Sally and Her Mistresses

Sally and her Mistresses 01

Thank you for looking at my story. It is one that I began a long time ago, and have returned to several times, and it occasionally shows its age by, for instance, the characters' choices of television programmes. This is the first section of a full-length novel, and so the initial pace is gentle.

I have placed the story in the

noncon

category, although this section would probably be more at home in

BDSM

or even

Lesbian

, Later sections, however, have more diverse content. I have also tried to ensure that, although they form a series, readers can enjoy the sections individually without reading them all in order.

As always, ratings and comments are very welcome.

A meeting of minds

A more innocent scene than the one to be found on the lawn of the Country Tearoom just outside Green Coppice could hardly be imagined. It was a warm, very early Spring afternoon; the first Tuesday in March. Two ladies, one in her early twenties, the other about ten years older, sat opposite one another at a small wrought iron table, enjoying a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of fruit scones with jam and cream.

They did not quite face one another, but had angled their chairs slightly towards the lake at the bottom of the garden. Their conversation was quiet and continuous, and an acute observer might have detected a slight air of tension or anticipation in the way they both faced the lake when they spoke, each turning her head occasionally to assess the other's reaction to her words. What they said was audible to no-one else; there were no other customers and the house with its single waitress was at least fifteen yards away.

The older of the two was the more striking at first glance; a short-haired blond nearly five feet ten inches tall, with a full but athletic figure, emphasised by a snug red top with a built-in bra that showed her ample cleavage. Brief shorts showed off the legs that were the" envy of many of the women who worked and studied at the university, where she had a half-time lectureship in feminist literature. Though most feminists disapproved of the way she dressed, few had ever dared to say so to her face, which was strong and handsome but nevertheless thoroughly feminine, with a clear complexion unadorned by any makeup. Her name was Maude McCloskey, though she was not Scottish but a native of Cumbria, and a woman of independent means.

Her young companion was also her student, although she was also a graduate in political science. Sally Greenhall was an orphan, and her inheritance had given her only a modest income. After finishing her degree she had felt no immediate urge to seek paid employment, but had signed up as an associate student on Maude's module on

The Literature of Alternative Feminisms

. It sounded intriguing, and she had a vague notion that it might help her in an even vaguer ambition to become a writer herself.

Sally was just as easy on the eye, but in a gentler, more vulnerable way; a busty brunette with dark, melting eyes and full, soft lips. She wore a modest white dress with lacy frills round the top, cuffs and hem, which seemed to belong at an Edwardian garden party, though it was too short for that, a little above the knee. The contrast between the two women was striking; Sally was about four inches shorter than Maude, and had long, slightly wavy hair. She also wore no make-up of any kind and had no more need of it than her companion.

Sally had responded to a casual, after-class invitation from Maude, knowing her to be a controversial figure among the students. Most regarded her as vaguely predatory; the straight girls pretended to be afraid to be left alone with her, and the men looked at her with barely disguised lust. There was much debate in the common room about her sexuality, but the tight-knit core of lesbians in her class clearly thought her at best a bimbo with a shallow but plausible intellect, and at worst a dangerous Pied-Piper figure, misleading the young and naïve. Sally had known her for too short a time to form an opinion, but found her sufficiently likeable and intriguing to think that the half-hour drive into the country might be the start of an interesting friendship.

Maude's greeting had been cordial, and her conversation for the first few minutes was on mundane subjects. After the waitress had brought the tray and retired from sight and earshot, however, she began to reflect with some scorn on the reaction of that morning's class to the novel under discussion; Pauline Réage's

The Story of O

.

"Every year it's the same," she said with a chuckle. "Most of them squirm visibly, caught between the

Scylla

of refusing to appreciate "literature" and "challenging themes," and the

Charybdis

of seeming to enjoy reading the story of a heroine who enjoys being bound and whipped by her lover."

"It's understandable," responded Sally. "Most of the girls have boyfriends, and word gets round quickly. Those who seemed to enjoy the novel might well be re-enacting it even as we speak."

Both women laughed, more relaxed in one another's company now. "What is interesting," went on Maude, "is that most of the class are frightened of seeming to dodge the issues and so feel obliged to say something. Since anything they say will damage someone's opinion of them, they try to say everything to everyone, or nothing at great length. I noticed you today because you just sat there calmly and said nothing. Not many dare to do that. You might be a sphinx without a riddle, but I doubt it. I wondered what you really thought of the book?"

Sally concentrated on spreading jam and cream on a scone while she came to the decision to speak freely. "Apart from being too wordy- her paragraphs are up to three pages long- Réage is too anxious to give O some kind of day-to-day control over events. A woman- or a man- has to be free to make a willing surrender- to give control to another- but that decision, once made, cannot be made over and over again. Her first lover is too weak a character to inspire anyone to surrender to him, anyway." She was warming to the theme, and Maude was looking at her intently, so she went on.

"Authors find it difficult to commit themselves wholeheartedly to this kind of theme. In Elizabeth McNeill's

91/2 Weeks,

Elizabeth clearly consents to being abused, but the novel ends with her recovering from an emotional breakdown. In Norman's multi-volume

Gor

saga, he fills hundreds of pages with tedious pseudo-psychology, and his characters waste even more paper reflecting on and justifying their situations and behaviour. One longs for characters who make decisions that suit them, and live with the consequences. Still, I suppose that authors who address BDSM without making politically correct gestures or in the case of Norman, being explicitly defiant, are regarded as pornographers."

"I could give you some examples," said Maude, leaning more towards Sally now and looking very interested. "I've never known a student so interested in the subject, or at least who admitted it. Do you think that O's position is an enviable one?"

"Not enough good sex, and too many whippings that are cruel but not really erotic. The vaginal rings and the cellar at Roissy are great ideas, but it all gets vague and dull towards the end, and the ending itself is not a real ending at all. Her life, like the novel, is a curate's egg. I suppose most are. I suppose that she didn't have to grow old thinking that she hadn't taken what life had offered her."

"An interesting way of putting it," replied Maude, who was fiddling with her mobile. She looked up, meeting Sally's gaze directly. "Do you intend to take what life offers you?"

"I'm waiting to hear the offer," came the reply, and Maude grinned at the double meaning.

"Watch, therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour,

" and as Sally struggled to count the number of possible meanings, Maude looked her straight in the eye and asked: "Are you waiting for the right

man

to make you an offer?"

The emphasis on "man" was subtle enough to allow Sally to ignore it, if she so desired, but she could see that her companion's breathing had quickened. A turning point of some sort had been reached. Her mouth felt dry, and she took a sip of tea to give herself a moment to relax. Fearing that her voice would betray her nervousness she lowered her gaze and replied with almost exaggerated care.

"I always thought it would come from a man, but the more I think about it, the more I think that the right kind of woman could make me the right kind of offer."

She realized that, by avoiding Maude's direct gaze, she had fixed her eyes on her now visibly heaving breasts. She watched, mesmerized, as she exhaled and paused for a moment, and waited for the reply as they re-inflated. She was to be disappointed. At that very moment a little garden gate opened behind Sally. Maude's eyes lit up and she rose to meet the new arrival with an affectionate hug.

The newcomer, who slumped into a spare seat and made free with her friend's teacup, was probably in her late twenties, and about Sally's height. She was dark haired, with an almost Eurasian complexion, and very dark brown eyes. Her face, although attractive, could equally have been that of a young man, though her skin was smooth and clear. Her body was compact and she looked fit, but with more of the all-round strength of a tennis player than the wiry muscularity of a track and field athlete. She was simply dressed in black shorts and a thin white t-shirt, and, apparently, nothing else. She had probably been jogging, and the damp fabric clung to the gentle curves of her smallish breasts, and revealed the generosity of her nipples.

"I was on the other side of the lake, and spotted you two over here," she said, and to Maude; "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"If you give me the chance. This is Sally; she's taking my "feminisms" module just for the fun of it, and I think we're fast becoming friends." And to Sally: "This is Mikaela Vanderberg, one of my very best friends. She's an investment adviser in Manchester, but don't hold that against her. She has her uses."

Sally assumed that a polite laugh was called for. "Do you live here in the village?" she asked by way of small talk.

"I have a cottage just over there," pointing along the lakeside. "Bought it with my last bonus, but I have a flat in the city where I spend most weeknights. It's just a habit; I can do most of my work online. Anyway, must get back, I really came out because the cleaner was complaining that I was in the way. I always thought servants were supposed to be servile!" With that she gave Maude a quick peck and disappeared through the gate on the other side of the garden.

Sally wasn't sure how to resume the conversation but felt that the encounter was more than it seemed. "Servile people must be hard to find nowadays. Bankers are resourceful, though."

Maude laughed, rose from her chair, and proposed a half-hour stroll before leaving. She left some money on the table and led the way through the gate behind Sally. A footpath, wide enough for them to walk abreast, led partway round the lake shore, and curved to the left into dense woodland, following a small, slow-flowing stream. After they had walked in silence for two or three minutes, Maude suddenly put her arm through Sally's, squeezed it affectionately and said, "I hope that what we say to one another will go no further. I think we can do a lot for one another. I want to ask you something very personal".

"Of course," replied Sally, as evenly as she could. The sudden physical contact sent a shudder through her body that almost made her stumble. "What do you want to know?"

Maude did not answer immediately but instead steered them towards a bench that had been set by the waterside, where a widening of the stream made a small, quiet pond with waterlilies and bulrushes, and there was a faint scent of wild garlic. They sat close together against a little brass plate that proclaimed that

June Macpherson, 1917-2009, loved this place.

"So do I. Now tell me, dear Sally, what do you really want life to offer you? How close to being O are you?"

A pause followed, while Sally finally made up her mind. "I want someone to surrender myself to, like O, but not for a role-playing session or to play out a fantasy. I want a real, practical arrangement. That's what makes it difficult. I doubt that will I ever meet the right person. I haven't so far."

"Have you really tried?"

"I suppose not. I hoped that I would be found. I've asked a few of my boyfriends to tie me up."

"Did they?"

"One refused, one tried and I got loose in two minutes, one did it but cut off my circulation. He got scared and cut the rope when my hands turned white. The last was more promising. He was a policeman and much older than me; he handcuffed my hands behind my back and tied my ankles loosely with a dressing-gown cord. He pushed his legs between mine and fucked me like that, on our sides facing one another. It was the best sex I've ever had."

"But it didn't last?"

"No. Within two minutes of finishing he grabbed the key and undid the cuffs, and started rubbing my wrists tenderly, as if he thought he had done me some harm. I'd wanted to lie helpless in his bed until he was ready to use me again. I left half an hour later and never saw him again. He could have had me as his sex slave. After that I despaired of finding anyone who wanted what I had to offer, and I was too scared to try the internet."

"Why were you frightened of that?"

"I might have found myself in the hands of an out-and-out sadist or ended up as the star of a snuff movie. The 'net is great for booking holidays and buying books, but if you make yourself vulnerable, it is like going swimming in a crocodile-infested river. I suppose I was hoping that lady luck would bring me precisely what I wanted, but in retrospect that was in itself a fantasy."

"Why?" Asked Maude. "I'd have thought that the market in beautiful sex slaves was quite lively."

Sally smiled modestly. "There are too many contradictions in what I want, l fear. Is it possible to feel safe and secure while being subject to someone's every whim and fancy? Can one be owned, but set limitations on that ownership? What about practical considerations? People have to earn a living and have responsibilities. What about safety? Imagine being chained to the bed of someone who dies of a heart attack or falls down the stairs. Perhaps more people need to be involved, but then the chances of things turning ugly really multiply. You see what I mean?"

Sally was now feeling flushed and breathless, partly because of the nature of the conversation, and partly because Maude's physical closeness. She was on her right and had casually moved her left arm round Sally's shoulders, and was, almost absent-mindedly, moving her hand in her hair.

"What sort of conditions did you have in mind?"

"Not many. I think that being a slave means being made to do some things that one would not choose to do. But some things would spoil the whole experience. I can't imagine anyone liking scat, and I can't stand being systematically tickled, it's just not erotic for me. I'd want a set period of at least a couple of days, during which I would be under genuine restraint at all times; no possibility at all of escaping. Obviously, I'd have to accept that attempts to do so would stop short of causing major destruction or attracting the attention of passers-by!"

"Safe words? Punishments?"

"No safe words. I'd need to know with complete certainty that my submission was irrevocable. I'd hope, though, that I would always have a means of signalling my owner if I was in agony, or suffocating, or some similar unintended effect. Certainly, I would be subject to discipline. I suppose I'd probably be whipped or caned if I fell short of expectations in any way. It would be a condition, though, that I'd be returned with no long-lasting marks, and no actual damage or modifications. If the arrangement became more permanent, some of the restrictions would probably become redundant."

"You've obviously thought this through. Is that it?"

Of course Sally had thought it through; she had been imagining this kind of conversation since she started BDSM stories. "Not quite. I wouldn't want to be made to take drugs or even to be made to drink alcohol against my will, or starved, or frozen, or burned. Then there's the question of privacy. A slave can be expected to be lent to others or even given away or sold; I find that thought quite erotic, but it shouldn't happen in the early days. When and if it does, there should be safeguards against disease, and any newcomers should know the rules."

Sally finished, embarrassed to sound so legalistic and so rehearsed. Despite all the indications she still felt unsure about Maude's intentions, and she had to wait a few moments for her reply.

"Do you have any plans for the weekend?"

"No." It was not strictly true, but there was nothing she couldn't postpone. "I try not to arrange things for bank holidays, and I've got nothing until your next class."

"Keep it free, then. I have a Thursday evening class, and that's the end of my week. I'll email you in the next twenty-four hours with instructions."

With that, Maude obviously regarded the business as concluded, and rose to her feet. As they walked back to the tearooms she kept up a brisk commentary on the flora and fauna of the lake and its margins, and in a very few minutes they were standing in the car park. With a cheerful goodbye, she climbed into a very new-looking motorhome and drove off towards the village centre. Sally had not seen the vehicle before, having arrived first. She waved, got into her little Micra, and drove home.

Expectations

The meeting in Green Coppice left Sally, understandably enough, in a fever of anticipation. That evening she took a brisk walk to calm her nerves. Her little cottage- which she owned outright- was in a village that was much less picturesque, but still on the edge of open country, with a canal running through it. The soothing effect was limited, and when she returned no email had arrived. She watched a Scandinavian crime video; her attention was at first engaged by its explicit goriness, but she struggled to follow the labyrinthine plot. Afterwards she looked up some lesbian porn clips on the 'net, drank half a bottle of cheap wine, went to bed, masturbated, and fell asleep.

Wednesday dawned fine and sunny, and Sally was up bright and early to ride her bike for a few miles in the cold morning air. Then she tried to settle down to read, but by mid-morning she was weeding her tiny garden. At eleven o'clock precisely she heard a "ding" from her laptop and rushed back inside. She took a moment to calm herself, sitting comfortably at her desk, and read Maude's message.

I want you to be at the tearoom car park at 8am on Friday, and stay with me until Tuesday morning. Mikaela will join us for the evenings. If you accept, instructions will follow soon.

Sally read over the message three times, stunned by the realization that the "weekend" was going to be four full days and nights, with a virtual stranger involved. With shaking hands she managed, after several failed attempts, to type her acceptance. She hit the "send" button and sat, taking one deep breath after another, until she felt that she could safely get up and walk back into the garden.

A can of soup and a defrosted roll was all she could face for lunch, taken early in the hope of finishing it before the next message arrived. She was therefore sitting on the patio with her coffee when the next "ping" came. She went in, imagining an anti-climax should it be spam advertising Viagra or a Nigerian cousin wanting to entrust her with a few million dollars. It was not, and for the next few minutes she stared so intently at the screen that she almost forgot to breathe.