So, we’re in the kitchen. It’s cosy and warm even though I’m either nude or near-nude. The kitchen, like the livingroom, has ethnic touches to it, a style which is similar to my own. Though mine is less subtle and more opulent. Roland was all “finish your coffee and then we can go back in the living room,” and I realised I had to stall him further; this was becoming interesting! Like a real cat and mouse game. I started pretending I’d been abducted by him and was now in the abducter’s house. (I just started giggling while typing and kind of lost my train of thought.)
I said, “What if I didn’t want to?”
“Well, then I’m not sure it would be a good idea to continue with this,” he said.
I was quite horrified by the thought of losing the remaining £6,000 and asked “So you wouldn’t pay me the rest?”
“Well I’d pay you for tonight, but I wouldn’t want to continue – I’m not sure,” he said.
I hadn’t realised he would discard me so easily if I disappointed him. However, all my efforts to find out if he would 100% certainly call it off failed – he refused to answer, saying that oif he answered, it would be coercion and he couldn’t do real coercion. But I had to know, so I could make a calculated decision! But he would only give me that response. Then I realised that he wouldn’t be dropping me as a defective hooker, but instead stopping it because of concern that my heart wasn’t really in it. Roland told me not to force myself to do it, and if I couldn’t then it was okay and we could discuss whether it should continue later. His insinuation that I wasn’t capable of it irritated me slightly and so I decided to prove him wrong.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Are you sure? You’re not just doing it to please me? Or to prove to me you can do it?”
“No, I want to.”
“Are you sure you really want to?” he said, with irritating perceptiveness.
I assured him that I did, and I did feel sure; I had made up my mind now.I asked Roland for some drink so it’d be easier and he got me whiskey but it tasted horrible even though it was expensive so I gave him the rest of the glass.
I was taking stuff out of my bag and showing Roland the goodies – the strawberry and cream sauce I’d brought in case of this eventuality, and this really cool anal bead vibrator. He liked them. Then I took out the firelighter (for heating up stuff like frying pans etc) and the needles. (I’d got the needles so he could prick my bum or I could stab them into his thick, fleshy cock or drop them down the hole at the tip and see what happens.) I saved the best for last.
It was a cheap knife from the local supermarket, decorated with sequins.
Roland was surprised by it, I could tell. This delighted me, as I have sadistic thoughts towards him. I had been very much looking forward to him being surprised. It’s one of my favourite benefits if not being a ‘real’ prossie – you can mentally torture them a little bit without worrying that you won’t get business again. More generally, there’s room for your own kinks. Roland asked me what the knife was for. I don’t really know what I answered. “As much as I can legally get away with” wasn’t a good answer if I wanted the rest of the money. I felt so powerful wielding the blade, even though it was much too cheap and of a general/utility design to cause more than a scratch. There was little real balance to it.
Slowly, I reached out and put the blade to his neck. It felt as good as I’d always dreamed, even though he did not fear it. I was almost panting with lust as I held it to the other side of his throat, then dragged the knife down his body, slowly, holding his gaze the whole time. He was looking at me with an interested expression, and his lack of fear was annoying, but also – for practical purposes – liberating, as I didn’t have to worry about stopping what I was doing to keep him around for the 6k. I dragged the flat edge down to his crotch and held it there, then withdrew the knife.
Roland asked for it and examined it, then he pointed it at me and I went back behind the door and closed it. He came in and I took off through another door and fell down a couple of steps into the garage, cutting my foot a little. (I’ve no idea why I did that). “Come here,” he said. My foot really hurt a lot.
He took the needles, sauce, cream and stuff into the front room, setting them on a tray on a coffee table. The fire was blazing brightly, the flames dancing as if wildly excited. I tried to make a run for it but Roland caught me easily before I’d gone two steps, wrapping his arms around me.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said, laughing. Roland made me bend over a footstool to spank me.
“But you can’t spank me now, I’m full of coffee!” I whined.
Roland laughed, “That is a pathetic excuse!” He gave me a few hard whacks; it stung quite a bit.
Roland sat on the sofa and pulled me over his lap, spanking quite hard now. My face was in a cushion with a nice exotic design. The spanking was very pleasurable and relaxing. Suddenly a tray fell onto the floor and Roland went to clear it up.
From my perch on the sofa, I said, “Maybe it’s a sign we shouldn’t do this.” “Maybe it’s a sign that I shouldn’t put this too close to the edge,” he said. I saw my chance for escape, and I casually climbed off the sofa and walked near him to the door, helping him tidy up. Then I made a break for it, bolting upstairs. I tried to find somewhere to hide, but after going back and forth, concluded that one end was a dead-end. I suppose subconciously I wasn’t intending to hide from him, which is why I never tried any of the doors except maybe one. Roland came running upstairs and I was cornered.