Christmas Eve. A velvet box. A leather flogger. And the night that taught me what my body was really capable of.
I was twenty-three, broke as fuck, and staring at eighty-three quid in my bank account when my boss Jeff offered me five hundred pounds to deliver a Christmas gift to an old mate in Kensington. The catch? I had no idea what was in the box. The bigger catch? I didn’t care. I needed the money, I was curious, and I’d already fucked my way across four continents. How bad could it be?
Turns out the gift was a twelve-tail leather flogger. And Jeff’s “old mate” was Edmund Ashworth-Grey, a sixty-eight-year-old retired barrister living in a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park. Posh. Wealthy. Impeccably dressed. And very, very specific about what he wanted from me.
Edmund didn’t want to fuck me. He wanted to watch. To orchestrate. To restrain me on a St Andrew’s Cross in his private playroom and show me what happens when pain is applied with precision, care, and absolute control. The flogger. Nipple clamps. A Wartenberg wheel dragged across sensitised skin. And his voice, calm and commanding, telling me exactly when I was allowed to cum.
I came from pain alone. No clit stimulation. No penetration. Just his hand on the chain between the clamps and my body deciding that everything I thought I knew about pleasure was wrong. That was the first orgasm. There were four more before the night ended.
Then came the masked man. Tall, muscular, anonymous, his face completely hidden behind black leather. Edmund brought him in to fuck me whilst I was restrained on a bench, legs spread by a bar, wrists bound behind my back. I never saw his face. Never heard his voice. Just felt his cock in my cunt, then my arse, whilst Edmund sat fully clothed in his burgundy armchair, sipping whisky and watching every second.
This isn’t a love story. This is a confession about the night I discovered real BDSM, the kind administered by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and takes aftercare as seriously as the pain itself. Edmund taught me that surrender can be a choice. That my body could take more than I ever thought possible. That pain, done right, transforms into something else entirely.
The welts faded within a week. The soreness lasted longer. The memory? That’s permanent. I still think about the masked man constantly, wondering who he was, knowing I’ll never find out. I think about Edmund’s calm voice telling me I was magnificent whilst I hung there crying and cumming and completely wrecked.
I woke up Christmas morning in his guest room with fifteen hundred pounds on the bedside table, paracetamol for the soreness, and a new understanding of what I’m capable of when I stop performing and just feel.
This is hardcore BDSM erotica. Explicit, intense, and unapologetically filthy. Themes include voyeurism, anonymous sex, significant age gaps, wealth disparity, consensual pain play, restraint, and complete submission. If you’re looking for gentle and romantic, this isn’t it. If you want to know what it feels like to be flogged by an expert whilst a stranger watches and a masked man fucks you senseless, welcome. Pour yourself a drink and settle in.
This is Lily’s Special Delivery. And I regret absolutely nothing.
Out now (published 10th April) – on Amazon eBook, and free to read on Kindle Unlimited. UK AMAZON | USA AMAZON | CANADA AMAZON | AUSTRALIA AMAZON
