Switch - a full length bdsm erotic novel by Clarice Clique

to do with Hugh Grant finally kissing the women of his dreams on the television screen.
    I heard my lover’s breathing. He was still there. He was still with me.
    I had a chance; I just needed the right words. My mind was blank.
    Silence.
    ‘Be a good girl and look after yourself, be safe.’
    The phone went dead.
    This time he was gone.
    I stared at the phone for a while, feeling I’d been cruelly betrayed by an inanimate object. I threw it in the direction of the perfect people celebrating their perfect happy ending in their perfect film-scripted world. It bounced off Hugh Grant’s charming, smiling face and landed with a clunk on the floor.
    I tried to remember exactly what I had said to my lover.
    The wrong thing.
    The wrong thing.
    The wrong thing.
    Had it sounded like I only wanted to be with him because I was too shy to tell a man with a huge cock to fuck me harder?
    And I’d mentioned his wife. I’d actually mentioned his fricking wife. Way to go in convincing a man to commit to you by making him think about the woman he’d completely trusted who’d almost succeeded in completely breaking him.
    Why couldn’t I have explained it right? Told him in a way he could believe in that I loved him, that I was lost without him, that I hadn’t truly wanted Joe to spank me, that I wanted the things I did with my lover to remain unique and special. I wanted to belong to him and him only.
    I retrieved the phone and took several deep breaths. But I couldn’t dial the number. What if I did say it right and he still rejected me? What could I do then?
    I placed the phone carefully on the side, switched the television off, and switched my laptop on.
    Our relationship made most sense when I didn’t think about it, when my brain was calm and my spirit was free and I just knew that everything was how it was supposed to be. So I wouldn’t think, I would do. I wouldn’t analyse, I would flirt and fuck with more people. I wouldn’t worry, I would return to my lover and tell him I understood, I’d experienced enough of the world and I wasn’t scared of it, I just didn’t want it. I wanted him. I always wanted him, for ever and ever until death us do part. And it would work. If I didn’t think.
    I went to the website that I’d made a profile on. A message flashed up in my inbox. I clicked it open.
    It started “Dear Mistress” and ended, after reams of words in one block paragraph, “with much respect from your pathetic slave”.
    It was from slavetothee; the name that had made me think of my master.
    What had I said to him? I barely remembered the details of our conversation. I noticed the chat history button and scanned through what I’d said. The last thing being tell me everything about you and I’ll decide whether you’re worthy.
    Why had I said that? I hadn’t had any intention of speaking to him again. Had I? Fuck knows.
    But he had responded to me. I started to read through his clunky sentences and bad spelling and was going to give up before I recalled he was dyslexic and I felt guilty again for mentally tiring of his mistakes.
    He told me that his mother had died when he was a child, immediately dipping into the natural empathy I felt for anyone who had lost a parent.
    He said his dad had quickly remarried a woman slavetothee suspected he was seeing while his mother was still alive. She didn’t like children, so eventually him and his brothers and sisters had been separated and sent off to live with various relatives. He’d ended up in Devon with grandparents – well, at least Devon was pretty, but that was the only tiny positive. Who could resist such a tragic childhood story? Not a girl like me who was already so emotionally sad that she cried at predictable, manipulative romantic comedies.
    Then it got confusing as he started to write about his sexual experience. I didn’t quite get how many mistresses he’d had. One seemed to have finished with him for little reason, leaving him empty and