Kirsty Dickens threw her oversized purse on her bed. Little Miss curled about her leg begging and pleading for her attention, but that was the last thing she wanted after another ninety-minute work-out session at the local gym. She was too tired to deal with a needy pussy, even her own. The creature was a reminder of her destiny as that crazy cat woman in the basement flat.
At twenty-six, it was not the most pleasant of thoughts. After wasting six years of her life, practically her whole adulthood, on a virtually sexless relationship that ended three months ago when her ex-boyfriend gave in to family pressure and entered an 'arranged' marriage with a second cousin from India, Kirsty had decided to make drastic changes to her life.
Well, probably not drastic to most people. She had no plans to change her career; her work as an Occupational Therapist for children with autism was emotionally rewarding and financially stable. She was not going to move from her relatively well-to-do neighborhood in north London either. This flat that she had shared with two acquaintances since she completed university was perfect.
She had not even made drastic changes to her physical appearance, at five foot ten in bare feet she would have stood out in a crowd, even without the flaming red hair that fell halfway down her back or the freckles that covered almost every single inch of her body.
The break-up had motivated her to join the gym, and just three months later, her curvy figure was beginning to see some dramatic changes. She might not make Vogue, but maybe she could do well moonlighting as a plus-size model.
No, most people would consider the changes she made rather sedate. But they were radical to someone, who had spent the whole of her life in the same area of the city, who had the same few 'friends' since primary school, and who wanted nothing more than to please her doctor parents in her choice of careers and men. While they might have been a tad disappointed that their only child had chosen not to follow in their footsteps by becoming consultants, her role as a therapist fell within the realm of 'respectable' for their upper-middle-class friends.
And Raj, the up and coming young pediatrician, had more than met their standards. They had been more hurt by the betrayal than Kirsty. She had been almost relieved at the turn of events. Her feelings for the man had long since cooled to professional respect and friendship, but she did not have the will to end their comfortable arrangement. It was not like she and Raj had ever really shared a great passion, certainly not like the attractions that she read about in her multitude of racy erotic romances on the tablet that had been his final gift to her for Valentine's Day.
Of course, Kirsty had never really experienced that type of passion or even witnessed it firsthand. Her parents, their friends, and even her own were all in relationships based upon shared values, interests, and companionship. Certainly not the wild and tumultuous sexual attractions portrayed in her books about ménages and BDSM. The very idea of that level of need and surrender was both intensely attractive and petrifying to Kirsty.
But over the past couple of months since her split with Raj, her repressed desires had increasingly overtaken her sensible side. She found herself spending hundreds of pounds each month on her erotic romances, devouring them at the pace of two a day sometimes. On the weekends, she could easily read ten or more. The worst, of course, was Raquel Graffen's Captive Brides, tales of women captured and 'married' to not one man, but two...three...or more.
If her mother, the esteemed consultant Nancy Dickens, knew the content of her only child's e-reader, she would have her sectioned. She could almost hear her mother's voice in her head. 'Women are stronger than men, more intelligent. If it were not for centuries of religious subjugation, we would rule the world, and it would be a better place too.' She supposed her naturally submissive tendencies would be just another disappointment to the woman. A daughter that was never thin enough, smart enough, or ambitious enough.
She sighed, what was the use of such thoughts. She had spent a lifetime trying to be everything the woman wanted and always falling short. Tonight, once more, she would put all that aside and escape into fantasy. It was barely seven and summer nights in London stretched out endlessly, so she had plenty of time.
A quick shower to clean the sweat of her workout from her full-figure, another salad for dinner, then she could look forward to indulging her dark imagination in the latest of Graffen's too naughty e-books, My Brother's Keeper. She was just getting to the juiciest bits. Ménage. Definitely a cold shower she thought as she succumbed and rubbed her hand slowly down her pussy from the top of her head to her tail.
Who knew maybe she would even stroke her own before falling asleep? She chuckled at the thought of the Woody Allen quote. "Don't knock masturbation. It's sex with someone you love." That was more than she could say for those rare, lukewarm, and awkward encounters that she and Raj had endured.
No, sex was highly overrated. Well, sex with men anyway. Although with only two lovers in her vast repertoire, she might not be the best judge. Still, nothing had compared to what she read in books or even the orgasms that she gave herself. She sighed, if only it were half as good as the shit she read in Raquel Graffen's erotic novels.
Who knew maybe it was if you were not full-figured ginger with freckles and cellulite? But she was, and no amount of time in the gym or tasteless salads would ever get her any smaller than a size twelve or fourteen. Her current size sixteen or eighteen certainly would never attract the attention of those types of men.
'Enough,' she chided herself. Her life was not that bad. She loved her job and the autistic children she worked with. She had a safe, quiet, and relatively lovely place to live. Food to eat and some money in savings. That was far, far more than many people had. But still, she craved something more...excitement, wild sex...love most of all.
She shook her head as she pulled the scrunchie from her long red tresses and shook it free. She would not cry. Not again. She would be happy. Okay, maybe content was a better choice of words, but she would be. She promised herself as she headed down the hall to the shower.
***
Kirsty savored the final bite of her Keema Naan bread with its spicy minced lamb filling. She was saving the Peshwari for later with vanilla ice cream. A dessert of sorts. After her shower, she had spent ten minutes with the door open staring into her refrigerator. The bag of lifeless green leaves did not seem appealing after killing herself on the treadmill, the Stairmaster, a stationary bike, and even a whole ten minutes on the elliptical trainer. Her body wanted food, real food, and not rabbit shit either.
In the end, she had given in to temptation and pulled up the app on her tablet that promised quick and tasty relief. Indian had been her first choice; it always was, though Turkish was a close second. Hmmm, Turkish? Maybe she should consider dating a Turkish guy next?
She shook her head; she was not likely to find one that would meet her mother's approval. First of all, there were few Turkish doctors in their circle, and her mother had long since decided that if her only progeny would not become a physician herself, then she must marry one. Besides, her mother would stringently object to the culture's more traditional views on the roles of women.
She sighed as she cleaned up the leftovers of her dinner and prepared to store them away in her section of the shared fridge. She would take them to work with her for lunch tomorrow, who knew maybe even manage to stretch them out to dinner as well.
"Darn it," was as close to cursing as she got. She had forgotten that this Sunday would be her monthly brunch with her parents at the upscale tea room in Chelsea. She could almost hear her mother now, "Have you put on weight, dear?" That would soon lead to the inevitable questions about her love life. Was she dating again? Then her mother would offer to set her up with one of the young consultants at the hospital where she worked or perhaps the son of a friend.
Kirsty was still not ready to date, though. The whole idea turned her off. The only part of it that appealed to her at all was the idea of having a baby. And with her mother, that meant she needed a husband, an acceptable one from a distinguished gene pool, the right schools, and the best families. That held no appeal for her.
She stacked the boxes of food next to her bed and reached for her tablet on the nightstand. No, just once she wanted to taste, even a small sample of the passion that she read about in her books — the tingles and anticipation of being dominated by a strong, protective man.
As always her body began to respond to just the idea of rough, masculine hands laced through her lengthy hair, jerking her head back, forcing her to look deep into his eyes for a long moment before his mouth captured hers — not some timid, wet, and sloppy kiss, but taking, demanding even forcing her compliance.
She bit her lower lip as she typed her passcode into the tablet. She frowned as she tried to decide. Read My Brother's Keeper or check out the top blog posts on the too-naughty social networking site devoted to BDSM and alternative lifestyle like polyamory? She had discovered the site in the acknowledgments of Raquel Graffen's books.
In the end, the decision was not all that hard, website then book. She never spent more than fifteen minutes or so on it anyway. After two months as a member, she had four friends. Exactly four. All other female submissives. Mostly other young newbies, except for the one older lady who had messaged last week because she too enjoyed Graffen's books. She might have one or maybe two messages from them and probably another three or four from rude Dom types, demanding her instant submission, a blow job and that she become his cum slut for life. Those were easy; block and delete.
Then she would have a quick look over the front page to see if there were any new and titillating stories or poems out. While she had learned so much in the past couple of months about BDSM from reading the top journal entries, she never liked looking at that page for long. Too many selfies of tiny perfect bodies nude or semi-clad. For a big girl, curvy woman, or whatever was the politically correct word for fat chick these days; it was enough to send you spiraling into a depression that could only a tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream would solve.
