On a tube from Heathrow into central London recently, Haron and I caught each other observing the young woman sitting opposite. She’d clearly just arrived in the country, with two huge suitcases that suggested that she was here to work or study for some time.The girl picked up a copy of Metro, the free newspaper, discarded by a previous passenger. We watched as she studied the strange, unfamiliar place names – for now just words, abstract concepts – as if searching for clues to the lifeblood of her new home. Which places would become real, three-dimensional for her; which would remain foreign and unexplored? Which marked the future-familiar locations where she would work, play, love, cry?
And then she laid it down, pulled a map from her pocket and started to gather her things together. Her uncle would be waiting for her – pleased to see her, no doubt, eager for news from home. She’d be staying with him: her father had emphasised how lucky she was.
Only… only daddy had said something else as he’d kissed her goodbye. About how he’d been talking to her uncle about her behaviour in London. How he’d explained how she was expected to uphold the highest standards at all times. About how transgressions were punished at home….
…about how he’d given her uncle his full permission to punish her as he felt fit. About how her uncle had assured him that his own daughters had been brought up ‘traditionally’, and how he hoped not to have to use the cane during her stay, but would do so firmly and without hesitation if her conduct caused it to be strictly necessary…
This reminds of an odd experience I had once in the Paris Metro. Sitting across from a lovely young woman, who was quietly reading, I noticed that she wore a black velvet choker, around an inch wide. This made me wonder – was this a kind of day-time collar, the kind of signifier that only the initiated would recognise ? She looked up, and saw me looking at her, and held my gaze for a second or two, then looked down again, holding herself very formally, very neat.
I started to fantasise about her, exactly as you had done. That she was on her way to a meeting with her master, naked under her light summer dress, wearing his ‘marks’ : the choker of course, and in my fantasy I equipped her with two matching velvet covered wrist bands, that would be used to hold her hands above her head…….
I was just admiring her in this pose – her arms raised, her calves and thighs taut, and was about to open her dress to start tormenting her breasts when the train started to slow. She looked up, looked at the station indicator, put her book away, and then looked at me again, quite deliberately, and massaged her wrists, as if they had just been released from bondage !
Then with a light but controlled step, she was gone, leaving me with a dry mouth, a slight shake in my hands, excited, mystified, unsatisfied.
sirstephen9: I really don’t think it gets any better than this. Sensational writing.
OMG I am quite outclassed in my pervy underground anecdotes. Thank you for sharing, Sir Stephen!
Is there *anything* that you lot can’t make sexy?!
Speaking for myself…..and from what I’ve read on Spanking Writers…. Nope. Though tsunami’s and cyclones are tough, and mental illness more so; there is the pain of the world, and ‘the world of pain’ – lets keep them separate. But go on, lets do a “whats my line” improvisation – you set the subject, we make it sexy. (with A & H’s permission)
sirstephen9: She’s a submissive but she’s not feeling too submissive this morning. She’s got enough sense left though not to reply to the email and let him have it right between the eyes!(call it self survival instinct)
It’s a heavenly autumn morning and she walks in the gardens instead. She stops for a cup of tea. Just outside the little tearoom there is a man playing his harp. He is wearing black pants and shirt, has greying hair, is handsome with a steady gaze and that musician’s intensity. He sets her mind wandering……
Can you make something of this? If you return her thoughts to submission all the better….
It’s a heavenly autumn morning and she walks in the gardens instead. She stops for a cup of tea. Just
outside the little tearoom there is a man playing his harp. He is wearing black pants and shirt, has greying hair, is handsome with a steady gaze and that musician’s intensity. He sets her mind wandering, as she listens to the cascades of notes.
The glass of green tea is warming her, helping her to calm herself a little, but her mind keeps jumping back to the scene in the house, that she has just walked away from. Always, always, he pushes her a little further, testing her constancy, testing her ability to stick to her agreement with him, wanting to see how she handles herself with his successively outrageous demands. Today, he had asked, no demanded, god, what did he do, except suggest that something she do would give him pleasure, that for
her to withhold it would be churlish, and always something more, more difficult for her than the things he had asked her to do before.
This time, he had not only wanted to expose her to his business colleagues, he had done that
before, indirectly, selecting thin blouses, and forbidding her underwear, but he wanted her to inflict pain on herself, while they watched. He had some diamonds, large cut diamonds, and they were for sale. He had had them mounted on long pale gold ear-rings, in such a way that each stone could move separately from the others, five strings of dancing light, the smallest stone at the top, down to the largest at the bottom of each string. He wanted to find a way to create an artificial time pressure on the buyers, by displaying them on her, one pair as true ear-rings, the next clipped to her nipples, and the last suspended between her legs. She was to have put on the first pair, her head on one side, then the other, a coquettish flick to restore the perfect helmet of hair. Then to have paraded in front of them, dipping her head before opening her blouse, and displaying her jutting breasts. The next pair, larger than the first, were to hang from her nipples, and she was to shift to a lilting walk, letting her full breasts sway, as she removed her silk blouse. But the clips were cruel, and she was to let them see her pain too.
Finally, she was to undo her long wrap from around her waist, and walk up to a stool in just her
high heels. Then to raise one leg, and clip the final string, the heaviest, with the largest stone, to her
clitoris. And just stand there, legs apart, while inviting them ‘Gentlemen, please, inspect them, look as close as you please, take as much time as you like.’
Why should she do this for him ? It had no element of pleasure for her, the presence of the other men (or even a woman, it might have been a woman, a high powered professional business woman) would prevent her taking any pleasure in her pain, and to have to stand, exposed, maybe while they looked at the diamonds, maybe while they looked at her, the pain of the clips on her sex and nipples, the impossibility of assuaging the pain, until either they bought, or there was no deal to be had.
She had finished her tea, and realized that in her anger she had drifted some way down the
garden, away from the tea house, and the music. In fact, the harp had stopped, and she had drunk her tea, so she walked carefully back up the finely gravelled paths to the tea house. As she appeared, the music started again, not the soothing cascades of the earlier piece, a more demanding work this time. She loved harp music, and this piece, Faure’s ‘Une chatelaine en sa tour’ was a favourite. It was always surprising, watching someone play, how energetic it all was, the constant dipping towards the instrument, the arms flayed out, the fingers so precisely flexed to attack or caress the strings, the feet pressing and releasing the pedals, sustaining and dampening the sound. She sat beside him, watching him playing the work. It was about ten minutes long, and as she watched, and her mind took in the music as the perfect stream of sound it was, she thought that it took not only skill and experience, but it was also a physical and painful effort. Sweat beaded his brow, his breathing was hard and controlled through his nose, his fingers flying across the metal wound strings. There was nothing he could do, if he felt an itch or a cough, if his fingers hurt, if he tired, if sweat blurred his vision, he still had to play the work as written, to its end, till the music was ended, not the musician.
She imagined him touching her, taking his time, no orchestration to his moves, just the instinct of pleasure, the callused tips of his fingers brushing her breasts, smoothing down her belly, slipping between the delicate lips of her sex, finding her clitoris, stroking her to orgasm, while he kissed her, soft and deep. And then she realized, this was the message he was here to give, to her, about the things she was expected to do. They were about her as an artist, using her body and her sex to play though a set piece, to follow the score, however painful, knowing that the beauty of the performance came from the unique combination of the discipline of the script, and the energy, intelligence and performance of the player. And there was enormous pride, and humility, as she understood that the artistry of the score was one of potential, needing a human to bring it alive. Easy to write or say the words, ‘Kneel now, offer your neck to the collar’, but to do it with grace, with a flowing motion, no clumsy shuffling, and to have such a smooth
skinned neck to proffer, to be able to stop moving to create the drama of possession – that was harder,
that was an artists role, that was her art, its effect profound and moving.
The harpist is silent again, the work ended. He looks at her, wipes his fingers, and says ‘An
English work now, Malcolm Arnold’. He breathes deep, concentrating on the instrument in front of him.
She walks back through the cool of the autumn air, up the steps to the long stone patio, up to to the doors, to the room where the men are gathered, looking down at the merchandise, drinking espresso,
brandy, casual, unfocused.
As she flings open the door, the music surges up behind her, powerful, energizing.
‘Gentlemen, please ! Let me show you how these diamonds can be worn.’
As she walks over to the table, they ease back a little, giving her space. She tilts her head, clips on the first ear-ring, straightens, hair swirling, and very man there is watching the light dance, the ice cold of the hardest substance on earth blue against the warm flesh of her neck. She turns her back, to them, and they all see the exquisite structure of her shoulders, her waist, her rounded buttocks, as she turns her head again, and fixes the next string. Then, with a dip of her head, hands back against the table edge, she shrugs up her shoulders, and with one hand undoes the blouse, and looks them straight in the eyes, her naked breasts on show to them all. She cups the soft flesh, and fixes the next string to her nipple, letting the gold trickle over fingers. Before it’s stopped moving, she has cupped her other breast, and a second shimmering string is attached. The silence in the room is dense, a palpable contrast to the music outside. She leans forward, letting them see the weight of the jewelery on her flesh. The last movement now, in the tense silence of the room, she raises her leg, and places the heel down on the small chair he had placed
there. She reaches behind her, and undoes the tie that keeps the wrap closed. A second later, and the
silk sheath is a crumpled pile on the floor, and the glory of her legs takes the mens eyes up to her lightly shaven mound, just a fine wavering line of the inner sex lips visible. She runs a finger up the slit, opening the flesh, and with the other hand clips on the last string. The silence knots tighter.
And as the music reaches its conclusion, she brings down her foot, standing with legs closed, a sparkling
line drawing the eye to her sex, to be distracted by the twin lines at her nipples, and up to her face, framed by the dancing light, tilting slowly back, to expose her throat. Not one man wants anything other than to take the diamonds, un-clip them, and kiss the spot relieved, taking soft warm flesh to its own sparkling conclusion.
He comes forward from the back of the room, and stands beside her still form. She is a ballet dancer, a trapeze artist, her body still as a body can be, each tiny quiver, each pulse visible in the lights that shimmer from her. He places his fingers behind each string, announcing its asking price. The pressure on her nipples stirs her, and she feels her excitement grow. When he selects those between her legs she gasps, the pull on her clitoris tipping her towards orgasm. As the men start to state their offers, standing, trying to outbid each other for the finest ones, the largest string, he un-clips them, laying them back on their velvet beds, and the sudden release from first her nipples, and then her sex, pushes her over the edge. She stands naked, shaking, coming, still looking at the men, each of them certain that he is buying the pleasure of this beautiful woman, the orgasm of a goddess.
Naked she walks out through open doors, down the mossy steps, to the tea house, where her harpist is
standing, to embrace her, kiss her deep, slide his callused forefinger into her, and feel her shake and buckle at his touch. Her voice is smoky, quiet, slightly amused.
‘What was that last piece you played ? The one by Arnold ?’
Its called ‘Fantasy for Harp’.
sirstephen9: I don’t know who you are, but I’m impressed! A simply stunning story, and very much more than I had a right to expect. And you may be pleased to know, it had the right effect. Thank you. May we read more?
Who else votes that Sir Stephen needs to set up his own blog or stories site immediately, and share more of his great ideas? Fabulous stuff.
sirstephen9: I felt obliged to write a little fantasy myself this afternoon to say thank you. I’m the shy sort and can’t post it here. If you would like to read it, Haron and Abel have my email address.
‘The New Arrival’ indeed, sirstephen9. What an entrance.