Walking along streets she did not know, she felt still at home as she slipped her wrist through the crook of his arm. They walked fast enough to cause her skirt to catch the air, the slight fifties style adding to her feeling that the evening itself was magical.

He guided her into a tiny restaurant and chose a table in the garden. She smoothed her skirt down as she sat, and her fingers played with her hair as he surveyed the wine list.

She smiled, from her toes to her finger tips, she smiled.

Waiting in the corner she sighed. Hot breath breathing against her nose she tried to rest her cheek against the wall. She wanted him to stop even though he was not doing anything yet. She could hear him somewhere else in the house, a tapping of a key board and his steps through rooms. She didn’t want this. She was scared.

Her knickers rested on the floor, a sullen heap near her ankles. She closed her eyes to help her avoid the thought that was coming to get her. She would not think if it. She would not.

They talked a little of nothing as they pondered the menu, snippets of observations as an aperitif to the evening that stretched ahead of them. She leaned back as the waitress returned and watched him order. She breathed a freedom, letting him speak for her; she couldn’t even imagine a life where she had to juggle a thousand things. She was observing him but still she cast her eyes down when he turned his attention to her.

When he came to her she pushed herself into the wall. It was a pitiful attempt to hide, even by her standards, and the truth of it was she did not even want him not to find her. She knew she deserved this and she was sorry for what she had done. It was the one thing that he told her not to do but she had done it anyway. She’d told him, a red faced confession only an hour before, and he had placed her here. They both knew what he would do. She felt sick, sorry, and scared.

She could have clapped when the food arrived. It looked like a piece of art, art created just for her delectation, slices of flavour, the possibility of creating a new delight each time she lowered her fork to the plate. He knew just what wine to choose. He just knew.

She knew he was speaking to her. She could hear him but the words made her shake and she could not hold them in her head. She followed his direction, leaving her knickers in a lonely little pile, and lowered herself very slowly face forward over the pillows he had balanced on the bed.

“But I’m scared, I really am.” Her hand flew out to hold onto his side. She did not let go for a moment. He waited. “I’m scared.” She whispered the last time to herself as she tucked her arm in front of her and tried not to shake as he spoke to her.

He spoke of everything. He talked of boyhood stories, of families, of books and slices of  history. She, the great talker, was rested into silence, as if listening to a saga around the fire or a piece of music. This was a private peace; she was hearing things she would not know if she was in another moment, or in a busier place. She laughed, she empathised, she understood.

She understood. She understood his instruction. She understood what was expected. She wished she could cry. She felt like crying as he positioned her and took a step backwards. The fist swipe of the cane almost undid her. She shot up as it bit. She was sorry and she knew she deserved it but it hurt far more than she could bear.

“Oh please don’t, please don’t. I can’t take it, I can’t.” But as she reluctantly bent herself back into position she gave the requested, “One, thank you, sir.”

Plates were cleared and more wine was poured. She smiled at him across the table and he laughed. She was going to have to be cooler than this. She looked around at the people who were used to this life. She was such a country mouse but she did not mind. She could sit here, safe, just here, and delight in everything. He laughed at her again and she tried to scowl.

Each stroke burned her, and she did all she could to stay still but she could not, and was hardly at four when she climbed onto the bed and curled up. He waited for her. Slowly, as though he were dragging her into place, she put herself back over the pillows. He had not touched her.

“Four thank you, sir.”

The next two were a trial; each made her shriek out, nothing dignified, nothing noble. She choked out the required words. Gasping and panting into the pillow, she felt his hands on her and stiffened. She was guided back to the corner.

“You have eighteen more to go.” He left her moaning softly into the wall.

The risotto was perfect. She tried very hard to memorise the flavours. She wanted to know if she could recreate this moment but she knew, even if she got the recipe perfect, she would not get even close. He winked at her and her butterflies started afresh. She waited for another story and when she got one she relaxed into his voice.

The wait was too long and too short. She did not dare touch her bottom, striped with pain as it was. The thought of the ridges scared her but not as much as he scared her. The idea that he might see her move her hands from the small of her back made her shake all over again. Not that she had ever stopped.

There was a little Zen garden next door; it reminded her of Kyoto, of palaces with nightingales in the floor.

She couldn’t take any more but she would. She knew she would. She wanted to. She wanted him to take her to the place he had decided. When he instructed her to return she almost cried but she could not, she could not.

“Seven, thank you, sir,” she called out, her voice keening with pain.

Oh please, please let it be lavender, she wished. It was, crème brulee with lavender. She swirled it around on her spoon before she tasted it. And then she remembered herself and sat up straight again and tried to say something witty.

She did not mean for it to happen but somehow she broke. She felt her mouth open and she knew the cry was complete. She sobbed out that she was sorry. She bent her head down and sobbed out the next number and held onto to bed as her shoulders shook. She stopped asking him to stop. She counted. She cried. She accepted.

She watched him drink the cognac and tried not to let him know that she was imagining how it would taste when she kissed him. She wanted to know. She knew she would not ask him to kiss her but maybe, maybe on the way home, maybe he would kiss her. She smiled to herself and looked aside.

After he finished she still sobbed. It was not the quiet, pretty kind, where a dab of the eyes makes it all better, but the shaking, losing breath kind, the loss of control kind. He took her out of position at last and scooped her along the bed, pulling her into him as he lay down. He held her close as she pushed herself into the crook of his neck. His arms and his hands took her into him. He kissed her, deeply and calmly, her tears running down her cheeks into his waiting hands.

They walked out of the restaurant, peaceful, and joined the street. They wove through people and she tried to remember the route using the landmarks he had pointed out along the way.

“This is what you showed me before,” she pointed out. “It must be this way.”

Still crying but calmer and afraid to let even a glimmer of light between them she kissed his neck, his chest, his stomach. Desperate to be as close as she could be, needing to submit as deeply as she knew how, she took him into her mouth. He was hard between her lips, strong as he filled her. Without a word she pulled him into her, encouraging him to thrust powerfully as her tears gently fell.

He did kiss her. One finger curled under her chin, a gentle kiss, a precursor to further, more intimate explorations. “I feel like a girl,” she whispered, and he laughed. “No, wait,” she insisted. “I feel like a girl in a film.”

With the taste of him in her mouth, she nuzzled and dozed against him, waking a little when her bottom touched the bed.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I feel better now. You know I’m sorry but I think I needed that. I needed that to be so,” she shook her head a little, “overwhelming. But it’s better now. I feel rescued, like a girl in a film, a very rude film” She whispered the last words into his ear, her hair tickling his cheek. “I feel wonderful. Thank you.”

She kissed him, although she did consider sulking when he told her to get dressed because he was taking her out for dinner.

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