Chapter 1

 

The squealing of the windscreen wipers across the streaming glass reminded Cyril Meeker of the sounds of his own feeble whimpers when he knelt with his head bowed in front of his partner, Andrea, on Correction Nights as he waited for his punishment.

Having wilfully ignored her instructions, he would have to pay for his folly.

Now, trying to find the village hall in the heart of Wales where he had arranged to put on his one-man exhibition of sketches which he had called 'An Artist's Lust for Life', he was off the beaten track, hopelessly lost.

Andrea, with her usual practical good sense, had warned him not to go alone.

'You're not used to fending for yourself,' she had said. 'Wait until the better weather comes and by then, I'll be free to go with you and navigate for you. You know how helpless you are.'

But it was his first exhibition and he wanted to show her he was quite capable of getting himself there and back without her. As soon as she had left for work he had loaded everything into their old banger and set off.

He might even sell a sketch or two, he told himself. He wanted to show her he could manage quite well without her. Besides, the Welsh were known to be a cultured people; and the money would be very welcome.

Now, though, he was regretting he had not listened to the old woman in the cottage where he had stayed the previous night.

'It's no weather f'r gettin' to Llanfechlyn by y'rself. Ye've not been there before, bach, ha' ye?' she had said. 'Wait till the rain stops and ye'll see the road.'

He could still see the leer she gave as she said it. The thought of spending another night sharing that creaky old bed, the only one there was, she said, and feeling her papery-dry skin running over his sensitive parts while smelling her sour breath in his face all night was more than he could stand.

As soon as he could, he left.

And now he was lost. In unfamiliar countryside, his headlights barely piercing the slanting rain, he was completely lost. There hadn't been a signpost for miles.

Slowly the car sloshed round the sharp narrow bends of the mountain road, making each few hundred yards seem like a few miles.

At last he saw a signpost. Cautiously he drew up, afraid of overshooting before being able to read it.

But the rain was so heavy he could not make out the message. He jerked to a stop and got out. As he did so, the engine died and the headlights became dimmer.

'Just what I need.'

A wave of self-pity came over him. As usual, Andrea had been right. Women were certainly better at organizing things.

He knew nothing about cars except where to put the petrol and how to start the engine. It wasn't as though he drove much. He left things like that to Andrea. He was an artist. She was the practical one.

He shivered when he climbed out on to the road. The teeming rain penetrated his coat and shirt as he peered up towards the words.

'Scurries Mere' he read.

'Danger! Keep to the path.'

Soaked, he hurried back inside the car. The starter failed to catch when he turned the key.

He swore. Switching the lights off to save the battery, he turned the ignition key again.

Andrea always did that - sometimes two or three times - when she started the engine, he knew. This time, though, the engine would not respond.

Two ... three ... four more times. It was hopeless. The battery would not turn the motor over.

And now the lights wouldn't come on, either.

He moaned.

'Andrea! What shall I do, Andrea?'

A childish feeling of resentment came over him. She KNEW he didn't understand mechanical things. She should have come with him.

He got out of the car again and pettishly kicked the front tyre. The rain was pelting down more heavily than ever. Better find somewhere to shelter, he thought.

But which way should he go? There had been no cottages along the road, and this was the first signpost he had come across. Which way to go?

He kicked the tyre again.

If he kept to the path, he thought, he was bound to find something.

But that wasn't easy in the blackness of the night.

'Scurries Mere.'

'Mere', he remembered, meant a bog, or swamp.

Cautiously he went forward, testing each step lightly with his toe before putting his foot squarely on the path.

He had been going like this for about ten minutes - or had it been only two minutes? He had no watch so couldn't tell - when his legs slid away and he fell, unable to stop himself. The next thing he knew was he was lying face down in water.

He could feel he was being sucked down. Down!

Wildly he flung his arms around. Something was dragging him, sucking him in.

'No!' he screamed.

The marsh was pulling him down; tugging greedily at his clothing. Trying to claim him for itself.

'No!'

The more he struggled, the deeper he sank. The mud was now level with his mouth. His hand, scrabbling madly, touched the cement of the path.

He managed to drag himself up and on to the firm surface. With every nerve stretched tight, his heart pounding like a steam hammer, he lay trembling like a kitten.

He began to feel chilly and suddenly realised he had lost his shoes.

Must have been sucked off in the marsh, he thought. And his trousers, where were they? And his jacket?

He hadn't noticed their loss. Now he only had his underwear and his shirt.

A lump welled up in his throat.

'Andrea! Andrea!'

Would he ever see her again? Would he ever feel her firm fingers run over his willing body again, seeking to comfort him, protecting him, bringing him the reassurance he badly needed?

'Andrea!'

He sobbed as he uttered her name. Why hadn't he listened to her? He needed her. NOW.

The thought of her made his member grow erect. Even in his misery, she had that effect on him.

From habit, his hand fumbled between his thighs, seeking comfort. Soon he was gasping, his eyes rolling, as the electricity of his pleasure rose.

'Andrea!'

From a distance he seemed to hear her voice.

'Get up! Get up! You're going to catch your death lying there.'

It was no use to argue with her. It never had been. He knew from long experience he would never get his way. When Andrea wanted something, she got it.

And now she was telling him to get up and look for shelter.

He scrambled to his feet and looked around. There was a faint light some way off. Where there was a light, there had to be help.

He shambled towards the glimmer, taking care not to put his foot down without testing the ground first.

 

He had no idea how long he had been stumbling along the path. His bare feet had been cut to pieces on the bumpy track and his shirt and underpants had long ago been whipped off by bushes that snatched at him as he passed by. Now he just had his ragged vest to cover him.

He came to another sign, a smaller one this time. There was just an arrow pointing ahead. On the arrow there were some initials - "LCSD". He didn't know what they stood for; he didn't care, either. He only knew they meant someone was close by.

The path was now rising. Almost at the end of his strength, he crawled along, his sides heaving as his belly scraped along the ground.

At last, he reached a heavy wooden door. His teeth were chattering as he pulled himself up from the ground, fumbling for the bell.

Almost as soon as he rang, the door opened. Standing there, in the light of the bright glow of a large fire burning behind her, was a young girl dressed as a French maid wearing a skimpy uniform and long black silk stockings.

He just had time to gasp the word 'Help ...' when he pitched forwards at her feet. He felt hands raise him up and heard female voices giving instructions.

He must have blanked out at that point because the next thing he knew was he was lying in a large bed face down, unable to move.

Hands were running over him. More female voices which, strangely enough, were talking in inches.

'Three-and-a-quarter deep.'

He felt something being withdrawn from between his bum-cheeks, something that had been in his anus, leaving him to feel freer.

'Turn him over.'

The hands then went to his cock. Female hands, he knew from their softness.

'Two and a half.'

'Extended?'

Evidently he was being measured for some sort of exhibition. Well, he'd give them a show.

The hands flickered around his tool, reminding him of Andrea's. Only he knew it wasn't Andrea. They were being too clinical about it.

Fingers and a thumb encircled him and moved quickly up and down several times, making him grow hard.

'Nearly seven.'

'Poor little man,' he heard. 'He'll need training. Lashley won't want to waste him. He's got possibilities.'

There was a giggle at that.

'He'll look good under the lash.'

'Oh, yes. He'll smart and squirm under the lash.'

Under the lash?

His hardness increased.

'See that?' he heard a whisper. 'Do you think he can hear us?'

'Poor little fellow. He doesn't know yet what's coming to him.'

He heard the giggle again.

His breath was coming quickly now.

What, he wondered, lay in store for him.