It's the morning after.
He pounds me punishingly with his cock. That is the only way to describe it. Relentless pounding.
'That's the first fuck of the day', I say with the memory of the 12 fucks that preceded this one.
'Correct', he replies in a matter of fact way.
I am tired and fucked out. My entire raison d'être in the last 24 hours has been to be his fuck toy. It's new to me.
He has broken me with the spanking and just relentless fucking. I had an epiphany (details here) and I want him to go so I can enjoy it on my own.
But he doesn't go. He just sits there in my bed, dark stocky and solid, checking his messages on his iPhone.
I have a shower and come out of the bathroom in a towel. I carefully avoid eye-contact. I catch my iPhone on the table. Seven missed calls and God knows how many messages. I have disappeared for 24 hours and the world is not happy.
"Sooo...", I start the 'get the fuck out of my house' conversation.
"Yes", he is still typing without looking at me.
"Sooo", I start again
"We are going back to mine. Then we are going for a long walk, then I am going to fuck you again. Get your shortest dress and your high heels"
I stand there in the middle of the room thinking 'How fucking dare you?" As my resentment bubbles up he looks up at me again. Just checking.
"Okay", I say meekly and go to my walk in wardrobe to look for the specified garments.
I gather my slutty Miu Miu dress and a pair of Gina stillies and drop them into a Tate Modern shopping bag that's just sitting there.
I turn round again, thinking, "Why the fuck am I doing all this?"
Another alarming thought. 'What the fuck is his name?"
I look at him and I am blank. This man fucked me for 24 hours and his name is as elusive as my emotions.
We walk out into a cold January day, sunny and crisp. He makes me take the bus as well. The conversation is awful. He likes photography and I am an arts geek.
"What's your favourite photographer"
"I don't have one"
"Henri Cartier-Bresson is my favourite", I offer.
"I see a picture, I like it"
That's it. I begin to dislike him for his inability to engage. I am so socially skilled that in tests I come out as a functioning psychopath. I don't like people not connecting with me.
The bus comes. I put my RayBans on and fall asleep on his shoulder.
He wakes me up in Battersea. I hate Battersea.
His flat is a man's flat. Minimal, tidy but messy.
'I am going to take a shower' he announces.
As I hear the boiler kick into action I get off the sofa I was lounging on and dart around. Bills, letters, anything. "What the fuck is his name?!"
I spot a neat row of Christmas cards on the shelf. I grab the first one. And in a mirrored, naive child writing here it goes "Dear Uncle Jeremy"
Relief.
When he comes back into the room wearing his bathrobe and asks me for my breakfast preferences I smile comfortably.
"It's okay Jez. I will have whatever. Toast with Marmite will do"
He pounds me punishingly with his cock. That is the only way to describe it. Relentless pounding.
'That's the first fuck of the day', I say with the memory of the 12 fucks that preceded this one.
'Correct', he replies in a matter of fact way.
I am tired and fucked out. My entire raison d'être in the last 24 hours has been to be his fuck toy. It's new to me.
He has broken me with the spanking and just relentless fucking. I had an epiphany (details here) and I want him to go so I can enjoy it on my own.
But he doesn't go. He just sits there in my bed, dark stocky and solid, checking his messages on his iPhone.
I have a shower and come out of the bathroom in a towel. I carefully avoid eye-contact. I catch my iPhone on the table. Seven missed calls and God knows how many messages. I have disappeared for 24 hours and the world is not happy.
"Sooo...", I start the 'get the fuck out of my house' conversation.
"Yes", he is still typing without looking at me.
"Sooo", I start again
"We are going back to mine. Then we are going for a long walk, then I am going to fuck you again. Get your shortest dress and your high heels"
I stand there in the middle of the room thinking 'How fucking dare you?" As my resentment bubbles up he looks up at me again. Just checking.
"Okay", I say meekly and go to my walk in wardrobe to look for the specified garments.
I gather my slutty Miu Miu dress and a pair of Gina stillies and drop them into a Tate Modern shopping bag that's just sitting there.
I turn round again, thinking, "Why the fuck am I doing all this?"
Another alarming thought. 'What the fuck is his name?"
I look at him and I am blank. This man fucked me for 24 hours and his name is as elusive as my emotions.
We walk out into a cold January day, sunny and crisp. He makes me take the bus as well. The conversation is awful. He likes photography and I am an arts geek.
"What's your favourite photographer"
"I don't have one"
"Henri Cartier-Bresson is my favourite", I offer.
"I see a picture, I like it"
That's it. I begin to dislike him for his inability to engage. I am so socially skilled that in tests I come out as a functioning psychopath. I don't like people not connecting with me.
The bus comes. I put my RayBans on and fall asleep on his shoulder.
He wakes me up in Battersea. I hate Battersea.
His flat is a man's flat. Minimal, tidy but messy.
'I am going to take a shower' he announces.
As I hear the boiler kick into action I get off the sofa I was lounging on and dart around. Bills, letters, anything. "What the fuck is his name?!"
I spot a neat row of Christmas cards on the shelf. I grab the first one. And in a mirrored, naive child writing here it goes "Dear Uncle Jeremy"
Relief.
When he comes back into the room wearing his bathrobe and asks me for my breakfast preferences I smile comfortably.
"It's okay Jez. I will have whatever. Toast with Marmite will do"
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