‘OK.’ He surveys me proudly for a moment then drags one of his fetish furnishings, a kind of padded stepstool affair, away from the wall and into the centre of the room. ‘Now put yourself over this, Sophie.’
‘Are you going to fuck me?’
I’ve never fucked Jerome, not bec
ause I dislike him or find him unattractive, just … haven’t. Somehow.
‘I can’t answer that,’ he says, prodding me onward with a finger in the small of my back. I let him arrange me over the stool, on my knees, with my stomach leaning on a nice fat cushion, locked wrists tied to a crossbar in front. He smacks the insides of my thighs so I part them hurriedly, then he straps my knees to the step. There’s no way out of this now.
‘Why not?’
‘Orders. Now, I may or may not fuck you, but I do get to warm you up. Just wait there one moment.’
To my considerable astonishment, he opens the shop door and calls, ‘Gentlemen? Are you ready?’
I’m facing the wrong way and I’m too firmly strapped down to turn my head, so I don’t see who comes in, or how many of them there are.
‘Sophie,’ says Jerome after shutting the door again, but he is introducing me rather than addressing me. Introducing the spread cunt and outthrust arse that must be pretty much all they can see of me anyway.
‘Now this is a little quiz for you,’ he continues, talking to me this time. ‘I have three gentlemen here with me. All of them are friends of yours. What you have to do is play a game of Guess Who. First of all, though, I get to make your ass red, which is one of my favourite games.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I complain.
‘Nothing. Just the payment I demanded for my services. Come on. I’ll be nice.’
Nice isn’t really the word for the tingling teasing pain of the flogger as it lands, briskly and sharply, on my defenceless posterior. Jerome enjoys his work, though, and he flicks the strands all over my untaped rear until I gasp and squeak with humiliated outrage. At the same time I am working on riding out the sting, my brain is calculating the likely identities of the three witnesses. Is one of them Lloyd? Surely, it must be. So Lloyd and two of his friends. Which two? Ouch!
My mind abandons its machinations and I am given over entirely to the attention-grabbing heat in my backside.
‘She’s getting wet now,’ observes Jerome, pausing for a moment. ‘Your work will not be too hard.’
‘What work?’ I ask.
‘Do I have to gag you? Your input is not required.’ He gives me one more thwack of the flogger to make his point, then puts his big hands over my burning globes, absorbing their warmth. ‘OK, I think she’s ready for her first. Concentrate, Sophie. As soon as you know who this is, tell us.’
I hone my senses, putting myself on red alert. Footsteps approach, but their sound alone isn’t enough to give me any clues.
One hand lands on my hip. It’s medium sized, maybe? It glides up and holds one of my breasts. The touch is familiar, slightly tentative. Not Lloyd. This is a gentle caress, a considerate circling of my nipple.
I try to get his scent. It’s fresh, vaguely piny. A burst of this coupled with the distinctive tenderness of his touch gives me my answer.
‘It’s Jake,’ I state confidently.
‘Aww.’ I’m right. ‘I wanted to last a bit longer than that! Do I still get a shag?’
This appeal is presumably met with a shaken head. My hotel lifeguard pats my flank and retires, injured.
‘Well done. I don’t know if there’s a prize,’ says Jerome. ‘I guess that’s up to the governor. Now for number two.’
My second candidate’s technique could hardly be more different. He is almost rough in comparison. Before I realise he’s there, he has pushed two fingers inside me. I yelp and try to push them off, but I am held fast.
‘Take it easy!’ I snap.
He removes them with an apologetic rub of my clit. His hand, which is even bigger than Jerome’s, flattens against my pussy lips and he jigs it back and forth, giving my clitoris a quick spark every few moments. It’s the perfunctory going-through-the-motions of a man impatient to get to the main event. A man who thinks he doesn’t need to make an effort. A man who is arrogant and also built like Atlas on steroids.
‘Lincoln.’
‘What the fuck? You must have eyes in the back of your head.’