Cindy's crying but it ain't no use,
She's got a habit and she can't get loose.
- Tom Paxton
*
There is inside the most innocent of us, a darkness that we are reluctant to admit to. Each of us is like a coin, double sided, or maybe like a jewel, where only certain parts catch the light and are visible, not only to others, but often to ourselves. The remainder hides in the dark.
I was brought up in what today seems to be a rather old fashioned way, in that from an early age it was drummed into me that boys did not hit girls, men did not hit women. Indeed, this was so often repeated to me in my childhood that even today it forms a major part of my psychological make up. I have never raised my hand to a woman in my life, and I don't believe that I ever could unless it was in extreme self defence and I was literally in fear of being killed or seriously injured. Likewise, I have nothing but contempt for those men who think that it's alright to slap a woman around, keep them in line, because to me these inadequate cowards are not real men, however well muscled they may be, they are just small schoolyard bullies hiding behind their fists with someone weaker than themselves. Women, to me, are there to be treated as ladies unless they demonstrate themselves to be something else. Unfortunately, an increasing number of modern women seem hell bent on proving themselves to be anything but ladies, with their foul mouths and beer swilling habits, their insistence on the right to tattoo their bodies and dress like hookers, but still be treated with respect. I blame feminism, but I digress here. This is not about women in general, but about one particular woman.
I said earlier that I had never hit a woman in my life. This is not strictly true, I have never used violence against a woman for the sake of it, or because of my own inadequacies, but there was one incident, one brief moment, when things slipped and I looked deep into the shadows.
I met Cindy at a party, one of those bring a bottle affairs in a somewhat upmarket part of town, where the hosts were not quite high enough up the social ladder to serve canapés and cocktails but not quite in the cheap wine and spin a bottle category either. They were a young couple climbing the social ladder, but with their feet still on one of the lower rungs, and this was a housewarming party after they had pooled their joint salaries to afford the best that they could, even though it would mean living on beans for a few years.
The party was pretty mediocre, as parties go. I knew few of the people there, and most of them bored me. It was while I was wandering rather aimlessly from room to room, looking for something to capture my attention, that I found myself chatting to Cindy. She'd arrived with a friend, but the friend had soon found an unattached man to flutter her eyelashes at, and, like myself, Cindy was left at something of a loose end.
She intrigued me from the start. She was probably in her mid twenties, but with a look in her eyes that said she was much older inside than out. She was attractive enough, with a mop of dark curly hair falling naturally over her shoulders, smartly but casually dressed in a well cut trouser suit that showed off her trim figure to perfection, and outwardly friendly. There was, however, an air about her, a feeling similar to the one that you get when looking through the bars at a caged animal. I was simultaneously attracted but also slightly repelled by her, and I couldn't quite put my finger on the source of my unease. In the end, the attraction won, for a while at least.
She was as bored with the party as I was, and eager for company, so we talked and laughed together for a while, then as the party broke up we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet up for a drink together sometime. I phoned her a few days later and we began seeing each other regularly, usually going to quiet bars or small cosy restaurants. I liked her a lot, but always I was aware of that brittle edge to her, that tautness in her manner that made me think before I spoke every time.
She shared an apartment with another girl, so if we wanted to be alone we went to my place. We didn't sleep together for a while, there was something about her that made me wary of even broaching the subject, but we enjoyed each other's company and she always kissed me passionately when she left to go home to her own place. It wasn't until we'd spent an evening on the couch together drinking wine and watching a movie that we began to get rather hot with each other, and I asked her if she'd like to take it further, to stay the night, or at least to go to bed with me.
She broke off from the clinch and looked at me, not in a shy way, or nervous, more a calculating look, as if she was seeing me for the first time and weighing me up.
"O.K." she said "If you're sure."
This was the kind of thing I usually said to the women, so I was a bit surprised. I mean guys are supposed to be up for it all the time, right? And here she was, treating me like I was a shy virgin or something. I didn't say anything, just kissed her and led her into the bedroom.
Now I am not one to brag, but I have had my fair share of fun between the sheets and I like to think that I know what I'm doing when it comes to pleasuring a woman. I know where to stroke, where to kiss, where to lick and nuzzle. I can be slow and gentle or fast and passionate; I know exactly how to push the right buttons to turn on the responses.
But nothing worked with Cindy. Absolutely nothing.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I have to tell you about the marks.
I started to gently undress her, but she pushed me away and stripped off her clothes herself in an almost bored way. When she was completely naked, she turned to face me, and then turned her back to me, and I sucked my breath in sharply.
She was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, the most perfect body that I have seen in the flesh.
She was also covered in marks, like old small scars, on her back, buttocks, thighs, legs, breasts. They were hardly noticeable unless you were really looking for them, but after you'd seen a few then more and more would become obvious.
"What the hell happened?" I asked "Were you in some sort of accident?"
"No, nothing like that," she replied quietly "I'll tell you about it some other time, OK? Meanwhile don't worry about it, just come to bed and enjoy me."
So we went to bed, but I can't say I really enjoyed it. Oh sure, we had sex, and I petted her, kissed and caressed her nipples, stroked her clitoris with my fingers then went down on her and tongued her wet slit as she lay back, and I entered her and rode her welcoming hips, thrusting my cock into her with long, slow strokes, gradually building to a passionate gallop and emptying my hot cum deep into her as she bucked and writhed under me.
But all the while I was aware that something was missing. For a start, she didn't cum herself, although she encouraged me to. She seemed to enjoy it, but in a detached way, and although she made all the right moves there seemed to be no passion in it, no fire. I was puzzled to hell. Usually the women I slept with gave far more of a response, and the ones who couldn't, or didn't, generally wouldn't go to bed with me anyhow.
Over the next couple of weeks we went to bed several more times, trying different positions, exploring each other, but still she didn't orgasm with me. I got a better look at her body too, and realised that the small marks were indeed old scars. I still had no idea what had made them though.
It was maybe two or three weeks after our first sexual session that she opened up to me, but that was after a more than usually successful encounter.
"John," she asked as we undressed "do you think you could be a bit...well...rougher?"
"How rough?" I asked. There had been one or two who liked me to fuck them hard and fast rather than have long slow foreplay followed by gentle love making. If that was what turned her on, I was OK with it.
"Could you spank me maybe?" she asked.
"Spank you? Well I'm not really into that but sure, if you want me to, I could give it a try."
"Great!" she answered, and making me sit naked on the bed, she bent herself over my knee, her plump bottom raised over my lap, ivory pink and inviting.
"Come on then! Spank me John." She said excitedly.
I raised my right hand and gave her a playful open palm slap on her right buttock.
