Bedtime Story
We are lying in bed, my wife nestling in my arms, and I'm telling her stories.
'There was once a girl,' I say, 'A very naughty girl.'
'What was her name?'
'Sally. Her name was Sally, and she was horribly naughty. In fact she was the
naughtiest girl in London.'
'Why? What did she do?'
'She was rude to grannies, showed her knickers to boys, and spat on posters at
bus-stops.'
'My word!'
'One day, her parents heard about her wicked behaviour, and they decided she
must be severely punished. So first they spanked her soundly. Then her they gave
her an apron to put on, and a bucket, and a scrubbing-brush, and they told her
to go and clean all the toilets in London.'
She lifts her head an inch off the pillow. 'All the toilets in London?'
'Every single one. Houses, flats, schools, offices, hospitals, football clubs,
factories, town halls, libraries, cafes, pubs, warehouses ... she had to go and
knock on every door, and offer to clean their toilet. And if it wasn't spotless,
she had to say, they should give her a spanking too.'
'It would have taken years!'
'It did. Years and years. But she was much improved afterwards.'
'Poor Sally!'
'Then there was a boy who teased his sister whenever she put on her Girl Guide
uniform. So his mother bought one for him, and made him put it on too. He had to
wear it to school, and at weekends, and on holiday. In fact he had to wear it
every single day, until he was twenty-five years old.'
'What happened then?'
'His wife objected.'
'I should think so.'
She closes her eyes and sinks down sleepily.
'Tell me another.'
'There was a girl who had a very sharp tongue. Every time she opened her mouth,
something sarcastic came out of it. So, her sixteenth birthday was approaching,
and it was decided that she should have a big party. The day before her
birthday, her mother drove her into town, and they bought a huge birthday cake
with pink icing, and crisps, and cheese straws, and chocolate eclairs, and
macaroons...'
'And marshmallows...'
'And marshmallows, and balloons, and party poppers. They put it all in the car,
and drove home. That evening her father said: 'Looking forward to your party,
Emma?' And she blew out her cheeks and said, 'Mmm, yes, I just can't wait!' in a
most sarcastic way, and went up to her room. Now the next morning she woke up,
to discover that every item of clothing had been removed from her cupboards,
except for a single sock. And on the sock was a card which said 'Happy Birthday,
Emma!'
'That was her birthday present?'
'That was her birthday present.'
'Did she put it on?'
'It wasn't to wear, it was to go in her mouth. And when all her friends arrived
for her birthday party, that's how they found her. So they ate the birthday cake
and the eclairs and the macaroons, and talked and laughed and sang, and she sat
naked at the top of the table with a smelly old sock in her mouth. It was the
best party ever, they all said, when it was time to go home. She got her clothes
back the next morning. But every birthday the same thing happens, as a reminder.
And she has never made another sarcastic remark. She's now the headmistress of a
primary school in Hackney.'
I feel my wife's hot breath on my skin. She is wearing a night-dress. I stroke
her bare arm, running my fingers up and down the soft skin.
'Tell me more,' she murmurs.
'At Worcester Ladies College, there's a Christmas tradition that the students
who have earned the most black marks over the year, have to go carol-singing
without any clothes on. Except Wellington Boots. They go round the entire
neighbourhood, and at every house they either get mince pies or a spanking,
depending on how well they sang.'
'Cold for them,' she says sleepily.
'There was a girl who never washed, ever. She was that filthy. Matted hair,
greasy skin, fleas, lice. Her family were at their wit's end, until they thought
of buying a kennel for her, and making her sleep in it, out in the yard. They
got a nice collar for her, too, with her name on it, and a whip for when she was
bad.'
'Mmm'
'And then, there was a woman who was extremely lazy. She would sit on the sofa
all day eating chocolates instead of cleaning the fridge...'
I hear my wife breathe in slowly.
'She kept forgetting to practice the flute, although she was meant to, every
day. She forgot to double-bolt the front door. And she cut her hair short, even
though her husband told her not to. And she was rude about all his friends.'
She lies still.
'So one evening her husband, who loved her very much, turned her into a fish.'
She keeps her eyes shut. There is no sound except for her breathing, and the
soft ticking of the alarm clock. Finally she says in a whisper, 'How?'
I kiss her on the cheek, then whisper in her ear:
'First he took her night-dress off.'
I wait, stroking her arm again, then her bare leg, running my hand up her thigh,
lifting the night-dress with it, up to her hips. I get into a kneeling position.
She lies as if asleep, but lifts her hips and then her shoulders, just enough,
and the night-dress slips off easily.
Her body gleams in the darkness, bare and waiting. I kiss her on the belly.
'Then he turns her over.'
I roll her like a log. She moans, coming to rest on her front. Her head is
pressed into the pillow, her face turned away from me. She is still sleepy. I
admire the white expanse of her back, the graceful spine, the perfect buttocks.
I open the drawer in the bedside table and take out the cord. I take hold of
both of her wrists and lay them in the small of her back. I wrap the cord around
one wrist, three times round, then a knot; then around the other; back to the
first; to the second again; and finally I wrap the cord around itself, pulling
together the strands that run from wrist to wrist, binding them fast.
'Not too tight,' I hear her whisper.
I do her ankles in the same way. I throw the duvet off the bed, and then admire
my work. She lies bound and helpless, her breasts pressed into the mattress.
'What a beautiful fish,' I say. 'Much better than a wife, really.'
I kiss the backs of her knees, her buttocks, and her nape. I softly bite her
ear. She lies perfectly still, waiting.
'I'll be back,' I say, and go downstairs, taking my time. In the kitchen I wash
up a couple of tea cups and put them on the draining board. I give the kitchen
table a wipe, and push the chairs in. Then I open the drawer in the dresser, as
noisily as I can, and spend a long time rummaging around in it, as if I can't
find what I'm looking for. Then I go back upstairs.
My wife, of course, is exactly as I left her. When I enter the bedroom her eyes
flick open very briefly. She sees what's in my hand, and seems to go rigid,
although I don't actually see anything move. As I get back onto the bed she
shuts her eyes again.
It's a wooden spoon, twelve inches long, with a crude picture of a fishing-boat
burnt into the back, and the words 'A PRESENT FROM WALBERSWICK'.
I've read stories involving whips and canes and riding-crops; but believe me,
you can do a lot with an innocent wooden spoon. (Besides, my wife has to go to
work in the morning.) I came across the spoon by accident, earlier in the day,
when looking for the tin-opener. I took it out of the drawer, turned it over,
and tried to remember who we knew from Walberswick. I wasn't even sure where
Walberswick was. And I was just about to put it back in the drawer when, on an
impulse, I gave myself a thwack on the leg with it. Even through my jeans it
stung like a nettle. I did it again, in the same spot, and the pain was quite
surprising. Another two strokes, and that was quite enough. And that's when I
began thinking of my wife, and bedtime stories.
Now she lies still, breathing heavily, waiting. I lay the spoon on her backside,
and she shudders. I stroke her skin with it, moving it in slow circles, letting
her feel its warmth, its woodenness. I have never used an implement before.
Then I raise it over my head, and bring it down hard. The spoon explodes on her
skin.
She gasps and spasms backwards, the head lifting high off the pillow. I'm
surprised how much her spine can arch in this direction. She takes a couple of
gulps of air, then she sinks down again, panting...
Just like a poor wriggling fish, she is, on the floor of a fisherman's boat.
I count to three...
The second stroke lands on exactly the same spot. But she controls herself this
time. She wriggles and clenches, but remains lying flat. It's as if she's
concentrating hard, saving all her energy to deal with the pain to come.
The strokes are as loud as a rifle, and I wonder if Nick and Anne next door can
hear.
At the third stroke she gasps again, and at the fourth she writhes. She is
breathing now like somebody standing under a very cold shower. Between the
strokes she starts saying 'Ow ... ow ... ow...', as the pain begins to bite into
her skin for real. I know from my experiment that afternoon, that even a wooden
spoon quickly becomes unbearable. Even through jeans...
'Haar ... haar .... haar!' she gasps after the fifth, her teeth gritted and her
breath coming in judders.
After the sixth she pushes her hands down to try and protect the sore spot, but
can't quite reach.
'No honey,' I say, pushing them away.
'This must stop now! she gasps, and tries to roll onto her back. I catch her
just in time, lay her down again, and sit astride her legs, pinning her down.
It is dark in the bedroom, but I can clearly see the spot I have put on her
skin.
I begin again, and she writhes against her bonds. She kicks, spasms, moans, and
gasps. I know the pain is now utterly unbearable for her, and she has no option
except to bear it. There is nothing she wouldn't do to make it stop, and there
is nothing she can do. How I pity my poor wriggling fish!
I have lost count of the strokes, but by about nine or ten she is saying, 'No!
No! No!', and thumping the pillow with her head.
I try to stop then. I want to stop. I know I should stop. But it's like eating a
box of delicious chocolates. You put one in your mouth and say, this is the
last! But they are so sweet, so lovely, that automatically you reach for another
...
And it's sweeter than sweet to see my wife clench her fists, and her toes, and
her buttocks, to watch her desperate muscles at work as she tries to wrench
herself away from the pain, to see the dark spot on her skin grow darker, and to
hear her hisses, her moans, her sobs, her promises.
Suddenly the struggle goes out of her. She collapses into the mattress,
surrendering to the pain and humiliation, and begins to bawl like a baby.
Smack! .... Smack! .... Smack! ....
And then I stop. I put the spoon on the pillow where she can see it. Then I lie
down beside her, kissing her, listening, waiting for her pain to subside.
It takes a long time, though. There are plenty of tears yet to come, collecting
in the bottom of her eyes, running across her nose, disappearing into the
pillow. Her mouth is wide open and her throat is loud with sobs. Her beautiful
big eyes are startled and panicky.
But minute by minute she calms down. Her breath returns, and her eyes close.
Perhaps she is even beginning to fall asleep again. Her breath is hot and wet.
'How do you like the story so far?' I say.
At first she doesn't reply. Then she says, 'I thought it was over.'
'Not yet.'
She lies drowsily. Then she murmurs, 'Tell me the rest tomorrow.'
'It's not that sort of story.'
I let her lie a little longer, still on her front. She falls asleep, or pretends
to, uncomfortable as she must be, her breasts pushed into the mattress.
I take the soft skin of her arm between my fingernails, and pinch. She gasps and
her eyes pop open.
'It's not polite to fall asleep when somebody is telling you a story,' I say.
'But I don't like this story,' she says.
'Why not?'
'I don't like the man. He's not at all nice to his wife.'
'Ah, but she's not his wife. She's a fish, remember? And he can do anything he
wants with her, can't he?
She is silent.
'Can't he?'
She shuts her eyes with a sigh. And she nods.
I kneel on the mattress and roll her over onto her back. She comes to rest
awkwardly on her tied hands, and wriggles, trying to get comfortable. I spend
some time caressing her, massaging her breasts as if to restore them to their
proper shape. I put my hand between her legs, and feel her wetness. I play with
her and put a finger inside her, and hear a little squeak of excitement.
Then I reach over to the drawer, take a handkerchief, roll it into a ball and
show it to her. I wipe away a late-coming tear. Then I put it to her lips. She
gives a show of reluctance, but opens her mouth for me, and I slide it in. An
old tie of mine goes around her head to secure it, and she is gagged. Her eyes
are suddenly eloquent and vulnerable, as if she is now the star of a silent
movie.
I pick up the wooden spoon, and before she sees what I'm doing, bring it down
hard on one nipple.
She screams, and even through the handkerchief it is loud, like a violent retch.
Her eyes are black with outrage. She tries to say something through the gag. I
hear the anger in her voice, but not the words themselves.
'I didn't think so,' I say, and get another handkerchief. She tries to resist
for real this time, turning her head right and left, trying to close her mouth.
But I get it in, and retie the tie with a double knot, tighter than before.
'Fish are meant to be silent,' I tell her.
I pick up the spoon again. Her eyes follow it fearfully. I don't want to tease
her, so I touch it to her breast, running it over the skin, letting her know
what's coming, and where.
She is still trying to speak. I can hear her remonstrating. She shakes her head,
looks at me sternly, appealing to reason. She says the same thing over and over.
It comes out as 'Rfff Rffff Rfffff Rfffffff!'
'I don't understand a word you say,' I tell her.
'Rfff Rffff Rfffff Rfffffff!'
'Fish don't speak,' I say. 'Just be quiet now.'
I bring the spoon down hard on the breast. The same breast.
She sits upright with the pain, then curls into a ball and rolls onto her side.
A strange, low noise comes through the gag; the sort of noise you might hear
from a cowshed in the middle of the night. It sounds like nothing human.
I let her lie and sob. When at last I put a hand on her she jerks away from me
angrily. So I let her lie a little longer. Then I curl myself behind her, and
say:
'The ending's coming soon, and it's a happy ending. But there's a bit more to go
first.'
She lies in a ball, her legs drawn up, her back a curved shell, protecting
herself from me. I stroke the smooth pale skin, and I run a finger up her spine
in the way she loves. Then I reach down and put my hand between her legs, this
time from the back. It's hard for a woman to hide herself.
'You do want a happy ending, don't you?' I say, playing with the soft folds,
which are sticky with wetness. I gently stroke my fingers up and down the lips,
teasing out the little folds, exploring their complexities, their secrets. Then
I hear my wife moan softly; and I know she is mine again.
I put her on her back again, and she allows me to uncurl her, to straighten her
legs. I kiss the tears from her eyes. Then I gently lick around her nipples. She
squirms at this. I continue down to her belly, then between her legs. I put my
tongue inside her, where she is salty and sweet and warm.
Then it's back to business. She lies still now as I tie her up properly. I take
the silk cord from her dressing-gown, tie it loosely around her neck, with a
knot that won't slip, and secure the other end to the iron head-rail. Her feet I
tie to the foot-rail with another old tie. There is still room for her to move.
But she cannot curl up.
I take up the spoon again, and at once her body goes rigid again, as rigid as
the iron frame of the bed, and the fear returns to her eyes. I fondle her breast
with the back of the spoon, teasing the nipple which stands up proud and firm,
like a spring shoot.
I bring the spoon down hard, but not so hard as before. Even so she manages to
sit half-upright before the cords stop her. She makes a noise like someone
trying to start an unreliable motorcycle, a long guttural note that rises,
falls, stutters, chokes, and dies.
I put a finger inside her again, rather abruptly, and play with her. I watch as
the pain in her breast subsides and the pleasure in her loins increases. Her
hips begin to move. She makes low moanings in her throat. Her back arches
backwards, and her buttocks leave the bed, as she tries to push herself further
onto my fingers.
I lie the spoon on her bruised nipple, and she prepares herself again.
It's much harder this time, and she screams. Her entire body bucks and kicks. I
see the dressing-gown cord bite into her neck, and the veins stand out, and I
have to push her shoulders back down onto the bed in case she strangles herself.
We stay like that for a while. I see her waiting for the pain in her nipple to
go away but it takes longer than you'd expect. Her head thrashes on the pillow,
turning left and right. She grimaces and grunts. There are tears all over her
face, all over the pillow. There is real fear in her eyes.
I should stop now, I think. Take pity on this heap of shuddering misery, my
wife, my fish.
Instead, I give her three hard strokes, quickly, all on the same breast.
It's as though a snake has sunk its teeth into her flesh and she is trying to
shake it off. She thrashes around on the bed, furiously and hysterically. Her
eyes are wild and vacant. Her legs thump the mattress, her hips rock, and her
neck twists. The pain goes on for a long time. It is over a minute before her
writhings even begin to dwindle, and now she is speaking again, something
urgent, pleading with me.
I throw the spoon away, across the bedroom. She gives a great, shuddering sigh
of relief.
I untie her from the bed, head and foot, and undo the cord that binds her
ankles. It all takes some time, because her agony has pulled the knots tight. I
leave her wrists bound behind her.
I gently part her legs and kiss my way up them. My lips find her wet sex again,
and I lick her roughly, like a cow, slowly turning her pain into pleasure again.
And when she is moaning and panting, I slide up the bed and enter her properly.
I kiss her eyes and her teary face and we make love, moving as one, mingling our
enjoyment. Then her face goes red and she comes, a beautiful orgasm, and then I
come too. I stay there, lying on her and inside her, keeping her warm. And after
a few minutes we begin again. Her body undulates beneath me like a beautiful
silver fish.
I don't know how long we make love. But at last we are sleepy. We find ourselves
as we began, side by side, face to face on the pillow.
We lie and look at each other for a long time. I softly caress the breast I have
recently been torturing, and she lets me, trusting me to be gentle.
I remember my story.
'That night,' I say, 'She dreamt of her real home under the sea, and mermaids,
and sea-gods with emerald eyes, and caves full of pearls and gold and beautiful
sea-shells.'
She grunts her approval.
'And when the sun came up, her husband relented and turned her back into a
woman.'
She says something through the gag. A note of surprise.
'He couldn't turn her back before morning. She had to go to sleep, and at dawn
she woke up and felt him inside her again, making her happy. Then the sun came
up, and that's when he turned her back into a woman.'
She thinks about this, and seems satisfied.
'He did give her her voice back, though,' I say.
I untie the tie, and gently pull out the handkerchiefs, one after the other.
They are surprisingly dry. I give her some water from the glass on the bedside
table, supporting her head with my other hand. She takes several sips.
She lies back down on her side, the only half-comfortable position her tied
hands allow. She settles into the pillow, yawning.
I pull the duvet over us.
'I've got a story for you' she says, 'I'll tell you tomorrow.'
And she falls asleep at once.
