The Curious Usage Of Miss Wolf free porn video

Mitzi has started pimping me out to ‘solve people’s problems’.

“You’re like Ms Wolf from that film,” she coos over the phone one afternoon in September when the weather can’t be arsed being anything at all and has settled on a humid drab grey like the soul of a hate-filled stockbroker.

I allow one of those pauses that enable me to work out what the hell she’s on about. Then I get it.

“From Pulp Fiction?”

“Yes!”

“That’s very cultured of you, Mitzi. Have you been unwell?”

“A blemish last Wednesday that laid me up for several hours, otherwise no. As for the reference, Terry mentioned it.”

I might have guessed. Terry is Mitzi’s neighbor, and as of quite recently, a lover to us both. For someone who once said he didn’t like tgirls, he has developed quite an appetite.

For those of you who haven’t seen Pulp Fiction, it’s a crime thriller made up of three stories set in LA in the nineties. The third story is about two hitmen who accidentally shoot a passenger and end up covered in the poor chap’s blood and brains. It’s broad daylight, and the film has a realist aspect that means it doesn’t just cut to another scene in which the two hoods are miraculously clean. They hole up in the house of a reluctant associate and call their boss, who sends them Mr Winston Wolf.

There are many interesting things about Mr Wolf. He is at a party (it’s about 10 am by this point); he makes careful notes about the situation, and when he’s done that he says, 'That’s thirty minutes away. I’ll be there in twenty.’

Note his attention to detail, ability to manage upwards, and confidence. These traits make him seem supernatural, even though we can see he isn’t. He’s also assisted by the film’s running theme about wolves as human/animal helpers, which climaxes with this sequence.

Mr Wolf shows up, and through deft management defuses the situation, gets the guys out of trouble and calms the ally who is terrified his wife will come home and find the house covered in blood. Later, Mr Wolf drops the hitmen off and heads to breakfast with a pretty girl who we genuinely believe is pleased to see him, despite the difference in age (Wolf is played by Harvey Keitel, who was in his fifties then).

I mention this character in detail because he’s such a legend he still pops up, played by the same actor in a series of otherwise lamentable insurance ads. It’s also not the first time I’ve been compared to him, although it is the first time post-transition. Once, when being turned for a job, I was told ‘You’re the guy people turn to to sort things out. Three weeks later, you come out of the jungle with the knife between your teeth and everything’s sorted. Which is great, but frankly, we’re after a team player.’

So Mr Wolf means a lot to me, because in my youth, I was dismissed as ‘impractical’ – for which read unmanly. Being me, I doubled back on this nonsense and became very fucking practical indeed, so that for most of my career, I’ve been a project manager, which combines my twin talents of useful ingenuity and fetish levels of skilled grovelling. And yet…

“Not Ms Wolf, Mitzi.”

“No?”

“I dislike ‘Ms’. It sounds like someone falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.’

“I’m not calling you ‘Mrs’; that would be obscene.”

“I’m fine with ‘Miss Wolf’ for this particular gig, thank you. Is it sexual?”

“A bit, probably, but the main thing is the problem.”

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for some piece of challenging puzzle work – hostage negotiation perhaps, or a piece of cunningly-wrought design like a cantilevered bridge made of peacock feathers, or the branding of some world-changing invention like the bastard teleport I was led to believe would be here by now.

“The client has a printer,” Mitzi says. “And it’s got a paper jam. He wants it dealt with.”

I blink. The day seems to have got even greyer.

“How is that a use of my extraordinary skills, Mitzi?”

“It really is right up your alley.”

“Machines hate me, especially computers, the boxy red-eyed fucks.”

“You need to wear the pinstripe.”

That stops me.

“He asked for that?”

“Oh yes.”

“The pinstripe has eldritch powers, Mitzi. Whenever I wear it, I feel like I can take over the world and begin to channel Darth Vader.”

“Even I know Darth Vader is a boy.”

“No!” I shout. “Darth Vader is one of us. After Obi-Wan chops his legs off, his knackers are burned away by the lava. And that voice is a massive over-compensation –”

“He is willing to pay you £200, of which I take 15%, plus any additional expenses incurred by performance of the task.”

That large sum is both suspicious and intriguing. Mitzi gives me an address and tells me to be there at 7 pm. Normally, a 7 pm assignation would be a nuisance because of the need for dinner, but I had a full meal at lunchtime as I was working from home.

I shower, shave everything, moisturise and then get into my undies. Everyone expects tgirls to have the full Anne Summers catalogue on at all times, and I do sometimes enjoy that, but I left my last lot at Torture Garden for reasons that now escape me. Anyway, I’m more than happy with my tailored black gaff pants with the frills and hip padding, and a gym bra that looks like it isn’t one and holds my breasts just so regardless of what I get up to. Then stockings – black with a mid-denier that stops me overheating as I run hot at the best of times, because something tells me this printer challenge is going to involve more than just fiddling with a paper tray.

I start on my makeup. If the client wants the pinstripe, he is clearly after something corporate, so I go with a concealer base, then an even foundation layer, some contouring but not too much, and basic eye work. I consider false lashes but discard the idea. Lips are always tricky; I don’t wear my trademark bright red at work, but feel the need for it tonight so go with a rich pigment light red tone that will stay in place whatever happens.

Then the suit. It is a tailored Armani with a short jacket and a pencil skirt that, at my request, is long enough to be acceptable in the barely-restrained kink-fest that is the corporate world, while simultaneously being a bit shorter than it should be. Even my enemies love my legs, and I’m not hiding them.

I slip on a crisp, fresh blouse that has a little ruffle down the front, and slide into the suit. At once, I feel its power soak into me, and stand differently. I choose my practical working woman’s boots – Tu from Sainsbury’s; they’re comfy, look great and have never let me down. For my hair, I go for a shoulder-length bob with a slight wave, dark brown with a fringe – I am not myself without a fringe – and even a few strands of grey, which bizarrely looks sexier than it does without.

I choose my black handbag, fill it with essential kit (makeup, poppers, contraceptives, phone charger, phone, keys, credit card, tissues for lipstick application, hairbrush, back-up hairbrush, spare panties), strut out of the house and get in my car.

The car is a refurbed Triumph GT6 Mk III, by which I mean it’s really a 2.5 litre Audi turbo in the body of a GT6. It’s also got a four-wheel drive and a fully electric dashboard. It’s red, because of course it fucking is. There’s a story about how I came by it, but that’s for another time.

Like Mr Wolf, I get to the destination early, but decide to drive around for a bit rather than knocking on the door in case the client is on the loo or something. The place is just outside a suburb in Kent, and is so bland I would have got lost but for the satnav. After ten minutes of identikit tedious architecture and yawningly dull landscaping, I decide to pull up outside the destination and wait there.

The house is on its own, at the end of a long drive. There is a high wall around it, and I can see that the dwelling itself is one of those modernist cubes that look like giant versions of a child’s learning toy. Both wall and house are white, and the house windows are dark, darker than windows usually are, even allowing for the twilight. I realise they are one-way mirrors, and get one of those little thrills that might be excitement or might be dread, I don’t mind which. The black front door is barely recessed, and looks like the windows; only its position lets me know what it is.

I park near the driveway entrance and get out my phone to do a bit of nattering on tvChix. Hopefully, this paper jam malarkey will be over within an hour or so, and I can meet up with one of the girls or an admirer for some drinks and another fuck. I always like to get at least two in an evening.

Come up to the house.

The message comes up on WhatsApp – Mitzi must have given the client my number. I hesitate, then put my phone in the handbag, gun the engine and send the car slinking up to the front of the house.

When I get out, I see how out of place my car is; it seems garish, even crude in this pristine environment. The garden is more pruned than an ageing twink, but the grass is perfectly coloured. I wonder if it’s astroturf, but no, there’s that cut-grass smell in the air. There are hedges, each a masterpiece of abstract geometric precision, and flat white stones set in rigid patterns that are as far from Zen as a bomb in a nightclub.

I am a neat person, more than a little touched by OCD, but in this perfect place, I feel like a cavewoman. Will the client drag me in by my hair? I’ve fixed it in place, but he’ll be in for a shock if he tries.

The front door clicks open in a way that suggests remote control. I lock my car, suddenly protective of it, and stride up to the house. There is no step up; I simply open the door and walk in.

There is minimal, and there is vacuum, and I am in a space that is far closer to the latter. It is admirable, in the way the interior is nothing but light and white space, but I wouldn’t want to live here. It’s open-plan, with no furniture. Stairs sweep up to an upper mezzanine, and more to a third level that must be a roof garden. The flooring is not a material I recognise; neither wood, stone or plastic, it is non-slip and hard, but gives a little, muffling my footsteps.

A man comes through a square opening to my left.

He is the perfect occupant for this place. Tall, thin and pale, with round glasses that are a surprise; surely contact lenses would suit his sparse taste more? His hair is dark, the same colour as mine, but carefully slicked down so it shines in the bright lights. He wears a white shirt, white slacks and white shoes.

He wears gloves. These too are white.

“Good evening,” he says.

His voice is almost without tone, yet is not bland, as if this entire set-up is meant to eradicate something that is still very much present, seething below the surface. My beloved suit feels shabby here, my hair not done right, my make-up inadequate. The animus powers of Winston Wolf and Darth Vader come to my aid; I lift my chin and stride forward.

“Kelly Random,” I say, and extend my hand. “I understand you have a problem.”

I expect him to recoil; instead, he extends his arm smoothly and takes my hand in his. The grip is firm, respectful, and gone in a moment. I withdraw my hand and rest it on the strap of my handbag. We regard each other.

“Please,” he says, and indicates the room he just came out of.

I follow him back through the opening – there are no doors – into a far larger space than I expected. The house is not square; it only looked like that from the front. It is an oblong, and I am in a room that’s longer than the office at work. It is empty, apart from a printer on the floor at the very far end.

“Ah,” I say, and head towards it.

I am gripped gently but very firmly from behind. Before I can do anything except stop, I am released. I turn back to the man. His expression has not changed.

“The journey to the far end of the room is a long one,” the man says.

“I see.”

“I am…” he blinks.

He does not want to tell me his name, but lacks the imagination for an alternative.

“Mr White,” I say.

His eyes widen slightly. I wonder if I have angered him, but realise this expression is his version of delight.

“The monies have been transferred to your associate,” he says. “You may claim any additional costs you see fit. I shall trust you to be accurate.”

“Of course.”

“I will prepare the coffee.”

He turns away but when I go to follow, he turns back, the movement smooth and sudden.

“Please stay here, Kelly.”

I hesitate.

“Is there something wrong?” he says.

“I don’t like to drink anything I haven’t seen prepared,” I say.

“Why?”

“Someone drugged me.”

As I fail to stop my eye twitching with recollected fury, I expect him to question me about it, or argue. He does neither; instead, he nods, raises one of those gloved hands in a way that reassures while also insisting I stay put, and goes back out of the room again.

I just have time to regard the printer at the end of the room – it’s a heavy-duty commercial one rather than a domestic; squat, about a metre square – when he comes back in with a large can. It’s an energy drink: one of those chemical shitstorms in a tin that have you climbing the walls after three sips.

“Drink all of this in ten seconds,” Mr White says.

I pop the tab and try not to look at the logo, which makes Munch’s ‘The Scream’ look like Iggle Piggle. It’s cool but not cold, tastes of sugared piss filtered through hay, and is not so carbonated that I can’t get it down pronto. When I look at Mr White again, he is holding out another can. I drink the contents of that one too, faster this time as the first dose hits my system like the early warning of a heart attack.

“We’d best get to it,” I say, my voice beginning to rise with heightened energy.

“Not yet,” Mr White says. “I wish to see you rise.”

It is a truth not commonly acknowledged that I am often quite happy simply sitting or standing around with other people, or even on my own. I like a good yap as much as the next girl, but I don’t feel the need to fill silence unnecessarily. It’s possibly from the time when I first transitioned, when it was so wonderful to simply be a woman that any other activity seemed unnecessary. To be a woman in appreciative company was better yet, and if it meant I got a nice filled pussy at the end of it, so much the better, but it wasn’t a deal breaker and still isn’t.

Mr White points at my bag.

“Do you need anything in that?”

“Are you going to fuck me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do you like poppers?”

“No.”

Shit.

“My makeup –”

“Your makeup is perfect, your beauty sublime.”

That throws me; I swallow loudly before I think to cover it with a demure cough.

“It will evolve, over the night,” Mr White adds.

“The night?”

“Neither of us will be sleeping, Kelly Random.”

The energy drink is buzzing in me now.

“We certainly won’t,” I say.

He nods at my bag and holds out both hands. I take the bag off and give it to him. He turns and presses the nearest wall; a panel opens with the smooth elegance of a machine to reveal a spotless, empty cupboard. Mr White puts my bag inside and closes the panel, which seems to disappear, leaving the wall flawless again.

Power surges through me, and I hear my boots creak when I stand on tiptoe as if to stretch up and earth surplus energy in the ceiling. I hear myself sigh with it, an unconscious sound like the movement onto my toes.

“There,” Mr White says. “You have risen. Now, to business.”

He opens another panel. I glimpse equipment, some of which I recognise and some I don’t. Before I can steady my jittery gaze, he has taken what looks like a slender harness out and shut the panel. When he turns to me, I see that the harness is a broad, double-looped strap in a figure-of-eight. Mr White slips one loop over me, settling it on my hips, and ducks down to come up inside the other. He turns me so I’m facing away from him, then tugs so I walk backwards until I’m almost touching his chest. A touch on my back stops me.

“Now,” says Mr White, “sort out that printer will you, Kelly?”

I strain forward, but cannot move far. Mr White is taller than me, but I thought I had a greater muscle mass. It turns out I haven’t. I strain again, but cannot shift him.

“Would you hurry up, please?” Mr White says, his voice betraying the first emotion I’ve heard in it: impatience.

I strain harder, then spread my legs on either side of him so my boot soles are against the wall and use that to lever myself forward. The harness digs into my waist and my hips; I gather my core strength and use everything, everything to get further away down the long room to the printer. It’s no good.

Mr White tuts.

I try to pretend it doesn’t hurt; that the driver to be perfect in order to accepted is just so much patriarchal dribble, but the sad fact is that it’s a lot easier to feel at home when you’re very useful, or very pretty, or very funny, or very anything, really, to make up for the fact you’re a fucking freak.

I’ve never had great upper body strength – always a girl, really – but my core and thighs are nigh on bionic. Why, then, can I not shift this bony dingbat?

“We can stop if you like,” Mr White says, his placid voice shaded with disappointment like storm clouds reflected from a still pool.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” I say through gritted teeth.

I don’t care about the pain of the harness digging into me, or the increasing ache in my legs, or the banging of my heart. He has powered me up and set me to this task and I am a professional and a strong woman and I will not quit, not now, not ever.

“Er, yes,” Mr White says. “It’s just that –”

“The ability… hnnnn… to destroy a… unngghh… planet is nothing… hrrrrrgghh… beside the power… grrrrrrr… of my….hnnn… fucking… unnggghhhh… THIGHS!”

There is a crack, and suddenly I’m sprawled on the floor.

I spring to my feet and spin around. Mr White stands against the wall. To his left, I can see a white metal hook I’d missed before, mounted on the wall with the harness looped over it. To the man’s right, a ragged hole in the plaster shows where another hook had been mounted, before I wrenched it off.

Mr White slipped out of the harness when my back was turned.

“I was fighting a wall?” I say, panting.

“You were beating a wall,” Mr White says.

He lifts the harness off me, and regards the spray of rubble on the floor.

“Would you like me to clear that up?” I say.

“Absolutely not,” Mr White says.

He looks at the mess with a mixture of longing and fear; his jaw muscles bunch and he swallows as if fighting nerves. When he looks at me again, he seems uneasy, as if he is no longer in his comfort zone – a situation I begin to suspect is my true reason for being here.

Mr White gets himself under control and stands to my right as he looks at me and then the wall. I realise he is calculating the distance I have gone with this first task when he squints, then reaches for me and – holding my hips – moves me back slightly so I’m about half a metre from the wall. My energy has plateaued, meaning I am in a state of enervated relaxation, and stand like a robot or a doll, looking down the room towards the printer. Mr White makes a small noise; not a grunt exactly, it’s too prim for that, but appreciative.

“I would like you to have some coffee now,” he says. “I will not drug you.”

“It would be unwise,” I say, “because I know where you live.”

“Quite. I have some equipment I would like you to use. Kindly inspect it while I make the coffee, but do not put it on until I am back.”

“I agree to do as you ask.”

It is as though we are evolving our own robot language, in the full knowledge that soon we will wreck it.

A slight click indicates the panel opening, then Mr White hands me two packets and leaves through the square opening.

He has given me a FitBit and a remote-controlled vibrating anal dildo. Both are top-of-the-range. The dildo has additional sensors, and I realise that the two devices combined will give Mr White total knowledge of my physicality.

I wait. There is no noise from anywhere in the house; no clanking of pots, or rush of water, or the bubble of boiling. Instead, Mr White simply reappears with one of those great porcelain tankards you think are good value at Starbucks, before having to keep popping to the loo for the next two hours.

He takes the FitBit and the dildo and hands me the coffee. I sip it; it is hot but not boiling, with cream not milk and a lot of sugar, which I don’t normally take.

“I would like you to finish the coffee by the time I have explained the analytical equipment,” Mr White says.

“I understand.”

I begin to drink.

“I wish to know your capacities in order to properly manage them. For us to make the journey to the end of the room, I will need to push you as far as you can go. But I want you to be…”

He stops, blinks, tries to speak again but can’t. I wait, and sip supersweet coffee, and give him time, and space, because these are gifts within my ability.

“Your…” he tries again.

I regard the printer, so he knows my focus is where it needs to be.

“Your safety,” Mr White manages, his voice choked. “Your health… Mean… Everything to me.”

“Thank you for your concern. I feel happy and comfortable knowing that my welfare is your number one priority.”

“Oh it is, Kelly, it is.”

“Will you be… applying the equipment.”

The card packaging rustles as his hands shake.

“I…” he begins. “No. You. Please.”

“How will you monitor me?”

He produces a phone.

“On this.”

I finish the coffee. The sweetness makes my teeth clang, but I get used to it. Mr White takes the mug, hesitates, then hands it back.

“Drop it on the floor,” he whispers.

I hurl it to one side and it shatters against the wall. Mr White gasps. I ignore him. He hands me the FitBit; I take it out of its box and put it on my right wrist. Mr White looks at his phone, swipes a few controls and then nods.

“I have you now,” he says.

Did he just quote Darth Vader back at me? I glance at him, but his gaze is on the phone. I drop the FitBit box on the floor.

“I’ll need lube for this,” I say, indicating the dildo.

Mr White’s eyes widen. His planning is less thorough than he thought.

“My handbag,” I say.

He fetches it as I get out the dildo, drop the box beside the FitBit one and look at the kit. It’s a decent size, white silicone with smooth chrome sensors and is thankfully shaped like a Christmas tree so it will stay in. There’s a pineal stimulator, although those have never really done it for me. I hook my handbag over my shoulder, get out the K-Y and slather the dildo with it. I then put my slick fingers down the back of my panties and work them into my pussy.

I keep the action businesslike, with my gaze still on the printer. The tension from this unique situation and energy from excess caffeine have made me tense; I’m only a little girl down there at the best of times and work to get two fingers in.

“I need you to help relax me,” I say, taking out the poppers. “Please undo those and hold the bottle under my right nostril.”

He does so. I inhale the powerful, chloriney aroma, its dense chemicality both a shock and a comfort. I feel the familiar but strange rush of rightness and beauty, and want that dildo in me ASAP. I tug my panties and tights down, lift my skirt and position the dildo tip against my rosebud. Mr White leaves the bottle where it is, and the fumes quickly become overwhelming. I suspect I won’t get another dose, however, so I keep my head where it is and keep inhaling.

I almost forget what I’m doing, and the dildo slips in almost of its own volition; even the wide base only makes me gasp a little. I straighten and clench the shaft, getting used to the penetration. My thighs twitch appreciatively as I pull my panties and tights back up and straighten my skirt. Mr White puts the cap back on the poppers. I give him the handbag; he puts it back in the cupboard, but his time leaves the door open, and puts the poppers in his pocket.

Interesting.

“Would you like me to wrench that cupboard door off?” I say.

“No –! I mean… Um…”

Before he can finish, I stalk past him, wrench the door off the wall and smash it against the frame, then put my fist through the cupboard beside it. My expression as I do this does not change, a state I take increasing pride in. I retake my position half a metre from the back wall, in the centre of the room, facing the far-away printer.

Something buzzes inside me, and I gasp. The dildo stops, and I grit my teeth as if to wring pleasure from that one twitch of delight.

Mr White puts a bigger harness on me. This one goes over my shoulders and around my waist. Two straps come off either side, and Mr White attaches the ends to bigger hooks that have their own little doors.

“You won’t pull those out,” Mr White says. “I had them certified.”

I turn and see a little piece of paper, like a price tag, hanging from each hook.

“Good,” I say.

“Let us begin,” Mr White says.

I step forward, and get about a metre before the straps begin to take the strain and slow me. My boots grip the floor well; the surface not merely non-slip, but enabling good traction. Did he design the whole place for tonight?

I want another twitch inside me, but Mr White, who stands on my left in my personal space, as close as he can get without touching me, is focussed on his phone. He expression is blank again, and I let mine go the same way.

I strain more, and get another half-hmetre. I’m now leaning forward, almost forty five degrees to the floor. I estimate the printer is another ten metres away. The straps have some elasticity, but not much. I am not sure how I will get much further, and my breath shortens as I strain. Determination, excitement, brute strength and caffeine keep me in that hopeless position for longer than I would otherwise manage – and then another biological imperative makes itself known.

“You will need to urinate soon,” Mr White says.

What the hell is on this dildo? Can the thing read my mind?

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Do it now,” Mr White says. “Do it there.”

It’s as though he has spoken directly to my urinary system, which obeys before I have time to think. The hot rush pours down my legs into my boots and seems to go on for so long I’m astonished I was able to accommodate it all. Meanwhile, the dildo perks up again and lovely vibrations buzz into me from one direction as the joy of relief flooding my panties gushes out in another. Suspended between forces of gravity, restraint, determination and frustration I only just manage to stay in place.

I’m out of breath properly now; the poppers making me weaker, my ecstatic pussy demanding my whole attention even as my flow eases and the last hot sheets run down my tingling thighs and begin to cool. I want Mr White to put his gloved hand on the wetness between my legs; but he has backed off, so he stands outside the spreading pool of fluid around my boots.

I am in a quandary; I want to move forward, but if I try and move I will slip. Soon the liquid will work its way under my boots, and then the decision will be taken from me. At the same time, the dildo buzz intensifies, as if Mr White is using my own delight to weaken me.

“I need to know if we are in this together,” I say, “or if I am simply to be used.”

He leaves the room. I do not move. My legs are cold and wet, and itch from the acid in my fluid.

The dildo shuts off.

I fix on the printer. It is far away, further than I can manage with these restraints.

Mr White comes back in with another can, a garbage-picker and a straw. He opens the can, puts in the straw and uses the garbage picker to hold the drink to my lips so he doesn’t have to get his feet wet. I note the straw is paper, and recyclable, which also means it softens quickly. I gulp down the energy drink; I would tell you its name but it’s in Polish and the unfamiliar letters dance in my quickened mind as if mocking my attempts to do anything except take another step. I finish the can and Mr White drops it. There is the tiniest splash as it hits the piss around me.

Something rumbles in the walls: air conditioning; cool in the humid night. Mr White is at his phone again, and I notice the temperature in the room rise. Soon I am sweating, although Mr White looks unaffected. The aircon racket grows in volume, and I actually see the pool around me begin to evaporate. I smell it as it becomes vapour: part chemical, part coffee, and part me. Mr White shifts; he has not predicted this impact of my intimacy on him.

Through it all, I maintain my rigid stance, straining against the straps.

Mr White walks out, and I hear him pacing in the room outside. He doesn’t want to be out there; he wants to be in here with me, but my troubling physical realities are playing havoc with him. He comes back in and crosses to the cupboard; not the one I wrecked but the other one. The one with the equipment.

The aircon must be at max now, and the heat is such that sweat trickles down inside my blouse, making my breasts slippery. It’s getting harder to breathe, the heat is so much. My boots make a faint squelch as my feet tense inside them, but it seems all the other liquid I produced has evaporated. It would be easier if I could just take off my jacket, or let my skirt drop. I feel the sweat soak into my beloved pinstripe, almost as if I’m becoming one with it like a second skin. I’m panting as well; the heat and exertion are taking their toll. My fringe sticks to my forehead; even my hair is too much, overheating me.

Then it all shuts off. All that remains is me, in the same position, in a room that seems altered somehow despite being the same.

Mr White appears beside me, his soft-soled shoes masking his approach so he seems to simply materialise.

“It seems I must find new ways to motivate you,” he says.

He holds a whip.

I keep my gaze on the printer as Mr White lets the whip run through his fingers. It is a leather job, a kind of cat-o-nine-tails. I had one once until I broke it, but that was a little fun piece; this thing looks like something used on mutineers on British naval frigates in the eighteenth century.

Sudden pain cuts across the whole of my bottom; a single blow somehow becoming many, more than I can focus on or control as streaks of searing alarm jangle and seem to fight each other in pointless antagonism. I scream without realising I’ve done it, and notice I can no longer see Mr White. He is behind me, and unless I turn my head – which we both know I won’t – I’m not going to know when he will hit me again.

I love being spanked because of the rosy afterglow, especially if I’m then fucked, because it feels like my whole underneath is being softened up for use. I doubt I’ll ever get over seeing sex as naughty rather than joyous, especially now, but I guess I just turn that to my advantage, making it all lush and triumphant.

Now though I’m scared. The afterglow takes a while to come, and there is an uneasy silence. All I can think of to do is try and take another step.

So I do.

It’s only a small step, more a shuffle, but I get there and at once the dildo buzzes inside me and I cry out with pleasure.

I weaken though, and slide back.

At once I’m whipped again, twice this time, and scream. I scrabble at the floor, the buzz of pain and the buzz of pleasure a distracting balance as I try to make sense of them while moving forward. I get further, but it’s hard to maintain, and this time I’m not at forty-five degrees, I’m almost upright and struggling to stay on my feet. Slowly, I bend forward, scared I’ll slip but managing to stay in one place, aiming the top of my head the distant printer. I finally get to the position I want – but can go no further.

Mr White appears beside me again. I glance up at him; his pale face mobile with feelings he cannot control, desire he cannot manage. I look at the printer again, and strain. I do not move, but for the first time, he touches me.

He still wears the gloves, but the first thing he touches is the area over my heart. As he does, he looks at his phone, as though fascinated by this evidence of his digital reality. Then he leans forward, slowly, almost fearfully, and takes a small sniff. He gasps and staggers back; by now I can smell myself, so I know I’m pretty ripe, but he shouldn’t be surprised after what he’s put me through. I wonder if it’s disgust, but then he creeps forward and smells me again, deeper this time, and I know he’ll get a good nose of my body, of my hair, and my pussy. He touches me again, just his fingertips this time, and I know he wants to take the gloves off.

He doesn’t, though.

“You are a divine pollution,” he says, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“Hmmmmm…” My voice is a rumble.

“You must be punished.”

He steps back behind me and – oh God! He goes fucking berserk with the whip, lashing my arse, my thighs and my back until I writhe in the restraints and almost let the harness go. I don’t though; this is some kind of battle of wills and the pain is just about manageable. I hear him panting, although I suspect it’s exhaustion rather than desire, and I decide to hold on to see who will break first.

He does, and I hear him throw the whip away.

The ground lurches – has the fucker somehow turned off gravity? I sprawl, over-energised muscles getting my hands beneath me so I don’t hit the ground face first. At once, I’m back on my feet and facing him, and see he has cut through the restraints and released me. I writhe out of the harness and throw it at him; he doesn’t even blink as it lands, then slithers ignored to the ground. He moves forward, his steps quick and precise; his face alight with weird joy. He puts his hands on my hips and turns me so I face the printer again. I am now four metres away from the wall we started from, with a long way to go.

I wonder if I’m up to more punishment, or if this is getting too extreme even for me.

And then he holds the poppers under my nose again and puts a gloved hand on top of my head as I inhale. The dildo begins its siren song in my pussy, this time in a series of rhythmic pulses that match the beat of my heart. The pleasure mingles with the jangling discomfort from the whipping and begins to calm it.

I wish he would hold me.

He takes the poppers and his hand away. For a while, he looks at his phone, and I look at the printer. I’m steadier now, my determination somehow both soft and steely.

“Tuck your blouse in,” Mr White says.

As I do so, he disappears to his cupboard again. When he comes back, he is holding the biggest coke vial I have ever seen. Shiny chrome, and the size of a test tube, its little spoon seems made for a smaller, less aggressive containment. Mr White scoops white powder, holds it under my right nostril and I toke it up in one. He repeats the process. I get the chalky taste down the back of my throat, and a sense of euphoric certainty quicker than the usual local stuff, so this is quality product – but then it would be.

Mr White looks at the coke and I wonder if his resolve will crack so that he will join me, but instead he says, “Hm,” and puts it in his pocket. It clinks against the poppers bottle, which displeases him so he takes it out again and puts it in the other pocket.

The pain of being whipped has subsided into something troublingly pleasant, and the rhythmic action in my pussy deepens as the sensors react to my body. Mr White must have an erotic algorithm of some kind in his phone app, because I feel like I’m being fucked by God. Normally, Big Clit is quiescent during penetration, but tonight she is up and ready, straining against my panties.

“The force is strong with this one,” I say.

“How true,” Mr White says.

He reaches behind me; I tense, expecting more punishment, but all he has is a white plastic bucket.

“Soon,” he says.

What…?

Oh, more of the energy drink/coffee cocktail needs draining off. Damn, his app is good!

“Get every drop of it in the bucket,” he says.

I shift, and struggle Big Clit out of my panties. I don’t like people seeing her; I’m a girl, after all, so I leave my skirt down, aim the stiff appendage and blast what feels like a gallon of chemically-enhanced piss into the bucket. Despite my exertions, I see from the light straw colour that I’m hydrated, and am astonished when I half-fill the bucket in one go. I tuck Big Clit away and pull my panties and tights back up. They’re still wet, and fragrant.

“The next stage of your journey will be underwater,” Mr White says.

“Very well.”

“On your knees.”

I obey. I love being on my knees. The dildo buzzes and Big Clit shuffles and twitches like a coil of ecstasy. Mr White liberally applies poppers and cocaine, then empties the bucket of piss over my head.

It is gorgeous. The piss is still warm, and soaks me as thoroughly as if I’d been dunked. I don’t even think to close my eyes; they sting a bit, then water, and then I can see again.

“May I… look?” I say.

Mr White goes to his magic cupboard and when he comes back he has a mirror, about a metre by a half-metre, which he holds in front of me.

I gleam like something precious, steam still coming off me as if I have been freshly remade. My hair is a gleaming dark helmet that frames my face and reflects light around my centre parting like a halo. My suit shines as though I’ve been glazed and polished, and my makeup is still intact, although delectably smudged, making me look like a hot and crazy witch.

“Your beauty,” he begins.

Then, as if possessed, he fumbles with his trousers.

“Close your eyes.”

I do so, and he wets me again. His piss is stronger than mine; he has drunk nothing so far, but I am happy to smell of him, to be soaked with him. When I open my eyes, he is standing to one side and buttoned up once more, as if nothing has happened, but I am now even wetter.

It is pleasure that topples me; I see my reflected eyes roll up, and then I’m on my side, slumping onto my back as my legs splay.

“Kelly, get up.”

I can’t. The dildo is pumping so much pleasure into my enhanced system that it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, wide in the painful glare of the bright lights. He ought to turn it off if he wants me on my feet, but he doesn’t.

“Must I drag you?”

“Yes…”

I expect him to grab my ankle, but he rolls me over and grabs the top of my jacket. My arms drag either side; my head hangs forward, my legs are useless behind me and I feel beyond amazing. When he drops me, I come so hard he jumps away from my thrashing limbs.

On and on it goes; I always come epically, perhaps to make up for the hated years of youthful repression. This is deeper and harder than ever though; I’m not even touching Big Clit and she’s gushing like a hydrant. I scream and then can’t any more, orgasm silencing me, an unbearable storm that I want and do not want to end.

Oh Christ, I’m still coming. For fuck’s sake…

I punch the floor to wring it all out, to give my blitzed body a respite even as I know that this is probably not even possible in my current state, but I have a good go anyway, howling and kicking, with each blow a cathartic delight of its own.

I wake up suspended from the ceiling.

My boot soles are no more than a few centimetres off the floor, and I’m in another harness. My arms are restrained by my sides, but my legs hang free. The dildo is quiet and still inside me. My panties are sticky, but I’m damp rather than wet, so it’s hard to say how long I’ve been here. I can’t see Mr White; I manage to turn enough to see he’s not in the room.

I wonder how much trouble I’m in. Mitzi knows I’m here, but there’s no way I can reach her. My phone is in my bag, and I have no idea if that’s even still in the cupboard – not that I could reach it from here.

I feel giddy, still charged up with power, yet exhausted in a strange way that will not allow a further lapse of consciousness. Despite my predicament, I feel good.

Of course, if Mr White shows up with a chainsaw…

He comes in. He has no chainsaw. Instead, he’s got another giant mug of coffee. He holds it and regards me. I regard him back. My pussy clenches involuntarily, and my body swings.

Mr White sips the coffee. I feel my eyes widen at this physical engagement by him.

“I had to restrain you, goddess.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I have never seen anything like that.”

I gaze down at him, my face serene, my mind in an edgy but fascinating zone, and my body zonked with pleasure.

“You created it,” I say.

“Me?”

“Oh yes. You should come and enjoy what you have achieved.”

“How?”

“You smelled me earlier. Smell me again. Smell my panties.”

He goes to sip coffee again, blinks, forgets what he was about to do.

“Smell the front of them: the core of pleasure; the epicentre. Make it yours.”

He takes out his phone, touches a control, and I’m hoisted higher, the movement smooth, the mechanism almost silent. He stops when my groin is at the level of his face. Slowly, he comes forward until he is standing nearby, but not close enough to inhale me.

He drinks coffee, as if it will give him strength, then throws the cup away, although without enough force to break it, perhaps because he is distracted. He looks up at me, and I can’t tell if he hesitates because he wants to put off the moment that will change everything for him, or because he is scared.

He takes off his glasses, and looks at them, then puts them in his pocket. They clink against the vial or the bottle; whichever one is in there, but this time he ignores it and steps closer.

When he reaches for my hips, his gloved hands shake. He finally takes hold of me, his grip still firm but weaker than it was, perhaps through confusion, perhaps desire. He leans forward, and smells me between my legs.

A great shudder convulses him, and he pushes up my skirt to expose my tights and the wet panties they hold. When he presses his whole face against the soaked padding containing me, a strange high sound comes from him, and I realise he is weeping. His body jerks as mine did, but with emotion rather than climax. His tears are so many I feel them soaking me, hot and powerful.

He cries for a long time, and it is eerie, and beautiful, and so deeply erotic I feel myself gather and thicken again. The movement in my panties bothers him, as though something is going to take his joy away, and I whisper that it’s all right, everything is all right.

“I never knew…” he whispers.

Then he looks down at the bulge in his trousers, and gasps in surprise.

“You’d better let me down,” I say.

His hands are shaking so much he almost drops the phone, and I worry he’ll just let the winch declutch and drop me a metre to the floor. He gets me down safely, though, and scrabbles the harness off, and then I sink to my knees because there’s no feeling in my legs after dangling about for that long.

I get his trousers down and his cock in my mouth before either of us can say or do anything else. I think I can allow my strict safe sex policy to relax for this occasion, given that Mr White is either a virgin or such a phenomenal actor he deserves a naked sucking. I’m betting the former, especially given that I quickly get that hot flooding sense and the mushroomy seafood taste of cum. There’s loads too; I suspect he’s never cum before. I swallow it all, because this feels special, as though I have been chosen for a divine rite.

He softens in my mouth, but does not withdraw. I suck him some more, and get his balls in my mouth too, giving the whole set a thorough licking. After a while, he hardens again; definitely a virgin; he doesn’t have any imposed expectations about recovery time, he just likes the feel of my mouth and my tongue, and the erotic charge of my presence.

As I work, I reach behind me, pull my tights and panties down, then slip the dildo out. It thuds to the floor, and Mr White’s phone beeps.

“Oh,” he says, “I –”

I’m on my feet and bent over, legs obeying me finally. And then he is in me.

He gasps, grabs at me, and I almost lose my balance.

“Kneel me down,” I say, and he does. Then I subside to the floor on my front with him still inside me, and he starts to thrust. He is determined but inexperienced and gives me a fast pounding that jolts me across the floor. While not the calculated ecstasy he gave me with the dildo, there really is nothing like a good cock in you. I give myself up to it, to my wrecked clothes, my soaked hair, my exhausted body, so in the moment that I don’t care about anything.

My head is banged against something; I look up and see the printer. As Mr White continues to fuck me, I try and focus on getting the front cover off and the ink cartridge out. However, he is going at me with the same degree of forceful enthusiasm he had with the whip, and it’s hard to keep my hands steady.

I focus and spot the paper jam. It’s one of those situations in which a piece has been ripped off, leaving a torn off bit under the roller. The roller can’t be removed of course; that would be too easy.

Oh God, my pussy is a magic place right now.

I use my nails to tease at the paper’s ragged edge.

My skirt front has ridden down; it’s still wet and Big Clit is being rubbed against it.

If I tear any more paper off, I’ll never get the rest out.

Mr White is moaning, he will come soon.

Time is running out – I have to do this now.

Big Clit is at full snarl; I will come soon too.

Just a little tweak – yes! Got the bastard.

I’m being thrust hard against the floor now; it’s getting hard to see.

Gently, gently…

Mr White grips me around the chest and head, so I can barely move. My head is at an odd angle as I glare into the printer’s depths.

I feel my own hot rush, starting from my pussy this time and crashing forward with tidal force.

Got it…

Mr White screams and I tense to hold him off so I don’t get my head smashed against the printer.

I slam the cartridge back in and shut the printer door.

…and come hard, as hard as before, as the printer beeps, the red light goes out and the ink cartridge arms swipes from left to right unobstructed.

I subside into Mr White’s grip as he cums, kissing me, lips against my cheek, arms clasping me tight. I notice he has taken off his gloves…

We lie like that for a long while. He is processing what has just happened, and I am gently descending from a combination of highs amid deep post-coital satisfaction. He does not want to let go. Despite his firm grip, I wonder if he has passed out, but then he says, “You let me have you without protection.”

“I want to save you,” I say.

“You already have, my daughter. I don’t think you’ll ever know what you’ve done for me tonight.”

I remember my own youth, with its stamped-down desires, politely screaming frustration, and a sense that I existed cut off from the world somehow, as though in a test tube, or bell jar.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I say, and he kisses my mouth this time.