Monday, December 12, 2016

Mark’s Kinky Wish for Xmas

It was late at night, on Xmas eve. I was ferreting about in the backstreets of London. The sorts of places where they still have those little curio shops, nestled amongst the Chinese restaurants and the all-night coffee bars. The snow was making little festive drifts where the winos’ empty bottles lay against the shop fronts.

 I was feeling sorry for myself. ‘Xmas is coming’, I thought, ‘which is more than I am’.
Bloody women. Why can’t I find one? If only women understood what I really want, the world would be a much better place. I am sensitive, caring, a good listener – why can’t I find a domme who will do exactly what I want, for God’s sake?

I wandered down an alleyway I hadn’t visited before. At the end of the street, there was a dimly-lit sign: ‘Madame Karrie’s Olde Worlde Fancies and Useful Things’. I thought, ‘May as well: this shop looks like a pile of crap, but the evening is already a write-off. Another bloody miserable Xmas.’ I pushed at the door, and the little bell above it gave a quiet chime as I entered.

The woman behind the counter, half revealed and half shrouded by the dim candlelight in the shop’s interior, glanced up from a package she had been wrapping.

‘Merry Xmas! I am the owner here. How can we help you?’ she said.

‘I want something unusual’, I replied. ‘It is Xmas, and I bloody well deserve something out of the ordinary. So go on. Surprise me from your treasure trove of tat’.

For just a moment, as though by a trick of the candlelight, it looked to me as though a fiery glitter appeared in her eyes. But the next second it was gone, and she smiled benignly at me.

‘Well’, she said, ‘we are always happy to cater for our caring and sensitive clientele.’

I had one of those mental deja-vu hiccups, where you find yourself realising ‘wait a minute, that is just what I was thinking!’ But her happy smile and almost girlish voice reassured me. I walked over to join her at the counter.

‘In fact, I’ve just been wrapping your present’, she said.

Normally, I would have found that sort of presumptuousness in a woman intensely annoying. My present! How could it be my present? I’d never even set foot in the store before. Women are *always* doing that to me – as if somehow my innermost desires are transparent to them.  I wouldn’t mind, but usually they run a mile once they think they have worked out what I really want. But, there was something about the way her slim fingers were tying the ribbon around the package …. I snatched it up.

‘I should warn you’, she said, ‘be very, very careful how you use this’.

I gave her my best disdainful stare: it is the one that says ‘If I want an insignificant person like you to offer me advice, I will ask for it.’ She smiled happily at me – although for just one brief moment I felt again as though I could see flames in her eyes. Obviously, another trick of the candlelight. I mean, really. Pay your bloody electric bill, woman!

She watched in silence as I pulled at the wrapping paper. Underneath was an old, tarnished, brass lamp.

‘Really?’, I laughed. ‘Could you *be* more stagey??? A brass lamp?’

She looked down demurely at her hands, now clasped in front of her.

‘Perhaps if Sir were to rub the lamp – but I warn you, you really should be careful’.

‘Let me guess, I rub the lamp and make a wish? Or do you rub my cock and I make a wish? I always get those confused’, I laughed.

The room grew dark, and for a moment the shop become almost insufferably hot, and the flames from the candles seemed to cast an orange glow against the walls, reflected back in her eyes. But the next instant, I was back in the dimly lit interior and there she stood, nice as ninepence. I blinked. Perhaps I should cut down on the festive drinkies.

‘If Sir rubs the lamp, and makes a wish, it will come true’, she said. ‘But, you can only do it three times’, she smiled at me.

See, this is just my luck. I wander into a wierdo shop, where they can’t even afford fluorescent lighting, but then it turns out the shop-keeper is, well, pretty God-damned good looking. But then it turns out she is a fruitcake. That is my life in a nutshell.

‘OK’, I said, ‘Watch this!’

I rubbed the lamp and then said in a loud voice (a bit like one of those characters from ‘Lord of the Rings’):

‘Bring me a Mistress now!’

There was a bright flash, and standing before me was a lady in a too-short red miniskirt, with teetery high heels and too much makeup.

‘Omigod, Mark!’ she cried. ‘Our secret is revealed! Our passionate affair has been discovered by Lord Boris Johnson, and now he demands recompense. You must duel with him at dawn, my darling!’

‘For fuck’s sake!’, I shouted at the lamp. ‘Not *this* kind of mistress, you stupid twat! If I want an over-blown tart I can join Tinder!’

I rapped the lamp on the counter-top, and the red-miniskirted one disappeared. I glanced over at the woman behind the counter. If I was a person of lower self-esteem, I could almost have imagined her eyes were mocking me. But if I was that sort of person, I would go around worrying what the stupid counter-girls at Tescos thought about me. I rubbed the lamp again.

‘Listen very, very carefully lamp. I want someone dominant!’

There was another blinding flash. A short balding man stood before me, His leather jeans looked two sizes too small, and the leather straps of his harness nestled snuggled into the tufts of grey hair on his chest.

‘Aha!’, he said. ‘Now I have you, you ……’

I rapped the lamp on the counter-top again. He disappeared.

I shouted at the lamp. ‘Will you pay fucking attention, you useless piece of badly molded brass-mongery! I want a woman, who is beautiful, and dominant, and who will be my mistress!’

I rubbed the lamp again, and this time the lightning flash seemed to last for an eternity. The walls of the shop dissolved into the red and orange hues of the candlelight and white bolts of electricity shot across the room. As the shop faded from sight around me, the shop owner was surrounded by pulsing shimmers of heat and luminiscence. In the half-light that was left from the flickering candles and the shafts of radiance surrounding the shop keeper, I could vaguely make out a landscape of desolation stretching out into infinity behind her: gibbets, crosses, cages, bonfires and the mournful sound of souls yelling in torment.  I felt an awful tugging sensation at the centre of my being, drawing me towards the infinitude of fiery darkness beyond.

‘Ah’, the shop-keeper said, ‘I thought you would never ask’.

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