Local Politics Ch 04

"So," said Rosie, "what did you want to talk about?"

I'd bumped into Melanie Butcher in the Sherry Cask a few days before. She'd been friendly and, to be honest, I had enjoyed talking to her which was not at all what I'd expected. I'd also been thinking about her rather a lot before that encounter which was weird because I loathed her.

A couple of times she had indicated she wanted to fuck me but always with overtones of, oh, I don't know, kinky, maybe S&M stuff; hints rather than overt references. But, then again, maybe that was my mind not hers.

But that evening in the Sherry Cask she had first intimated that my wrist would look good with a cuff on it and then touched my nipple, albeit through my blouse, and told me my body betrayed my need for her or something like that. I had, almost literally, run away. But when I got home, I had simply shut my door and leaned back against the wall of my entrance hall and masturbated, thinking of that encounter and, damn her, cum in seconds.

It didn't end there. For a few days after my thoughts had turned frequently to her and with the same effect. Once, on a bus to meet an interviewee, I'd been daydreaming and suddenly felt my cunt flood almost as much as it had on that bar stool in the Cask.

Rosie is one of the most intelligent people I know. A sometimes lover, she is beautifully butch and definitely a top. As far as I know, she's not into violence, at least, not beyond vigorous sex, a slap or two, and the nearest she's taken me to bondage is a blindfold. She likes to be in charge as indeed to a lesser extent, does my friend Val who is a beautiful bisexual leaning straight.

So, it was to Rosie I turned because I knew I could be totally open with her. Nothing would shock her, as long as it was legal and consensual. I'd called her and asked if she'd let me get her a drink in the little hole in the wall bar near her law firm's chambers.

She turned up in her work clothes, a black trouser suit, just as she'd been wearing when I'd bumped into her outside the council offices when Butcher had pretty much threatened me. I told her the story, just as I have recounted it here.

I'd got us each a large Scotch and by the time I had, uninterrupted, told her my tale she took my hand.

"I think we need another one of these," she said, wiggling her glass.

"I'll get them."

"No, no you won't. I don't get to hear tales like yours every day so I shall buy them and then we can give this matter some mature reflection. Then we'll go for supper. No arguments."

So it was with a second Scotch standing on the table before me and Rosie's penetrating gaze on me I told, at her instruction, the whole story again. Well, maybe not the whole story. I omitted the bit about masturbating when I got home and the fact that I had been so aroused by her despite also being appalled that I had made my knickers sopping wet, and it wasn't because I had pissed myself.

"You're not telling me everything." Rosie is, as I said, bloody perceptive. "Tell me everything. How you felt, everything."

I stuttered a bit and said something about, well, it got me a bit, well, you know.

Rosie smiled and took my hand. "When you get aroused, your nipples grow. They are like Pinocchio's nose, except they grow when your body is telling the truth. You'd gone out looking for someone hadn't you?" I nodded. "So, you were wearing something that would, let us say, allow these," she waved her fingers briefly towards my tits, "to speak your mind. Right?"

"Right."

"And they did, didn't they?" I nodded again. "What we you wearing?"

"The black blouse." Rosie knew it.

'Christ, Catherine, you might as well have hoisted a flag saying 'fuck me.' If she's anything like me she'd have read that."

'But," and whilst I am not a woman who blushes, I felt myself getting a bit hot, "it was when she mentioned a cuff on my wrist that I, well,"

"Oh, sweetie." She gave me a wolfish smile. "Got a bit damp in the gusset did we?" I couldn't meet her eyes but I nodded. She cupped my chin. "Listen. Your body never lies. It doesn't lie to you or to me and so, ok, it betrayed you to her but it was honest. Don't be ashamed of how you feel. Yes, it sounds like she's into the D/s stuff but the big, big question is not if that was what got you all hot and bothered, the real question is were you in that state because of the notion of handcuffs or because of her."

'I haven't separated the two."

"Then you should."

~

I thought a lot about what Rosie said over the next few days. To be honest, it didn't help. I decided that my instinct regarding Butcher, that is, that she was fundamentally a mean bitch might be skewed because of meeting her in her role as councillor as opposed to meeting her in a social context. I mean, she'd been fine for most of our conversation and even at the end, where she mentioned cuffs, it hadn't been nasty. It just took me by surprise, as had her touching my nipple. But I wasn't to know that thoughts of Butcher would, at least for a while, be pushed aside.

I was doing a feature about local theatre and had contacted one of the smaller playhouses in the old harbourside area to see if they'd help me gain some insight and give them some free publicity. The woman in charge almost bit my hand off.

Glenda Mason was short, dumpy and had the warmest smile. We sat in the stalls, right in front of the stage and chatted as she told me the problems and joys of running a theatre.

"Costs are the main thing. We get a trickle of grants from the Arts Council and the local council." I didn't know the local government helped out. "But fuel costs are horrendous and it's hard to charge too much for tickets because punters wont pay. Then there are royalties to put on a production, and, of course, wages. We have volunteers for front of house which helps.

"Then, there are actors. Don't get me started on actors." I hadn't intended to but it was clearly a big thing for her. "First, they are almost all prima donnas, men as well as women. You'd think this was Broadway sometimes instead of a flea pit in a small city."

"That's a bit harsh on yourselves."

She grinned. "Yes, don't print that bit. But, honestly, they are cussed and temperamental and unreliable."

As she finished that sentence, I heard a noise from behind the stage curtain, a low murmur of voices which gathered volume.

"A rehearsal. Would you like to watch? It's a modern play written by a local woman. Very artsy which means nobody will come to see it but it helps us maintain our grants. If we did the stuff that its bums on seats we'd never get any help so, during the low season, we let the pretentious and, sometimes simply barmy brigade have a bash. The director will come and sit with you and you can ask anything as long as you don't interrupt when she's working." With that, Glenda left.

The curtain rose and there was the cast, a mixed bunch in a variety of scruffy clothing. The director was issuing instructions but to me it looked like she was having as much luck as she might herding cats. She, Eleanor Grant, was tall, wiry and clearly getting exasperated. She stood with her back to me at the front of the stage and all I could tell was that she had a blonde ponytail, long legs in tight jeans and a great arse. She shouted at the cast to 'shut the fuck up,' and gave them a dressing down.

"Act like fucking professionals. Time is limited and we need to get this shit right. If anyone doesn't know their lines, they're fired. I want no larking about, just hard, hard work. You, Bernard," she was speaking to a tall, gangly boy who looked about 14. "Get your hands out of your pockets, stop playing with yourself and get in position. Cassie, stop chewing gum, for fuck's sake. Christ, it's like a dysfunctional sixth form college."

She hopped off the stage and, as she made her way to the seat beside me, shouted, "Act Two. Positions. Get on with it."

Since I hadn't seen Act One it was almost totally incomprehensible but it seemed to be about a psychiatric ward.

Grant sat next to me and smiled. "Don't try to understand it. It's meant to be dense, to take the audience into the minds of disturbed people, and this lot," she gave an airy wave of her hand to the cast, "are perfect for the roles."

There was a lot of rage, of introspection, as well as some obviously well-rehearsed dialogue which was like people holding a conversation where they are talking about different things.

"You're Catherine, the journo?" I nodded. "Nice to meet you, I'm Eleanor."

I grew to realise that her apparent irascibility concealed a genuine affection for the players. She was very firm and direct with them, but they seemed to respect her and took her blunt criticism with good grace. While she was giving them an expletive-filled critique, I had a good look at her. About 50, I guessed, she had a long neck, good cheek bones and her blonde hair looked natural since her roots didn't show and her eyebrows matched. Her eyes were a piercing blue. Above the jeans she wore a baggy sweater that somehow revealed the shape of her substantial tits rather nicely.

I watched her put them through their paces for a couple of hours then she sent them away to work in pairs in the rehearsal room and offered to buy me a coffee. I followed her to the small coffee shop in the foyer, pictures from earlier productions and shots of a few of the now-famous people who had cut their teeth in the theatre. One picture stood out.

"Is that you?"

"Sharp eyes. Yes, it is me. I was St Joan and, frankly, fucking useless but I got away with it. I turned to directing when I realised that I was a lot better at it than acting."

We talked for a while and I found her to be great company and so it was a bit of a disappointment when she mentioned her husband. Why can't more women like her be gay? Oh well, life is full of disappointments.

~

I saw Rosie again that evening. I think a vague sense of disappointment regarding Eleanor Grant had left me wanting a bit of affirmation. She readily agreed to have a meal with me but then suggested she'd like to cook for me. I wore the black silk blouse and a grey and black streaked skirt because I wanted to hoist the 'fuck me' flag. I went up to Rosie's flat and found the door open and my heels clicked on her parquet floor.

"I'm in the kitchen. Come on in and pour us a drink."

She was standing at her hob, barefoot and wearing black leather trousers and a silky, grey t shirt and stirring something that smelt delicious and obviously concentrating so I opened the bottle of red I had bought, poured two glasses then, standing behind her, I placed her glass on the worktop beside her and licked the nape of her neck.

"Trollop. I've got to get this ragu seasoned correctly so don't distract me."

She tasted a small spoonful and seemed satisfied. She turned, picking up her glass and noticed for the first time what I was wearing. She rested her back against the counter and gave me an appraising look. I noticed her packer was not in situ and, trust me, in those trousers I'd have seen.

She said, "Bloody decisions."

"Explain."

"Do I fuck you now, or after dinner."

"There's another option."

'No. I think I'll make you wait. Lift your skirt." I did and, as I suspect she had guessed, revealed I was naked beneath it. "Hmm. We're being a little obvious, aren't we?"

"Yep."

"While I serve dinner, you go into my bathroom and in the mirrored cabinet on the wall you'll find a butt plug and some lube. Put it in and then come and eat."

It was a good size and took me a few minutes to get it settled before I returned to find the meal laid out and our glasses beside our plates. I sat, very conscious of the lump of metal up my arse.

"So, my horny friend. Tell me about your day."

I told her about the theatre and Grant and she told me about a client she had been defending in the Crown Court.

"She's accused of murdering her husband."

"Is that an offence?"

Rosie laughed. "In his case it ought not to be. A total bastard by all accounts. Talking of bastards, have you heard anything of Butcher?"

"Happily not.``'

Rosie stood up and said, "Leave the dishes. Come with me."

She took my hand and led me through to her bedroom. She stood behind me and, taking a silk scarf that was lying on the bed, tied it round my eyes. Standing there, blind, I felt her nipples, hard under her t shirt, against my back through the silk of my blouse, and her breath by my ear. She spoke in a low whisper. "You came to me naked under your skirt. I liked that." Her hands roamed over my breasts, squeezing my nipples as they poked through my blouse. "Hello, Pinocchio!" I felt her undoing my blouse and pulling it out of my skirt and off my shoulders. "They are so pretty. I'm going to make them prettier."

I had no idea what she meant. I heard a slight rattle and then felt cold metal touching my right nipple. And then something constricted my nipple quite tightly and she kissed my neck. "A little clamp, looks so good."

"It hurts a little."

"Oh, you wait till it comes off."

I felt the same on my left nipple and pressed back into her, in an attempt to get away from it. She pulled the clamps and made my nipples stretch a little. Her hand slipped up under the back of my skirt and a finger traced my cunt lips. Suddenly she moved away and then returned in a few seconds and I felt something like a belt being fastened around my wrist and then around my other wrist. 'Well, now," she said. "Butcher was right. Your wrists do look good like that." Her finger ran between my lips again then came up to my mouth. "Taste." I took it into my mouth and could taste the sweet, salty taste of my own cunt.

She moved away from me and I heard the sounds of undressing, a zip, the swish of fabric being lifted off her body. Then she undid the button and zip at the side of my skirt and let it fall so I was naked but for my heels.

She was in front of me now. Her hands ran over me, tweaking the clamps, stroking my arms and neck, pushing my hair back from my face.

How do you feel?"

"Vulnerable."

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. But I cant see, you've put cuffs and clamps on me and it's all so new."

"But, you like it, don't you?"

And, of course, she was right. I was a bit afraid, but that fear was stimulating. My nipples had stopped hurting and merely ached a little.

Rosie held me to her and it was obvious she was naked and had not donned her strappy, which rather disappointed me. She kissed my mouth and led me to the bed, guiding me to lie on it, on my back. She lifted my wrist and fixed it, somehow, to the bedhead and then moved around to the other side and did the same with that wrist. She pulled my legs apart and the next thing I knew I was secured, spreadeagled. I felt her sit on the bed beside me and then her finger traced my mouth and, to my amazement, she fed me a rubber ball, which, once it was in place, she secured behind my head.

I felt her lick it, as well as my lips and she said, "An experiment in separation," which made absolutely no sense to me in that moment.

But it was when she went down on me that the real excitement started in me. I could only feel and hear. I could move but had absolutely no control over what was happening. She took her time and licked me, slowly and lightly at first but, over time, a considerable time, the licks became firmer and more insistent. I was making incoherent noises and I guessed she was judging my arousal by my body's movements and the noises I made. Her finger entered me, and I know I groaned because I love to be penetrated and, lovely as her finger was, I wanted more. Rosie, naturally, knew my desire for her to be inside me and, aside from one finger and a butt plug, she denied me for what seemed an eternity. One finger became two, and the pace of her finger fucking increased and I knew I was not going to be able to hold on much longer without cumin. Her mouth was playing with my clit, her fingers pumping in and out and interacting with the plug and, well, I was getting exceedingly close. It was just as I started wailing, wailing because my orgasm was climbing up through my body and had become irresistible, inevitable, unstoppable, that Rosie unclipped my right nipple.

Barely had she got that off when she removed the other and I roared but I had no idea if the roar was a cry of pain or of exquisite, orgasmic pleasure.

I decided, when I finally got my mind back in my head, that it was the latter. I felt like I had floated away, gone somewhere special, especially erotic and satisfying.

Untied, ungagged and able to see again I lay in Rosie's arms. "That bloody hurt."

She smiled. "Good though, huh?"

"Fucking amazing. Is that D/s?"

"Well," and she hesitated as if finding the right words. "Well, it's not vanilla but it's not extreme either. You did well."

"What did you mean by an experiment in separation."

"That was probably a very mild example of what 'Butcher-than-thou' has in mind. But you didn't need her to make it work for you, did you?"

I went down on her. Well, gratitude comes in many forms.

~

I said earlier that thoughts of Butcher were to be pushed aside. When I'm with Rosie, she is always the focus of my attention. But I knew she was not someone who wanted a relationship any more than I did. That said, we had a lot of great times together and I always found her great to chat through a problem. Butcher was one such subject and I valued her thoughts. As a consequence of our discussions I never did call Butcher and I was always glad that I hadn't, but there remained a sneaking 'what if' feeling in my mind. So, you may ask, what supplanted her in my thoughts?

Yvette de Betrande was an unprepossessing woman at first sight. Her face was attractive enough, but sharp featured with thin lips. Her eyes were bright though and her hair was long, wavy and of the deepest black you can imagine. I'd contacted her agent for an interview. She was a humorist, a columnist and commentator on a satirical magazine and wrote about a wide range of topics including sexuality.

I'd been at one tv question and answer panel show that she had taken part in and was impressed by her humanity and wit.

"I don't like 'pride,'" she had said. "I'm not proud to be gay, any more than I am proud to be human, or a woman, or black-haired. I'm not proud, nor am I ashamed. I don't like language that causes division. So, for example, what does 'gender critical' mean? How can anyone criticise gender. It is, after all, a fact. If I have a womb, a vulva and ovaries I'm physically a woman. I may not want to be and I may choose to wear men's clothing and have hormone treatment and surgery to change my appearance so it matches how I feel but I'm still, biologically, female. The same applies to anyone with a penis. But there are problems. The vast majority of people who feel they are born the wrong gender should be helped and recognised. They, that majority, do not represent a threat to anyone. But some do. A tiny minority but they exist and society's duty is to protect everyone, male, female, women, girls, whatever, from that tiny minority."

You can imagine the uproar. Yvette was the devil, a heroine. She denied, she affirmed. Nothing polarises like Brexit and gender. To me, she was simply telling the truth, bravely and knowing the potential consequences.

A few weeks later, one mid-summer Saturday, that was hot during the day I went, as invited, to a dinner party in the garden of a friend's big Georgian house on the Downs. An area of the city that is verdant and spacious parkland, the Downs is for the rich and, though I may not count myself as rich I admit to having a few wealthy friends including my host who had been at school with me. She, Alicia Cartwright, was a married woman who occasionally indulged herself with female partners and I had, once or twice obliged in that regard.