Chapter 1

So, I was shallow. By twenty I'd tried just about everything sexual a college girl could try, and with a few exceptions I'd loved it all. From being fingered in the back of a taxi to sucking off a virtual stranger with an audience, I'd done a hell of a lot for a girl who wasn't considered to be a slut.

But I didn't suffer fools well. I could be callous and dismissive, a prize bitch if the circumstances dictated. We had such fun ganging up on guys who 'didn't stack up' in our immature, college girl opinions. When they asked to buy us drinks or asked for dances, we always had something practiced, something that would not just reject, but humiliate.

Oh, yes.

We did that.

We even rehearsed responses and planned what to say if a conversation took a particular course. You don't really think we concocted that stuff on the spot, do you?

And yet, somewhere deep inside, I felt like I was being naughty... that I shouldn't really be that way.

I was a fraud.

I didn't fit the profile of 'well-heeled bitch'. I didn't have the passion or the ambition. I certainly didn't have the virtually unlimited funds. Being good-looking and aloof was enough to get me in with the 'beautiful people' for at least a semester or two, and I took full advantage. But in the back of my mind, I always knew.

There were bits hanging out. Bits I tried not to think about. Bits that if my friends knew, they'd think I'd lost my marbles. Ugh... It's not even as serious as all that. I mean, it seems like it, but the difference between them and me was so small... so minute. It was ludicrous to even bring it up. It didn't happen all the time. Only sometimes... And only with certain guys...

Only with certain types of guys.

The difference was, I had buttons, and if you knew how to push them, I'd turn into a kitten in a blink of an eye.

The white knight fantasy never appealed to me. I had the 'gentleman/tiger' fantasy. A gentleman till he got me in the sack, and a tiger till I was satisfied. At the time it seemed like sound feminist ideology. 'It's about time we turned the tables on this 'lady in public, whore in the bedroom' bullshit.' We even laughed about it.

Even before that, I was pretty bent I guess. Back in high school I submerged myself in the shapeless, androgenous Goth culture. Dying my hair and doing my best to ignore everyone who wasn't wearing black made high school bearable. Besides, that way I could ignore the curvy young woman I was becoming. My parents freaked when they discovered my tattoos, but they never cottoned on to the tongue stud. Thank God. I couldn't have explained it truthfully. "Well, Mom, I actually fancy myself as a good cocksucker, and thought the guys would really like it."

I don't think so. As weird as my parents were, they were 'straight-weird', and not 'bend-weird'.

By the time high school graduation rolled around, I was due for a change. My turd of a boyfriend broke up with me and I spent summer vacation getting a makeover, thanks to Mom. When I arrived at college, I'd shed everything but the aloof attitude, becoming suddenly and insanely popular, partying with the 'in' crowd of cheerleaders, football players and the faculty themselves.

I don't know if it was the partying or what, but my grades suffered and within a year and a half I'd decided college wasn't really for me. I dropped out, taking a job in a company where a girlfriend worked. By this time, apart from the barbed wire tattoo on my upper arm, the Celtic tattoo across the top of my ass, and my pierced tongue, I was like any other office girl. I worked from nine to five, kept my eye out for a rich partner and partied on the weekends with my buds.

It was the best of both worlds, really. I still partied on campus with my college friends and I also bar hopped with the girls from work. They were good times. I enjoyed quite a few guys over those couple of years, progressively pushing the ones I liked into treating me more and more firmly. It was entirely unsatisfactory of course. Dominating men in order to be dominated simply attracted the wrong type, and on more than one occasion I had to throw a guy out. I was just glad I was strong enough to do it.

By the time I turned twenty-two all I was interested in was shopping, wearing the latest styles, and whether my next fuck would be rich enough to keep me interested. Back then, if they weren't up to standard or they didn't have the right attitude, I started looking elsewhere.

One night on my way home after working late, I decided on a whim to stop at a cocktail bar for a nightcap. It looked like a really nice place, and while I almost never went anywhere alone, something told me to stop and get a cocktail. As soon as I'd walked in the door, the handsome, well-dressed older guy talking to the barman caught my attention. I sauntered up and slid a barstool under my ass, ordering a daiquiri and wondering why I hadn't dropped in sooner.

He was both sober and funny which was great. Before long I was getting horny and wanted to fuck him, but something told me just to let it play out. We talked and joked and God I had fun. Three drinks later I couldn't drive my car, but I only lived around the corner. Like a gentleman he didn't pressure me at all, offering to walk me home. I slipped my arm through his and we walked quietly until we approached the front entrance to my apartment building, where he told me how much he'd enjoyed the last couple of hours, kissed my forehead, then turned to leave. Oh, my God! I thought. He's not even going to get my number!

I took a risk and told him the truth. I said I liked him and wanted to get to know him better. He turned on the pavement with his hands in his pockets and looked into my eyes. I swallowed as five seconds of silence ticked by.

"All right," he said, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.

I remember fumbling with the key in the lock and looking up at him. He seemed so much taller when I was close to him. It was weird. Yet here I was, falling over my words and trying to keep my hands from shaking. He took my keys from me and opened the door for us. Inside I made coffee and we sat on either end of my couch, talking all night, and I couldn't help but smile when the sun finally came up.

We spent almost all the next day together. Around mid-morning we decided to go to the zoo where we had a scream naming the animals after famous people. Ugh... maybe you had to be there... Anyway, we met up with a couple of my girlfriends for coffee at about three in the afternoon, and it was clear they didn't like him. I became defensive more quickly than I ever had, wondering why they couldn't see what I saw. We left after twenty minutes of uncomfortable banter, walking back to the cocktail bar to find our cars, swapping numbers then heading our separate ways.

But like I said, I was shallow back then, and after a week of shit from my friends about Stephen's wrinkles and receding hairline, I'd started to wonder myself. I mean, don't get me wrong. He was a good-looking guy. The premature grey over his temples gave him a very distinguished look, particularly in a suit, and though he was ten years my senior, he was definitely fit enough to keep up with me. I doubted there was much more than a few ounces of fat on him. Oh, I don't know what was wrong with me. I just didn't think it would work out, even though the lump in his pants intrigued me.

See? Shallow.

Little did I know I was playing with fire. Stephen had a budding interest in kink of his own, having investigated the BDSM lifestyle for an article he wrote and finding himself progressively more involved in it. He had pretty firm ideas about the woman he wanted, and while I had caught his eye, he hadn't really considered me seriously, particularly after I started putting off meeting him again. My friends hadn't helped either.

I wished I knew what it was about him. When I was talking to him on the phone, it was like we'd known each other for years. But as soon as I got off the phone, I was able to fortify myself for his next call, committed to defying him again. Eventually I fucked up with my 'previous engagements', and found myself agreeing to a meal at his place.

Ugh... fuck. Okay, 'shallow alert' again.

I was impressed. He had a top floor apartment that was huge and amazing and hired help and God knows what else. I wondered how a journalist could afford such a place until he chuckled at my slack jaw and explained, "The books paid for it". When he pointed out a couple of large, hardcover books in his bookcase, I still had no idea. I picked one up and was wondering what I was looking at when it finally dawned on me. "You are the Stephen Cavanaugh? The photo-journalist?"

He chuckled and said, "One and the same."

All I could do was shake my head. Stephen Cavanaugh was cooking me dinner. The Stephen Cavanaugh. Wait till I tell my girlfriends! I thought. NOW they'll be impressed. God. I was so clueless. Here I was, wondering how Cavanaugh sounded as a last name, while he was planning to shock the crap out of me, and if necessary, kick me out with a few choice words ringing in my ears. He was having fun with me!

He turned on the charm and I teased him mercilessly. It was like two prizefighters dancing and sparring, snapping jabs and taking a couple to the body. Only he was a heavyweight, and I was cannon fodder. With the benefit of hindsight I now know he felt like there was nothing to lose. Quite frankly, I was thinking the same way, especially as the magic of our first night together seemed to rush back at us. I saw it in his eyes too. Something changed. Years later, when he clued me in on what he'd been thinking, he said he saw something in my eyes that was 'worth the gamble'.

After a bottle of fine wine, good food and music, we danced right there in his apartment. I was pretty excited feeling his big prick pushing against my tummy. I hadn't had a decent reaming in months, and the way he was taking charge was exciting and strangely liberating. Swaying slow and close, he was telling me what he was going to do to me as he danced me into his bedroom. I had no idea whether he was trying to shock me or not, but he was certainly 'pushing my buttons'.

Suddenly I was eager, but oh how he teased me, pinching my nipples and blindfolding me, then tying my hands behind my back with a scarf before fucking me into oblivion with his baseball bat of a cock.

From that night forward I knew Stephen was more than I could handle. Here was a man I could look up to, who wouldn't take my shit and who knew way more than I did about truth and honesty. The following year was a tough one for me and I stumbled and took plenty of spankings before I learned to control my temper and be the way I wanted to be. Plus my friendships took a beating. They just weren't fun any more and only a few of them survived.

After a year of intense fucking, and I mean 'better than I've ever had' intense, I figured I couldn't be blamed for saying 'yes' when he asked me to marry him. What I can say is, I changed a lot during our engagement.

Less than twenty-four hours after proposing, he dropped the bombshell. He was into D/s and S and M and BDSM and God knows what else. My head spun and I wondered what the hell I was getting into, not to mention the supposed need for honesty this 'Lifestyle' apparently required... something he had conveniently forgotten during our courting.

Amazingly and quite calmly, he explained that he wouldn't be upset if I called it off. Taking away my first defence left me, well, defenceless, and I had to deal with it head-on instead of skirting around it and blaming him for lying to me. Seeing as there was no pressure, and that he was willing to let me go if I couldn't handle it, really hit me out of the park. On the one hand it irked me that he could just give me up like that. Like I didn't mean anything to him. Like he didn't love me. He said he wanted me to choose with full knowledge. I couldn't argue with that, even though I was a bit frightened. But he didn't seem like a sadist or anything.

Somehow he convinced me to 'just try it'. Damn, I don't know why I didn't run a mile. But I was so thankful I didn't. That 'something in my eyes that was worth a gamble', turned into so much more.

I was no fool. I knew I showed my blondeness on occasions, which may or may not have been 'really me', depending on my mood, but hey, I kind of liked being allowed to be silly. I liked having an excuse if I 'just didn't get it'. I liked being able to say, 'I'm sorry but I really don't understand what you mean, even if I thought I did.'

There was something about me that liked exactness. I LIKED knowing exactly what to do to turn him on. I liked being told what to do. When he said, 'Show me your cunt.' I knew lifting my skirt and spreading my legs pleased him. It was written all over his face! He was getting exactly what he wanted, and he was getting it from me! And that turned me on!

Okay. Okay. So, what happened to the girl who was more concerned with what she got than what she gave? Okay, well, she got fucked. There was no way I was going anywhere. I was 'cock-whipped'.

The day after I said I'd give it a try, he told me I could only wake him with kisses. No words. Ever. I didn't even think about it. Well, that's not true. I thought, if I had to be woken up, that's how I'd like it too, so to me, it wasn't illogical in the least.

Lo and behold, I haven't been woken any other way since. Whenever he's been up first, and had to wake me, I've had the delightful and repeated experience of being woken by someone softly kissing me.

Then I got spanked. And that changed everything.

About a month into our engagement we had an argument. It was stupid and I flew off the handle over nothing, like forgetting cream for my coffee or something pathetic. I actually think I was hormonal, but I didn't want to admit that.

Why did simply getting into position across his lap make me wet? Why did the anticipation of correction affect me sexually? Maybe it was turning my back on everything my family and society expected of me... I don't know. I mean, today's women were not expected to be in this position.

And yet, I was more excited than I'd ever been, which scared me. For about sixty seconds. Yep, sixty seconds was all it took. One minute. One whole minute of biting my lip and worrying needlessly.

Of course he was going to make it good. One slap every five seconds, and not too hard, is good. I recommend it!

So, that was it. That was why I was here. Almost nine years later. A gamble taken over 'something in my eyes', a startling confession, and a realisation that I enjoyed structured domination. Simple as that.

My hair was back to the dirty blonde I was born with and though I slept with it out, I usually had it in a braided ponytail until the lights went off. I really liked having my hair held when I was getting it from behind, but it tugged too painfully for me with just a handful. In a ponytail the pain was spread more evenly over my scalp and it hardly even hurt, even when it was yanked, which I also kind of liked sometimes.