Oggbashan Stew Pt. 03

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.

Now I've got one, and I want to see my husband Ray inside it. Please?"

"If you want to. When?"

"Now. I'll leave you in it while I shower. OK?"

"I suppose so."

I could see why Brigitta couldn't use it on unsuspecting men. I had to feed my feet and legs into trouser-like sheaths attached on the inside of the nightdress before I could put my hands into the very long sleeves. The sleeves trailed almost to the floor. Ellen pulled the front zip up, stopping a few inches short of my neck. Although I'm slightly taller than Ellen, nearly as tall as Brigitta, the lower hem of the nightdress was splayed across the floor.

"Cross your hands over your front," Ellen ordered.

She took the long ends of the sleeves and knotted them behind my back. I was restrained as if by a straitjacket, but in soft silky material.

"Hood..."

Ellen lifted the hood that was hanging at the back of my neck. It fastened under my chin with poppers. She pulled the zip up under my chin before smoothing a seam covering the whole zip. If I had my hands free I might have been able to lift that seam and get at the zip. With my hands and arms restrained, I couldn't.

Ellen knelt down. She raised the skirt of the nightdress and somehow my legs were tied together around my thighs, calves and ankles. Ellen pushed me. I fell backwards on the bed. She heaved me around until my head was on a pillow.

"The last few touches, Ray," Ellen said.

There was a drawstring in the lower hem. She pulled it tight, turning the bottom of the nightdress into a bag. Ellen knotted the drawstring before wrapping the end of the bag around my calves and tying it there. Her face appeared in front of me. She kissed me.

"Finally, Ray..."

Ellen pulled a drawstring around the hood. It closed to a small opening leaving only my nose free. I was hooded, blindfolded, and totally covered in white silky material hugging me tight.

"See you soon. You aren't going anywhere, are you?"

I wasn't. I heard Ellen go into the shower room. I could roll on the bed. I couldn't get out of Brigitta's Norwegian nightdress without Ellen. I was a helpless bundle waiting for my wife to return. Despite myself I became erect. There was nothing I could do until she came back.

I could see the disadvantages of Brigitta's nightdress. It was too complicated for anything except consensual bondage. There was no way an unwilling victim could be confined in it. I couldn't force Ellen into it, nor could she put me in it without my willing cooperation. Once inside it, getting out was impossible, but so was trying to overpower somebody and force them into it.

I relaxed and just enjoyed the sensation of being Ellen's helpless prisoner.

I couldn't see anything but I knew that hanging on the clothes rail was a wedding dress and the large net petticoat, both in their bags. They weren't the dress and petticoat Ellen had worn to be married in, but those she had worn on her Hen night. Her mother had taken Ellen's real dress and hooped petticoat with her to spot clean and carefully store away.

Last night I had surprised Ellen with the petticoat bag. When she had emerged from the shower I had thrown the bag over her head, pushed her onto the bed and tightened the drawstring around her legs. She had squealed excitedly as I had teased her. She squealed even louder when I slid it up over her hips so I could lick between her legs.

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Story 043

Perceptions

A couple of years ago the authorities had decided that our specialist Defence Research Unit should be a military, not civilian, establishment. They thought we might get more authority with serving personnel if we had army ranks. I wasn't sure. As civilians, we could be anything. As army ranks, a senior officer could ignore us for being too junior to be worth listening to.

I hadn't objected to the increased pay that came with my new rank as a Major. I still faced some lack of credibility. I would have been too short to be recruited as an Army Officer. As a scientist with a Ph.D and several successful research projects and a mass of academic paperwork (some classified) I thought I had more status than as a short-assed Major.

My specialist field at present was army clothing, pattern-disruptive designs, uniform opaque to heat sensors etc. Although our team had produced some great materials, the cost of production made most too expensive except for a few troops.

Our latest project had established a new team to explore the possibilities of covert operations in the Middle East conflict zones. Ayesha (said as Assha) was the team leader. She was another Major, but her experience made her the suitable leader for this project. I had worked with her before on a successful project when I had been the team leader. I had considerable respect for her intelligence and abilities. It helped that I liked Ayesha.

We had started with the experience of soldiers and journalists introduced into dangerous areas dressed as women wholly veiled in burqas with a viewing slit.

The major problem was that most soldiers were far too tall to be disguised as women, and even if they weren't that tall, they didn't behave as local women should. The other problem was that they couldn't wear body armour. That made them too bulky to be credible women.

A small part of the project was to produce training materials and a course to get selected soldiers to behave as local women, and even just how to wear the clothing in an appropriate way. Ayesha usually wore a hijab, a scarf covering her head and neck, with her face visible. As we started the project she sometimes wore an all-covering burqa with a lace-covered viewing panel.

I, and some of the other team members found Ayesha's burqa unsettling. She was still the very forceful woman she usually is, but the concealing clothing seemed to diminish her.

It had potential, serious potential. Scientists had developed a bullet-proof cloth using graphene and other materials. Of course there were limitations with the first experimental garments. The seams were vulnerable and very difficult to make. More seams meant more complexity, more weak points, and less protection.

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Story 044

Pit

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[This was my unsuccessful attempt at writing for the specific fetish of Indian women's hairy and sweaty armpits.]

It all happened because I made a few simple mistakes.

The first was overestimating my skills with computers. The second was neglect of basic security. The third and most embarrassing was underestimating my niece Desi. She isn't actually my niece, she's the daughter of my old school friend who died in the taxi crash that killed my wife. That was a long time ago but his widow and I have kept in touch ever since and I have been a sort of uncle to their daughter. I have no children and haven't remarried.

My friend's wife and daughter were in Mumbai for the daughter's graduation ceremony. They had flown up from the South where the mother lived in a remote upland village. Of course they were staying with me. I had a large house with servants and many spare rooms. Desi and two of her friends (for propriety) had stayed at my house while she was at university so my house was her second home.

Desi's name is not really Desi. I won't use any other names. None of the people can be identified. They and I might be embarrassed if we were.

The day before they arrived I got into a mess on the internet. I had logged on to an adult site which somehow had changed my computer's settings so that every time I went on to the internet I would be routed through that site and charged one US dollar a minute. Even though I am a rich man by Indian standards I resented that charge. I would have to admit to Desi what I had done and appeal to her to sort the mess out. I was sure that she could and I was also sure that she and her mother wanted help from me. I was even fairly sure what they wanted. If I was right I would enjoy granting their request.

My only worry was that they might be embarrassed to ask. No. I'm lying. My real worries were what Desi would think of her elderly uncle when she found what I had been doing on the internet. I had downloaded several hundred pictures and participated in Yahoo Adult groups. She might find the pictures and the files of the posts I had copied. So be it. I would rather she found them than an employee of a computer repair shop.

I sent my chauffeur in the Rolls-Royce to the airport. It isn't that I'm too proud to go myself. I wanted them to recover from the journey and have time to make themselves presentable before we met. It wasn't the flight. The village was only accessible by a track and they would have walked or ridden to the town before getting a train and taxi to the airport. It is the 21st Century but in some parts of India it could still be the 18th. Despite washrooms at both airports they would feel hot and dusty. When they arrived they could bathe and the maids would help them dress. I expected them for cocktails an hour after the Rolls returned. Or perhaps it would take them an hour and half, or two. It didn't matter. I'd let them enjoy the air-conditioning and the pampering before meeting me.