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CHAPTER 20 : SOME DOMESTIC SERVITUDE : MARCH
16 Months, 506 Days Since Jenny’s Disappearance
I have organised a couple of day’s annual leave, but I forgot to change my alarm. The alarm does not forget and erupts at 6.30 in the morning as it normally does. I look bleary eyed at the clock radio. I am about to get up. I have a hazy memory that I have a lot to do today but in the event, I switch the noise off, roll over and go back to sleep until 8am, when I am woken by the door bell. A messenger has a large letter for me, which has to be signed for. It’s from the office. I sign for it and plod into the kitchen, to make coffee.
What have I got to do this weekend? Suddenly I remember. George and Cathy Corbin are coming to dinner, there is the house to clean, food to buy, a meal to cook, clothes to wash, I’m supposed to go to the Gym for a reassessment with the trainer and now there is something from work! And tomorrow I have an appointment with Ylena …….
How on earth did Jenny cope with all this sort of thing? Well, if she could do it, so can I.
I tear open the envelope. It contains some concrete casting specifications. Can I comment on them? The client has changed their requirements and the shape of a concrete retaining wall. How will that affect the strength? Can the on-site team go ahead and cast anyway? Would it be better to get factory made pre-casts to be assembled on-site? How long would that be likely to take? What would the cost implications be? Can I let them know by Monday?
There are engineering drawings, specifications , various sets of calculations and the architect’s plans.
I cast it aside and quickly throw breakfast together and then go to get washed and dressed.
By 9 am, I am more ready to face the day: what should I do first? I decide to confirm the menu. I want things which are nice to eat but easy to make. There was a time when this would have been simple – I would have had Jenny. Now there is no Jenny and I’m supposed to be working on my diet. What about a seafood casserole with white fish, mussels and prawns and have … have … have a crème brulée to finish with? Jenny did it once. There is a recipe in Delia Smith’s book. The dessert might be rich but we don’t have to have much.
As fast as I can, I check the ingredients, make a more general shopping list and I am about to go to the supermarket when I remember about the washing. I head back inside, grab the dirty clothes (at least the washing machine is in the garage not the kitchen) separate “lights “ from “darks” and set the machine off – and then go shopping.
It is Thursday morning, but the shop is still busy. It takes much longer than I thought and its 11.45 before I get back. I dump the food in the kitchen and go to deal with the washing. The darks are done and I put a second load on for the lights. It’s a dry breezy day. Perhaps I should peg the damp washing outside? Everything has tangled itself up, so before pegging out, I have to carry it back into the kitchen and carefully untangle and separate the individual items before I can take them outside.
At last the job is done and I glance at the clock. Its 12.30pm. I had arranged to have a reassessment at the gym at 3pm. That is going to take a couple of hours by the time I have seen the trainer, worked through the programme and got changed, so I could be back at 5pm. Cathy and George are supposed to be coming round at 7.30 so that gives me a just couple of hours to tidy and clean the house, get myself ready and prepare the meal. Idiot! Why did I arrange to go to the gym?
As I start cleaning, I notice the concrete calculations on the dining room table. They peer reproachfully at me form the envelope. What’s the point of taking leave if you are sent urgent work to do when you are on holiday? Next time I will tell them I am going out of town and I will not take a mobile.
By 1.30, I am about to start on the meal again when I remember the washing. Blast! I go outside, collect the dry clothes and fold them prior to ironing before I return to the garage to collect the second load of washing. Once more, I have to untangle them and shake them out before I can hang them up. Should I be doing all this anyway? What if we had a tumble dryer? Couldn’t I just dump them all in a tumble-dryer and let it get on with its job? I once said this to Jenny but she was never in favour of them: first there is the cost, then it’s not “green” then not everything can be tumble-dried and finally, some things take much longer than others, she said and so I am now left with old traditional technology.
1.40 – there is just enough time to make the dessert before I have to get away to the gym. I need to set off at 2.30 to be sure of being on time for Greg, the trainer, at 3.
Feverishly I make preparations and by 2.20 it’s ready. At last!
Jenny seemed to be able to do all this sort of thing so effortlessly, but it must have taken a huge effort. Did I ever notice? Not really. Did I ever tell her how well she did? No. In retrospect, I feel ashamed and as always happens when I think of Jenny, I remember the aching void inside me.
It’s 5pm and I am back from the gym. Bad news. I have not lost as much weight as I had hoped for. I have been found out by the skin fold callipers. I suppose it’s the curse of being alone. I often eat easy, fast food, appetising and filling but not very good for me. I promised Greg I would try harder for our next meeting in six weeks. Six weeks. That sounds a long time but I am going to have to mend my ways quickly. Should I have made a fruit salad for George and Cathy, rather than the crème brulée? Probably, but now it’s too late to do anything about it.
Rain has begun to fall. There are still things on the washing line. I rush out to collect it before it gets wet again, then I finish preparing dinner and finally at 6.45 I go get washed and dressed to greet my guests. As I am getting changed I find myself thinking about the day I have spent. What if I had been entertaining my Domme? How would I have felt if all my work was to be inspected, marked, assessed – and then punishment meted out for every infraction or example of poor performance. The cane licking across my bum for unappetising vegetables or floors which were not clean enough ….
My alarm goes off. It is 7am. The room is still dark and the central heating pipes click as the heat comes through. It was a good evening. The food was OK. We did not drink too much. I was in bed before midnight. The conversation was - easy. Not having Jenny here, conversation can sometimes be difficult. People try not to rub salt in the wound, so we steer carefully around topics which might bring painful memories centre stage. The elephant in the room. It’s a good phrase. There it stands. Looming. Quiet. Unmistakeable, but no-one mentions it.
Now that Cathy and George have gone home I can spend a few moments with Jenny on the FindJenny website. Inga has posted another appeal for information. I think about trying myself and then remember the replies I got last time. I don’t need more people telling me what they think about what I should have done. There are more hits, but no news. News must come sometime, surely? The people from the Charity have put together a slide show of the photographs I sent them. As it plays, it almost seems like a video. It’s overlaid with a message string recalling who Jenny was, what she did, when she vanished, asking for information, encouraging site visitors to contact if they think she has seen her and finally a message from Andrew and Inga thanking visitors for their interest and asking Jenny to get in touch, in touch with them or in touch with the Charity if she would prefer. But she never does …
I take a deep breath. I would rather like to sink back to sleep but I can’t because today, today I have another appointment with Ylena. I feel a shower of adrenalin. What, exactly, is the day going to hold?
...... ...... .......
“Stand up!”
Ylena looks down at me, on my knees.
I stand.
She walks round me.
“What’s this?”
The tip of her riding crop gently rubs my tummy.
“It’s my stomach, Gaspazha.”
“Your stomach. How old are you?”
“Twenty eight.”
“Twenty eight and you are beginning to have a little stomach?” She rubs again. “I am not satisfied. You told me you were going to the Gym, going on a diet, going be careful about what you were eating.”
“Yes, Gaspazha.”
“Yes what? Yes, I said that, but I did not mean it? Yes I said that, but had no intention of doing as I said? Yes I said that, but I do not have the will power to do what I ought to do?”
“I am afraid I have been careless.”
“Good! Points in favour for honesty! Would you like me to help you?”
“Da, Gaspazha!”
“On your knees again!”
I kneel. She places a blindfold over my eyes and straps it on tight. I feel her clip something to my collar. “Come!” is all she says and I feel a tug at my collar. We walk through her establishment. I can’t see a thing. I have to trust her, as she pulls me left and right and forward and left.
“Step up!”
I step up onto some sort of platform. I can feel it beneath my bare feet, for I am completely naked, save for the collar and blindfold.
“Now what do we have here? A trans-meatal ring! How convenient.”
I feel her manipulating the ring through the head of my prick. She clips something through it and I can feel a gentle tug.
“Kneel!”
I kneel down. She strips the blindfold from me and I see I am on a treadmill, just like the ones at the gym but this time the control panel has been covered and my prick is tethered to a ring on the frame. Suddenly I am afraid.
“Now Joseph” (she pronounces my name Yosef) “it’s time for you to pay for your carelessness and this machine will help you to do it. You are going to run for the next hour. Some times on the flat, sometimes it will feel as if you are going up hill. Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. You cannot see the controls and you will not know how much longer you will have to work or how hard you will have to work. It’s an exquisite torture and chaining you to the machine by your pick will provide all the encouragement you will need to keep going. Imagine what might happen if you fell, or stopped?”
Yes, I can imagine!
“… and I shall watch over you and give you more encouragement with my whip. In fact, I shall sit right here and read. Enjoy.”
Ylena starts the machine. The chain attached to my prick pulls taught immediately and I set off walking. Gradually the pace quickens until I am jogging, then running, then jogging, then running. The treadmill beeps a warning. The deck starts to elevate. Suddenly I have to work much harder and without warning I feel a hot bright sting on my left buttock - and then on my right. Thank goodness, because it spurs me on. To feel thankful for being spanked with a crop? But I have to be practical. Engineers are practical. I just have to keep up with the machine …
The machine is relentless. Soon my chest is heaving and my legs are getting really tired. Just how much more can I take? Without warning Gaspazha begins to beat me again. She is using some sort of whip on my back, then on my buttocks the on my legs then onto my shoulders.
“Thank you, thank you” I call out, and I am grateful because I could not have gone on much longer on my own.
“Five minutes,” Gaspazha calls out.
“Gaspazha?”
“What is it slave?”
“Can you carry on beating me please?”
“Why?”
“It helps me to run.”
‘Aha. Well slave, this is progress. Asking to be disciplined in order to comply with your Mistress’s demands. That is very good and do you know? I will accept your request!”
Gaspazha then begins to methodically paint the whip over my back, bum and legs. Each stroke stings and the stings take my mind off how tired I feel. The more it stings, the better I feel until the treadmill beeps a warning and begins to slow to “cool down” Its just too fast to walk. I am increasingly unsteady. The whip continues to lick over me. The machine beeps again and at last I can walk and after two minutes more, the torture stops. I stand, my chest still heaving. Gaspazha walks round to face me. She is smiling.
“Did you enjoy your run, slave?”
“No, Gaspazha. I am sorry.”
“How will you prepare for your next visit?”
“By loosing more weight.”
“Was this an appropriate punishment?”
“Yes, Gaspazha. Thank you.”
She frees me from the treadmill. “On the floor, slave. Kneel. Forehead on the ground.”
I obey.
She clips the leash back on my collar, wraps the blindfold over my eyes again, and leads me away.
I follow, meekly. I have to trust I will be safe if I follow her and I suppose this must be part of the training process: learning to trust. But then, if I want Jenny to trust me, when it’s my turn to be her Dom, I must be able to trust my own teacher?
“Halt!”
I stop.
“Lean forwards, grasp the horse and kneel upon it.”
I find myself feeling the leather shape of the spanking horse in my hands. Uh oh! I hoped I would be through with CP for today, and I am really not looking forward to taking more of it. I could stand straight up, flatly refuse and go home, but I do none of these things. I merely obey. Then again, I’m on a journey to find Jenny, to find the places she enjoyed. I suppose this must be one of them, so I press on.
By the time my musings are over, I have been strapped down. There are straps over my arms back, thighs and calves. I am almost completely immobile. Waiting. Gaspazha removes the blindfold and I can “enjoy” the sight of my predicament, reflected in mirrors which line one wall of the room.
“Open!”
I open my mouth and she slips a rubber bar between my teeth. It’s rather like an horse’s bit. It’s strapped firm behind my head. I can just about swallow, but can’t speak properly - can’t speak at all, really.
Gaspazha brings her face close to my ear. She whispers: “Now, slooga. How do you feel?”
I mew. She laughs. A gentle, satisfied laugh. She continues: “Is your skin burning?”
I nod.
“Itching?”
I nod again.
“Hmmm.” She runs her hand over my back, my bum and shoulders. “Hmmm, such nice welts! Yes, they will itch. I bet you would like to rub them, wouldn’t you? Run you hands over them, rub the itching away? Perhaps even scratch them? Mmmmm? Well, the answer is NO. I am going to leave you to itch and smoulder all strapped down and waiting. I am going to have tea. You are going to wait and then I will return and spank your bottom. I will strap you and when I think you are ready,” (her face is close to my ear again: she whispers …..) “I will finish you off with the cane!”
She lays the strap and the cane down on a table in front of me, where I cannot avoid seeing them, and then leaves the room.
The minutes pass. I feel a draft as the room door opens. She is in the room again. She picks up a paddle and begins. Gently at first but with exacting care and precision. Left buttock, right buttock, centre, upper, lower, inner, outer, upper left, upper right, lower left, lower right. She pauses, then selects a strap and repeats the whole pattern. I should be in agony but I am not. I realise that I am enjoying the sensation of being spanked.
Gaspazha selects another implement. Another paddle, stiffer that the last and with holes in its “tongue”. This paddle brings more pain, but in response, I push my bum out to meet it, all the more to enjoy my humiliation and my punishment. I drink the sensation greedily.
Gaspazha pauses: “how many? Ah, you cannot speak to me, can you?”
I may not be able to speak but I have been counting. We have got to forty five.
Gaspazha continues: “I was going to stop at thirty. Have we got to thirty?”
I mew furiously but she merely replies “No? Well perhaps I should finish with a cane? Yes, I think you will enjoy the cane. A light, whippy, stingy cane.”
I mew furiously but she ignores me, of course. I can hear her taking up her stance behind me. She begins immediately.
“One!” And a hot line is drawn across both my buttocks
“Two!” A second line above the first
“Three!” A third line below the first.
Half way. One and one and a final stroke
“Four!” It’s harder. I catch my breath and gasp. Even gagged, she must have heard because she waits …
“Five!” She lands the stroke diagonally across my right buttock catching all the previous four strokes. They all re-ignite, at once.
“Six!” The final stroke lands diagonally across my left buttock. Its really painful. I gasp and mew and screw my eyes up and mew and clench and unclench and clench my buttocks again, but at least I have arrived at six. Surely no more? Please no more?
Gaspazha unstraps the gag and I inhale deeply, gratefully.
“What are your plans this evening?”
“I … I … I was going straight home, Gaspazha.”
“All the way home?”
“Yes.”
“Were you indeed? Do you know what time it is?”
No, I don’t because she took my watch, when I stripped for her and there are no clocks to be seen. I have absolutely no idea how much time has passed.
“What are your commitments tomorrow?”
“Nothing special, Gaspazha’ - but I have a vague memory of calculations to do with concrete ……
“Come with me.”
She begins to release me from the spanking horse but straps wide leather belt around my middle and cuffs my hands to the sides of the belt, to keep me carefully under control. She blindfolds me again, clips the lead to my collar and leads me away once more.
“Step!”
I cross some sort of threshold.
“Stand!”
She unclips the leash.
“Walk!”
I begin to walk forward.
Clang!
I stop, surprised by the unexpected noise behind me.
“Come to me!” I turn and walk towards her voice.
“Stop!”
I stop and feel myself standing up against cold steel bars.
“Turn!”
I turn back around and Gaspazha removes my blindfold.
I blink: I am in a prison cell. In one corner, there is a toilet. In the middle of the floor is a drain grating. To one side is a mattress on the floor. Its plastic but there is a blanket folded on top. I turn round to face Gaspazha, who stands smiling on the other side of a bars of the cage door. In her hands she is holding the key.
“Slooga: you have had an exhausting day. You will spend the night as my guest. Here. In this cell. Judy will be on duty over night. Your food and water will be passed through this gap in the bars,” she indicates a small rectangular opening at the bottom of the cell door the size of a dog’s feeding bowl, “but I am afraid you will have to eat on your knees. Enjoy your evening!”
With that, still smiling, she steps back and closes the outer door. It’s heavy. It closes with a thump. I can hear the locks as they turn. One, then a second, then a third. I stand, helpless and naked in a high security prison cell, skin still glowing from the whip, buttocks tender and throbbing from the paddles and the cane, arms strapped to my sides, useless. I glance down. My penis is large, tightly erect and throbbing. I cannot reach it with my hands. The walls are rendered with rough cement. There is nowhere I can find relief. I groan with sexual frustration and there is nothing I can do, to bring myself peace. I have enjoyed every minute of my session and my present predicament is the perfect climax.
Footnotes
1. Delia Smith. Goddess of British home cooking. http://www.deliaonline.com/. Her recipe for Crème Brulee really is good, by the way and much more reliable that some others.
2. Skin fold callipers. Probably the best day-to-day method of estimating what percentage of one’s total weight is made up of subcutaneous fat.
More tales at……
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2010
All characters fictitious
No reposting without permission.
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