by William Pitt
That first time she was quiet and very slow, almost dreamlike in her disinterest, merely laying her thin, white form across the divan and waiting for me to go to her. I folded my wedding suit carefully, those crackling creases sneering at me, telling me all the terrible things I was telling myself. Truthfully I think that I could have gone out then were it not for the embarrassment and upset of replacing my clothes. She lay slim and stiff as an ironing board, eyes closed, tapering arms at her sides, more like someone awaiting a doctor than a lover.
To relieve my conscience a little, and this is while I was still aware that I possessed the formidable combination of a conscience and a wife, I allowed myself a quick mental sound of Pamela's pungent snore. This assured me and I went to Belinda on her bed and made love to her.
It is pointless my pretending that this first amalgamation was not slightly dull. It had neither warmth nor movement. I even found myself wishing for Pamela's lumpy body, for this girl lay like a lath, eyes dead, body flaccid. At one point my shuttle movement caused my eyes to travel over the drop of the divan and on the floor I saw the yellow cover of a lurid book which she must have been reading in bed at some time. Its purple-lettered title was Ruined by A Mad Secretary and it was embellished with a crude, but I have to admit intriguing, photograph of a naked female hanging from some chains.
My present occupation was at such a slow pace that with each forward movement I was able to discern more detail in the picture and eventually to turn over to the first page and begin to read. The woman to whom I was making love showed no sign that she knew what I was doing.
It was a badly written book, but baldly exciting, and very dirty from the first paragraph. There was a multiple whip ping going on in some ancient kingdom, administered (the whipping, not the kingdom) by small, strong, men who rode on miniature donkeys and belaboured beautiful female captives as they trotted by.
'It's very wicked, isn't it?' murmured Belinda without opening her eyes.
'What? Being here like this?'
'The book,' she sighed. 'The dirty book.'
'The book? Oh, the one on the floor? Well, I must say it did catch my eye.'
'Don't lie,' she reproved but still sleepily. 'You're reading the bloody thing. I can tell even without looking because you've improved all round in the last couple of minutes.'
I stopped with embarrassment. 'Don't be worried,' she continued quietly. ' That's why I left it there. Wouldn't you like to do some of those awful things, Arthur?'
'I can't ride a donkey,' I said, all at once afraid. 'I've not been on one since I was a kid at Barry Island.'
'Stop dodging it.' It was amazing how that farmyard voice could sound so evil. She was moving her thighs much more easily now and her lips were wet on my cheek.
'What were you thinking of doing?' I asked.
'Just imagine,' she whispered. 'Just picture, if you can, that I had my hands tied or chained above me . . . How would you like me, Arthur, tied or chained?'
She paused for the answer, far less embarrassed and worried than I was. 'Whichever's more comfortable,' I muttered.
'Less comfortable,' she corrected. 'Don't go and mess it up. It's only a game.'
'Yes,' I agreed. 'I understand that.'
'But it's a serious game. It's no use playing it if it's not.'
'All right,' I said, hiding my face in her neck. 'Tied.'
'Thick rope or thin?'
'Christ,' I groaned. 'Thin. Will that be all right? Which have we got the most of?'
'Stop it,' she warned. 'You've got to do it properly.'
'Well, thin. That will cut into your wrists.'
'You dirty beast,' she sighed.
She gravely extended her arms above her head and linked her hands as though they were secured.
'There,' she said. 'I'm tied with thin rope. Now what are you going to do with me?'
I didn't know. After all it was her game. 'Tie your feet?' I suggested.
'Good, very good. You're learning. But you tie my feet, my ankles, with something soft. Like a piece torn from my clothing.'
Hardly was the cue out than I made a realistic ripping sound and felt her react beneath me. 'Where did you tear that from?' she inquired with splendidly acted dread.
'Your dress,' I volunteered. My God, she felt different now. I thought she was going to burst and me with her.
'Not yet, not just yet,' she asked. She took three or four deep breaths, which apparently levelled her off. 'You tore it from my dress, you swine. My lovely summer dress. My silk dress with the pretty yellow and red flowers on the bodice . . .'
These fashion notes went on for some time and included the information that the dress had been given to her by her father, which may have been significant or not. Freud would know, but I didn't. And I must confess that despite the oddity of it all and the embarrassment, felt by me if not by her, I was dropping almost mesmerized into the charade. I felt like iron inside despite my prudish inclination to pull myself out of the fantasy and observe it for what it was. Jesus, I was enjoying myself! Now, on top of all my troubles, I was a sadist as well!
'Now you have torn my dress what are you going to do?' she asked. I got the feeling she would have been happier if she had not had to prompt her tormentor so much and had been freer to wallow in her own role. I ventured: 'I am going to tear away the rest of your clothes.'
'Garments,' she muttered.
'Garments,' I agreed, wondering at the nuances of the pastime. 'I am going to tear them away. Your garments.'
'You're not going to tear my nice silk summer dress, are you?' she pleaded. 'Oh, please don't do that.'
Since the business now appeared inevitable I thought I should lean forward and enjoy it. 'I am,' I growled. 'Like this. I am tearing it off, strip by strip. Like this! Like this! Like this!'
'My lovely summer dress,' she squeaked. 'Silk and with pretty yellow and red flowers on the bodice . . .'
'Yes, your lovely summer dress,' I repeated faithfully. 'Your silk dress . . .'
'... with the pretty yellow and red flowers on the bodice,' she finished. Then: 'Oh, my bodice,' she howled, with an underdone howl. ' You've torn my lovely bodice!'
With all these arguments going on I suppose a real-life torturer would have shoved a lump of the dress in the victim's mouth and shut her up. But the dialogue was everything.
'Now my other things,' she suggested. 'My things underneath.'
'Your vest!' I snarled wickedly.
'Vest?' Her face screwed up and she opened her eyes in annoyance. 'Vest?'
'Yes,' I mumbled. 'Well, I thought. ..'
She looked at me oddly, as though I were perverted, but then seemed to have second thoughts and sank back, eyes fluttering closed again, and smiled: 'All right, then, if that's what you like. Vest.' She fell into the play again. 'Oh, no, please don't tear my vest.'
'Now, you're sure?' I asked solicitously.
'Yes, yes,' she nodded impatiently. 'It was unexpected that's all. I'd never thought of a vest before. But perhaps it's winter.'
'You've got a summer dress on,' I pointed out.
'Don't quibble,' she said. 'Get on with it, you cruel bastard.'
I treated her to a realistic growl and decimated the vest. Our sex had stopped now, unfinished, almost incidental, and we were entirely concerned with the plot.
'The brassiere,' she said quickly, apparently fearful that I would think up some other unacceptable garment. 'Please don't expose my bosom.'
With a fierce lustful grab and a brief twanging of elastic it was broken and torn aside. 'Oh, my bosom!' she cried sotto voce.' Inhuman monster! No man has ever seen my bosom!'
To be truthful she didn't have much. They were small, undernourished, just details. I had hardly given them more than a touch of my lips and the odd passing flick with the-leading edge of my hand. But now I began to make a meal of them, kneading, rolling and pulling, even blowing violently on them. She writhed with the pleasure of acted agony and in the middle of it I came with
a flourish and a moment later so did she.
I found I was running with sweat, sprawled exhausted across her. 'God, I'm tired,' I said, my nose in her hair.
'Tired?' she complained. 'Tired? You can't be tired yet. Not yet. You've hardly touched me.'
Wearily I nodded my obligation. We were still joined and I turned my imagination back to our dream sequence with the rags lying about her as though a million moths had enjoyed a tea party.
'I know your sort,' she immediately declared. 'You're the sort of filthy devil who enjoys beating a young girl across her knicks.' This suggestion sounded somewhat incongruous coming, as it was apparently supposed to come, in the context of the drama, from a maid who had howled, a moment before, that no man had ever seen her bosom. She had obviously picked up the information on what to expect from somewhere. I growled: 'How did you know?'
'I just know' she answered uncertainly, the same logic obviously occurring to her. 'You like to pull them halfway down over a girl's bottom and then do your cruel, beastly things.'
She came out of her trance, and asked, like a producer discussing a point with an actor: 'Is it to be the cane or the whip or the birch thongs, or what?'
'What would you like?' I asked hopelessly.
'The cane.'
'All right, it's a cane.'
'The cane,' she prompted firmly.
Again nonplussed by the importance of the terminology I sighed. 'Yes, the cane.'
'Your special cane, you swine.'
Her eyes had closed to narrow channels once more.
'Yes, my special one!'
'Is it thick or thin?'
'Christ. Thin.'
'Oh, no! Not the thin and bendy one?'
'The thin and bendy one,' I confirmed grimly.
'Oh, God. Here you go, torturer of young girls! You've got it in your hand, haven't you ? And you're coming towards me. You've got that cane in your hand.' Her voice was a croak.
To my astonishment I felt my hand clench. There was sweat between my fingers.
'I'm coming,' I repeated, a remark which turned out to be something of a prophecy, for we again failed to reach the climax of one thing because of the climax of another. We lay there for a long time after that until eventually she said coolly: 'You must have a mind like a cesspool to think up things like that.'
There was no point in argument. 'Would you really like someone to do that sort of thing to you?' I asked. It was a genuine inquiry, for I was drained and deflated. My heart fell when I sensed her stiffen at my flank and in a single writhing movement she was away from the bed. She went to the piled books in the corner and bent over feeling for something. I watched her globular backside with a sinking feeling.
She turned quickly to face me, hiding something behind her back, a child's mischievous expression on her face.' I've never experienced it,' she said. 'Bertram will have nothing to do with it. He's a masochist as well, which is a bit like one person having two right feet. Nobody else has ever asked me.
Nobody.' I stared with a strangely excited horror as she produced a school cane from behind her back. 'There's no time like the present,' she said.
'Oh, for God's sake, Belinda!' I protested.' I didn't mean it. I'm flaked out, for a start, and it's one thing playing games and another doing the real thing. I might hurt you.'
'That's more or less the idea, Adrian,' she pointed out. 'Go on. Just once. Just to see what it's like. If I don't like it I'll tell you. It's been my ambition and I hate to let an opportunity slip past.' She held out the implement. 'Just once.'
I staggered up from the bed and took the cane from her. It made me feel sick with excitement and apprehension just to feel it. 'Only a tap, then,' I promised. 'And I'm not Adrian.'
I could see her eyes were savage with anticipation and her lips were wet in the lamplight. The challenge made her face shine. It was I who was the victim not her. I was sagging with disgust and fear of what she wanted me to do. Dear Jesus, if my bride could have seen me then.
'Where do you want me?' she asked.
'Where do you want yourself?' I asked wretchedly.
She looked around. 'Across this chair,' she said. 'It's hard. It's better than the bed.'
'All right."
She moved forward like a dancer and kissed me on my hot cheek. Then she moved almost religiously to the wooden chair and bent herself across it. Her bottom, thin like the rest of her, was arched up.' I'm ready, Arthur,' she said from between the legs; her's and the chair's. I went forward and tapped her on the bum. 'There,' I said with finality. 'Now I must be off.'
'Arthur,' she threatened, still curled over, her hair flung on the floor. 'Do it properly.'
'That was,' I said.
'A tickle,' she said. 'I want a real one. If you don't I am coming to the Shunter's Arms and I shall tell your wife what a perverted beast you are.'
I really thought I was going to faint. 'You wouldn't,' I moaned. 'You couldn't do anything like that. Tell Pamela?'
She looked around the leg of the chair. ' Listen,' she said nastily. 'You've known me only a few hours, but that's long enough. You know damned well I would tell her.'
Anger swamped fright within me. I raised the cane high over my head and brought it down with a fearful whack on her buttocks. It was terrible. She shot up into the air like a high diver in reverse, emitting the most devastating scream I have ever heard. Then she let go another one.
In a moment there were answering screams from beneath our feet. Bedlam came from below the floorboards. Screeches, barks, hoots, howls and other animal cries.
'Christ!' she exclaimed. 'You've woken the pet shop!'
We stood naked, transfixed, staring at each other with immediate hatred. ' Get out!' she said. ' Clear off bloody quick, you sadistic bastard. That really hurt me. Get out, do you hear!'
I was only too glad to go. I half dressed and stumbled down the stairs with the cacophony of animal noises unabated at my ear. She shouted something after me to the effect that her Bertram would be round to sort me out, presumably with his dustman-devouring machine, but I took no heed. In the street windows had been thrown up and people were shouting for the police. ' There's a burglar in the pet shop!' some nincompoop bawled, as though anyone would burgle a fucking pet shop.
When I got back to The Shunter's Arms Pamela was asleep but had ceased snoring. In the morning we made our first married love and I enjoyed every moment.
'I'm sorry about last night, darling,' she whispered.
'And so am I,' I said. 'Very, very sorry.'
I meant it too.
Fourteen
The next six months were the most careful and happiest of our lives together. The two rooms above the greengrocery shop in Newport were like paradise garnished with the lingering smell of brussels sprouts. Every morning, while she was still in our bed, Pamela would drop a small wooden basket, attached to a clothes line, from the street window and her uncle below in his shop would obligingly load it with mushrooms and tomatoes for our breakfast. On Saturdays he would put some potatoes in as well and we would sit up in bed, listening to the High Street sounds below, and peel potatoes for chips.
I say this, time of our lives was careful because, for me, after the disasters attending our wedding and honeymoon and indeed my existence before that, it was a period when I tried to put my life, and with it hers, on a calm and steady course. Every day I went to Cardiff Technical College where I was doing my navigation course, and she would go to the confectionery wholesalers in the town where she had a job. We would return at about the same time in the afternoon, my bus getting into the bus station just before hers, and we would always meet under the omnibus company's clock, and walk home together.
On Mondays we went to the pictures and sometimes on a Thursday too, for the programmes in those days used to change mid-way through the week. Saturday nights we went dancing and had fish and chips at midnight. I had a lot of studying to do at home and sometimes when I was working out navigation problems with little counters on
the table she would go off to see her family. When my birthday arrived she gave me a set of toy ships and plastic arrows (to represent the winds of the sea) which I used instead of the counters.
My mother came to see me one evening and found me alone in the place, arranging the ships and the winds on the table, and she thought it was a sign that we were unhappily married. But I had never been more peaceful, more content.
Happiness and the free availability of chocolates at her place of work had given Pamela a dumpier form since our wedding, but she was warm in bed, so I did not mind. No women had appeared on my moral threshold since the strange and frightening Belinda in Swindon, except Joanne, the model from the Technical College, and I cannot, in all fairness to myself, take her into account.
At the college I always found it difficult to distinguish between one corridor and another and one morning, opened a door, and walked in on an art class painting a naked Lady model. To be confronted with a creamy pair of breasts almost at the tip of my nose first thing on a Monday morning was naturally an unexpected bonus and a shock. She was only inches from me as I stood, transfixed, at the door, her golden hair pulled back severely over her neck, her face poised in the special light provided for the assembled artists, her stomach caved in and diminishing to a dainty fan of fair hair at the top of her legs. She was in a sort of strong pose, like one of the Trojan Women, and one leg was bent up on to an orange box. I stood involuntarily and took her in and she turned minutely and whispered to me to go away and shut the door. I did and sat uncomfortably all the morning working out the complexities of the Davis Turn, which is the quickest way to turn a ship around in mid-ocean, so that it arrives back at a point it has previously left.