I’ve always had a way with words, or so people thought. In high school, I was the strange girl with hair in a messy bun, wearing oversized sweaters and large glasses, scribbling poems into tattered notebooks. Everyone told me I couldn’t live off poems, that I needed a real job. 

After a couple of boring jobs in administration, I found a job offer at a publishing house. They were looking for someone to write texts for coffee table books. I was already married at that point, with my husband making enough money for me to stay at home, but I wanted to have at least something to do. This job promised working from home, and it was just what I dreamt of doing. I didn’t even mind the low salary. I needed simply something to keep me occupied, as my husband would spend most of the time at work or go on frequent business trips.

When my boss sent me to a gallery to see a series of photographs he intended to publish as a coffee table book, and to decide if they were any good, I was beyond excited. To be allowed to make decisions on my boss’ behalf was an ultimate sign of approval of my work.

The photographer waits for me in front of the publishing house. He looks young, definitely younger than me. His face is sharply chiseled, framed by dark curls. He stands much taller than me, and there’s something rigid in his posture. He’d look great in a uniform.

We drive out of the city centre. The gallery is located in an industrial setting, a place full of empty factories and large halls, just like modern artists like it. The walls are glass, reflecting the few lights from the outside. He walks me in and sits me on a turning chair in the middle of the gallery. How convenient for looking at the pictures comfortably. Apart from the chair, there is only a small coffee table with a vase. There are three long roses in it. Even the flowers look cold and impersonal.  

The gallery is dark, but the small lights above each print don’t let me miss any detail. The photographs… The photographs are… different. Unusual. Delicate. Immodest. Scandalous. Offensive. They make me freeze in my seat. Somewhere in my mind, an alarm rings loud and clear, but I can’t move. I just stare at them, hypnotized.

They fascinate me, worming their way into my subconscious. Erotic. Exciting. Titillating.

What am I doing here?

My palms are sweating, I’m breathing hard. I grab my handbag and hold it close to my body like a shield. Evidently, this must be a mistake. They gave me a wrong address at work, they messed up the agendas. Someone else was supposed to be here, and someone else is now probably looking at photographs of some landscapes.

“Have you looked enough?” he asks suddenly and I almost drop my handbag. 

I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. I must look like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, squirming helplessly. I feel that way. I am a married woman, I go to church every Sunday, and I definitely don’t condone… this.

“Take me back to the office, please,” I somehow manage to say, and my voice doesn’t even shake that much. I can’t wait to see my boss and hear his apology when I remind him that I do lavender fields and sunsets, not porn. I expect some compensation on my next paycheck, too.

“Of course,” he says, unfazed. 

I manage to stand with some effort. It feels like my blood has concentrated in my abdomen and it’s pulsing. God. I walk out of the door and breathe in the fresh air. The lights of his car shine into the darkness. He opens the door for me. I get in, careful not to meet his gaze.

He starts the car and drives onto the main road. I stop clutching the bag and put it under my feet. I stare in front of me, praying for this evening to end already.

“So, did you like the photographs?” The voice from the seat next to me sounds almost gleeful. “I bet you did. I bet you wished you were in one of them.”

My mouth falls open. What on earth…

The images come back. There was a woman in one photograph. A young woman with long hair and slender body. Naked. A silk scarf over her eyes. Tied to some sort of ladder, arms above her head, legs spread, ankles and wrists wrapped in ropes. Limbs stretched, the light and shadows showing off every muscle. Small, but firm breasts, lips parted, a look of pleasure on her face. And a strange object protruding from her crotch. Like someone has inserted the handle of a whip or something similar, inside her… her… 

“Can’t you answer?” The voice sounds harsh now.  

I don’t have to answer.

“I-No!”

Why? Why do I do this?

He laughs shortly, like my words don’t even matter. “Skirt off.”

“Wh-what?” I blurt out when I realize that the command is aimed at me. I look outside the window. The lights on the side of the road are passing by at quite a speed. Jumping off wouldn’t be a good idea.

“I said take your skirt off. Are you deaf?”

I sit still, petrified. I will not do this.

I stare at the silhouette of his body. I almost can’t see his face, but his voice sounds harsh, dominant. There’s something attractive in it.

My fingers unzip the skirt without me really wanting to do it, and suddenly I’m pulling it down my hips. My body feels heavy and I’m shaking, almost feverishly. What am I doing here? I’m a married woman, I go to church every Sunday, I love my husband, he just works a little bit too much...

I’m sitting in a stranger’s car in my white lace panties, wishing I had grabbed something more decent and covering in my drawer this morning. Waves of heat roll over my stomach…

Before I can do anything about it, he reaches straight between my legs, without even taking his eyes off the road. His touch goes through me like electricity. My body is ablaze. Jesus Christ, the shame!

“You are wet,” he states. 

The hot blood rushes through my veins. I feel the heat in my cheeks. The fabric in my crotch soaks up another wave of pleasure. 

“So. Again. Did you like the photographs?”

No. No!

“Yes-” I whisper.

“Yes what?”

My brain whispers to me what to answer, and I don’t even know how it knows such a thing.

“Yes… Sir?”

“Yes Sir what?”

“Yes Sir, I liked the photographs.” I’m close to tears at this point.

He laughs again. “Good. Your boss knew who to send. Until we arrive, you’ll be almost a good girl.”

I’m dying of shame. And fear. And need. “Where are we going?” I whisper.

“Who allowed you to speak, slut?” Ice cold shower. 

My stomach hurts. All of my blood is now concentrated in my loins, no, even lower. I want to be home. I want to reach between my legs and put out the fire.

“Take off the rest.”

I will not get naked here.

The car flies through the night. He lights a cigarette. 

“How long will I wait?”

My fingers are struggling with the small buttons of my blouse. I must have gone mad. It’s a strange feeling. There’s something magical, exciting about it. And the feeling intensifies with every piece I lay aside. When I peel off my panties, I know how wet I am by the way the cold air hits my private parts.

“Throw them on the back seat. And fasten your seatbelt, slut.”

I feel my cheeks burning. I have never had another man since I married my husband. I have never cheated on him. I’m no slut. So why do I let him call me that?

The seatbelt runs right between my breasts, covering nothing important. 

“Hands behind your back. Spread those legs.”

I slide my hands behind my back and cross my wrists. My breasts poke out immediately, the cold air making my nipples hard almost instantly. The goosebumps, however, have little to do with cold. With every sway of the car, my breasts swing in between the seatbelt. They feel incredibly heavy. All I can think about are the people in every car passing us in the opposite direction who must see me with my breasts out. I prefer to close my eyes whenever a car approaches. My legs are spread as much as the limited space allows me. 

“So. What picture did you like the most?” he asks.

“I… d-don’t know…” I’m stuttering. My breath is coming out harder.

“Spill it. Now!”

“More… there were more…”

“Mmm, look, the lady is eloquent now. Tell me. What was in them?”

“The girl,” I sob. My clit almost hurts from the blood flow. The seatbelt forces my pelvis deeper into the seat. The swaying of the car stimulates my bud against my will. 

“The girl. What was so special about her?”

I’m suffering. The skin of my inner thighs and buttocks is sticking to the leather of the seat, wet with sweat or my juices, I can’t tell. The car sways.

“I can’t hear you! Continue!”

“She… she had in her… inside of her… some whip…”

“A flogger, you stupid cunt!” he laughs. “You’d like that too? Or perhaps two of them? One inside, one working on you, eh?”

The car sways on the road. My body is working on its own. I feel my muscles tense.

“You didn’t answer. Would you like that?”

I’m going to come.

“Yes, yes, I would like it! I would like it, Sir!”

City lights, paving blocks. My breath is ragged. Oh my God, I’m going to come.

“Dirty whore.” A statement, derisive, humiliating. 

I am a dirty whore. 

I can’t hold it anymore. I don’t want to hold it anymore. I explode, hands still behind my back, closing my eyes as pleasure overwhelms me. I throw my head back and let out a raspy moan. The leather under my skin is slippery now. The car smells like… the very essence of me now.

The man next to me laughs and throws the glowing cigarette out of the window. “I have a different concept in mind for you, though,” he muses. “Don’t worry, you won’t miss on the flogger. But it will look way better in your ass.”

Oh god. I slump forward, only the seatbelt is keeping me from falling. 

“A nice completion of the book. I’ll have you write that piece last.” 

I can’t speak. I'm just trying to get my breathing back to normal.

When I lift my head, the car has stopped in the garage complex.

“Get out,” he says.

I sit there, completely frozen. My clothes are on the back seat. I’m not leaving the car without them.

Only that I might not leave the car at all if I insist.

I climb out of the car, slowly. The warm, stiff air smells slightly of gasoline. I walk alongside him, trying to decide which place to cover with my hands. The garages are empty, but I can’t help imagining what would happen if we met someone. Or… God, there must be security cameras here. Is someone watching me right now?

The horror floods my mind. Blood floods my loins again.

We get in the elevator. The walls are mirrored. I look pitiful, shoulders hunched an hands covering my breasts. He grabs my arms and forces them behind my back, then kicks my legs apart. There’s no escaping my reflection now. My sex and thighs are glistening wet, my nipples hard and dark. I feel his erection pressing into my backside and I think he will take me right there. But the door opens with the gong and we walk out on a dark corridor.

He unlocks the door and switches on the light. It’s not an apartment as I thought it would be, it’s a studio. I don’t have time to look around, though.

“On your knees.”

I’ve only ever knelt in church. It feels wrong to drop on my knees here, but I still do it. I have to do it.

I know what will happen here. And I want it to happen.

We still do it with my husband. Not often, but who does, after ten years of marriage? True, we never did anything out of the ordinary, save for the one evening he came home drunk and bent me over the kitchen table… It would have been the highlight of our sex life, if he didn’t climax in about ten seconds and then stagger to the couch where he fell asleep. I had to finish myself in the shower.

I feel horrible for wanting this.

“Spread your legs. Open your mouth, wide.”

“I… I’ve never done this,” I whisper. “Sir. I’ve never…”

My mother used to say a gentleman would never even think of putting his thing near a lady’s mouth. 

In response, he kicks my knees apart. “Open wide.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Kneeling on the floor, naked, with my mouth open, waiting for his cock to fill it. He unbuckles his pants. His cock springs right into my face. I almost fall back.

“Suck,” he says.

I wrap my hand around his shaft and take the tip into my mouth. 

My juices must be dripping on the floor now, constantly flowing, like my pussy is a wild river. His cock grows harder in my mouth. My lips stretch as I try to take in more of him. He has his hand in my hair, tugging a little bit, and he’s breathing hard. I think I can’t be that good, but maybe it’s my inexperience that excites him, what do I know.

Suddenly, I feel him entwine his fingers on the back of my head, and he pulls me on his cock. I keep my mouth open wide, maybe out of shock. His cock slides right into my throat. My whole being protests, eyes watering and body taut as I gag on his length. My eyes must be bulging out now. My hands desperately try to grab onto something. The sounds coming out of my throat are desperate, animalistic, obscene. 

He lets go only when I think I’ll die like this. I take a shuddering breath. Spit is running down my chin and drips on my breasts, then on the floor as I bend forward, heaving. I try to speak, but my violated throat won’t let me.

He pulls me to my feet. My knees are shaking.

He maneuvers me on the platform in the middle of the room. I’m completely boneless, pliable. My knees are sinking into the mattress, making it hard to keep my balance. He pushes me forward, so that I’m leaning on my elbows. Then he pulls my arms backwards. I fall forward, my weight shifting to my shoulders as he ties my wrists to my ankles. My buttocks are stuck up high in the air. Legs spread. It’s the most degrading position I’ve ever been in.

I don’t care.

He lays something on the mattress in front of me.

This is it. The flogger.

It fascinates me. I stare at the thin stripes spilling from the black handle like tentacles. I imagine their poisonous touch. Stinging. I want it, and it confuses me. 

He takes it out of my sight and runs the leather stripes over my back. Taps my buttocks with them, almost playfully. 

And hits.

I yelp. The immediate stinging changes into the real pain a fraction of a second later, shoots through my thighs, and then comes the burning. It lingers. It feels like I’ve been given an electric shock straight to my clit. The strips lick the soft, tender flesh.

“Do you want more?”

No.

“Yes. Yes, please.”

God. I scream. Fire and pain. Pain. I realize that my pelvis is moving… it’s moving towards nothing, towards the pain, like it wants to make love to it.

He throws the flogger on the mattress next to me. His hands are massaging my cheeks, squeezing them, pulling them apart. New waves of pleasure wash over me. The hands slide up my back to the breasts. They squeeze and caress them. My nipples are so hard and sensitive that it’s almost painful. His fingers squeeze and twist them slightly.

My thighs are wet and sticky. I have never been this wet. I want it. Whatever happens now, I want it.

He squeezes my right nipple again, between his thumb and forefinger, almost like he’s crushing a blueberry. I can’t hold back the moan now. He squeezes it again. The pain shoots straight into my crotch, making my clit tingle with excitement even more. 

I want it. I want it so much.

“Please,” I whisper. 

“Please what?”

I know what he wants, and I… I’m ready. I’m ready to beg. I’m ready to beg for his cock in me, because it’s all I want right now. I want him to fuck me and never stop. He’s awoken a beast inside of me, and it feels like its hunger will never be satisfied.

“Please… Sir. Please… fuck me.” I’d say more if he asked. Please, put your cock in me. Do whatever you want with me. I’ll do anything.

He pushes right in and doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in. He’s deeper than I thought someone could ever be. He’s bigger than I’ve ever had. My walls are stretching, trying to accommodate him. A deep sigh escapes even him, and it’s strangely comforting. It makes me happy that I pleased him.

I have gone officially mad.

He doesn’t make love to me. He fucks me, thoroughly. I feel him in my whole body. He’s fucking my bloody soul. I want to scream, but only unarticulated sounds and gasps are coming out of my mouth.

His finger circles the tight ring of muscles. I gasp. Nobody’s ever touched me there. He can’t mean…

The finger feels cold and wet against my entrance. It registers in my brain that he’s lubing me, and I shudder under his touch. His finger slowly slides in and out, in and out… It’s so slick I couldn’t keep him out even if I wanted to. He adds a finger. My gate is open.  

I am a married woman, I go to church every Sunday…

And a stranger has two fingers in my asshole, and I’m begging for an unholy absolution.

“Oh God!”

The handle of the flogger passes my stomach and aims right at my slit. It passes back and forth, pressing against my flesh. Yes. Yes, keep doing that. Back and forth, back and forth. It flicks my clit. My body jerks on its own volition. The handle travels up through my crack. 

“Do you want it there?” he asks.

I don’t know what I want anymore. I’m confused. I’m close to another orgasm. I don’t know anything at all.

I let out a sound that could be affirmative or not, it’s just a sound, really. 

The handle slides right in. I gasp. It feels strange to have something this hard and unyielding in me. I’ve never had an inanimate object in me. 

Leave alone together with an animate one. 

His dick is in me again. I didn’t even notice when it happened, so focused I was on the feeling in my tighter hole. He reaches around me and rubs my clit, with harsh circular motions. I couldn’t keep myself from coming even if I wanted to.

“Cum, bitch,” he orders.

My mouth is open, I know as much. My eyes are wide open as well, but I can’t see anything but white, and no sound is coming out of my mouth. I’m shaking. I’m coming. I’m possibly dying.

My body is a mass. The ecstasy has sucked all the life force out of me, I’m floating, sated and exhausted. 

He is still moving in me. Faster now, like he’s chasing his own release. His moves falter every now and then and he grips my hips tighter.

A broken “no” escapes my lips. Everything else in me is screaming “yes”. 

He buries himself as deep as possible, piercing me to the core, and spills his seed inside me with a groan that sounds almost soft, surprised, and so much unlike him.

I’m sobbing and shaking.

I feel the hot liquid dribble out of me. There is so much of it… I feel full of it, I feel blessed, I feel fertile.

I hear one click of the camera shutter behind me.

* * *

The gallery is crowded now. People are chatting, sipping on champagne, heels are clicking.

The lights are cleverly placed, as always. Revealing what should be revealed, hiding other things in the shadows for only some to discover.

And there she is. The woman. Kneeling on a platform, face down, leaning on her shoulders. She is completely naked, her buttocks sticking right out at the camera, knees parted, ankles and wrists tied together. Exposed. Her sex and thighs are glistening wet. The photograph is detailed enough to show the viewers the fresh semen leaking from her opening. Her buttocks are framed with a fringe of black leather stripes, spilling from the flogger handle stuck up in her hole.

The woman is me. The woman is who I am now.