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Today I’m sitting in the bar/restaurant of one of the Hilton hotels near the Shard. I have an hour before my client arrives and we take a taxi to a meeting, that hopefully will add several more millions to his already bulging bank account; make the company a large amount of money, as well as making me a not too insignificant commission in the process. Children are expensive I hear, and when I get pregnant and have to stop working, it will be nice to have a little put by for emergencies.


Even now I still get goose bumps and a tingling in my belly when I think of that day.
I’d conceived, plotted, planned and carried out a raid on my adulterous lover’s home, with the intention of stealing incriminating photographs of me, tied up, shackled, bound, whipped and screwed. How far had I fallen from the nice Roman Catholic girl my parents brought up?


It took more than an hour for the nauseous queasiness and the shaking to subside. The swans were circling on the pond, perhaps wandering at the strange woman at the waters edge, hands shaking, who didn’t throw bits of bread at them.
More than one passerby must have seen me and wondered if I intended to jump in and drown myself.
At the time the thought never occurred to me.

Even as I stood there thinking about my life, I was aware of another sensation, bubbling away under the sickness and the shame; for a time I couldn’t identify it, but it did eventually shout its name – exhilaration.
I was immediately ashamed of the feeling, but I couldn’t deny it.
Another thing I couldn’t deny was my body’s reaction to the photos; especially the one of me tied face down, spreadeagled; the same way the red-head in the other picture had been. I had been instantly turned one, horny, and wet as I recalled what had happened immediately after the photo was taken; how he’d used me, whispering into my ears, telling me what he intended to do to me.

Then he’d thrust the small, slightly curved vibrator deep into my wet vagina, his finger stroking mercilessly at my engorged clitoris.
I’d cum twice before he pulled it out of me. But he hadn’t finished. He’d already told me what to expect. And knowing had made the whole thing even more exciting.
I said, no, but it was just a word, a token resistance. I wanted it.
Warm oil was dribbled over my bottom, running into the crack as he massaged my bottom. His fingers trailed between my cheeks, stroking the puckered entrance back and forth. I felt a small twinge when his finger intruded past the entrance, pushing the lubricant inside, widening me; not pain, he’d been there once before.

Then his finger was gone and something else replaced it; something larger. I tensed, my strong muscles setting up an involuntary resistance, but he pushed on and the hole opened to allow the fat intruder to enter.
My teeth sunk into the bed-clothes as he pushed in all the way, but that didn’t stop the scream that climbed scale, to end in a silent scream of ecstasy.

I’d seen all the photographs of the other women who’d been in his bed, and that same image had been repeated over and over, each of them suffering….no enjoyed the same fate.
Had I kidded myself that I’d been special? Yes; no; maybe.
I hadn’t been in love with him for an instant, but there had been something……longing, desire, lust.
But that was all done. Gone but not forgotten.
When I eventually turned away from swan lake, there had been a smile on my face, but also a tear in my eye.

My client has just walked through the door…..shame I was on a roll. A few more pages and this part of my life would have been told. But hey-ho.

Recently I had a professional site designer build a site, similar in look to this one, at: www.awantonwoman.co.uk
But I will continue to place future blogs on this site as well.