her
remaining messages, and then there was Alasdair’s.
She read it quickly.
And then she reread it, before pushing its contents to the back of
her mind and replying briefly to Ethan. His immediate response was
to suggest a drink and debrief right away. For all his
understanding, though, he tended to be pitilessly frank when they
discussed anything that mattered, and she was not sure she was
ready for this yet. To buy time, she suggested Sunday lunch at the
local pub instead, creating the thinking space she needed to work
how what she was actually feeling before being challenged by
him.
In fact, what she
could remember of the night was murky, shaded with a haze of
surreality. She remembered Meister’s voice throughout, and she knew
that she’d drunk way too much, but she also understood that she’d
had to. She was aware that he hadn’t, and that she’d appreciated
that. She suspected she’d talked, and she knew that he had, calm,
patient, like a vet with a frightened kitten. Tamsin was grateful
for that.
She had emerged from
the bathroom a wreck. With no idea of timescale, she remembered
standing there in the room, door still open behind her, trembling
and shivering as Alasdair got up from his seat, came towards her,
and wrapped her up like that very same kitten, stroking her hair
back from her forehead and holding her while she shook and shook
and shook. He told her over and over that things were okay. He
would look after her, whatever that meant; he would be there, like
she’d asked.
And slowly, slowly,
she remembered them sinking down to the edge of the bed, where they
sat in that same human embrace, devoid of sexuality but connected,
as gradually his whispers turned to kisses all over her face, slow,
tender, safe, but kisses none the less, until they stopped, still
and waiting.
And he had stood up as
she sat tranquil on the bed, took off his jacket and placed it
carefully on the chair beside them, and undid the button and zip of
his grey suit trousers. At that point, and unaware of the little
blue pill he had swallowed 47 minutes earlier, she remembered
seeing that same cock from the photos, now unfettered and in a
direct line with her tiny soft mouth, made softer by his calming,
as he leant and whispered in her ear: “Now, it’d be about that time
when you suck my cock, you wee slut.”
As she bobbed back and
forth along his familiar 90-degree phallus, he had continued to
smooth back her hair, murmuring what a clever girl she was, along
with his groans, before tenderly steering her back on to the bed.
He’d told her then, as he repeated in his email, how delicious her
cunt was, and how good and how clever a girl she truly was, and how
happy it made him.
It made her happy to
recall that. So with these thoughts, at least, clearer in her head,
she went briefly into analytical mode and wondered if what she had
been feeling was, perhaps, the submissive comedown she’d heard
about and allowed herself to revisit his email and reply.
Dear
Kindly_Meister,
Let me tell
you where I am right now, because I can kick and rail, and I do...
It’s what causes this confusion, I know it… but, right here and
right now, the reality is this: I AM a strong, independent,
educated, stand-on-my-own-two-feet kind of a woman. I HAVE been
brought up this way, and it’s everything I have ever believed in.
But. But andbutandbut. I want to be coddled. I do. I want to be
special and to be loved and to be a naughty dirty special girl, not
always, but sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes I get so sick of being
in charge and, yeah, you’re right, I just want to be looked
after.
Hell, in the real
world, I’d punch the guy who told me what to do, Alasdair, but I’m
sick of pretending that there’s not a bit of me, just a bit, that
sometimes wants to be looked after. Guided. Stroked and guided
and... that bit of me that wants to stop thinking, just for a
while. And that’s the bit, the bit of me, that I want to explore.
That. Is. The.
remaining messages, and then there was Alasdair’s.
She read it quickly.
And then she reread it, before pushing its contents to the back of
her mind and replying briefly to Ethan. His immediate response was
to suggest a drink and debrief right away. For all his
understanding, though, he tended to be pitilessly frank when they
discussed anything that mattered, and she was not sure she was
ready for this yet. To buy time, she suggested Sunday lunch at the
local pub instead, creating the thinking space she needed to work
how what she was actually feeling before being challenged by
him.
In fact, what she
could remember of the night was murky, shaded with a haze of
surreality. She remembered Meister’s voice throughout, and she knew
that she’d drunk way too much, but she also understood that she’d
had to. She was aware that he hadn’t, and that she’d appreciated
that. She suspected she’d talked, and she knew that he had, calm,
patient, like a vet with a frightened kitten. Tamsin was grateful
for that.
She had emerged from
the bathroom a wreck. With no idea of timescale, she remembered
standing there in the room, door still open behind her, trembling
and shivering as Alasdair got up from his seat, came towards her,
and wrapped her up like that very same kitten, stroking her hair
back from her forehead and holding her while she shook and shook
and shook. He told her over and over that things were okay. He
would look after her, whatever that meant; he would be there, like
she’d asked.
And slowly, slowly,
she remembered them sinking down to the edge of the bed, where they
sat in that same human embrace, devoid of sexuality but connected,
as gradually his whispers turned to kisses all over her face, slow,
tender, safe, but kisses none the less, until they stopped, still
and waiting.
And he had stood up as
she sat tranquil on the bed, took off his jacket and placed it
carefully on the chair beside them, and undid the button and zip of
his grey suit trousers. At that point, and unaware of the little
blue pill he had swallowed 47 minutes earlier, she remembered
seeing that same cock from the photos, now unfettered and in a
direct line with her tiny soft mouth, made softer by his calming,
as he leant and whispered in her ear: “Now, it’d be about that time
when you suck my cock, you wee slut.”
As she bobbed back and
forth along his familiar 90-degree phallus, he had continued to
smooth back her hair, murmuring what a clever girl she was, along
with his groans, before tenderly steering her back on to the bed.
He’d told her then, as he repeated in his email, how delicious her
cunt was, and how good and how clever a girl she truly was, and how
happy it made him.
It made her happy to
recall that. So with these thoughts, at least, clearer in her head,
she went briefly into analytical mode and wondered if what she had
been feeling was, perhaps, the submissive comedown she’d heard
about and allowed herself to revisit his email and reply.
Dear
Kindly_Meister,
Let me tell
you where I am right now, because I can kick and rail, and I do...
It’s what causes this confusion, I know it… but, right here and
right now, the reality is this: I AM a strong, independent,
educated, stand-on-my-own-two-feet kind of a woman. I HAVE been
brought up this way, and it’s everything I have ever believed in.
But. But andbutandbut. I want to be coddled. I do. I want to be
special and to be loved and to be a naughty dirty special girl, not
always, but sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes I get so sick of being
in charge and, yeah, you’re right, I just want to be looked
after.
Hell, in the real
world, I’d punch the guy who told me what to do, Alasdair, but I’m
sick of pretending that there’s not a bit of me, just a bit, that
sometimes wants to be looked after. Guided. Stroked and guided
and... that bit of me that wants to stop thinking, just for a
while. And that’s the bit, the bit of me, that I want to explore.
That. Is. The.
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