The Sacred Band Ch. 02bypotsherd22©
On Friday I was at my desk at Prettyman's, worrying away at a forecast of growth prospects for light engineering companies in the East Midlands. There were good reasons for optimism in the short term as Britain, Europe and the USA rebuilt after the war, but the prospects for the medium term looked more uncertain, but a lot less reassuring. Some of our old German and Czechoslovak competitors were now behind the Iron Curtain, but there were signs of a coming upsurge of machine-tool production in Japan and Taiwan. On the other hand, there was a marked tendency for amalgamation and vertical integration, in particular among the manufacturers of hosiery machinery, with the Bentley Group looking particularly strong.
When the phone rang I was immersed in the evaluation. Denise's voice made me sit up and look around. Nobody was within earshot, and in any case we all had too much to do to eavesdrop on each other's conversations.
"Philip, you remember that I said that I wanted to do something special tomorrow night?"
I murmured something unintelligible, but she knew very well that I could not talk openly at work.
"Well – have you ever played any role-play games?"
"No," I replied, "I was never one for drama groups – choral singing and ballroom dancing were always my hobbies."
"I want us to play a game tomorrow. You will be a Gestapo officer and I will be a captured resistance fighter. You will interrogate me. We make it up as we go along."
I said something non-committal. My mind was in a whirl.
"Please Philip, do this for me. You'll enjoy it I'm sure when we get going. There is just one thing. If it all starts to get too intense, I shall have what we call a safe word. If I say 'Himmler', you stop whatever you are doing, and we take a break. Do you understand? I may protest and beg you, but you only stop for the word Himmler."
"Yes, I understand", I replied, wondering what on earth I had got myself into. "Good, Darling. Now you think of some exciting ideas for what we can do. I'll be home tomorrow afternoon and I'll get a few things ready. You come around about sevenish."
Denise: I can't see how I could have laid it out more plainly.
As luck would have it, the phone rang as I stared vacantly at my desk. An important call engaged my immediate attention, and I was caught up in unrelenting activity for the rest of the afternoon. It was raining, so I caught the bus home, since I have to saving my petrol ration for longer journeys. Later, over a plate of plaice and chips and a pickled onion, I started to think through what Denise might expect from me.
I thought that intimidation and fear was the key – I had to make her feel totally vulnerable and defenceless. I thought about the police and army patrols I had watched in Hong Kong, screaming unintelligible questions, prodding and poking with rifle butt or truncheon, and above all, slapping faces.
Many a poor sod of a Chinese I had seen after a severe face-slapping, with a mouth full of blood, feeling around for loose teeth. Obviously, I thought, you can have too much of a good thing, and I should have to go careful.
Denise: His instincts were good – face-slapping sets the mood of a game like nothing else – he was just too anxious not to hurt me.
What could I wear? Uniform I had. I hung on to my number 1's, and give them an annual outing on Armistice day as I remember my uncles, the twins Joe and Ted, killed in the Spring offensive in 1918. Could I adapt RAF blues into some semblance of a Gestapo uniform? Maybe not, but maybe the dress trousers, along with a uniform cap and white shirt and black tie might help get us both into the mood.
Even better, Sid Washburn, an old school mate, had done his National Service in Germany and I knew he had picked up some bits and pieces of so-called memorabilia, including a Nazi armband with the Hitler Youth swastika roundel.
What's more he had a pair of motor-cycle gauntlets I could scrounge off him and they would make really good props. I phoned him and arranged to meet him in the Globe in Silver Street on Saturday lunchtime. A couple of other props I dreamed up I shall come back to later.
By the end of Saturday afternoon I had a passable Nazi uniform, some props and a couple of promising lines of investigation, and I had been practising my Peter Lorre Teutonic accent. I also had a large bunch of flowers arranged and gift-wrapped by my friendly local florist. How they fitted into the scenario God only knew, but I felt good about taking them.
I arrived at seven-thirty on the dot, and stood in the porch of the house, putting on my uniform and gathering my props. The flowers I hid behind me. Feeling really rather foolish, I went to ring on the doorbell, but found a note saying Door unlocked - you know where to come.
I slipped off my coat, straightened my borrowed SS officer's cap and Hitler Youth swastika armband and stamped up the stairs. Pushing open the door I walked into the bedroom to find that Denise had started without me.
She was lying naked on the bed, handcuffed to the bedposts. On the table beside the bed was a riding crop, several canes, a leather strap, and some strips of cloth and short lengths of rope. The ball was really in my court. She looked at me in my makeshift regalia and her eyes widened.
I stalked over to her.
"Now Fraulein, you vill answer my questions!" I shouted, and slapped her hard across the face, one side and the other with the gauntlets I held in my hand. Here eyes widened in shock.
I waited in silence for a full minute before slapping her across both cheeks a second time.
"Vy were you out after curfew?" I asked.
"I was visiting my sick mother."
"A lie!" I turned her roughly onto her belly, picked up the riding crop and brought it down with a crack across both buttocks, once, then again. Thin red lines leapt into life on her white flesh. She shrieked.
"If you vere wisiting your mutter, vy did you have three forged identity documents in der lining of your handbag?"
"I didn't know they were there."
"Unt, I suppose you didn't know about the two pistols, the Walter P38 and the Luger parabellum; both stolen from our brave soldiers. You didn't feel their weight in your handbag?"
"I must have picked up the wrong handbag when I left home. It is easily done."
"Ah, I must wisit your house if this is the case. You are lying to me!"
I picked up the leather strap and whacked it down three or four times. Red blotches appeared.
"It is clear that you are not going to co-operate – yet! I shall have to take more drastic measures."
I turned her back on to her back, and she lay there quiescent, gazing up beseechingly.
Time, I thought, for the first prop. That afternoon I had gone to Boots the Chemist in King Richard Road, and bought three feet of wide-bore rubber tubing. She stared at it open-mouthed. What she thought I was going to do with it I don't know.
In my schooldays we had often had mock battles after football, flicking each other with wet towels. They stung enough to hurt quite a lot, but the pain soon went away and the towels left no lasting damage. Left unattended in the chemistry lab, we soon discovered that a length of rubber tube has some of the same properties, a sharp sting, a cumulative but superficial pain and a red mark that faded away quickly to nothing.
My plan at this point was to warm Denise up with a beating not much more severe than a spanking, and then to go on to more inventive tortures.
I doubled the tubing and wrapped a length around my fist. I flicked it at her left breast, which was nearest. It hit with a slap, and she shrieked.
"Tell me about your resistance cell? Who is your leader? Vat group is it? Gaullist? Communist?"
"I won't tell you anything!"
I whipped her breasts and belly for some time with the rubber tube, shouting out staccato questions in my best Teutonic accent, slipping into schoolboy German for a phrase or two now and again for the sake of added confusion . The rubber tube made satisfying marks and made her groan and sometimes squeal.
Time for a change of pace. I picked up the silk scarf from the bedside table and tied a large knot in the middle. Then I put the knot into Denise's mouth and tied the crude gag around the back of her head. Looking around the bedside table I saw two small keys, and quickly unfastened the handcuffs, then turned her face down on the bed and crunched them into place. Next I blindfolded her with a wide strip of cloth.
"Very well Fraulein", I said with my best Erich Von Stroheim sinister sneer. "I shall have to take sterner measures."
Denise wriggled convincingly and squealed into her gag. Now was the time for the other two props in my bag. Out of her sight I took out a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a badger-hair shaving brush. I did my best attempt at a sinister laugh whilst stuffing pillows under her hips to raise her bottom as high as possible.
To begin with, a real shock. Taking a cane, I brought it down hard twice on the soles of each foot. Red weals sprang up, and her shriek was not just play-acting.
Now the shaving brush, gently brushed down between her buttocks and under what she encouraged me to call her cunt. I tickled her delicate skin until she was giggling and protesting as much as her gag would allow, and thrashing her legs around.
"Very well", I said, "If you can't keep still I shall tie your feet. Tying them securely as far apart as I could get them, I applied the shaving brush between her toes and on the soles of her feet. She was squealing non-stop now, thrashing her head and body back and forth. Time for a change of tack.
I took the tweezers and pulled out one of the coarse, stiff hairs from between her buttocks. She squeaked. Another and another tugged out, sometimes two at a time. Each sharp jerk rewarded by a squeal as she thrashed about unable to escape.
Now a hair from the fringe of public hair in the tender part of the top of the thigh. Another squeal; and another. It was clear that she was experiencing a little pain, but also that she was in a state of increasing arousal, as evidence by the glistening and the pungent aroma of feminine sexual arousal.
The shaving brush now, on the soles of her feet. Brush, brush, brush between the toes, then a sharp crack of the riding crop across the soles of one foot, then the same procedure for the other foot made her yelp.
I asked more questions, but, of course, the gag made it impossible for her to do more than gurgle back at me. Half a dozen swipes if the cane on her bottom and thighs left bright tramlines. More shaving brush, this time on between her buttocks, and another assault on the hairs around her anus.
How, I suddenly thought, can she give the safeword if he has had enough? Had I gone too far?
"Denise", I said. "If you want me to stop and can't use the safe word, hold up one hand and wave your fingers". I was sure that the end was near, now. Sure enough, another three or four swats of the rubber tube across her back and round, under her armpits to her pendulous breasts, then the tweezers resumed their tiny, pinprick pains, and her hand rose up and opened. I unlocked the handcuffs and untied her feet, the lay down on the bed and took her in my arms.
"There", I said". "For you, Fraulein, ze war is over."
Denise: He was creative and witty, and threw himself into the role-play like a trouper. By this time, poor dear, he was appealing to me to let him stop, and what could I do but let him? Bless him, it was the most fun I had ever had in a role-play, and the idea of pulling out my bum-hairs one by one was sheer genius. I was going to have to level with him, but not tonight.
As I cuddled her, she suddenly, unexpectedly burst in to tears and sobbed into my shoulder. We lay there for a while, cuddling, and then I wiped her face with my handkerchief, and held it to her nose for a blow, as if she was a little girl.
"Did I hurt you dearest?" I asked.
"Not in the least, darling, that was wonderful, and you did it all beautifully. It's just that sometimes I miss Walter so much. I was almost seventeen when we met, and he was my whole life for nigh on twenty years. He taught me these delicious games. The difference is that if Walter had conducted the interrogation, I would be eating my meals off the mantelpiece for a day or two."
I undressed. Denise knelt on the bed between my knees and began sucking on my cock. I suggested a soussante-neuf position so that I could enjoy licking her too, but she refused.
"No, darling, this is just for you. Just leave it to me."
I lay and relaxed, allowing the sensations to creep over me. She began to push her head down harder and deeper, until I was concerned that she might be hurting herself, but she just sucked on, building a rhythm that robbed me of all control. In a minute or two I came copiously, and she went on sucking until my final spasm, and swallowed with evident relish.
She got up and put on her dressing gown, and found me a blue-grey woollen one, with a pair of slippers a couple of sizes too big for me.
"Now, she said, we'll go and have something to eat. I didn't know what time we'd be eating so it's just hot leek and potato soup, and sandwiches. Will that be all right for you? There's plenty of wine or beer if you prefer.
There's Worthington White Shield, some Young's IPA and Fuller's London Pride. Walter always preferred London beer, so our wine merchant lays it in for me. Odd isn't it, with Burton on Trent just on the doorstep? By the way, you do know don't you that White shield throws a sediment and you have to decant it?"
The soup was made with real chicken stock, and the sandwiches were roast chicken and salad. Roast chicken had been a Christmas treat for most of my childhood, and suddenly without premeditation, I was telling her how, for my eleventh Christmas, my dad had gone all over Leicester looking for a nice Capon for Christmas dinner. He found one eventually. Some people in a house off Gypsy Lane had a hencoop in the garden, and he agreed then and there to pay their extortionate price.
For three days before Christmas the capon hung in its feathers on the back of the coal shed door, and, on Christmas eve, Dad gave me my first lesson in plucking and drawing a bird. I can never do it today without thinking of him.
"Sounds like a nice man – were you fond of him?"
"Yes, I absolutely loved him and never stop missing him> I love my Mum just as much. They were in their forties when they had me. I was either going to seem like a miracle to them – or a disaster. They always made me feel that they considered it a privilege – not a nuisance – to bring me up. Above all I want to give my Mum back something for all they have given me."
What did your father do for a living?"
"He was a full-time trade union official; the District secretary of the Hosiery and Knitwear workers Trade Union. For about ten years he was a city councillor and then an Alderman. My mum had been a shop-steward at Cooper and Corah's, one of the first woman shop stewards in Leicester. They met at a Trades Council meeting. They were Labour through and through – but trade unionists first and foremost."
"You are very proud of that?"
Yes I am. I saw in Hong Kong what life for workers is like with no trade unions. Nasty, brutish and short. One day I hope to be able to give financial advice to the trustees of Trade Union pension funds – they're a lifeline for so many people."
After that bit of self-revelation, the conversation seemed to go quiet for a while. It was an almost incredible transit from sexual role-play games to family history, but I can only report it as it happened.
Denise: What a contrast from my own childhood. My parent had pots of money, and they were always generous with it, but that was all they gave my brother and me, especially when they packed us off to boarding school at the age of eight.
There is one more tale to tell of that night. When we went back upstairs, Denise asked a for another little spanking and I took her across my knees and spanked her enough to revive the red tramlines left by the riding crop and the cane. Then she sprang up.
"Darling, I said we should do something special tonight. Now I want you to bugger me."
The shock showed in my face and she was immediately concerned.
"Philip, love, I've shocked you haven't I. I'm so sorry, but you must remember something about me. Walter was my husband, mentor and master. He taught me everything I know about sex. If I had used a term like 'anal intercourse' in front of him, I should have got such a whipping and then had my mouth washed out with carbolic soap.
Now, miduck, which is it that shocks you – the idea of fucking me in the bum, or the word buggery?"
"Well, the word mostly, I suppose. I know that some couples do it, and I've even met a girl who told me she preferred it to normal sex. But although I've never done it, I always thought I would some day."
Will you try it for me, please?" There is nothing nasty about it, I promise you. I spent the afternoon getting ready, and I am so clean inside and out that you could eat your dinner off me."
How could I refuse Denise anything? I had expected her to present herself on hands and knees, because for some reason I assumed that this was the position people used; but instead she lay on her back close to the edge of the bed and lifted her straight, spread legs in the air.
"I have greased myself up already," she said. "You should put vaseline all over your cock, plenty of it, and a blob on my bumhole and we will be ready to begin."
Denise guided my cock to her anus and I pressed, gently and firmly as she directed. I felt the opening stretch, resist, and, suddenly the head of my cock was inside and my cock was being tightly gripped below the crest. I paused; then, and, as she urged me on I pushed slowly and I could feel the passage being forced open until I was deeply inside.
"Wait a minute, darling," she said hoarsely, "Let me get used to it for a minute and then you can start moving."
Oddly enough, the experience of stretching her hot anal passage wide enough to accommodate my cock, reminded me, ludicrously, of drinking my first cup of scalding hot tea on a winter's morning, when it seems to open up a passage for itself and leave a warm glow all the way down from throat to stomach.
I could feel the heat of her body so much more strongly than in normal sex, and as I paused to let her catch up I could feel the beating pulse of a small artery throbbing rhythmically against the root of my cock. The muscles of her bumhole seemed to grip like a hot, oiled kid glove around my cock. Not smooth and slick like a cunt, but suede-like and finely textured.
"Now, you can move about. Good long strokes. Don't be too gentle love, I'm not made of glass - I shan't break."
"Doesn't it hurt?" I asked rather fatuously.
"Of course it bloody hurts. The pleasure is riding on the pain. Now for Christ sake don't stop."
I started the long heel and toe movement that I knew she preferred, pulling out until just the head of my cock was gripped by the ring of muscles, then driving home firmly. As I thrust and withdrew, Denise's breathing became more stertorous and laboured. As I looked down at her face I could see that her face and neck were flushed, the redness extending down to the tops of her breasts, she looked at me and started to laugh, at the same time catching her breath and gasping.
I smiled broadly back at her and watched as her excitement grew. I was rapidly reaching the point of no return, and as I quickened my pace, she started thrashing her head around, contracting and relaxing her muscles, raising and lowering her hips, flexing her elbows to get a better grip on the bed and pushing back to me. I came copiously into her, more or less as she reached her own fulfilment.