May 25 2009

microfantasy monday: sunshine

- You won’t ever call me Sunshine, or anything barfy like that, will you?

- Never.

- What will you call me?

- It rather depends, doesn’t it?

- What if I’m wearing this?

- Then, young lady, you can go straight across my knee.

- And what about this?

- I’d have to call you Miss then, wouldn’t I?

- It would be wise. And this?

- Ooh, mean babysitter – Miss?

- I think that would be Sir.

- In that skirt?

- She watches Battlestar Gallactica.

- Geek, then.

- Not to her face, unless you want some of this.

- Ah! Sir. Sir! Yes, sir!

- Better. What about when I’m wearing this?

- Only Aunt Amelia would wear that, and it’s always best to agree with her. Now this quite interests me, especially with these underneath.

- What would you call me then?

- Put it on and we’ll see.

- Well?

- Oh…you, boy, are the most impertinent fourth former it has ever been my misfortune to know. You can touch your toes for the cane right now.

- Right now?

- Right now.

- Ah!

- Hold still…right, now get those off. I’m going to have to fuck you.

- Isn’t buggery wicked?

- Very wicked. But you can’t expect me to resist, with a bottom like that, and such straight marks.

- Not that you’re modest.

- Quiet, boy.

- Come here, you. Here.

- Mmm…

- Slower…Here…What will you call me now?

- Darling.

- Don’t go away again. Promise. Promise.

- Oh, sweetheart, as long as I live. As long as I live.


Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Sweltering Celt. The theme this week was sunlight. Unfortunately, I misread it as sunshine. Oops.


May 16 2009

flash fiction friday #3: my cross to bear

She checked her appearence in the hatstand mirror and knocked on her uncle’s study door. A bass come, equal in power and authority to his in pricipios. Rubbing shoecaps against kneesocks, she twisted the wrought-iron knob.

He had vested already and summoned her forward with efficient finger. She preferred him in smoking jacket to rector’s cassock, though it made no difference to his right arm.

He crossed his arms and forced a frown. “What are we going to do with you?”

She looked down. A rustle of robes, then his hand lifted her chin, firm yet compassionate.

“Haven’t you anything to say, child?” She blinked, setting her jaw against the sudden sting in her eyes. Outside the lead-paned windows, a bruise-colored cloud advanced across blue sky, promising a May shower. His hand shifted to the back of her neck, his ring warm against her ear. “I suppose you’re my cross to bear,” he said wryly. She hoped he wasn’t attempting a pun.

“Right.” He stepped back. “I’m not going to cane you for this.” A surge of relief, and surprise. “But I am going to take the strap to you.” He reached for the tawse unseen on his desk, its back rough leather. She swallowed.

Directing her to the arm of the settee, he bent her over it and lifted her grey school skirt.

“What is this?” His voice scandalized. She craned to see the hem of her skirt smeared with lemon meringue from luncheon.

“I – ” she began.

He returned her to position. “You, child, are incorrigible. My cross to bear indeed.”


flashWhat is Flash Fiction Friday?

My story went a few words over, but with six wildcards (albeit six of the best), you gotta hope for leeway.

Check out other FFF stories from this week:


May 9 2009

flash fiction friday #2: him

His office door opened with a skeleton key. Inside, dark wood paneling, lead-paned windows, plenty of room to swing a cane. Corridor stone, cool, bringing music and the lingering remnants of incense.

His study at home opened to a knock, dark-wooden floorboards, maroon wallpaper, leather couch chosen for its arm, which could be bent over. Wood everywhere: desk, bookcase, file cabinet (one drawer holding a slipper), hat-stand with canes, prie-dieu, and cross.

He usually dealt with Casey across his knee on that couch. When he wanted to make a point, he’d unbutton his shirt-cuff and roll up his sleeve, to show he was ready for strenuous punishment. The last time he dealt with her, she was across his knee and the door opened, revealing the darkened guest-bedroom. He stood her up and strode to the door:

“Matthew, what is it?… Not now.”

Matthew was six, one of The Others, those people who lived with us, though not corporeally. They’d never opened doors before.

He walked the dogs every morning except Sundays. He took charge of the garden. He carried things up the rickety basement steps. He did the grilling. He signed Casey’s permission slips. He put her across his knee. He snored.

The last morning he hugged me and said, “Don’t be anxious.”

At the interment, his voice in my head, overpowering everything else, saying, “Take care of little Casey. Take care of little Casey.” Over and over, his voice so close, so tender, so alive.


flash
What is Flash Fiction Friday? I suppose technically the above doesn’t count, as it isn’t fiction. Ah, well.

Check out other FFF entries from this week:


Mar 15 2009

the time casey ran away

I think it happened during M’s second visit to Gotham, about six weeks after his first. There was a lot of tgi during the trip, a lot of scenes, a lot of exploring what it was like to inhabit all these characters. The scenario was Mark and Casey were at “College,” a standard issue English Public School, in RP’s House with TL as the assistant housemaster. Casey was being provocative about so many things, and one I think was the issue of bedtime. I remember TL advising RP that if Casey (who at this time was 15ish and in the 5th form – ha, what a joke!) was going to behave like a ten-year-old and not go to bed when she ought, then perhaps he should treat her that way. RP replied that she was definitely going to have a spanking for the bedtime issue, but he was more unsure about other matters with her. They discussed it more. And underneath the role of TL, I was burning all over my skin because I was so very ambivalent about that type of punishment. My line had thus far been – I only do English school discipline because it’s so unlike my own experience, and anything like my own experience is a turn-off. But here was RP announcing that an otk slippering was a perfectly natural matter of course that he was accustomed to taking when occasion demanded.

So, fast-forward, Casey got the slippering (across pyjamas), followed by a few strokes of the dorm cane unprotected (also the first time she received anything unprotected, which powerfully pushed against my/her excessive American modesty. When I was growing up, just having anyone see your underpants was enough to make you die of shame. cf. M’s English schoolboy upbringing where communal nudity was the norm, and his attitude that if anyone wanted to see his willy, it was a nice one and they could see all they wanted. Ha ha.) Long story short, this scene freaked Casey out so much that she decided to run away from College. She packed a knapsack. She was going to the airport. She was going to buy a plane ticket to Bolivia (where she’d visited once). She was escaping.

Scenes over, M and I go to sleep. In the middle of the night, though, Casey wakes up and sneaks out of the house. It was mild (for October) and wet out, that kind of warm, misty rain. The avenue outside the door was devoid of traffic, quiet, lit by yellow lamps. Casey – exhilarated – sprinted down the street, free!

Here’s where the extraordinary strangeness of playing kicks in, as anyone who’s really played will understand. At the corner: Casey out, another character in. Someone puts a quarter in the payphone (1995, ha ha), and dials a number which looks like my home number, but which is the number for College. It rings and rings, and for a while I wonder if he’ll answer it. Eventually, he picks up my ringing phone. Someone on my end asks for Mr. Prior and announces herself as Officer something. She’s found a runaway from his school, she thinks. He can come collect her at the station. Er…where is that, exactly, he asks? The officer gives helpful directions (go to x street, turn right, turn left at y street, one block up on the left). They ring off.

casey's rock (in daytime obv)

casey's rock (in daytime obv)

Casey, dejected, captured, makes her way to the appointed meeting point, perches on a large rock, and buries her head in her arms. Such despair. Such loneliness. Such longing.

And before too long, the footsteps of Church’s shoes are heard on the sidewalks of Gotham, and RP in his tweed jacket is walking towards her. He puts his hands in his pockets, stands near, and tells her gently to come on. She comes. They walk side by side, not touching, back to College in the mild, misting rain.

Inside, he tells her to change back into her pyjamas. She almost protests – I’m not staying! – but she doesn’t. He brings her a glass of water in the blue glass and sits next to her at the table. They talk, and she cries and cries.

What was it about that scene that made her cry so much? It was a few hours after her first otk experience, which deep down was what she needed and craved, even if she felt compelled to fight it to the point of trying to run away. Then there was the fact that RP was passing this test she’d unconsciously set for him. He’d come for her – out in the rain in the middle of the night, three blocks away to the big rock outside the “police station” [public library]. M was passing a test, too. He’d picked up a ringing telephone in a strange house in the middle of the night and answered the call to a scene – out in the rain in a foreign town, any time, anywhere, anyhow. No flinching, no hesitation, no limits on what he was prepared to play with me when summoned. And RP was handling Casey right, gently but firmly. There was no question of whacking her then, but neither was he backing away from what he’d done. I can’t really remember what he said or what she said, but I remember a lot of tears across the kitchen table, and on some level it was an admission of how much RP meant to her – and M to me. It was one episode in a long line of givings-in to that huge, drowning love.