Impala

Number 49 was not what she had expected. A small anonymous terraced house in a line of other anonymous houses. The plastic windows didn't seem like something he would have chosen.

Lena rang the bell and waited. The house was entirely devoid of life. She no longer understood why she had come. She was tempted to turn away.

Then someone was working the locks. A moment later his soft serious face was looking down at her.

"You came," he said.

And he smiled.

"You're sure you want to come in?"

The party had already been winding down when she first noticed him. The girl draped round his neck was much younger than he was. As the music ended he detached himself and moved over to the drinks where Lena was standing. The girl continued to turn slowly to the music in a willowy bubble of her own. Lena was a little drunk. She wasn't conscious of their conversation starting. It seemed to have begun in the middle.

"I know, I know," he said, selecting an open bottle of Malbec. "She's far too young. I should be ashamed of myself."

"But I'm guessing you're not", Lena said.

"Not in the least. Top up?"

Lena offered her glass.

"What are you wearing under that dress?"

Lena smiled over the rim of her glass. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He stopped pouring abruptly.

"Yes. That's why I asked."

His tone had hardened. The effect was immediate. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Lena looked at him in surprise.

"This is where you tell me what you're wearing and something interesting happens. Or you decide not to tell me and life goes back to being ordinary."

For a moment she was incapable of speech.

It came to her she didn't have to say anything. She could simply turn away.

"Lace briefs," she said. "And a bra."

He seemed to consider this.

"Show me."

The room was emptying slowly. But a few people hung on reluctant to abandon the embers of the party. A couple stood unmoving on the dancefloor, locked in an embrace. A girl reached past Lena, looked at the open bottles, then moved away empty handed.

"Show me."

Lena could feel her heart beating. His young partner was still dancing, lost in the music.

He was watching Lena carefully.

Slowly she reached to her neckline and pulled aside the dress to reveal a thin strap and part of the lacy cup.

There was no acknowledgement. It was as if she hadn't moved. He waited.

The world seemed to stop. Lena forced herself to breathe. Something ballooned in her chest.

She took the edge of the cup and lowered it.

"Never choose ordinary", he said. "Promise me."

Lena nodded.

Later, as he was leaving, he gave her a card.

"Come and see me ", he said. "But only if you're serious."

She'd waited a week before calling the number.

She had been wrong about the house. The room was tiny - even smaller than the exterior of the terrace had suggested. But it wasn't what she had imagined. The walls were covered in paintings. A powerfully breaking wave hung on the chimney breast, the oil paint loaded onto the canvas with a palette knife. The narrow alcoves on either side of the stove were filled with books. A small but beautiful antique rug lay on the floor.

He took her coat, laid it over the back of a chair and moved past her onto a sofa.

He hadn't asked her to sit. She found herself standing in front of him staring at an old cartoon above his head. Characters in wigs and frock coats.

She expected him to take her hand then, to bring her down onto the sofa - though somehow when she imagined this encounter, in the familiar surroundings of her own room, the details of these opening stages had refused to come into focus.

He seemed content to let the silence go on indefinitely. Lena wondered if she had made a mistake.

"Lift your skirt for me," he said.

The night before she had dreamed of the African plains. In the final hour before bed she chanced on a documentary about a pride of lions. One sequence stuck with her. A lone bachelor male came across an injured impala. It was clear what would happen from the outset. Normally she would have switched channels but there was something about the inevitability of the unfolding drama which obliged her to watch.

The lion seemed surprised the impala did not flee. The camera was close enough to see the frightened stare of the antelope. The taught musculature of the big cat. There was a moment of unexpected stillness. And then the lion exploded into life. The massive jaws closed on the extended neck of the impala. She watched the eyes dull as the life drained out of it. As it died Lena felt herself grow weak.

Later, she woke in her bed in sheets soaked with her own sweat. She was astonished to find herself aroused. Her hands moved between her legs. She climaxed quickly, her nostrils filled with the dust and the animal heat of the plains.

He was watching her carefully. She could reach the door in two strides. Turn the handle, step out into the freedom of the street and fill her lungs with the night air.

But in the tiny room a vast empty space seemed to have opened around her. There was no way of crossing it.

And then because she had chosen this - hadn't she? - she reached down and took the hem of her skirt.

The skirt was tight. Lifting it was difficult but she peeled it back to expose the tops of her hold-ups and a glimpse of her mound encased in black silk.

"I'm not easy to please", he said. "I think you can do better than that."

She tried again. This time working the skirt over her thighs until it was inside out.

"You have good legs", she heard him say. She felt absurdly grateful.

"Open them for me."

Another point of no return.

He still hadn't touched her.

"I think we need some music" he said.

He moved past her and began to busy himself with the stereo. "I'd like you to keep still," he said. Each sentence was like a soft restraint, limiting her movement.

So she remained where she was, standing, legs apart in front of the cartoon.

She would have liked to take off her shoes. Her ankles were beginning to ache. But he'd asked her to wear the heels. Taking them off now would be a mistake.

The room filled with what sounded to her like church music. A choir. Long looping phrases that wrapped around each other and pressed themselves into the corners of the room. She felt herself enfolded by the sound. And then he had slipped by her and was seated again, looking not up at her exactly, but straight ahead levelling his gaze at her parted legs. He was cradling a glass of wine in his hand.

He took a sip and considered the glass, letting the wine swirl in the bowl.

"Here", he said. "Try this".

She took the glass gratefully. Her hand was unsteady. But she managed a sip.

"Not like that", he said. "I'd like you to drink all of it."

"But I can't -" she started to say.

Before she could say another word he'd reached for her, slipping his hand between her legs, pushing aside the flimsy lace. He had two fingers inside her. It was accomplished so deftly she had no time to withdraw.

She felt suddenly ashamed at the way her body had betrayed her.

She was still holding the wine.

His thumb found her swollen clitoris.

"Drink it for me."

She lifted the glass to her lips.

The sensations threatened to overwhelm her, the wine sliding down her throat, the hand working between her legs.

He was talking again. She had to force herself to concentrate.

"I could tell you about how this is going to work, about doing what I ask, but I think you understand that already. Or at least this lovely cunt does, which is all that really matters here."

He released her. Lifted his hand to her lips.

Cunt, he'd said. Her lovely cunt.

She dipped her head and took his fingers into her mouth. She could taste herself.

"Good girl," he said.

Then he replaced his had between her legs. She gasped as the fingers slid effortlessly inside.

"In a moment I'm going to spank you," he said. "Not because you've done anything wrong but because it's important you understand that for now you've given yourself over to me and I can do whatever I choose. Let me take that glass."

She handed it over. He set it down without releasing her.

Her legs had begun to shake.

"Not yet," he said. "I don't want you to come yet."

She slipped her tongue between her teeth and began to bite down. His hand was still working between her legs.

"Spank is such a stupid word" he said. "But what else should we say? Slap? I don't think so. Besides, slap suggests a hand and I'm not going to use my hand."

The shaking in her legs was becoming difficult to control. She bit down harder.

Tasted blood.

He was on his feet now.

"Kneel down for me."

Lena sank onto the rug in front of him.

"You can take it out," he said.

She did as she was asked, opening the zip and reaching inside to where the cock was resting heavily against his upper thigh. As she released him the head rose to meet her, a single jewel of moisture at its tip. She stared at the precious drop of liquid, mesmerised by the way it seemed to gather light into itself. Then, without conscious thought, her lips parted and she reached forward.

"Not yet", he said. "That comes later. But you may kiss it."

She dipped her head. As she planted the smallest of kisses on the tip her tongue darted between her lips. When she withdrew the drop had gone.

"Undo my belt" he said.

Her fingers struggled with the buckle but it came free at last. Her mind was racing. Not his hand. That's what he'd said.

The thin leather slipped through the belt loops with surprising ease. She wondered if it would hurt. And then thought, how stupid. Of course it would hurt.

He continued with his instructions.

"Fold it in two".

She took the buckle in her hand, brought the tongue to join it. "Hand it to me."

Again, she did as he asked.

"You can take off the briefs," he said.

She slid the lace over her cheeks, and stepped out of them. She felt vulnerable, exposed.

He stood up. Placed her centrally on the rug.

"Put your hands on your knees."

He spent some time placing her just where he wanted.

"I'd like you to keep your legs straight. And not to make a sound," he said.

His touch as he adjusted her position was gentle. Turning her a few degrees away from him. Making sure he had room. When he was satisfied he stood back.

Her breathing had grown shallow. Panic was starting to take hold.

Now he was speaking again.

"The marks will fade in a day or two but until then you might want to be careful where you undress."

A familiar voice was clamouring in her head.

"Let's begin, shall we?"

Why? Why was she here?

It wasn't too late.

She could stop this...

She heard the leather belt cut the air. And then - in the space between the sound of the strap and the instant of its arrival - she understood. She saw with great clarity that from this moment her life would be a search for intensity. Here it was now, in this tiny room, distilled to a purity she could not have imagined, concentrated to a single shining drop.

Lena closed her eyes.

The strap met her flesh with a sound like a rifle shot.

Light exploded on her tongue.