“Anyway, a contract wouldn’t be a good idea, because it’d be evidence. If we got found out. And you’d have more to lose than me,” I added smugly, “Cos nobody cares what a student does. Even if I was famous in future, they’d be just like, ‘oh, she was a student, she was just doing it for the money. But you’re a businessman. That’s a scandal.” I let the word drip with luscious shame and it hung in the air between us.
“Oh yes, I would be the bad guy,” he smirked, “Corrupting an innocent young student. A pervert preying on a helpless young girl.” (Or something like that – I make no guarantee that I remember every word correctly in this scene, or in the rest of this blog; I also omit conversations which repeat themes, facts or content, as my conversations with Roland were occassionally repetitive, probably because of the nature of the situation.)
This made me smile.
We stopped at Roland’s studio so he could get his photography equipment to shoot me in his office. While we were in the studio, I sat on the tiny sofa where he had given me my first spanking around two weeks before. We chatted a bit about the spanking and I admitted that I’d felt a bit confused and mixed-up immediately afterwards because I hadn’t realised that something so pleasurable could be free and so easy to do. I had been unprepared for how satisfying and wonderful it felt. He had finally given me what I’d fantasised, written and drawn about since I was 9 years and 2 months old. And it had been better than that time I’d spanked a guy. Roland laughed when I told him that.
“You want to spank me now?” I asked, and he went out into the corridor to check and said people would hear it. He came back in and made me strip like a dirty little prostitute. He grabbed me around the waist, his hands rubbing and feeling my whole body; I must’ve looked stunning to him in my red lacy underwear so I’m not surprised he did that. It was very tickly, and painful and delightful all at the same time. Roland squeezed, pinched and stroked me, saying “Is this what’s for sale? Let’s see this body then.” I wriggled as he examined me. It was so debasing and entertaining to be treated as a commodity, a mere product, like a red Ferrari or something. Something to be inspected, looked at from every angle, test driven. You might wonder how a feminist – I’ll post more on my views, research, and political beliefs later – could possibly be aroused and intellectually stimulated by a man treating her as a possession. Surely, any woman (and indeed regular man) with half a brain cell would be horrified at reading this blog. But I think the enjoyment was possible because I knew he didn’t really see me that way; he sees me as a person and he knows my thoughts and personality, interests, views and hobbies. It was also pretty funny because it was really tickly so I was giggling and squirming a lot.
He made me sit on the sofa, saying “look what the uni dragged in,” and set up his camcorder. He started filming me, interrogating me about selling my virginity to him. The special photography light was shining in my face as he gave me the third degree while filming my responses.
I said this must be how people in Saudi Arabia feel (before being hypothetically spanked by the police) and then said I knew this was inapproriate to joke about; I cut that fantasy short because I had a bad experience with discovering one of my BDSM torture fantasies to be actually true in a neighbouring country to Saudi Arabia.
Anyway, he made me confess to prostituting myself and then I asked him to stick the radio’s little plug in my butt, and it hurt quite a lot, it was uncomfortable but also very satisfying. Then we drove to his office.