Hello,
crawlers and welcome to the dungeon this week. Apologies for my erratic participation, but those spuds don't water themselves, you know. I talk of my allotment, clearly. Anyway, as promised in my Smut by the Sea write-up, here is the extract I read, which is from A Hint of Piracy, contained in the forthcoming Smut by the Sea Volume 3. More news on that very soon. Happy crawling.
*****
It
wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I sat Danny down in a quiet corner of
a cosy pub and decided it was time to tell him I liked a little more than
missionary in my sex life. He was way ahead of me, it turned out. And that’s
how I came to be sitting there in our room in a rather sumptuous guesthouse, wearing
a pirate hat from a kids’ costume, perched on an antique oak chest and sipping
tea from a fine bone china cup. And that’s how Danny came to be curled up
inside said chest, while I scoffed all the complimentary biscuits.
It
started in Britain’s Smallest House: that hunch that he had something to tell
me as much as I had my own confession to make. “I quite like small spaces,” Danny
said, peering into a storage space filled with folded blankets beneath the
bench seating. I didn’t know if he was talking about the house we were visiting
or actually referring to the cupboard.
I’d
wondered aloud how anyone could live here for real. “It’s ridiculously tiny,
even for me,” I said. I’m five two. In heels. “It’s cute and everything, but
there’s no room to... swing a cat.”
“Swing
a cat, huh?” he murmured, still staring into that narrow hole, holding up the
hinged lid that doubled as fireside seating. And my mind ran through a series
of half-formed images that started with actual small, furry animals being swung
in the manner of a Monty Python sketch and ended in the brig of a sailing ship,
a bit like the one moored off the quayside that had been done up for the pirate
festival the following weekend. I was the captain, of course, in this pleasant
little fantasy, and Danny was my captive, of course. Although in the couple of
months I’d known him I hadn’t yet worked out how to convey the fact that my
favourite view of him was when he was on his knees in front of me. And that I’d
rather liked it that time he’d half-jokingly said, “Yes, mistress.”
When
I was asked to go to Conwy to do a couple of travel pieces by a magazine I
freelance for, I invited Danny along to make the most of the free digs. It was
perhaps a little early for romantic weekends away, but this was semi-work. And,
I thought, maybe a bit of “getting away from it all” would give me the
opportunity to come clean. It’s not like I’m a raging dominatrix or anything,
but I really needed to find the time to mention that I had certain preferences,
before our internet dating relationship turned any more serious. Certain
preferences I had never found myself in quite the right relationship to express
before, and which I certainly wasn’t ready to add to my online profile (Interests: tying men to my bed and fucking
their brains out). But I had this inkling Danny might not be so very
shocked at the things I hadn’t listed.
“You
look like you want to climb in there yourself,” I said. I mean, seriously, the
man was staring intently into that dark space while there was a queue of folk
outside waiting to pay their £1.50 each to explore this curious tourist
attraction. It’s so tiny—officially the smallest house in Great Britain as
verified by The Guinness Book of Records no less—that only two or three people
are allowed in at a time.
“Hmm,”
he said, glancing at me, with that look. I mean, That Look, with capitals and bells
and knobs on. That Look that might have meant, “Please keep me in a cage in
your bedroom because I’d very much enjoy being your sex slave.” Or was it,
“What the hell are you getting at, woman”?
“Ok,
Mr Terse. We’d better get moving; there’s about a hundred people waiting to get
in here. And if we’re doing the castle before I have that interview, we need to
hurry.”
In
fact, we were probably inside for ten minutes at most. It’s only two rooms,
after all. And the narrow bed in the loft space creaked loudly. Yes, we tested
that, me pushing him down for a quick cuddle and kiss the way you do when
you’re still only weeks into a relationship that holds great promise. Back on
the quayside, the breeze was pinging halyards against the steel masts of little
yachts to play that classic seaside tune that’s usually accompanied by the
squawks of herring gulls about to swoop on your fish and chips.
“I
wonder what it’ll be like here next weekend when the festival’s on,” I said. “I
think I prefer it now while it’s a bit quieter.”
“I
dunno, it could be interesting. I wouldn’t mind being taken prisoner by a
beautiful pirate captain.”
Hmm,
wavelength alert. Was he on the same one as me? “Are you saying I’m not
beautiful and cruel enough for you?”
“Beautiful
enough, certainly, but you haven’t been very cruel to me. Yet.” Oh, how corny. He
leaned over me for a kiss. And yet, despite his superior height and his broad
shoulders, there was a tiny dip of his head that suggested something.
Gentleness. Deference. Submission?
“No.
Not yet.” I decided it was his turn to wonder. “That’s because we haven’t been
to the castle dungeon yet.” Yeah, yeah, I know, it was all getting silly. He
was there joking about being locked in confined spaces, flogged and tied to the
mast of a pirate ship (or did I make that bit up?), while I was offering to be mean
to him in the dungeon of a medieval castle. I should really have just come out
and said it: “Danny, I would actually like to do all those things to you. For
real. In fact, I have this pair of handcuffs at home that I ordered over the
internet but then shoved to the back of my sock drawer because I was too
embarrassed to even open the box. I’d very much like to see you wearing them.”
I should have said it—although I’d perhaps have to make it clear I meant the
cuffs and not the socks. But I was still worried we could be having a serious
wavelength malfunction and he might have run away to escape my evil clutches.
I
really didn’t want him to run away. He was too delicious for that, all dark
eyes and floppy fringe and scruffy air about him even when he’s in a shirt and
tie for work (Occupation: logistics
manager and tea lackey). All squeezable and pliable and eager to please,
especially with his tongue.
I
strode off up the hill to the castle, leaving him to follow and hoping the sway
of my hips was giving off just the right air of confident allure.
Anyway,
the castle was busy on this sunny Saturday lunchtime and, of course, the dark,
damp doorway to the lower levels looked highly inviting to a never-ending
stream of kids and their weary parents. I snatched a quiet moment to back Danny
into a gloomy corner. I stood so close I was penning him in—and he let me—and whispered,
“So now I’ve got you in the dungeon, what should I do to you?”
He
pressed his back into the damp stone and his fingers curled around the cold
iron grid at his side that was blocking off some dangerous underground nook
from accident-prone tourists. It was as if he’d very much like his wrist to be
chained to that iron. Or maybe I was making things up again.
He
only managed to whisper two words—two words that sent a rush of blood to my
pussy—before we heard shrill voices getting closer and had to move on. “Dastardly
things,” he said, in a delightfully breathy voice.
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