A secretive woman (part 1)

I was attracted to Karen from beginning. That was hardly surprising. Most men would have fancied her with her, with her shoulder length blonde hair, her slim figure and her startling green eyes. She was thirty-one, or so she said, and I had no reason to doubt her, since she could have passed easily for twenty-five ' had she wanted to lie about her age.
If I had to describe her in one word, it would be sophistication. She knew how to present herself, always dressing well in an understated sort of way. Her clothes were good quality, but never flash: Laura Ashley or Jaeger. And her jewellery was unobtrusive: Seldom more than a pair of pearl earrings, a gold chain around her neck and a sapphire ring that she wore on the middle finger of her right hand.
Although her appearance captivated me, my attraction went further than her looks. She was well spoken, intelligent and articulate, with a dry wit all of her own. We hit it off at once, conversationally. She could discuss most topics easily, from environmental issues to the arts, and she shared my love of classical music. I loved being with her.
And yet, despite the promising start to our friendship, there was an invisible barrier between Karen and me during our early days together. Whilst she appeared to enjoy my company, she showed no desire to get close to me, either physically or emotionally. There was always something rather solemn about her: Reserved. Her smiles were infrequent, and short-lived, and she hardly ever laughed. This puzzled me, because I knew she had a good sense of humour. But I accepted it, because I find it hard to cope with "bubbly women who shriek with hysterical mirth at the slightest thing. Karen was not bubbly.
Perhaps her studied coolness should have discouraged me, but I felt she was as drawn to me as I was to her, because of the way I caught her gazing at me sometimes. It might have been a delusion on my part, but I believed I saw a deep hunger and longing etched on her heart-shaped face. This made me suspect she was holding back because she'd been hurt in the past, and didn't want to rush things. And that was fine with me. As far as I was concerned, she was very special and I was happy to bide me time.

Our routine varied little. We would rendezvous at a restaurant of her choosing ' she had a small collection of favourites - and dine together, before going our separate ways. On a couple of occasions, we went to a concert before dining. I never knew where she came from, or where she was going afterwards. In fact, I knew very little about her. We'd met on the Internet, and she'd been sparing with her personal details: For security, she explained. I had thought, perhaps, after we'd seen each other a dozen times, that she might be more forthcoming. But she showed no inclination to open up, and I respected her privacy, hoping she would eventually trust me enough to reveal more.
One day, after we had been meeting in this way for nearly two months, I decided to be bold, and told her that I was ready to move forward with our relationship.
She absorbed the information slowly, with a curiously blank expression on her face. I began to fear I might have alarmed her. Happily, this was not the case. "I feel the same too, she admitted eventually, though I sensed she had lingering doubts.
"What are we going to do about it? I asked.
"Leave it with me, she said, and promptly changed the subject.
We finished our meal without further reference to the matter, and, after two cups of coffee, we went our separate ways as usual.
Early, the next week, I received a text that she wanted me to meet her at a hotel. (Texts were her preferred means of making contact, although she did occasionally telephone me.)

"Thank you for coming, she said, when I entered the hotel room.
"Thank you for inviting me, I said.
"I'm different from other women, she confessed, watching me closely. "Will that put you off me?
"No. I like the unexpected, I reassured her, intrigued to know where our exchanges were leading.
"I want you to do something special for me. Her voice sounded tense. She locked her eyes intently onto mine.
"Of course.
"It's not normal, she warned. "Not natural.
"Everything's natural if it's what both of us want, I said cautiously, resorting to the mantra of trendy advice columns.
"Do you promise not to be disgusted?
"Yes.
Without a further word, she took off her clothes to reveal a slim, neatly formed body, with smooth skin like a plastic mannequin in a dress shop. Her pubis had been waxed to a shiny whiteness, revealing the hood of prominent clitoris. For a moment, I gazed on her loveliness, mesmerised, as hot desire welled up inside me. My hand strayed to my shirt buttons.
She stopped me. "No. Please stay as you are. I want you to beat me. She produced a riding crop from her suitcase.
I stared at it blankly. Although I been half-expecting something of that kind, I was, none-the-less, surprised to encounter the reality.
She appeared oblivious to my reaction and asked me, in a businesslike way, to tie her down on the bed with her wrists and ankles bound to each corner so that she was spread-eagled like a St George's cross. She produced four lengths of red silk cord for the purpose.
I obeyed.
"Now give me six of the best, quite hard, on my bum.
I hesitated before striking her buttocks tentatively, once.
"Harder, much harder, she instructed.
I gave her five strokes, which left red wheals on her bare flesh. Although she gasped with each blow, she kept quite still and did not cry out aloud.
"I'm sorry, I said, laying down the crop.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. Thank you. It's what I wanted. Now touch me, rub me better.
I sat on the side of the bed and caressed her inflamed skin.
"That's nice. Now go deeper.
I slipped my hand between her thighs and felt the heat and moisture of her arousal.
"Go on, she urged. "Inside.
I penetrated her with one finger, then two, probing the corrugated skin of her tight vagina.
Her secretions flowed freely, and her buttocks began move up and down rhythmically, releasing the scent of her femininity, a heavy aroma musky aroma sweetened by the fragrance of late chrysanthemums.
I stretched her wider, using all four fingers.
She moaned like dove, twisting and turning her body as if to escape. But I remained relentlessly inside, steadily pushing deeper and deeper.
Her orgasm built up to a crescendo, she cried aloud and stiffened before her vagina contracted down on my hand in spasms. Afterwards, she lay quite still, breathing deeply.
"Thank you, she said, a minute later. She sounded distant, almost cold. "Please untie me.
When she was free, I took her in my arms and tried to kiss her, assuming she would now allow me to make love. I was desperate for her. But she pushed me gently away.
"Go now. Please.
Her rejection hurt. "Have I upset you?
"No. Just go. I'll be in touch. For now, I want to be alone. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I cannot say it was easy to break away from her after such intimacy, but I complied with her wishes.
"I'll be in touch, she repeated, as I reached the door.

The next day, she texted me: I can't see you again. So very sorry. K.
Was it some kind of game? I wondered. Or was she just an anguished soul, too confused to know what she was doing?
After some deep consideration, I texted her back: "Message understood. Call me if you change your mind.