Yes, Virginia Ch. 01

(Note: this is an awkward call: one unwieldy piece, or four fairly short chapters? Please do try the whole thing rather than jumping straight to chapter 3, it makes far more sense that way. I hope you enjoy it.

As always, my profound thanks to Lisa Jones for advice, encouragement and inspiration.)

© 2013

Client 07c/1*.

As with so many other sensual pleasures in life, my love of cider goes back to Trude. There had been drinking before, of course, I was more than a little smashed the night I truly fell for her. That was just drinking for getting drunk; even more it was drinking to fit in when I was so far outside in other things. Those lethal cocktails on the back seat of the bus, mixed by Jen Wilson stealing just enough not to be noticed from every bottle in her parents' drinks cabinet. I felt my lips were blistering, in retrospect I'm pleasantly surprised I can still see.

Trude and I drank wine a few times, we drank as much as we could of cheap lager to stiffen our resolve before we went to that shop and bought the whip and handcuffs. But mostly we drank cider, and I came to actually enjoy the taste of it. I can see us now, sat on the seawall with a huge plastic bottle of Gaymers between us and a long hot afternoon before us.

That's how I remember her: the scent of cider and the androgynous sandalwood perfume she wore. The seduction of sin and sex and being all grown up. I have always liked the Bible, long before Annsofie turned me on to the language of the KJV I enjoyed the stories and the symbolism. Trude wasn't just tempting me, she was tempting me with something made from apples. How naughty is that?

Whatever my mother might have told herself about her innocent little girl, I was at least as up for it as Trude. She never needed to get me drunk and take advantage. We just liked to get drunk: liked the buzz; liked the way it took the edge off my compulsions and made me a tad less snotty.

Now it's twenty-two years later and I am the age my dad was when he died. I have a beautiful house and the love of the best woman there is; and at the end of my garden I have apple trees.

*****

I picked the wrong field of endeavour for someone with an innocent view of the human race. I never thought I had one, of course, not with my own esoteric tastes around bedtime. Nonetheless, over the first few years I received a worthwhile education in foibles. Some of them were very quickly shown the door -- I had the huge advantage that I didn't actually need the money, and I wasn't catering to the sort of market that were likely to beat or rape if they didn't get their way. I did learn how to cope with sulking, swearing and snivelling. After well over a decade in the business, not much surprised me anymore. At least, not much that involved a single client.

"Sorry, there's been some mistake. I don't do groups, it's a purely one-to-one gig as far as I'm concerned. I can give you a name ..."

Nicely dressed couple, smart casual and obviously rolling in money if they could afford me. He was around fifty and a tad petulant looking; she was a seriously cute little pixie a good fifteen years his junior.

He was the talker.

"That's what we were looking for. You see, we'd like ..."

"Who's the client?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well I'm sure 'we'd like' is all very sweet, but it must have been someone's idea first; and someone must be paying. Which of you would I be working for?"

"Me."

I asked her to take the wooden seat in the anteroom and led him through to my study, closing the door behind me. They were recently married; he was into it, she hadn't been. He -- that is, they -- wanted her trained. I didn't much like him, but that's not a requirement for a business relationship. I will freely admit I did like the look of her. It's hardly my place to judge, but I found the whole notion bizarre, like those packets of grated cheese you see in supermarkets. Who buys that stuff? Who wants a sub broken in by someone else? How is there satisfaction in that?

Should I have refused on principle? Not a chance: she looked like fun; and one of the many things I am not is a safety net.

"OK, pal, these are the rules. I'm not a tart, I'm a consultant: you do not tell me what to do. I don't have sex with men -- not for fun, not for money; not even by proxy. I don't have sex in front of men so they can watch. I don't have sex on film so you can toss off over me at home. This conversation turning you on, by the way?"

He shifted a little uncomfortably to hide his erection. As I said, I didn't much like the man. Not that I'd have walloped him for nothing, you understand, but if he'd been paying me for that I would happily lay on a little harder than requested. He harrumphed, and I continued.

"If you're the client, then the lady gets treated exactly the way I'd treat any other man: discipline and instruction without sex. As I said, it's a one-to-one thing. I run a very discrete and confidential business. You two can chat all you want at home, but I'm not having it under my roof. I'm not even prepared to talk to her in your presence. Take it or leave it."

As a final flourish I took out my fountain pen and wrote a ludicrous sum on the desk jotter before passing it across to him. His eyes bugged out, then he swallowed.

"Is that by the hour?"

"Flat session rate. If it's fifteen minutes, or if it's three hours -- which is my choice, by the way. You want training, then you trust me to decide what's necessary."

We arranged payment details and I gave him an appointment that Wednesday afternoon. Then I sent them both away.

***

I buzzed the street-level door open without a word when she pressed its bell three floors below me, then went out to wait. I took the six steps along the dead-end corridor from my door to the landing as softly as I could, because I could already hear her climbing. One of the nice things about those bare concrete stairs was the way footsteps rang so loud up the well; the way you could hear them getting slower with nerves as my clients got nearer to my lair. One of the even nicer things was that it gave me fair warning on the rare occasions anyone else was in the building.

I stood against the wall and rested one hand on the metal banister as I leant a little over. Unless she looked straight up at the bottom of the last flight, she wouldn't see me watching her. She did not look up -- nor around nor even down at her feet -- she was following that old advice about staring straight forward when you are called in to see the headmistress. Left hand out to the rail: balance or reassurance? Reassurance, I thought: she was gripping more than sliding over it. Slightest rise to her shoulders as she took a deep breath with two steps to go. I felt myself inhaling to match her: savour that last brief moment of watching unseen before she turned and ...

She gave me a shy smile. It was an awkward situation, after all. How she would welcome a smile back.

"Hello. I'm --"

"Not interested ..."

She was looking decidedly cute: a little Audreyish in her short hair. Not my usual type, you will admit, but I've never been one to let that constrain me. Nicely turned out: dress just above her knees; smart cardigan thing; heels. That was nice: short leather skirt screaming 'I'm a tarty sub' wouldn't have suited me. Apparently it wouldn't suit the owner either, he wanted me to make him a nice pretty little lady rather than a whore.

I took one pace forward and folded my arms. I ran my eyes down the length of her: face to feet, slow enough to make it quite obvious I was imagining what was underneath. Back up to the hem of that dress.

"... Are those tights or stockings?"

"Stockings."

"Your idea or his?"

"His."

"I don't like them."

"I'm sor--"

"Not interested in that either. What do you want?"

What did she see? As I said, it was an awkward situation, and not simply for her. Had she been a man, there would have been a detailed questionnaire of kinks and by this time I'd know whether it was catsuit or schoolmarm or any of the other delights in my wardrobes. Had she been my woman, I'd have been relaxing in one of my silk robes and strappy sandals. This sweet little hermaphroditic conundrum had me flummoxed, so I was doing my very smart out for the evening look. Navy jacket and skirt, ivory top, navy suede kitten-heels.

Except I wasn't out for the evening, I was working. My chestnut hair was pulled back in a plait tight enough to make my eyes water and I was wearing my black kids with buttons at the wrist. I started that little impatient tap of right finger on left elbow that signals Victoria is going to make your life pleasurably painful in the near future. Five-three of command presence: Little Miss Scary. I was, if I am honest about this, at the peak of my powers and so very good at my job.

Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed.

"I'd like ... My husband would like you to --"

"Stop there. You and your husband, I take it you play already, yes? Does he have a title? What do you call him when you ..."

... when you do whatever it is you do. Which, to be quite honest with you, I didn't want to know. Not that I wouldn't be making her tell, of course.

"Sir."

Oh well, it would have to do. When you get right down to it, there's so few good choices and so many people playing, how can you possibly be individual?

"Try again."

"Sir would like --"

Simple small cruelties. Ask questions; demand answers but don't allow them to answer. Kicks the legs out from under people, takes their balance away and makes them vulnerable.

"Kneel down please ..."

Balance taken right away, not to mention that she was in heels. She didn't know whether to look at me or the floor. One hand hovering towards the wall for security, dress getting trapped under one knee.

"... Not acceptable. Stand up. Kneeling is an art, and like any other art it needs to be done with grace or not at all. Hands at the sides, eyes on me. As you go down, hands just oh so slightly lift the dress clear. You're kneeling, which shows you are subordinate; at the same time you're showing willing to lift your skirt whenever commanded. That's your place: inferior and sexually available. You need to plant the image in the depths of my mind of you on your back with your knees up, but without spoiling that scared little innocent look. Try it again, please ..."

I can't begin to explain how much I owe to learning control from a soldier. Not that we ever talked theory, that wasn't her scene at all; but she had been marched about by some of the world's best practitioners of disciplinary theatrics and when she suggested what might or might not work, you can be sure I listened. Calm voice, level voice; just exactly as loud as it needs to be and never any louder. Don't lose your temper. The calmer you are, the scarier you are. 'Tits out for Miss' isn't particularly sexy; 'would you please expose your breasts for Miss' is, especially in the tone that makes it clear how little you meant that 'please'.

"... And up. Take off your shoes and try it again."

Third time lucky. Her chin was shuddering a tad: angry or sobby? It would need just a little further push to see which. I walked round her and picked up her shoes. I am not a connoisseur, give me kinky sandals for playtime and my M&S courts for the rest and I'm happy. Whatever these were, you could feel the money sitting in your hand when you touched them.

I didn't say a word, content to let her remember we had unfinished business at her own speed.

"Sir would like you to instruct me in proper behaviour."

"I'm not a finishing school, love. Let's try that again with less coy, shall we?"

"Sir would like you to instruct me in being sexually subordinate."

"And what about you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be, time enough for meaning that in a little while. Seriously, are you up for this? Because I'm only going to ask you the once. If you go through that door, do not expect me to ever ask if it's alright to do this or that. Understood?"

"Yes ... What should I call you?"

"Come to that in a minute. Simple answer now: yes or no?"

"Yes."

Playtime then. Except it wasn't, was it? I had, somehow, talked myself into the most bizarre situation. For the first time in my life, it appeared I was going to give a woman a good bullying and not find myself on her mouth at the end of the session. And she was, as I have said, really quite cute with it. The knowledge of imminent frustration was making me cruel, or perhaps it was just those stockings.

"I'd like you to put your palms down on the floor please. I'm going to open my front door and go inside. When I'm ready, I will give a nice loud click with my fingers and you can crawl after me."

*****

My beloved is working from home today, which is a treat and a treasure, and sometimes the slightest trace of an irritation. She's been in her office, Skyping a three-cornered conference call between Shanghai, Jo'burg and our farmhouse; and in half an hour there's another one to a some guy in New York who presumably doesn't ever sleep.

"Writing?"

It's Wednesday morning, so I'm working at the kitchen table the way I always do. It's a very specific routine, and it doesn't allow for her busying around.

"Yeah."

"Like some tea?"

"Err ... Yeah, love some. Thanks."

"Is it a good one?"

Well no, sweetheart. I thought today, just for a change, I'd deliberately sit here and write something bad.

See what I mean? I like my routines, always have.

*****

Crawling is a very special activity: if you get it, it can blow your mind; if you don't, it's truly hurtful and demeaning. I suppose you can say the same about almost any domme technique, but crawling is ...

Simply put, it's crawling. So many of the others are extreme variations on normal play: almost everyone, at some point, will have had a silly giggly spank, or a tickle, or just the tiniest trace of hold-me-down. Canes and chains are hardcore versions, but they aren't paradigm shifts in your relationship. Same for naughty words and biting, it's normal vanilla sex taken to the highest possible level of escalation. Making someone crawl isn't part of that toolbox at all; it's weird stuff, it's not what nice people do. It's the same palette as watersports and whoring out and enforced piercing. It's dehumanising. It's a calculated insult to their identity.

Nameless Little Pixie got it. I could tell at once from the way her breath was coming fast and the flush on her cheek when I told her to stand up again. And, of course, I liked her getting it; because that put pictures in my mind of flushed face and short breath between my needy thighs at the end of the afternoon ...

Why on earth had I not thought this through before dictating terms?

I was still holding her shoes. I tossed them casually into the corner. Her eyes cut possessively after them as if they were a puppy playing too close to the road, but she didn't say a word. She had covered about forty feet all told, enough to make the point. It hadn't done much for her stockings, but it hadn't actually torn them. I told her to put her hands behind her back, then looked her full in the eyes as I took out my penknife and very carefully cut them open. I stepped back and studied how slutty she suddenly looked with the knees out. I was becoming uncomfortably aware of just how much my desire for sex with her was verging towards need rather than want.

"You don't call me 'Mistress', understood? In fact you don't call me by any title at all. You're not mine, you belong to Sir and no one else. If I ask a question, you answer simply and accurately: yes, no, required information. If you want to talk to me, you call me 'Virginia' ..."

Taking my heartthrob's name in vain, you notice. My initial is well enough known, and somehow I couldn't see myself as a Veronica, much less Vera. Sorry, Ginnie, nothing personal.

"... It's not my name, by the way. I won't tell you that. I will tell you that I won't tell you; do you find that insulting. Answer please?"

"Yes."

"Good, it's meant to be. There's a school of thought that one should never explain what one's doing, but I don't always agree. What we are doing is breaking down to build up: Sir wants proper subby lady, not cheap bitch. Cheap bitch, as it happens, is a necessary stop along the road. Did you drive here? Nod or shake, please; I don't want any words just now ..."

Nod. Slow, slightly defiant nod. Not going to be sobs just yet then.

"... then you can keep those on until you're home. Kneel down please."

It would take a lot of practice to make perfect, but she was better every time she did it. I talked her very slowly and calmly through what came next: hands and knees; right palm flat on the lino and centred to take her weight; head down like a good little sub; left hand behind and lift the dress all the way up for me.

I don't like stockings, I can't tell you why. I'd have been happier without that frame of suspender, but even so it was the prettiest of pictures. Heavens she had a cute little bum on her, clad in undies just a tad too small and too translucent to be entirely decent. Glorious little flash of dimpling tease perched atop the elastic, and then that oh so visible shadow of cleavage swooping down.

I continued my lecture as I went over to the sideboard to pick up my crop. Pain comes in two flavours: what you earn and what Sir wants to dole out for his own amusement. You need to learn how to use them both to please. You need to learn if he appreciates 'oh please no' for discipline and 'oh please yes' for sadism. You need to understand that your reactions are part of the game, and behave appropriately when you take a beating ...

Crop slapping down on that gorgeous and as yet unmarked skin. Enjoy the full cocktail of sensation: sound of impact; sound of reaction in her throat; tingle in my own arm; tremor in that pretty arse ...

Two on the left; walk very slowly round for two on the right. Ask her, in my best and coldest Mistress voice, is she really so weak she can't hack the traditional six. Wait for her to ask me for the other two.

I tapped her on the shoulder with the end of the crop and told her to straighten up. I cupped her face in my glove. She looked so pretty with her cute little eyes blazing back at me and a stray tear rolling down that was nothing more than pain.

"Any time you're beaten for fun, you keep your mouth closed and take it -- that's what you're for; that is your entire purpose and meaning. Anytime you're beaten for discipline, you say thank you for it afterwards ..."

Which is a sure way to piss me off, as it happens, but I was working on contract here and not for myself.

"... I've already explained, you are not my property. I do not beat you for my own amusement."

She sniffed back her tears and looked me straight in the eye.

"Thank --"

I slapped her face.

"Wasn't a question. Try again."

"Virginia, thank you for correcting me."

Oooh: 'correcting', that was nice. Not sure I could even say why. Not simple rote recitation of 'discipline', that much was obvious. Oh, Pixie, what pretty things you say with that pretty mouth. What else can it do?

"Kiss me."

She leant forward, tearful eyes fluttering. I slapped her face.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I was kissing you."

"You have to ask for that one."

"But you told me --"

I slapped her face.

"Don't ever answer me back. As for the other thing, do you honestly think I want some man's slut kissing me on my mouth?"

I stood up as I said it, and gave her shoulder another light tap with the crop. She bent her head down at last, no longer able to meet my eyes.

"Virginia, may I please kiss you?"

"You may."