You could write about what we get up to, he says. Turn it into a book, sell a million copies. We’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams.
I’m not sure if it’s an idea or an order. I will take it as the latter.
My arse is covered in wooden spoon bruises shaped like lipstick kisses and I’m grinning like an idiot. Inside my head it’s like Brilliant Kid from the Fast Show has taken over my internal monologue. Isn’t bondage BRILLIANT? Isn’t kissing BRILLIANT? Aren’t clouds BRILLIANT? Isn’t being fucked up the arse in front of the mirror until you’re drooling down your chin BRILLIANT? Isn’t absolutely fucking everything BRILLIANT.
When I stood there in front of the mirror, looking at myself wild- eyed, Medusa- haired and on the verge of stumbling, he told me I was cute. It’s been a long time since anyone told me I was cute. I myself thought I looked beautiful; wild eyes, spitty chin and all. I didn’t expect to, not in those circumstances, but it didn’t feel strange. It took some time, but I have thought I was beautiful for a while now.
We are in my sister’s kitchen, where I’ve left a bag full of sewing bits I need to pick up before we head into the countryside in his truck. I move around the kitchen in a businesslike fashion, occasionally walking over to him to be kissed.
I’m done collecting things- I’m ready to go. We gently kiss a little longer. He pushes me up against the sink and bends me over at the waist, pulls my skirt up and my knickers down, displaying stockings and suspender belt and my bare arse. He turns away, and I hear the rummaging sound of kitchen utensils. He smacks me on the arse with the spoon several times before pulling out a chair and sitting on it, and bundling me over his knee. My hair is in my face and with every smack of the spoon my leg kicks up in shock. When I signal that I’ve had enough he bends over and kisses my arse cheek, and then pushes me to my feet, standing up to join me. I lean wonky against him, dozy and grinning, and we kiss.
The walls of the kitchen are covered in childrens’ artwork and there are Peppa Pig toys and felt tip pens scattered on the kitchen table. There is a reminder of the house rules and consequences chart stuck to the fridge with magnets. We broke a house rule, he says. No hitting.
He will drive the truck, his sleeves rolled up to display arms freckled brown, and I will watch him. Nothing gets me like a man driving. I will sneak glances like it is a contraband pleasure, and he will catch me looking, and say hello, and I will say hello back, and then look away embarrassed, looking at the road unfurling in the windscreen, sheltering my eyes from the sun.
It’s the cuteness of it all that kills me. Bruises that look like kisses, dinky little padlocks and diddy little lengths of rope. Cartoon animals drawn on my belly in red sharpie instead of grave sexual insults. He is a very adorable sadist. I tell him this and he laughs. Five minutes later he slaps me round the face; ten minutes later he blows raspberries on my tummy. Fifteen minutes later he is fucking me ferociously, his fingers in my mouth stretching my grin into a grimace. He spits into my mouth, and I laugh up at him as I come.
What do you think about me? He asks, his hand between my legs as I jerk him off.
I think you’re funny. I think you’re clever. I think you are very capable, and have done a lot of things.
Can you see a future with me? He asks.
Yes, I think I can. I answer. I think I can.