The Hands

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I shifted slightly, and the man sitting opposite me looked on hungrily as my legs were momentarily exposed. Looking quickly away, I wrapped my sensible camel coat around me as the bus lumbered on. What the hell was I doing? – – – – – – Two weeks earlier, having spent yet another dull meeting in an unsatisfying daydream, I opened up a private browser and logged onto a website for the first time. A website very different from the apps where the nice, respectful boys my age that I usually date swipe right on me. Kind, good looking boys who can’t find my clit. Boys who wait until the last possible moment before throwing me on a dining room table, and who always ask permission first. His picture didn’t include his face – it was merely a pair of strong, masculine hands in black and white, resting on a table. A little cliche, but I couldn’t blame him; this wasn’t a website for faces. My picture was black and white, too, and showed nothing but my neck and collarbone. Exposed and waiting. We met for the first time at a coffee shop. ‘Henry,’ he said as he leant toward me, smiling. I assumed it wasn’t his real name; ‘Lily’ certainly wasn’t mine. He was about ten years older than me, good looking, with a clean dark beard and tan skin. He looked like a friend’s husband you wished you had caught for yourself. His easy, almost professional manner made istanbul travesti it possible to sit opposite a stranger and talk about things I wouldn’t discuss with my closest friends. To all the world, we looked like another two Londoners sitting opposite one another drinking overpriced lattes and discussing the banalities of our lives. The illusion remained even as he produced from his bag a list for each of us, and we sat ticking and crossing. Some of the things on that list even I had to Google. Blood play? Cross. Catheterization? Definite Cross. Face slapping? Tick…As we considered each other’s lists, I saw a wry expression cross his face.‘I hope you understand, Lily,’ he said, ‘that as long as we are in that room, you are mine to do with as I please. Until you I hear your safeword, or I say it is over.’ I nodded. I had a hard time believing that this man, who seemed utterly polite, normal, and respectful, could do the things I wanted to me. The only thing that made me go ahead? The hungriness I caught in his eyes, and the way his hands grasped the table tightly when we spoke. A need to control. – – – – – – – – – – Stepping off the bus, I smoothed down my clothes. My stomach was writhing, and I was so nervous I could barely breathe. I checked the text. Pleated checked skirt, short. White T-shirt, tight. istanbul travesti Ponytail, neat. 187B Cambridge Road. All present and correct. Heart aflutter, I took off my camel coat, bundled it into my rucksack, and walked up to the door. A normal door, a nondescript grey street in Streatham. I knocked. A moment later, Henry opened the door. ‘Hello, Miss Weston. Follow me.’ He was dressed sharply, in suit trousers, a crisp blue shirt, and immaculate black brogues. The warm eyes of the man I had met in the cafe were gone, instead a steely glare. As we reached the end of the corridor, he opened a door into an empty classroom filled with old-fashioned wooden desks, years of graffiti scratched into them. ‘Put your rucksack in the corner and sit on a desk. Now.’ I did as told, my plaid skirt sliding up my legs. My heart lurched as he locked the door and turned to face me, standing about two paces away. ‘Do you know why you are here, Miss Weston?’ ‘Yes’‘Yes WHAT?’ ‘Yes…Sir.’ I stammered. ‘Because I stole, Sir.’ ‘That’s correct, Miss Weston,’ he said coldly, his eyes boring into me. ‘And as a filthy thief, you are going to stay here until I think you have been punished enough. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Sir,’ I nodded. Without his eyes leaving me, he slowly rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt, revealing muscled istanbul travesti forearms laced with tattoos. Not such a clean-cut husband type after all, then. He crossed so that the distance between us disappeared, our faces only a hair’s breadth from each other. I could smell him, expensive cologne and something else, something manly and indescribable. The terror was still there, but so was a deep, feral desire for this man. My cunt was tingling in anticipation. Staring at my lips, he slowly reached under my skirt and pulled down my white cotton knickers so they fell to the floor. I lifted my hips from the desk to help him, desperate for him to touch me. As my pants fell to the floor, I moved my lips to close this distance between us, but before I could kiss him, he grabbed both sides of my face with one hand and slapped me. Gasping, I clutched my cheek in surprise.‘Bend over the desk. Now,’ he barked. I did as I was told, panting slightly with shock as he roughly pushed me against the table so that I was laid diagonally across it, resting on my forearms. Thrusting his hand into the small of my back, he shoved my legs apart and flipped up my short skirt so that I was completely exposed. ‘Arms up, Miss Weston,’ he commanded, and as I did so, took a pair of metal handcuffs out of his pocket and tied my crossed hands to the table leg. My whole body was aflame and shaking. I could feel the wetness and warmth between my legs, my labia exposed to the air, and to this stranger. I shuddered with fear and desire as I heard the telltale sounds of a belt being unbuttoned, and pushed my cunt upwards toward him, ready and waiting. 

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