I am amazed about the attention my story Waiting created. Mind you, I have managed to write two stories with that name. I am referring to the newer one. There is an older story with that name too, quite different.
Anyway, it seems as if this story captured the imagination of some of you Readers. I am chuffed, I really like that. I have to admit that it was just an idea, something that just happened, a fantasy. I had a very vivid image of what happened and I wrote that down but I don't know the circumstances, who the girl is and why she has to follow orders, who the woman is and what she is planning. Truth is, I have no idea what will follow.
Anyway, long time ago, longer than I feel comfortable thinking about, I got this continuation of the story sent to me. It is once again Ollie who is the creator. He has already written Waiting Another View... and now he follows up with a continuation. The reason I had for waiting (no pun intended) with publishing it was that I thought I should follow it up with my own continuation. I have no idea what it would be so I decided to, at last, put Ollie's story up anyway. With kind permission.
I think this is a continuation I never would have written. Still I think (and perhaps because of that...) it is brilliantly done and with a twist. That we all think so differently about a subject only shows the power of imagination. Read and enjoy!
No-one spoke as the car purred smoothly along, unhurried to its destination.
The expensive woman looked straight ahead, inhabiting her own secret world, maintaining the perfect poise of the rich and contented which I envied but could never share.
If the driver had any emotion he didn't show it. How had he felt when he took me? Was there any pleasure? Was it just a job for him to violate a woman for his mistress? Just something which needed to be done like filling the car with fuel or doing the shopping?
He merely drove, as if he was on a quiet Sunday outing, nothing out of the ordinary, the late summer sun, the first hints of tiredness creeping into the leaves, that dusty taste to the air which remains unstirred by the absent breeze, and a rape to be performed. The banality of the situation started to overcome me, and as the pain from my whipped buttocks began to recede I found myself looking through the window at the scenery passing by. I knew where we were, driving out of the city, through the farmland with its hedges and coppices, the almost overwhelming variety of greens and browns distracting me from my predicament and the impending punishment.
Slowly the landscape of small holdings gave way to larger industrial sized farms, with ugly utilitarian buildings, threatening grey silos like something from a James Bond film and the occasional huge mechanical monster grazing the fields with implacable determination.
On and on we drove, through the late evening, till the sun died bloodily into the wheat white western horizon.
On and into a small town. I knew this place. It was the town where I had been born, grown up, where my parents still lived, and where my roots lay buried shallow.
Through nearly to the centre to an area of tall town houses, where the better off people lived, where I'd hoped, as a girl to own a house one day, knowing all the time that I could not. This place was not for people like me. I might aspire only to serve the people who lived here, perhaps to be used by them, that was all.
The car stopped suddenly, outside a house, black doored, its windows unlit and foreboding.
“You will get out” said the woman. It was not unkind, not even peremptory; just a bald statement of what would happen.
The car drove off, leaving me beside the road for the second time that evening, waiting, obvious and exposed in my tiny red bikini, its strings frail and vulnerable, as if a wisp of wind would untie them, and send it fluttering down the street, leaving me bare and in public. I felt naked enough already as the evening darkened, and the hopeless insobriety of my attire became more obvious. If I carried a towel it might, just might seem as if I was home from the beach, but I had none, just the scarlet fragments to cover my scarlet soul.
There was a lamp post, and I turned with my back to it, keeping my stripes and my evident wantonness hidden, despite the puddle of growing brightness in which I found myself. I pulled off my hair band and allowed long hair to fall lank about my face, making curtains for me to hide behind. They seemed pitifully thin.
A few people walked by; the women bearing unkind judgemental glances, taking me for what they thought I was, the men taking me also with hypocritical lust. I was to wait, for what I knew not, just that I was to be punished.
Suddenly he was upon me, a man in one of those long leather coats which you see German officers wearing in old war films. He seemed overdressed for the summer evening, but gave the impression that he never wore anything else, the coat was a part of him as naturally as my pathetic bikini was a part of me.
He stopped and I automatically looked down, as if I was not permitted to see his face. He did not disabuse me of this, placing a hand on each shoulder he turned me round, examining the weals on my behind, lifting the bikini bottoms away to see more clearly.
He turned me back and wiped a single finger between my legs, stroking my sex just once, not gently, not with aggression, just a single firm stroke. I expected more, expected him to perhaps invade with his fingers or to remove my clothes and take me a second time here on the street, but he only raised his finger to his nose and inhaled.
A quality control test. Had I been whipped? Had I been penetrated? Was I ready?
He took something long from his coat pocket. A very thin leather belt? Was he going to whip me again then? But no, he took a red leather dog collar with stereotypical conical studs and fastened it round my neck, attached the lead and walked off down the street, making me hurry to keep up.
I was led leashed along the roads I knew so well, through the empty market with its smells of rotting vegetables, past the end of my parents' road where I had been born; where they would be sitting indoors for the evening.
On past the junior school with its spear shaped railings whose paint was always flaking when I was a child. I remembered in a flash standing inside the grounds one break time, picking off pieces of rusty paint, fascinated by the one side being rough and brown, the other faded institutional grey, and being sent to the headmistress for doing so. I had been punished then too.
The man led me jogging on my bare feet to keep close, to shorten the lead, for if I could just make it seem as if I was with him, his equal, then the lead might be invisible, might not be seen by any of the people with whom I had grown up, with whom I had lived, who knew me.
All the time I knew this was a fancy, for my clothes gave me away. I was not his equal, dressed as I was in the most revealing of scarlet scraps, almost every part of me from my scarcely covered too-white breasts to the plain whip marks on my bottom displayed to the world.
He walked as if he owned me, and I trotted obediently after as if he did.
We passed the café where I'd had my first part time job as a waitress, a little money, my first tiny piece of independence, then past the bus stands. I remembered waiting there for the bus to take me away to college to a new life, always waiting.
On we went, passing the school where I had returned to teach, to be placed in charge of the children of my less careful contemporaries. They'd come to the school to parents’ evenings, remembering me, the girl they'd mocked as a boffin, calling me “Miss” with lightly disguised reverse snobbery.
Another layer peeled away; and I let the lead lengthen.
Finally he stopped, and I realised that we were only just round the corner from where I had been left, at a similar house with steps up to the glossy black door and railings protecting it from the unworthy world.
The man tied my lead to a boot scraper on the top step; too short, I had to bend over, place my hands on the upper steps, my feet on the pavement; no option now to hide my behind with its charge of disgrace. I was glad of the small cover my hair afforded, dangling over my face, making me feel slightly hidden in a thicket of my own making.
He left and I waited as the night darkened, with growing discomfort from the position and a sudden realisation that my bladder was full. Now nothing I could do could distract me from the increasing pain in the belly, which could so easily be relieved, and yet at what cost? I was certain that I was watched. I started to dance my feet, desperate not to humiliate myself further, and summoned all my reserves of determination to resist the clarion demand from below.
I was on the point of succumbing and releasing my wet charge when the door above me swung open and a pair of female feet stood on the top step. I lifted my head to see her face; she was dressed as a maid and had a face which would scarcely float a stick on a puddle, much less launch a thousand ships. She looked into my eyes, into my soul and saw what was within. Without speaking she removed my collar and turned away from me, waiting quietly on the step, giving me the opportunity to flee before leading the way into the house. Cravenly I followed.
We went through a darkened hallway, all colour washed away by the night, and into a large room.
It might once have been a banqueting hall, hung with expensive tapestries and gilding on the ceiling, filled with meticulously crafted furniture, each piece containing some of the soul of its maker. Now I expect they used the utilitarian epithet “conference room” though from the conferences I had attended there was very little conferring, merely presentation.
A room carpeted with commercial coldness, it had a low stage at one end. The floor had several small tables with people seated. It felt impolite to look at them, I knew I had no right so to do, but I did. They were plainly dressed, and in all shapes and sizes, what was so shocking was their ordinariness, the image of everyman.
The girl led me to the stage where a spotlight blinded me, making me in an instant totally alone in a crowd, the centre of attention. Apprehension grew in me, my only protection the gossamer of a bikini and my drapes of hair.
A flat disembodied voice, a man's I thought, spoke causing the burble of chatter to subside.
“Why are you here?”
Unused to being addressed and with growing fear I opened my lips to reply, but my mouth was arid, the tongue seemingly swollen to twice its normal size, and no sound appeared.
The voice came again, more kindly this time
“Why are you here?”
Knowing I had to reply I forced the words out:
“I am to be punished”
“You will have to speak louder, everyone needs to hear”
“I am to be punished”
“And are you here of your own free will”
I had to answer:
“And do you truly want this?”
My inner thoughts were being teased out carefully. He knew.
“Is this the deepest craving of your heart?”
There was nothing left. He knew, they all knew, they had seen inside me, seen the desire within my traitorous heart
“Remove your clothing”
I had expected it, but the very act of hearing the order caused something in me to want to rebel. I froze; my arms incapable of obeying even the most urgent strictures of my brain. I thought bizarrely that my pathetic triangles could scarcely be considered clothing, and yet they covered something, just a little, and were enough to give me a small piece of self in this place.
“Remove your clothing”
The order was repeated, and this time I obeyed, removing the top, allowing my breasts to swing free for the audience before pulling the strings of the bottoms and letting my last vestige of dignity fall discarded to the ground.
I heard a noise behind me and my arms were grasped gently by invisible hands. I was turned away from the light and saw a chair facing the audience. It had posts fixed to the front in the shape of a V, and as I was ushered into it I could see at once their purpose.
Wooden horseshoes stuck out from the top of the post, and my ankles were lifted into their support, opening me wide to scrutiny. There were no straps or threats securing me to the chair; I had the knowledge that I was free to leave at any time, I would have to stay here with my legs lifted and separated purely by my own will regardless of what they chose to do, however they wished to punish me.
I had waxed recently, which usually made me feel sexy and powerful, but as I felt their eyes resting greedily on my most intimate parts, I knew I was even more naked without my natural covering. There was nothing, nothing at all between me, my bared soul and those who sought to punish.
The fear began to struggle against my determination, but I found that pride prevented me from flight, prevented me from lifting my legs down and giving myself blessed covering. As I was now stationary and seated the fullness in my bladder returned to the centre of my mind, mocking me with the prospect of losing control not just in the pseudo public of the street, but here in front of a watching audience.
I heard a quiet buzzing behind me, and the fear mounted. Was this some electrical torture device, banned no doubt by the United Nations but now about to be used to inflict pain on this victim?
The buzzing continued, and I felt nothing.
Perhaps it was not, perhaps it was a device they intended to use to arouse me and force me to wanton orgasm again and again here in front of the audience, for their pleasure. I didn't know if I would have preferred the pain.
I felt something touch the back of my neck, cold and vibrating, running up and over my scalp, leaving a cool unfamiliar lightness behind. It was repeated but not in exactly the same place and as I felt a second hank of hair fall the horror of what was transpiring bit deep into me.
I sobbed, pouring out remorse as they continued cutting off my hair.
When my head was completely shaved gentle hands lifted my legs down and the ethereal voice floated across my mind announcing that my punishment was complete, and that I was free to leave, but that I could not wear the bikini. So I was taken by the hand and shown out into the outside world completely naked.