by Eleanor
The swish through the air, the thwack on the glossy black surface of the material came out clearly on the recording. The memory of that day, of that rhythmic swish-thwack, was as hard and alien as a coconut pressed between my breasts, chafing my white flesh. He had sent the tape on to me without any message. I had not even known we were being recorded.
So, I will explain to you later that I was so deeply in his clutches, so unprotestingly his plaything. First, I need to put down on this paper the things he made me do for him. I must write it for him.
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** I **
He stood at the centre of my bedroom. He told me to go out of it. I must fetch the raincoat he had told me to buy – black, shiny and tarty, he had said. He told me, when I came back into the room, to enter on my hands and knees, my mackintosh to be carried like a bundle on my back. I did this.
As I came into the room the bundle fell off. He picked it up and threw it on the bed.
He told me to leave the room again. On my knees. This time I must return with the cane I had also to buy for him. And this time I must enter on my stomach. I did this.
He remained standing as I squirmed my way across the bedroom carpet. He reached down and plucked the cane from my hand. He kept hold of it, the cane held straight down by the side of his leg, its tip nearly on the floor. ‘From now on,’ he explained, ‘you will not let your belly rise from the floor in my presence. Except when I tell you.’
He placed the tip of the cane in the nape of my neck and pressed my face to the floor. My reddish-golden hair fell around me so that I could see nothing but the carpet beneath. My head must never be raised from the floor, in his presence. Unless he told me to. I was to grovel, he said, and that meant pressing my body to the floor at every point. I did so. My pelvis pushed into the carpet. My breasts were pressed flat and wide inside my clothes.
Then he said I would undress there.
********* *********
Pressed to the floor it was difficult to take my clothes off as he had ordered. This was especially true of the tight skirt. I had to wriggle myself forward whilst holding the skirt to the floor. I obeyed with my jumper and my blouse. Down to bra and panties I felt curiously ashamed. His cane flicked at the underwear as he stood over me. I hesitated. With anger, I realised. Then I complied.
The hold he had over me was not just one of money, of the public shame he could cause me, the personal guilt, the… I cannot tell you yet. All I can say right now is that I would have yielded, willingly, to an ordinary seduction by him. But not this. He had forced this on me. Even though I had often caught his eye, lingered over a cup of coffee, innocently, just a minute longer than expected. But now he had me grovelling, pressed into the dirt of the carpet. Ah, well, I fumbled for my brassiere catch. The panties involved more wriggling. I lay still at last. The point of the cane touched places on my skin: shoulder blades, the spine at my waist. The centres of my buttocks. I had thought this man beautiful, magnetic. But now I felt his power as well. The cane did not hurt me, as he merely touched the skin. He had promised me, with his honour, he would not hurt my body. But he was now wounding my dignity, the fall from my usual confident pride.
The tip of the cane as it gently prodded the skin was not pain, it was power. And my skin, like blotting paper, soaked it up, till they were united – my skin and his power. I was helpless in my skin.
He knew he had me, I – angry but helpless, abject yet yearning – am his carpet, yet lover.
His command came. To reach, reach up to his flies. Release the contained urgency there. I rose to kneel on all fours, the cane nestling in the crevice between the buttocks. My left hand undid him, brought out his organs that lay in my hands like crown jewels. I licked them as he told me. I retreated prostate to the floor when he prodded.
********* *********
My hair again enfolded my face on the floor. I lay still and heard the movements as he took off his clothes, folded them and piled them on a chair in the corner of my room. And when he had done, there was quiet, and then, suddenly, a vigorous rustling and something landed on the small of my back. I started – but it was soft. A bundle, the mackintosh he had made me buy that hot summer’s day.
I put it on as he told me. It was truly difficult not to move parts of my body from the floor. But I tried to do as he said. He swore at me and threatened every time he believed I raised myself too high. I truly made an effort to comply. It was not just that he snapped out orders with force and threat; it was also that his degradation of me had begun to reduce me. It made me, in a real way, feel worthless to him. I had no longer any rights. He demanded the buttons be done up to the throat. He wanted the belt tied tighter round my waist. Tighter till it was a garrotte, he advised with a bleached kind of desire in his voice. And all the time the cane was pointing down on me from where he stood over. Its tip caressed my hair, my buttocks, entangled my fingers as I tried to put on the garment. He had told me at the outset he would not hurt me with it. But could I believe him now? Could I?
He told me to stand up, and then swore at me as I faced him. I had to turn away from him, not to see, but to face the mirror in front of the wardrobe. The mackintosh looked dishevelled as I had only managed to put it on so clumsily. Its glossy plastic surface reflected the soft lights of the room all ways. I wanted to smooth it out on my body but he refused to let me. I looked like a tart, a slut, he told me. And it was true, I did. A filthy thing from the gutter, he said. He was right. He liked it – to see me in my true manner.
He sat then on the end of the bed, at my left side. I remained looking ahead at the mirror as he had placed me. The light in the room had gone from the window behind. Small lamps either side of the bed gave a more intimate glow. The cane passed over my shape, encased in its plastic – my shoulders, my breasts, the front of my tummy, the small of my back and over my buttocks. It was a caress, it could have been my lover’s hand. ‘Bend,’ he commanded. ‘Right down,’ he demanded. I spread my feet apart and went down. I am a dancer and proud of the suppleness of my joints. I can keep my legs straight whist bringing my face down between my shins. He has admired this. I did it for him, peering behind me through my legs and under the hem of the shiny garment.
‘Good,’ he said for the first time. I heard then, for the first time, the swish in the air, and the hearty thwack on the glossy black shine of the mackintosh.
********* *********
** II **
I listened to that swish, and the thwack time and again as it hit the material of the mac. He aimed it carefully where the material hung below my bottom and a bit away from my skin, so it did not really hurt me. I could feel a lot of energy in the blows he struck, and the sounds were really vicious as if he were truly thrashing my skin. Through my own legs I had a view of the cane in its curving swoop down towards my body. Each time I expected to wince with the pain of it and I gasped in anticipation, as if it must strike the most tender of my parts. But he was true to his word, and it never really hurt me seriously. For a moment I felt honoured by him. And yet… his pleasure it seemed was with the mackintosh.
Soon he put aside the cane and found his camera. He placed me close to the mirror, and took me at an angle that showed me and my reflection. He had posed me standing and bending slightly forward, we looked close together as if about to embrace. He put his hand inside the garment and brought forward one of my breasts and let it hang outside as if, of its own accord, it had pushed aside the mac and burst one of the buttons in order to reveal itself. He took a shot looking up, to frame this wayward breast together with my pale and plaintive face. I have seen these photographs, a few days later. Indeed, he has made me eat the ones that excite him most.
Then moving me across the room, once again he made me bend down. I noticed this time, the muscles behind my knee stretching. On this occasion he rolled up the hem of the mackintosh till it was a furled sail on the top of my bent body. With my legs a little apart, the black mackintosh formed a kind of border around the long curve of my buttocks down the tapering thighs. But also pressed from between my buttocks was my privacy. Now, not private. The crevasse had opened as I was bent down in my dancer’s position, and it presented an unimpeded view of my labia and what lay within them. He took from a vase on my own dressing table the head of a magnificent golden chrysanthemum bloom. The stalk had been stripped and he shortened it to thrust it firmly into my privacy. This too, he photographed, my apprehensive face, upside down between my legs below, and the proud flower dominating – and also modestly concealing – above. The whole was framed in black glistening plastic.
And more, he made a piece of paper, some eight inches long and a couple wide which he spelled out with my lipstick the word CENSORED. And removing the golden blossom from me, he replaced it with the notice, stuck with bluetack across the place where the chrysanthemum had been. He moved me a little in this doubled-up posture to the edge of the room. My face was a few inches from the wallpaper – beneath the windowsill. But I knew that my ‘censored’ privacy was therefore only inches from the bare window pane. Soft though the room lights were, that part of me must be visible to the street below. Why did I stay there where he had put me? The insulting little notice, concealing – or drawing attention to — what only intimacy should see of me. I could have moved away. Instead, I began to shed some tears. Without interest he grabbed his own overcoat and went down into the street with his camera. There he took pictures of the house, of the window, and my shame portrayed within it. I could see, in the room, the blue pulses of the flash on his camera as it picked out the picture he wanted to preserve. He was lighting up my degradation. I shall never know how many passers-by in that busy street will have looked up to see what should never have been public. To my mind they were legion. I will never know them as they have seen me.
********* *********
He ordered me to come to him as he sat down on the edge of the bed again. I shuffled, bent double, with one hand grasping each ankle. The back of the mackintosh fell like a curtain over my indignity. He screamed at me to face him. I moved into place so that my face was near to the floor, and I looked a little above at his half-gorged genitals, the scrotum was crinkled with excitement. He lifted the curtain again and my bottom was level with his face. He stripped off the shaming little notice and my special place stared at him, as it were, in the eye as he sat on the bed. The cane came into his hand and he ran its length up and down between my labia, as if he might be cleaning it on a duster. Any sensations it gave me could not distract from the hurt to my pride, the shame and indignity he made me swallow. I needed him to cherish me there. To cherish the whole of my body. To heal me with gentleness and caresses. Even then I believed I could heal from what he had done to me.
He slapped the bareness of my buttock with the flat of his hand as one might a horse. He told me to stand. He turned me around and drew my body towards him. I now stood above him as he remained seated. His hands moved firmly up my sides. He buried his face in the folds of the mackintosh above the belt. It cut me nearly in two. He was kissing the enveloping plastic that folded around his face, his lips. It was the material he was loving. I knew. It was not me. Why did I simply comply. When he moved me away I could see his proud member now standing.
Into the bent double position again. My private parts exposed again by furling the latex over the top of my buttocks again. As my head went down between my legs in smooth obedience, I was now facing the door of the little bedroom. Dark and seedy and polluted it now seemed. But I was fixed to this whole business, as an addict to heroin. ‘Now. I want some screaming,’ he told me. When he pulled on my hair, I must scream as if he were raping me. It did not work too well. He told me, in fury, I was from the stage and should give him my best performance. If I did not improve, he said, ‘I’ll take the cane to your buttocks in a serious way. That’ll make you jump and scream, won’t it? Do you want that?’ I did not for a moment doubt his threat. I told him so. He was dead silent. In outraged silence. Then he told me, with menace, I should never, ever, dare to speak to him without permission. He shouted at me to grovel. Down. Pressed into the carpet, my head between his feet. He dropped one of his shoes on me. ‘Lick it,’ he shouted. ‘Lick the sole from toe to heel. And from heel to toe. I don’t care where it has trodden. Wipe it. With your tongue.’ I did so – with haste.
When his temper had calmed, I resumed the previous position. I screamed as fulsomely as I could. No caution now, about neighbours. And in due course, someone from one of the other flats rang my bell, banged on the panels of my door. I dread who it might be. Oh no, don’t let it be old Mrs Price, who had been so kind to me since I had been there. When the bedroom door opened as he went to answer the bell, the light from the hallway suddenly came on bright and made my eyes wince. I realised it illuminated, too, my open labia and vagina as they faced into the hall and the front door opposite.
********* *********
As he opened the front door, my heart dropped. It was in fact just that elderly neighbour who had fed me and admired me as such a prospective bride for the handsomest of men. Her soft cheery face changed like that of a Holywood actress. Oh, do not look at me now, Mrs Price. Stripped down ‘Steve’ hid his nakedness behind the door as he opened it, and merely popped his head around as she shuffled forward. She did not notice him as she stared at my bizarre nakedness. Her hand went up to her mouth in a protective gesture. As if she had suddenly filled with vomit. He said with a grin and with mischief. ‘Just a little sex session. Nothing to worry about.’ She stopped and began to shuffle backwards like a film put into reverse. He closed the door slowly as she retreated. He turned and came directly towards me. His stiff member still pointed like a bayonet. With steady force he approached me as I remained bent double my opening pressed wide, and he would have plunged straight in. But I was clenching harder than he expected and I was dry from the anger and the humiliation. The organ sort of bent over as he stopped in surprise. ‘Ho. Wow.’ He looked down at his thwarted bayonet. He touched my place, dry and cool and numbed. ‘You need some stretching here.’
He went in search of things in the flat, from the kitchen. He ordered me on the floor again, then to roll over onto my back. The raincoat was uncomfortably wrinkled under me, tight and stuffy. My legs were ordered in the air, knees to stretch up to my shoulders. He placed a kitchen chair over my doubled-up body, the back of the chair was beside my shoulders and it pinned my legs down. the front legs of the chair were either side of my garrotted waist. My shins were again by my cheeks, and my arms were akimbo. Once again, my bottom peered helplessly up into the room. He closed the door and the intimate dimness closed in on us again. He had two bottles. One of olive oil he opened and as he sat on the chair facing downwards over my bottom as a surgeon contemplating his incision, he poured a small thick puddle of oil into my place. It was cold and the sensations seemed to come back. The other bottle was an expensive burgundy, one of those with sloping shoulders and carefully he found the opening of my vagina for the neck of the bottle. ‘It’s all closed up,’ he said with some surprise. ‘This is not very friendly.’ And very slowly he pressed the neck of the bottle, with a corkscrew motion, into my reluctant hole. I had no control over my body. I felt like meat. The gentleness of the oil lubricated his brutality to me. He occupied me. I was a retreating defeated army. I fled into my head. Eleanor was in hiding. There was pain as he pressed, but it did not belong to me.
But then things changed. His finger found my clitoris. He pushed its little bud backwards and forwards, and side to side. Suddenly I began to re-inhabit my lower end. Pulses of glowing comfort began to warm my parts. He noticed this change and began gently to push the bottle in and out, each time a fraction deeper, and each time stretching me a little wider. I could feel the tension in the skin, the widening of my hole. But, whilst it was filled I felt complete. I groaned a little. I groaned more. I did not resist. He had discovered something, his complete control and power over me, inside and out. He continued to pleasure me for the sake of it. I knew, then, for some moments, the bliss of a baby’s helplessness. He worked on me until my whole body was so aglow it convulsed for him. And convulsed. It lasted for eternities. He slowed the pump action. His finger remained on my bud like a bell-push. I was finished. And completed. I was shocked he got it from me. Dirty and degraded too. I felt like female litter. But, I also confess, elated as well. I wanted to sleep, to defy the confusion.
When the bottle came out he told me there was a gaping hole big enough to put a fist in. He could knock out his pipe there. I felt numb to more insults. He took the chair off me. He stood me up. He straightened me down. He smoothed out the mac. He retied the belt, tighter, using his foot on my tummy for more leverage. But I felt nothing. The oil and my juices were trickling down; as if my lover’s semen was blessing me.
But this one had other intents, he had not reached his pleasure yet.
********* *********
** III **
He lay me out in the centre of the bed. He arranged the coat in symmetrical shining folds about me. He arranged himself over me. Kneeling either side he faced the bottom of the bed, and slowly his buttocks began to lower onto my face. He commanded me to put out my tongue. I did so. I let my tongue touch where he asked. I tasted a slight salty mixture with a foetid tang. Then it opened — his anus, and let out a noisy fart. My eyes closed as if it were a corrosive gas. I flinched but dare not turn away (dare not? why not?). His body shuddered, a little thrill of pleasure, I think. He commanded me to put my arms around his waist. I did it and knew it was the feel of the plastic sleeves he was after. I let them slide on the skin of his back and his body shuddered more with the pleasure I was giving him. He commanded me to lock my hands together and to hold him tight. His face was between my thighs. The full skirt of the mac he pulled up round his head like a tent. Then the anus began slowly now to open again. I knew this time it would not be a fart. Gradually the stinking foul bolus pushed out, pressing my tongue back in my mouth. ‘Swallow it,’ he called from the other end of the bed. It was as disgusting a process as had ever occurred. When it was out of him and into me it was too big, too wide to swallow simply and it needed dividing in pieces. I did my best, and my mouth worked on it till it was mostly gone. His hanging penis then slid towards my lips. As I let it rest there, its stiffness parting my lips, he delivered his stream of urine into me. ‘Drink,’ he called, ‘wash out your mouth with it.’ When I swallowed this down too, his penis entered my fouled cavity. I hung with my arms round his body as he had ordered. He bucked and shafted me. He forcibly fucked my mouth as if I were an inflatable doll, pushing me and jerking me around the bed to his comfort. And eventually the surge came in my throat. And he was still. His organ retracted quickly leaving a trace of the sticky fluid through my mouth and onto my cheek.
He removed himself, sighing. He briefly turned and asked if I was ok. I said I was ok. Thickly.
********* *********
When he got off the bed I lay there, swallowing fitfully and disgusted, still wrapped in the mackintosh that excited him so, and beginning to hurt where he had tied it so tight round me.
When he was dressed I stood up to let him out. I pulled the curtains across. He told me his power over me was infinite. I had proved it, in fact. But I could barely listen to this. He told me that nevertheless he would not take advantage again. He paused as if he thought I should feel grateful. I thanked him.
I listened in to the recording. Spell bound as it were. A witch’s spell that revolted me, as the taste came to my mouth again. And again. Why had I been so bewitched, so under his spell? Why? Now, no longer. But… here he had me – again. Where would the recording go, he asked. To my mother? To my father? To any man I dared to think I could marry. I was his – am his.
[ to be continued – Eleanor in Private ]
SmeethStories 