Past Present (9 page)

Eleanor’s Journal: Rolling in Blue

My darling, Matthew, the sky is streaked with the haze of contrails crisscrossing a canvas of blue. Fixing my gaze, I watch and note the point at which they cross. It is as two paths meeting. A momentary connection. A millisecond of contact before parting. Moving onward towards separate lives. Different destinations. I watch the smoky-white haze recreating the airway of craft moving in blue.

At my feet, the Stationmaster’s planting reaches my senses. A riot in reminiscence of your fragrance floors me before you board the train.

“Where are we?” a child questions his mother, and I wonder too.

“Where are we you and I, in our journey across lifetimes? What era encompasses us? Are we among the falling bombs of the Blitz? The Swinging Sixties and Beatles hits? Platform shoes or five-bar Blues?”

“I’ll see you on Friday.” You mouth as your train snakes out.

I envision your journey, passing lowlands and marshes, singing with nature. The sound of the level-crossing warning brings me back to present day and the twenty-first century smile of autumn. Late come this year on the tail coat of an Indian summer.

How my thoughts dance when I visualise us. Have you noticed how the tongue has its own mind? Has a need for exploration. Consider foreign objects in your mouth, a gap between your teeth, an ulcer or a sweet. Your tongue worries it, and agitates until satisfied that all is well. That the contours are correct, the new swelling is okay. It has computed you.

Your tongue uses knowledge when exploring the silken velvet within the core of me, your ears snug against my thighs, deprived of sound. But I hear you slurp, your gentle probe, my moans mingled with the noise of your meal.

You’re a noisy eater. In gluttonous consummation of my drenching, thirst quenching, secret folds. Mobile fingers entangle your hair and rudely push you harder. Your nose, a nuzzling creature, makes a perfect connection with the centre of my universe. You, you, you. Your spark ignites my fire.

A first for you. A first and last. I am your final evolution of lustful longing, your expertise, a symphony, a masterpiece of tongue and fingers, playing me to crescendo, and the peak of my being. Rolling in blue. I have a colour wheel in my head, quite unlike any other in existence. Its subjectivity and subject unique, there is only one of you and can be no other. I feel brighter, more eye-catching when basking in your company. No violet for me, I have a wish to dominate as if I were coloured red, in intoxicating intensity against your cool green pools.

I part the moist tissues that shield my teeth and suck you in whole, a greedy meal, fast food for the furious whoreship at the altar of your sacrifice. Your creamy essence, freely given, expended, just so, a perfect delivery into the back of my throat. Viscosity comforts me; there is no better place for me than kneeling at your feet.

When we parted, you left me eight tasks.

“One for each day of my absence,” you said.

My belt of chastity agreed electronically. You do not need a key. We agree. I go to the supermarket. No panties beneath the soft, floaty fabric of my skirt. A brisk day, a breeze. My immodesty betrayed by the prayed-for gust, exposing me when I buy the ginger-root of pleasure for your amusement.

My anus, always ready for you. You wonder at my new need for buggery. I need your brutal entry amid our loving. I wear your collar; allow your claim, your entry, and my ecstasy. You transport me to the podium of slavery, I’m for sale, and I have a price. Name it. Name it now and take me home. Unwrap me. Don Mr Happy’s Business Suit and plunge your latex covered shaft, deep, deep inside me. Sheath yourself within my secret folds.

Do you believe in ghosts? I feel you behind me. I’m reading. Looking into the iPad, my research notes open, the words dance in front of my eyes, Read and re-read. Seeping my pores until they are a part of me and I work them through.

My heart skips with the idea of blindfold and restraint. I wish you were here to see and feel it; I am wet, so wet, and so hot for you and your iron-hard cock. I imagine that it is inside me, moving, moving, oh so slowly, tightly sheathed in and out, out and in. Until you spill your seed.

Plunder me, make me yours. Tie me, bind me, turn me over your knees and spank me until I beg you to cease. Plug me with a shard of ginger and fig me to heaven. When you are finished, pull me to you and kiss my mouth, joust with me, our tongues battling, before you plunge your cock into the deep recesses of my throat and cream me. Taste yourself on me, my love; lick your essence from my tongue.

My collar is red, purchased at your behest, engraved with the pet name, “Puss.” I fasten it, I’m naked, my pale skin gleams, reflecting the colour, red, at my neck like a ribbon of blood and my lips, scarlet, signalling danger and desire in equal measure. I think of the words, the soft patter of syllables as I read from left to right. Delight as if I am a child at Christmas. I uncover us slowly, unfolding us, layer upon layer, like pass-the-parcel. Smoothing our intimacy beneath my fingertips, as precious as the gossamer wings of the butterfly, which alights the blooms I bought because their scent reminds me of you. They open cautiously and shiver in the sudden chill. I shiver for you.

I read your parchment note, absorb the instructions and set the camera on the tripod. I take the remote when I’m ready to start, and position myself in perfect symmetry. The molten core between my thighs melts towards the lens and I play for you, sending a symphony via disc ready to play and replay, to fill the dead time that we are apart.

A parting. Reminiscent of a classic film, the two of us in the impersonal terminus of a busy station, the hustle and bustle of humanity, swelling around us, and we’re isolated. An island of agony, separation beckons with bony digit, a crone of malevolence, the afterglow of sex hangs in the air around us. I inhale, needing the smell of you, the unique aroma that is unique to you. The perfume of our coupling a scent like no other, clinging to me, limpet-like, in the walls of my heart.

I’ll drink us, deep. Slake my thirst, as I have so many times when you plunge into my collared throat.

“I am yours, and you are mine. You possess me as no other,” I say into the void.

My ownership of you is sans domme, whereas yours of me is all of me. I need your essence as air to my lungs. My collar is your brand, but I need something, something more, a tangible, everlasting mark of ownership and I fish around for the elusive fix, which will make my heart beat even faster than its pace when you whip me.

I love the slash of your leather belt on my flesh; adore the bitten skin of my submission, your teeth as kisses on my willing flesh.
You trace the raised welts on my curves. Perhaps, if you strike again and again, every day, they will stay; the marks of your ownership.
I need you to eat me, swallow me whole, I want to dwell in you, inside you. Crawl under your skin. I want to reside in your living skin, our cells melded. I understand what a real marriage is. It’s not just two people at a wedding; it’s a welding of soul to soul.

My legs are spread for the camera. The iris at my core gripped by the tight band of muscle that surrounds her, awakening, orgasm tingles in the distance, I strive for it before I remember your instructions. Reaching beside me, I retrieve the slim vibrator, smooth, purple, the depths of colour fascinate me before I sheath it, slowly, for your viewing pleasure, she swallows it up, deep inside. I turn it on; allow the buzz while I settle again. I want to writhe, lift myself onto hands and knees and point my bottom towards the lens, pull my cheeks apart, display my anus, show you the part of me you love best. Your plundering self loves to bugger me, especially when I’m restrained.

“I wish there were three of me,” you say, moving your long, thick, shaft deep within me. “If there were, I would be able to feel me in your rectum as I fucked you, and you would suck me at the same time. Three cocks to pleasure you, each pierced with a ring for glee and to remind me that I’m yours whenever we are apart.

The thought of our fucking, when you had me in the cellar, over the table, transports me to our last encounter. A long time ago, a lifetime ago, the ghosts of our walking selves, trod paths that led us to the lakeside and I blew you in full daylight, with just a little shelter from the abundant Rhododendrons.

You love to display me in public, demonstrate your ownership. There is no embarrassment when you attach the leash to my collar and lead me where you wish. You relish the stares of others as I walk behind you, Geisha like, my steps small in teetering heels that make normal walking impossible. My shoes, my clothes are made for the bedroom; you ensure that I am dressed for sex as often as possible, even if occasionally, convention dictates a cloak of formality.

Beneath the demure layers, my sex seethes and bubbles. You are like acupuncture, a long, thin needle inserted at key points in the skin which sheaths me, and turned around and around until the twinge of burning pain alerts my nerve endings. The needles announcing your arrival like a fanfare, my nerves zigzag messages and my juice flows as if squeezed from ripe fruit.

My fingers trail my neck, and breasts, following the path that yours once took and I rest my middle finger gently on my nub while the long vibe shudders inside me. I smile for the camera and come for you. I breathe your name and then say it aloud. You adore it when I say your name aloud at the point of orgasm, acknowledging your lifeblood at the exact moment of my little death.

“I don’t like constricting your throat,” you say.

“Do it,” I order, in a role reversal that sometimes happens in our bedroom. “Just do it.”

You obey. The orgiastic flood intensifies as you squeeze a little. I need your powerful hands encircling.

“I have but a tiny neck,” I gasp, “you could easily break it with one hand.”

My core melts a little more when you turn me around and enter my hidden places, where no one enters but you. Rectum reserved for your sole use. It is the only gift I can bestow that hasn’t been used by others. It has had one reasonably careful owner, me, before you, and now it’s yours, and you pay homage. Your cock a little too large for comfortable accommodation, I sometimes need a little oil inside as well as out.

When you are away, our daily dose of cyber-sex has to be enough, must provide satisfaction for the wanton. We cannot meet until your time is served, your self-imposed sentence of separation.

“It heightens the senses,” you say, when I question the necessity of days and nights passing in a blur of need and masturbatory fingers.

“It’s not enough,” I moan, during our daily conversation. You allow only one per day. No texts, no other contact, one conversation and one mutual connection via computer and your tasks. Is all.

“Write everything down in your journal. Write us. Make a keepsake record in the diary room. Write us well, and I will send you the tasks one at a time, you must do them, and you must record everything. The way they make you feel, the way you feel at the time, exactly how you feel and the way you feel afterward. Leave nothing out. I shall know if you leave anything out. I need the truth, Puss. Only the truth will do.”

“Yes, I know. I know.”

In a moment of weakness, I agreed to your diary room experiment and now I’m haunted by your absence and the presence of ghosts. My past lovers and yours haunt me as if they wait in the future and I wonder if they do.

I iron your shirts. The reservoir is filled with deionised water, scented with lavender but the smell that rises from the board is not that of cotton, but the perfume of your soul. As always, I am transported to the scene in a film, one of our favourites. Lara is ironing, dashing the smoothing iron, bang, pause bang, pause bang onto the board, ironing piles of bandages and other linen laundered of the blood of the dead. DNA rises in the steam as Zhivago looks up from the pages he’s writing and she’s in soft focus. As if gauze covers the lens. The clickity-click of his brain’s camera imprints her forever standing there amid the cacophony of the field hospital. I pause from my own task, stop, think, ready to commit your words to memory, you come unbidden to me as I smooth creases from your clothing, iron a razor sharp crease in the sleeves and imagine you clothed and imagine you naked. Just think.

I look at the clock. A quarter to two. I summon you. I am on my knees again; the pearl of your lust, beaded, poised waiting for my tongue. I long to be imprisoned, caught as if I were a fish of silver scales, my tail thrashing in the net of my desiring, lifted from the blue ocean, tipped out onto the slick deck. My metamorphosis complete at the touch of your hands, with square cut nails, fingers firm, yet soft, as they trail the path of my naked torso. A path travelled by many before you, and many to come. You follow the leader with your tongue and handsome ways, and my scales drop away. I’m drowning.

Suddenly, I’m rising from the mattresses of our understanding, the daily sparring of mixed doubles. Carried by dreams to the soft downs at the top of the cliffs, which overlook the sea, rolling blue and the fisherman bobbing there, his little boat swelling and rolling on the waves, rolling in blue. My eyes flicker open, focus on the ceiling, music reaches me from somewhere, and a cluster of pebbles seem to patter the panes as if someone is trying to alert me. This time, I rise, pull my robe around me and walk downstairs to where the lilies grow. Their heady, seductive pollen fills me, and you’re standing just shy of the threshold. Your arms are open. My heartbeat of longing. I yield. I yield. Walk the path to the shore and roll in blue.

With my love always and forever, your Puss x

Eleanor’s Task: A Rest

My darling... A difficult task for you. The hardest task. You must take a rest from pleasure; you must not play with yourself. Instead, write your fantasies for the week. I know it will be beautiful, restorative and help to rebuild your appetite. Share them in your journal for my pleasure...With my love always and forever, your, M.

Eleanor’s Journal: Oil and Water

Oil, water, oil, water, oil, water. They don’t mix. I look at the small islands floating, jetsam and flotsam, my breasts, twin breakwaters. I turn the taps on full; pour a little more scented oil under the gush. At last, a foaming white mass, bubbly, satisfying, feeling a little cooler atop the lashings of hot water, my breasts now hidden from view by sparkling peaks. I recline, fragrant air moistens my senses, steam rising, a swirling mist, just like the morning mist that hangs over the lake. I turn off the taps and close my eyes, drift as if I were in a little boat, oars abandoned, just bobbing there, like the fisherman in my blue dream. My vivid multicolour, audio visual dreams that visit anytime, summoned at will from nowhere and transport me away. Hither. What is hither? I will buy a dictionary of medieval words. I need it, the voices in my head are speaking in unfamiliar tongues and yet, I understand them perfectly well as they live their lives and little deaths in parallel with mine, at Falconworth.