Traded On The Love Exchange - Part 1 free porn video

1. Watching the Detectives

“Do you know why I’ve stopped you, Kelly?”

“Because my car is better than yours.”

“No, it’s because –”

“It is though, isn’t it? An Astra estate? What kind of police car is that?”

“Have you been drinking, Kelly?”

At this point, people usually adopt a forced innocence as they mention a small half lager they had at exactly 8:43 pm. I had a white wine spritzer five hours ago.

“No,” I say.

“Only it’s nearly one in the morning and you were driving erratically back there.”

“They’ve changed the road layout! There was no box junction before…”

The police officer sighs.

“Yes, there was,” he says. “Can you step out of the car please?”

He is in his early thirties, so a bit younger than me, but not so young that I feel ancient. He’s black as well, and instead of authoritarianism exudes a weary friendliness. I try to imagine the kind of shit he has to put up with every day, and can’t. Instead, I shut up and get out of the car, although I can’t help noticing that my vintage Triumph GT6 really does shit all over his Astra. I refrain from pressing the matter.

“I need you to take a breathalyzer test, please Kelly.”

I haven’t told him my name. He will have got it from running my car’s number plate through the DVLC database. I get another small thrill from knowing that now I have transitioned all my documents say my true name.

The police officer takes a plastic tube from its wrapper, clicks it into a box the size of a fag packet and offers it to me. I lean forward and, keeping my eyes fixed on his, blow gently into the tube until it beeps. The officer frowns, surprised to discover I’m sober. I unhook my lips from the tube making it as sexual as possible, and look up at him demurely. He is taller than I am, and slightly overweight. The uniform looks good on him though.

“Where are you coming back from, Kelly?”

“Candygirls. It’s a nightclub in Sunbury-on-Thames.”

“Have you taken any other drugs?”

Quite a lot of cocaine.

“No.”

He studies me in that way the police do – unnervingly calm, like a human camera waiting for me to slip up. He is not accusing me of anything, but he is not not accusing me either. Fortunately, my dad was a police officer, so this technique does not work quite as well on me as it does on most people. Instead, I think how nice his eyes are, and how he ought to grow a moustache.

He unclips the tube from the breathalyzer and puts it in another baggie. I like to think he wants to keep it because it’s carrying my kiss, and am about to say so when he says, “Did you have a good night?”

And it all comes out.

“Theoretically,” I say. “Everything happened that I wanted to,” [for which read I had my panties taken down three times] “but despite that, I wasn’t in the right space. I don’t know why. I mean, as a transgender woman –”

“Are you?”

I blink. All I can manage is “…oh.”

He swallows nervously.

“I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” he says.

“You’re really not! Thank you, actually.”

“I just thought your voice was quite low.”

We stand there in companionable awkwardness. He puts the breathalyzer in a pouch on his belt, which is already laden with sundry other equipment. He doesn’t have a baton, but he does have cuffs.

Hmm.

I want to tell him that I am a happy, independent woman and a living denial of the ‘tragic tranny’ figure. I’ve got a good job, my family loves me, and I am single because I want to have sex with as many people as I possibly can. I am free!

I haven’t had any operations, and neither do I want any. I wasn’t ‘born in the wrong body’, I was born in this one, and it’s lush, frankly. It just happens to have a Big Clit and some sleek muscles I work hard to maintain.

All is well. It’s a beautiful, crisp night in early December. The stars are out. They could be fragments of ice glittering in the light of an almost-full moon. There is that pre-Christmas magic in the air, a sense of imminent pagan excitement. I am on my own this year, because I am finalizing a publishing sales account and for many complicated worky reasons can’t get it signed off until Christmas Eve. I will therefore most likely sleep through Christmas Day, and that will be fine because deep down I know I’m exhausted.

And yet…

Despite my achievements and advantages, I am filled with a strange melancholy. Perhaps it’s that sometimes freedom can be lonely. Perhaps it’s that the political and social upheavals of the year have affected me more than I realise. Or maybe I’m just in one of my moods. I want to tell the officer about it, but I have taken enough of his time already.

“My voice is low,” I say instead.

He is about to reply when the radio in his car squawks.

“Excuse me,” he says and heads back to answer it.

I wait by the Triumph. The night is cold, but not freezing. I’m in my new business suit, which is light grey with dark pink lining and a tight pencil skirt. I’ve got a slightly-too-ruffly light pink blouse on, and black tights keep my legs warm. I’m wearing the boots I am supposed to have waited until Christmas to open, but could not resist. They have a higher heel than I usually wear, and I like strutting around in them. I get nervous about being too tall, but I’m only five feet eight anyway, so I need to get over this reluctance. My hair is in its trademark little black bob, which I had redone this morning.

I went to Candygirls from work, hence this formal attire. I had a meeting in London and it was easier to go straight there. Makeup is minimal, although I overdid the peach lippy for the journey home. I guess I like to look as good as I can all the time, even if it’s only for me.

The officer comes back.

“Sorry I was rude about your car,” I say.

“Don’t be,” he replies. “It is quite shit.”

“Do you want to get in mine?” I say.

Because of course I want to have sex with him. I want him to handcuff me and take me in the back seat of the Triumph, cramped though it is.

He looks surprised, then embarrassed. He clears his throat.

“Best not,” he says. “Got another call. Transport usually deal with stopping people for traffic violations, but…” He stops, probably realizing he shouldn’t be discussing how horribly underfunded the police are, as if it’s not common knowledge. “Anyway. Please familiarize yourself with the regulations regarding box junctions.”

“Don’t enter if you can’t get out,” I say.

He looks at me. The phrase ‘box junction’ has suddenly become loaded. Then he nods and walks back to his car as I get back into mine.

I wait for him to drive off, and then I follow him.

2. Interceptor

There is not much traffic as we swing through Kent. It’s a Tuesday night, and everyone has work tomorrow, including me although as I’m putting a presentation together I am working from home.

I don’t know why I am following the police car, or what I hope to achieve when we get to where we are going. I only know that I have to follow, because whatever happens will alleviate this odd sadness hanging on me like a damp winter mist. It isn’t the coke either, although I still feel it firing in my system. I suppose it’s that people often fantasize about setting off like this, whereas I am actually doing it.

The police car speeds up, as do I. I’m no longer sure where we are – a dual carriageway I’m not familiar with, a turning off a roundabout, and then a road through a town whose name I miss. Eventually, we reach an estate, ill-lit with those brutal sodium lights that make everything look menacing and yellow.

The police car slows, and I try and maintain distance but it’s too late. The side door opens, the officer jumps out and stomps over to me as I lower the window and try to look sorry.

“Stop following me, Kelly.”

His voice is angry now, his eyes bright. I nod. He gets back in his car and drives deeper into the estate. Again, I follow him, until I reach a set of garages. One has been burned out, but is still solid. I park the car inside so it won’t be seen, grab my bag and get out.

All is silent. The garage smells of burnt wood and paint, and the night carries a faint scent of pine, underscored with lead. Distantly, I hear a car door slam. Strutting out of the garage, I follow the sound through the estate.

The police car is not far, but I can’t see the officer. I pass his car and stand on the pavement.

The houses are small, some are maisonettes, and a tower block looms on the boundary. There are a few piles of fly-tipped rubbish that look like they’ve been there for a while, and a mix of low-end hatchbacks spaced out along the road. Most of the lights in the houses are off, but two in the vicinity of the police car are lit. I creep up to the first one, walking on tiptoe so my heels don’t click on the pavement.

From inside, I hear raised voices. One is the police officer’s. He is talking to someone called Dave, but I can’t hear much more than that. From time to time a woman interrupts. Her voice is higher, so I can make out what she says.

“…fucking neighbours have got no right to interfere. They make enough racket with that llama!”

Llama? Are llamas noisy?

The men speak again, and I notice that the other house with a light on is next to this one. I am tempted to find out more about the llama, but I must resist being distracted. After a while, the venomous energy radiating from the house eases, and the voices sound calmer. The door latch goes and I duck out of sight in a porch along the way. The police officer comes out, gets in his car and drives off. When the sound of his car fades, I walk around to the front door and knock.

A man answers. He has the look of someone who doesn’t want to carry his considerable weight around, but beer and kebabs are among the few things that make him happy. He wears a Metallica T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.

“Yeah?”

I smile up at him.

“Hello, Dave,” I say. “I’m Kelly. I’m here to help.”

The woman appears beside him. She is skinny and appears to be held together primarily by rage. Her hair is blonde, but not very convincingly. Both are hard to age. They might be in their thirties and simply worn down by everything, or they might be older.

“You from the social?” the woman says.

In reply, I take my company swipe card from my bag and show it to them. Normally, this tactic would not work. However, my employer has a thing about heraldry because he considers himself the foremost authority on Game of Thrones (or A Song of Ice & Fire if you want to be picky). He is furious that there has been no new book for years, and disapproves of the ending of the TV show. As a result, the company logo looks like something that should adorn a castle.

It’s a knight-in-armour helmet with an arm coming out of the top holding a sword. Latin words swirl around it, which roughly translated mean ‘We can sell anything’. It also looks like something the government would come up with to adorn a new agency it has created as a public relations exercise.

The couple squint at it.

“Kelly… Random?” the woman says.

“That’s right. May I come in?”

They look at each other, and I sense that uncertainty about what to do with me is the first thing they’ve agreed about all evening.

“Bit late, isn’t it?” Dave says.

“We come when we’re needed,” I reply.

For a moment, I don’t think they’re going to let me in, but then Dave steps back and I enter.

The door opens onto a small living room. Everything in it is worn, but very clean. A football trophy sits on a set of Ikea shelves that are too big for the space, along with DVDs with faded spines, Peter Kay’s autobiography, and a little plaque that says ‘Smile – everyone will think we’re a normal family’. There are no photos of the adults, but two each of a boy and a girl, both in a blue secondary school uniform.

“They’re at their gran’s,” the woman says. “It was our date night.” She says this with so much bitterness I can almost feel it on my skin, like acid mist.

“Well, you had to go and kick off, didn’t you?” Dave says, his voice beginning to rise.

“Where did you go?” I say, to interrupt an argument.

I still do not know why I am here, or what I want to achieve. I only know that now I am in someone else’s home I don’t feel so terrible.

“Down the Hood,” the woman says.

I must look blank, because Dave says, “The Robin Hood pub. Ain’t you from round here?”

“No,” I say.

I don’t elaborate, because the less I say, the more I cultivate an air of mystique, and the less chance there is of me saying something stupid. Instead, I copy the police officer’s expression and regard them calmly.

I have no idea if this tactic will work.

The woman swallows.

“We couldn’t have pudding. Not enough money. We might have had if…”

She bites her lip.

“I am sorry, Adriana,” Dave says. “How many more times?”

“What about?” I say.

Adriana sighs.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she says to me. “Do we need to fill something out?”

“No.”

“We’ve just never had a visit this late.”

I hear a strange hum.

“That fucking llama!” Dave snarls.

He bangs on the wall.

There is a muted response, the words not clear. Dave shakes with rage.

“The cheek of it,” he mutters. “Getting the Old Bill here on account of me and the missus having a loud chat, and that wanker has got a llama who sounds like a fucking substation.”

The hum stops. We listen, but the noise does not recur.

“He’s probably gone to sleep,” Adriana says. “The llama I mean.”

I nod. We stand there. Dave shuffles.

“Did you want a cup of tea or something?”

“I would like a cup of tea more than anything in the world, Adriana!” I say, because it’s true. “White, no sugar please.”

Adriana heads next door to the kitchen. Dave gestures to a tatty armchair. I sit, and he lowers himself onto a sofa that looks as put-upon as he does. There is the sound of a kettle boiling.

“Do you know him then?” Dave says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“The policeman.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Dave nods. Adriana comes back in with a mug that has Pikachu on the side and hands it to me. I sip. It is so good. She’s even got the temperature right: dense but milky and not scalding. I look up at her with an expression of impressed gratitude that is over the top even for me. For a while, I sit and sip. They watch me, and I feel weirdly at home.

“Are you a… um…” Dave begins.

I watch him calmly as I await the inevitable question about my gender.

“…social worker then?”

“She’s no social worker,” Adriana says, and I smile to cover my nervousness. “She’s too pretty. Look at her hair!” She turns to Dave. “Isn’t she pretty?”

Dave glares at her.

“If I say yes, you’ll kick off again for saying another woman is pretty. If I say no, you’ll have a pop saying I’m being rude.”

Adriana glares at him, then says, “Fair enough.”

“You’re very kind,” I say.

Dave turns to me.

“So, what can we do for you, Kelly?”

“Like I say, I’ve come to help.”

“With what?”

“Anything. I solve problems, you see.”

“What, like money problems?”

“As with many departments, my funds are limited.” They nod understandingly. “But I usually find there’s something else I can do, which solves things equally well.”

Adriana snorts.

“I don’t think you can help us with this one,” she says.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t be dealing with a decent man.”

I like the sound of him.

“Do go on.”

“We have to keep paying someone money,” Adriana says.

“Why?”

Dave seems to sag into his own lap, but not before I see the shame on his face.

“My fault,” he whispers. “Sold a fella a bouncy castle. Shouldn’t have done it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s pretty much made of holes.”

“Can’t it be repaired?”

“No,” Dave says. “That’s why I sold it to him.”

“Ah.”

“He didn’t realise for a bit, because I sold it to him in February. A few months later, he’s got bookings for kids’ parties and that. He gets the thing out, and it sort of looks like the shadow of a sponge, only made of rubber. I’d spent the money by then of course. We hadn’t had a holiday in years and the kids were getting up-tight about it, and… Well… Silly really.”

“How much have you paid?”

“Oh, I’ve paid him back, bit by bit, over time. But he keeps asking, and…”

Dave looks at Adriana. She doesn’t seem angry now, just sad.

The answer to this predicament rises in my imagination like the sun, and my strange melancholy departs like morning mist.

“Would he like something instead of money?” I ask.

“Like what?”

I shrug.

“Like me.”

To their credit, they try and talk me out of it, but I am adamant.

I learn that the bouncy castle’s unfortunate new owner is called Ronson. I don’t know if that’s his first or last name, or whether he is one of those people who have cut down on names and now only use one, like Madonna.

Dave, for all the softening of what must have been a daunting physique, still looks like he could rip off my arms without too much trouble, so I gather Ronson must be even more fearsome. Adriana, who seems unafraid of anything, is nonetheless afraid of Ronson. I try and get her to tell me why that is.

“There’s something very wrong with him,” she says, and turns to Dave.

“How do you mean?”

“He’s just off,” Dave says.

“I like the sound of that,” I say.

“No one likes the sound of Ronson,” Adriana says, all Priestess of Doom eyes.

“I shall be the judge of that, Adriana,” I say. “Where does he live?”

It takes another ten minutes to get it out of them, and I think they give in so they can get some sleep. It turns out that they are fully aware that I am a ‘shemale’ (Dave’s word), but they were too polite to mention it. They also think I might be what Ronson wants in order to get him to leave off about the castle.

Ever conscious of contractual obligations, deadlines and the like, the following is agreed: Dave will take a photo of me and send it to Ronson. On my arrival at Ronson’s lair, he will send a text to Dave confirming that he will not require any more money. In return, Dave will text back formally apologizing for ripping Ronson off in the first place (incredibly, this solution had not occurred to Dave).

There is a bit of photography, and I try not to look either too self-conscious or too slutty. We agree that the best photo is from slightly above, with me looking big-eyed but strict. My gaze is intense anyway, which helps.

Throughout, I feel a strange euphoria. I’ve got a tendency to be sacrificial. It’s part of my submissive nature, and a hangover from the past, when I saw such little value in myself I barely saw the point of existing. It has never gone away, but at times like this, when engaged in some instinctive risky adventure that no one in their right mind would consider, but which to me seems not only right but noble, it provides a useful energy to offset the residual buzz of cocaine and excitement.

It could all go wrong. Ronson might not like the look of me, or might take umbrage at being offered a trans woman for his personal use at this peculiar hour of the night. For a while, we sit and await an answer from the strange and frightening man on the other end of Dave’s phone.

“Let us know you’re all right, will you?” Adriana says.

I take Dave’s number and agree to send a message.

“This is all very strange,” Dave says.

“It’s the time of year,” I say. “Consider me a sort of tranny Santa.”

Dave’s phone buzzes before he can respond. He blinks at it, then says, “We’re on.”

3. There Is No Safe Word

Ronson lives half an hour away in one of those mobile homes that isn’t going anywhere, and hasn’t been for decades. It’s down an unadopted gravel road that has me fearing for the Triumph’s suspension, and is the only dwelling in the area as far as I can see. Surrounded by grassy fields on the edge of a wood, the whole area is still and silent.

I like risk, but I’m not stupid, so I text my whereabouts to my friend Mitzy. She is used to this sort of thing, and she will be furious she didn’t think of trading me in this manner herself. When I get her acknowledgement, I gather up my handbag, get out of the car, and lock it.

The area in front of the shack is full of junk, from car parts to bits of metal furniture. If there is an order to this arrangement, I can’t make it out. That tells me something about the occupant. He is chaotic, but doesn’t want to let go of his chaos. It might be laziness – why didn’t he check the bouncy castle when he bought it? Or it might be that he is more trusting than he likes to pretend.

Only one way to find out.

Crossing between the junk that rears around me like a bizarre sculpture garden, I go to knock on the door. When I notice it’s already open, however, I walk straight in. Best to show who’s boss.

Although dimly lit, the place is as much of a tip as the area outside – more so, if possible. Ronson, it seems, is a hoarder. There is some living space – a small sofa by a table. In the shadowy depths, I can make out a kitchen, but beyond that there is only darkness.

Light floods the small space, and Ronson appears before me as if he has materialized. I could say something like ‘great entrance’, but something about the man stops me.

He is white, in his early forties, with dark, grey-shot hair. He is smaller than I expected – only slightly taller than me. He wears a white shirt that, like everything else, has seen better days, and black trousers. His feet are bare. His neck is tattooed, and the artwork quality is high – I can make out fighting eagles and the Japanese flag. His face is weirdly blank, to the extent that it’s hard to gauge his personality. It isn’t a deadness exactly – if it was, I would be feeling a lot more scared. I have a good sense for sociopaths – they make my skin crawl. Ronson does not have that effect. Instead, he seems… repressed?

We regard each other, and then he falls to his knees.

“Mistress,” he says, his head bowed.

His voice is deep, deeper than Dave’s, but less worn. I suspect Ronson is able to menace Dave simply because Dave has less energy.

“Send the message,” I say, and put all the command in my voice that I can, while still letting it sound soft.

Ronson snatches out his phone, jabs at the screen and offers it up.

I am Ronson and will make no further financial claims on David Fullerton in the matter of the bouncy castle con job and accept the services of the Woman Kelly Random as payment here on out.

I take the phone, alter the message so that it reads ‘services of the Woman Kelly Random for tonight only’ with the date. I click my fingers to get his head to raise so I can show it to him, then press send. Then I throw the phone on the sofa.

I am not and never have been a dominatrix. I am a sub, a bottom, a girly girl. I adore being fucked more than anything, and have never put Big Clit in a man – not through lack of trying, it simply doesn’t work.

I am not particularly bossy, and don’t even like having staff at work because I am naughty in every respect and never feel like I set a good example. I had expected to be used tonight, not to make use of another.

And, yet… There is some shared energy here. In strange and extreme situations, you can find it, behind the usual well-worn rigid social structures we follow when we can’t think what else to do. This is one such. Of every possibility, danger, and wonder that could have coalesced around my series of haphazard events and encounters tonight, this is the one that has emerged.

I do not feel sad anymore, I feel elated. I have engaged society in a way it did not expect, and now it is up to me to write the rest of the narrative.

As a saleswoman, one thing I am good at is improvising. People think sales is all about manipulation and flogging people crap they don’t need – sometimes with good reason. But genuine sales are about solving problems. You just need to intuit what those problems are.

Here, for example, is Ronson, on his knees in front of a trans woman with a hard-to-maintain hairstyle and a dress suit that probably cost more than this building. He has called her ‘Mistress’.

That is a beautiful and powerful thing, and just because it isn’t my usual style doesn’t mean I won’t seize this moment like an engorged cock and do what I want with it.

I look at Ronson’s bowed head. His breathing is slow. He is not in any rush, so neither am I. Taking my time, I lower my handbag to the floor in front of him.

“You will look at my handbag. You will not touch it.”

The weaker position would be for me to clarify that he has understood, with a question to that effect. Instead, I leave him and stride through the cluttered interior, looking for implements.

I expect to find whips, chains, and bondage gear, but there is nothing. Instead, I find a four-socket, three-metre extension cable and a car aerial – from the 1970s if the length is anything to go by. I take these and walk back to stand behind Ronson, noting the tight curve of his arse as he kneels. Bending, I carefully place the aerial beside him so he can see it, then straighten and fold the extension cable so I’ve got a flexible length that extends about a metre and a half. I let it slide over his shoulder. He shivers.

“Did you touch my handbag?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Did you smell my handbag?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Why not?”

He tenses at my furious hiss.

“Don’t you want to smell your Mistress?”

“I didn’t have permission.”

“That is not what I asked you.”

“I do want to smell my Mistress.”

“That handbag smells of me. I carry it around, next to my body. I keep my intimate things in it. You had the chance to smell it, and you didn’t.”

“I thought you would punish me.”

“Punish you? I haven’t got time for nonsense like that. I’m used to slaves obeying.”

“I will obey.”

I snatch up the handbag.

“Too late.”

I see him tense with frustration – and whip his arse with the cable. He gives a little yip and somehow manages to writhe without moving. I calm my breath.

I like his arse. I want to whip it some more. I like how he kneels there, the shape of him, on the floor of his weird little home. I put the handbag on a stack of crates to my left.

“Lie on your front. Put your face where my handbag was.”

He obeys.

“Inhale. You might still get a scent of me.”

I hear his breath, see his back rise.

“Well?”

“Nothing, Mistress –”

I let him have it then – two cracking whips across each arse cheek. He cannot move to accommodate the blows because he is already lying flat, so must absorb the violent energy fully. He makes a strange, high choking sound, but does not move.

“Get on your back.”

He rolls over, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He wants to look at me – I can tell by the way his eyes flicker, and the tension in him. I move past, my walk a slow strut, to stand at his head. If he wanted to, he could look up my skirt. He gulps, but keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

“Do you know what I had to walk through to get here?”

He blinks.

“I had to walk through your mess.”

I raise my right boot so the stiletto heel points at his eye. For a while I leave it there, and there is an odd moment where neither of us is sure what will happen. Nerves and excitement make me wobble – Ronson assumes the worst and cries out, even though the rest of him goes rigid with fear. I lower my boot as a darker patch spreads across the front of his trousers.

“How dare you,” I snarl, the voice low with husky outrage. “You filthy little cunt.”

His eyes are wide and his teeth chatter. In the midst of the spreading darkness, a bulge twitches. I bend and pick up the aerial. It is one of those old extending ones, and I pull it to its full length. The thicker end is torn metal, where some long-ago yob ripped it from some long-ago car. The other end is a small, conical metal button. Slowly, I press that against Ronson’s cock.

“What the fuck is this?”

“My… My manhood, Mistress.”

“Your manhood.”

I manage to get all the contempt I’ve ever felt about anything into that second word. He tries to get his breathing under control, but he can’t. His body twitches, almost of its own volition, as if electricity zaps through him at odd intervals.

He screams as I whip his cock with the aerial.

I realise we have not established any rules. There is no safe word. My only guide is the power I feel over him, and the fact I am usually in his position. I am in too far now, so must rely on instinct, empathy, and the strange, humming connection between us.

I whip him again. As he tries to stop himself thrashing with ecstatic agony, I jump over him.

I land with a balance I would not have managed if I’d thought about it, with one heel a millimetre from his balls. He freezes, as if astonishment has robbed him of movement. I swivel, then press the sole of my other boot to his wet front.

“Now look what you’ve made me do,” I say.

I drop the aerial, brace myself against the pile of crates, then stretch the wet sole to his mouth.

“Lick yourself off me.”

He gasps, then his tongue comes out and… Goodness! He really is tucking into that boot. I don’t have to tell him to do anything. He licks it and licks it and then fellates the heel. I am impressed, but I remain impassive. I wonder how long he will go on for, but after five minutes my leg starts to ache and I lower it.

“Get up.”

He obeys. We look at each other. I can feel my gaze bright with power, as if I am looking right into his soul. His is panting now, his gaze on my hair, my face, my breasts…

“Did I give you permission to look at me?”

His gaze falls. I continue to regard him, because his appearance pleases me, and then I rip off his shirt. Sometimes when people say that, they mean ‘take off his shirt roughly’. I mean no such thing. I rip that shirt so buttons fly off. It tears down the back and one of the arms comes away. His body sways as I do it. I wrap the torn-off arm around his head to cover his eyes, then yank down his trousers. They’re jeans, so I don’t bother trying to destroy them. Instead, he steps out of them, and I push him towards the door.

Outside, it is colder, and in the light from the trailer, I see his skin rise in little bumps to slightly distort his tattoos. He will feel what I am going to do to him much more keenly out here.

Amid the junk is a pyramidal scaffold for getting car engines out. As I use the rest of his shirt to tie him to it with his arms up, his breath is warm against my neck. I go back inside, fetch the cable and the aerial – and then stop.

Let him wait.

I look around the kitchen and find a half-smoked spliff, a lighter and a half-bottle of Tesco’s own rum. I take a swig of the rum, then carry it and the other kit outside.

I stand close to Ronson, so the only heat he can feel comes from me. Then I hold the spliff under his nose.

“Are you aware that this substance is illegal?” I say. “Because of you, a thousand children will become crack addicts in the next twenty-four hours.”

Christ, I should not drink rum. It has never ended well.

I light the spliff, inhale and blow the smoke in his face. It’s good stuff – he is clearly a connoisseur. I mustn’t get too high though.

As I circle him, I take little puffs and start to feel lighter.

"Tell me if you want a safe word," I say.

He shakes his head.

I stub the spliff out on his right arse cheek. He tries not to scream.

"Sure?"

He nods. I press the rum to his lips and force him to drink it all. Hurling the bottle into the darkness, I pick up the cable and whip his cock. He writhes, so I whip him again, then again.

He could turn away from me but doesn't, so I stalk around behind him and whip his back, and then his arse, including where the spliff has left a black mark on him. I fancy it still glows, as though the ember remains alight. I whip him again, in a frenzy now, until I pant with exertion.

From the side, I see his cock is hard, so I slowly cross in front of him and look in his eyes. His cock strains as if reaching for me, and in his eager, pleading look I recognise the submissive's command. I flick him with the cable like a proper whip, and he gulps and gasps and then…

I crack him on the head of his cock and it jets an arc of come that glows in the light from the trailer. Ronson keeps screaming, even as he comes harder, and then he starts to cry.

I watch him, then untie him. He sways, and I get my left shoulder under his chest and lift him. Carrying him inside, I lower him to the sofa, then hold him as he weeps into my arms. He cries for a long, long time, and I feel his tears soak through my jacket and blouse.

I do not let go.