Here’s the thing. I’m conventional. Some would say conservative, with a small c of course. My ex-wife would probably say ‘boring’. We married straight out of College. Three years later, divorced. I tried. But the grass was greener elsewhere. I’m reserved. Some would say ‘shy’. Let’s be honest; if Fran hadn’t pursued me I’d probably never have got married in the first place. But here’s the weird thing. Where I am now? Hardly conventional. Definitely not conservative. As to boring? Let’s let others decide.
Twenty nine years old and still single. Motorcycle. Oscar is like me. He’s not flashy, or exciting. He’s a Royal Enfield Bullet; sixty miles an hour cruise, eighty miles per gallon, often better. I have fun, but I’m not a tearaway. Not on a bike like Oscar.
Funny thing – wherever I go I find myself talking to people or, more often, listening. So, one day I rode Oscar out into Derbyshire to my favourite pub for a pint of beer. No more than a pint – I’m not in a hurry to find out if there’s an afterlife. It’s an old pub, with open fires when it’s chilly out; exposed beams in the ceiling, hand-drawn cask ales, selection of good wines and spirits. Food. As usual as I sipped at my pint and listened to the discreet sixties popular music (One reason I like the pub is one can have a conversation without shouting), a man sat down next to me. Not intrusively; he left a comfortable space. But he did speak.
“D’you mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all.”
“You a regular? Tell me to shut up if you’d rather be left in peace!”
“Pretty regular,” I said. “Usually once a week or so.” I put my pint down and held out a hand. “Dave Stevenson,” I said, “Teacher.”
He grasped my hand, firmly, but without that macho grip thing. “Bruce Taylor,” he smiled. “Professional dominant.” He watched my face for a reaction. My face is an open book, and he could see my curiosity. Let me say, though, whatever else I am, I am not an innocent. I do know something about ‘alternative lifestyles’, even if I’m not that way inclined myself. At least, I wasn’t.
We talked. It was interesting. I learned something of his world and he, of mine. One thing surprised him. “No wife? No partner?”
I shrugged. “No. I’m not great socially. Women intimidate me. You don’t have that problem, I suppose.”
“No ... I don’t. But they come to me. Some move on, some, I move on.”
“Not something I understand. They like being beaten?”
“Some. Some Doms abuse that. Some want to be humiliated. That’s easily abused, too.” I must have raised an eyebrow, or something, because he went on, “A woman enjoys being spanked, or even whipped, a masochist, that is, gets turned on by that. But most don’t want to be permanently marked, not really. Trouble is, some don’t know when to stop and some Doms are ... unscrupulous. They’ll push the limits, beyond edge-play. Some might ignore a safe-word or signal. A woman might enjoy humiliation. Get turned on by it. Again, they might end up being humiliated publicly so their lives are permanently changed. Socially, that is.”
He did say more, but must have seen my distaste for the more extreme aspects of his lifestyle. Anyway, we moved on and talked music, art, and, yes, motorbikes. I finished my pint and moved on to ginger beer (non-alcoholic. You can get ginger beer with an alcohol content – it is brewed, after all, but after my pint that’s it for alcohol. If I want spirits I drink them at home).
As I was about to head for home, though, he made me an offer. “Look, Dave; in my world there are sometimes women who need a home. They might need ... oh, somewhere to live, and someone to ... guide them. Perhaps you might take one?” I didn’t say anything, and after a pause, he handed me a card. “Here are my contact details if you feel you might help.”
I donned my jacket and helmet, my head humming with distracting thoughts, and rode home. Fortunately nothing happened that required rapid responses. I tucked the card in the little box I have on the mantle-shelf for such items and tried to forget it.
I went to work, checking and moving invoices and receipts, entering figures on the spreadsheet, trying to ignore the churning thoughts; that was rather difficult as I read my book at lunchtime and ate my sandwiches. At home, I do cook, though it’s not much fun for one. But I am determined to eat as well as I can and I can always freeze individual portions of what I don’t eat. And my thoughts churned.
Okay, I’m self-sufficient. I can look after myself, am independent. Conventional, conservative. Not adventurous.
But I rang the number.
I don’t know what I expected.
What I got was a ride with Bruce in a top-of-the-range Audi, to a mansion. There’s no other word for it. There, introduced to a man ... what can I say? About my height, but wider. Bare arms to the shoulder, close-fitting leather. Muscles. Tattoos.
“Master Lionel,” Bruce began. “This is Master David Stevenson. He’s looking for a disposable toy. I understand you may be disposing of one.”
“Indeed. Welcome, Master Bruce, Master David. I haven’t come across you before.”
I thought fast. Very fast. “With what I do, I need to keep a low profile.”
That seemed to fit the bill precisely, because he smiled; not a nice smile. “Come with me.”
He moved off and Bruce whispered in my ear. “Very good. Whatever you do, don’t refer to her as ‘her’ or ‘she’. Always ‘it’.”
We descended. I use the internet. I’d heard about dungeons, seen photos. Thought it was all make-believe. It wasn’t. We passed an open door, wide, solid, dark oak, through which I could see the impedimenta of a mediaeval torture dungeon. We came to cells; bare stone walls, flagged floors. Wooden sleeping bench in each one, rings and shackles on the walls, tiny gratings up near the ceiling. Metal bucket in one corner. And in the last one, a woman. She stood as we entered the cell. Stood, with arms folded behind her, feet apart.
Under normal circumstances I would have stared; tallish, slim, long, dark brunette hair, she had a, to me, perfect figure. But that figure was literally covered with the marks of a whip, never more than an inch of skin unmarked. Those breasts, red and black and blue and yellow, the nipples red and swollen. Our ... host ... barked an order and she turned slowly in front of us, revealing more, much more of the same. Her buttocks one mass of bruising.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. Bruce glanced warningly at me, and I just glared back. “That’s not much good to me. It’ll take weeks for that lot to fade. I want to mark her myself.” I wanted to vomit, actually.
Master Lionel shrugged. “Up to you. Make an offer.”
Make an offer? How the hell did I do that? I opened my mouth. “Fifty.”
Bruce pressed something against my hand. A collar. I should have thought of that. And a length of chain. “Kneel!” I barked at her.
She obeyed, instantly, and after a moment’s fumbling I buckled the leather collar round her neck and clipped on the chain. I turned to Master Lionel. “Good doing business with you,” I managed.
“Likewise. Its clothes are in a case upstairs.”
“A drink to seal the deal.”
I glanced at Bruce who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“What’s your pleasure?”
My pleasure? I’d like to chain him up in his own dungeon and use his whips and equipment on him. “Scotch would be good,” I said, “Straight, no ice.”
We sat in luxurious chairs in an enormous lounge, my acquisition knelt next to me, head down. I was handed a generous helping of Laphroaig. Not my favourite, but acceptable and welcome in that setting. Small talk, in which I tried to maintain the persona of one who liked to hurt and mark young women. I suppose I must have succeeded, even though my only knowledge was online porn. She knelt like a statue beside me.
When it was time to go, I picked up the chain, wound a length of it round my fist, and nodded to Bruce. “Time to go,” I said, “many thanks for the hospitality, and the product.”
There was a small case in the foyer. I pointed at it. “That its clothes?”
I looked at her. “Pick it up.”
She obeyed without a sound, and I led her out, following Bruce, installed her in the back seat, and got in beside him.
Bruce drove us, not back to mine, but to his house, which was only slightly less impressive than the one we’d left. The garage door opened as we approached, and he drove in.
“You’ll want her to dress, I think,” he commented.
“Indeed,” I said. “I was wondering about getting her into the flat as she is.” I turned to look at her. “Out of the car,” I said, “dress to cover up. Get back in.”
She did as she was told and quickly pulled on jeans and a hoodie – no undies – and trainers.
Back at my flat, before getting out of the car, I unclipped the chain from the collar. “Follow me,” I told her. “Bruce ... thank you. I think. That was ... an experience.”
He smiled. “You handled it well ... Master David.”
.... There is more of this story ...