7. Catriona
Seven
Catriona
The fifty-minute brisk walk through Dublin city centre and up the Fairview has done nothing to cool my blood as I lock myself in my apartment. It’s the second time Rian has mentioned spanking – the second time I’ve ruined my panties at the thought of it.
What is wrong with me?
And are there really clubs like that, in little old Dublin?
Maybe I just need to get laid. I snort. It would require either going out or signing up to one of those dating apps – none of which I have time for. Over the years, I’ve had a couple of boyfriends. Neither of them developed into anything serious, mainly because of complaints that they never saw me.
My social life has never been great. I have a few friends from school, but it’s difficult to fit them into my tight work schedule, always working late or working from home, as well as visiting Daniel at least a couple of times a week.
And being constantly broke doesn’t really make it easy to accept going for dinner or drinks.
I do avail of the occasional free outdoor concert at Phoenix Park and the like – or even one of the free tickets from KSS, but I can’t only do free stuff.
Perhaps embarrassment over my lack of money is keeping me from socialising with colleagues?
Of course it’s more than that. I sigh and drop my keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter.
I have a fear of getting emotionally attached to colleagues.
Fear of an emotional attachment that might eventually backfire and ruin my career.
Like it did for my mum.
No, my career is most important. I can cope with not having friends.
I slip out of my jacket and look around my tiny, open-plan, one-bedroom apartment – the reason for my bad financial situation.
Before I bought it, I rented a bedsit in the same building for two years, but on the other side of the hallway – the side the sun hardly ever reaches and the small windows overlooking the car park made me feel trapped.
On the sunny side of the hallway, the apartments don’t only have views overlooking Clontarf Golf Club – and the rail tracks – but they also have balconies.
Such a luxury after growing up in a council flat in Finglas.
So when one came on the market at the same time as rumours of promotions started to surface at work, I jumped at the opportunity.
It seemed like the sensible, grown-up thing to do, to invest in property, even with the Dublin property prices.
My new salary would just about cover the mortgage.
Only I didn’t get promoted.
I was the owner of an apartment I couldn’t afford.
Every penny I earn is spent on the mortgage and other house-related bills. I try to tell myself that the tranquillity and peace I feel here are worth it.
It’s even worth hardly having time for friends.
I suppress the unwelcome twitch in my stomach and take in my beloved exposed red brick wall that gives the apartment a warm, cosy atmosphere.
A few wall-hung shelves with books and green plants complete the look.
The small balcony has enough space for a tiny table and two chairs.
It is perfect, I tell myself. My little piece of heaven.
In the bedroom, I slip out of my work clothes and tuck my panties deep in the laundry basket.
My naked body is reflected in the mirror.
I release my hair, let it uncoil in long, blonde waves.
Twisting sideways, I trace the slope of my lower back and the curve of my bum.
I slap it. The dull sound only fills me with embarrassment, and I quickly crawl under the covers.
It didn’t even sting. Will I like it if it does, if my skin turns rosy with heat?
If Rian had me over his lap?
My legs rub together and I squeeze my breast. Would I fight him?
Would he have to hold me down? …pull my hair?
Will he push my trousers and panties down to my knees, or have me completely naked, writhing on his lap?
I turn over on my stomach and rub my thighs against the sheets, imagining it’s the coarse fabric of his trousers.
Would my bare torso jolt over his legs with each slap?
Will I like it when he holds me down so firmly, controlling me?
Disciplining me. I reach between my legs and pinch my clit. “You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
“Fuck!” I moan loudly, my fingers sinking deep between my wet folds as I imagine my boss forcing me down on all fours on the floor, forcing his way into me from behind, taking what he wants from me, slapping my already burning arse.
Two of my digits breach my wanton hole while I rub my clit with my thumb, my bum up in the air, like it would be with him behind me.
“Oh, fuck!” This is going to be fast, so fast. I twist my head to the side and my knees slide along the sheets, spreading wide as I find a pulsing rhythm.
He would reach so deep, fill me up while swearing and shouting my name.
“Fuck, Catriona, you feel so good.” Harder, faster, his groin slapping against my burning backside.
“Ah…ah…” All my muscles tense, suspended for a few seconds on the crest. I tumble over, shaking as my release hits me.
The images in my head fade as my pulse slows. I press my face into the mattress and groan in anger. I should not fantasise about my boss!
At least they’re only sexual fantasies and not romantic delusions. Christ, I practically hate the man. But hate sex is supposed to be hot…