‘Not really. Do you mind … take it easy … to start off.’
‘OK.’
I jiggle and circle my hips, watching the end of the strap-on move inside his opened hole. ‘I want you to know,’ I blurt, hardly knowing what I’m saying.
‘What?’
‘That … oh, I don’t know. That you should let me know if it hurts you.’
‘Is that what you meant to say?’
I swallow the words. ‘Yes. Will you do that for me? Let me know if it hurts? And I’ll stop.’
‘Scout’s honour, ma’am.’
I pull out, then slide it back in again. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat. I take my cues from his shuddering breath and his heartbreaking little moans, sometimes slowing, sometimes jerking it in more roughly than before.
‘You want this?’
‘God, yes, God, keep going.’
‘Are you going to come?’
‘What do you fucking think?’ His breath is harsh now, so fast I almost expect steam to rise from his head. I thrust, thrust, thrust, and then he howls, loud and clear, trying to break the cuffs that hold his ankles and wrists in place with the violence of his straining.
I don’t know what to do with the dildo while he is coming – I just keep it shoved up there, hoping this is the right way to prolong his ecstasy. Or maybe I should keep fucking? Oh, I don’t know. I’m so glad I’m not a dominant type of person; there’s so much to consider.
I wait for him to flounder into a post-orgasmic doze, then I retract my weapon with infinite tenderness and care, until his twitching gap is unfilled, having nothing but the memory of penetration to keep it wide open.
I take off the harness, fling it to the floor and unbuckle his ankles.
His legs swing, heavy and useless, together.
I move around to his front. His eyes are shut, his face gormless as it is in sleep. Perhaps he is asleep. I unbuckle the wrists, kissing each one as it is freed, then I stroke his hair while he recovers, picking plastered strands away from his cheek and forehead. I want to take him off the bench, sling him over my shoulder and drop him onto a bed. It’s a weird, topsy-turvy, confusing feeling. I feel as if I’m him and he’s me. It’s all the wrong way round.
‘Hey, Lloyd,’ I whisper. The latex catsuit is fiendishly hot and uncomfortable now. I’m desperate to get out of it. ‘Are you awake?’
A long ‘hmmmmmm’ is all I get.
I crouch down a little, cup his face in a hand (the one that didn’t poke a finger up his bottom). My nose rubs his, my lips brush against the corner of his mouth, then move to his ear.
‘Wake up. You’re free. I’d say I passed that one, wouldn’t you?’
I yelp as his hands, quick smart, land under my armpits, holding me tight. He burrows his mouth into my neck, feasting on it.
He lets go and jumps to his feet, facing me from the opposite side of the bench. ‘No more ma’am?’ he says, with a crooked smile. ‘Who’s going to clean up the mess then?’ He looks down at the underside of the bench, which drips with his ejaculate.
‘Oh, go on then. If you must. Lick it up, boy.’
I watch, grinning at his expression of disgust, as he obeys me on his knees.
‘Never again,’ he vows, looking around for his clothes. ‘But it was an experience. Did you enjoy it?’
‘Partly. I didn’t so much enjoy it as learn from it.’
‘And what did you learn?’
He turns to face me, pants in hand, eyebrows raised.