Personally I blame it on the nuns.
I didn’t have a Catholic upbringing, my parents weren’t even lapsed, but when I was fourteen everything changed. When they caught me in their bed with the next door neighbours’ oldest son, a bottle of vodka, a joint and a Polaroid camera (what can I say, I’m easily led) they decided some repression was exactly what I needed.
And after that shock, my mother’s subsequent turn to Valium and my father’s consequent turn to an even younger mistress, they decided religion could be the answer for us all.
To say it didn’t work is rather an understatement. At eighteen, when I finally escaped the ridiculously strict convent school, the years of repressed bad girl behaviour came out with a vengeance.
So now, more than a few years later, not only have I done pretty much everything with everyone (except a nun, which, admittedly, remains a huge fantasy, but is another story . . .) I have all the conditioned guilt to go with it.
So my fantasies aren’t exactly conventional.
But fortunately I seem to have found someone even less conventional than I am.
Or should I say that he found me?
It always starts in the shower. I’m using some lavender shower gel that’s supposed to be relaxing me, rubbing it slowly over my body, but it does nothing for my knotted shoulders. I just can’t relax, and I know that I need someone’s sensual touch to release the tension inside.
I try not to think of my ex-boyfriend. I know that I am right to be alone, no matter how much I miss the sex. Splitting with Greg hardly left me devastated – you could hardly describe him as my soul mate – but what he was lacking in romance and intellect he more than made up for physically.
Well, at least he had at the start.
We had spent days in bed, lost weekends and almost friends as we’d explored each other’s bodies, his hands running across my skin, fingers deftly making me squirm; he’d been the best lover I’d had.
But that was before he’d come into my life. Just answering the phone that day had changed everything, and Greg had suddenly seemed boring in comparison, our relationship dull and uninspired. Nothing had changed the feeling, no matter how hard I’d tried (and, believe me, I bought half the sex shop trying).
There were so many regrets, all too late now.
I know that if I’d wanted I could have stopped him leaving, told him some bullshit to make everything better. He’d caught me on the phone, had heard just enough to be suspicious, and that had been it. I could have tried to explain – God knows, with my imagination I could have thought up some story to make him understand. I could have tried to convince him to stay.
But if Greg had stayed then he’d have wanted the phone calls to stop.
And I couldn’t let that happen. They were my secret; my forbidden exploration of something more than anyone else had ever given me.
When it came down to choosing between them, Greg didn’t have a hope. The phone calls couldn’t end.
But ever since Greg had left it seemed like every muscle in my body was tense, waiting in nervous anticipation for something to happen, for him to take it further.
I climb out of the shower; the lavender gel is doing nothing for me except making me smell like a pensioner. I groan as I see myself in the mirror. Without Greg and without sex I’d turned to food to satisfy my appetites. All I’d wanted was a good fuck, but all I’d had was chocolate, and it was definitely starting to show.
I had to be positive. I wasn’t chubby, I was voluptuous, a body made for pleasure – each part perfect for caressing, kissing and nibbling. All I needed was a man.
And there was only one I wanted.
I rapidly dry myself, rubbing the harsh towel between my legs roughly, trying to resist the temptation to pleasure myself now, knowing that I’m testing my willpower as I reach for my body lotion and revel in the coolness against my hot skin. I tell myself if I wait until later I’ll have more time, something better than a hurried wank, and put the body lotion back, before it drives my body wild. Later I’ll be so ready, waiting for the satisfaction I’ve been craving so long.
It’s the only thing I miss about Greg, the regular sex. Although he might have acted like an emotional cripple, he still had a hard cock that was always ready for action. Since he’d gone my libido had seemed to go through the roof, and I was pleasuring myself to the point where I was in danger of getting Repetitive Strain Injury if I didn’t get a real man real soon.
I dress quickly, before the temptation becomes too much, drying my hair quickly as I brush out the curl, getting myself ready for my respectable job in the city. If only they knew what I was really like, I think, smiling at what they would think. Everybody at work thought I was so serious, so in control, probably thought I was some frigid spinster. I had perfected this facade long ago. But they were wrong.
My breath catches as the phone rings. Another reason why my lust levels have so suddenly increased.
The funny phone calls that were more exciting than upsetting, that I probably looked forward to more than the caller did. I could feel myself getting wet at the thought, and chide myself, trying to dispel the sensations suddenly overwhelming my body. I don’t have time for this now.
I try to ignore the continuous ringing, wishing that the hairdryer could drown out the tempting siren. I can’t do this now. I can’t be late for work – I’ve never been late for work. It’s not the me that everybody knows and expects. But I know my willpower will break before his ever will. It was as if he knew when I was home alone, as if he knew when I would be too weak to refuse his advances. I tell myself that I wish he wouldn’t phone, that I want to break this perverse addiction. I know that the only way I can break it is if he stops; I don’t have the strength to resist by willpower alone.
But I don’t mean it, and if he stopped I know I would be devastated.
And I think he knows it.
I put the hairdryer down. It’s useless to think I can fight the feeling growing so urgently inside me; this thirst needs quenching immediately.
I pin my hair up, then walk down the stairs slowly, letting the anticipation build, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my body. I sit by the phone, legs unable to hold me up much longer, shaking with excitement. I answer with a trembling hand.
“Are you alone?” the man whispers, and I fight the urge to reply. His voice is low and husky, and reminds me of melted chocolate with its melting liquid quality. He pauses, giving me a moment to let my thoughts run wild as I try to guess what he would say next, which erotic scenario he would help me explore this time.
“I know you’re alone, otherwise you would have hung up by now. You wouldn’t want anybody else to know what’s going on, would you? You wouldn’t want your friends to know what a dirty girl you are.”
I smile. He knows me so well without even having to say a word. Every dirty thought I had ever had he knew, every fantasy I’d ever written off as perverse, he was ready to illustrate and magnify. He was the voice of my libido; he was my imagination exaggerated; he was every obscenity that tempted me personified.
He was like my sexual conscience gone mad.
Sometimes I wanted to ask who he was, but didn’t dare ruin my fantasies of him, so let him carry on uninterrupted.
“So have you showered and moisturized today, prepared yourself for me? Did you shave yourself for me, made yourself neat and tidy as if I could see you? Did you touch yourself and think of me as you rubbed in your body lotion? Are you dressed today, or are you sat there naked, waiting for me? Are you waiting for me, are you touching yourself already?” He stops; his breathing ragged, and I can hear his zipper opening.
“I think that today you’re dressed, that today you thought you would ignore me. You thought that today you wouldn’t let your clit control you, that you would act as repressed as everyone else, that you would pretend that phone wasn’t even ringing. Like a good Catholic girl. But you couldn’t, could you? Because you’re not good. Because your clit began throbbing as soon as the phone rang, each ring, each throb calling you to me. Because my power is stronger than your will, and you know that I give you more than any other man could, without touching you. Because deep down you know you are my whore, and you love being treated this way.”
He pauses, and moans softly. I know his power over me turns us both on so much. Every word is like a touch to my body, and I feel my face grow warmer as he voices my darkest secrets.
“So, where will we start? I think you should start by undoing your blouse, but don’t take your bra off yet.” He says it so casually, as if it is nothing to ask someone he’s never even met to take her clothes off, as if this situation were completely normal.
I obey without question or hesitation, slowly opening each button of my shirt as if he is watching to see I’m doing it properly, and then stroke my breasts at the top of my black bra. Already my nipples are hard, and I long to touch them, but I know I must wait until I am told to.
I know the rules already, and dread the result of breaking them.
“I bet your little nipples are standing out like press-studs, aren’t they? Touch them, softly, drag your fingertips across them quickly. You want to rub them, but you can’t, not until I tell you.”
I silently comply, making my nipples ache with the need to be touched more, sending sparks of desire snaking down from my breasts to my clit. But I can’t touch myself more yet; I have to wait until he says I can, he is in charge, and I readily submit to his control. The delay seems endless, and I’m ashamed how erratic my breathing already is. But the embarrassment only turns me on further; the thought that he can humiliate me how he liked merely made me wetter.
Sometimes when I touched myself, in the moment before I came, I couldn’t help the unbidden thought entering my head that I wanted to be humiliated. In my darker moments of fantasy I dreamt of someone catching me touching myself as he filled my head with words of fantasy, of someone to take it further.
But, for now, his voice was enough.
“Now pinch them through your bra, pinch your nipples so hard I can hear you whimper.” His voice is hoarse, and I know he is as excited as I am, if not more so.
I quickly pinch myself, and whimper loudly down the phone, wanting to hear the effect it has on him. I heard him gasp just as loudly, and instinctively know what’s coming next.
“I’m touching myself, I’m rubbing my cock, talking to my dirty girl. You make me so desperate.” He moans again. “Now take your bra off, but don’t touch yourself yet.”
I instantly slip my bra off, and lean against the wall to feel the coldness against my bare back. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and the wall only provides momentary relief of the heat that is consuming me.
Looking down, I see my breasts are heaving with desire, my nipples hard and so erect. I wait, hand poised above my breast, but not yet touching. I can’t help rubbing my thighs together, wishing he would let me touch myself now, but at the same time dreading the moment it’s over.
“Now slowly stroke around the outside of your breasts. How much do you want to touch yourself now? How much do you wish I were there to sink my cock deep inside you? Think about my hands on your body, imagine that it’s my hands getting closer to your nipples, circle slowly the soft skin around them, and then touch them. Imagine that my mouth is on your nipples, teasing them with my tongue, nipping them softly, until you grab my head to make me bite you harder.”
My head is flooded with images of the faceless stranger doing what he wants to me, and I sigh loudly as I pinch my nipples harder.
“Now imagine that I’m watching you, as your hands slide down your belly, as you start to open your skirt so damn desperately.”
I can’t help doing exactly what he tells me to do, and undo my skirt, urgently tugging my panties down around my thighs, feeling the sticky wetness on them as they rub against my inner thighs.
“Slip your panties off and lie on your back. Now open your legs, but don’t touch. Just think about the air touching your most sensitive parts, and think of me knelt between your legs, looking at your body.”
I have always been shy about letting men look at me, but now I open my legs as wide as possible, so wide there is no need to part my lips with my fingers. Suddenly I relish this feeling of exposure and squirm with lust-filled embarrassment as I think of a faceless man watching me. The cold air seems like a lover’s caress in the most intimate places, and I slowly trail my fingers up along the inside of her thighs, trying to prolong the moment until I have to touch myself, until I can control myself no longer.
“Now stroke the inside of your thighs, and slowly work your way up to your clit. Think about your clit throbbing, aching for my touch. And now touch, but not hard yet; just catch it gently with the tip of your nail. Now open your legs further and drag your finger down to your hole, and then back to your clit, and back down again, until you are slick with your juices.”
I do, barely able to open my legs further than I already had, groaning as I feel how drenched I am. I move my finger from my hole and back to my clit once more than he had said, then pull my hand away urgently as I feel how close I already am. This was why I had to let him control me; he could make me last longer than I ever could.
“If I were there I would lick you clean, stick my tongue deep inside you then suck on your clit until you exploded in my mouth.”
But you’re not, I want to protest, wanting to dare him to take it further, but can say nothing as the thought of this faceless stranger lapping me to orgasm invades my head, making me pant with desire.
“But I’m not,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “So instead you can kneel up for me.”
I kneel. This is different; usually he just makes me touch myself, listening to me come. But I trust him, knowing he can only increase my pleasure.
“Now wet your finger with your juices, then reach under yourself, and push your finger inside your arse. Can you make yourself squirm like I could?”
He stops talking, and I can hear his hand rubbing his cock faster and faster. I’ve never done that before; the idea of anal sex had always seemed somewhat seedy and, although boyfriends had discussed it, the look of disgust on my face had stopped them suggesting it again. But now, now it’s different. I can’t stop myself doing exactly what he wants; for him I could do anything.
“Imagine that your finger is my cock, invading you everywhere, taking you like never before.”
I obey, struck by the thought of the faceless man taking away my remaining inhibitions, fucking me from behind as I touch myself. Suddenly I want him to take me up the arse, to give him that prize as if it were my final treasured virginity.
For him, I want to do everything.
“If I fucked you, you would know you had been fucked. I would take you in ways you haven’t dared dream of. I would make your cunt ache so you were begging me to fill it. I would make your clit throb so you would lie on your back with your legs spread wide, touching yourself while I watched, like the wanton whore you are.”
“Now,” I moan. “Now.”
“Now touch yourself, think that I’m fucking you now, now I’m fucking you hard and every way and rub yourself faster, so that I can hear you scream as you come.”
I can’t take any more, and I roll over on to my back, opening my legs wide and using the heel of my hand to rub myself harder that I’d ever thought I could stand. I can feel it building, and I pinch my nipples with my free hand, letting the pressure build. I hear him come loudly, and stop fighting it, almost screaming down the phone as the heat consumes me, my clitoris throbbing over and over again.
I collapse against the wall, holding the phone close as I hear his breathing return to normal. I’m still gasping heavily as I try to find my voice, try to find the will to stop this and get back to real life.
“Stop calling me, or I’ll call the police,” I order, barely able to speak, knowing my threat is empty, but knowing that this has to stop somehow.
“You don’t mean that,” he tells me, laughing. He hangs up before I have the chance to slam the phone down on him.
He’s right. I’m his dirty girl, and I like it.