Spanking Dee-Dee

by Fabian Black

  “Was spanking part of the sex?”

  “I told you. I’m not interested in sexual spanking.”

  “Have you ever been spanked as an adult?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know you’ll like it, if you haven’t tried it?”

  “I don’t want to like it. I keep telling you I’m not into sex spanking.”

  “The thought of being spanked has to excite you in some respect. It has to turn you on, give you a buzz.”

  “No it doesn’t have to. Sex spanking and spanking as discipline are different things.”

  “If spanking doesn’t turn you on, what does? What’s your interest in a relationship where someone has the power to discipline you? Is it the element of power exchange that turns you on?”

  “Possibly. I like the thought of someone being in charge.”

  “If being dominated is your thing then why don’t you find a gay BDSM dungeon to play out your fantasies? I’m sure some professional Top will be willing to take you on as a sub.”

  “BDSM stuff is all about sexual foreplay. It’s a game, a prelude to someone getting their cock up your arse and once they’ve had it up your arse they force it in your mouth and make you clean it with your tongue. Then they bog off leaving you with rope burns and a stomach upset and you never see them again, well not until the Conservative Club hosts another whip a dick event.”

  I burst out laughing at his lurid description.

  He grinned and then continued. “It isn’t the kind of fake domination I want, Si. I want the genuine article, not the pretend kind such as Anne practices with her men. I want someone real, a man who will take me in hand without me having to ask him to, without it being prearranged. I want someone who is naturally authoritarian, but not a bully and not someone who acts out a sadistic role for sex kicks.”

  “Maybe what Anne and her men do is authentic for them?”

  “I have no doubt it is. I’m not dissing the BDSM lifestyle, but it isn’t what I want.”

  I shook my head. “The kind of relationship you’re talking about sounds like a game too, even if the so called discipline done for your so called own good isn’t immediately followed by sexual gratification.”

  “Just because punishment, or the potential for punishment can be connected in some way to sexuality doesn’t mean the discipline is any less real or any less effective, so there,” he said, poking out his tongue as a post script.

  “Naughty,” I shook my finger at him, “but at least you admit there is a sexual connection.”

  “I didn’t say there was a sexual connection. I said there might be a link to sexuality. They’re different things. One is physical the other is metaphysical.”

  “Listen, Dee, you can define it any way you like, but if it’s consensual then it’s a game with a motive. The motive being the creation of a perpetual sexual undercurrent to fuel the libido of the people concerned, and that’s fine if it’s what both people want and one isn’t spanking the other against their wishes, in which case it wouldn’t be a game it would be abuse.”

  “It wouldn’t be abuse if the person getting the spanking accepted it as deserved, even if it wasn’t consensual to begin with.”

  “I’m not sure if consent after the event makes the event any less abusive, not in law anyway. It seems to me what you want is a form of power exchange in a domestic setting. If that’s the case then it’s something you do have to arrange, something you have to agree upon with your chosen partner. You can’t just allow someone to randomly impose discipline on you because they think you deserve it at any given time. It’s too risky.”

  “Not with the right person,” he said stubbornly.

  He concluded the argument by turning the conversation back to its starting point.

  “Anyway, what about you, when was the last time you had sex with someone?”

  “A while ago.” I reached for the empty wine bottle and stood up. “I’m going to make a coffee, do you fancy one?”

  “Please.” He got to his feet. Picking up the glasses he followed me into the kitchen. “Have you been spanked or ever spanked anyone else?”

  “I’m not wired that way at all. I hate the thought of hitting someone. The fetish scene does nothing for me. Sex is enough in itself. I don’t need embellishments. I don’t need games or toys, well, other than the toys I was born with.”

  “Who was it then, the man you had sex with a while ago? Was it a proper boyfriend or a one nighter?”

  My eyes involuntarily strayed over to the fridge. “I suppose you might say it was a fuck buddy. We met up for regular sex, no ties, no complications.” I picked the kettle up and walked across to the sink to fill it. “It suited us both.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He moved on and I moved here.” I switched on the kettle and then went to the cupboard to gather mugs and the coffee jar, sensing him watching me.

  “It was him, wasn’t it, him on the fridge, your friend James. That’s why you moved here, to get away, because it hurt you to see him with Kye.”

  “I really must introduce you to my sister and my friend Vicky. They love a good conspiracy theory too. James didn’t hurt me. I always knew how things were between us, the lay of the land.”

  “But you wanted it to be different, I can tell, maybe you still do?”

  “Subject closed, okay, Dee-Dee?”

  “Sorry, Si. I didn’t mean to pry. I tend to say whatever comes into my head. I meant no offence.”

  “And I didn’t take any, honestly,” I smiled. “It’s just everyone assumes I’m suffering from a broken heart and nothing could be further from the truth. It gets wearing, being cast as the abandoned boyfriend when I’m no such thing. I had an arrangement with James, not a relationship, an arrangement and it came to a natural conclusion, okay?”

  “Okay. I promise I won’t mention it again and if I do you can spank me.”

  “I certainly could not. I was brought up to believe it’s wrong to strike another person.” I spooned coffee into the mugs, waiting for the water in the kettle to cool slightly before pouring it into the granules, while inwardly questioning why I’d put James’s photo on the fridge in the first place? I’d done it the evening after Jo and mum had left for home, when I was gathering stuff together for my visit to Vicky and Ian. I’d found it in my chest of drawers along with a stack of other photos. I’d chosen it because it was the only one that fitted the magnetic frame I had.

  Yeah right, my sister’s voice overlaid with that of Vicky’s sounded in my mind. I mentally told the pair of them to shut up.

  Dee-Dee’s promise proved short lived. Before I’d even poured milk into his coffee he was back on subject. “You weren’t his one, Simon, just like your mum wasn’t your dad’s one. It doesn’t mean there won’t be someone for each of you.”

  Picking up the coffee mug I handed it to him and pointed in the direction of the living room. “Take it in there and use your mouth to drink it with.”

  “Will do.” He gave his throaty chuckle and taking the mug trotted off with it.

  As we drank our coffee, I insisted on working out a sum of money to get him back in the game of living everyday life in a manner not involving raking through bins. It was pointless writing a cheque. It would take too long to clear. I told him I would withdraw the cash from my building society next morning. He could deposit it straight into his bank account and then go about the business of putting his life back on track.

  When he left my apartment to go home he was wearing clean clothes and carrying a bag of fresh laundry, along with the tin of shortbread and the leftover chilli, and of course his tiger eye lenses.

  “Thank you, Simon Putney. I’m glad to have found you for a friend.” He gazed at me solemnly after I’d seen him to the door. “I’ve had the best evening ever.”

  “I enjoyed it too. I’ll see you in the morning, around nineish. Come up for breakfast.”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “You shou
ld. It’s good for you.”

  “I’ve eaten enough to keep me going for days. I’ll survive without breakfast. I’ll have a shortbread if I wake up hungry.”

  “I’ll meet you in the downstairs lobby then, half past nine, and we’ll drive straight into town.”

  “Goodnight, Si.”

  I watched him walk down the corridor towards the stairwell. The view of his rear brought an idea. I called. “Wait, Dee-Dee, just a sec.”

  Dashing into the bathroom I grabbed a new loo roll from the supply in the airing cupboard and ran down the corridor with it. “Here, give your arse a treat. It would be a shame to cover it in newsprint after you’ve scrubbed up so well.”

  His husky laugh echoed back at me as he walked down the stairs to his own place.

  Chapter Eleven

  Closing the apartment door I locked it and then went for a long hot shower, indulging in some hand action, determinedly pleasuring myself. Afterwards I slipped on my bathrobe and made a cup of tea, settling in front of the television to watch a late night news programme.

  My mobile phone juddered on the coffee table, heralding delivery of a text. It was from Tony. He’d just gotten home from another date with Ruby. He’d obviously had a drink and was in a sentimental mood.

  ‘It’s love, Simon, the real deal. I’m in love. Every time I see her I fall deeper.’

  I rolled my eyes and texted back a slightly sarky ‘congratulations’ and then asked if he could get off his love cloud long enough to meet me for a pub lunch next day. He messaged back to say it was a date. I named the pub and the time.

  Turning off the television I took my mug into the kitchen and rinsed it. The milk carton was still on the table so I picked it up and took it over to the fridge to put away. Closing the fridge door I studied the photo of James. He had always dressed smartly, a devout suit and tie man. He looked particularly handsome in his wedding suit. It was hand tailored and fitted his tall frame to perfection. For the life of me I couldn’t recall what Kye had been wearing.

  I’d first met James when I was fresh out of university and doing my probationary teaching year at a secondary school where he was head of the maths and science department. We’d gotten on well from the start. He offered me sound advice on teaching, and life in general. I was young. His ease with his sexuality impressed me. I admired and looked up to him, tending to absorb his views, taking on his colours like a chameleon. The wine club I’d mentioned to Dee-Dee had been James’s idea. ‘Good’ wine isn’t found on a supermarket shelf he said. We split the costs and the cases of wine, until he met Kye. More than one arrangement ended when he met Kye.

  I hadn’t cried in years, not since my dad left home in fact, so the tears pouring down my face came as a tremendous shock. They brought a cold clarity that washed over me like a winter wave from the North Sea, sweeping away all barriers. Covering my face with my hands I sobbed into the palms.

  Of course the love thing between James and Kye had puzzled me. I was puzzled as to why it was Kye and not me. I had tried to be everything James said he wanted and yet he had ‘clicked’ with someone who was the opposite. It was James who questioned the validity of gay men committing to a single relationship when there were no genes to be reproduced. It was he who had nudged our friendship into the benefits arena, not that I was unwilling, it would be unfair to say otherwise. And of course Kye was uncomfortable when I was around, because he had what I’d hoped for, he’d taken what I wanted, and he knew it, before I did. I cringed. I’d hung around too long continuing in the role of a good friend when in reality I was the rejected lover who couldn’t let go.

  “You fool, you bloody fool!” Tearing the photo from the fridge with shaking hands I shoved it into a kitchen drawer.

  I needed something strong to dull the pain welling up from a reservoir I didn’t even know lay within me. Several generous shots of whisky later I crashed onto my bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dee-Dee was waiting for me the next morning, sitting on the stairs in the lobby. Despite the early hour the sun was hot enough to split trees, beaming strong from a clear blue sky, giving me the perfect reason to wear dark sunglasses. My eyes were puffy as a result of tears and too much alcohol. For two pins I would have stayed in bed and slept my hangover and newfound humiliation away, but I didn’t want to let him down. I’d initiated a promise to help. I would follow through. No way was I driving though. I was probably still over the limit.

  We exchanged morning salutations. I asked if he minded walking into town rather than driving as I had a yen for some exercise. He said he preferred walking, especially on a Greek Island day. I couldn’t let it go. I tried, but couldn’t. Peeking over the tops of my glasses I asked what he meant.

  He pointed heavenward. “The sky,” he said. “Look at it, Simon. It’s layered with shades of blue from pale azure to ultramarine.”

  It was. I nodded agreement, but was none the wiser about the Greek Island connotation.

  He went on to explain how it reminded him of a holiday postcard from one of the Greek Islands. It had been sent to his neighbours, Sue and Bob, from friends of theirs on holiday, but it had been put in his mailbox by accident. He liked it and had kept it for a day or two to soak up some of its sunshine before delivering it those for whom it was intended.

  I asked if he had ever been to Greece. He shook his head and said he was much like his uncle and not one for travelling far. Maybe one day, if he found someone to travel with. He had his passport all ready, just in case.

  We set off for town, walking in silence. After his Greek Island speech he seemed as disinclined to talk as I was, or perhaps I set the precedent. It was he who spoke first.

  “Are you sure you want to lend me money, Simon? I don’t mind if you’ve changed your mind. I’ll get by.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. Why would you think it?”

  “You’re different today, sad. I can feel it. Is there anything I can do or say to make you feel better?”

  “I’m fine, Dee, really, just a bit tired. Thanks for asking.” I smiled at him. “I think the stress of moving is catching up with me. They do say it’s one of the most stressful things you can ever do.”

  “You don’t regret it do you, moving to the bakery I mean?”

  “It was the sanest decision I’ve made in years. I loved it from the moment I set eyes on it. I don’t know why.”

  “Probably because it wanted you. Old buildings have a heart and soul. As soon as I saw the bakery I knew it wanted me. If it had arms it would have held them out in welcome. I was glad to move in permanently.”

  “You must have seen a lot of people come and go if you’ve lived here since you were eleven.”

  “Not so many. The people who come here seem to want to stay. The apartments seldom come up for sale. The Peterson’s, the couple you bought from, only sold up because they had IVF triplets and needed a bigger place more suitable for their kids.”

  “There’s someone with a new baby on my floor now.”

  “That’s Sanjiv and Jaina Gupta and their baby son. He’s called Cole. Sanjiv’s parents actually own the apartment, but they’ve returned to India for a while.”

  “Do you know everyone in the building?”

  “Not in any deep sense, but by sight and name and enough to exchange pleasantries with. You’ll soon get to know them, especially if you attend the residents meetings. They come up every three months or so. I don’t bother going, not since uncle died.”

  “How come?”

  “My neighbour Mrs Royston always goes and she sits shooting daggers at me. She doesn’t like me.”

  “Why not? What did you do, strangle her budgie?”

  “No,” he laughed, of course not. I like budgies. I would never strangle one, not even hers.”

  “So what’s her beef with you?”

  “She was a pal of Anne’s mother. They went to the same church, so she knew all about Anne falling pregnant out of wedlock. She didn’t like uncle Desmond either
and not just because he helped out a fallen woman. He told me it irked her that the son of a mere factory drone could afford to buy an apartment here. He said she was as mad as hell because he got first dibs on number one. Her husband, he’s dead now, was some kind of bigwig manager at the bakery and used to work in the admin offices in the wages department. She thought it made her a cut above.”

  “A social snob.”

  He nodded. “Uncle Desmond said so, and I suppose he was right. She was scandalised when I came to live here and she realised who I was. She hates the fact I’m gay and don’t have a proper job, a double sin in her book. I annoy her because I wander around the grounds at night when I can’t sleep.” He pulled a face. “She also caught me going through her rubbish bin one time when I was hungry. Anyone would think she’d caught me going through her knicker drawer from the fuss she made. Plus she’s never forgiven me for tramping mud down the corridor when I was a kid.”

  “Sounds like a lovely woman. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “I didn’t mean to put you off her. I suppose she’s harmless enough. She’s old fashioned, one of those people who hold fast to the principles of their own peak time in history.”

  “You’re a wise man, Mr Walters.”

  “Sometimes,” he laughed, “or maybe I just over think things.”

  We reached the town and I withdrew the amount of money we’d agreed on from my building society account. I handed it to him in the envelope the clerk had put it in.

  He took it rather awkwardly. “You’ll get back every penny in September.”

  “I know.” I clapped his shoulder. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch. Do you want to join us?”

  “Better not. I’ll probably show you up by saying something I shouldn’t. I’ve got things to do anyway. I want to bank this so I don’t lose it.” He shook the envelope of money. “I’ll see you later.” He made to walk away and then turned back. “I won’t invite you for a meal at my place until I’ve paid you back and my money is properly my money again. Is that all right?”