I understand the reason why I am here in the Nottingham Clinic for the mentally afflicted. When an attractive young female of upper class up-bringing is found walking around stark naked in public mumbling crazy lyrics that sounded more like “Gilbert and Sullivan” than any tune of current popularity, it is considered appropriate handling to ship her off to the nearest funny farm for sorting out in a formal environment. My photo in the paper was sufficient to prompt several relatives to come forward and own up that I was one of their clan and the arrangements were made without my consent because my eyes had a certain blankness that preempted any discussion.
You can call me Honey, but my real name is Patricia Westminster and for most of my adult life I was addressed as “Lady Patricia” by friends and strangers alike. I always felt a little foolish being called “Lady” because a lot of the time my thoughts about the males in close proximity to my person were decidedly on the sensual side and in some instances plain downright naughty enough to be censored by competent authority. At such times, I certainly didn’t feel like a lady in either thought or deed and would have been far more comfortable to be called “slut” or “cunt”.
I know it is totally bad form to use the “c” word out in public but I do my best to contain it to those setting where only females are present because we seem to take less offense at the usage amongst ourselves. It is sort of the same thing with dark-skinned people when confronted by the “n” word by total strangers. I certainly do not mean to offend anyone because I am at heart a shy and introverted thing despite my caustic mouth that often gets me in trouble that is caused completely by my own stupidity in spouting verbal garbage. I think I get that from my maternal grandmother. She was quite famous for annoying the high and the mighty with her down to earth comments on insensitive behavior and seldom was concerned with the aggravation she aroused in high-born quarters. The common folk loved her, of course, because she spoke the language of the streets and never pulled a punch for sake of diplomacy.
Please allow me to return to my explanation for my current residence in a sheltered institution for the mentally challenged. I tend to digress when my mind is diverted by thoughts of an erotic nature and that issue seems to be happening more and more as my opportunities at secretive coupling become less frequent under constant watch night and day.
I had read recently a fine written work by the Marquis De Sade describing his incarcerated musings and have to admit the stark images made me more susceptible to the urge for copulation regardless of the age or physical appeal of the masculine side of the equation.
In other words, if I could get the fellow hard enough to enter my territorial waters, I didn’t care if he was a Pirate or a Saint as long as he could get to the finish line without losing his hardened state and determined desire to make me take it like a “good girl” in complicit concert of action.
One of my wardens was a young lad called Hannibal and he was from a region in the northern part of the outlands that used a dialect that was all but incomprehensible to educated subjects of the realm. Despite his communication shortcomings, I grew quite fond of the lad even though he was almost a decade younger than I. He was one of those lower born folk that were more drawn to religious thinking than the hedonistic inclinations of the current society. I had been careful in my dealings with the institution employees to give the impression that I was basically a “fallen away” person of deep religious convictions and he often knelt next to me and “prayed” for the salvation of my guilty soul and redemption for my promiscuous past.
Several times, I noticed his hardness when he was in close proximity to my lower limbs and I pretended to faint and fall into his muscular thighs in a way that was certain to arouse him to immediate action to put us both out of our misery of unwanted abstinence. My pretense of semi-consciousness was good enough to encourage him to enter my distressingly tight vagina stretching me in a way that made me shudder with a multitude of orgasms and quivering whimpers of complete surrender.
I allowed him to take complete control of me and it was a revelation of a sort that made me a believer in submissive obedience as the fastest route to ultimate satisfaction.
It should have been enough to satisfy any normal female of ordinary urges, but my readings of the works of the Marquis De Sade convinced me it was the perfect opportunity to experiment with his peculiar attachment to matters anal in nature because the very thought brought a gush of female juices to my vaginal cavity that needed expression with raised buttocks spread wide for masculine exploration. He was a bit reluctant at first, but soon got with the program and buried his long hard shaft in my fundament right up to greedy core of my depraved needs in a way that showed me I had been missing on a lot of sensual pleasure just because of some church-taught propaganda against “unnatural” coitus. I could hear my pants of unmasked joy and knew the young man was inspired to dig deeper into my sinful pit of depravity because he spanked me with irrational abandon and told me,
“Get it up higher Miss High and Mighty and I will drill you until I come out your pretty mouth on the other end.”
That impossible thought actually made me overflow with my guilty juices and I knew he was more than satisfied with his success in taming me into complete surrender.
Hannibal was generally positive and happy in a way that dismayed me at first. I was so caught up in my fuzzy thoughts that it was all I could do to wipe away the cobwebs and pretend to be normal. There was no doubt the smiling youth was able to dispense solace to my physical needs and to some extent he was a plus for my mental state of mind because he managed to distract me from my dark and kinky thoughts of existence inside the pages of a lurid work of fiction that was thankfully not the least bit like the adventures of the Marquis De Sade.
It was an old Gypsy woman that broached the subject of “jumping” into the action of some creative work that fascinated a bored person with such tempting invitation that they transported almost without conscious thought. I had laughed at her suggestion thinking her to be both ugly and gullible to believe such superstitious nonsense. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name, but her face stayed pinned in my memory like a wanted poster of a criminal with an agenda for destroying my sheltered life.
The book was about a doctor with a background in doing scientific experiments.