It wasn't the fact that I was standing in the tiny kitchen in his small flat in Blackheath, South London. It wasn't the fact that I was only wearing a black suspender belt and fishnet stockings. It wasn't the fact that James was buried into me as deeply as he could be. It wasn't either the fact that he was fucking me from behind, that his balls were slapping against my arse and my full tits were flying around all over the place. No, it was none of those facts that made this so different, so unusual and so exciting.
Our affair, which had started with him 'pulling' me at the gym I had joined in Greenwich where he was also a member, had progressed rapidly. We met regularly, but not that frequently for his job as a police officer was almost as time demanding as mine was as European Head of Mergers and Acquisitions for a US owned, global investment bank. I travelled around Europe a lot helping companies acquire each other and he chased criminals around the UK; not much difference really!
We managed to meet probably twice every three weeks or so I guess. On reflection, since he had moved from the very suburban, social graveyard of Dartford in Kent, which was thirty miles from my Dockland's apartment, to the pleasantly, upscale inner-city village of Blackheath, which was just across, or just under using the Blackwall Tunnel, the Thames, it had probably become weekly or more.
James had been seconded from the Manchester Police to the Met. It was a two-year assignmement so at first he had brought his wife and two kids with him and had set up home in Kent. It didn't work, though, and shortly after we started, his wife and kids went back up north and he was provided with the small flat in the convenient for us Blackheath.
After a few weeks a pattern had developed.
We would meet at a bar or restaurant, have a few drinks and a meal and then go to his small flat and fuck. Sometimes I would stay all night, but at other times, when either of us had an early start, I would leave around ten. At other times we would go to a hotel, but never to my apartment, which was supplied by the bank.
I'm an expat from Denmark, where I was brought up and where my attitude and outlook on sex was conditioned by the free-thinking, open and very non-judgemental approach to sex that prevails in my country.
When offered the big promotion to my current job, my husband refused to move to London so we separated. We didn't divorce and when I went 'home,' roughly each month, we still did what most married couples do, fuck a lot for a while and then row. In London, I had to be discrete. The bank was fanatical about bad public relations and my boss would have gone apeshit if he had known I was shagging a cop. He would have assumed that I was being investigated and that the cop would find something on me.
As part of my expat package, the bank provided free of charge an apartment as well as a Porsche and loads of other goodies. I didn't dare take James to the apartment near Canary Wharf for I too had become fanatical about being discrete. I gave James the impression that I still lived with Erik, my husband, who is a writer and, therefore is in the apartment most of the time. I also didn't let him know the bank I worked for telling him it was some obscure Swedish financial institution.
This way, he really knew little about me and, of and when I wanted, I could simply vanish, always a useful technique with an affair!
With his wife back in Manchester our fling became more adventurous. When I was travelling and was able to talk to James on the phone we usually had some form of phone sex. That inevitably led to us camming each other using our iPads. We found a mutual liking of having sex in places where there was a chance of being caught. Given our positions that really was crazy, but it was such a turn on to be fucked on the back seat of his car, in a shop doorway or out of doors in a field or up against a tree in a wood. He got me to leave off my underwear and he would 'finger' me as we ate or drove.
But this time it wasn't the fact that we were in a risky place. Nor was it the fact that we were doing it, unusually for us, in the afternoon. It wasn't also the fact that when I lifted my skirt up I wasn't wearing panties and that I hadn't been during the lunch we'd had in Costa Coffee across from the station in the village.
No, it was none of those facts that was giving me the unusual and never before experienced combination of extreme thrills and enormous trepidation I was feeling in that small kitchen.
Something else had crept into our relationship. Well not relationship, we didn't really have one of those, simply our sex. That was aggression.
So, it was none of those facts that were giving me these amazing sensations.
It was the facts that: he was squeezing my breasts far harder than they should be squeezed, pinching and pulling my nipples far harder than they should be pinched and pulled and that he had grabbed my hair and was yanking it far more aggressively than it should be yanked.
Yes, it was the power of force, the fact that I was being dominated and was submitting my will, mind and body to him that was turning me on so much.
* That was the start, well pretty much, but thinking back, there had been a couple or three occasions when he had pinched me rather hard, dug his nails into the soft flesh of my buttocks, thighs or tits and sucked overly fiercely on my nipples.
Prior to this affair, there had been moments with other lovers where I had experienced similar feelings.
Erik had tied me up a couple of times. He had got me to wear an incredibly tight corset with both of us getting excitement from him lacing me up and taking my waist in from its usual twenty seven inches or so to around twenty three.
I had indulged in some mild BDSM at a sex club I went to with him, a fairly common thing in Denmark and a couple we had swung with were both into spanking and thay had given me a red bottom.
I hadn't realised fully until after Erik and I parted the prominence of the submissive streak in me. For some years I had felt the desire occasionally to be dominated. I wanted a man to control and direct me. These were not enormously strong feelings, but over probably a ten year period between my mid-thirties and mid-forties they surface more frequently and each time with more intensity. The need for being directed and controlled also included the desire to be abused and humiliated.
I tried finding out why by researching on the web. It seems that it boils down to me having led a charmed life, wealthy parents, success at university and power and responsibility in my job. It turns out that this wish to submit and be humiliated is quite common among successful businesswoman!
*
As James had pinched my nipples, squeezed my breasts and bum and pulled hard on my hair, I hadn't complained, so presumably James thought I was giving him the green light. He must have, pretty reasonably, felt that I was into being roughed up a bit and was used to being hurt, abused, humiliated and generally dominated as part of a sexual relationship.
I wasn't, but I had to admit that what he was doing was getting to me.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?" He growled his nails digging in my breasts.
I didn't reply, but instead writhed myself against his cock, which was deeply in me.
"Aren't you?" He repeated louder, giving a strong yank on my hair.
"Yes, sort of," I whimpered the pain on my boobs and scalp getting to me.
"What the fuck's that mean, sort of?"
"I er, I um, I don't know James," I mewed, loving what his cock was doing to me, but wondering why I didn't object to his nails digging into my boobs and his hand pulling my hair.
He seemed to pull harder on my hair and dig deeper with his nails. The pain from both was searing. It hurt, it was agony and painful, but it mixed with the glorious sensations that his cock was creating deep inside me. I couldn't understand it. I didn't honestly know whether I was enjoying it or what I was feeling; all I did know was that I didn't want him to stop.
The orgasm he gave me was awesome. It was right up there with anything I had ever had before.
After the sex, we didn't talk about it. We didn't discuss what he had done to me and my reaction. We didn't review our feelings or analyse what we had both got from his much harder than usual squeezing, pinching and pulling.
We didn't talk about it, but I thought about it, a lot.
Usually, I am able to work out why I did something, why I reacted and acted in a certain way. I can generally work out what it was that caused me to gain enjoyment or other sensations from most experiences, especially of a sexual nature. I had been able to do that and had come to terms with my reaction to James wanting me to leave off my underwear, him fingering me in public and us fucking in dangerous places. I had, after a great deal of thought, understood and had coped with the evident needs we both had in those areas.
This, though, was different. I had no idea why I had enjoyed James becoming more aggressive with me and I had no one, not surprisingly, with whom I could discuss it, not even him. Our relationship wasn't like that, but then I don't think many are. Until you have developed a long-lasting, very trusting, perhaps even loving relationship with someone, it's usually too difficult to discuss in detail your sexual wants and the reasons why you like certain aspects of sex. As the saying goes, 'some things are best left unsaid!'
*
We'd had sex before dinner. It was quick and energetic.
He had pressed me face first against the floor to ceiling, sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony of the hotel room, overlooking the Thames in the distance. I knew I could not be seen, unless someone in the high- rise flats over the south side was using a telescope or binoculars. I doubted that, but didn't know for sure and the fact that there may have been was just yet another turn on for both of us.
I was naked and the cold glass on my breasts made for a strange sensation, strange but nice. They were squashed against the glass, which almost flattened the D sized mounds. Looking down on them as he fucked me from behind, they looked huge and I realised another diet was required. Why is it in winter, when I play less tennis and golf and put on a little weight most of it goes to my tits, I always wonder?
James was on the ten pm to six am shift. We had met at the hotel early evening and had a few drinks in the bar before going to the room and having some quick sex. We had a room service dinner with us both in deference to him having to go to work to keep us all safe, just drnking San Pellegrino.
I hadn't showered after sex, for I had to fix the dinner, so I had slipped into a pair of combats and an old tee shirt. After dinner though, I needed a shower and went and had one as James watched some football on TV.
I saw that it was nearly nine and realised he would have to leave soon. There didn't seem much point in getting dressed for I would go to bed directly he left, which would probably be nine forty five or so I guessed.
I slipped into the thin, cotton, sleeping shorts and a singlet, a bit like a mans' vest, that I had taken to wearing lately, the vest outside the pants, not tucked in.
In keeping with most of my fellow countrymen I am relaxed about nudity. At the gym I was one of the few women who showered and dried myself in the dressing room for most use cubicles to hide their bodies. That and wearing a brief bikini in the pool area had been fine until the past few weeks. Now though, I couldn't do that for the others at the gym would see the fierce red marks on my breasts and inner thighs that were the leftovers of my sex with James.
"Take them off" he said as I came out of the bathroom.
"What?" I asked feeling pleased that he wanted me naked and was likely to be going to fuck me again.
"What do you fucking think?" He said sternly. "Those stupid clothes."
I slid the shorts off and stood there for a moment or two just in the singlet.
"That's better, you look more like the slag you really are like that with your fucking big nipples poking through the vest. Look at yourself in the mirror."
I walked to the dressing table and stood there as he had told me. The singlet only came down to just beneath my waist so my landing strip of pubes with my glistening lips poking through them were on show. He was right about my nipples, they were making horrendously significant bumps in the thin material. I saw James' reflection in the mirror as he came up behind me. He reached round me and cupped both of my breasts and pinched my nipples, hard. The pain made me cry out, but that just seemed to encourage him to pinch even harder.
"James no, please" I groaned feeling as if I might faint, but not sure whether that would be from shock or pleasure; I was beginning to see that there was a very narrow line between those two emotions.
"Please what?" He asked his finger digging into the flesh of my breasts.
"Stop, you are hurting me."
