she is most comfortable and in complete control.

Jesus had known this and had tried his best to warn me. This will take more than three
Hail Marys
and one
Our Father
before He forgives me.

She took my hand and gripped a little too tightly as she led me inside. There was no going back now and I entered like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. After my most recent experiences, I had been absolutely certain that I was fully prepared for any and all sexual antics that could come my way. “
Come” being the operative word.

Mistress Fio
na was about to prove me wrong.

Again
.

On closer inspection, it became obvious to me that hers was a religion like no other I knew of, for this room was her church and the bed was her altar. There were handcuffs on the bedpost with blindfolds on each of the two bedside tables. More disturbing was the whip on the dresser that I knew to be called a
“cat o’ nine tails”
although I could not tell you exactly
how
I knew that. I also saw lubricating gel, a strap-on, and far too many vibrators in various colours and dramatically different sizes. There were a few other “tools” spread around the room but I was too afraid to ask what they were for. Ironically, they looked like they came from a Do It Yourself store although I was all but certain it would require a small squad of men to operate them properly. Thankfully, the bed looked to be a place devoid of such pain and its silk sheets made it look very inviting. She was already sat on its edge with baby oil in her hand.

She
looked entirely too comfortable.

I
was genuinely scared.

“You seem anxious. Indeed, you have looked tense all night. I’m thinking you need a massage. I have teased myself all night about giving you one too.” I was quite uncertain about whether she meant a massage or sex by her comment. I quickly realised she meant both and suddenly felt stupid and naïve for even wondering. “Mistress Fiona does as she thinks. So I think you should lie down here.”
Mistress Fiona? Oh fuck...
She patted the bed and I reluctantly walked to it and did as instructed. Never, not even for a second, taking my eyes from her.

She was far too close to that fucking whip for my liking.

My first instinct was to run home–fast. I was bordering on terrified. Yet it is obvious to me now that it is my curiosity that will be the certain death of me. Imagine if I actually do die here, oh the
shame
that would bring upon my parents. Every single aspect of this scenario is completely out of my comfort zone and, not two hours earlier, I had thought it was my charming wit and sparkling personality that had wooed her. Now I knew better.

Once again I had become th
e prey–the unwitting
victim
–of this sexual predator that is neo-feminista.

For the second time in a week, I was in a deeply uncomfortable sexual situation where I was reluctantly conceding the stereotypical male gender role and wondering to myself,
“When did these roles change?”
It should be
me
with the sex den and all these toys and implements to scare the bejesus out of others, not the other way around. It should be me that is more sexually advanced and experienced, especially considering that
Mistress fucking Fiona
here is undoubtedly younger than me.

When did sex stop being simple and straightforward?

She has taken advantage of my wandering thoughts and stripped me before I realised what was going on. As I lie face down on the bed, my hands and feet are being placed into the handcuffs. I
really
don’t like this but what else can I do? Am I a prude? I know, if needs be, that these handcuffs can be easily broken and they are only for titillation. I tell myself it’s no big deal, man up and calm down.

I am far from convinced.

Surprisingly, the massage was fantastic. Seriously, I would have paid good money for what she did to me. It felt like every last muscle in my body had surrendered its stress to the kneading powers that were in her hands. I was also covered in baby oil. It felt sensational; I was more relaxed and excited than I had been in as long as I could remember. My whole body was tingling; even my toes and feet, and I found that I was now really looking forward to whatever she had planned next.

Mistress Fiona took off my handcuffs and ordered me to strip her slowly and rub the massage oil all over her body. I clumsily did so, for which I was sharply rebuked, and then she stood up and placed me onto my back on the bed. She handcuffed me again but, this time, left my feet. She put a blindfold on me and started to run her hands all over my body but, teasingly, she went close to but never touched any of my genitalia. I positively ached for her to touch me, certain that even her slightest touch would see me explode with enoug
h come to emulsion her ceiling.

My fantasy was brought crashing back to reality when I heard a small engine whirring into life.

I tried to peek from under my blindfold but there was only complete darkness. Desperate to ask what was going on, I demonstrated a calm restraint that belied my true sense of trepidation. Just as I was about to pluck up the courage, my earlier fears were proven correct.

Her mouth slipped over my cock and whatever she was using, one end was pushed into my ass and the other went onto my balls. Both parts were vibrating and I came by the bucket load and she just kept working her mouth and her toys until my every last drop was milked. Feeling both shocked and embarrassed, I began to apologise when she stopped me. “Please, I know that we needed to put one in the bank so that we can enjoy the rest of our night. Just relax and let me get you hard again.” It seemed that this was “pub” Fiona talking. She quickly reverted back to Mistress Fiona when she said sternly,
“Do not make me tell you again!”

Now was probably the wrong time to be thinking that I really was quite enjoying myself and wondering if she could be a suitable girlfriend. She was sexually sublime, and irrefutably prett
y. Surely she was worth a date.

I resolved to ask for her number when she freed me.

There was no way of knowing how long it took me to get hard again but it seemed like seconds to me.
“That’s it, get nice and hard for me. Do not make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I am angry.”
Her inadvertent quoting of the
Hulk
seemed quite ridiculous under the circumstances and I was sure that my hardness lost a little of its edge. However, she soon worked her magic with her tongue and fingers to ensure that this was only a fleeting anomaly.

“FUCK ME!”

She screamed this at the very moment she pulled the blindfold off my eyes and straddled me in the cowgirl position.
I near shat myself.
She had forced me straight into her–I didn't even touch sides–and now her hips were grinding against me. There was little doubt about who was doing the actual fucking. As she took off my handcuffs, I managed to lick and suck at the breasts that had gotten me into this trouble in the first place. As she freed my second hand, I reached up to grab a full breast when Jesus hit me right on top of my right eye.

He actually drew blood.

So much for my hopes of forgiveness.

Mistress Fiona was oblivious to my discomfort, and my bleeding, as she was holding onto the headboard and riding me like Seabiscuit. When she got bored, or tired given her efforts, she demanded to switch to the missionary.
“Let me feel you on top and see what you’ve got.”

This was said with such aggression that it wasn’t so much
a request as a dare.

Then I discovered that we had a unique problem. The combination of silk bed sheets and baby oil meant that creating any sort of friction was all but impossible. Try as I might, I just could not create any purchase. Every time I tried to push deep inside her, it had the resulting effect of shooting her straight across the bed. This really pissed me off. My masculinity was now being challenged and this was just one step too far.

It was time for me to give some orders of my own.

I took the matching silk covered duvet and threw it onto the floor next to the bed, making a soft and comfortable alternative.
“Lie down.”
Mistress Fiona didn’t need to be told twice and she was soon lodged between the bed and the wall. I lay on top of her and she roughly guided me in.

Now it was my turn.

Or so I thought.

As her hands slid around and grabbed my ass, I pounded for all my worth. The mask had long been discarded and her face betrayed just how much she was enjoying it. My masculinity was rapidly returning. Then I felt her hands split my cheeks and she was playing with my ass hole.

Why can’t these women seem to leave my ass alone? Seriously, what is their fascination?

“Tell me when you are going to come, okay?” she looked straight into my eyes when she said this, with a smirk of sheer mischief.

“Okay.” I was still banging away and wondering why she wanted to know, but too caught up with the job in hand. She was now intermittently fingering and rubbing my ass hole. The switching between these actions was actually turning me on but, somehow, I knew that something was amiss and not quite as it seemed. Yet this was the least of my concerns at that very minute. Again I began to wonder why I so enjoyed having my ass played with. This really was disconcerting. The silk sheets only added to my exertions and a fine coat of sweat was building all over my body. Even behind my knees.
Do knees sweat?
As I was considering this, I felt my body tensing with the all too familiar build up.
“I’m coming,”
I panted, in no way sexy.

“Okay”
was all she said.

So focussed h
ad I been on the task in hand–well, that and wondering if knees sweat–that it wasn’t until this particular moment that it became apparent as to what she had been doing. Rather than merely playing with my ass hole as I had thought, Mistress Fiona had actually been stuffing a knotted silk handkerchief
into
my ass hole. So, when I told her I was coming, she violently jerked the whole thing out in one swift action and left me with absolutely no idea with what the
fuck
was happening to my body.

I came…I shat…and I was sick.

ALL AT FUCKING ONCE!

She took absolutely no responsibility for my reaction and it was still snowing when I left her house less than five minutes later. Well, when I
say, “
left
”, I more mean in a more ordered, never to return, sort of way. It can only be presumed that I am also barred from the pub, not that I ever intended to go back. Dazed and confused, I ended up walking the seven miles home, as there were no taxis to be found. Not that I wanted one.

Obviously this was to be
my penance for upsetting Jesus…

22

Cut Off Without A Penny

Sunday 1st March

It was almost noon when I awoke from another blissfully deep and uninterrupted sleep. My
night’s walk in the crisp winter air was obviously what was needed. It was refreshing and invigorating yet, instead of jumping out of bed to face the rest of the day, I pulled the covers tight under my chin and wrapped the duvet around me. These feelings were becoming all too familiar. They were old friends of mine, those suppressed sexual feelings from my adolescent years that I had thought long since gone. I had almost forgotten what they felt like.

Almost.

The feeling of shame generated by raging hormones from which only masturbation provided any sort of relief. The guilt from being a slave to such primitive instincts. The embarrassment in recollecting the prolonged visit to the bathroom straight after school with the latest catalogue, skipping straight to the underwear section for visual stimulation. Scanning the pages for the most see through lingerie, my imagination taking care of the rest. Only reflecting in later years that my bed sheets needed washed with more regularity during this time. It makes me think of my heroic parents who never once mentioned anything at all for fear of embarrassing
me
.

Heroes indeed.

Yet here were those exact same feelings coursing through my veins, conjured from the memory of last night’s debacle, which was still too fresh in my mind. I was wide-awake but thoroughly tired of waking up this way. It was happening all too often and left me deeply uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.

I did
n’t want to be ashamed anymore.

Yet what was I ashamed of? Once again, it had been my sexual partner that had instigated the whole endeavour. I had been a mere participant. Granted, I was a very willing participant, but it really did feel like I was only there for the purposes of providing a suitable bo
dy and penis for her amusement.

To be simply abused.

This used to be the
male
role. It was
my
role. A role that I had relished and exploited to the full in years gone past. Right through the remainder of my teenage years, through the hedonistic days of university, first as an undergrad and then with a new found maturity as a postgrad. They had been great years and I had, quite literally, loved them all.

Then I met Gemma.

It was a game that I knew. One in which I considered myself, as almost all men do, a master. It was a game that I played every day. It seems childish and immature now and most probably was then too. Yet that hadn’t mattered, we simply didn’t care what the girls thought. It wasn’t just me either. I was always open to playing, especially at university, where girls were actually
graded
. You know the way, the
“she’ll do for a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon, but never for a weekend.”
I have no doubt girls had their own grading system too but I, to this day, have no idea how that would work. Thankfully. If I did, there would be a danger that I could begin to understand women and no one would want that.

Especially not me.

Especially not now.

This is how things were when I was last single. It was simple and easily understood. What has changed in the interim? What have I missed? It is obvious that women have embraced their sexuality but didn’t they always? Women nowadays are more sexually aware and better informed than ever. More so, it would seem, than men. Certainly more than
this
man. They have cunningly manipulated this information to determine and cultivate sexual demands and desires of their own.

This is simply outrageous.

While this may be said in jest, it is obvious that the joke is most definitely on me. On reflection, it might be that Gemma sought sexual gratification from another man because she knew she could never find it with me. We had sunk into a routine that had suited me and one that I was comfortable with, never for a second did I consider that she might not be. She had, after all, been thoroughly dismissive when I had tried to talk about our sex life. There is no point trying to convince myself that it was her fault for not talking to me about how she felt, for quite honestly, I believed that she thought everything was fine. Also, there was no way that I would have listened. A rational chat about how I was failing to match her sexual appetites, fantasies and desires? Certainly not, thank you very much.

Divorce was the winning option over
that
conversation.

My thoughts then drifted to Penny. My behaviour had been appalling towards her and now I was feeling embarrassed for a whole different reason. Unsurprisingly, there were no missed calls or texts when I checked my phone. It was more in hope than a realistic expectation anyway. Pride prevented me from calling her although I yearned to do so. What would I say? What could I say? A simple apology just wasn’t going to be enough. Not this time. I could ask about my still absent T-shirt but that too would be lame, especially this soon after my meltdown. She has had time to reflect too and, no doubt, our friendship is over. It was nice
while it lasted.

Actually, it had been great.

She
was great.

I
was an ass.

Enough of this. It feels like every day there is something fucking new to contemplate and berate myself for. It is exhausting. I am a good guy having a hard time. It happens to us all, and I should actually be thankful that I am no different. Every once in a while, life throws up the most desperate of challenges for us to handle. Now it
just so happens to be my turn.

Time for
me to get up and face the day.

As I walked out to the waiting taxi it became all too apparent that the new month had retained the old weather. The lazy drizzle had successfully destroyed last nights virginal snow and the resulting slush merely completed a thoroughly miserable and grey day. Ten minutes later and I had happily traded the taxi’s worn passenger seat for the comfort of my own car’s driver seat and was on my merry way to the supermarket. It seems that my lack of clean underwear was more of a result of having no laundry detergent rather than just idleness on my part. So not really my fault then. A new pack of boxers would not go amiss either, seeing as how I am still “commando” and beginning to feel
really self-conscious about it.

Owning a Mercedes also ensures that for the moment I am, quite literally, one of the fur coat and no knickers brigade.

While I am here, there would be no harm in my checking out the DVD section. Its been a while since I last bought something new and this is the perfect way to take my mind off everything and so zone out for a couple of hours. Some bubble gum for the brain as they say.

It would also save me from risking the trip to Hazzard County to visit Uncle Jessie and his kin.

As with most people these days, I rarely carry cash and have become all too reliant upon that magical piece of plastic that is my debit card. Today was no different and so as I paid for my items, I exercised the “cash back” option to withdraw £40. Folding the two £20 notes tightly into one hand, and with my bag of purchases in the other, I made my way to the exit. Just outside the main door, and barely under the canopy, I saw what I was looking for.

The lone figure of a beggar.

He had been there as I pulled into the car park and I had actually sat for a few minutes to watch him before making my way into the store. What had appalled me the most was that no one during that time had paid any attention to him. Most had simply walked on by, as is their right. However, worse than ignoring him, on two separate occasions there had been parents who had physically pulled their curious children away from him. In fairness, the kids had been actually been far more interested his canine companion.

Not once did the man look up.

A single piece of cardboard provided him a seat and protected his attire from the dirty walkway. His little dog was snuggled up on his inside, hiding away from the cold wind and slight rain that was attacking the opposite side. His right arm held it protectively to him while his other hand stroked tenderly under its chin.

It was as content a dog as I have ever seen.

Only now as I was walking passed could I see the dirty and unkempt hair hidden under his well worn and equally filthy baseball cap. The sports logo was barely discernable as all the original colours had now blended into one. Decency and discretion demanded that I pass by them both in order to turn around and crouch down, thus providing the briefest of respite for them against the elements. One of the true benefits of being physically large.

His reaction startled me and almost made me cry.

As he pulled his dog even closer into himself, he instinctively raised his other hand that was nearest me to shield his face. In a voice just louder than a whisper, he softly said
“Please, don’t hit us. Please…”
Confused, I searched his face, begging him to see that my intentions were honourable and neither malicious nor hurtful. It was terrified eyes that peered back at me over the top of his arm, naturally held up in the weakest of efforts at defending himself.

“We’ll move, no problems. We can move, please, just let me get up and we will go. All we wanted was a little shelter and something to eat. We don’t want any tro
uble. Please, leave us alone, we won’t give you any trouble...”

His voice was barely audible. This broken and defeated man sat in front of me and made me feel like I had such control over him. He would move, him and his dog, right now, if I said so. Right here and right now, he would do as I sa
y. His fear gave me that power.

It broke my heart.

Barely able to speak for the lump that was in my throat, it took me a second to compose myself before I managed to whisper,
“No, sorry, no, you have me wrong my friend.”
As I was speaking, my hand found his and I passed over the folded notes.
“Please, this is for you and the wee fella there. Please, just take it.”
I pulled my hand away as soon as the money had passed in fear that he might refuse it.

Never once did we break eye contact and the myriad of emotions that I saw within him in those few second
s will forever haunt my dreams.

“Thank you”
was all he managed to say as tears formed in his eyes.
“We haven’t eaten for a few days. God bless you.”

He had no idea that God had indeed blessed me by introducing us.

It was a deeply upsetting realisation that, in giving him what I could spare, I now knew that I had given him all that he had.

It had taken me about four hours to earn this money and yet now I wished that I had given more. To leave them now to go and do so would only demean us both. In point of principle it is very rare for me to donate to charity but, whenever possible, I always try and help the homeless. Of course, only what I can afford and certainly whilst exercising more than a modicum of discerning discretion. Sadly, it is well known around London Town that there exists some low life charlatans who opt for begging as a career choice in orde
r to scam a tax-free existence.

Surely there is a little corner of hell reserved for just such people.

There are also those who choose to ignore and so rapidly walk past beggars. My understanding is that such people simply exercise this option whilst consoling themselves with the preconceived idea that they are all alcoholics or drug addicts. As if such afflictions are their own fault and so this is how they end up homeless. By giving money, they feel that they are only enabling them rather than helping. That may well be their opinion and they are perfectly entitled to it, but surely nobody can ever believe that this is a choice, can they?

It reminds me of the tragically funny story o
f Pastor Jeremiah Steepek who–when due to be introduced for the first time to his new congregation of 10,000 souls–took it upon himself to sit outside the Church disguised as a homeless man, begging for change. In the hour or so that he was there, dirty and alone, nobody gave him a single penny. Indeed, only three people actually bothered to acknowledge his existence by returning the “hello” that he had said to everyone that passed him. When he took a seat inside his new Church, the ushers actually asked him to remove himself to the back. Needless to say, his introduction was something of a surprise and it can only be hoped that his lesson was learned by all, for it is now my mantra.

Actions always speak louder than words.

As such, it makes absolutely no difference to me what someone does with any money I give them. That is their choice as it’s now their money. It was my choice to give it in the first place and I have always done so willingly in the hope that, if I were ever in an equally unfortunate position, then someone would be as kind and generous to me. Paying it forward as it were. It is said that each of us are only ever six conversations away from being penniless and homeless. This rings true with me and is something that I shall never forget.

“Now you take care of yourself and look after him.”
I was getting cold and wet so it was time for me to go.