She had waited for the right man for a long time. A mother of two, insatiable and unsatisfied by her husband, yet she uncurls her sexual wings, somewhat reluctantly and carefully, with a friend that knew her; knew her needs, her wants, her very soul. Probably knew her more than she knew herself. Slowly, she released snippets of information that allowed him to see inside her.

After telling him that she was submissive, the questions flowed. One after the other, digging ever deeper into her seedy life. The one that lived in her head. The head that wanted all those things she dreamt up. Finally, she had written a short story and his reply was inciteful.

It was her way of telling him about a few of her fantasies. The way she wanted to be taken. Forced against a wall, finger fucked, turned around and then spanked hard, before being fucked into oblivion on all fours with her hair being pulled backwards, tightly. Her body gripped between his thrusting cock and his hands.

Used like a sex toy.

Discarded.

Until the next time.

Better to put him off now than expect those things and find they wouldn’t come to fruition.

Except he knew differently. Yes, she would have loved that scenario, but he knew what she meant by it. He knew the darkness within her, the soot that clung to the inside of her mind that seemed to colour her thoughts black.

He knew that she wanted all of that – but whilst tied up in a dark and dingy basement; a dungeon.

Shackled to a bench or a rack or tied from the ceiling with her arms stretched and her toes feeling the smallest amount of friction with the floor. Suspended, like her large breasts, hanging heavy and adorned with nipple clamps that only seemed to pleasure. Her fine bottom, large and rounded, yet firm. And with her eyes fixed on the plethora of canes and paddles that adorned the walls.

Yes, he thought, she’d prefer to be shackled. Helpless. Punished for pleasure, not pain. She’d love the slow deliberate movements. The smacking of the cane into his hand, the tip pressing upwards under her chin so that she could look into his eyes, the draw of the cane through her wet lips. The sudden loud crack across her bottom would bring that all-knowing smile to her face.

And after the spanking, the cocks. Not just one of them. More than one. Each man stepping up and feeding his cock to her pussy, to her face to her anus. The more aggressive reaching forwards to pick at her long flowing hair and pull hard on it; raising her head upwards so that some spotty kid could thrust his cock down her throat and spend himself in his few seconds of bliss. Covering her face. She’d lick at it though, swallow it, savour its taste.

Her helpless position astride a wooden plank with arms outstretched and tied and her heaving breasts hanging over the plank would ensure her helplessness, and with legs clamped to the wooden struts exposing every part of her to the assembled audience.

The men would be queuing to plunder her voluptuous body. Taking turns. Unloading the contents of their balls inside her. Taking her. One after the other. The queue would grow ever longer, as would the mascara that slowly makes its way down her face from her tears of passion, of joy, of unbridled sex. The kind of sex she has only dreamt of.

Until now.

Those tears of passion were real. The men were real. The fucking, real. She felt every cock, every load of spunk, every orgasm and climax. Her insides were like the coals and their pokers stoked it to make her crackle and spark in sheer delight. Her bottom was pulsing with heat and showing the straight-lined welts from the torrent of activity earlier.

But – he’s there afterwards, isn’t he? The one she found. He’s there to gather her in his arms, wipe the smudges and spunk from her face, soothe the pain in her bottom. He’s the one that spreads the cream into her welts and kisses her on the lips. He’s the one that pinches her nipples because, despite their abuse, he just cannot resist. He’s the one that comforts her, makes her smile, laughs with her at the things she did. He’s the one that’s proud of her for fulfilling her fantasies.

She doesn’t know whether he even joined in. Only he knows those things. She can see the hard bulge in his trousers and has to conclude that he didn’t. She wants to take him but her tiredness is squelching all of her energy.

He understands though – doesn’t he. Because after she showers, he takes her home. They get in his car; him energetically; her with a little more restraint, placing her bottom carefully on his leather seat. He drives. She stares out of the window. A calmness descends over her. There’s a reason for the silence. They have to say goodbye.

A couple of hundred feet from her flat he stops the car. His hand reaches out to brush the hair from her face. They reach out to each other, his hand clasps the back of her head and the kiss is so passionate they almost melt into each other. Their lips linger for longer than they should. Inseparable. Glued together with lust. Longing. Love?

A quick feel of her breasts is all he has before she moves. The windows, steamed. A glaze of mist hides them from the passers-by. Those that might recognise her. Rain starts to fall. It’s all she needs now, to get wet.

One more kiss. The car door opens and she leaves. Back to her flat. Her husband. The kids. Back to an uncaring and unfruitful world of vanilla sex, or any sex if she’s lucky.

She smiles.

It won’t be the last time. She knows that.