In Stitches

I was delighted to read these words, “Well, seeing as I’m planning on making a comeback to blogging in 2017…” on Charlie’s blog and was eager to join in her fab writing competition, #Freshly Polished.  However, when I DMed her and received my allocated title, my heart sank somewhat… “In Stitches?” I despaired, “WTF will I do with that?”

After about all of five seconds, a wee grin spread across my face, as a deliciously deviant idea popped into my head: a kink I am very interested in trying out one day… it ticks so many boxes for me – medical, clinical, pain, sensation play, power, restraint, trust, photography, exhibitionism… I could go on.

I really hope it pleases Charlie, and all of you, my lovely readers. Please do let me know in the comments if it works for you or if it squicks you out!

Here we go…

“Today, my pet, I am going to make something pretty for you,” he says as he taps my chin and places the ball gag in my open mouth. My arms are bound to the bedpost above my head and my thighs are spread far apart, my ankles tightly tied to them.

Except for my collar, I am naked for him, just as he likes me.

His fingers grab my nipple and he pulls, stretching it deliciously, making me arch my back for more. A chuckle from him as he says, “Just wait, my love, just wait…”

I expect to be blindfolded, as usual, but am surprised to find he has decided to allow me to watch today. He leaves me for a minute and returns, placing something on the bed beside me, just out of my sightline. From his jeans pocket, he takes black latex gloved and snaps them on, smiling down at my confusion.

He touches my breast; it feels completely different to bare skin on skin, it catches slightly, creates a dragging sensation that I am yet to decide if I enjoy or not. It feels… clinical. The thought of that word, the imagery it brings to my mind, provokes a trickle of wet between my spread legs and my nipples tingle.

Gently, tenderly stroking my skin, he lifts the mysterious plastic device and places it against the delicate skin of my breast, above my nipple. I hear the click nanoseconds before I feel the pinch as the staple pierces me, inhaling sharply in shock and fear. The fear passes quickly as he presses it against me again, a centimetre or two below the first clip and this time I brace for the sting.

Blood rushes to the surface of my skin, I feel flushed; adrenaline racing through my veins, counteracting the shock of the violation. The puncture only bites for a second and, rather than hurting me, leaves me yearning for another, which he promptly delivers.

I tense slightly just before he reaches my nipple, anticipating a much sharper pain.

He runs his gloved fingers over my cheek towards my parted lips and traces them, “Are you enjoying your surprise, my love?” I nod, my eyes pleading with him to continue.

He moves the stapler to my other breast and repeats the ritual until, once again, he stops short of my nipple. He closes his lips over it and sucks. It is already hard, but he pulls it further, stretching it, making me squirm as the wet between my legs increases. Releasing my stiff, swollen nipple, he takes it between his finger and thumb and carefully applies the staple gun to it. The clip pinches as it closes around the peak, like a hard flick but more intense. I groan. Saliva drips from my mouth, down over my chin. He caresses my face, “Good girl”.

My other nipple receives the same treatment; first he prepares her, playing enough to make her stand proud, glistening in the low lamp light, before piercing her. The combination of discomfort and pleasure is exquisite; my nipples have never felt so sensitive or alive.

He sits back, kneeling between my open thighs and traces his finger across my wet lips, sliding it into me, his eyes on mine as he strokes inside. A swell of heat surges through me from my groin, to my nipples, to my scalp.

“Now for the decoration,” he says, producing from his pocket a long, thin, satin purple ribbon and grins devilishly at me, “You trust me, baby girl?”

One again, excited by what he has planned, I nod vigorously, my eyes wide and eager.

He threads the end of the ribbon through the top staple and laces it to its twin on my opposing breast. My skin is hypersensitive and the ribbon chafes slightly as it rubs against me.

I watch his face; the intense concentration on it, as he slowly creates a corset of beautiful purple thread linking my breasts together.

All that remains is the final clips in my nipples. I tense with apprehension as he glides the ribbon through. It grazes against my engorged tip; a sensation unlike any I have ever felt before. Sweet torture that makes me crave more.

My cunt throbs, my mouth waters. He pulls the ribbon ever so slightly, drawing my breasts towards each other, creating a valley for the spit that dribbles over my chin and pools on my chest. He ties the corset in a bow and sits back on his heels to admire his work, watching my chest rise and fall as I struggle to control my breath.

“My pretty baby girl,” he murmurs, as he lifts his phone and takes some photos of me, angling it downwards, a look of pleasure on his face as he breathes, “look how wet you are!”

A groan escapes me. I want his mouth on me, and reading the need in my eyes, he dips his head and traces his tongue up along my inner thigh before he takes my aching clit between his lips and sucks gently, licking and lapping at me while his fingers tug on the ribbon, stretching my skin further. He slides two latex covered fingers inside me as his tongue brings me to the edge and back, time and time again. Every time I squirm or move, the ribbon rasps against my skin more. Feeling close to delirious, not quite sure where I am or what is happening anymore, I feel him tug the ribbon at my nipples as he flicks his tongue and I am vaguely aware of crying out as the sweet pain/pleasure combination finally tips me over into an orgasm that rips through my entire body.

As I struggle to breathe, almost choking on my own saliva, he kisses his way up to my face and removes the gag. I gulp in air while he smooths back the damp hair from my forehead, whispering to me, telling me how much I have pleased him. He brings a glass of cool water to my lips and I sip, trying not to swallow too much at once, and then gently unties my restraints and massages the marks left by the bindings.

Curling me up onto his lap, kissing the top of my head, his fingers once again wander down to the corset he has crafted for me, strumming on it gently, as if it were a guitar, “I think we should leave this on for a little while pet, don’t you?” and I look up at him, “Yes, Sir.”


Copyright, 2017,

All rights reserved.


Return to Room 1220…

I am sitting in the waiting room outside my Supervisors* office.

I am trembling with nerves.

The door opens and he greets me with a smile, “Finally! The good Dr. shows herself!”

Once inside we sit opposite each other and he raises his eyebrow. No words are needed, I know he is asking why I have not been keeping my appointments.

“I’ve, um, I’ve been… having some issues lately…” I stumble. I can feel the blush rising up my throat to my cheeks.

I hate that I have to admit my gross unprofessionalism to someone I respect and admire.

“Tell me.”

“I’ve, well, I’ve met someone.”

His eyebrows lift again.

“And? Is that why you haven’t been keeping our appointments?”

I sigh…

“I guess… Yes. Yes it is.”

I feel shame. How do I explain what has been happening to me over the past few weeks?

He says nothing. He knows that I know I need to talk. He waits me out.

“He’s… different.”

“In what way?”

And so I begin…

“You did well today. I know that was not easy for you to discuss,” we stand and walk to the door, “but you of all people know how important it is to talk about these things. It’s too easy to slip back into old patterns that no longer serve you.”

I nod, thinking of all that lies ahead of me. All the thinking I need to do. The changes I am going to have to make. I know in my head that it is for the best, but my heart, and my groin think differently.

Back at my counseling room, I scan my diary and am relieved to see a rare empty day ahead of me. A couple of my clients have rescheduled for next week, and a vague worry crosses my mind that my lack of presence during their sessions could be the cause.

Another reminder that I need to look at my recent behavior.

On a spur of the moment I decide I need to do something different. Something to regain a sense of ME.

I pick up the phone.

Two days pass and I hear nothing from him.

Although I am driven mad with worry and longing, a part of me is relieved. This break could be my chance to pull myself together.

I am just home from a day at work.

There is a knock on the door.

I open it. It’s him.

My heart soars. I am so pleased to see him!

But his face is cold. He does not look happy.

He marches in to my hallway and turns to look at me.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself?” his voice icy.

I freeze on the spot.

My hand reaches up to my newly highlighted hair. I feel dismay.

“You were perfect. Just perfect.” He shakes his head and turns.

Like that he is gone. I stare, openmouthed, at the front door as it slams shut.

Like a child, I start to cry.


A small parcel is couriered to my office. An oblong white box, tied with gold ribbon.

It must be from him.

Inside is a key card for the hotel we visited before, a note and a fat bundle of €100 notes.

The card : Buy some fuck me lingerie, a dress and heels. Be in Room 1220, 7pm, tomorrow. And fix your fucking hair.

I smile…

Wearing the very expensive lingerie and dress, I stand, hesitating, outside Room 1220.

What does this latest development actually mean?

Am I being ‘paid’ now? Is this a gift?

The incredibly extravagant amount of money in the parcel made me feel uncomfortable, but I knew he would be disappointed if I didn’t use it as he had asked.

“Fuck it, I want this,” and I enter the room.

The room is empty.

On the massive bed lies another white oblong box tied with gold ribbon.

I sit on the bed and open it.

Inside, a card : Put this on. Wait.

I finger the deep purple silk eye-mask inside the box and feel a tingle between my legs.

Obediently, I wrap the mask around my eyes and secure it behind my head.

I sit and wait.

After a time, I do not know how long, I hear the door click open and close again.

Footsteps across the floor.


His scent filling the room.

The sound of some chairs or tables being moved around.

The rustle of someone sitting down.

“Hi baby girl. Lets begin.”

The sorrowful chords of Jeff Buckley playing Hallelujah fill the room.

I catch my breath at the sound of his voice and the music, and immediately feel throbbing between my legs.

“Undress for me. Slowly.”

I go to kick off my skyscraper heels.

“Leave the shoes on.”

I can see a tiny bit from the bottom of the eye mask, so I can just about see my feet.

I stand slowly, taking care not to fall over, and unzip my new silk, deep green dress at the side. Pushing it off my shoulders I allow it to drop to the floor.


I stand before him, blindfolded, wearing the Agent Provocateur pieces I had bought earlier.

My emerald green translucent lace bra is cut low on my breasts, barely covering my nipples, the matching briefs have cut outs at the front of the hips, and at the centre around the back, tied with a tiny green silk ribbon at the base of my spine.

Taking great care not to trip, I slowly turn around to allow him to admire the back view.


I turn back around to him and slowly reach around to unclasp my bra and let it fall to the floor.

My chest is rising and lowering fast. It is hard to regulate my breathing.

I hook my thumbs into my pants and pull them down over my hips and thighs.

I have to sit down to remove them completely and stay seated, naked except for my heels, waiting for what he wants next.

“That’s good, baby girl. Open your legs. I want to watch you touch yourself.”

Underneath the blindfold, I close my eyes. Breathing fast, I lick my lips, bite my bottom lip.

My hand caresses my throat and my fingers trace the line down along between my breasts and sweep across to graze my left nipple. I play with it and throw my head back, enjoying my own touch and the feeling that he is watching me.

I bring my other hand down over my stomach and between my legs, feeling how wet I am. My fingers slip inside me and then begin to massage my clitoris the way I like it, as I pull on my nipple with my other hand. My hips start to rock against my hand and I open my legs further. Small groans are doing from my throat.

I am now in a state of near oblivion and am only vaguely aware of his presence. I am writhing on the edge of the bed and need to lie down to really please myself. I lean back and stretch myself on the bed, pushing myself further up. The extra movement tips me over the edge and I cry out a long low groan of pleasure as my orgasm takes over my body completely.

I am lying, breathing hard and still feeling aftershocks when I feel his heat close by. The mattress sags as he lies next to me. He takes my hands and kisses each of my palms, sucks on my fingers. He unties my blindfold and kisses me sweetly.

His scent fills my nose, making me dizzy.

“That was beautiful baby girl, just beautiful.”

He takes my hands over my head and I’m surprised to see he is naked and has my discarded bra in his hands.

He uses it to tie my wrists together over my head, moves on top of me, opening my legs more, and he very deliberately, very slowly, enters me, pushing in deep and pulling out almost entirely.

His eyes never leave mine, his jaw set rigid. The friction from his slow deep movements against me are sending currents of electricity from my clitoris, up to my stomach and through my entire body.

I lift my legs up and press the sharp heels of my shoes down onto his calves, eliciting a groan from his throat.

I like hearing that. I like feeling my power.

I raise my feet higher and push the heels into his buttocks, making him buck faster and faster into me.

His hand that isn’t holding my wrists reaches around and grabs my shoe, digging it in deeper as he cries out a hoarse growl from deep inside his chest.

With his final pounding thrust into me I feel it coming again.

My second orgasm leaves me shaking and trembling in his arms.

He undoes my wrists but stays on top of me for a minute, looking down at me.

“You fixed your hair. Good girl.”

Then he lifts himself off the bed and walks down to the dresser beside the seat he had been sitting in.

I lift my head and watch as he picks up the HD camera and closes the lens cap.

He was recording me?


*In therapy terms, Clinical Supervision, means that a counsellor or psychotherapist uses the services of another counsellor or psychotherapist to review their work with clients, their professional development, and often their personal development as well. Supervision is a professional service, rather than a managerial role. The supervisor acts not as a ‘boss’, but as a consultant.


Copyright 2014 by MsT  secretgarden. All rights reserved.


I don’t know what has happened to me.

My once ordered and predictable life is spinning out of control.

I am out of control.

I used to find my work difficult, and challenging, even emotionally draining at times, but I always found it rewarding and fulfilling.


Now I arrive at work, frequently hung-over, tired and cloudy-headed.

I am constantly distracted. I sit across from some poor, broken person. They tell me the dreadful, awful, unspeakable things that have happened to them.

Unforgivably, I find myself zoning out.

I can see it in their eyes that they know I am not fully present. These are people who are highly attuned to how others react. They have had to be hyper-observant and perceptive in order to survive.

They deserve better from me.

They have been dealt a bad enough hand in life without the one person they come to for help ending up being just another person letting them down.

Between clients appointments I sit at my desk, thinking about him.

Wondering when I will see him again.

Remembering the things he does to my body and the things I have done to his.

I have found my hands in my lap as I squirm on my seat.

More than once, my fingers have opened the buttons on my trousers and snuck down inside my underwear to satisfy my needs.

The next client must notice the flush in my cheeks.

I should feel completely ashamed of myself.

I am completely ashamed of myself.

I have had relationships before, but none as intense as this.

My past lovers shared my life. I knew them, not only physically, but intellectually, emotionally.

He shares very little of his life with me.

He is a public figure so of course, I have Googled him. I found this even more frustrating. Whomever he pays to manage his public image is worth every cent. Apart from basic, bland information, I have discovered nothing.

I am lost. I have a PhD in clinical psychology.

It is in my bones to ask questions, to probe, explore, listen. To gather information and analyse and dissect it.

And yet I have allowed myself to be completely overtaken by this man, who gives me nothing, except the most amazing, strange, revolutionary sex I have ever had.

I have unquestioningly accepted his terms…

When I am with him, we do what he wants.

He doesn’t want to share information, so he doesn’t.

We have talked. He is a great talker. He is funny, smart, insightful and asks me all about my life. He knows so much about me.

Apart from his sexual tastes I know next to nothing about him.

What I know…

He is a successful writer of dark, twisted thrillers.

He is six  years younger than me. “Oh god, does that make me a cougar?!”

He buys me the most beautiful flowers.

He has exquisite taste in many things. He takes me to amazing restaurants, drives a sexy-ass car. He wears a Patek Philippe watch.

He always looks impeccable, even when scruffy in jeans and converse sneakers.

He likes to eat well and favours red wine over white, usually a Shiraz.

He finds American comedians George Carlin, Bill Hicks, Rich Hall, Louis C.K. and Sarah Silverman hilarious.

He listens to Bob Dylan and  Neil Young in his car, along with other music I am not at all familiar with.

He is incredibly tender with me, but is also capable of cruelty and meanness.

He is one moment smiling and soft, and in a flash, his eyes darken, harden and turn cold, as if I have done something to anger him.

He enjoys hurting me, but never to any extreme.

He likes rough sex.

He likes to scare me and then fuck me.

He loves to give me pleasure. I have never been with him and he has not made sure I have at least one orgasm.

He tells me he finds my body beautiful and loves to look at it, with that familiar head tilt I find so arousing.

He studies me.

What I do not know…

Where he lives. As a public figure he keeps that information very private. I have never been invited to his house.

I have no phone number, except for his publishing house. No email.

If he has been married. His current bio on his website doesn’t state any marital status or children.

Anything about this childhood or past life.

Whether he snores. He has never stayed over.

What he eats for breakfast.

How he feels about me.


What is even more confusing is me.

A year ago, I left a man I loved deeply, because I felt he bullied me and always tried to control our lives. He never really listened to my point of view about anything, but just dug his heels in until I gave way. He was never violent or aggressive, just bullish in his dominance. After years of feeling “less than” him, I talked it through in therapy and decided I had to find the strength to leave.

Why does this, (can I even call it a relationship?), feel so different?

I never felt valued by that man the way I do with this man.

This man seems to find me endlessly fascinating and intriguing. He laughs at my random observances. He leans in, with his head tilted just so, as he listens intently to my opinions or any story I am telling him.

He asks me about what scares me, what pleasures me, what angers me.

He files every piece of information away and uses it.

Even when he hurts or humiliates me, he always makes me feel like a goddess afterwards.

I know, I know, I should look into myself and ask the questions I would ask a client or a friend.

Why do I allow him to continue hurting me, scaring me, humiliating me?

Why do I enjoy it?

After finding the strength to leave one domineering man, why am I allowing another one to take so much control over me?

I am unwilling to do this.

I do not want to know the why or wherefore.

I do not want to break the spell.

I fear I might have no choice.

My Supervisor* has called me.

I have missed three therapy sessions that I am required, ethically and contractually, to attend in order to debrief about my clients and ensure I am staying healthy and well, for them and for myself.

My Supervisor is going to grill me.

He is excellent at what he does, and I am not sure I can hide my recent… what? growth? change? depravity?

I know I need to try to regain some control over my life and my desires.

When he is not with me I feel incomplete.

When he disappears, I buy too much wine and sit alone at home, drinking it and reading his books, staring at his bio photo on the reverse covers, my hands slipping inside my bathrobe, imaging they are his hands.

Drunken masturbation. How pathetic is that?

I know I need help…

I don’t want it.

*In therapy terms, Clinical Supervision, means that a counsellor or psychotherapist uses the services of another counsellor or psychotherapist to review their work with clients, their professional development, and often their personal development as well. Supervision is a professional service, rather than a managerial role. The supervisor acts not as a ‘boss’, but as a consultant.

 Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.

After The Massage…

His fingers run through my hair and he kisses the top of my head. I lift it and look at him. We are still lying, tangled in each other, on the massage table. It is not comfortable, but I could stay here forever.

“Let’s take a shower baby girl. We’re covered in your oil,” he wraps his arms around me, sits up and lifts me.

I am carried to my ensuite where he puts me down on my feet and turns on my shower. Waiting for the hot water, he turns me around and finally unhooks my bra, letting it drop to the floor.

I am facing my mirror.

He stands behind me, tilts his head in that way I am getting used to and says, “Look how beautiful you are?”

I blush under his scrutiny and bow my head. His hand comes around to my chin and he lifts it.

“Do not be shy. I want you to see you the way I see you. Your body is perfect.”

He takes my hand and leads me into the shower.

Standing under the hot flow of water, he soaks my hair and looks at the various bottles on the shelf, picks out my shampoo. He massages my scalp, his fingers creating foaming bubbles.

Then he picks up my washcloth, squirts body wash onto it and begins to wash me like a child, lifting my arms up to wash under my armpits, then over my breasts and down my stomach. He presses the soapy washcloth between my legs and cleans me there too. He rinses the shampoo from my hair and hands the bottle to me.

Realising that he needs to bend for me to reach his hair make us both laugh, “Shortarse,” he grins as he lowers his head so I can shampoo his mop of wavy hair. I apply soap to the washcloth and mirror the cleaning he gave me a minute ago.

Both rinsed off, he shuts off the shower and we step out onto the bathmat.


I point to the airing cupboard beside the bedroom door and he walks, naked, glistening and gorgeous to it, returning with a towel wrapped low around his hips and envelopes me in another he is carrying. He rubs me dry and smiles down at me.


I realize I am and nod.

“Get dressed, I am taking you to dinner. Wear a dress for me.”


He selects a corner booth in the restaurant so we sit side by side facing out to the other diners.

As instructed, I am wearing a knee length black dress that flares gently out from the belt at my waist. He looks amazing in his dark blue shirt and jeans, highlighting his eyes perfectly.

Without consulting me, he orders on my behalf and looks over at me as he sniffs the wine the sommelier has poured him, nodding his head that it is good.

Raising his glass, he tips it in my direction, “To… backrubs,” he grins, and I cannot help but giggle as we clink glasses.

He lifts his hand and crooks his fingers at me in a ‘come here’ gesture. I scoot across to sit beside him.

I feel his warm breath on my ear as he whispers, “Go to the ladies. Take off your underwear and bring it back to me. All of it.”

I look at him in surprise. He shoos me with his fingers and I find myself leaving the table and walking over to the door marked Ladies.

Inside, I lock the cubicle and use the loo, finding I am wet already just from his command. I pull down my pants and roll them up small in my fist, grateful they are small.

I take off my bra and think, “How the fuck am I getting this all back to the table with out my bag? Why didn’t I bring my fucking bag?”

I realise I need to wash my hands which means I have to put the pants and bra bundle down on the counter. The woman next to me at the row of sinks looks up and smiles at me in the mirror. Her eyes then notice my bunched up lingerie beside the sink. Her smile freezes. She gives me that raised eyebrow of distain and I hear a “tut” as she leaves the room.

He is grinning at me as I walk, red-faced, across the restaurant. I am conscious of my braless state in particular. My breasts are not enormous, but neither are they small enough to go with support. I walk slowly, trying to minimize any extra jiggling.

He holds out his hand as I take my seat and I place my underwear in it. He looks down at it, runs his fingers over it and stuffs them into his jeans pocket. He asks why I look so mortified and I tell him about the encounter in the loo, which causes him to throw head back and roar with laughter.

I am not embarrassed any more. All I feel is delight that I have made him laugh.

He removes something from his other pocket and whispers to me to open my legs.

“It’s ok, the table covers you,” he says when I hesitate.

I part my knees for him and feel his hand moving up between my thighs. He slides something smooth inside me. It feels like metal but it has been warmed by the heat of being in this pocket. Slightly larger than a tampon, it sits just inside me and, out of nowhere, I feel it begin to vibrate gently.

My breath catches in my throat and I spin my head towards him to see he has a tiny gadget I his hand, the size of a car-key remote control. His face is alight with glee as he watches me squirm in my seat.

“Keep still,” he squeezes my thigh and our food arrives, “Just enjoy it.”

How the fuck does he expect me to eat?”

He leans over and cuts up my steak and feeds me bitefuls, between taking some off his own plate. I am vaguely aware that we are not alone in the restaurant, but the sensations between my legs, coupled with him feeding me so tenderly, make me care nothing for whether we are being watched or not.

All I can focus on is him.

“That’s enough food for now. You need room for dessert.” He signals the waiter for the bill and I feel slightly confused.

“Think you can walk ok baby girl?” he smiles over at me, mischief twinkling in his blue eyes. I notice the vibrations have stopped.

To be honest, I have no idea if I can walk and keep the vibrator inside me, but I do not want to see disappointment ruin his happy face, so I nod and, once he has paid the bill, I squeeze my internal muscles tight and stand.

I should have known that squeezing would only increase the sensation, and find that I have to momentarily sink back into the seat before I fall over. The waiter moves to help me, but he immediately intercepts and says, his voice cold and hard, “She is fine, just got up too fast. Silly girl,” he casts me a cold look. “Thank you,” the icy glare he throws at the waiter causes him to make a speedy retreat.

He helps me up, and we walk slowly to the elevator. As the doors close, he turns to me. All breath is stolen from me as his mouth covers mine and his tongue plunges deep inside. In one swift stroke, his hand is up under my dress and he has pulled the vibrator out of me, while his other hand slips inside the front of my dress to pinch my bare hard nipple.

This all lasts just moments.

As the elevator doors open in the lobby, we stand side by side.

Just a regular couple heading home after dinner.

He pulls over at a grocery shop near to my house.


He is gone and is inside the shop for a few minutes, returning to the car with a bag, which he places near his feet.

Once inside my house he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen.

He puts his bag on the counter and takes a moment to slide his hand along the marble, a slow smile spreading over his face as he turns to look at me, “Ah, memories… memories.”

I flush at the image that pops into my head. Me, naked and bound, pressed down, facing the countertop, as he relentlessly pounded into me that first night.

He opens the bag and whatever he has is inside.

His hand comes out with a scoop of ice cream in it, already beginning to melt from his touch, and he forces some of it into my mouth, gracelessly.

The cold, sweet taste of vanilla fills my mouth and I suck on his fingers.

“Promised you dessert baby girl,” and he smears what is left on his hand over my lips and cheek.

Sticky melting ice cream runs down over my jaw and onto my neck. He leans in and is greedily licking it off me.

His hand, once again full of dripping ice cream, pulls the cross over top of my dress aside to expose my breast, which he covers with the cold melting mess. The cold of it makes my nipples harden even more and then his mouth is there, sucking hungrily. He pulls the other side of my dress open and I hear a ripping sound as it falls to my waist, leaving me standing topless in front of him. He loosens the belt at my waist and pushes the dress down all the way to the floor.

Kneeling down, he pulls me to the floor, making sure to bring the half full tub of ice cream with him. The porcelain tiles are cold and hard under my shoulder blades.

His fingers, cold with more ice cream are circling my clitoris, cooling it down from the throbbing swelling it had been up to now.

I am hot and wet.

His fingers are cold and wet.

The conflicting sensation is… exquisite.

I feel his tongue where his fingers had just been, licking lazy circles over me then exploring inside me. Gradually the licking becomes more voracious, until the rough surface of his tongue is lapping away at me.

Grinding my hips down into his face and holding his thick hair between my hands, I arch my back and groan loudly as my orgasm rushes over me, leaving my body trembling helplessly.

In one swift, seamless movement his mouth is one mine and he is inside me, hot, throbbing and thrusting hard and fast into me.

My shoulder blades and spine are grating against the hard floor tiles, that have become slippy with melted ice cream underneath me. It hurts, and I know I will feel every single bone along my spine tomorrow, but that does not matter.

I lift my hips up to him, allowing him to go even deeper inside me, wrapping my legs around him and clinging to him.

He grabs my buttocks to better ram himself into me. His head is thrown back as he spasms and shudders over me, lost in his own orgasm, that I feel shooting up inside me.

I have never felt as complete or as important in my life as I do when he sinks back down onto me, exhausted and satisfied, pressing me down onto the tiles and letting his hair fall over my face.


 Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.

My Turn…

More flowers arrive.

A stunning arrangement of Oriental lilies and massive cream roses, wrapped in gold voile and tied with a black and gold ribbon.

The scent fills my counselling room.

The card : “Tomorrow. 6pm. Your house. I am going to allow you to take the lead. You decide what we do.”

I am stumped. I am not sure if I want to take the lead. I don’t know what to do.

Bite my lip,“Why does he want me to take the lead?”

I notice a tiny arrow at the bottom of the card and turn it over…




I see my clients throughout the day, and between appointments I let my mind wander…

“What would I like to do to him?”

I am excited to have him at my mercy for a change, but also, I am truly nervous that I will be a disappointment to him.

I want him naked.

That much I know.

His body is fucking incredible.

His arms are strong, with well-defined, lean muscles.

Perfectly sculpted pecs lightly scattered with chestnut hair covering the space between his nipples, which continues in a sexy line from his navel down to his dark thatch of pubic hair.

He has a flat, toned stomach, which has that delicious V-shape at the hips, leading down to his magnificent cock. Wide, hard, athletic thighs lead down to large solid calves.

I squirm in my seat with pleasure at the thought of having his naked body all at my disposal.

A grin spreads over my face as it dawns on me exactly what I should do with him tomorrow evening…


He is lying face down on my massage table, naked underneath the thick towel draped low over his behind.

He has told me I am in charge tonight. The exception is that I am not allowed to hurt him in any way, and if and when he decides to take back control, I must allow him.

I stand at his head and stretch down to begin massaging his lower back, slowly, firmly applying pressure, stroking from the base of his spine up to his neck.

My pelvis presses against the top of his head as I move.

Keeping one hand on his back I walk down the table and grasp an ankle, then the other one and pull to loosen his leg and hip joints.

Then I begin…

With well-oiled hands, I run my thumbs up the centre of his calf, separating the muscles and stretching them. I move to the side of the table and try to grasp his entire calf muscle in my cupped hands but he is so big and my hands are too small. I am used to working predominantly on female clients when I do bodywork in my room and his size is a challenge. I pull the calf muscle away from the bone and dig my fingers underneath it as far as I can.

I am very pleased to hear a groan of pleasure from the head of the table.

Finally! Something I am the expert in!

Using the heel of my hand, I press in with all my body weight as I push the muscle on the outside of his thigh up towards his hip. The knotted tension in his muscles ripple under my hand and I feel satisfaction as they begin to relax under my touch.

Having repeated the process on his other leg I decide to break with my usual massage protocol and push his towel down to his feet, revealing his tight, sculpted ass. I apply more oil to my hands and begin to knead each cheek in circles, using my knuckles.

“Uuunh,” from the head of the table. I suppress a giggle.

Once his glorious buttocks have been attended to, I glide my hands up to his lower back and once again walk around to where his head rests. I lean down, pushing my pelvis into the top of his head and allowing my breasts to graze his hair, I stretch the muscles along either side of his spine.

I work, kneading along his broad, hard shoulders and down over his deltoids and triceps.

I reposition the towel over his behind and lean down to whisper for him to roll over.

He raises himself up on his forearms and turns his head to look at me.

His eyes are cloudy and dark, partly with desire but also with the familiar relaxed look people get when they have a really good deep tissue massage.

“You’re fucking good at this baby girl,” he sounds vaguely surprised.

I smile and do a playful little courtesy.

When he lies on his back I am delighted to see that the look in his eyes is definitely desire, as his erection is very evident against the thick towel draped low over his hips.

I stand at his head and look down at him, his dark eyes meeting mine, and I resist the urge to kiss him.

I want to make this last as long as I can.

I want to look at and touch his body for as long as possible.

I begin to rub along the back of his neck, using the weight of his own head to apply pressure to the knots nestled in there. I lean down to work on his pectoral muscles and see that he is looking straight at me with a new expression on his face.

He looks… thoughtful. Not for the first time, I wonder what could he be thinking about.

I trail my fingers slowly down his tight stomach and follow the narrow trail of hair down to the edge of the towel. I can feel his eyes are burning into me and I know a flush is creeping up my throat to my cheeks.

Leisurely, I push the towel off his hips and let it fall to the floor. He is fully erect and ready for me. My hand still covered in oil, I take him and begin to slowly stroke and massage him up and down, applying gentle pressure. I look up at him and see he is biting his lower lip.

I lift myself up so that I am kneeling on the table between his thighs and continue my handiwork. I can feel the blood throbbing through him. I want to taste that fucking amazing cock so I lean down and, still using my hand, I lick the very tip of it in slow circles. The skin is velvet soft.

He groans in pleasure.

I move my mouth down between his thighs and gently take each testicle into my mouth in turn and suck lightly, using my tongue to caress them. I slide my tongue from there, up along the underside of his penis, from the base all the way up the ridge, before taking the whole of him into my mouth and starting to suck gently as my fingers stroke around his testicles.

His hands are in my hair. I risk glancing my eyes up at him to see he is looking down at me darkly. Our eyes meet and he pulls my head away from his groin and pulls me up to face him.

He is staring into to my eyes, breathing heavily, and I see the sweat beaded on his forehead. His hand comes up and his fingers graze my lips. I lick and suck them. He pulls me in close and kisses me, his tongue deep inside my mouth.

I can’t breathe.

He reaches down and undoes my jeans and pushes them down over my hips. His fingers find how wet I am and he begins to rub in slow circles. His mouth moves to lick and nibble at my throat and his other hand lifts up my tee-shirt and massages my breast. I hear myself moaning and feel him smile against my neck. He lifts me from his chest and puts me on my back as he stands, gloriously naked in front of me.

I drink in the sight of him.

He walks to the end of the table and swiftly removes my jeans and underwear. I tear off my tee-shirt and he climbs on top of me.

His mouth feels like it’s everywhere all at once, kissing and licking my face, ears and throat. He works his way down to suck hard on my nipples, then over my stomach and hips and finally… finally buries his head between my legs. He licks and kisses and nibbles me, holding my hips tightly so I can’t move. I bite my fist to stop from crying out as I come over and over again.

I want to take control again, if he will let me.

I ask him to lie back down, and to my delight he does. I straddle his hips. I feel his huge hard penis against my inner thigh and reach down to take it in my hand, slowly moving up and down along it. His eyes are closed and he bites his lip again. I do not want to delay it anymore. I

lower myself onto him, gasping at the size of him, deep inside me.

His hands come up to try and unclasp my bra and I shove them away.

I’m in charge now.

I move my hips, slowly at first in a figure eight, like a belly dancer.

He groans “fuuuuuck”.

I lean down and lick his throat, feeling his stubble against my tongue. His musky scent fill my lungs and I think I am going to come again.

He grabs my ass and starts to make me move faster.

I sit back up and arch my back as I lift my self up and down him, and I ride and ride. He is slamming up into me, holding my hips firmly to allow him to thrust deeper and deeper.

I feel like he is completely filling me, that he is going to rip me apart.

He jerks uncontrollably beneath me and the hot liquid shoots up inside me.

This sets me off again and I am crying out shamelessly now as my orgasm rushes through my body and I collapse onto his chest, exhausted and completely satisfied.


 Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.

The Fairground

He is grinning when I open the door to him.

“Come. I have a surprise for you baby girl,” he holds out his hand to me and I take it and follow him to his car.

“Where are we going?”

“Ssssh. You will see. Don’t be impatient.”

He parks the car on an empty street and we begin to walk, his arm slung casually over my shoulders.

We round a corner and I see a fairground, dodgems, and an enormous Ferris wheel.

I look up at him and a mild panic starting to run through me.

I hate heights.

They terrify me.

He knows this. We talked about fears and desires that night in Room 1220.

What the fuck is he planning?

I am relieved when he leads me to The Waltzer ride and we take our seats in the car. I notice him leaning up to say something to the attendant as the young man lowers the safety barrier. He slips something into the attendant’s hand. He grins down at me and puts his arm around my shoulders.

“Having fun baby girl?”

I giggle up at him, “I love The Walzter!”

Impulsively, I stretch up and kiss him on his lips. I feel so happy that I simply cannot stop myself. He pulls back for a second, frowning, but then his face softens and he returns my kiss.

I feel as if I have scored a tiny victory, although at the same time I wonder if he had been really irritated at my spontaneous gesture of affection.

The Ferris Wheel pops into my mind again.

The ride starts. The platform begins to move, slowly at first on its undulating track, but gains pace rapidly. The car starts to move back and forth on its wheels and we look at each other at start to laugh.

Without warning we are whirled wildly around and the centrifugal force presses us back in our seats. I scream with delight and fright and look up to see the attendant has been holding our car until it reached the top of its roll and then he spun us.

As the ride continues our attendant is unrelenting, and we are treated to the most exciting, albeit slightly nauseating, rides. I feel sorry for the other riders who are not getting any extra spins, thanks to the sneaky bribery of my companion.

When the ride finally comes to an end we stagger off, and I collapse against his broad chest laughing so hard, tears rolls from my eyes. He takes my chin in his hand and lifts it to kiss me so passionately that I forget that we are standing in the middle of a fairground surrounded by parents and kids.

Our tongues meet and dance around each other.

Our bodies press hard against each other. It is all I can do not to grind my hips against him as I can feel his erection against me.

He breaks the kiss and stares directly into my eyes, panting. His eyes are cloudy with desire and I do not think I have ever felt happier in my life.

“Ready for the next ride baby girl?”

I nod my head enthusiastically, like a child.

“Close your eyes. I am going to lead you to the next one. It’s a surprise.”

I am scared but do as I am told and trust him to lead me. I have a sinking feeling he is going to bring me to the Ferris Wheel but I know that I will not fight him.

I am learning… This is how we are

“Keep those eyes closed.”

I feel him lifting me up and placing me into a seat and he sits next to me. Again a safety barrier is lowered and he instructs me to not open my eyes.

I feel us beginning to move. Slowly. My feet leave the ground and we sway slightly. I reach out and grab hold of the safety barrier but keep my eyes locked closed. To be honest, I am scared to open them and confirm my fear that he has strapped me into the bloody Ferris Wheel.

We are rising higher, I can feel a breeze. He shifts in his seat and we sway again. A squeal leaves my lips. I can barely breathe.

“Open your eyes,” I shake my head, No!

“Open. Your. Eyes.”

I feel his hand gripping my jaw roughly and twisting my head in his direction. He squeezes hard and my eyes fly open in shock to meet his dark blue gaze. He turns my head and I see we are moving high above the ground.

My heart leaps in my chest, I cannot breathe. Nausea washes over me and I feel that I am going to start to cry. His hand moves again and I am facing him, our noses brushing against each others.

“Relaaaax,” he whispers and licks the outline of my lips as he starts to rock our car again even more. I gasp in terror and his tongue is deep inside my mouth, stifling any cry I was about to make. He continues to kiss me deeply for the next few cycles the wheel makes until our car stops at the top of the wheel.

My eyes fly open, panic-stricken.

Why have we stopped?!

I realise that we are suspended at the apex of the wheel while the other passengers disembark from their cars below us.

His hand still gripping my chin, he uses his other hand to push the hem of my dress up my thigh and I feel his fingers brush against my underwear.

“Open your legs more,” he growls against my mouth and, as if under a spell, I obey. He slides his fingers inside my underwear and finds me wet and throbbing. He begins his slow circular massage against me and I wriggle in response, which in turn causes the car to sway.

I see that we are on the downward journey now, but not for long, as we stop again to allow more people to leave the ride.

He massages me fast then slow, no longer kissing me, just looking into my eyes as he watches me writhe under his hand. I can see we are getting closer and closer to the point where our car will stop and we must get off.

“Please. Please.” I beg, desperate to come before we are seen.

Abruptly his hand withdraws from my under my skirt and he pushes his wet fingers into my mouth. Tears spring to my eyes.

I cannot believe this. He was so warm and tender after the Waltzer, then he frightened me so badly, and finally left me so unsatisfied and let down.

I feel ashamed and humiliated.

He lifts the safety barrier and helps me from the car, my legs like jelly, and walks me silently out of the fairground and back to his car.

Once we are inside, I finally cannot hold onto my feelings any longer and burst into tears. He glances over at me, leans over and opens the glove compartment and tosses me a box of tissues.

He starts the engine and drives me home.

When I unlock my front door he takes my shoulder, leads me to the sofa, sits and pulls me onto his lap and wraps his arms around me, which makes me start crying again.

I am totally confused.

We had so much fun on the Waltzer, he let me kiss him and kissed me back… but then he was so cruel to me.

He is kissing away my hot tears as they run down my cheeks.

He lifts me off his lap and lies me down along the length of the sofa and, kneeling between my knees, pushes my dress right up to my navel. He pulls off my underwear and glides two fingers inside me.

His head dips and I feel his tongue, wet and hot, on my clitoris as he continues to massage the inside wall of my vagina. He increases the pressure of his strokes as he licks and sucks at me.

I feel an uncontrollable surge of pleasure, starting low in my belly, up to my breasts and nipples, radiating through my entire body as I spasm and convulse under him. My hands reach down and my fingers curl through his wavy hair as I come, over and over again, crying out his name.


  Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.

After The Hotel…

Last night in the hotel, after we ate and talked for a while, (he was funny and warm and had great stories), he told me to stay in the room as long as I liked, take a bath, enjoy the opulence and, with a final kiss, he left me.

This morning my doorbell rings and I answer it to the, now familiar, smiling woman from the florists.

“You really are a lucky girl!” she grins at me as she hands me an enormous arrangement of sweet scented hyacinths and freesias.

I thank her, close the door and rush to open the accompanying card, excited to see what he has planned this time.

The card : “You taste as sweet as these smell.”

That’s all?! No instructions?

I am surprised at how disappointed I feel.

It has been five days and nothing from him.

No flowers.

No cards.


I have hardly slept.

I cannot concentrate on anything.

I drift through my days on autopilot, counseling my clients, trying to focus on what they are saying, but I am not really present.

I rush home in the evenings to see if he is at my door.

I am stunned at the realization of how very little I actually know about him.

We have met three times.

He has fucked me twice.

I have only his name. No phone number. No address. He has kept himself a mystery.

All I have is the number for the publishing firm who arranged our meeting for him to research the psychology of trauma for his new book.

I will not allow myself to call his editor. I must maintain some small scrap of dignity in this… situation.

I go to a book shop and buy one of his books. His eyes stare out at me from the photo on the back cover. He is very serious looking in the photo. Unsmiling. Tough looking, just as a writer of dark twisted thrillers should look.

I want so desperately to see him.

To talk to him.

To touch him.

I sit in the bath at night, my moods shifting from despair to irritation to frustration and back to sadness, as I wonder what I did wrong.

What did I do to disappoint him?

Was I not good enough for him?

Is he fucking another woman right now?

Is he ok? Has anything happened to him?

I am not sure how long I can bear this.

His absence is killing me.

Day six.

I am locking up my counselling room for the night. I have stayed later than usual, tying to catch up on reading and recording therapy notes.

My muscles ache from tension and I feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I might not ever see him again.

That I might never feel the things in my body that he made me feel.

That my life will never feel the same now that he has had me.

I am walking home in the dark, the street empty, maybe due to the drop in temperature recently and the light mist falling. I have no umbrella so I add to my list of annoyances that my hair is going to be a frizzy mess when I get home.

What the fuck does it matter? No one will be there to see you,” I think miserably.

In the quite of the street I become aware of footsteps behind me. As like most women walking alone in the dark, my senses are on high alert.

I pick up my pace, eager to just get home.

The footsteps behind me speed up and I feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through my system.

Stay calm, stay focused, just walk tall and fast…” but I am starting to feel scared and very alone and vulnerable.

I am still about ten minutes from my house and my eyes are frantically searching the road ahead of me for signs of life.

The footsteps are definitely getting closer but I dare not turn around.

Before I know what has happened, I feel a large hand grasp the back of my neck and a pathetic tiny squeal leaves my lips.

I have no control anymore as I find myself shoved, by my attacker, to my left, entering a service alleyway for a closed shop.

“Oh Sweet Jesus, fuck! Please don’t let this be happening…” I think of all the clients I have counseled, and their recounting of rape and abuse, and panic clouds my vision. I think I might be about to, perhaps mercifully, pass out.

I hear a low chuckle from behind me and feel warm breath close to my ear as he leans in and whispers, “Miss me much?”

I spin around and slump against the dirty concrete wall as I look up at him.

“Fuck! You!” I scream at him, panic-stricken and completely terrified. My open hand automatically flies out to slap him but he is fast and grabs my wrist and twists it painfully to stop me.

Then his lips are on mine, tongue deep inside my mouth, and he pins me roughly to the wall

He breaks the kiss/assault and grabs my jaw forcing me to look up at him.

“Don’t. Ever. Try. To. Hit. Me. Again.” His eyes are so dark in the shadows of the alley that I cannot be sure, but I think I hear a trace of amusement in his command.

His mouth is back on mine, stealing my breath from me. His hand forces my coat open and are immediately under my top searching for my breast. He pushes the underwire cup of my bra up and pulls hard on my nipple, while his other hand pops open the button on my jeans and forces its way down between my legs.

I am hot and wet instantly. I am vaguely aware of the fact that we are just off the street in an alley and that at any time we could be seen.

But I don’t care.

I just want him.

He is back and that is all I have wanted.

His fingers are deep inside me, thumb rubbing my clitoris roughly, not painful but very, very close. His fingers twist my nipple hard and I cry out a small gasp.

I do not know if it was the fright, the adrenaline or the fact that it is just him here pleasuring/punishing me but I cannot fight off the explosion of my orgasm any longer. He has only been kissing and touching me for a couple of minutes and that is enough to take me over the edge, as I cling to his shoulders to stop myself sinking to the filthy ground.

He pulls his hand from my jeans and glares down into my eyes as he pushes his wet fingers into my mouth and I taste myself.

“I missed you baby girl,” he smiles down at me, “Now, let’s get you home so I can fuck you properly.”

We lie facing each other on my bed. He has just finished pummelling me harder than he ever has and we are both damp with sweat and panting.

He reaches over and traces the outline of my lips with his little finger, tickling me.

“Where did you go?” I ask.

“That is no concern of yours baby girl. I come and I go as I please,” he casually pinches my lower lip and twists it until it hurts then releases it.

“I was scared. I was worried something had happened to you,” I whisper.

Sighing, he sits up and looks down on me, frowning, “Don’t be a bore.”

His hand reaches down between my legs and cups me, he slides his fingers inside me, “As if I could stay away from this for long,” then brings his hand up and sucks on his fingers, grinning at me.

“I had no way to contact you.”

“You don’t need to. I will arrange when we meet,” he tilts his head and smiles at me as if I am a child that needs things explained to them over and over again, “This is how it is with us.”

I decide to let it go.

He is right.

This is how we are.

I think I love him.

  Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.