One of my Dear Readers wrote to me telling me he was inspired by my story Waiting so he decided to write the same story from another perspective. I think that is a brilliant idea. It was not only interesting to read from another angle but the story was very well written. I asked if I could publish it on my blog and I got the permission.
Note, especially his use of colours, red against white skin and the black of the tool as a reflection of the darkness that dwells inside, the heart that is darkness and you know what I am thinking. Black, white and red are also the first colours, the ones that tend to be named first in languages (according to some theories). Anyway, thank you Ollie for this piece. Dear Readers read and enjoy!
I had not known what to expect, but as soon as I saw her standing at the side of the road I knew. Two tiny patches of scarlet standing wanton amongst the dry greys and browns of the tired roadside. She was thin, with almost unnaturally white skin, and so totally out of place, waiting by the road dressed only in an apparently inappropriate bikini.
I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Mistress give a small nod. I had known anyway, but I pulled up beside the girl. She looked scared, and when I got out of the car I could almost smell her fear as Mistress overpowered her with the silky force of her personality. The girl looked at the ground, a tableau of submission, her little triangles of red cloth calling to the world of her shamelessness. She was barefoot, and a thin dusting of summer dirt soiled her feet. The gravel over which she must have walked to get here would have dug mercilessly into her soles, and I glimpsed the familiar desperation of with whom those Mistress dealt, the need which drove her to stand half naked at the roadside, for what?
I felt a small sympathy rise within me as I often did knowing what would probably happen to her, but my professionalism took over and I sealed these thoughts, these softnesses back behind their steel shutters.
“Get the Tool” Mistress snapped.
Always “The Tool”.
I had heard her use the word “whip”, but that was too pedestrian, too erotic a term for her. This was a tool, merely that, an instrument to enforce this girl’s submission to her own desires. Black handled, mirroring the dark recesses of the mind to which it would take her, with knotted leather strands, designed to reach cruelly into the soul to extract the inner urges and bring them unwilling into the stark light of day. The girl looked at it with a fear and confusion which her hunger forced her to accept.
She placed her hands on the bonnet, hot metal in this summer weather. I half expected Mistress to require her to lean her whole body across the car, heating far too much but not quite burning the soft skin of her belly and breasts.
Mistress required me to lower her bikini bottoms, though they scarcely provided more than vestigial cover, but here on the public street where anyone could come by and see her the act made her yet more exposed, more naked.
Sometimes Mistress would have me cut away a girl’s clothes, signifying finality; the clothes could not be worn again, she was afterwards clothed only at another’s whim; but now, here, for this girl, I merely lowered them to her knees, leaving them there to remind her that her bottom was naked and presented to us both. I moved her knees slightly apart to ensure that the scrap of cloth remained in place, there but not there, the mocking, unconsummated offer of cover.
Her backside was full soft and round, its immodesty decorated with a few faint thin bruises from an earlier beating. The type of bottom belonging to a girl who needed the whip.
Then Mistress whipped her, but only lightly; the many thin snakes of the whip painting purple lines and small darker spots under the knots which lighted her buttocks with a further, deeper beauty. The girl did not scream. Had she done so she would have been gagged here in public, there would be time to hear her scream, to hear her beg later, when her cries would fall on merciless ears.
Mistress snapped her fingers at me.
I had done this many times; sometimes inside, sometimes in a public place, this final act of taking a girl’s body on the way to her mind, this preparing of her; and so I pressed into her, into her larger hole, not the smaller, Mistress would doubtless require that later, but for now she was merely to have her last covering of decency removed in public.
Sometimes Mistress would do this herself with the whip handle, making an alien intrusion inside the body, possessing her charge with it’s impersonal shaft, but for now it was me, and I took her, never losing myself as I filled her, never losing concentration that this was not sex, not pleasure, merely that which had to be done.
Whilst Mistress watched, I felt the hot stripes on her bottom press against my groin as I stretched her round Mistress’s will, before she was taken away to receive her due punishment.