This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Impulse”
It is not that socially acceptable, yet, to talk about male domination of submissive females. It still looks a bit nasty to the uninitiated – because many educated people are still in thrall to the 1970s idea that men are all secretly Jack the Ripper. They seem to think, because of some bad-tempered college girls, that the hand-spanking of a willing female leads inexorably to torture and murder. And I’ve just breathed further life into what should be a rotting corpse by now. Never mind. I was a lettuce-eating liberal myself once, before reality reasserted itself. Even I need to have a disclaimer before I can tell you about gently warming Truly Scrumptious’s tight little bottom cheeks with the palm of my right hand. While slowly insinuating the fingers of my left hand into her moistening cleft until . . . but that would rob the moment of why it was so interesting in the first place. If we don’t know who Truly Scrumptious is, none of the other stuff would matter particularly. And it’s not the same if you’re not just a little bit in love, now is it?
Her real name is Holly but I wanted to give her a new name; Truly – as in Truly Scrumptious. My son had recently forced me to watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang far more often than was good for me. The name of the attractive nanny seemed to fit her very well – as she was and is gorgeous – although I didn’t learn the “true” significance of “Truly” until later. Her habit of telling the truth, always, no exceptions, was refreshing but sometimes made you long for the traditional system of saying whatever caused the least grief.
I lost my heart to Truly on our second meeting.
I was already smitten the first time I saw her, when she walked on stage during a slave auction at an S/M club. She had short black hair cut any old how. Her smile was wide and salacious, full-lipped with a cute little gap in her front teeth. Some of the others were arranged in the traditionally haphazard British manner. I found this honest and endearing, like her charity shop clothes. I might have a shaven head and some serious tattoos but I’m an old hippy at heart – like my wife, Katrin. And like Truly. Although they are younger and considerably easier on the eye.
Even in a night club Truly wore almost no make-up and her only accessory was a school prefect’s badge on her jacket lapel. The lettering read “Perfect” instead of “Prefect”. I couldn’t argue with that.
Her blue eyes seemed to be saucers full of nourishing liquid. Or were they shot glasses full of some ferociously strong hooch? I had been off the hard stuff for some time, being married. But you never really get over the craving, you just decide life’s smoother without it. Or you keep telling yourself that till you believe it . . .
After my wife and I had bought her company for the price of a few pints of foul British beer we had the option of some lewd chastisement – to which she had already assented as part of the auction. But instead we talked about what it felt like to offer yourself to strangers. Even in the safe confines of a fetish club it was still an edgy thing to do.
Then we talked of her recent romantic entanglements. She preferred sex with other women’s men. It seemed to me that this bizarre preference was in order to shield her from commitment, although she dressed it up in a lot of nonsense about breaking the shackles of conventional morality and no one being anyone else’s property. Fine. But not everyone believes in what used to be called free love. In fact, very few people do. Not only is there no such thing as a free lunch there may not be free love either. Although you probably have to be over a certain age to find that out.
Later that evening I dipped my head between her legs and licked and nuzzled her for what seemed an eternity – time having melted due to some pure MDMA powder, a substance that had yet to drive me mad with overuse. That would come later . . . or was it the loss of Truly Scrumptious that pushed me over the edge? This was long before the blizzards of e-mail, the endless phone calls, the hopes, the wishes, the dreams.
The day after the auction Truly Scrumptious turned up at our flat. She looked different in daylight, but still warm and cuddly and smart and cute and lovely in a manner that was hers alone. There can sometimes be nasty surprises when you meet people who have bewitched you in the flattering light of night clubs. Especially with the aid of Ecstasy. Luckily she was still beautiful. Her features were still fine enough to stand being foregrounded by the scruffy student haircut. I was already very fond of her by the time she had sat her bejeaned bottom down opposite me.
Over freshly ground coffee we discussed, briefly, bands I had never heard of, politics I had long since abandoned and why consumerism meant the end of the planet. I had lived long enough to prefer central heating to squats with broken windows so I let her talk. And I had thought the same at her age so I couldn’t really complain.
She might have disdained consumerism but seemed to like trying out whatever new therapy had just been invented – the more the merrier. Although they didn’t seem to fix whatever it was that was wrong with her. She worked for a charity but played very hard indeed – sex, drugs, fags, booze. Truly had a light Northern accent but appeared to have a vaguely genteel background. Just like me. And she was actually scanning her way through our many bookshelves.
“You’re a writer!” she said, eyes shining.
“Not any more,” I said. But not so retired that I don’t want people to read what I have already produced. My books are left where our visitors can see them. No one ever picks them up. But Truly had found one of the novels and was flicking through it avidly.
“What are you writing now?” she said. She actually wanted to know. I was already lost – not yet “in love” – but afflicted with something or other. Something heart-shaped anyway.
“I packed it in,” I said. “But you write.” She raised her eyebrows.
“How did you know?”
Probably because anyone other than an aspiring writer would have ignored the book. She was looking a little awestruck. I was obviously psychic. It is amazing what you can do with a bald head and a bit of enigmatic silence.