doing it with his Irish Catholic housekeeper and forcing her to abort the babies he got on her? Sick. That’s sick. And people classify us in the same way because they don’t realize there’s a difference. A huge, huge difference.”
“You can get off your soapbox, you know. Preaching to the converted and all,” I said. “Maybe they just don’t realize there’s a difference because it’s so secretive.”
He shook his head and beckoned me to follow him into the bedroom. “It’s because there’s so fucking much of the sick stuff.” He went into the bathroom but kept talking. “You want demographics? How about this: A third of British teenage girls eighteen and under report they’ve experienced sexual violence. A bloody third! But the rate of conviction here is staggeringly low. Maybe one out of a hundred. Maybe the U.S. is different. I don’t know.”
I followed him as he brushed his teeth. “It’s not that different. They say one in six American women will be the victim of rape, or at least attempted rape, and at any given time, five percent of the women on a college campus experienced it at their university.”
He rinsed and spat. “That sounds like a pretty specific statistic.”
“Yeah, well, I got real familiar with that topic.”
He stood straight, his eyes serious. “You were a victim?”
“Of an attempt. By my own thesis advisor. I told him to fuck off, though. It took me a while to get around to accusing him publicly.” I blew some hair out of my eyes. “That’s why I’m in England. Waiting for it to blow over.”
“Ah, so much becomes clear,” he said. “I looked into your academic record before your interview and wondered why your coursework was complete but not your thesis. I thought maybe you were here for the exhibit to finish your research.”
“If only. I think it will all come out fine, but it’s good I’m not there for the summer.”
“Okay. Thank you for telling me that. Your bag is in the closet. Get ready for bed and join me there.”
“Wearing nothing?”
“Ideally.” He smirked. “I didn’t say we were necessarily going right to sleep.”
The Stars Look Very Different Today
T he next morning I woke to the feeling of the bed jiggling under me. I looked up to find Damon masturbating with his eyes shut, his arm moving quickly as he worked his fist up and down his shaft. He had kicked his pajama bottoms off and was outside the covers, so I had a very clear view of what he was doing.
He held his breath when he came, coating his fingers with ropy come, then opened his eyes when he started breathing again.
“Karina,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing, just seeing if I remembered your name right.” He grinned.
“You bastard.”
“Ah ah, calling your dom, even a temporary one, names? That’s a spanking offense.” He sat up and wiped his hand on the sheets. Then he used his pajama bottoms to wipe off his penis before he tossed them on the floor. “Come on. Across my lap.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. Besides, a good spanking will wake you up better than coffee. Come on. Around the side of the bed and lie across my lap. And say ‘Yes, Mr. George.’”
Right. “Yes, Mr. George.”
I climbed out of the bed and lay across him, my feet hanging off the bed. I still wasn’t wearing anything, so he had a nice eyeful as I did.
He rubbed my ass cheeks with his hand. “You mentioned you’ve been spanked before?”
“Yes, Mr. George.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Were you a naughty girl or did he merely like hitting you?”
I had to think for a moment. “Once it was because I did something I wasn’t supposed to, and once was when he had me all tied up and I guess it was just the thing to do.”
He switched to scratching me lightly with the backs of his fingernails. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right. Then let this be a lesson. Why am I spanking you?”
“Because I called you a bastard.”
He laughed.
“You can get off your soapbox, you know. Preaching to the converted and all,” I said. “Maybe they just don’t realize there’s a difference because it’s so secretive.”
He shook his head and beckoned me to follow him into the bedroom. “It’s because there’s so fucking much of the sick stuff.” He went into the bathroom but kept talking. “You want demographics? How about this: A third of British teenage girls eighteen and under report they’ve experienced sexual violence. A bloody third! But the rate of conviction here is staggeringly low. Maybe one out of a hundred. Maybe the U.S. is different. I don’t know.”
I followed him as he brushed his teeth. “It’s not that different. They say one in six American women will be the victim of rape, or at least attempted rape, and at any given time, five percent of the women on a college campus experienced it at their university.”
He rinsed and spat. “That sounds like a pretty specific statistic.”
“Yeah, well, I got real familiar with that topic.”
He stood straight, his eyes serious. “You were a victim?”
“Of an attempt. By my own thesis advisor. I told him to fuck off, though. It took me a while to get around to accusing him publicly.” I blew some hair out of my eyes. “That’s why I’m in England. Waiting for it to blow over.”
“Ah, so much becomes clear,” he said. “I looked into your academic record before your interview and wondered why your coursework was complete but not your thesis. I thought maybe you were here for the exhibit to finish your research.”
“If only. I think it will all come out fine, but it’s good I’m not there for the summer.”
“Okay. Thank you for telling me that. Your bag is in the closet. Get ready for bed and join me there.”
“Wearing nothing?”
“Ideally.” He smirked. “I didn’t say we were necessarily going right to sleep.”
The Stars Look Very Different Today
T he next morning I woke to the feeling of the bed jiggling under me. I looked up to find Damon masturbating with his eyes shut, his arm moving quickly as he worked his fist up and down his shaft. He had kicked his pajama bottoms off and was outside the covers, so I had a very clear view of what he was doing.
He held his breath when he came, coating his fingers with ropy come, then opened his eyes when he started breathing again.
“Karina,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing, just seeing if I remembered your name right.” He grinned.
“You bastard.”
“Ah ah, calling your dom, even a temporary one, names? That’s a spanking offense.” He sat up and wiped his hand on the sheets. Then he used his pajama bottoms to wipe off his penis before he tossed them on the floor. “Come on. Across my lap.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. Besides, a good spanking will wake you up better than coffee. Come on. Around the side of the bed and lie across my lap. And say ‘Yes, Mr. George.’”
Right. “Yes, Mr. George.”
I climbed out of the bed and lay across him, my feet hanging off the bed. I still wasn’t wearing anything, so he had a nice eyeful as I did.
He rubbed my ass cheeks with his hand. “You mentioned you’ve been spanked before?”
“Yes, Mr. George.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Were you a naughty girl or did he merely like hitting you?”
I had to think for a moment. “Once it was because I did something I wasn’t supposed to, and once was when he had me all tied up and I guess it was just the thing to do.”
He switched to scratching me lightly with the backs of his fingernails. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right. Then let this be a lesson. Why am I spanking you?”
“Because I called you a bastard.”
He laughed.
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