Sometimes I marvel at the level of detail in my kinky dreams – and wonder at some of the points that get skipped over. Take last night’s reveries.
A 30s style suburban semi. Slightly grubby net curtains, in the big bay window overlooking an overgrown front garden.
Rays of sunlight, filtering through, onto dated furniture that might have been fashionable in the late 1970s.
The vicar, visiting for afternoon tea, perched politely on the sofa.
The startled gentleman (guardian, father, uncle?) admonishing the young lady for swearing (although I had no idea what she’d said). “Just because you’re at College doesn’t mean you can use foul language when you come home. Go upstairs and fetch the cane.”
The girl returning, shame-faced.
“Would you mind moving down a little, vicar?” so that the girl had room to bend over the arm of the settee. (Wearing trousers? Skirt? Bared? No idea!)
The vicar taking the lass’s face quite firmly in his hand, lifting it so he could look directly into her eyes as the strokes fell. (Four strokes? Six?)
The girl standing, rubbing her bottom, being handed the cane and disappearing to return it. (To a wardrobe in her bedroom, maybe?)
The vicar being offered another cup of tea…