The cemetery is empty.
No, that’s not true and you would punish me with whip and crop, with cane and tawse, with loud words and pain that –
Coins.
The cemetery is not empty, it is full; mouldering bodies and bones at rest, memories which live on beneath the earth, stored away. Dig beneath the stones here and a treasure house of memories, of stories, of longing, regrets and fantasies fulfilled will come rushing out, thick as locusts, to cling to the branches of the great chestnut tree which weeps its empty tears into the depths of sorrow that so many ‘In Loving Memory’ inscriptions tell to the world.
How true are they?
Is it true that perjury is committed every time a gravestone is carved?
Not always. The biggest devil has a streak of angel in them somewhere, even it is smothered by years of development, of aching anger and hatred of penury and poverty, of amassed wealth and power –
How you would laugh at me were I to say these things out loud! Were you able to sit there, atop the gravestone, your legs crossed in that contrary, elegant and yet provocative way you had. What would you say to me now?
Demand I kneel at your feet, to do homage to a Master, feel the touch of a hand, the caress of the cane, before it whipped down so hard – and so many times – while I waited, patiently waited, for your bidding to let me up again?
It wasn’t like that, was it?
Not at first.
There was so much to learn and I thought I had gone through the learning process with my Master, chosen by answering advertisements with care, chosen by studying the words not written on the page, picking the man who offered to be Master, not one who demanded, for in a new relationship there must be trust, and how much trust must there be in a Master/slave relationship when you are new and scared and lonely and afraid of what you are?
I was afraid.
I never told you this, not ever, not when we were in darkness and you demanded my secrets. Never told you how afraid I was when choosing a Master.
Imagine. A young woman, lonely and experiencing feelings she should never have felt, not without a man around. Turned on by stories of spanking, court cases, stories snatched here and there, illicit-bought books from Private Shops, drooled over in the comfort of a bed made warm with heat of wanting and desire.
Buying the magazines, seeing the advertisements, each an opening plea for someone, anyone, to visit Masters so they too could use up the burning heat they experience at nights, when beds are lonely and slaves are few. Loneliness is the biggest problem; being lonely because you are afraid to get into a relationship, afraid of asking a man, afraid of what they will think, what they will do.
Say you want and they think you’re a slut.
Don’t say you want and go lonely and aching to bed, unsatisfied.
Answer an advertisement. So many, all differently worded, all saying the same thing; come to me come to me come to me…
Study the replies. What do they say, what do they not say, will they agree to talk, to write, to learn to trust before the moment of meeting comes? Ignore those who issue demands from the start – no way are they the men you are seeking, I am seeking, no way any woman taking those first tentative steps would respond to a man like that. There is no way a man like that is a true Master.
Answering the ones who talk of limits and abiding by them; perhaps hoping they will go over the limits, to take you into the realms of pure ecstasy that a non-submissive cannot and never will be able to understand.
He was kind, my Master. He was good to me. We talked on the phone, we discussed by letter, pages and pages of fantasies and longings and shared experiences; loneliness of not being able to get what we wanted, how we hoped the coming together would work and if it worked, what fun we could have.
And we met, my Master and I, and we talked in neutral territory, a comfortable pub with open fire, red leather seats, wooden tables showing deep richness put there by beer, polish and bodies. We met and we talked over drinks, clink of glass, reminding me now of the clink of coins.
Oh, he was kind, my new Master. We went back to his flat, exclusive, expensive and luxurious; there I found I could undress, reveal breasts that ached for the touch of the strap and pussy that ached for the touch of the martinet and cheeks which ached for everything that was going, not that he gave it me all at once, you understand, no way. He took it steady, slowly, a spanking, a light one but it left me hot and wriggling and …
Yes, admit it, longing for more. And more I got by going back later, by going back at another time and taking more, moving from hand to slipper to strap.
When he thought I was ready and could learn to kneel at his command, to be silent when told, to wear a collar and look proud when doing it, he moved on, taught me to know my place, to be obedient to his every wish.
And moved on again, to the deep hurting pain of the tawse which I took on body and cheeks, on legs and hands, at his wish and thrilled to the obeying of his commands. Thrilled as much for the obeying as to the pain and the afterglow, which is second to none and there is no none when there is a Master like this.
He moved me on. In six months I was fully trained, able to take the whip, the cane, the tawse, the martinet, whatever he wished I could take and did.
And rejoiced in the taking.
Then it all changed.
And how!
My orders were simple and direct. An address, a time, a place. Once a month for six months,
To visit you.
Regardless of what he did to me in the meantime, regardless of what bruises, weals and feelings I brought with me, I had to come to you.
I never knew when or how you worked this out between you, I did not dare ask!
The first time, remember the first time? Shy, nervous, shaking inside and you so cold, so hard, so determined. We talked – no, I lie, you talked of your wishes, how I would learn to take what you gave without movement, without flinching, without a sound. I went the first time bruiseless, if there is such a word, such a state but later I went bruised and sore, to make your punishments harder to take. Bruised outside and inside, still learning to devote myself to my Master, still learning not to be proud in his presence but to keep my eyes to the ground, my voice to a whisper, my demeanour demure as long as I wore his collar.
With you it was different.
You had no use for a collar.
You had coins.
Undressed, surveyed and cold, cold coins placed on my shoulders: lose them and I faced a repeat of what I had when I lost them.
I lost them.
Time and time again, the coins slipped and fell, soundless, to the carpet. I would see their silver eyes wink at me and knew I had to endure the tawsing, the caning, the crop, the whip, whatever it was your pleasure and your delight to use on me, over again.
And each time the coins fell.
And after the coins and the implements had fallen, the darkness, single candle flame, flickering, mesmerising candle flame before my eyes and you asked questions and I told secrets and you made me be logical in my answers.
I was good by the fourth month and by the sixth month no coins fell. Not once.
With a huge sigh you told me my training was done and I could return to my Master, knowing I would never have to come again.
If I had known about the imminent heart attack – but then I am not psychic, it is enough to know I had given you pleasure at the end of your life and that, my dear friend, is more than many women can say.
So here I am. A cold winter’s morning. The only living person in a cemetery of aching bones and stored memories. What memories you have in your head I cannot say. My secrets are there and I have come today to share the last one, my fear and terror of finding, and of not finding, a man.
Well, you know I have one. My Master is delighte
d with me, with my performance as a slave and as a woman.
Most of it is thanks to you.
Here I am with coins in my hand, my final gift to a man who gave me so much pleasure, albeit later, when the pain went and the memories began. I wanted to say thank you for the memories. I don’t know who chose your gravestone, but it is just right. It has that high curve in the centre, sweeping down to the two shoulders.
It is there I place my coins.
From My Window
I lived two doors away from a painter and decorator. It didn’t take much to conjure up this scenario, this story!
Secrets.
We all have them. It’s just that some have more than others.
Look. Easy goes the man in white overalls. He’s our local painter and decorator, drives a little van with his name on the side, both sides actually, and he is an oft-seen figure working around town. No one takes any notice.
So I ask myself, as I see him from my window, why he treks so slow and easy along the footpath to the house in the next road, who are obviously not having painting and decorating done? (How do I know? No paint goes in.)
What did go in were the ladders. I imagine, in the deep recesses of my mind, the ladder leaning against the wall. I imagine the lady of the house stripped-as-she-was-born naked under the command of her Master, he of the white overalls and paint-splashed hands. Naked and quivering a little, nipples erect, quim oozing, in anticipation of-
He orders her forward, she leans against the cool aluminium rungs, reaches her hands above her head as he insists she grips those cold, cold rungs. Chilled now, she gasps as the rungs bite into belly and thigh, into collar bones as the melon-heavy tits hang through the space where feet should go.
Feet guided to each side of the ladder as it leans. Now she is displayed, as coldly displayed as any lobster on a cold, cold slab. Lobsters are blue and black when they are cold, red when they are hot. She will be red when he is through.
There are no preliminaries, they both know why he has come. The large brush which is used for pasting wallpaper is also good as a paddle and he applies it, hard, to both cheeks, bang bang bang until she is pink and gasping and tugging at the bonds. The wooden handle and stem, the binding of metal and bunching of fibre hairs all combine to become an effective discipline instrument. No words, just smacks, hard, steady, no chance to breathe in between stroke, she is wriggling and quivering and begging.
He stops.
The brush is trailed from thigh through crack to back, the hairs tickling and touching, exciting and awakening. She stands, helpless, while he goes to the front of her, where the ladder is angled against the wall and her face is inches from his, her tits even fewer inches.
Another brush, a two inch special, finest hairs, brushed backwards and forwards across erect quivering sensitive nipples, encouraging them to greater swollen throbbing sensitivity. Waves of orgasm shatter through her, this lady with melon breasts and rounded stomach, whose bush is invitingly thick and thighs invitingly round. The two inch brush finds a new home.
Back to the back. The red cheeks are now turning pink, the pain of the spanking easing back. Slowly he reaches inside his white overalls, so large they can hide anything, even a huge throbbing erection and draws out, with a whisper of leather on cloth, a belt. She tenses, knowing what is to come, knowing this will be the climax. The two inch brush is clenched tight in weeping quim.
The belt lashes out, cracks with authority across cheeks exposed and waiting; sheer authority alone out her there in the first place.
Belt cracks again and again, up to twelve times, twelve authoritative cracks of a leather strap disguised as a belt by the addition of buckle and holes, but which we all know is an instrument of discipline which men wear as a sign of dominance over women.
Each crack a shriek, each stripe of pain a reason to press against the rung and clutch tight on the slippery varnished handle of the two inch brush.
And then the two inch brush is removed and a seven inch cock is put in its place, from within the capacious white overalls.
And the man with the white overalls strolls home along the footpath, whistling as he goes, hands in pockets, and I see him from my window.
And I wonder.
From my window I see the man next door go out, tight butt in tight shorts, racquet in bag and gold chain around the neck. He is so much a ladies’ man, so much the sort who will wink at any female under twenty-one. I know, I have seen him, from my window.
I cannot see him once the car turns round at the top of the road and disappears. But in imagination I can go anywhere and I do.
A leisure club for sure, a fitness and health gym, certainly. And – I go.
The club is full of sweating athletic bodies. The sauna is full of naked sweating athletic bodies who are not ashamed to drop a towel and reveal all. And in the main work-out areas, bodies. Bodies doing press-ups, doing Step when everything moves as you leap the Step and down again, rhythmic stamping of feet, rhythmic swinging of arms, triceps curl, biceps swing. Tense those muscles, squeeze that butt, curl that stomach, strengthen those legs.
Wrap them around my waist when you’re through?
My Man Next Door has played a vigorous game of tennis. He has cracked that racquet from one end of the court to the other, has smashed the ball against the ground, the net, the partner’s racquet, has dripped and sweated and felt himself rubbing against those tight tight shorts, felt both cheeks juddering under the impact, the shock of movement up the legs and into the thigh muscles translated into hanging balls of pure lust.
And his partner is blonde, sharp and exciting, who has sweated and dropped as much as he has, but whether her quim has rubbed at her shorts is anyone’s guess.
But fresh from the game, they are both ready for shower and for a session of lust.
Oh, let’s call it what it is, for he will go home to his wife and she to her husband, so why not call it what it is?
Delicate. A finger touching on a steaming pussy, touching the love bud, touching the lips which scream at the touch. And in turn she touches the joyously crying head as the thick blue vein pulses in the side and the blood flows strong and the cock stiffens and it slides oh how it slides as she is slammed against the wall as the ball slammed against the net. And she has nowhere to go so the hands slide round, the body tips over and he has her across the bench in the shower room, wet steaming bench, wet steaming towels, wet steaming body. And a hand, pink from the shower, hard from the racquet, which descends over and over again while she squeals and wriggles and gasps and pleads for mercy and he knows this game is one he has won. It is her penalty for winning.
And they shower again, fast, to rid themselves of the evidence and he goes home with a smile and a look and a wave and a call. ‘All right?’ which is all I see and hear from my window.
And I wonder.
I turn from my window where I have watched my family depart for a shopping trip. I turn away and look at the secret drawer which contains my secret, the vibrators and the creams. And I slide open the drawer, slide out the long thin white vibrator with its finely pulsing head and the three inch vibrator with its buzzing angry body and the thick vibrator made to look like the real thing, eight inches long and thick, thick around and with two speeds. Today it will be fast.
And the small vibrator slides in the back and the big vibrator slides in the front and the long thin one is used to tease the love bud and I stand at the wardrobe and select for myself, this time, a tawse which can be sent around the back, to whip across cheeks so lightly yet stinging, to bring back the memory of the time it landed twenty stinging times and I pleaded but got them all.
No one looks in my window.
No one knows my secret sessions.
I can stand at my window and look down at you, a vibrator in every orifice, trembling and shuddering as the feelings
overtake me.
And you will never, never, know.
Mr Marvel’s Magical Mystery Menagerie
This really was letting my dark, dark imagination run wild!
Hey you!
Yes, you standing staring at the sign with a look – what is it? Half envy, half distaste? Overcome your scruples, come on in! What? It will only cost you a pound: in real terms that’s nothing, is it?
Come on, come on, let me surprise and terrify you.
Risk a pound, come on!
Good. I knew you would.
Welcome, then, to Mr Marvel’s Magical Mystery Menagerie!
Oh, surprised, are you? It does look a little tacky from the outside; sign-writers come expensive these days and who has money to throw away on such things? In here we have luxury, just for our exhibits; that’s real silk hanging there and real wood tables, no less! Oh Mr Marvel don’t waste his money, no sir! Only the best for Mr Marvel’s customers!
Thank you. I’ll just put the money in here.
Yes, it’s a fine box, real wood that is, don’t get real wood these days, do you? Same guy made the box as made the tables for us. And there are damn few of those left, people who know how to handle the stuff. Precious it is, as you well know you being a discerning sort of person and all.
Now, come with me.
Look at this –oh yes, double-headed calves are quite usual! Mostly the farmers destroy them but stuffed and mounted, they make an attractive display, do they not? And here, oh yes, Siamese kittens, oh, don’t turn away like that! You’ve seen Siamese twins on TV, haven’t you? They’re covered in fur, that’s all.
Weak stomach, some people.
Look at this. Oh yes, Mr Marvel had a good time making these! Kittens stuffed and all dressed up, here’s a wedding, here’s a funeral – oh, not interested?
A foetus here, does that interest you? No arms or legs, just a trunk and ahead. It would have lived –
Look, I know you think you’ve been conned, you’ve probably seen all this type of thing before. It’s common enough in the City, I’ll admit.
Cream of the Crop Page 19