Have you had trouble finding stories about sadomasochism, or any type of BDSM that isn't dom/sub? Or an SM story that is both non-abusive and in the real world? You may enjoy this one.
Richie and Rachel have appeared in several of my other stories, set both before and after this, so at some point they must have met for the first time...
Submitted as part of the
Pink Orchid 2024 for Women-Centric Erotica Challenge
collection, for sex positivity and women as the subjects of their own lives.
___
Accredited Sadist
Another Wednesday afternoon; another outside speaker giving us a lecture. Graduate students like me were 'strongly encouraged' to attend.
This guy -- Richard, according to our host -- hadn't bothered with the ironed shirt and slacks most externals went for. His well-worn Doc Marten boots accompanied faded black jeans, grey T-shirt, and long reddish-gold hair tied in a low pigtail. He was English, so he'd at least be somewhat comprehensible, unlike the Spanish guy from last week. I'm not sure that poor chap had had any audience by the end.
Richard's intro was typical. He listed his current lab colleagues. He'd done his PhD at Columbia, was working as a postdoc at Cold Spring Harbor, and was now revisiting England to make contacts, in the hope of gaining a position in a years' time. He liked New York, but after his current contract, he wanted to settle back in the UK.
His next slide, a whistle-stop biography, included his preferred name. His undergrad had been at Cambridge, apparently. The combination triggered connections in my brain.
Laura, my friend and mentor, had attended the same Cambridge college. She must be a similar age.
I leaned forward and surreptitiously texted her. 'Is "Richie Pardoe" your old mate Richie?' She'd shared several anecdotes about her friend, usually where she called him a 'right bastard'.
Her instant response read, 'Yes. Why?'
'He's lecturing us this minute.' He was explaining his field, speaking to the clock above the door, as so many speakers did.
'Hope he's not sounding too arrogant. It's his only tone of voice.' She sent another message: 'You could impress him. Ask how he's controlled for his cells being a mixed population. He's dead proud of that. Whatever it means!'
Twenty minutes later, that sentence made sense. I'd have wondered, even without the prompt. So at the end, I asked him the question. He seemed genuinely delighted someone had paid attention, and to have the chance to show off more of his work. The senior staff around, some who'd clearly disapproved of his attire, not to mention his multiple ear piercings, began to look more impressed.
Laura said Richie only
meant
to be rude to people about half the time. Just that he had 'the tact and social skills of your average brick'.
I got another text. 'Tell him you know me. And exactly how, if you like.'
She sent a follow-up: 'He's totally trustworthy, if you wanted to play with him.'
She meant BDSM. Laura and him used to do kinky stuff together, until he moved to America. Perhaps, occasionally, since? She'd advised me, also about five years ago now, on how to find safe kinksters to experiment with. I'd been young and inexperienced, then.
I tended to avoid men, certainly for kink. Entitled bastards, even if they weren't the fuckers rife at clubs, who just wanted to abuse a woman. But, given a recommendation...
It had been a while. I wouldn't rule it out.
I found him in the bar, after. I asked more questions about his cell cultures, because that's my thing. He seemed perfectly happy to chat to me about work, not just to the great and the good that he'd come here to schmooze. Blunt, but focused. I liked that. There was a lull, as one guy left. "What's your name?" Richie finally asked.
"Rachel Walker." I wondered what Laura might have told him about me. I'd lost my sapphic virginity to her, after all. "I'm a friend of your mate, Laura Silsden."
He blinked, failing to keep his pale angular face impassive. The guy hadn't smiled at the people he'd wanted to impress, nor exposed many other facial expressions, but
that
got a reaction! He took out a business card, scrawled on the back. "Test that."
I messaged the phone number. It went through. He nodded. "I'll call you, later."
The hotshots and the lab head who'd invited him wanted to take over the conversation, so I toddled off. Back to my lab, to finish my prep for tomorrow's experiment.
I was startled when my phone rang. It hadn't been an hour.
"Hi. Richie. I've had enough here. I'm going down the Royal Fusilier for a quiet pint. Want to join me?"
"I've got about twenty more minutes to do, here."
"That's fine. See ya."
I had to warn him about the flat-roofed pub by the station. "Are you sure you want to go to the Fusilier? It's not very friendly to anyone with long hair. Or an IQ above room temperature, actually."
"Exactly. Quiet. No scientists. I've been on my best behaviour for them, all bloody day! I'll be fine. What do you drink?"
"Half a cider," I replied, automatically.
"In a bit, then." He hung up.
I decided I'd better wander down to the pub, to double-check he'd not been beaten up.
It was a pleasant surprise to see a dozen no-necked clientele at the far end of the room, while Richie propped up the bar, sitting with a view of the entrance. Reading a couple journal reprints, of all things. Probably the only literature, other than the
Sun
or the
Daily Sport,
that'd ever been in the place.
The barman looked confused, then glanced at Richie, who nodded. A glass of cider was pushed towards him. I was glad of my walking boots and leather jacket; between me and Richie, we managed to exude vibes of 'just ignore us and no-one'll get hurt.'
"Ah, peace! Cheers," Richie went, clinking my glass. "I mean, I love science, like, but one needs a break from all the people. Fucking swarms of them, with all their questions... Anyway. Laura says we have a hobby in common. Is that right?"
I spluttered. It was only my second mouthful! "As in, playing?" I checked, but no-one was within twelve feet of us.
"Yeah. Kinky shit. Laura said you got in with the SM Dykes. What are you into?"
"Me? A lot. You?" I wasn't admitting to my filthy habits first.
He gave a wee shrug. An even tinier sideways glance to confirm the barman was out of earshot. "Restraints, beating, spanking. Clamps, toys. Some dom/sub stuff, mainly plain top/bottom, me generally the top."
"Er, yeah. Me too, pretty much. More often the bottom, not necessarily submissive." I tried to sound as casual as he did.
He slurped his pint. "Huh. Interested? I assume Laura's given me a good reference." His impassive face changed to a grimace. "I'm staying at the Sleepylodge by the next station. A bit tacky, but I'm guessing you live in a shared house."
"I do. With thin walls."
I hadn't had sex for a couple months, a good beating not in a fair bit more. I didn't normally go for men, with all their cock obsession and male prerogative beliefs, but occasionally one seemed interesting...
"So. Want to come by?" Richie seemed to think he was God's gift to science, but came across as just factual, when talking of anything else.
"Yeah. You're on. That's about ten minutes walk from my house," I explained.
The locals suddenly noticed that someone with tits and a cunt had invaded their territory. A pair were approaching. "Come on, let's go." I prayed Richie would follow.
Richie nodded respectfully to the aggressive chavs, then waved to the barman, calmly calling out his thanks. They all stood still, puzzled, for just long enough for us to exit.
Outside, with definitely no-one listening, Richie shrugged. "I don't normally do high-speed negotiations, really. Honest! How about you pick up some toys, whatever you like, and come over when you're ready. Once you've eaten. And we'll chat. Maybe more? Hopefully more."
"That works. Laura says you're totally trustworthy."
He smiled. Given his serious face all afternoon, it was nice to see he could. "Good. I try. Though you should be aware, I'm not a murderer or torturer or rapist: she's right. But I
am
a complete bastard."
I exhaled. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?" I liked this straightforward discussion.
"Ah. Yes." That smile widened.
I let him get the train. I went home, knocked back some leftovers, and chucked some favourite toys in a bag. An hour after we separated, I stood in the chipped-melamine Sleepylodge foyer, phoning the newest number in my Contacts.
"I can't open the security door to let you in, not unless he comes down," said the jobsworth on the reception desk, again.
Richie heard. "Arse. Like this place isn't aimed at the sex-work job market!" An exaggerated sigh. "One mo, I'll come down."
He'd showered. I could tell, because his long hair was damp, brushed out and tied back with a velvet scrunchie. Also because he'd flung on his jeans and boots, but not bothered to replace his T-shirt.
The guy's bare torso wasn't exactly muscular, but the glistening water and a huge helping of don't-give-a-fuck made him oddly attractive as he stomped through the door. He glared at the receptionist, holding the door pointedly open for me to walk through.
I didn't expect Richie's first act, when we were alone in the hotel room together.
He put on a shirt.
I didn't object. Rolled-up sleeves are always sexy as hell.
His words, when he spoke, weren't as confident as when he'd talked about his science. "Right. OK. You want to put yourself at my mercy, yeah? Best have a little chat about that, eh? Hm?"
I sat down on the end of the bed, there being nowhere else. Sleepylodges bill themselves as no-frills and clean. They manage the first bit consistently. This one, amazingly, had mostly managed the second.
Richie sat next to me, looking straight ahead to the TV. "I can probably provide whatever you want. Need. You sound like you actually know what you're talking about. Not just 'tried a few slaps on the arse with a Woman's Weekly'?"
"Yeah." It was so freeing, being able to admit it. "I really like someone hurting me, in the right ways."
"Uh-huh. It's great fun doing it, to someone wanting it. Asking for it, anyhow. Those mixed feelings... Tell me, what do you really want? Don't worry, I'll just say no if I'm not into it. I'm unshockable." Another of those tiny personal smiles. "People
