Being a Girl (15 page)

‘God, that must hurt,' he said, his voice escaping from him in a whisper.

‘One more,' I said.

‘Okay . . .'

He put his soul into it. David had never beaten a girl before and didn't know when he might get another chance. The leather cracked like a shaft of lightning, slicing into my flesh. My legs trembled, my body was running with sweat and my pussy gurgled
as the oils gushed to the surface and reached David's nostrils like an invitation to the feast. I didn't move. I rocked on my toes, waving my red bottom towards him like a little monkey in the zoo, and finally he got the message.

His cock slid into me and it wasn't soft any more. It was a rod of steel stoking me like I was a boiler needing to be recharged. I pushed back against him, each slap of our flesh sending ripples of pain over the six belt wheals etched across my white flesh. I thought about his come filling my mouth, my bottom waiting for his belt, the look of fear and desire in his eyes when he first saw me standing there naked in his bedroom. This was new territory for David and I had a feeling that now I had shown him the secret path across the frontier he would make it his home.

Once you have been spanked there is no way back. You want to be spanked again and again, spanked and whipped and beaten and humiliated. It's an essential part of the pleasure, more than that, it
is
the pleasure. It's just the same for the spanker, they are the reverse poles of magnets drawn charismatically together:
yin
and
yang
, identical yet opposites, a perfect fit, the seed of their opposite like an all-seeing eye in the very heart of the other, the soul of the other. No man is wholly man, no woman wholly woman. You have inside you the potential to be everything, to be anything you want to be, and I would never have reached this understanding without stripping away the silly and frivolous and submitting my bottom to chastisement. How easy it is for the
yin
to become
yang
and the
yang
to become
yin
, I realised, and with that thought I pushed back harder as David released another little squirt of spunk up inside me. A month ago I'd been a virgin. It was hard to believe.

I crawled up on to the bed and lay there quivering like an eel out of water, my body wet and slippery, trembling slightly. David kissed my bottom, then licked the lines branded over its surface, his salty tongue drawing out the sting. He couldn't get enough of my bottom and I couldn't get enough of his tongue soothing the plum-red skin, over the hills and into the dark valley. I pushed up on my knees and waggled my bottom, tempting him to enter the starry opening to my secret place.

This was new to David, a new experience, a new taste to savour. He licked gingerly around the entrance to my anus before delving experimentally further in, then further still. He took a grip of my hip bones, perfect handles, and pulled me back on to the extended wet tentacle of his tongue. I pushed into his face. He pushed into my bum. Squelching noises drowned the sound of the beating alarm and I cooed with unutterable pleasure. My pussy was leaking constantly, oiling my parts. My body was throbbing, a giant erogenous zone, all feelings and vibrations. This was the first time I'd had a man's tongue in my bottom and men's tongues are big and juicy, they reach new heights, new depths, new places. After a spanking there can surely be no greater pleasure than having the spanker's tongue buried inside you. The master imagines he is the hunter but he is also the prey.

‘Yes, yes, yes,' I mumbled, ‘yes, yes, yes.'

He kept going, in and out, in and out, and I was overcome by feelings of completion and empowerment. Women have through history been made to cover up, shut up, speak when spoken to. They have been repressed and made to feel guilty by men because men lack female spontaneity and intuition,
the ability to find pure pleasure in natural things. How often do you see a man walking barefoot on the grass or along the water's edge, shoes in hand? Girls can't wait to take off their shoes, loosen their buttons, their hair from ribbons. We go out with bare legs, bare shoulders, we sunbathe in the park, we submit our breasts and our bodies to the breath of the wind, the eye of the sky, the chill ghostly light of the moon. We have been kept in chains and now those chains are our joy and our freedom. Men for centuries have had all the fun. It's a new century now, I thought. It's our turn.

David's meaty tongue pulsed through all my channels and passageways and sent shock waves of pleasure to the burning heart of my clitoris. I was coming. I was coming.
Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't ever stop
. I screamed and yelled and shook and he held my thighs and stayed glued to my bottom as the orgasm exploded through me in waves like a tsunami and ricocheted around the walls and across the ceiling and over the oak strips of the polished wooden floor.

The numbers on the digital clock clicked to 10 and we collapsed on the bed, wet and spent.

‘You're amazing . . .'

‘Amanda is so inspiring,' I said. ‘I think she would have to sleep with Ricky, to justify what they do to him.'

David's eyes were spinning round inside his head. He was trying to focus but he wasn't sure what he should be thinking about, focusing on.

‘That was like . . . like the best ever,' he said.

‘Me too,' I replied.

He smiled and I smiled. It was great being a girl. David Trevellick was the first boy I'd done it with, the first boy to do it all. Not that I was going to tell
him that, it would be far too embarrassing. Sex with Binky and Tara Scott-Wallace was all very nice, but you can't really count girls. They're soft and they smell nice. But they don't penetrate. With girls it's just fun. I would never forget Hamish of the Black Watch, of course, or Monsieur Cartier for that matter. But David was a proper boy and I just loved his silky smooth body, his little cock coiled like a seashell against my thigh, his sweet breath against my neck. Boys have a nice smell, too, grass and earthy sweat and walnuts and ambition.

We lay in each other's arms, the alarm clock ticking, the lamp shining through my silk knickers making a red moon on the ceiling. I closed my eyes and all the little problems in the script became clear to me. That's what a good beating does. It makes you think clearly. Should I tell him my ideas? Would it make him angry? Or would he be pleased? You have to go on tiptoes when you approach film directors, they're so touchy.

‘Tell me the rest of the story,' I said.

‘What?'

‘Let's go through the end of
Cheats
.'

He looked at me now as if he wasn't sure whether what had happened had happened because, well, those things happen, or whether I had only stripped off for him in order to get to play Amanda in his film. He shrugged and I suppose it didn't really matter.

‘Well, Amanda has put something in Ricky's drink and, in the bedroom, he falls into a deep sleep.'

‘Like Snow White?'

‘He wakes up with a pain in his chest. He's not sure where he is at first. Then he realises he is back in his own flat, in his own bed. There's a picture of Older Amanda in a frame beside him. The Girl is nowhere
to be seen. He pulls back the bedclothes and discovers that his chest is bandaged. There are spots of blood on the bandages. It's a total shock. It doesn't make sense.'

‘It's like Amanda's a doctor and she's stolen his organs or something,' I ventured.

‘That makes the surprise even better,' he replied. His eyes were glowing. ‘Ricky slips out of bed and in the bathroom, when he unwinds the bandages, there are big blue letters tattooed on his chest. It says the word TEACH. He keeps saying it. He studies the mirror for a long time before realising the C and the H are transposed in the reflection. He looks down and becomes aware that tattooed across his chest is the word CHEAT.'

‘Wow,' I said and exhaled a gasp of breath. ‘It's really a great story. Amanda is such a bitch.'

‘That's what makes her interesting.'

‘But how does she know about tattoos?'

He thought for a long time. ‘She just does,' he said.

‘And she's a lesbian?'

‘Yeah . . .'

‘Then maybe . . .'

He sat there quietly playing catch-up. I'd had my derrière flogged. I was shooting ahead, thinking clearly. Finally he grinned.

‘She should have a tattoo,' he said. He was sitting cross-legged, his hands pressed together in a spire, the diffusion of red light on his face giving him an impish appearance.

‘Brilliant,' I said. I was staring into his eyes, mesmerising my prey. ‘She's like a snake . . .'

‘That's just what I was thinking.'

‘If she had a snake on her leg,' I said, thinking through the sequence, ‘in the bar he would see the tail below her skirt . . .'

‘. . . and when she changes into the red kimono,' he added, ‘he'd see it climbing up her thigh . . .'

‘Yes, yes, yes.'

‘And when she's naked in the bedroom it would be . . .'

‘Wherever,' I said.

‘I can see it all now, of course,' he continued. ‘Amanda does have to sleep with Ricky.'

‘While the drug is taking effect,' I said.

‘Absolutely.'

‘If she doesn't, then Ricky's being punished with that awful tattoo when he hasn't really done anything to deserve it.'

‘Cause and effect,' he remarked.

‘It also gives the girl power in her relationship with the other Amanda.'

‘Really?' he said. The creases were back on his brow.

‘Yes, I think so,' I replied. ‘If she's a lesbian, then sleeping with Ricky will be a sacrifice, not a pleasure. She is doing it for the other Amanda, to show her that she really loves her. It's like Euripides, or something.'

‘Wow, yes,' he said, and gripped my shoulders. ‘Would you do it? I mean, nude scenes, pretending to have sex with Roddy Wise . . .'

‘Only if I get the part.'

He grinned. ‘Roddy will be up for it.'

We both laughed, and I thought it's nice when people laugh together, when lovers laugh together.

‘Amazing!' I said.

And it was. Just think, little Camilla Petacci from Saint Sebastian's was going to do it, or at least pretend to do it, with Roddy Wise.
The
Roddy Wise. A real celeb. I couldn't wait to tell Binky.

David rushed off and made coffee and we sat in the kitchen under a neon light, our heads pressed together as we read through the rest of the script.

‘Okay,' said David, ‘after he's found the tattoo on his chest . . .'

‘Fade to black,' David said.

‘It's so good.'

‘It can be, it can be now,' he added.

In his eyes as he stared at me across the table was trust and uncertainty, a bit like a puppy dog and, although I'd always suspected, I now knew for sure that with boys you have to let them believe they have the best ideas, pretend they know all the answers, ask subtle questions that make subtle suggestions, mould them like wet clay on a potter's wheel until they are ready for the oven. I gave him my big schoolgirl smile and we went back to the bedroom with the sweet musty smell of sperm in the air and the navy-blue sheets stained in patterns like an archipelago of islands on a dark sea, the red moon motionless on the ceiling.

I lay on my back with the pillow under my bottom. Like a thirsty creature at a salt lick, David spent hours drinking from my pussy and the thing about sex is it's a drug. The more you have the more you
want. The more you need. Like a drug, or so I'm told, except for a sip of wine and the occasional flute of shampoo, it's not something I really know anything about, but apparently, like a drug, when you're high on sex you have more energy. You see things differently. Colours are brighter. Jokes are funnier. Life is glorious. Look at the girl walking dreamily down the street, wide-eyed, tossing her mane, taking long slow strides, and you know she's fresh from carnal knowledge, her face radiant with promise, and a little anxious, too. Anxious for the next time.