“Wh-where are you t-taking me?” she asked from behind him as he drove off….
“Let’s see” he said, “I’ve done the border-post, you haven’t – because your passport and
visa both expired way back. I’ve established with the local doctor that if any foreigner
stopped here for medical reasons it was someone called Susan Gilbert and not you. It
couldn’t have been you because you seem to have died, possibly in Orissa, some time
ago….”
“Sorry, you’re b-being very k-kind”
“Not at all, it’s the least I can do….”
“But where are you t-taking me…?”
He should have said, generally being a believer in calling a spade a spade, ‘To a new
life of quiet luxury, sex and chastisement…’ What he actually said was “We’re going to
stop somewhere and get you something to eat, buy some bottled water – and then I’m going
to take you to my place – and look after you until you’re better”. The bazaar-bit was
true and the ‘taking her to his place’ was true too. ‘Looking after her until she was
better’ was the only part where he exercised a certain economy with the truth…
“You’re being very kind to me…”
“David” he said, “David Fossett…. “
“Margaret Cooke…..”
“I know….”
To the best of his recollection, David found a passable dhaba1 and took some food out to
her – and then some more: he wasn’t sure about the ‘malnourishment’ diagnosis but she was
certainly ravenous… At some point – when she was into her second litre of bottled water
and a third bowl of hacked-about pieces of chicken and bones in black dhal, she said,
surprisingly lucidly
“Mmm. I just needed food…. Are there any oranges here? All I need now is one or two
or three really fresh oranges. There ought to be some money in my pack… Enough for a few
oranges anyway…..”
No problem, one thing you can buy almost all year round in India, down on the Plains
anyway, is good oranges. Very small ones of course, not the big juicy things you get in
the West, but then ‘the West’ doesn’t buy its oranges from India…. So, reasonably
confident that she wouldn’t shoot off somewhere else as soon as his back was turned –
after all, she couldn’t pay the bill for the food and her pack was locked in the car – he
went and bought 3kg of small but fresh oranges….
“Brilliant!” was all he got when he gave them too her She seemed remarkably well all of
a sudden; pale but ‘much improved’. Absolutely not dead.
“Don’t choke yourself” said he, as she just helped herself to one of the smaller
oranges, bit a chunk out of it skin and all, swallowed the chunk, jammed the remainder
against her open mouth and started to suck the juice out….
Actually, he thought it was quite a pretty sight, a reasonably attractive young woman
sitting in the car with her mouth distended over part of a bright-orange ball, sucking and
dribbling a little. Nice. ‘Orange ball gag’ he thought. ‘Orange rubber ball gag –
where the hell do I get an orange one?’ The only ball-gag he had then was an ugly black
one he’d brought with him to India – on the off-chance, as it were. He’d collected a
number of other potentially-useful items since – mostly by doing occasional ‘shopping’ on
the internet’s sex-sites - again on the off-chance of one day actually being able to use
them - but he only had one ball-gag and that was black…. Bright red penis-gag yes, but
not an orange ball gag….
“Is it nice? She asked, throwing the well sucked ball-gag – correction, orange – into
the nearby crud-filled ditch and immediately taking another one.
“Is what nice?”
“Your place. Is it nice, who else lives there, are you important-and-or-rich…?”
A little stunned, he managed “It’s very nice indeed, nobody else lives there but me and
no, I’m not ‘important’ but yes, I am, by Indian standards, rich. Why?”
“How rich?”
Annoyed suddenly, he said he was ‘probably a multi-crorepatti’2 but that it was his
business, not hers…. “Look, you’re not only an ‘illegal’ with an expired visa but your
passport’s expired too. I suspect you’ve got no money either here or anywhere else. You
are also, apparently, officially dead… So stop asking irrelevant questions: all you need
to know is that you now have a secure, live-in, full-time job at my place….”
“Doing what?”
“Irrelevant question. Doing whatever I want you to do…”
“In exchange for?”
“Let’s be honest” he said. “Rent-free accommodation in a quite luxurious house in a
very beautiful spot with stunning views, some housework, some cooking, maybe some free
clothes and things… A fair amount of sex… I’ll consider trying to sort out the mess you’ve
got yourself into but it will probably be bloody months before we make you ‘legal’ and
‘alive’ again…”
‘Even a year or two’ he thought, ‘if she turns out to be a reasonably good fuck and, as
importantly, is useful about the house. Longer still if she proves able – not necessarily
willingly - to experience a little bondage and CP now and again….’
“I think you’re right” she said, watching his face with her wide brown eyes – almost as
if she were measuring him up – “I need lots of things….”
“Like what ‘things’?”
He was annoyed again, even angry, suspecting that the ‘I need lots of things’ meant she
was going to try and take him for wads of rupees. It might be better if he just dumped
her at some government-owned hospital somewhere and forgot about Ms Margaret Cooke
altogether…
“Like a really good place to stay as long as I like - and not having to wander about….”
She wasn’t looking at him any more but staring past him, apparently at nothing in
particular. “Regular good food, lots of new clothes, regular little presents for being
so good, some regular source of money of course…..”
‘Really’, thought David, his temper rising rapidly. ‘How about a regular damn good
hiding too?’
“……and lots and lots of new, exciting sex. I mean, I’ve been here more than two and a
half years and what have I got? Nothing. You say ‘bee-dee-ess-emm’ here and they’ll get
into a huddle and then, eventually, some boy will like as not be sent for three helpings
of leaves boiled with chillies. You wouldn’t give me boiled leaves would you? If I said
I what I really wanted was some ‘bdsm’?”
He very nearly drove off across the road - and into the side of a solitary little
kaccha3 house - but saved himself by executing a hair-raising swerve - around a seven-ton
truck coming the other way and - amazed at being able to control his voice so well whilst
- in about a fifth of a second - imagining several ‘sorts’ of bdsm, asked her quite calmly
“W-what….what sort of b-bdsm?”
“Dunno. Never done any…. But I bet you have, haven’t you?” She threw yet another
sucked-to-death orange out of the window. “Nothing too heavy…”
There was a pause then, during which he reached into his pocket and adjusted the angle
of his near-vertical prick – so that the bulge in his pants didn’t continue to interact
with the bottom of the steering-wheel….
“Perhaps you could tie me up in different ways. There are lots of helpful pictures on
the Internet… Can you access the Net at your place? …and I’ve always wanted to try
rubber things; there are masses of pages about rubber and latex and sex….”
“CP?” he croaked.
“That’s spanking isn’t it?.....”
‘And the rest’ said his mind, offering a scrolling selection of images recalled from his
exhaustive trawling of the Internet’s ‘CP’ sites……
“…. I haven’t been spanked since I dunno when… Must be years ago… Seven or eight years
ago at least…. Mmm. That might be nice…a spanking. A hand-spanking or the slipper or
what?”
“Whichever you like” croaked David Fossett, trying to remember how to drive a car and
whether this was India or somewhere else. Perhaps he was asleep somewhere and dreaming.
“Mmm” she said again, and “You’re angry with me aren’t you….”
“Just a bit”. Not at all now; he just wanted to get her to the house….
“How long before we get to your place?” she asked.. “Only there’s a pair in my pack….”
“ About an hour now… A pair of what in your pack?”
“Slippers… Chapor?s…. Kanvass – canvas slippers. Plimsolls really.
“I’ve seen them. So?”
“Oh dear… Look, because you’re angry with me I thought you might consider whacking my
behind with a slipper… People do, you know… No, I mean other people do it to other
people, nobody ever does it to me… ‘Bend down and touch your toes Margaret’ would be
nice… Whack, whack, whack and so on…. How far is it to your house did you say?”
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