She told me to crawl to her, so over I went, on all-fours. On my knees, its not easy, but I'd crawl over hot coals for her, so I went, determined.
She told me to kneel up. She took each wrist gently and wrapped a thick leather cuff round it. No need for locks; she knows I'm not going to take them off without being told to. Then she linked them together with the bolt snap.
She threw the pot of skin lotion at me. "Rub," she ordered, "and don't look at me."
I scrambled for the pot as it fell clumsily between my cuffed hands. Picking it up I struggled with the lid, and scooped out some of the soft, white cream. I warmed it in my hands before applying it to her feet. Smearing it all over and rubbing it deeply into her skin, working the arch of her feet, between and around and along each toe.
For what felt like hours, kneeling up, my muscles spasming and my knees aching for relief. I tried shifting position, but just got a slap. "Stay still and stop moaning!" The second time, I got a gag in my mouth for my intransigence. I kept rubbing, over and over, working into her feet.
It was agony on my legs and knees, but I had to carry on serving her, my bound hands working over her feet, while she lounged on the couch, luxuriating in the service I was giving.
Eventually, she tired of the attention being solely on her feet. She stopped me, pulled the gag out of my mouth, and pushed me down to get to work somewhere else...
Tuesday, May 21, 2019
Demons & Angels by Mark
Demons and Angels
It is Ward 10 in the local hospital, and he is breathing his last. I often think cancer is our best friend; if it was not for Big Tobacco, things would be way more time-consuming and tedious for us. Oh wait: ’our/us’. I know, right? Total shock for people like you who are not actually in the whole ‘collect their souls’ business. Turns out there is more than one religion and more than one way to collect souls and deliver them to Hell: who knew? But he is my religion, and my responsibility. My wings and horns and spiny tail and pitchfork, really just psychodrama: to be honest, the Buddhists do it with more style. But I do carry the whole scaly demon thing off pretty well, because he is, like, shit scared.
So, as he lies there on his death bed, I do the echoey voice:
‘You fucked around, drank like a longshoreman, did more lines than a Shakespearian actor, and totally ignored your wife and son. You were an asshole your entire life, and now it’s time to count the cost.’
When I say that kind of stuff, I like to think I am channelling Charlton Heston in ‘The 10 Commandments’. Or maybe it is ‘El Cid’. But, you know, big, important, portentous.
He looks up at me with dying eyes, which, personally, I hate. They spend a whole life screwing around and then on their deathbed they look up at you with the puppy-dog eyes.
‘I am sorry’, he says, and a single tear drips its way slowly down his cheek.
Can I tell you, right now, how much I fucking despise those tears that drip slowly down the cheek? I have him bang to rights, and now, with the whole ‘tear dribbles down the cheek’ thing, there is a last-minute appeal to a court of higher authority. So anyway, I grit my fangs and I phone the Higher Authority: and before you ask, no, you cannot afford my cell-phone plan.
There is a long delay. There is always a long delay. He is lying there, expiring, and I am drumming my claws on the bedside cabinet listening to the busy signal. Eventually, I get through. They tell me:
‘He hath repented, and his path to Heaven is secure.’
And I think:
‘For fuck’s sake! I have the pitchfork ready and everything. Plus, if I hear that ‘hath’ crap one more time, I am going to tell them to fucketh off.’
Then the asshole dies and slips out of my grasp forever.
But then the phone rings again, and the celestial voice tells me:
‘There is a submissive in Ward 8 who is close to death. He spent his entire life lying to, and stealing from, any domme he could trick into collaring him. He secretly served several dommes at the same time without telling them. He pledged lifelong obedience to each domme and then as soon as it became inconvenient to him, he ghosted them. On SL, he pestered dommes in IM and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. We do not have a final tally, but estimate he used over two dozen phony alts at the Dominion. He made life so miserable for some of the dommes that they left the Dominion and never returned. You are to visit him and seek his final confession.’
So, I sharpen my horns and my pitchfork, give the old spiny tail a shake as I get up to go, and I think:
‘OK, Mr Ward 8, let’s see you cry your way out of *that* bad shit, motherfucker.’
It is Ward 10 in the local hospital, and he is breathing his last. I often think cancer is our best friend; if it was not for Big Tobacco, things would be way more time-consuming and tedious for us. Oh wait: ’our/us’. I know, right? Total shock for people like you who are not actually in the whole ‘collect their souls’ business. Turns out there is more than one religion and more than one way to collect souls and deliver them to Hell: who knew? But he is my religion, and my responsibility. My wings and horns and spiny tail and pitchfork, really just psychodrama: to be honest, the Buddhists do it with more style. But I do carry the whole scaly demon thing off pretty well, because he is, like, shit scared.
So, as he lies there on his death bed, I do the echoey voice:
‘You fucked around, drank like a longshoreman, did more lines than a Shakespearian actor, and totally ignored your wife and son. You were an asshole your entire life, and now it’s time to count the cost.’
When I say that kind of stuff, I like to think I am channelling Charlton Heston in ‘The 10 Commandments’. Or maybe it is ‘El Cid’. But, you know, big, important, portentous.
He looks up at me with dying eyes, which, personally, I hate. They spend a whole life screwing around and then on their deathbed they look up at you with the puppy-dog eyes.
‘I am sorry’, he says, and a single tear drips its way slowly down his cheek.
Can I tell you, right now, how much I fucking despise those tears that drip slowly down the cheek? I have him bang to rights, and now, with the whole ‘tear dribbles down the cheek’ thing, there is a last-minute appeal to a court of higher authority. So anyway, I grit my fangs and I phone the Higher Authority: and before you ask, no, you cannot afford my cell-phone plan.
There is a long delay. There is always a long delay. He is lying there, expiring, and I am drumming my claws on the bedside cabinet listening to the busy signal. Eventually, I get through. They tell me:
‘He hath repented, and his path to Heaven is secure.’
And I think:
‘For fuck’s sake! I have the pitchfork ready and everything. Plus, if I hear that ‘hath’ crap one more time, I am going to tell them to fucketh off.’
Then the asshole dies and slips out of my grasp forever.
But then the phone rings again, and the celestial voice tells me:
‘There is a submissive in Ward 8 who is close to death. He spent his entire life lying to, and stealing from, any domme he could trick into collaring him. He secretly served several dommes at the same time without telling them. He pledged lifelong obedience to each domme and then as soon as it became inconvenient to him, he ghosted them. On SL, he pestered dommes in IM and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. We do not have a final tally, but estimate he used over two dozen phony alts at the Dominion. He made life so miserable for some of the dommes that they left the Dominion and never returned. You are to visit him and seek his final confession.’
So, I sharpen my horns and my pitchfork, give the old spiny tail a shake as I get up to go, and I think:
‘OK, Mr Ward 8, let’s see you cry your way out of *that* bad shit, motherfucker.’
Her Last Submissive by Mark
Her last submissive
(A BDSM re-imagining of Browning’s ‘My Last Duchess’)
That’s my last submissive painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; the craftswoman’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at him? I said
“the craftswoman” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Madam, ’twas not
His Mistress’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into his submissive cheek; perhaps
The craftswoman chanced to say, “His cuff laps
Over his little wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along his throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, he thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. He had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; he liked whate’er
He looked on, and his looks went everywhere.
Madam, ’twas all one! My whip across his breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some girlish fool
Broke in the orchard for him, the white mule
He rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from him alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. He thanked women—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if he ranked
My gift of a collar in my name
With any woman’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if he let
Himself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
His wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, Madam, he smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed him; but which woman passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. And so there he stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet below
The other Mistresses. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, a statue thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
(A BDSM re-imagining of Browning’s ‘My Last Duchess’)
That’s my last submissive painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; the craftswoman’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at him? I said
“the craftswoman” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Madam, ’twas not
His Mistress’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into his submissive cheek; perhaps
The craftswoman chanced to say, “His cuff laps
Over his little wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along his throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, he thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. He had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; he liked whate’er
He looked on, and his looks went everywhere.
Madam, ’twas all one! My whip across his breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some girlish fool
Broke in the orchard for him, the white mule
He rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from him alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. He thanked women—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if he ranked
My gift of a collar in my name
With any woman’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if he let
Himself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
His wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, Madam, he smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed him; but which woman passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. And so there he stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet below
The other Mistresses. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, a statue thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Dakota's Confessions
Dakota's Confession:
I confess that I had to take time away from second life, which also made me upset as that also meant I had to have time away from my dear and beloved Mistress. I do not like this at all, but alas bills need to be paid, and money needs to be earned in order to pay them.
I love my Mistress dearly with all my heart and want nothing more than to see her happy and to serve her well, for am I hers, and i'm damn proud of it. She's been the best part of my life, both in rl and sl, and i'm so fucking lucky that I get to call her Mistress, and to be collared by her.
Having to work is stressful enough for me, but at least at the end of the day, the moment I clock out, I don't have to be in charge of things, as i've given all control to Her. I work to maintain communication with Mistress every moment I get on skype, and i'm very fortunate for that opportunity as well, as I get to help maintain the closeness between us. I'm very much close to Mistress, and I wouldn't even dream of leaving her, and I pray that I don't have to.
So, yes, I confess to having to take time away from Mistress and myself as I need my new job to help pay my school bills, and hopefully some on the side to enjoy my lives on second life and in real life.
Signed,
Dakota Putnam
I confess that I had to take time away from second life, which also made me upset as that also meant I had to have time away from my dear and beloved Mistress. I do not like this at all, but alas bills need to be paid, and money needs to be earned in order to pay them.
I love my Mistress dearly with all my heart and want nothing more than to see her happy and to serve her well, for am I hers, and i'm damn proud of it. She's been the best part of my life, both in rl and sl, and i'm so fucking lucky that I get to call her Mistress, and to be collared by her.
Having to work is stressful enough for me, but at least at the end of the day, the moment I clock out, I don't have to be in charge of things, as i've given all control to Her. I work to maintain communication with Mistress every moment I get on skype, and i'm very fortunate for that opportunity as well, as I get to help maintain the closeness between us. I'm very much close to Mistress, and I wouldn't even dream of leaving her, and I pray that I don't have to.
So, yes, I confess to having to take time away from Mistress and myself as I need my new job to help pay my school bills, and hopefully some on the side to enjoy my lives on second life and in real life.
Signed,
Dakota Putnam
Gather The Stars by Anonymous
Gather the Stars
She promised she would reach into the night sky and without fear or trepidation gather the stars for their amusement.
He said He would tremble in anticipation of her bequests. That every syllable would be listened to. Revered. Obeyed.
She recalls how with stockinged feet she would gently massage his glistening hard cock until his need weeped for release
He once spoke to her of his furtive desires almost hypnotised by her gentle joy at the more depraved of his appetite
She reached for him once and he was there waiting.
In the darkness He lowered his head in pain. She was there softly brushing a tear away.
Whips. Floggers. Pinwheels. Knives. Ropes and Leashes were fundamental to their relationship dancing alongside candyfloss, summer cokctails. fairgound rides. french cinema and good conversation.
The fucking rod propelled deeper into his anus as he tugged on the tethers that bound him to the prison stockade. Fuck that he thought and immediately remained still, His anus still raw from his usual morning fucking from Mistress.
She thought of him downstairs in the dungeon and how he would be trying hard not to fidget. He truly hated that fucking rod!. She Laughed and thought how funny it would be if she tiiptoed in quietly and pushed it right up deep in him....How he would squeal!! Just like that little piggy fat boy in Delieverance....squeal little piggy...she laughed once more then returned her attention to the laptop. All thoughts of fucking rods and dungeons gone. Him included.
He hated this bloody blindfold! it didnt add suspense! Why did all Dominant women think so? FFS men are visual animals they want to see your tits and cunt not imagine them behind the thick itchy blackness!.
Goddamn he was getting irritated he wanted to see around their new dungeon. They had just finished it last week. Well he had. Mistress as usual dictated and pointed at things, while he , well he did all the menial heavy lifting work. As it should be yeah yeah but he smiled remembering the fun they had later drinking champagne. They had sprawled on velvet over sized cushions side by side, holding hands looking up together into the starry night.
I promised you the stars she said. He kissed her in response.
She loved him. She truly did. He adored her as he said he would.
He wondered if she would be coming down this evening. All he had ever wanted she gave him.
She logged in. New name. New Avator. Oh the thrill of it all. Let the games begin.
He yawned. As he had done for a few months now and fell asleep
She promised she would reach into the night sky and without fear or trepidation gather the stars for their amusement.
He said He would tremble in anticipation of her bequests. That every syllable would be listened to. Revered. Obeyed.
She recalls how with stockinged feet she would gently massage his glistening hard cock until his need weeped for release
He once spoke to her of his furtive desires almost hypnotised by her gentle joy at the more depraved of his appetite
She reached for him once and he was there waiting.
In the darkness He lowered his head in pain. She was there softly brushing a tear away.
Whips. Floggers. Pinwheels. Knives. Ropes and Leashes were fundamental to their relationship dancing alongside candyfloss, summer cokctails. fairgound rides. french cinema and good conversation.
The fucking rod propelled deeper into his anus as he tugged on the tethers that bound him to the prison stockade. Fuck that he thought and immediately remained still, His anus still raw from his usual morning fucking from Mistress.
She thought of him downstairs in the dungeon and how he would be trying hard not to fidget. He truly hated that fucking rod!. She Laughed and thought how funny it would be if she tiiptoed in quietly and pushed it right up deep in him....How he would squeal!! Just like that little piggy fat boy in Delieverance....squeal little piggy...she laughed once more then returned her attention to the laptop. All thoughts of fucking rods and dungeons gone. Him included.
He hated this bloody blindfold! it didnt add suspense! Why did all Dominant women think so? FFS men are visual animals they want to see your tits and cunt not imagine them behind the thick itchy blackness!.
Goddamn he was getting irritated he wanted to see around their new dungeon. They had just finished it last week. Well he had. Mistress as usual dictated and pointed at things, while he , well he did all the menial heavy lifting work. As it should be yeah yeah but he smiled remembering the fun they had later drinking champagne. They had sprawled on velvet over sized cushions side by side, holding hands looking up together into the starry night.
I promised you the stars she said. He kissed her in response.
She loved him. She truly did. He adored her as he said he would.
He wondered if she would be coming down this evening. All he had ever wanted she gave him.
She logged in. New name. New Avator. Oh the thrill of it all. Let the games begin.
He yawned. As he had done for a few months now and fell asleep
Imagine by Anonymous
Imagine this….
(Gently close your eyes now)
Imagine
My red silk robe draped artfully, a hint of skin
just a glimpse of nipple aggressively piercing through fabric
You can just about smell my glistening cunt
Imagine this…..
(feel my soft breath on your throat now)
Imagine.
My fingers enticing my cunt lips to swell and
My clit to pulsate in need
My cunt to quiver and moisten
For the ache, the hunger. The need
Imagine this….
(stroke your cock slowly for me, that’s right use a hard grip now.)
Imagine.
My fingers thrusting hard and deep
Your tongue pulled firmly onto my clit
Pressing your face deeper harder into my cunt
Smothering you in juices. Can you breathe? I wonder
keep lapping, keep licking , keep flicking..
Imagine this….
(that your stupid fucking flaccid cock could satisfy me now)
Imagine
You watching him as he does precisely as instructed
Places his hard cock at the entrance to my cunt instead of yours
Strokes it back n forth across my cunt lips - just as I like it
Teasing. Tantalizing.
Before feeding me his hunger.
I will look you in the eye as his thrusts make me cum
Imagine that
You stupid cunt
JR Confession
"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east and Juliet is the sun! ...
O that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.
I am too bold: 'tis not to me she speaks.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek! "
The days and weeks go by, like sands in an hourglass, one after the other. The wandering in the desert and the search for meaning, for purpose for the "yin" to my "yang." The glove for my hand. My submission is not a hook that can ge grabbed by any passerby, nor can I attach myself to just anyone. Rather it is more of magnetism, an attraction that is powerful, elusive and inescapable.
There are those individuals, in SL and RL who just...pull me. I slyly try to determine if the feeling is returned, that little bit of connected-ness, that slight pull to something. The lure is not a sexual attraction but the energy felt by a power exchange. The delicious dance of trust, vulnerability, release and service. To most on the "D" side of the slash, a submissive's delight in opening up and submitting is an alien feeling, just as a submissive can't experience the delight in taking a leash and opening and taking a submissive's mind. For me, to feel a Domme's attention is like the scene in Lord of the Rings where Sauron's eye spans the horizon and focuses on you. Powerless, frozen, helpless in the focused attention. And it is wonderful.
But there is someone, Miss X, who I see -- and feel -- whenever i am here. She is why I came back after my ignominious banishment. She has had boys, subs, girls, but also is a Dominant who likes to dominate, to take the power. When she chats I listen and think, yes thats right. When she comes to a chat or event, I always look at her clothes. I read her profile, again, for the 1000th times, to try to come up with a clever approach, a witticism that will draw her focus and energy at me. I fail every time.
She is beautiful. Erudite, witty and lovely. She evokes power, grace and charm. She is real, she doesn't roleplay the role, and bark out orders as a false prophet. And she makes my heart skip a beat, or two or three. I imagine all the great feelings we can share, the depths of power and emotion, sexuality and service that we would share, together, in Sl and RL. But I stay quiet hoping my shine attracts her eye. It hasn't so far. Does she know? Does she feel my attraction and deny it, or
I don't know if She even knows I feel, I want to serve, I want to see her smile and create joy for Her. "The course of love does not run smooth/love looks not with eyes, but with the mind/ and winged Cupid painted blind...".
Fate will bring us together or keep us apart.
"My time coming, anyday, don't worry about me, no
Been so long I felt this way, I'm in no hurry, no
Rainbows and down that highway where ocean breezes blow..."
Maude by Anonymous
Maude.
As she stood up, Maude groaned in discomfort, shuffled down the bus steps and set her two shopping bags down on the wet pavement. With arthritic hands she tightened her old tweed coat against the bitter wind, pushed a few strands of grey hair back into her rain bonnet and thought how everything was so much more difficult these days.
“Excuse me? Are you alright there?......um… Do you need a hand? It’s absolutely freezing eh!”
Maude smiled and looked up to see a pretty brunette dressed in the usual Saturday night attire of mini dress, thigh boots and black puffer jacket. She was probably about 25 years old and her thick eyebrows looked like two ferrets in season. Her eyes looked kind though.
“Ach I’m ok love. Its just age, you know, and this awful weather. Used to be a time I could run and up and down these roads but ach those days are long gone. I’m Maude by the way.”
“I’m Sharon, well my mates call me Shazza. Have you got far to go? I’m waiting for my boyfriend to get off the next bus but that’s not for another 15 minutes, I could help carry your bags a wee bit?”
Maude, delighted, jumped at the chance “Oh, that would be great love. My hands are aching carrying these. The plastic digs into your fingers and that hill seems to get steeper every day. I’m only at number 96, the house that stands by itself just after the bridge.”
They chatted as they walked, Maude spoke of her two grown daughters, one a successful solicitor in a classy New York firm and the other a social worker in Bethnal Green. Both busy with their careers, new friends and newer husbands. Not much time for visiting her anymore but she was very proud.
Maude’s eyes glistened. “It’s my husband, George, that I miss the most. Married 45 years and always in each other’s pockets. We did everything together. He even went with me to the Bingo. He has been dead 2 years now and, oh, how I miss him. Ach! I’m a silly old fool dear. I still leave his tartan slippers beside his favourite chair and I’ve not washed his last whisky glass. Its less lonely that way. He loved a wee whisky when he watched the horses on the telly. Those damn slippers though, I must trip over them twice a day. Then I scream: George, you’ve left your slippers lying about again! Of course, there’s no one to talk back. Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you Sharon.”
“Its just so lovely Maude. Not everyone finds someone that loves them like that. Some men ...
”Maude glanced over at Sharon. “Some men give you black eyes, eh love?”
Instinctively Sharon concealed her face.
“Love, there’s no need to hide yourself, I noticed it earlier when you picked up my bags. The ones on your wrists look fresher.”
Sharon explained that Robert, her boyfriend, didn’t mean to hurt her. It was usually her fault. She would say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Make the wrong dinner or forget his favourite soap. And Robert was under so much pressure at work. Sharon wasn’t being sensitive enough to his stress.
“I love him Maude, I just need to listen more to his needs. Its really great when he’s happy with me.”
Maude sighed and then stopped at her garden gate. “Look this is me. Why don’t you come in for a cup of hot tea and a chat? Leave the beggar waiting around for a bit. Or don’t turn up at all.”
“Oh, I can’t! I just need to be there. Maybe some other time.”
“Come on Love. Look at the state of you, teary and wet from the rain. You need someone to chat to and a hot cup of tea to warm you up. In fact, I have Prosecco - that wine you young ones drink. I’ll open that and join you in a wee tipple. We could have some Victoria cake as well. I just made it this morning.”
Sharon felt guilty. She knew Maude was lonely and just trying to help, but she just could not go in for a cup of or tea or anything else. Robert would go mad with fury if she left him standing at the bus stop. Things had only just got calmer these last few days. She couldn’t upset him.
Maude suddenly stumbled forwards and, falling, gripped onto Sharon’s arm.
Aghast, Sharon gently helped her up. “Maude. Maude are you ok?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. just a wee dizzy spell, I must have forgotten to eat lunch again. Could you see me to my door please love, maybe help me sit down in my chair before you run off to see your fella?”
Sharon agreed, upset for her, and picking up the bags, followed behind. Her phone rang.
“Oh, Hi Rob! Yes, sorry sorry…I have been watching the time yes…Yes but this old woman needed some help and well she just fell. I’m just going to help her into her house. What? No Rob! I would never do that! Her name is Maude we are just at that big house at the end of the bridge … uhm … number 96. Ok, Ok I’ll wait for you here. Rob I am so, so sorry I was just ...”
Maude shook her head.“Tsk! You deserve better you know Sharon. But off you go. I’m fine really. No point in him walking all the way up here, and he’s obviously angry. I might also give him a piece of my mind treating a lovely girl like you so badly and that would make matters much worse!”
Maude grabbed back her bags back, despite Sharon’s weak protestations and shooed her off back down the road. “Take care Sharon and thanks for the help, look after yourself.”
Sharon, upset at doing everything all wrong again and terrified about the consequences, remained silent as she ran back towards the bus station.
Maude closed the front door, engaged the safety chain and shuffled along the drab musky hall. The suffocating silence washed over her. In the kitchen, scatterings of mildew flourished amongst the peeling wallpaper and dirty dishes were piled on every worktop surface. She grabbed two teacups, rinsed them under the cold tap, switched the kettle on to boil and opened a new packet of rich tea biscuits.
“You can come out of the cupboard now George. Put the claw-hammer back in the toolbox. You won’t be needing it tonight. She told some idiot our address on her bloody mobile phone. Oh, and those bags at the front door, they’re full of air fresheners. Put some more downstairs. The last one under the floor is beginning to really stink. You’re going to have to get your axe back out soon before the heat of summer arrives. Pretty soon you’ll need to get off your lazy arse and help me snare some pretty subbie playthings. I’m much too old for this game on my own.”
“Yes Mistress” he said
Maude sat down on the sagging sofa, dipped her biscuit in her tea, put her feet up and settled down to Coronation Street. She thought of George, He was a good little submissive boy - always did her bidding but her taste over the last few years had veered towards females. They cried so sweetly at the torture. The issue of consent in Femdom however always pissed her off!
As she stood up, Maude groaned in discomfort, shuffled down the bus steps and set her two shopping bags down on the wet pavement. With arthritic hands she tightened her old tweed coat against the bitter wind, pushed a few strands of grey hair back into her rain bonnet and thought how everything was so much more difficult these days.
“Excuse me? Are you alright there?......um… Do you need a hand? It’s absolutely freezing eh!”
Maude smiled and looked up to see a pretty brunette dressed in the usual Saturday night attire of mini dress, thigh boots and black puffer jacket. She was probably about 25 years old and her thick eyebrows looked like two ferrets in season. Her eyes looked kind though.
“Ach I’m ok love. Its just age, you know, and this awful weather. Used to be a time I could run and up and down these roads but ach those days are long gone. I’m Maude by the way.”
“I’m Sharon, well my mates call me Shazza. Have you got far to go? I’m waiting for my boyfriend to get off the next bus but that’s not for another 15 minutes, I could help carry your bags a wee bit?”
Maude, delighted, jumped at the chance “Oh, that would be great love. My hands are aching carrying these. The plastic digs into your fingers and that hill seems to get steeper every day. I’m only at number 96, the house that stands by itself just after the bridge.”
They chatted as they walked, Maude spoke of her two grown daughters, one a successful solicitor in a classy New York firm and the other a social worker in Bethnal Green. Both busy with their careers, new friends and newer husbands. Not much time for visiting her anymore but she was very proud.
Maude’s eyes glistened. “It’s my husband, George, that I miss the most. Married 45 years and always in each other’s pockets. We did everything together. He even went with me to the Bingo. He has been dead 2 years now and, oh, how I miss him. Ach! I’m a silly old fool dear. I still leave his tartan slippers beside his favourite chair and I’ve not washed his last whisky glass. Its less lonely that way. He loved a wee whisky when he watched the horses on the telly. Those damn slippers though, I must trip over them twice a day. Then I scream: George, you’ve left your slippers lying about again! Of course, there’s no one to talk back. Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you Sharon.”
“Its just so lovely Maude. Not everyone finds someone that loves them like that. Some men ...
”Maude glanced over at Sharon. “Some men give you black eyes, eh love?”
Instinctively Sharon concealed her face.
“Love, there’s no need to hide yourself, I noticed it earlier when you picked up my bags. The ones on your wrists look fresher.”
Sharon explained that Robert, her boyfriend, didn’t mean to hurt her. It was usually her fault. She would say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Make the wrong dinner or forget his favourite soap. And Robert was under so much pressure at work. Sharon wasn’t being sensitive enough to his stress.
“I love him Maude, I just need to listen more to his needs. Its really great when he’s happy with me.”
Maude sighed and then stopped at her garden gate. “Look this is me. Why don’t you come in for a cup of hot tea and a chat? Leave the beggar waiting around for a bit. Or don’t turn up at all.”
“Oh, I can’t! I just need to be there. Maybe some other time.”
“Come on Love. Look at the state of you, teary and wet from the rain. You need someone to chat to and a hot cup of tea to warm you up. In fact, I have Prosecco - that wine you young ones drink. I’ll open that and join you in a wee tipple. We could have some Victoria cake as well. I just made it this morning.”
Sharon felt guilty. She knew Maude was lonely and just trying to help, but she just could not go in for a cup of or tea or anything else. Robert would go mad with fury if she left him standing at the bus stop. Things had only just got calmer these last few days. She couldn’t upset him.
Maude suddenly stumbled forwards and, falling, gripped onto Sharon’s arm.
Aghast, Sharon gently helped her up. “Maude. Maude are you ok?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. just a wee dizzy spell, I must have forgotten to eat lunch again. Could you see me to my door please love, maybe help me sit down in my chair before you run off to see your fella?”
Sharon agreed, upset for her, and picking up the bags, followed behind. Her phone rang.
“Oh, Hi Rob! Yes, sorry sorry…I have been watching the time yes…Yes but this old woman needed some help and well she just fell. I’m just going to help her into her house. What? No Rob! I would never do that! Her name is Maude we are just at that big house at the end of the bridge … uhm … number 96. Ok, Ok I’ll wait for you here. Rob I am so, so sorry I was just ...”
Maude shook her head.“Tsk! You deserve better you know Sharon. But off you go. I’m fine really. No point in him walking all the way up here, and he’s obviously angry. I might also give him a piece of my mind treating a lovely girl like you so badly and that would make matters much worse!”
Maude grabbed back her bags back, despite Sharon’s weak protestations and shooed her off back down the road. “Take care Sharon and thanks for the help, look after yourself.”
Sharon, upset at doing everything all wrong again and terrified about the consequences, remained silent as she ran back towards the bus station.
Maude closed the front door, engaged the safety chain and shuffled along the drab musky hall. The suffocating silence washed over her. In the kitchen, scatterings of mildew flourished amongst the peeling wallpaper and dirty dishes were piled on every worktop surface. She grabbed two teacups, rinsed them under the cold tap, switched the kettle on to boil and opened a new packet of rich tea biscuits.
“You can come out of the cupboard now George. Put the claw-hammer back in the toolbox. You won’t be needing it tonight. She told some idiot our address on her bloody mobile phone. Oh, and those bags at the front door, they’re full of air fresheners. Put some more downstairs. The last one under the floor is beginning to really stink. You’re going to have to get your axe back out soon before the heat of summer arrives. Pretty soon you’ll need to get off your lazy arse and help me snare some pretty subbie playthings. I’m much too old for this game on my own.”
“Yes Mistress” he said
Maude sat down on the sagging sofa, dipped her biscuit in her tea, put her feet up and settled down to Coronation Street. She thought of George, He was a good little submissive boy - always did her bidding but her taste over the last few years had veered towards females. They cried so sweetly at the torture. The issue of consent in Femdom however always pissed her off!
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