Chapter 8: Submissive Femininity

To what extent do we know our parents?

We may think we know them. We grasp that side of themselves that they choose to reveal to us, but what of the rest?

That was the question that Lucy was left asking herself after rummaging about in her parent's room and discovering a box of contraceptive tablets and a packet of letters from a man named Albert. She'd found them hidden at the back of one of her mother's drawers beneath her private lingerie. The dates on the letters suggested the existence of a long, abiding friendship with this man, Albert, for they'd been written over a period of twenty or more years.

Lucy read through the letters casually not knowing what they were or why they were there, but soon, something stirred within her belly. A gnawing excitement grew and emotions too raw to be touched blossomed and fed her curiosity, for these letters introduced to Lucy a new way of thinking and of being. They contained and described the relationship between her mother and this man called Albert, and it was based on the radical philosophy of submissive femininity, and this was new to her. There were long treatises on the merits of reinventing the social agenda and having women as slaves.

Lucy skipped through the boring stuff, but then she found a calendar for twenty years before, and in it there was a history of meetings located in a tawdry hotel room attended by her mother. There were instructions on the clothes she should wear to these meetings, how she should fix her hair, the perfume she must bring and at what times she must apply it. The schedules were specific, direct and pointed, describing makeup: colours, brands, and the style with which Lucy's mother must apply them. There were crumpled maps and fastidious directions in the calendar notes, and well thumbed timetables and a jotter of phone numbers; and most damning of all: special letters that Lucy kept close to her always, and in these, she found a compilation of the punishments a woman must endure before she could rightly call herself a woman.

Lucy reread that page. Hey. What was this about then?

"The punishments a woman must endure before she could rightly call herself a woman."

It took a while for the words to grow and flower into a thought because she was young and naive and innocent, but then it came to her, and she wet her pants. There was no other way to describe it.

"The punishments a woman must endure before she could rightly call herself a woman."

Lucy became frightened and sick at this, her third time of reading; for here, in her mother's own hand, was a humiliating first-hand account of the consensual submission of an adult woman to a man. Lucy read her mother's statements about beatings to be delivered across a woman's private parts with a freshly cut cane, the cane 'aimed to strike the woman's inner sensitive flesh, and if possible, the clitoris'.

Those words brought a deep colour to Lucy's ruddy cheeks and the choicer parts of her besides; and the lower parts below the waist shifted around on her chair uncomfortably.

In one of the letters there was a section describing the 'horizontal stretching of a woman along a wooden post with pulleys at each end; and prolonged electrical torture of the breasts and sexual organs, with serrated clips applied to the nipples and labia.'

Luce was dumbstruck. With her limited experience, she had trouble imagining such scenes and she was indignant; for how could her mother have endured these humiliations. She was an independent woman, a mother and housewife, so why hadn't she gone to the police and reported these crimes?

Lucy read her mother's detailed descriptions of the pain and fear she felt when enduring these punishments; her terror as the electrical clips were placed on her pussy, knowing what would happen and how it would hurt her; her panic as the electricity was switched on and how it felt inside her womb, how it burned her in places she couldn't even touch.

"It was like a rape," her mother wrote in one of her letters. "It was inside me and invading me, a terrible penis that was sawing me in two and there was nothing I could do to deter it. I knew that life could never again be the same after this. I became a new woman; a new person."

Lucy studied the letters and she came to have a newfound respect for her mother, because despite her better judgement, she recognised the same jumbled feelings and emotions within herself.

It was here in her mother's familiar handwriting with its bold blue ink, slanting letters and occasional mistake, neatly crossed out. For instance, in one letter, Lucy read:

"The pain was worse tonight. I thought I'd go mad, or die, or end up screaming in hell, for I knew that I was at the end of my threshold. Albert says it's part of my training and that I'll grow used to it and accept it. He says that by the end of my year with him I'll experience the mercy of God.

"But how does he know? The man's a Protestant and he knows nothing of God's will, compassion and mercy. And me: I know that because of my wickedness it won't happen, that I'm damned to the fires of hell where the Devil will lick my quim and roast me forever in my sexual torment, but even so, I try to be brave. I do it for Peter and the children because I yearn to be back at home, but I can't be good, not even for them. As Albert's hand hovers over the dial and threatens me with juice, I panic. I plead with him and promise that I'll do anything he wants of me. Anything at all. I promise to be his slave, to undress and suck his cock and have him fuck me: but he laughs. I'm already his slave, he says. Even when I'm at home fucking my own husband, I'm doing as he says, for I have to ring him up first and ask him if I can. He's the one who calls the shots, who tells me the lingerie I should wear, the perfume to put on. He chooses the colour of eye shadow and the shade of foundation, and I do as he tells me. Even when I'm in bed with Peter, feeling his caress and his tool deep inside my purse, I'm following my master's direction, and I can only do the things he tells me. He orders me to be coy or brazen, submissive or dominant, eager or reluctant. He even demands total abstinence at times, and I do as he says. And to prove his mastery: he hits me again.

"I have no feeling in my toes: or my feet, or my legs, or my hips; and neither can I move them.

"I'm so bruised that I daren't look at myself. I'm ugly and swollen, but he keeps hitting me again and again. I see the blur of his hand and hear the crackle of juice running down the wires, and then, as he hits me: I'm his.

"I'm his.

"I smell the acrid stench of my burning flesh and I hear the sound of my screams. I'm his, and not of my volition: for that's what the electric current does to me.

"I'm prepared this time, and I tense up, expecting the terrifying jolt, but even so, there's nothing I can do. I fly through the air and reach the extent of the ropes where there's the wrenching of ligament against sinew and joint against joint: ropes attached to wrists and tied to my ankles. I hurtle to the end of their give, and there they grab me. They control me, pulling at my shoulders and tugging me back down.

"I drop to the bed and discover my breath: hot, clammy, cold, and I suck it back in: once, twice, and again, until the current hits me again. Albert turns up the juice and he reminds me that it's to teach me a lesson. I'm crying: sobbing, and the snot is smeared on my face.

"I'm a mess; my face is blotchy and red.

"Oh Ggod! Heere it comess!

"Pray for me! Please pray! He's turning the dial!

"Ohh Shhhhhhiiiiittttttttttttttttttt!

"I can't bear it! The electricity is fizzing in my pussy and the screech is awful, the terrifying laugh that humbles my clit. Oh shit! It's burning; it's black; going straight to my being. Ojh Gggooddd!

"I'm on fire. I can't think. I can't keep still. Oh shhittt! Why is he doing this?

"I plead with him. Master! And I beg him to stop. Please master! Master! There's too much current inside of me and its flowing through my pussy, and, and it's not just there, but also in my chest. I hear the crackle and its playing with my tits, tickling them eagerly. My nipples bulge and struggle to absorb the senseless volts: ballooning to several times their normal size, and God: they're enormous, bursting, swelling grotesquely. They're like blue berries about to explode! God. And then comes the pain and I jump, and my body arches to the limits of the ropes and it jerks me back down. An unspeakable agony, crushing in on me and cutting my flesh, and then the alien shriek.

"It's me.

"They're looking at me! They think it's funny because I'm opening my thighs and showing them my pink; but I don't care and I can't help it.

"They're pointing to my juicy nipples and they're saying that I like it because there're dripping with juice, but Christ!

"Let them look at me. I don't care!

"I'm being hit by the power, two hard strikes to my breasts and one to my pussy. I can hear the echo propelling me to the bed and then bouncing me up and throwing me away from it, and I rise, pulled by invisible, whistling wires. My body arches and jerks and I'm rigid like a board. My stomach is tense and hard and has free flowing ridges of flesh along its length, and there's more. I've shit the bed; my muscles have seized up and I don't have control of them. Oh master. I'm wetting myself. I smell. Master. Please! I beg you! I didn't mean to do it, not on purpose! Master. Forgive me!

"But he's refusing to reply. He's turned on by the power; and the pain is all I can think about. There's no past, present or future any more; only an indescribable pain with no end, and unless I can endure it there's no end to this place and I won't see Peter or my children. Dear Peter... I know that I must be punished but please, please help me! Please! I long to be at home with you, and with Little Lucy and the baby..."

Whheww!

At first, Lucy had been confused and disgusted by these words, but the more she read them, the more she thought she understood them. She found herself wondering what it would be like to have a master and be forced to serve his sexual needs.

Her mother's letters aroused her to the point of pain, and she couldn't stop reading. Here, in these cruel barbaric chastisements delivered without reason or explanation, Lucy discovered a lust that excited and confused her in equal measure. It caused her to search her parent's room again, looking for meaning and understanding, trying to get to know her parents.

What was going on? And to what extent had her father known about Albert, because those bruises couldn't have been hidden. But if he had known, why had he permitted it? And who was Albert?

Lucy trawled through her mother's lingerie drawer again, picking out knick-knacks and dressing in the garments she found there: satin basques and peep hole bras; crotchless panties and red lace garters: handcuffs and ball gags. She took them and claimed them as her own.

In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she dressed in these strange, oversized undergarments and applied gloss to her lips and mascara to her eyes. She put the ball gag in her mouth and the handcuffs round her wrists and examined the precocious strumpet that she saw in the mirror.

It only took a moment to imagine that she was a harlot walking the streets and that it was a dark, melancholy red light district where invisible men slid past in their cars examining the wares. She liked this game, standing beneath a lonely street lamp in the heavy mist dressed only in her mother's underwear and with a digit inserted in her pussy. She caressed herself until she was hot and desperate and panting, and she hailed the next car without regard to the consequence, clambering into the front near side seat and mumbling and asking to be taken to a spot where she could grapple with the driver, and there, she would hand him her handcuffs and ask him to mount her as a favour. He would crawl on top of her, snapping her handcuffs to the seat anchors, and then he would bang her to an uncontrollable, brutal explosion with his cock tucked tightly inside her, and she would feel his cum spraying deep within her womb.

Except: there was no strange man or pretty cock, and no violent explosion. There was only the wild lonely wanderings of a naive girl pretending to be a woman and wearing a wardrobe of inappropriate lingerie.

She was a figure of fun, someone to pity. Lucy was an addict in cold turkey, with no boys to cork her, and so she lay on her bed sweating at night in her mother's lingerie and with the sheets pulled tightly between her legs.

"Do you like boys?" she muttered to herself one day, imagining a friend lying at her side. She had on a white bikini for no other reason than it was supposedly sexy, but there was no one to see it and she had no intention of wearing it in public. The bra was haphazardly unfastened and hanging from her shoulders and the panties were pulled into the crack between her legs: just like the sheets on her bed.

"I like boys," she added lustfully, rubbing oceans of oil onto her thighs and imagining that she had a male audience, pretending that the room was full of admiration and fizzing with excitement. She shook her breasts and made them fall from her unfastened bra by the force of their own gravity, and she was aroused; and she liked being aroused, and she liked being exposed. She was an exhibitionist, she supposed, and she gazed hungrily at her tiny brown breasts. "It's my weakness," she slathered, looking guiltily into her mirror and shrugging her shoulders. "I like being looked at because I crave the attention."

But it wasn't the attention that she craved: it was the sex, and very specifically: hot lurid sex. Sex that was graphic, terrifying and degrading.

She was addicted to it because she'd read about it and had been fed on it from a very young age. She was compelled by forces and secrets playing inside her mind; by the image of her mother jerking on a bed like a wild rodeo horse, with electrical wires attached to her tenderest parts.

Powerful forces were shaping Lucy's body, and how old had she been? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen?

Shortly after discovering her mother's letters, and driven by that discovery, Lucy searched through her parent's things and under their bed she'd found a box. It had been hidden in a suitcase and locked; but inside it there were piles of books and magazines and slides: a glorious treasure trove of images and diaries recorded and photographed by her father.

Here, revealed in this box, was a father Lucy hadn't known and didn't care to know. She picked the lock and poured over the terrible pictures and realized that she was looking someone who'd instantly become a stranger to her.

And not just him, but also her mother - she was a stranger too - because she was in many of the pictures, posing, and other women from their Church were in them too, including a man whose wife was crippled, and there were prominent men...

Lucy stared in disbelief because there was one photograph in which her mother was devouring the cock of their Vicar, and it was so far down her throat that it was in her belly. You could see the shape of it flexing in her neck and it moved down her throat; and in another picture her mother was lying on her back, her legs parted, and she was being gang-banged by all the distinguished men of their Church, all of them at once.