To the outside world Charles and I are an enigma. A distinguished older man with a sexy young woman suggests only one thing, right? Most assume I’m a gold-digger or a high-class whore. Wrong, wrong, wrong! I’m the one with the money, albeit held in trust for a few years yet. No, I stay with Charles for the fantastic sex. In return I offer... well just about everything. Yes, I do have a rather high opinion of myself, and for that you’ll have to blame my parents for my pampered upbringing.
Charles has money of his own, of course, which is fortunate, as I am currently persona non grata with my own family. But I digress from the main issue, which is the all-important sex!
I am a woman of the world, so to speak. Perhaps a little too well travelled for most. Charles doesn’t mind. He knows my sordid past and loves me none the less. Besides, Charles has this commanding manner, which turns me weak at the knees and positively swooning. I’m a born submissive, if there is such a thing, so some may call Charles a bully. He’s not. I like to think of him as more of my guardian.
Now, you may think our relationship strange in an age of women’s liberation, but I am absolutely besotted with the man. He’s handsome too, in a crumpled way that makes me positively want to smooth out the wrinkles. Despite my privileged status I still have many insecurities. One of which sits at our table this precise moment, babbling in her Hollywood speak, dropping names like they are going out of fashion.
Obviously, I’m not fully listening, but my antennae remain on threat alert. I smile at the threat – a doe-eyed blonde with little talent – one of the many trophies on display, at this, one of the most expensive hotels in Europe. Somehow I manage to avoid staring jealously at her silicone-enhanced breasts. They are perhaps as good as my own, and Charles always buys the best.
I hold a foot aloft to examine my new shoes, stretch a long leg into the aisle, deliberately blocking the path of an approaching waiter. Stacy may have oversized tits, but I have the toned legs of a dancer. OK a pole dancer admittedly, but they are still fine pins. On cue, the waiter’s eyes are drawn to them. I flash him an apologetic smile, yet let my leg linger a while longer. Just long enough so he doesn’t forget me. Somehow he retains his composure, smiling with sinful eyes as he turns to the next table. I sense his unease as he resists the urge to glance up my split skirt. His discomfort is palpable, but in the end decorum wins. Shame.
‘Pardon? Yes, the shoes are new. Italian actually.’ Oh dear, Stacy adores them. So she says – repeatedly. I have always found her boundless enthusiasm a little vulgar. It’s the reason I dislike her most – that, and the fact she fawns over Charles like a besotted schoolgirl. I suspect Charles knows my misgivings, keeping her and her husband company merely to irritate me, to test me. Stacy’s not actually unfriendly, mind you, but she always behaves as if she’s so much better than I am. Just because I’m from Rio. Sometimes I simply cannot hold my tongue. I know I have a reputation for insolence, for being unnecessarily wicked, especially when faced with mediocrity. So I am thankful when mediocrity announces she has to leave earlier than usual. Even so I feel the urge to provoke, to be spiteful, to hurry Stacy on her way.
Charles peers at me over the rim of his cocktail glass. I blush, knowing he can read my mind. So I wait patiently, sip my chilled wine, take longing glances at the arses of the passing waiters, allow myself the indulgence of yet more fantasy, unwilling to listen to more of Stacy’s benign drivel.
I know I sound like a spoilt brat. I guess I am. I live in a world of privilege and had a fortunate upbringing. Father gave me everything I ever wanted. Despite his best efforts to persuade me otherwise I wanted his friend, Charles. Couldn’t Martina Castillo have any man (or woman) she wanted? I had beauty, charm, sophistication, money. True, I was lost in the bowels of Rio when Charles found me on Father’s behest, my gilt tarnished but none the less real. I would like to say ours was love at first sight, but Charles thought me too young. He said I was a wildcat. He even had the audacity to suggest to Father that I needed a firm hand. I was shocked, yet thrilled at the same time. How dare he? How dare this man? Of course, his lack of interest made me want him more – to me nothing is more desirable than something I cannot have. I used guile, used every ploy I knew to draw Charles to me. I hung on his every word, promised my unfaltering obedience. Eventually I got what I wanted and much more, for in the process I fell in love.
Charles is not gullible like Father. He tries to curb my excesses now I am reliant on an allowance. Father delayed my inheritance when I shamed the family. Mostly I manage, though shoes in particular remain a dilemma. You see, I adore expensive Italian shoes. I flew to Milan for the Ferragamo’s. I have to have them especially made and fitted. I have never seen such beauty, such fine sculpturing. Once I tried them on I just had to possess them. True, the purchase went against my agreement with Charles, against my promise to be more frugal. It would have been easy to lie, to hide them in my wardrobe. I didn’t. These shoes were made to be worn and I am just the girl to wear them.
Stacy breaks my reverie by announcing her departure. ‘Oh, must you go?’ My eyes lock on hers. In one fleeting moment demarcation lines are drawn. She recognises the unspoken challenge, kisses me on both cheeks, then embraces Charles – clinging a fraction too long – a parting shot before she departs.
I am glad to see Stacy’s fat arse leave, though irritatingly her perfume lingers. Charles notices too. I do my utmost to distract him, to provoke him into action. I’m bored. I sweep a circuit of the patio, using the open space around the pool as a makeshift catwalk. Charles watches intently. He likes to show me off and I am young and vain enough to revel in the admiring glances of onlookers. They watch now, men, women, though I find Charles’s schoolboy fascination the most intriguing. He often boasts that my deportment is akin to a pure-bred Arab. Charles should know, he has a stable sheiks envy. Only when admiring eyes steal my way does he add that I have the temperament to match. At such times I demure. Charles believes he has me tamed. It amuses me to let him think so, though occasionally I nip, let him know this filly still has spirit. Besides, revolt keeps him interested, keeps the likes of Stacy on the fringes.
I strut back to our table, certain I have the attention of everyone present. I ensure the click of my new heels on the tiled floor acts as a drum beat to draw eyes my way. I silently thank my father. It seems military school had some merits after all. Charles waits, an amused smile plays across his face. He knows I am showing off for his benefit. He knows too about the shoes and where my disobedience will lead. We have played this game before, Charles and I. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes darling, you?’ Charles nods, and then goes back to reading his pretty pink newspaper, dismissing me for some titbit of business news. I fake outrage, stamp my foot like a petulant schoolgirl. Why not? It has always worked before. Behind the wall of newspaper I see his eyebrows rise and realise he is smiling, or worse, sniggering. Oh, the gall of the man!
‘I’m surprised you can walk, let alone dance,’ he says, mocking me.
Well, at least I have his attention. ‘You forget, I’m well trained.’
Charles reluctantly tears his eyes from the newspaper, looks me directly in the eye. ‘Expensive?’
‘Me or the shoes?’ I know my offhand manner will infuriate him. Like most wealthy men Charles is precise with money. I suppose I am still a little angry and jealous of Stacy. He is not pleased with me. ‘I see you’re still an ill-tempered child who has never wanted for anything.’
‘Listen to Mister Pedicure!’ I counter.
His amused expression fades. Blind anger, hot and fresh, bubbles to the surface, high spots of colour rising to his cheeks to complement the silver of his hair. I notice a vein pounding in his temple. His eyes flash like warning beacons. ‘Am I to punish you again?’
It seems the whole hotel falls silent. Waiters pause mid stride. Everyone is looking at me with baited breath, waiting for my reply. I suddenly become the star of my own soap opera. With a rising sense of showmanship I deliver my lines, ‘As you please. You’re arrogant enough to feel I am yours to do with as you wish.’ I know I have pushed too far. My heart races as he keeps an iron grip on my hand, and all but forcefully drags me from the patio. I stumble behind, looking anything but graceful in the stiletto heels. Several men look on in admiration, while their female companions openly smirk, basking in my plight.
Now, this is usually where the fun starts, where the bad girl is punished. I am intrigued. I know my rebellion has excited him. I wonder will he punish me in the lobby in front of everyone, bent over a pool table in the games room, or simply fuck me in a broom cupboard.
I am a little disappointed when we return to our suite.
Charles stands me in the middle of the room, turns the bedside reading lamps to act like makeshift spotlights. ‘Dance,’ he barks. This is Charles’ way of making me feel cheap; of making sure I do not rise too far out of the gutter where he found me.
I feel my tears well, so hurt I am momentarily stunned. Yes, I hurt like everyone else! I’m hurting now.
‘You like to flaunt, so flaunt.’ His voice loses none of the distaste which is so palpable. He retreats into the darkness, leaving me feeling naked and exposed in the glare of the spotlights. Sometimes I believe I am his marionette. He claps his hands and I perform. I know I should not complain. I am back where I belong, once more the centre of his attention. So I dance. Like the cheap whore I once was, I dance.
I am a graceful dancer, a provocative dancer. I dance to increase his arousal, to increase my own arousal. It would be better if I had the use of a stage pole, then I could use my long legs for ultimate effect, wrapping them around my shiny companion, grinding and sliding, playing out a wanton fantasy.
Of the two of us I don’t know who has the darker fetish. Sometimes they are difficult to separate, to know which is mine and which his. I suppose we both own them now, since they have become an integral part of our life together. I stare into the darkness unable to see him or his face. I slip my dress straps from my shoulders, standing in my stockings, panties and bra, which I quickly remove. For a moment I play coy, cover myself as I step out of the material pooled at my feet. My nipples are hard jewels and I am reluctant to reveal them. Slowly I turn.
‘You can do better,’ Charles chides. So I bend over and grasp my ankles, wiggling my shapely bottom like a cow at auction, ever mindful of my shiny new shoes. They give me focus. Ferragamo believed that the arch of the foot is one of the most important parts of the body. I become an arch, my feet and I perfectly aligned.
I sense Charles step into the circle of light. Maybe he will relent. He stands beside me, runs a fingernail down the ridge of my spine, making me shiver. ‘No doubt you enjoyed yourself tonight?’
I can hear desire in his voice, perhaps a little desperation. He too is frightened as we explore new territory. I guess this is the point of no return – whether to rebel or to submit. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘You’ve been a naughty girl, Tina, breaking our agreement, upsetting Stacy.’
‘I’m sorry.’ We both know my spoken apology isn’t enough. I will have to pay in tears, and this time not from hurt feelings. Charles touches my bottom, making certain I realise what is about to happen. I feel myself tremble. He reaches between my legs to cup my bulging mound. Despite my humiliation I am hard. His other hand roughly massages my buttocks, before he grabs my panties at the crotch and pulls firmly. The taut material pulls tight against my balls, squashing them wonderfully. None of this is new to me for I am used to rough play, to rough men.
He spins me around to place his hand gently on my head, letting me fall to my knees. The hard bulge of his cock stares me in the face. Yes, he once saved me. I am beholden. I am anything he wants me to be. I undo the zip of his trousers and fish inside his underwear for his growing manhood.
Charles moans as he feels my soft warm and wet mouth covering the head of his cock. In this moment he is weak, vulnerable in a way only a man can be. I forgive him his former callousness. I forgive him everything. I open my mouth allowing Charles to push his cock to the back of my mouth. He stifles a cute little gasp as he feels my warm confines engulf him. I look up and he is smiling back.
I swirl my tongue around his silky skin as I lower my head, taking more of his hot shaft into my mouth. Slowly I move, working my mouth, letting my teeth lightly scrape along his rock hard skin. Gathering the precome leaking from his cock, I let the bulbous head slip from between my lips. I let the head bob in front of me for a few seconds while I draw breath, before licking the length of the shaft, the veins now full and pulsing. This is the monster I worship, this powerful symbol of manhood. I worship for some time, praying at the feet of the man I love, until I am told to stop.
Now Charles is satisfied, he feels he has control of my reins once more. My spirit, though not broken, is subdued and only now will he take me. We move to the bed where Charles peels my panties down my legs to mid-thigh. His fingers slide over my buttocks, and then between them, into me. He teases with his finger. It is a mistake to anticipate. He is too wily to make any punishment or pleasure I receive easy for me. So I wait while he fondles. Charles is in no hurry, he understands the power of anticipation. He removes his belt and still he makes me wait.
The first sting of the belt brings tears to my eyes. Charles does not hold back and I am thankful for the support of the footboard. Hot, sharp pain flares in my bottom cheeks, more intense than I remember. The blood rushes to my smarting buttocks. In the mirror I can see the cheeks reddening. Defiantly I push my bottom higher, await the next strike. Charles does not like my provocation.
The second strike is harder. The third harder again, enough to make my body jerk. I let out a strangled cry, though to cry out is a mistake. As is moving unnecessarily. Charles likes order, where I am chaos. Like an elaborate feng shui I am to be punished until my enforced obedience realigns his life. That’s why I continue to buy the shoes, an anarchistic purchase to muddy the waters, to breathe life into our relationship. Besides, I like the fiery heat of a good spanking. The heat penetrates my sac, heating my balls. My cock throbs. I am as hard as granite. Soon, the pain of my erection is almost as unbearable as the searing pain on my arse cheeks.
Charles continues until the heat grows intolerable. In return for my supplication Charles spanks me until my bottom flames, becomes a criss-cross of branded belt marks. The throbbing between my legs grows much greater, yet even the insistent throbbing of my cock cannot distract me. I am past seeping – a steady trickle of precome coats my cockhead. My shame glistens in the glare of the night light, evidence I am exactly what he believes me to be. The last blow is delivered harder than the others. I bite my lip. I will not allow Charles the satisfaction of crying out.
I sense Charles has lost interest and his mind turns to other matters, as they always do. He stands directly behind me, his hips close. Despite my resolve I gasp as the pressure of his hard cock makes the pain in my bottom flare. I welcome the distraction, close my eyes, and soak up the wicked pleasure as the hard bulge presses into the crack of my bottom.
‘Aroused, Tina?’ Charles whispers next to my ear as his hand steals around my body to clasp my own erection. Now he mocks. My bottom is seared, my balls swollen and bloated, my breathing ragged. I am full, yet I am empty. I need to be filled, need to be filled by him. He knows this so teases me with his erection, teases by gathering my precome and spreading it over my cockhead.
Yes, you bastard! I bite my lip, mad with desire, not wanting to capitulate, not wanting to beg. I promise myself I will not cave. No, I will not cave! ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Fuck me!’ There is too much urgency in my reply, too much need. Now I have played into his hands. His fingers slide slowly over my heated skin. He lingers at my anus, makes me shudder, and lets me know I am his. His other hand slides along my cock, inches slowly downwards. My legs tremble as he stops with fingers barely touching my sperm-laden balls.
I grow ever more frantic. He wants me to plead, to beg. Oh, how I do. How I beg. I am past caring about self-respect. Charles has turned me inside out, laid me bare and exposed, so totally at his mercy. I gasp as a thick finger enters my anus. Charles feigns contempt at my weakness, delves deeper. I swallow his finger effortlessly, shudder in pleasure, no longer embarrassed by my body’s treason. I would like him to give more, to fuck me with his beautiful erection. Instead, he continues to tease, He fucks me with his finger, hard and fast. Waves of ecstasy pour over me as he continues to ream my bottom with his finger, toying with my cock until I am close to climax. I plead again, fighting back my guilt. What sort of woman am I?
Charles tells me in no uncertain terms. Slut! These harsh words – not normally part of his educated vocabulary – thrill me beyond reason. I shake my head vehemently. No, no, no! Yet his evidence is damning. He seizes my hair, pulls my head back, my scalp stinging under the strain, and then holds his perfectly manicured finger under my nose, spreading my precome along my lips. I am too weak to resist, too weak to deny any longer. He makes me repeat his words. He wants to hear them pass my ruby-painted lips. I look into his eyes; they are full of fire, full of longing, full of uncertainty. Ultimately, it is I who feel the need to reassure. ‘I’m a slut,’ I tell him.
His slut Charles reminds me. He turns my head to kiss me. Charles wants a soul mate with the body of a man who can kiss like a woman. My lips melt against his. I am that woman. I am. I am.
It is difficult to suppress my elation as his hands grasp my hips, drawing me to him. His erection nudges past my sore flesh, rigid, imposing, and rampant. Knowing how much he wants me fuels my hunger. I feel the chill of the lubricating balm, and then he slips into me without further hesitation, confident now of his status. In one deft movement he claims me as his own. I cry out, my submission complete. He withdraws almost completely, and then slowly pushes back in, all the way, until I can feel his balls rub against me. He does the same movement twice more then pauses again. I clasp the footboard; brace myself for the rutting to follow. Charles does not disappoint. He is quite an athlete for his age. His thrusts are short, furious, fitting in their intensity. ‘This what you want, slut?’ he grunts between thrusts.
‘Yes,’ I whimper. The slapping sounds as he reams my hole join my groans to fill the room. I plead for forgiveness though he does not stop, does not show mercy until I feel his anger explode inside me. I squeal like an alley cat, tightening around him. Like a volcano I erupt until I too am spent.
Charles holds me until I am still. He guides me to our bed, gently lays me on the soft mattress. This time I watch as he undresses. He kisses me tenderly, reaffirms his love. This is what every bad girl wants to hear: That we are not so bad after all. I wrap him in my arms; clutch his head to my breast. Only when he sleeps do I thank him, do I whisper my own undying love. We are Yin and Yang, Charles and I. Only together do we make sense.
No doubt I will be a little bruised – a reminder I will carry with me for a few days. Tomorrow he will play golf while I wait in the hotel with the other trophies and try not to fidget. Of course, I will miss the health spa. I will decline politely. Janice will smile knowingly. Maybe a few ladies will raise eyebrows, but no one will question. We each have our own cross to bear. Instead, I shall relax by the pool, stretch out my legs, rejuvenate in the sun, perhaps sip a few margaritas, play the good girl, the model wife.
Yet, I know my obedience will not last. A month, maybe a little longer before the itch grows too strong to ignore. I’ll spend a leisurely day shopping, filling myself with anticipation, browsing the stores before I select the most outrageous, most expensive heels I can find. You may ask why I sacrifice my dignity for a pair of shoes, however fabulous? I am a realist as well as a romantic. I know I have three, maybe four years with Charles before he decides to move on. So be it, and remember, that without those glass slippers Cinderella would still be sweeping the fireplace.