19:30. Mark arrives at my flat. He’s had a tough day. A kiss on either cheek. Following me up the stairs, running his hand up my thigh.

“What have you done today?”

“Planted up some window boxes. Took some photos for you…”

He laughs. He stops to take his shoes off. For someone so unruly, he’s remarkably well-trained. Like a dangerous dog – if it’s not controlled, it’ll damn well take your hand off.

My black dress is now hitched up around my waist. I leave it there as I pour thick, cold vodka. I say nothing as I move to sit opposite him. Crystal glasses, a third full, chime together. Probably two thirds empty in our case.

He tells me about a girl he met on the train on Tuesday. Charlotte. He shows me a picture of her tits that she sent him.

“How do you do it?” I laugh. “Isabelle went off the boil though, didn’t she?”

“No one’s got the balls. They’re scared off by our filthy minds.” He laments. “Charlotte might want to play next week.”

He pauses. Thinking. “You and a blonde…”

He sends Charlotte a picture of me sucking his dick.

He makes me crawl on the floor around the kitchen table while he takes more photos on his phone. Still in dress and heels. Head held low. Switching between fucking my pussy, and fucking my mouth. He slams my head down on the table.

“You can think about this when you’re having dinner parties.”

He comes over my face – he’s quick tonight. I think we’ve both been in state of tension since Tuesday when he gave the nod that he’d like to see me this week. Excited by Charlotte turning up, no doubt.

Licking off his come from my lips, and catching the rest with my fingers to lick clean. As good as new.

He lets me use my vibrator to make myself come. He sits on the sofa and watches me sat upright in the leather armchair – we lock eyes. I’m waiting for him to get angry for looking directly at him – I risk it. He raises his hand several times. Sometimes just to make me flinch, sometimes bringing it down hard on my face or thigh. The cool leather of the chair snug on my skin. I feel tears prick in my eyes.

He lies on my bed, spread out, tired. End of Q1 has clearly wrung him out. I run my fingers over him. I think to myself that I need make the most of it while he’s peaceful. Lamb-like. I study him and try to memorise every inch, every ridge, every hair, muscle, change of texture. Touching every part of him; feeling what he needs. Sensing where to stay, and where to go next. His dark brown eyes are closed, and his face is quiet. Savour and store – shut it away for those nights he’s not here. I notice his lips more than usual tonight – they draw me in. His face is beautiful, and I tell him so. That raises a smile. I kiss the veins at his left temple. He starts to get hard again.

I ride him, gripping his chest. He’s encouraging, and patient. Willing me to come again. Coming around his dick is a feeling like no other – knowing he can feel ever ripple, every pulse. That is when I’m at my most vulnerable, all guards are down. Open wounds tended.

I slide away from him, and he finishes himself off with his hand. Tits covered this time.

And he’s not done with me yet.

“I’m going to make you squirt, you worthless whore.”

“You can try.”

Working away with his fingers, like a bassist on strings. With a flick of his wrist – it looks like setting off a spinning top – I watched it release. A look of startled amazement, and then a smile forms on my face. 33 years old, and my body just did something new. A physical rite of passage.

All those women I watched online – I thought they were goddesses. Mythical. The amount of times I’d tried and failed to make myself do this, I just thought I couldn’t. But if anyone was going to make me… Maybe anything’s possible with him.

“There you are. You’re empty. You can sleep in it now.”

We crash. I survey the damage. The whole inside of my left thigh is purple and red – noticeably worse off than my right. Bites, slaps. One big mesh of angry blood vessels. I keep wondering if this will leave permanent marks. There’s still a trace from almost three weeks ago.

“Look what you’ve done.” I smile.

“Oh boo-hoo.”

“I can’t fuck anyone else with this, can I?” I whisper slowly. “Would you fuck a woman who had bruises from another man?”

He shrugs, “Yeah, I think so.” He doesn’t care.

In our post-fuck deep-talking, we land on discussing dating apps, and how much I loath the whole scene. The vanilla scene, at least. The trying-to-find-a-husband scene. Tedium. He tells me about Eve – an ex-colleague – how they were in a bar drinking one night, and clocked a woman on the next table clearly in the middle of a dud Tinder liaison. He went to her rescue – he says he ended up kissing her. Yes, he gets whatever he wants and I can understand why. For one, he just asks. Faint heart never won fair maiden. Or filthy slut, for that matter.

We talk more about Eve. He goes to show me her profile photo on Whatsapp, but realises he's deleted her number.

“I got fed up.”

“You had a thing for Eve?”

“Yeah, I had a thing for Eve.”

“Do you not keep an emotional distance when you know what the deal is?” I challenge.

“Easier said than done.”

What is this side to him? He feels, he has heart. I’m surprised. I kiss behind his ear, and wish I was Eve.

When he’s in the shower, I put my head around the corner and talk to him through the glass screen. He blinks water out of his eyes like a child. He makes me smile so intensely, so deeply.

I talk to him about Saul Leiter, Richard Yates, the 1950s, bleakness, flawed characters, suburbia. About capturing the moment – however insignificant on the face of it. Finding beauty, loneliness, and humanity everywhere.

“You look like you’re from the 50s.” He tells me. I don’t query it.

I can’t stand to be parted, so I stay there hovering in the bathroom doorway. Purgatory. And I follow him as he dries himself with a clean white towel. We’re still talking literature – ‘On the Road’ now. He tells me he asked his parents what the most influential book was in their lives, so he could get a better sense of them. It strikes me as a profoundly loving and wise thing to do. What a way to get into someone’s head. I want to put my arms around him.