Back to Vanilla
Authors: Jennifer Maschek
Tags: #fiction, #erotica, #internet, #addiction, #sex, #bdsm
Vanilla
By Jennifer
Maschek
© 2015 Jennifer
Maschek
All rights
reserved
1. Alasdair
About me:
Daddy’s_BiGal
(Previously known on here as slUtty-fUckgal)
Gender:
Female
Age: 43
Sexual orientation:
Fluctuating/Evolving
Role:
Exploring
How
active you are:
A Princess by day, slut by night
Looking for:
Playmates/Friends
I am a sexy
twisted lady, looking to take life by the horns, and push myself to
my own limits. Having done the “good wife and mother” thing for
more than 15 years, I am grabbing some totally me-time and I’m
starting to explore myself in every little way I fancy. And I’m
looking for like-minded people who’d care to journey alongside me,
physically for sure, but, hey, we’re all just people… I’m looking
for those who want to stretch their emotional and social
conditioning boundaries too.
I feel like I’ve been
in so many figurative boxes for so long, I’m just aching to burst
out. Having tried anal for the first time – yes, I know, THAT’s how
vanilla I was – with a recent caring partner, I’m just a total slut
for it. But I don’t want to stop there. I recently discovered how
much pain excites me; just gives me goosebumps from the tips of
those curled-up toes right up to the top of me, and I want to play
more. Spanking, slapping, hair-pulling –¬ yes all this for sure,
but I want to push it further. Am I the only one who is turned on
by the total focus of a doctor or nurse as the speculum slides in?
By the thought of a little pee trickling out on to their squeaky
clean rubber-gloved hands? Mixing with blood as the sharp, cold
metal slips and gently scratches the softest bit where my tender
inner thigh meets my plump outer pussy?
So, tie me up, get out
your finest cat o’ nine tails, charge up the Hitachi wand and leave
me – legs in harness, arms in rope – on yer makeshift operating
table begging for more. Dress me up like your fantasy, send me out
pantieless and kitted out with purple vibrating love eggs (yes, YOU
hold the remote control) and see me giggle, shiver and smile. My
overriding and only rules are that I will never purposely harm
anyone along the way (unless it’s myself) and that my family are
always number one.
I’m playing with my bi
side, so am up for chatting to anyone respectful, interesting and
interested. Primarily I think I’m searching for a daddy who can
play as an equal, though I’m also keen to play with my newly
emerging dom side. So beware! Do feel free to message me first as I
will never accept a friend request from an unknown.
Kindly_Meister
felt the tickle of a stir in the depths of his stomach. His breath
may have quickened slightly, but this was not a sexual excitement,
more a reaction to the tang of fresh prey he detected in her lines.
Hers was precisely the type of profile he loved to read.
Clearly she was
clever, educated to an extent, and this helped with his line of
approach; but what he detected most strongly, deliciously, in those
words was an unfamiliar explorer, fresh with the zeal of the newly
freed. Here was a mature woman who would be fun to play with. One
who was experienced enough to know the fundamentals, yet new enough
to be able to offer the enthusiasm and compliance on which he
thrived; and yes, one he was fairly sure he could have, provided he
took the right steps.
The ringing of the
doorbell interrupted both his gentle perusings and his emerging
plan of action, already well honed. Shuffling his slender bare feet
into the once-fluffy slippers his son had handed over on his 63rd
birthday, Alasdair walked through the narrow corridor, crammed with
two bicycles (neither in full working condition), the remnants of
an old piece of carpet, several piles of magazines –
Angling
Times
and
The Great Outdoors
– and other clutter
accumulated over six years, and opened his front door. This led not
out on to the street, but into the cross path of two corridors, his
flat being part of a much larger building, a sheltered-housing
apartment he had inherited from his mother six-and-a-half years
before.
He was greeted by the
Wednesday fish man, who offered a selection of fresh haddock,
mackerel, hake and plaice, along with some-lesser known varieties,
all caught reasonably locally. The fish man seemed as distracted,
though friendly, as ever, and after a short exchange about the
weather and its inevitable greyness, Alasdair bought a mackerel and
a haddock, which he put on the bottom shelf of his freshly
defrosted fridge.
Sitting back down on
the swivel-mounted computer chair, he clicked his way through
Daddy’s_BiGal’s photos. The black, high-backed chair was a
relatively recent purchase and about the only thing that had really
changed since his mother’s day. His laptop stood open on her old
walnut writing desk, on which he and his two sisters, as children,
had done their homework, both before and after their father’s
untimely heart attack during a business trip to Dublin. That was in
the old house, before the onset of protracted dementia and
eventually crippling osteoarthritis had led to his mother’s move
here.
Daddy’s_BiGal had
posted 27 photographs, and most were pretty standard. Nothing
particularly different: a selection of straight views of a
middle-aged, dark-haired woman with greeny-brown eyes and the plump
prettiness he favoured in those her age. There were also a few rope
shots as he – whoever he was – had practised his knot-tying skills
on her, and one with a neat row of small surgical needles laced up
her back, tiny red droplets scattered over and around. The page he
kept going back to, however, was a full face shot.
She was on her knees,
ropes elaborately interlocked, forcing her arms back and her wrists
together behind her lower spine. His eyes hovered around the look
on her face, in those hazel eyes. It was total submission with a
hint of defiance. Kindly_Meister wanted a closer look.
My dear
–
the words were tapped out quickly with his two index fingers –
I
already own both the cat o’ nine tails and the remote-control
vibrating eggs. Both have been well, if infrequently, used over the
years. What I do not currently own, as I believe only a truly
special girl can withstand the intensity I am assured it can bring,
is a Hitachi wand. Have you experience of them? I’d love to hear
your thoughts. Yours, Kindly_Meister. X
Going into the
kitchen, Alasdair glanced at the brass mantel clock, a 70th
birthday present to his mother from his elder sister, atop the
bookshelf. He knew that she’d never particularly liked it and as
her illness clawed deeper into her psyche, erasing all traces of
empathy and politeness, she’d often expressed her feelings towards
its endless, remorseless ticking in unambiguous terms. He felt the
same about “that fucking clock”, as she put it, but the idea of
removing it seemed disloyal, and so on it ticked.
He methodically cut
fillets from either side of the mackerel, bait-cutter style, and
seasoned them with a little salt and pepper, before putting a large
frying pan over a medium heat and adding a thin film of olive oil.
When the oil was fairly hot, he scattered in some garlic and bay
leaves, then lay the mackerel fillets over them, skin side down.
Like mermaids in a little sea garden, he thought, watching three
seagulls through the window of the flat as they swooped and pecked
at the concrete surface of the car park outside. The fish man had
been kind or, more likely, clumsy, leaving the gulls what looked
like a ling, from which they ripped away at flesh and bones.
As he turned back
inside to check on his cooking, his computer pinged, but Alasdair
restrained his urgent desire to read what he suspected had arrived,
and flipped the fish neatly from the spitting pan on to a prepared
plate alongside a neat line of rocket drizzled with his own honeyed
dressing. He then placed the plate on to his mother’s dining table,
at the far side of the small area that doubled up as both eating
and living space. Though merely three paces away from the computer,
he cut his food quite precisely and chewed each mouthful at least
ten times, before dabbing at his mouth and laying the fork and
knife down together at a 4pm angle. Only after all these items were
stored in the sink and the kitchen surface wiped down did Alasdair
sit at the desk, lift the laptop cover a little and click Open.
Good to hear
from you, K_M, and yes, I’ve also heard that the wand is the
ultimate experience. Like Stealth or the Saw at Thorpe Park… lol.
I’d love to try, but I’ve promised myself I’m not doing it to
myself. I like to give over control, especially when it’s so
intense a thrill… does that makes sense? I hope so. As an aside, I
took a glance at your page and notice you’re a writer? Weird – it
felt like snooping to check out your stories without asking
permission, especially as you say that they reveal more about you
than your profile does. Silly, I know, but I suppose this is me
asking if you’d mind? Megan xxx
He smiled and closed
his computer for the evening. Bait on the hook, he was slowly
reeling her in, though he did not like to think of it in so crass a
light, this being a two-way process between adults. Nevertheless,
she was interested, that was clear, and he knew she’d want a
response much more quickly than it was happening. Alasdair
rationalised this process as being more like a dance than a game,
and when both partners knew the steps, things tended to move
swiftly and fairly. He suspected that young, or comparatively
young, Megan was probably a whiz on the dance floor.
It was shortly after
this that, freshly shaven, short grey hair brushed back, Alasdair
put on his chestnut desert boots, hauled a navy jacket over the
blue shirt and jeans he’d been wearing all day and walked out of
the front door. Going in to The Royal George, about a
fifteen-minute walk away, and a pub he’d frequented for most of his
life as a newspaperman in Edinburgh, was the last thing he
remembered clearly about the next three days.
********************
As his eyes
flickered open and the world around him swam slowly into focus,
Alasdair used his experience of gathering snippets to piece
together what had happened. Most people might ask where they were,
but to him it was obvious from the first glance that this was a
hospital, and he knew that the nearest one in his area was the
Royal Infirmary, so that was a waste of a question. And so he just
looked, soaking in the environment, waiting for the inevitable
barrage of information that would come when the staff, currently
engaged elsewhere, noticed his new state of consciousness.
“It’s okay, Mr
Hammond…” and his brief peace was demolished by the kindly
witterings of a young bird of a nurse; auxiliary maybe – he had not
yet unravelled the hierarchical significations of the various
badges and uniform colours.
“You’re in hospital.
The Royal Infirmary. Everything’s okay and you’re going to be fine.
I just need to check on a few things.”
His first thought was
that it had been a heart attack, like his dad’s perhaps, although
he was keenly aware that he was already 22 years older than his
father had been when he was wiped out in a few minutes. A few short
minutes, his mother had always said; but there must have been
nothing short about them for his father as he gasped and heaved
through those last moments. It was a thought that had stalked
Alasdair from the moment his uncle had broken the news shortly
after his tenth birthday.
“Heart?” he asked, and
the flustered look on the nurse’s face as her head shook a quick no
brought back fragmented flashes of the evening. Empty pint glasses.
Whisky galore.