Went to see Madame de Sade
yesterday and came out whistling the frocks. It looks gorgeous and is
beautifully performed but it’s more like attending a debate than
watching a play. Still, very taken with the Comtesse de Saint-Fond who,
when not offering up her naked body as an altar for a profane mass or
dressing as a prostitute and taking it up arse from sailors in
Marseille, attended a ball wearing a dress made of gold coins she had
earned from her prostitution. But then that’s the French for you. She
came to a sticky end when she got caught up in a riot and was trampled
by the mob in the first violence of the Revolution, her naked body in
the morgue, as one character described it, like the Tricolour, red with
blood, blue with bruises and white with death.
Afterwards we
sat in a coffee shop, perched on improbably tall stools while D frowned
into his cup. “I think the most disturbing thing wasn’t the women
defining themselves entirely in relation to this absent figure of the
Marquis de Sade and undergoing transfiguring experiences of deviant
sexuality and pain, it was the almost constant presence on stage of
Dame Judi Dench. It was just a little bit too much like being caught
with pornography by your piano teacher.”
(In hindsight, the
choice of ‘piano teacher’ here is very precise and interesting. I must
return him to this subject at some point.)
I tried to think of
something more intelligent to say than, “I liked their frocks”. Outside
in Shaftsbury Avenue, a man dressed in knitted chain mail had an
excitable conversation into his mobile phone.
In the end, the
best I could come up with was, “So. Frances Barber with a riding whip,
then.” D dimpled a bit, his head bobbed down shyly. “Yes. I noticed
that.”
And that (leaving out the bit about me almost getting run
over crossing Jermyn Street by a man dressed as Elvis) was how playtime
last night came to involve a purple satin corset, a PVC riding crop and
a silk scarf. I think I had a transfiguring experience as well, though,
because once I’d paraded up and down in my corset, while D stroked the
tip of the whip over the curve of my hip and drew it lightly across the
backs of my thighs, I found myself plucking it from his fingers and
saying, “Do you know, I think we might be playing a different game
tonight…”
He looked a bit surprised, but by the time I had him
kneeling up on the edge of the bed with his wrists tied together, drawn
back between his knees and tied to the edge of the bed…well, his face
was pressed into the bedclothes so I couldn’t see his expression any
more. I started with light, experimental little taps on the soles of
his feet. He inhaled sharply and curled his toes up. The little taps
moved up the backs of his thighs and he shifted his knees, the bed
creaking.
Then WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, six
hard smacks, three across each buttock. He moaned into the bedclothes
and stirred. I lightly touched the stripes on his skin and felt their
heat in my fingertips. Then I ran the tip of the whip up the inside of
his thigh and over his balls, circling them teasingly before WHACK,
WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, six more across the backs of his
thighs, harder now as I grew bolder. He grunted gently with each slash.
I dropped the whip and crouched by the side of the bed, my
hands on his thighs as I sucked his balls into my mouth, letting them
pop out with a firm, wet, smack of my lips. I licked up to his
arsehole, fluttering the tip of my tongue against it, probing it open
and forcing my tongue in. He moaned loudly now, squirming as I spread
his buttocks with my hands and fucked my tongue in and out of his hole.
Then
suddenly I stopped, snatched up the whip again and, standing, cut it
sharply across both buttocks, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.
D blurted out the safe word and I stopped but didn’t untie him.
Listening to his ragged breathing and watching him wriggle, his arms
and shoulders by now, I knew from experience, numb and burning when he
tried to ease the numbness.
I stretched out on the bed beside
him, stroking the whip smoothly over his flank. He turned his head to
one side to glare at me balefully, his hair damp with sweat.
“What
do you want? Do you want me to stop?” I wriggled the tip of the whip
against his nose. “Because I don’t think I can do that. Do you want me
to whip you until you expire, like the Marquis and that poor maid in
Lacoste?” D looked even crosser. I traced his cheekbone with the whip
and tapped it gently against his lips. “Do you want to cum?” D closed
his eyes and I went back to lapping and sucking on his balls, spitting
on his arsehole and screwing the tip of my finger in while he groaned
loudly, gasping as it sank deeper and jerking, the bed shaking, as it
brushed his prostrate. I rolled his balls around inside my mouth with
my tongue, my palm over the head of his cock, rotating against it
until, with a series of pained gasps, D spurted over my fingers.
I
untied the scarf, freeing his wrists from the edge of the bed and with
a groan he slumped onto his side, the vein throbbing in his neck, the
stripes on his skin angry and red. I rolled him onto his back,
straddling his chest, and forced my dripping fingers into his mouth.
