Copyright Oggbashan October 2019
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
I have realised that I am NEVER going to complete all my part-written stories before I die, so I have decided to upload all the incomplete works as a set so that others could mine them for plot ideas. Despite my copyright notice anyone can complete these stories or use them for ideas. All I ask is an acknowledgement that the story was inspired by oggbashan. I will try to finish some of the longer drafts and part-written sequels which are not included here. Some are no more than the start. Others are longer. This is the third part with story titles from 'no' up to 'si'.
Story 040
Not just for the children
It seems that this Christmas, in three months time, is going to be very low-key unless something dramatic occurs. Giles and I can't go back to the UK because there are too many important events scheduled for the next few weeks. The outcomes could affect not just us personally but our company trading position here and the shape of the future for the country.
Giles is the only ex-patriot representative of the company. All the other managers and employees are locally recruited. In theory the local managing director is independent and Giles is just an executive Vice-President. That way the company complies with the local trading laws. In reality Giles is the head of the company but pretends he isn't.
The democratically elected government of this small African country is in serious trouble. Some of their representatives resigned from the governing party over a scandal about bribery. They had been caught out asking for too much money to agree to contracts and had resigned to avoid prosecution. The opposition were trying hard to make the government fall.
The unfortunate part, as far as our family Christmas was concerned, is that the Government had reached an alliance of convenience with an extremist Islamic party. With their votes they could stay in power but the price for those votes was the passing of some draconian legislation about the rights of women, religions other than Islam and controls on resident foreigners. Until now foreigners had been exempt from local laws on dress and customs. Those laws had been on the statue books for generations and had not been enforced for decades. Now the extremists saw their opportunity to impose controls on the people in the name of religion.
The parts of their legislative programme that bothered us related to how we were expected to behave. We would not be allowed to have alcohol even in our own homes. Men and women would have to comply with the newly enforced ancient laws on dress at all times. No religion other than Islam could be practised in public or private. That meant no Christmas. No carols. No church services. No cards. No Father Christmas. No presents.
Our two children, Alan and Rosie, couldn't understand why anyone would want to ban Christmas. We were seriously considering sending them to stay with the grandparents for Christmas but at their ages, respectively 8 and 6, we were worried about sending them all that way on their own. If there had been any direct flights we might have risked it. There aren't. The simplest route involves two changes. I wanted to take them but found that we couldn't get flights with an airline I could trust until the New Year. Many ex-patriots and non-Muslims were fleeing the country and blocking all the seats. That is one of the penalties of living in an undeveloped country away from its capital.
There are a small group of ex-patriots in this remote mining town. We are from the developed countries, Europeans, Americans, Australians, and Japanese. Unfortunately the local fundamentalist Muslims were the most extreme that the country had. They would enforce any law passed in the capital vigorously, and back it up with Kalashnikovs. If the laws were to be passed we would have to comply.
Mrs Owen, the longest resident lady here, had organised a party for tomorrow night. A dressing-up party. Her idea was that if we were to be forced to wear the local dress we should at least practise and see that we could wear it with dignity. If we tried before we had to, we could order clothes in the right sizes and in comfortable materials. A sudden change as soon as the order came from the capital might be difficult and as any infraction might be punished mercilessly we should do the thing properly.
She had arranged for the local tailors and seamstresses to visit each of us and take our measurements. They had taken mine, Giles, Alan and Rosie's and we had ordered two complete sets of clothes for each of us. Our locally recruited nanny, Sumitra, would show Alan and Rosie how to dress themselves while we went to Mrs Jones' party. Sumitra would put them to bed long before we would be home.
Sumitra and her husband Gopal, our major-domo, handyman and general factotum, had a serious problem. They are of Indian descent and Christian. Until recently we had used their baptismal names of Mary and Joseph. They had begged us to use their Indian names to avoid offence to the local Muslim fundamentalists. We were just beginning to get used to their new names and slipped only occasionally. Alan and Rosie didn't really understand but treated it as a game. Sumitra was very pregnant with their first child. Her younger sister, Dhara, was helping Sumitra around our house and would continue after Sumitra gave birth.
If the situation became serious Giles had arranged that a company truck would take Sumitra, Gopal, Dhara and the half-a-dozen or so Indian Christians across the border into the next country that still has liberal attitudes to non-Muslims. By arrangement, which in this country means bribery, no company truck is stopped or searched at the border travelling in either direction. Whatever happened in the capital the border guards would not want to lose a substantial part of their income.
We could do no more. That was the situation when Giles and I went to the dressing-up party. We took a suitcase with our new clothes and, at Mrs Owens' suggestion all the alcohol we had in the house. We were going to have a final fling before the new laws came into force.
"Joan! I'm so glad to see you."
Mrs Owens hugged me tight. Giles put down the suitcase and case of bottles before hugging her. She kissed him on both cheeks.
In the large living room a few were already drinking. We joined them. The table used as the bar was already loaded. If everyone brought as much as we had we would be very drunk by the end of the evening. Giles and I were hugged and kissed by each member of the opposite sex. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy themselves if this was going to be the last real party we could have.
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Story 041
Office Party
I didn't really want to go to my first office Christmas party with my new employer. I had heard too many horror stories about last year's party, and those of previous years.
Apart from the obligatory socialising with the Board Members whom we never saw, the alcohol was provided in massive quantities, far too much for any reasonable person, and that had led to unfortunate results. So far no one had been sacked as a result of events at a Christmas party, but some careers had been irretrievably damaged.
I was a supervisor with a staff of twelve, all young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. If I could keep them safe from unwanted attention, and ensure they were sober enough to get home on their own, I would be satisfied. But I knew even those limited objectives would be difficult to achieve.
There were a few rules for the Christmas Party. The main one was that those attending had to be employees. There must be no guests who were not employed by the company. That was simple enough to ensure because no one could enter the building without a valid pass card, shown to the security staff, even if the pass holder was known.
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Story 042
Onesie? No. Twosie.
Ellen and I enjoy mutual, consensual bondage as part of our marriage. If we argue at all it is about who ties up whom tonight. It started on our honeymoon. As one of the presents, Ellen had been given a parcel by Brigitta, with an envelope marked 'For the Bride' containing a printed list of instructions
She hadn't opened the package until our third night. I came back into the bedroom after having shaved and showered. Even by day three of our marriage we had worked out that Ellen prefers me to shower first. She can then take as long as she wants. She doesn't take that long but she feels less hurried if she knows I have finished. Ellen was sitting on the edge of the large double bed still dressed.
"Look, Ray, it's a present from Brigitta, labelled 'For the bride to use'. I wonder what it is?"
I think she knew. She seemed to understand the instructions without reading them. But a present from Brigitta was likely to be interesting and probably for use in bondage. Brigitta has a reputation for tying men up in her clothing whether or not they had consented.
Any man making an unwelcome pass at Brigitta was likely to end up squirming on the floor bagged in a long petticoat, or hog-tied with pantyhose. She always carried a large handbag from which she produced the bondage items she needed. Her current boyfriend Hugh seemed to enjoy being with her. Perhaps he pleased her enough that she didn't need to turn him into a lingerie parcel?
I don't know how Brigitta does it, but her victims, after their initial embarrassment at being a helpless parcel tied with her clothing, seemed to enjoy the experience. Perhaps it was being close to Brigitta's incredible legs, or her breasts, or her blonde hair. Brigitta is spectacular to look at, tall, apparently slim because of her height but really muscular and very fit.
"Look, Ray, it's one of Brigitta's Norwegian nightdresses. That's wonderful!"
"So, Ellen? It's a nightdress. What's special about that?"
"It's a Brigitta Norwegian nightdress. Don't you know about them?"
"No, Ellen. I don't. I suspect it's a bondage nightdress but..."
"Ray, I forgot. You wouldn't have heard some of Brigitta's stories. Her Norwegian nightdress was what started her on tying up men, when she was eighteen and not very experienced. She was practising English with a Norwegian boy, but when she went out of the room he stole her new petticoat. Apparently the boy believed that if he stole a woman's petticoat she would have to fall in love with him, some variant of the Swan dress myth.
The boy had got it wrong. According to the folk lore it had to be the woman's nightdress and he should wear it himself in bed for a whole night.
Brigitta persuaded him to wear her nightdress and tied him up in it before taking Polaroids of him as her victim. That embarrassed him, and her, but she started tying boys, no men, who made unwelcome advances into helpless bundles inside her clothing. Although the nightdress was the most effective item she couldn't carry one around, nor persuade a man to wear it. She used modified petticoats instead.
