The Man Who Could Not Shudder

"Open wide Jayne," she was trying to co-operate as she responded to this firm instruction. Certainly she was trying as she saw the solid latex covered flesh approach her, now gaping, mouth. Could she stretch her lips any further apart to accommodate this determined invasion? Jayne didn't know. The solitary tear that found its way from the corner of her eye seemed to indicate that this wasn't going to be easy. The pointing at her open mouth seemed to accuse her. She felt numb. Her eyes closed and she winced.

"We are going to have to try something else," he said, and as she once again looked up into his face she saw him smile, and, forgetting her own discomfort for a moment, a smile crept over her own lips also. "You know I need to get all the way in." She nodded, yes he did. "Don't move," he told her. Well, she thought, in this position, I am hardly likely to be able to. He returned with a small steel device, a clamp, which he proceeded to insert between her lips. A slight adjustment was all that was necessary to ensure her lips were stretched to what seemed like un-natural proportions. Jayne trembled, and as she was pinned back and unable to move, tensed as her adversary approached yet again, how she wished this ordeal could be over... Somehow or other she thought of her horny Richard, maybe just maybe that would, he could, make her feel better...

... "That really wasn't so bad was it Jayne?" he asked when it was finally over. Jayne thought different, her lips were sore and her jaw ached. She felt nauseous. However, she tried to put a brave face on things, as she attempted to get out of the horizontal position he had forced her into. Unladylike it may be, but she was desperate to rid herself of the unpleasant taste in her mouth. "Getting right to the back there can be a bit tricky sometimes," he said jovially, Jayne's mood obviously did not match his own.

As she drove home, Jayne wondered why she had suddenly thought of her Richard in that unlikely situation. She had not thought about him really for a long while, maybe it was a little too painful to do so, though she still kept the portfolio of his pictures and gifts. She smiled again, and as her face lifted, the enigmatic smile turned to a little giggle, then to a slightly bigger giggle – it couldn't have been the noise could it? It could hardly have been anything else though, had her thoughts leapt from the whirring sound of the dental drill to that of the tattooist's apparatus, and then to thoughts of her faithful and ever so horny skinhead?

Why, she thought, not for the first time, had she ever passed up such a gilt-edged opportunity???

Jayne knew that she had always been independent and strong-minded, and secretly admitted that she may have even been headstrong in her younger days. It was certainly this strength of character that gave her the determination she had needed to succeed in her chosen profession, though doubtless it was also what made her sometimes insular, and maybe uncomfortable in some spontaneous shows of emotion. She was sorry. Yes, there were times when even Jayne needed a shoulder to cry upon, a tower of strength to be comforted by... like that time, that time when her older brother had been there for her, she had never forgotten.

Jayne let herself in, slipped off her coat and shoes and looked round, yes everything was as it should be, neat and proper. She caressed her cheek as the effects of the anaesthetic were wearing off, and decided that pasta might be a better option for her tea, yes there was a lasagne in the freezer that would be ideal... but there was just time for an aperitif before she needed to do anything about it. She poured a drink for herself and went into the sitting room. And, at the back of her mind, she was aware that there was something else she undoubtedly needed to do something about. Under the coffee table was her work case, she looked through the folder at the back, no that wasn't the one. Fetching her conference case from the study she unlocked it and removed a document wallet which was pre-printed with a familiar logo and the 'Private and Confidential' legend. Here they were, her well-thumbed souvenirs of her skinhead. She untied the bundle of papers and carefully spread them across the coffee table. It had been a while since this particular client's file had been reviewed, and she suddenly had a deep-seated desire to satisfy herself as to the value of his assets... to satisfy herself...

"Richard Fuck Me Hard!" She heard as she brought herself so close to climax, she could hardly believe she had uttered these words, no, not uttered but pleaded. Surrounding her were some of the printed-out photographs she had brought into the bedroom with her, the cock in the picture held pointing directly at her, sheathed in sexy black rubber, so exciting, so erotic, and so different from the earlier gloved finger of her apologetic dentist.

Clipped to the back of one of the pictures was an e-mail, Jayne glanced at the date, could it really have been so long ago? Yes, obviously it was...

As the irritating tension was released from her convulsing body, as her orgasm came over her in floods, Jayne, Cockslut Craven, knew things had altered. It had been so long since she had pleasured herself thinking about Richard. True, she had enjoyed the occasional conversation with him over the last few months, but during this time she knew that she always held herself back, reluctant to release her true emotions, afraid to give him what he so obviously had desired, what she desired also.

She was also sure that he was seeing things from a different perspective, his aloofness troubled her and she wondered if it were a reflection of her own feelings. She remembered how open he had been before, so willing to co-operate with her sexy plans, her fantasies and her ambitions.

She knew that one of her wardrobes still contained the case will all those special items in, those he had begged her to use on him, even that brutal tawse. Jayne knew that success in a relationship wasn't to be found in beating her lover, but that was what he desired, how he measured his love for her, how he showed his acceptance of her superior will. Long into the early hours of the morning they had discussed the various possibilities: him secured on her bed by both wrists and ankles, his face on the pillow, maybe to muffle his screams. She would be looking at the full display of his tattooed back and skull whilst she ran the leather fobs of the tawse from his boots and up the inside of his legs, slowly, teasingly, firmly but at the same time caressing his erotically naked flesh. He knew he had to concentrate on her pleasure, and that would be why his cock, her cock – she corrected, would be firmly and securely enclosed in the device, the device that only she had the key to enable his occasional release. Jayne certainly intended to have the ultimate say over his release. So, wearing only her panties, she would carefully massage his back, counting up the second pair of boots he wore as she did so. She would run her finger nails up his thighs, with just enough pressure to cause him to shudder in anticipation. As he begged to be allowed an erection she placed a palm on his left buttock, scraping the skin with her thumb. The whistered begs for release become his moans of pleasure, as she teased her captive further. Instantly, he is transported to a state of being so deliciously frustrated that she cannot make out what he is attempting to say. Jayne moans here too in time to her strokes, how she loves every inch of him... This is all part of her plan, of course, how far can she take her boyfriend before his insatiable need to ejaculate is such that nothing else matters to him?

Crack!!! The leather cuts through the air and slaps against his right buttock, its sting leaving a reddening mark. He shudders again. She rubs lovingly the point of impact, causing Richard a dilemma his brain is failing to register, pain between ecstasies. Contradictory emotions that Jayne will not refrain from exploiting until his bottom is covered in tiny welts... Yes, this was intrinsic to what her Richard had promised she could have – could take from him. In her orgasmic high, Jayne knew that it was time to redeem that particular Promissory Note.

After using the towel to dab up her expelled love juices as much as possible, Jayne gathered up the papers, wrapped herself in her bath-robe and returned them to her case. In doing so, she folded up several pages of text, the stories that she and her lover had exchanged in those far off days of their courtship. Her sexy eyes glanced over the top one, which was it? Oh yes, the middle ages one. She started to read it again, almost involuntarily, and was soon laughing out loud at it. She remembered how much fun it had been to write, and how she had enjoyed weaving little truths into the fiction, hidden nuggets in the narrative for her Richard to find and think about. How she had later wished she had written a sequel to that particular tale. Jayne had surprised herself really, she had never imagined herself writing pornography, never imagined herself writing anything more stimulating than briefing notes and presentations. Moreover, it had been a refreshing change to research subjects other than the protracted decline in British manufacturing in one sector or another, or the history of failed attempts to rescue yet another venerable, but sadly no longer viable, household name.

Jayne mused as she went to get her shower, it was still early really, and that lasagne wouldn't take too long in the oven would it? Maybe she ought to try to write another story, to see if she still had the imagination. Yes, a little surprise gift for the sexy skinhead who still, if she had the courage to admit it, meant an awful lot to her. The skinhead she needed to reconcile with, the skinhead she so desperately needed to fuck. Her.

The more she thought about this, the more attractive the idea became. She leafed through her papers and re-read her previous efforts, the Christmas story where Richard had met her outside work, the holiday one, and the dream where her boyfriend was making her pregnant... oooh how she loved that. There were also the stories she had received in return, more to the point, more basic and crude, but still very, very sexy. She mused how the various stories reflected the character of their author. Who would expect a horny, tattooed skinhead to be otherwise? There was even a story suggestion from him, that he was a second world war hero and she an obliging waitress at that lovely tea-rooms in York...

On the table that evening the tray lay abandoned; the unwashed plates it bore, the evidence of her hurried meal. Sat in another corner, a studious and attractive lady poured over a pad, frantically scribbling in her precise longhand. She knew the location where her story was going to take place, that had been easy - she had simply remembered a place which she had once visited on holiday as a girl, and that would be just perfect. Every so often she would hold her pencil to her smooth lips and pause, before filling the page with even more marginalia. There was something, Jayne thought, inherently more satisfying about the mechanics of actually putting words on a page. Word-processing was designed for reports and conferences and letters and banks, but just at the moment Jayne was living out her fantasy of being a real writer. And, as the words and phrases magically took on the forms of sentences and paragraphs, that wasn't the only fantasy she was playing out... almost involuntarily, her spare hand moved once again down towards her crotch...

Lady Jayne was sat in the drawing room, it was getting dark and soon the maid would be coming in to draw the curtains for the evening. Before that, however, she stared out of the large bay window at the cloud spreading across the darkening and starless sky, and, looking out to the distance, she was aware of the white waves breaking against the furthest rocks. It was probably going to be a stormy night. There was no moon. Across to the right she imagined she could see the feint glow of the lights in the village, though there were none. She wondered what the other people might be doing, they with their homes and families, husbands and wives, as the one she cared for was far away.

She took up her book once more as the maid entered with a tray of tea, set it down and proceeded to light the lamps and close the drapes. They exchanged a few words before Lady Jayne was again left alone with her thoughts and her novel. It was a new detective story, set in a large house, where various guests are invited to stay for a weekend celebration. The place had an unhappy history; a history which it appeared to Jayne was inevitably going to repeat itself. As the wind rattled over the windows of the drawing room, and as a creaking noise emerged from one of the vast empty rooms upstairs, the macabre story of Longwood House seemed to take hold of her and made her feel creepily uneasy...

Lady Jayne shuddered, and moved closer to the fire, its light casting eerie shadows across the walls, she fancied that they made shapes and became figures before her. She shuddered again, and told herself not to be so silly, it was after all only a story, and what happened in stories couldn't possibly happen in real life could it? Could it?

Her pot of tea had gone cold, but she didn't care for it anyway. Walking over to the cabinet she opened it and poured herself a small brandy. She felt better already, but did wish that she had someone with her, yes there was the live-in maid and the cook from the village, but what Lady Jayne really needed, she knew, was a man. The male servants had mostly all been called up, leaving only the retired gardener to look after the extensive grounds. Either way, they couldn't possibly satisfy what she needed.

Here she was, having the make the most of living in this over-large house, most of the rooms of which were now shut off to try and keep the cost down, and empty as the antique furniture had been removed to the wine cellar for safe storage. There had been talk of evacuating a school or some other sort of institution to here earlier in the war, but its closeness to the coast had dissuaded the authorities from that plan. Even the military, it would seem, didn't want to take it over, which was somewhat surprising, as Jayne thought that with its many rooms, attics and cellars, it must have strategic importance to someone.

The Man Who Could Not Shudder was left to his own devices as Jayne turned on the wireless in the hope of finding some band music or something else to lift her spirits. She wasn't in luck, and as she laid on the chaise lounge her thoughts turned to her fiancé. The Honourable (he was rarely that!) James Hunter-Hargreaves was probably somewhere in southern England doing something for the government that was so secret, she imagined, that even he wouldn't know what he was supposed to be doing. Of course his family, like her own, were very well connected, there was nobody in the City that he didn't know, and he regularly dined with the Exbury's, but she knew that didn't always lead to a marriage made in heaven. He hadn't even sent her a note for weeks. She didn't want to be stuck in a loveless marriage of convenience like so many of her contemporaries, in fact, she sometimes felt that she wanted to challenge convention, not be swallowed up by it. Whatever the outcome of this terrible war, the world was going to change, and Lady Jayne Craven knew that she was going to change with it.

These revolutionary thoughts were still in Jayne's head the next morning as she walked down the village street, basket on her arm, to visit the post office. She had posted off her latest article. Her writing for the society magazines, and the occasional short story, together with her investments gave her a modest, but steady, independent income. Now, her business concluded, she walked down the little alleyway from the main street to the golf links. Ever since she had first walked this way as a girl she had loved this old fashioned cobbled walkway. Of course, everyone said it was used for the illicit smugglers of days long ago, but that was hardly likely on this particular stretch of coast. Even, it seemed, Hitler's dreadful war had forgotten this particular stretch of coast.

But there were other things here... still, she thought, careless talk and all that...

Jayne carefully re-read her various scribblings, and even though it was her own work, she could not help feeling more than a little satisfied with the way that the scene had been set. Nevertheless, she acknowledged that it was lacking a certain very important something, as was she - a very large helping of cock!

She glanced at her wristwatch. It was time to move her story along.

There had been some excitement in the locality, not air raids as such, but enemy aircraft on supposed reconnaissance missions had disturbed the life of the village. Military personnel from the nearest city had been in the area consulting maps, and two had even asked permission to take some photographs of the sand dunes from Lady Jayne's garden. They were staying at the Barque Inn, an attractive hostelry whose ancient painted sign had inspired one of Jayne's more romantic tales, published earlier that year. A few weeks later, large concrete defences and barbed wire were laid on the beach from the headland to the river. Officially, no one knew anything of course, but as Jayne observed all this activity from her drawing room window she couldn't help wondering if the threatened invasion was one step closer.

There was certainly an atmosphere in the village nowadays, a mixture of fear and excitement, apprehension and bravado that was apparent everywhere. Lady Jayne too, wondered what the future could hold, how safe she was living so near to this deserted coast, and thought of her large house, its security, and her own protection. Security and protection had never really been much of an issue in the past, but she did wonder if she really ought to take a few simple precautions.

Her house was large, irregularly shaped and rambling; most of it was impossible to keep warm and was unused. The grounds, too, were extensive, stretching from the headland and the heath to the east and the village street to the west. And, whilst her part-time gardener kept the lawn and boarders in a reasonable condition, the shrubbery and the rhododendron walk were now completely overgrown. Oh, how she had loved it as a girl. There had even been a little summer-house in the dell where they used to have dainty picnics in those endless summers – in happier times. Whatever had happened to it she wondered?

Night had fallen. Jayne was listening to some concert of light music on the wireless and casually thumbing through a magazine that particular evening when she thought she heard the sound of aircraft. She put out the table lamp and opened the black-outs. Peering into the night she tried to see, but it was too cloudy to make anything out in the darkness. Through her now open window she thought she heard the muffled whistle of a far-off train. Had she imagined it? No, there was the drone again, sweeping in waves across the wild expanse of the sea. Please let them be ours, let them be ours, she silently prayed.

Jayne was really getting absorbed by her story now. She already knew the ending, and thinking about it was getting her aroused. In fact, as in real life, she had always known the ending.

That autumn morning was cold but bright. Lady Jayne decided that her latest article, on the ramifications of the tragic collapse of Overend and Gurneys Bank in 1866, could wait, and that she would prefer some fresh air instead. As it was her housemaid's day off, and the cook was visiting a sick relative, she knew she would be alone all day, so she wrapped up well and went to sit with her coffee on the terrace, where she couldn't help thinking about all those cocktail parties of long ago, where the ladies were so chic and carefree, and the men were so smart and handsome. That was where she had first met James, well, maybe history was something better left in the past. Or some history.