Caroline

The sweat ran down Caroline’s breast in rivulets as I dragged her head back by the hair and pressed the keen point of the knife to her nipple.

“This is why you’re here, isn’t it?” I whispered, my mouth close to her ear as I watched the blade press against her flesh. “This is what you need from me.”

“Yes,” she moaned, and pressed her breast up to meet steel.

Her first email had been tentative, even shy. One of my regular clients was a friend of hers, she explained in carefully worded, polite phrases, and they’d got to talking one evening over a bottle of wine, as girlfriends do. And well, she thought she might be interested in engaging my services.

Over dinner in a quiet little bistro she explained in halting tones what she wanted from our time together. Her husband was a wonderful man, she explained. A loving father to their two young children, supportive of her choice to go back to school and get her nursing degree. She loved him, she told me as she pushed a dark curl behind her ear in what I would come to recognize as a nervous gesture, and would never consider leaving him. But there were things – dark desires and forbidden needs – that she could not ask him for.

That’s where I come in.

I dragged the dull edge of the blade along the plump curve of her breast, careful to keep from marking her milk pale skin. She trusted me not to leave marks, as they would invite questions from friends and family she wasn’t prepared to answer, so I had to offer the pain and humiliation she craved without violating that trust.

I tossed the knife aside, the clatter of steel on the concrete floor making her jump, then squeal when she came up short against my fist in her hair.

“What do you need from me, Caroline?” I whispered.

“You know,” she whined, then gasped as I gripped her hair harder.

“You have to tell me,” I reminded her, and allowed myself a small, fierce grin as she writhed in discomfort at the thought. “You have to tell me or I’ll have to draw my own conclusions.”

I pressed against her, pushing her body down into the floor even as I dragged her head up, my free hand coming up to loosely circle her throat. I felt her swallow convulsively against my palm, felt her strain to push her neck in to my hold.

“Do you want me to make love to you, Caroline?” I whispered. “To caress you gently, kiss you softly? Do you want me to sing you romantic songs, spread rose petals at your feet?”
Her eyes were open now, shock and dismay reflected in their amber depths as she listened. “No,” she moaned, shaking her head reflexively despite my hold on her hair.

“No?” I asked. “Then why are you here? Tell me why you’re here, Caroline.”

She wet her lips. “I need you to hurt me.”

“Very good,” I said, and twisted my fist harder in her hair as a reward. “What else?” I asked over the echo of her grateful moan.

The words came faster now, all but spilling out of her. “Abuse me, humiliate me, make me your slut.”

“Is that what you want to be, Caroline?” I asked, and pressed on her throat with the slightest of pressure.

She nodded. “Yes, yes,” she panted, her eyes now heavy with desire and anticipated satisfaction. “Yes, please, make me your slut, your whore. I’ll do anything,” she promised.

“Yes,” I told her, “you will.”

For the next hour I set about destroying Caroline the wife, mother, nursing student and dutiful daughter of doting parents. Gone was the dark glossy hair, perfectly coiffed and pulled neatly back into a curly pony tail. Gone was the make-up meticulously applied, the expensive perfume’s subtle scent, the prim and proper slacks and blouse she arrived in.

In her place I built a pain slut, a wanton mass of sweaty, quivering flesh sprawled naked on a concrete floor. A woman reduced to the flesh between her legs, the needs that screamed through her body, needs she’d do anything to fulfill.

And fulfill them I did. When Caroline walked out of my office and back into her life, her hair and makeup were perfect, her perfume reapplied, her slacks and blouse in the same meticulous condition as they were when she arrived a scant few hours before.

And if she walked a little slower, and winced a bit when brushing her hair that night, only she and I knew the reason why.