Perversion Process (5 page)

you.‟ And with that, he repeated the initial fusillade, peppering me with hard smacks until I tried to cover my backside and, sighing deeply, he was forced to hold my wrists in the small of my back.

He repeated the punishing process several times until I was no longer able to count, twisting like a tethered eel and failing in my original intention of savouring every moment so it would imprint itself indelibly on my memory. All I could think of was how it hurt and how I could minimise the hurting and how I somehow never wanted it to end all the same. I think I was supposed to be listening to what he was saying too, but his voice, though rather calming with its low, slightly northern, timbre, did not succeed in communicating its words to my brain.

Until he stopped and I flopped my head down from its tense upward crick and sighed.

„Think I‟ve finished, do you?‟ he said. „Have you been listening to a word I‟ve said? Eh? What did I just say?‟

„Oh … I don‟t know! I sort of lost consciousness a bit there,‟ I meeped apologetically.

„Well, it‟s an intense experience, Kat, but don‟t forget, the whole point is to learn from it. What have you learned so far?‟

„That you have a hard hand.‟

„Hmm. Well, that‟s true. I think you need to come up with a bit more than that though. Let‟s see if this will make any difference.‟

„Oh God!‟ I spluttered as he began to peel the knickers down over my tingly-warm rear, tugging at them until they rested mid-thigh, exposing all my most hidden fleshy parts to close inspection.

„Let‟s get serious, shall we? You‟ve been getting away with things for far too long. It‟s time for some consequences. Are you ready for the consequences?‟

31

„Ah … I … think so.‟ A slap that must have printed the shape of his hand on my bottom descended. „Ow!‟

„I think so
what
?‟

„I think so,
sir
.‟

I‟ve had many more spankings over his knee, or leaning over his table, or over pillows on his bed since then. Some have been by his hand, but these days he often moves on to something, as he would say, „a little more salutary‟.

Perhaps a hairbrush or a belt or a long thin rod or a thing with lots of whippy strands. But that first occasion is the one that stands out, the one I often go back to in my sleeplessness. It is not so much the heavy hand falling on my bottom, or the humiliating nakedness, or the extensive and ear-burning lecture he delivered; it is more to do with the feeling of being cared for. I know that must sound insane. But afterwards, after he had straightened me up and pulled up my knickers and sat me down next to him on the sofa and stroked my hair and given me a tissue and made everything better again – that time was priceless and precious. And addictive.

I came back for more, and more, and more again.

Twice a month, regularly as clockwork, I presented my backside for a blistering at his cruelly refined hands, and he never disappointed. On the second visit, he asked me if I wanted a little … relief … after my spanking, and I let him put the hand that had hurt me between my legs to wring pleasure from the pain. About a month later we started ending up in the bedroom – it seemed such a natural and logical extension of the unnatural and illogical way our interactions had begun. He cared for me, enough to see that I did not get away with being any less than I could be, and I loved him for that, and wanted to give the gift back to him.

32

And now, six months later, I am in line for promotion at work. I drink less, avoid dodgy people and situations, keep myself safe and clean and fresh. But there‟s only one problem – I don‟t want to get involved with anyone but him. Professor Strict. OK, that‟s not his real name. He is called Aidan.

I‟m a fool for love, and there‟s no spanking hard enough to help me with that.

So I think this one will be our final session. I have to walk away before I fall apart. Only when I call to make the appointment, he says that he is shutting up shop.

„What do you mean? You don‟t want to spank girls for money any more? Are you mad? That‟s so many men‟s dream gig … are you OK?‟

„Fine,‟ he said with a slightly defensive laugh. „Meet me for a drink. I‟ll tell you about it. Can you be in O‟Malleys later on, about six?‟

A drink! A proper social-type situation! As if we were friends, or something.

I hope he might at least offer me one final bottom-warming for the road, but when I see him in a corner booth, nursing a whisky with about half a polar ice cap in it, my heart jumps a little, then sinks. He looks so pensive.

I slip in opposite him with my wine.

„What‟s gone wrong, Aidan? Have you got RSI in your spanking arm or something? I wonder if Injury Lawyers 4U deal with that kind of thing …‟

His luscious lips curve upward in a faint smile. „I doubt it,‟ he says. „Anyway, my arm‟s fine. As you might get to find out for yourself, if you‟re lucky. Or unlucky, depending how you look at it.‟

„So you‟re not quitting the scene then?‟ I grin, delighted, even though I know I had been planning to make this our last rendezvous.

33

„Oh, yeah, I‟m not taking bookings any more.‟

„Oh. So …?‟

„I don‟t need the money. My day job earns me more than enough.‟

„Ah. OK. But … didn‟t you enjoy it?‟

The look he gives me turns the wine to fire, all the way from my throat to my stomach. „You know I did. You know I do. But I don‟t want to be a gun for hire any more.

I want an arse to call my own.‟

The glass jerks in my hand and I slop wine over the table, as is my habit. I can‟t help barking with laughter at his turn of phrase.

„You mean … a serious relationship? Of some kind.‟

„Of some kind, yeah. Man, woman, kinky sex and, y‟know, maybe even a bit of normal stuff thrown in on top. Like this. This is almost normal, isn‟t it? And it‟s OK. Don‟t you think?‟

I do think. I think I don‟t even dare ask the next question. But I force it through.

„So … do you have a candidate? Or are you going to start looking?‟

„I have a candidate.‟ I feel sick. The wine is like prussic acid eating at my core. Why must he keep looking at me with those eyes? What does it mean?

„Oh,‟ is all I can say.

„Come on, Kat, put me out of my misery.‟

The prussic acid is now gunpowder, setting off fireworks that shoot to the roots and tips of my being.

„Do you mean
me
?‟

„Of course I mean you! I haven‟t spent the last six months shagging you just to bin you off because I don‟t want your money any more. God, what do you think of me?‟

„What about the others though?‟

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„I didn‟t shag any of the others. Jesus. I‟m not a fucking gigolo.‟

„A non-fucking gigolo would be a bit pointless.‟

„Don‟t, Kat. And that‟s exactly what I was – a non-fucking gigolo. Not that I think there‟s anything so wrong with that. But I want to move on now. With you, if you think your arse can take it.‟

„I think it can.‟

He smiles brilliantly enough to melt the last of the ice-cubes in his drink.

„That‟s a yes?‟

„That‟s a yes.‟

We seal the deal in the pub car park, over the low wall with my skirt up and my knickers down, his belt flying through the evening air, all invisible in the darkness but just close enough to the pub to add a hint of risk.

„You‟d better get used to the idea of bending over at a moment‟s notice,‟ says Aidan, his arm beneath my ribcage, holding me against him, his other hand tugging at my hair so that his lips can reach my ear without hindrance. „I‟m a spontaneous kind of guy when I want to be.‟

Afterwards, he sits me down on the hard brick so that I feel every tiny bruise and sore patch against my spontaneously- spanked bum, and he kisses me until I think I will fall backwards on to the tarmac.

„Are you sitting comfortably?‟ he whispers.

„No.‟

„Good. Then we‟ll begin.‟

35

It’s All Jenna Jameson’s Fault

It‟s all Jenna Jameson‟s fault.

It was her book that gave me the idea.

The new club I was working at promised a shorter drive to work, an earlier finish, and access to the city‟s top earners as they entertained clients and were more than ready to splash their bonuses on having me rub myself all over them.

Happily for most of the girls, but sadly for my exhibitionistic self, the club was only licensed for topless dances, even in the VIP, where I had previously been able to go all out showing off my pussy and had climaxed on a customer‟s lap on more than one occasion.

I‟ve been a lap dancer since I was 19 and have enjoyed every lip-licking, arse-shaking second off it. I‟ve made some friends for life in those chilly dressing rooms as we safety pinned each other‟s costumes and straightened each other‟s hair. Most of us – whatever reasons we cite, when pressed by the occasional journalist passing through researching the new licensing laws, or filming the „secret‟

world of the strip club for some voyeuristic mock-umentary for those who daren‟t step through the opaque doors and see for themselves – are there at least partly because we love the attention. Of course £600 in a night helps, as does the hours you can fit around studying for 36

your masters, looking after the kids, or writing a book.

But for many of us, we just like to be looked at. Did I say we? Obviously I meant
I
.

I‟ve had a tendency towards exhibitionism from an early age. I first noticed men looking at me in my early teens and quickly became aware of the power this gave me. As a teenager my girlfriends and I would put on strip shows for each other and talk about what our stripper names would be, and what we would wear. At university we would study in the park and my friend Leah and I would deliberately try to distract the boys playing football by sneaking our legs further and further open as we lay on the grass. We‟d compete with each other, squabbling over which one of us made the bloke do a double take and completely miss the ball, until we got so brazen that one of us would have a skirt on with no knickers, while the other had hot pants so tiny that our pussy lips would be poking out of one side. We‟d wear bikinis and pretend to secretly unfasten each other‟s tops then feign embarrassment when we stood up and they fell off, showing our tits to the whole park. We‟d get so horny that we‟d fuck each other in our little single dorm beds. But we were straight at heart, so I‟d be finger fucking her and telling her all about what a dirty little bitch she was showing her cunt to the footballers and how they were going to come in and fuck her one by one until she could hardly walk. Of course, when I saw the advert in the back of
The Stage
magazine for table dancers, it was her who came and auditioned with me and we learnt the strip club ropes together. Our two-girl dances were popular because the chemistry between us was real, and we‟d push it as far as we could, sneaking our fingers inside each other‟s pussies where we knew the CCTV couldn‟t quite pick it up; some middle-aged man sat in front of us nearly 37

coming in his pants.

I‟d spent the last year working in Velvet, a slightly sleazy fully nude club, where I‟d built myself up a group of regulars who not only got off on seeing my naked pussy but also on the fact that I just loved showing it to them. Fetishes and turn-ons are subtle, and it can take a while to hit the jackpot of finding someone with the same equal and opposite reactions, and that goes for sex workers‟ and their customers as much as any couple.

With one guy, I would whisper in his ear as I danced, telling him how wet I was, how I loved having a bare cunt in a roomful of men, knowing they all wanted it, but none of them could have it. Every word was true.

Stag parties would get wild. Girls would be putting on lesbian shows and getting fingered in front of everyone.

About half the girls were escorting which was fine, but not something I ever went into myself. Showing off was my thing and I made quite enough money at it. The official story was that the owner had been offered a price he couldn‟t refuse to sell the old club to make way for a new cinema, but everyone knew it was on the verge of being closed down for pretty much being a brothel full of tax evaders.

Bikini was a whole other ball game. In theory a much better run club, with female management and bouncers that didn‟t look like East End gangsters. It had panic buttons, and strict policies on drunkenness and touching and knickers: they had to stay on. My first few weeks went by without a hitch but I was getting bored. Without being able to show off my pussy it was starting to feel like work. Before eleven we wore dresses and to assuage my boredom I took to slipping my knickers off in the changing room and walking to the bar at the other end of the club with nothing under my dress. I‟d have a drink on 38

a high stool and chat to a couple of customers and give them sneaky little glances at my pussy, before nipping back to put on a thong before I was due onstage.

For my birthday, Leah, now a happily married mum and a senior social worker, but still a filthy tart at heart, gave me Jenna Jameson‟s book
How to Make Love Like a
Porn Star.
I laughed my way through Jenna‟s days as an underage Vegas stripper, remembering my own early career. She wrote all about working in a club where thongs had to stay on, and I found my hand wandering under the duvet as I read about how she used to wear a white thong and wet it before she danced so that the fabric would go see through and her pussy lips would be visible through it. I circled my clit gently, imagining the super-hot Jenna‟s pussy, just veiled by a slippery scrap of white mesh, and the look on the man‟s face as, instead of seeing the expected censored triangle, he sees everything, and it would be easy for him to imagine it was her making it wet.