Lila

We met about five or six times in all; it seemed more. And when we managed to speak, it was only a few words, but I remember everything we said. And I started to dream about you; detailed, lucid dreams that wouldn't go away. I'd wake in the morning sweating with the heat of you, writing with the feel of you, tormented for the first five minutes of waking with the thought that, perhaps, it had really happened.

But this isn't about my dreams of you. It's about the dream you had of me.

It's early morning in the summer. You're sleeping above the covers, naked. I've been watching you through the net curtains around your bed. Your body intrigues me. You're old enough (just) to be my mother. Gone is the smooth, bland roundness of youth. Your skin is a mixture of colours. In places it is very pale, in others dark and freckled. Around your nipples I see blue veins. Down one leg is a small scar. Your pubic hair and armpit hair is ginger, but not so dazzlingly as the hair on your head, which sparkles vivid with henna. You fall asleep with makeup on and mascara smudges your cheeks; a faint line of pink still clings to your lower lip.

I switch on the bedside lamp and shine it onto your face. You screw your eyes up tightly, then squint open.

Who is standing in your bedroom shining bright light into your eyes? You see my hand, in a leather glove, pressing the switch. You try to draw the covers up around yourself. Suddenly, the room seems cold.

'Get up. You're coming with me,' I say.

You keep your eyes lowered as I lead you out of your room and down the stairs, to the front door.

'I can't go out. I haven't any clothes on,' you say.

'I've got clothes for you,' I tell you, and I open the cupboard to reveal what you're wearing for our little excursion. A rubber skirt, a black lace bra, thigh-high leather boots and a leather collar on a dog leash, which I carefully fasten around your neck, last of all, and lead you out into the street.

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The sky is mid-blue, the birds are singing, but no one is up. The street sleeps calmly. You are silent, as though you know it is not your place to be talking now. Your boots make you stagger along the pavement, and we are in a hurry.

We come to a lamppost near an Underground station. I tie your leash around it, and make love to you against the cold metal. It's not enough for you, though. Your eyes tell me I'm too gentle.

We go into the station. I have to buy us tickets. 'One and a slut to Paddington,' I ask the man in the ticket office (slut tickets are cheaper.)

He eyes you suspiciously. 'Are you sure she's a slut? I'll have to come out and check.'

He is young and attractive, and you blush as he feels your body. He kneels and looks at your belly, your breast, your bum, your legs as though he were a scientist looking down a microscope. He strokes a finger down your side and watches you shiver, pinches your nipple and watches you flinch, slaps your cheek and reaches to feel the wetness of your cunt.

He seems satisfied, and issues you a slut ticket. We go down the steps and onto the platform. There are five minutes before our train is due. I decide to put you across my knee as I sit on the bench. I spank you, and the sound of the slaps resounds across the empty platform. You grit your teeth and try not to cry out. Sometimes I rub it better, sometimes I pinch it worse. Still you're holding back, still it's not enough.

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The train comes along. It is bright, noisy and packed - there isn't anywhere for us to sit. I stand you in the doorway with your hands tied to the overhead railing. I remove your bra and skirt, and throw them out of the open window. You can see your nakedness reflected in the glass of the door, and in people's amused faces. They look up from their morning papers and smile.

Behind you, I am borrowing a whip from someone, and savouring the sight of your unwhipped back and buttocks before I begin.

I raise my arm, and lash you with all of my strength. The whip stings your back, and for the first time you let out a cry. As I continue, your back becomes streaked with red.

I take a strap, and beat your buttocks 'til they burn. Excited passengers are offering their umbrellas, walking sticks and hairbrushes to be used on you. When these objects are returned to them, they kiss them and hold them between their legs. It turns them on so much that their belongings were used on you.

When I'm done, I press my body up against yours. Your hair brushes my face. Your back and buttocks throb warmly through my clothes, and the leather of your boots is cool and still. I whisper in you ear what is going to happen next:

I need some volunteers. A woman of about your age puts down her briefcase and carrier bag, and comes to kneel in front of you. She starts to lick and suck you eagerly.

It takes a while to find a male volunteer of exactly the right height to bugger you, standing up, but I find not one but two, and choose the one with the bigger cock.

While the two volunteers are busy servicing you, I wrap my own hands around your throat and squeeze gently, to cut off your oxygen a little. You climax when the woman gets bored with licking, and uses her hand as well. She didn't know she was so talented!

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When we get off the train, I drag you to a patch of grass and lie you down. Then I straddle you, and hold your head, look deep into your frightened eyes.

I slap your cheek hard. Then again. Then again. You flinch away from me. Sometimes I pretend I'll do it, but I don't. Sometimes I bend to kiss you, and you relax, not expecting that I will slap you twice as hard for being foolish.

'Bite your lip and don't cry' I warn you as I swing my arm one last time. After this you are sobbing and spent. It was enough.

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'Take your boots off now,' I tell you. As you sit to undo them, I come behind you and undo your collar.

We walk to the edge of the grass, which has now become the edge of a cliff. I have your hands held behind your back as I push you nearer, and nearer, towards the edge.

Your bare feet stumble on the rocks, and you lean back on me, terrified. You can now see the drop to the sea below. I push you over, hard.




You wake in bed. Every muscle, every nerve, every cell in you jumps and jolts awake. But I'll be back.



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