When we first met she was vague about her past experience. She minimised it. She’d done a few things here and there, she said. Nothing serious. She’d always been interested in kink stuff, but it was mainly a fantasy. She’d only been out to a kink club one time, she said. Her first and last experience, before meeting me. She’d enjoyed it, she told me. She was keen to do more. She just hadn’t had the chance.

I hadn’t pursued the subject at the time. She’d seemed shy about it… and I had assumed that she was shy because she had done very little, and I had done a lot. A silly reason to be shy, I thought. But at the same time I didn’t wish to exacerbate it by probing further.

Months later, once we had played at least a dozen times, we returned to the subject. It was part of a circuitous, lazy, post-play conversation. We were at her flat. She stood at the counter, peeling an orange. We were semi-naked, still. The marks on her back were so fresh that they almost glowed.

“It was the only time I’ve ever been to a party,” she said.

“And was it good?” I said.

She paused. “Yes,” she said, but cautiously. “I had fun.”

“Did you see anything interesting?”

Again, a pause. “I saw… some stuff. Not much. I don’t know. I was kind of… busy.”

I knew her well enough by now to discern that her tone was evasive rather than simply shy. That she was skirting around something. And, for a moment, I couldn’t think what it might be. She talked quite easily about kink, most of the time. She rarely struggled for words.

“Busy how?”

“Playing.”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“A few things.”

“What few things?”

She had finished peeling the orange. She set it down on the counter and looked at it. Head lowered. Back to me. “I… sucked off some guys,” she said, eventually.

“Some guys?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

She hesitated. “Not sure,” she said. “More than ten. Some of them… some of them fucked me afterwards as well.”

I was surprised, but I tried not to show it. Until that moment I had assumed that her one experience at a club would have been something akin to a night out at Torture Garden – a standard club night with some extravagant costumes and a few people being spanked. This was altogether unexpected. “Did you enjoy it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. A lot. I was with my partner at the time. He watched the whole thing. I mean… he, like, organised it. Decided who could fuck me and who could only have my mouth.”

“You didn’t get tired?”

She shrugged. “My jaw hurt. And I was sore the next day. But… I would have kept going. If there were more guys.” She thought for a moment. “Afterwards I begged my partner to beat me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a spanking so badly before.”

“Did he?”

She nodded. “He did. I asked him to use his belt, too, but he wouldn’t.” At last, she turned around to face me. She was pink in the face. Her gaze lowered. “I felt so… slutty afterwards. Like a completely different person. I’d never done anything like that before. I didn’t know that I could.”

I took in her blush. Her posture. The uneaten orange. “Is it embarrassing to talk about, now?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“You look embarrassed.”

She sighed. Met my eyes. Her blush was deeper now. “It… it turns me on to talk about it,” she admitted reluctantly.

That was the last thing she said for a while. The orange remained on the counter, shed of its skin. We’d return to the kitchen an hour or so later and share it. We’d be exhausted by then. Sweaty and worn out from vigorous fucking. And it would be only then, almost as an afterthought, that I’d think to say to her, “It turns me on to hear about it, too, by the way.”

*

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