 |
|||
|
|
Jenny’s Recollections
A few days after my meeting with Angela, she sends me an e-mail: “Dear Jenny,” it says. Angela’s e-mails always sound like letters. “I hope you have been thinking about your proposed exploratory investigation.” So now it’s ‘my proposed investigation’ I think. “Contact Inward Bound and see what they have to offer. At this stage, I think you should regard this as a pilot project as we discussed and I think you should approach them as an ordinary client. I’m sure you’ll agree that their approach might be different if you state your academic interest right away. As I’ve always said the foundation of good field work is minimum bias and maximum objectivity. As far as funding is concerned, it will depend on their fees, of course, but I hope we can use some of my Endowment Funding. Best wishes, Prof.”
When I first looked at the Inward Bound website, I was amazed, curious, intrigued and delighted, in that order. From a research point of view I can agree with the Prof: it was fascinating. I have seen some similar sites, but they were in the USA or Eastern Europe and almost without exception they are focused pretty much exclusively on the fantasies of male submissives. Angela’s enthusiasm has made me more than a little nervous, though. From what we had shared together, I can imagine that her interest in Inward Bound might be more than academic and it wouldn't be with her joining in as one of the consensual slaves. I am still worried that she might see this as some opportunity to revive our personal relationship.
On a personal level, Inward Bound could offer me the chance to fulfil the sort of fantasies that had been with me since I was a young teenager, things that I hadn’t shared even with Angela when we were together. Sure, I would prefer to be playing this sort of game with Joe, but he felt it was not “appropriate”. It’s strange. Joe and I have this really open relationship; we can talk about anything, but somehow when it comes to this the shutters come down. Maybe it's me or maybe it's him. I found it difficult to say what I wanted; he found it difficult to take the lead. What ever it is, it hasn't really worked out for us. The vanilla sex was fine – he was kind and loving and friendly and it was great. The trouble was it wasn't enough. But I would rather be playing with Joe. Wouldn't I?
I try to put my personal interests and my feelings about Joe to one side. In the context of what I am supposed to be doing, they aren't going to help with objectivity! Still, it’s hard not to think about him. And us.
I’m looking at the home page of the Inward Bound web site. “Inward Bound” it says in a professional looking style with sober colours. "The place to explore your submissive fantasies in depth. Join us for the chance to experience consensual slavery. Extended courses let you lose yourself in your wildest dreams.”
I must have looked at this site twenty times, or more. At first, I thought it was too good to be true;. Each aspect of what Inward Bound claimed to do pulled at my own desires and spoke to what I felt might be the research needs, too. I wrote notes on the site for discussion with Angela, but I kept being drawn back again and again. I almost knew the content by heart: the facilities that they had; the range of programmes they ran; the sort of experiences that the slaves, or as they called it “participants” could expect; the importance they saw in helping participants take each step along their own personal journeys. I guess you might think that showed more than professional interest, and I think you would be right.
I suppose that I just sort of fall towards a decision. I have the opportunity; Joe will be away for nearly three months over the summer. I have the motive; the chance to find out finally, if this flavour of sexuality is as exciting in fact as it is in my head. Best of all, I have the alibi; it really will be pioneering ethnographic research. Won't it?
So here I am, looking at the Inward Bound web site again. I’ve told Angela that I’m prepared to do it. She has told me she can get the funding. She’s promised there no more to it than research. I still don’t think I believe her but I’m not going to stop.
At the top of the page it says, "Register For More Information Now." I'm looking at the on-line online form that I have just completed.
Name, age, e-mail contact and mobile number. It could be a holiday booking site.
Level of experience of BDSM. Sexual likes and dislikes. So, not like many holiday booking sites there.
There’s a part where they ask about my general medical history and rather some more specific questions about my sexual history. It’s embarrassing in one way to be exposing this, but the questions are very politely asked and the anonymity of the computer makes it easier.
“How long could I stay?” the form asks and then “What would I like to achieve?” That’s a difficult question and I’m not even sure I know the answer. Plus of course, I don’t want to say anything about the university. I look at what I’ve typed in. “To understand my submissive responses better.” It sounds a bit lame, but it will do. And it’s true. It’s probably not all of the truth, but it is at least true.
Finally, there is the inevitable “where did you hear about us?” I tick the box marked “Second Skin Magazine” and now the last box is gently and seductively blinking at me: “Send?”, “Send?”, “Send?”, “Send?”
With a stab of adrenalin running through my body, I press the return key and send the form!
At once I’m thinking, “Gee, what have you done, girl? Was that really wise?” Joe is not easy at all with my thoughts of master / slave games. What if I find out I really enjoy it as much as I enjoy my fantasies? Where does that leave Joe and me?
Before I can think too much about it, a new box opens on the screen. “Dear Jenny. Thank you for your enquiry. We’re delighted that you’ve decided to get in touch with us. This is an automated reply, but Charlotte will try to call you tomorrow and will leave you an e-mail if she cannot reach you. Best wishes and thanks again from the Team at Inward Bound.”
And again, I’m caught between conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I’m taken aback to get a response so quickly, perhaps even a little uneasy that a reply came at all. On the other hand, I’m reassured by the tone of the Inward Bound reply; it seems friendly and very professional. And, now I feel I am in a corner. I am going to have to follow this through.
I go to bed. A large whiskey helps me into a deep sleep.
I wake up really rested. My mind turns over the jobs for the day and I’m asking myself why I feel so relaxed and good? At the back of my mind, though, I’m feeling that there is something difficult to do today. Then I remember Inward Bound and a stab of anxiety drives me out of bed, to the bathroom and then downstairs to breakfast. I’m fretting about whether I’ve done the right thing. The feeling is still with me as I leave the flat and start my journey to the university.
It’s 10 am – or just after. I have a lot to do today and I am in the middle of setting out the day when my mobile rings. My eyes are still scanning down my list of “work” e-mails as I casually answer, feeling slightly irritated about the early interruption. The unfamiliar voice on the phone jerks me back to full attention.
“Hi, is that Jenny?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, it’s Charlotte.” There’s a pause. “...Look, I’m sorry to catch you at work, but did you send us an enquiry form through our web site last evening?”
“Erm, erm, yes, I did, actually.” I feel embarrassed, as If I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. Charlotte laughs. It’s friendly, understanding, a laugh that encourages me to let down my guard.
“Great. Look, I was just calling to make a first contact.” Her voice is light and she sounds approachable. “If you would like to take your enquiry a little bit further, I would normally arrange to meet you maybe at your place or over coffee in town which is often best. I’m sure there will be other things you want to know. I can give you more information before you take any more definite steps. And I’ll want to make sure that our programme will fit in with what you are looking for, too.”
She stops. I can’t think of anything to say.
“Would you like that?” Charlotte says. “Just to find out more? Maybe next week?”
My mouth is a bit dry now and I’m sure my voice is shaking. “Erm, yes please, erm thank you. Yes. Yes definitely.”
So, a week later, here I am in a quiet corner of Café Nero and absolutely on cue a girl about my own age saunters in. Tall, slender, athletic looking. Blond hair, folded into a French pleat. Piercing blue eyes, pale skin; she could be Scandinavian, I think. Blue jeans and white blouse under a leather jacket. She has cowboy boots on and carries a rather informal, but smart leather brief case. The jacket, boots and bag all match, in the same soft tan leather. In a word – class. She pauses and calls a number on her mobile. My mobile rings. So, this must be Charlotte. Heavens: this really is for real, then?
Charlotte sees me reach for my phone. She smiles, comes over and puts her hand and rather familiarly on my shoulder. “Hi, Jenny, I’m Charlotte.” She sits down. “Good to meet you.” She looks at my still full coffee cup. “Do you want another she asks?” I shake my head. “I’ll get myself some water.”
Moments later she is back. She opens her brief case. Forms. The whole world runs on forms these days. Even people in the fetish world have forms. She can see I’m nervous.
“Look, I’ll start if that’s all right. Usually, it takes applicants a while to get their heads around the fact that this could really happen for them, so it probably easier if I lead off and then I’ll let you ask questions afterwards. OK?”
I nod, grateful that she’s taking the lead, pleased that in spite of her ice maiden looks, she's friendly and approachable.
“Well, there are one or two more things we have to know about you, mainly psychological outlook and some more medical. The thing is that the whole idea is for you to enjoy the course, but as it can be a bit demanding....” Charlotte smiles at me. I grin back. “As it can be a bit demanding it’s important we know were we are starting from with each of our applicants. We need to be able to exercise our Duty of Care and we can only do that on the basis of the right information. I hope it’s OK with you to go through this now?” I nod in response. “We do hold the data on computer, but we would rather not scatter your answers across cyberspace. We take data protection very seriously.”
As I make my way through the questionnaires, I can see why! Finally, I finish the forms and pass them across to Charlotte. “So what happens now?” I say.
“Well, let’s see.” Charlotte thumbs through some of the questionnaires. “OK. You are really pretty much a complete novice, apart from this,” she’s looking at the part of the form where I had to list previous relationships with details of any BDSM activities involved. “It sounds as though it gave you some experience of power exchange. Oh, I like this –“
“What?”
“This bit here: ‘I would like to find out if this type of sexual trip is as exciting in reality as it is in my head.’ – that’s very helpful. I think you will find the answer is ‘yes’, by the way.”
Hmmm. Yes for me but is that good for Joe and me, I wonder?
Charlotte leans forward. “Jenny,” she says, “here is where we go now. We run the courses four times each year and the next will start in June. There will be other people on each course. There could be both boys and girls. You don’t have to interact,” Charlotte winks in a meaningful way, “if you don’t want to or if that is a Red Line Issue for you. You will experience what it is like to be a slave, to follow orders, to be punished if you fail to follow them, to have your freedoms restricted, to be trained to perform better.”
I gulp, a little uncomfortable. If I’m honest I’m a bit turned on at this point; sitting in these very ordinary surroundings with this attractive woman discussing these extraordinary ideas.
Charlotte gives me an encouraging smile. “It’s very important to us that you feel safe at all times. We will give you a safe word which you can use at any time to stop the action. However, one of the features of these courses is that they will help you to push against your limits, so we like to encourage participants to keep going as long as they can. To help you through, we give you a 10% financial rebate at the end, if you have managed not to use any of your lifelines so to speak.”
I nod.
“One other thing. We also need you to let someone you trust know where you are going and they get a contact phone number – a landline number which is traceable by the phone people – to get you in emergency. You get a “safe call” to them when you arrive to confirm you are OK. Again, that’s designed to help you to feel safe, but of course it’s a bit of an insurance policy for us, too.”
“Now, assuming you still want to go through with this. Sometime next week I will send you an e-mail consent form which you have to sign and return as hard copy to our business PO box and also a booking form to confirm when you would like to come. And also you’ll need to make payment! We need you to pay in advance for each month, so if you were following a two month course, you will need to tell your bank when to make the second payment. If you’ve any questions in the mean time you can just e-mail me. Use the questions@IWB as the address and don’t forget to give your name, so I can deal with it.”
It all seems pretty clear. I say, “Thanks. Yes, That’s fine. Yes.”
Charlotte starts to pack up her papers. “Well, is there anything you want to ask me now?”
I don’t really know what to say. I think for a moment and then blurt out. “Have you done the course?”
Charlotte smiles. “Oh, I’ve had a lot of involvement in the courses,” she says, “but not really as a participant. Some people are better at giving instructions and some people are better at taking them, don’t you think?” She looks straight into my eyes.
I try to respond nonchalantly but it just comes out as a muffled whimper. Charlotte grins. “OK, Jenny that’s me done!” She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek: not a sexual kiss, more like two girl friends together. She smells nice. Something from Santa Maria Novella? “I really hope we meet up again soon! Bye!” And with that, she’s gone.
One week later, to the day, I open my e-mail in-box and there is the Inward Bound e-mail from Charlotte, “Hi, Jenny. As promised, here is your consent form and booking confirmation form. Booking and payment is electronic – just click the link. The consent form has to be printed out, signed and sent as hard copy to the address you will see at the end of my note. Best wishes, Charlotte.”
Oh boy, what do I do now? This really is decision time. I know Joe will be away for the best part of three months from mid May. He gets back in early August. Inward Bound’s next course starts in early June. My teaching commitments will be over in June. And the financial bit is being paid for by Prof.
Putting the research angle to one side, I ask myself how do I feel deep down? Deep down, I want to do it. To see how far it is. To find if I really am as I think I am …
Later that day, Prof has a few free moments and I take the e-mail and blank copies of the forms to her in her study. I don’t want her to see the version I finally signed. I could imagine the snide remark when she saw that I said I didn’t want to be involved in direct sexual contact. I also didn’t want to have to defend the fact that I’d consented to being marked or pierced subject to agreement at the time it happens, Angela had always been keen for me to have my nipples pierced but I’d resisted at the time. Now it sounded quite sexy but I knew that she’d be irritated.
She reads them through carefully. Fortunately she doesn’t ask me how much I’ve been prepared to sign up for. “OK, so it looks as if June is the time. I can manage to cover the fees from the endowment funds.” She peers at me over her glasses. “I guess I can rely on you to help the fund out by coming back with the 10% discount?” Angela smiles indulgently, but it’s going to be my bum on the line. I guess that’s why she is smiling. “How long do you need to be there?”
I hesitate, “Err, well, I’m not…”
“Look,” says Angela, “I think we should send you there for a couple of months. You will be much better placed to take stock of the situation after that. You will find it easier to get immersed in things over the longer period. It will help with an objective assessment of the research opportunities and challenges.”
I can see the sense in what the Prof is saying, but what her motives might be worries me.
“Actually, I like their approach.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, they talk about Duty of Care, and they have seriously addressed the idea of Informed Consent. They leave you with a channel of communication to someone on the outside. I can do that for you, if you like. That’s good. Very well thought out. You seem to be in the hands of professionals.”
I hadn’t thought about who would be my life line. The Prof is the obvious choice I guess. So I’ll be in the hands of professionals. Yes, and I will also be in the hands of Professor Dawney, my former lover, my life line to the outside, my link to the real world.
In the mean time, I can look forward to Joe’s getting back and working out how to tell him what I’ll be doing during his next trip. If I tell him what I’ll be doing during his next trip.
Joe’s been home for three weeks and he’s going back to Cambodia soon. This has been a good break. I managed to grab some time for us to be together out of the teaching and research schedule. We’ve even managed a couple of days away in this really cosy hotel up on the Yorkshire coast, not far from Whitby. Joe seems more relaxed away from home. Maybe, if you travel as much as Joe does at the moment, you just feel more comfortable in hotels?
Whatever the reason, it's been good for us. We’ve walked on the cliffs and eaten good food and talked about nothing and shagged like rabbits and it’s been great.
But, I nearly spoil it. I had told Joe that I would be away while he was, doing some field work for my thesis and I’m thinking how the accommodation at Inward Bound is probably going to be different from the slightly faded splendour of the hotel and I nearly tell Joe about what I’ll be doing while he is away. But then I can’t, I’m frightened to tell him straight and I get angry with myself and snap at him and Joe says what’s got into me and I can’t tell him and …. Oh, oh! This is all too complicated.
It’s OK in the end, though. And we manage a making-up shag!
It all starts after lunch in the hotel when neither of us say very much and between us we finish a bottle of wine. When we get back to our room I say, “I’m sorry Joe, I didn’t mean to get mad.”
He says, “Don’t worry. Come here,” and takes me in his arms. He’s gentle but firm as he pulls me towards him. I always like it when he does that. My head fits on his shoulder perfectly. I nestle closer and kiss his neck. “That’s good,” he says. He’s just being nice but in my mind I’m hearing the words of a slave master. The only trouble is I want it to be Joe.
“You know I only want to please,” I say, wishing that he would take me at my (unspoken) words.
“In which case, I’d better take you to bed,” he responds. He pulls off his shirt. I like his body. It’s fit; quite muscley. He smells sweet and musky. He takes my hand, steering me across the room. I let him lead me. As we fall on the bed I go to unfasten the belt of his trousers, it’s what a good slave girl would do, after all. Joe laughs as I fumble with it and says, “Here let me.” I can’t stop him. He unfastens it, unzips his trousers and pushes them off. I try to pull his boxers off. “No,” he says, smiling and trying to push my dress up, “let’s take yours off.”
We tumble together until I’m naked and so is he. We’re both laughing. Happy as kids. His hands are on my breasts, then sliding down around my waist, pulling me towards him. I’m kissing him. He’s kissing me. We’re both aroused and maybe a little drunk. He lays me back, kneeling between my parted thighs, his cock swollen and erect. He goes to pull on a condom but I distract him, reaching out towards his cock. “Its OK”, I say: “I’m safe just now.” Actually I don’t care if I am or not the way I feel at the moment. I reach out towards his cock but he takes my hands in his, lifts them to his lips and kisses them before he lays down on me, I’m giggling at his rather gentlemanly kiss; its more knightly and chivalrous than ravishment but then he kisses me on the neck, the ear and the lips and I feel his cock pressing up against me and the slipping inside.
He’s obviously enjoying himself. He’s stiffer, thicker, than he has been for quite a while. That arouses me more. I’m murmuring with pleasure and the murmuring gets louder and turns to more of a grunt. He likes that. He’s pushing into me, saying how much he loves me, how great it is to be in me, how hard I make him. My hands are on his back, my fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, squeezing him harder towards me. I’m gasping; the pleasure in my cunt; the feel of his body against mine; the closeness of the two of us. I wrap my legs around his bum, so he can’t get away. Can’t pull out. I want to feel him come inside me.
And then he comes, his words of love turning to grunts as he pulses into me. I’m not far behind him, my own cries merging with his as I press back at him, as if I could somehow prevent what I know must be the shrinking of his member. But then I’m there, squealing with delight as I gasp and groan into my own orgasm.
He rolls off me, laying back. I snuggle up against him. We lay together, cuddling, for what seems like hours. He gets up, pulls the bed coverings over me and walks across the room.
He’s in a reflective mood. “Are you happy Jen?” he says staring out of the hotel window across the windswept view of the bay.
“Mmm, of course,” I say. “Especially after that.”
“Not just shag happy,” Joe grins sitting down on the bed beside me. “Happy happy?”
“Of course.”
“It's just that, well, I don’t know, you’ve seemed a bit preoccupied. I know I get moody before these trips sometimes. I just wanted you to know it’s nothing you’ve done and I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to upset you. I know I can be a bit clumsy.”
“Like a bull in china shop?” I laugh and he joins in. “No, it’s OK. I’ve just got a project to work on while you’re away and it’s going to be quite difficult. And you’re going to be in the back of beyond and won’t be able to e-mail me and I won’t be able to speak to you. That’s the trouble really. Not enough time together.”
“You’ll handle it. I know it’s no good asking you about it; I don’t understand the psychobabble. I never got over that dinner with your professor where she managed to make all that kinky stuff sound so highbrow! But, you’ll handle it all right.”
“Was that dinner really so bad?”
“You know I can’t get enthusiastic about vegetarian food.”
I grab for a pillow and make as though I am going to hit him with it. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Dawney’s got a different view of the world from me. She sees sex as something to analyse, part of some great transaction between the man and the woman, or in her case the woman and the woman. To me, it’s just something two people do because they want to or because they love each other or because they think it might be fun. All that analysis, classification, pigeon holing, labelling - what good does it do? And when she started to trot out that clap trap about - what did she call it? - ‘The psychodynamics of the dominant – submissive relationship’ I thought – do me a favour, if that’s how people want to get their rocks off, why not just let them get on with it?”
And I almost bring myself to say, yes let’s. Right here. Right now. You and me. Fuck the psycho dynamics. Just fuck me. Fuck me again and fuck me hard and fuck me bareback and don’t be kind and friendly.
But I don’t. And I don't know why.
And then, the moment is gone and he’s looking at his watch and saying, if I’m going to get a drink before dinner I’d better get in the shower right now.
I say, “Yes, Sir!” He grins. It’s the closest we get.
We’re back home. It’s two days later and Joe’s bag is packed. We've managed the last couple of days without the tensions coming back to the surface. The cab is waiting outside with its engine running. “Bye Jen,” he says and kisses me. “I’ll call if I can.”
I suddenly panic. If he does call, I won’t be here and I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to respond to e-mails. The Inward Bound site said things would be quite immersive and without contact with the outside world. “I know,” I say. “But I’m not going to be around much anyway. You know I said I have this project? It looks like I’ll be away from home quite a bit. The project has the people being studied isolated for observation, so we’ve banned mobile phones and PC’s from the site. So don’t worry if you don’t catch me, or I don’t get back to you. If there’s anything urgent, Dawney can probably track me down.”
Joe looks distracted. I don’t really think he’s taken this in. He grabs his coat. “Sure, hun, don’t worry. I’ll be back soon enough and we can do all our talking then. I’m going to be up country anyway and the communications are always dodgy. I’ll try to use e-mail.”
“Keep safe, lover,” I say and kiss him back. I’m wondering if that will work either. Maybe I can get access to the Internet somehow.
“And, you too,” he says picking up his bag. And then he’s gone.
The phone rings. He’s hardly been gone five minutes and Angela is on the phone. It’s almost as if she were watching. “Jenny, how are you? Are you ready for your field-trip?”
Ready is probably not the word, but I’m as prepared as I can be. I’ve agreed with Angela that I’m not going to try to keep notes or write things up as it goes along. I can’t imagine that I’ll get much opportunity and I don’t really want to get caught with a notebook. I mean it’s not like I’ve told them that they’re my research project.
The really important thing is to immerse myself in the experience, so I can understand how the stress of the adventure changes my reactions to what’s happening to me and those others I come up against. I’m going to have to work hard at making sure I commit to memory all my experiences, so I can write them up when I get back.
.
“I guess so, Prof,” I say. “I’ve spent enough time telling my students that dispassionate observation is the key to ethnographic research. Now, I get to see if I can do it when I’m in the middle of it.”
“Well, I shall be away for a few days myself though I will be back just before you go and then I’ll be on the end of a phone if you need me. You’ve got that life line, if you need it. Although, as I said, I'd like to get the 10% discount back.”
Maybe she would, I think, but that was never going to be an issue with me. If I need to bail out, a few pounds more out of Angela Dawney’s endowment fund aren’t going to worry me.
There’s not much more I can do. All I know is that they'll contact me with my joining instructions and after that it's all a mystery. Two months of who knows what until I get back here again.
Two weeks later I am at home, on my own. My mobile phone pings to tell me a text has come in: “you’ve got e-mail” and when I open my inbox, there are my instructions. ….. Now, I know that it’s really going to happen. I really am on my way.
Chapter 6: A Long & Winding Road
Course 8 / Day 1: Course Progress Meeting
Josephine: All the team are briefed for today’s activities for the new Course 8 intake. There are five this time and they will arrive at the Centre around 19:00.
Jenny’s Recollections
Joe’s been gone for a couple of week. I’ve been working hard to prepare myself but now I’m sitting on the edge of the couch in the lounge at home staring at the papers I have just printed. I’m biting my lip and twisting a strand of hair between my fingers. Somehow, now that the time has arrived, it all seems a bit too real.
“Dear Jenny, here are your joining instructions,” the e-mail says. “Please follow them exactly in order to start your experience in the most successful manner. You will understand that an important part of your experience is concerned with receiving and following instructions. You should view this as the first part of that experience. Please do not bring any personal belongings with you apart from those items mentioned in this letter, you will not need them.”
Of course, it is what I had expected, but somehow it is still disturbing.
“Please do as follows:. Firstly, you are to take a shower and you will shave yourself. Dress in jeans, a tee-shirt and flip flops. Bring a towel and a swimming costume. Do not wear jewellery. Do not bring a mobile phone. You will need exactly £2.20 in coins. Do not bring money or credit cards. As a first step, you should go to the Sports Centre and swim. Be in the main pool at 11:30 exactly. You will receive further instructions there.”
I take a shower, rummage in the wardrobe and put on my underwear. None of my jeans are clean, so I take a pair of linen trousers instead. A tee-shirt doesn’t really go with them, I think. So, instead, I pull on a white sleeveless top. As I put on a pair of sandals I think, “Well, it isn’t exactly what they’d asked, but it’s close enough.”
Entry to the Sports Centre costs exactly £2.20 and, at 11:20, I am sitting on the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the water. I look up at the large competition clock on the wall above the deep end of the pool. The minute hand clunks one step further towards half past eleven. As it clunks once more to eleven twenty seven I ease myself off of the poolside and into the water, setting out with a slow breast stroke for the middle of the pool. I roll over on to my back and kick a few times, pushing slowly up the pool.
I roll over again and looked at the clock. Eleven thirty exactly. I am almost surprised that nothing happens. “But then,” I think, “they only said for me to be here at half past eleven.”
It is as I am wondering what to do next, that a woman surfaces beside me. “Hello, Jenny,” she says, and I know that things are starting. I don’t recognise the woman, even though she has recognised me. However, given that the woman is wearing a skin-tight white swim cap, goggles and a nose clip, it is hardly easy! “We need to swap keys: you have to give me your locker key,” the woman says.
Puzzled, I do as I am told.
“Thank you,” the woman says. “Now take mine.” She passes her own key over. “Stay in the pool another half hour. Then go and get changed into the clothes you’ll find in my locker. You’ll find your next instructions there too.” Without another word the woman swims away from me to the far side of the pool and pulls herself out. Picking a towel from one of the poolside couches, the woman walks away towards the changing rooms, wrapping the towel around herself.
At twelve o’clock, I climb out of the pool wondering what the next step will be. I, too, grab a towel and head towards the changing rooms. Inward Bound is certainly setting the scene. I’m obviously going to have to get used to following instructions. It will be interesting to see how this conditioning affects the way that the stress of the situation builds up.
As I take the woman’s things from the locker I find a pair of flip-flops, jeans and a white tee-shirt, exactly what I had been told to wear in the joining instructions. Well, as my jeans were not clean and as I did not know I would be swapping clothes anyway, I guess I made the right call to do as I did. There is no underwear here! Looking back, the letter had not said to wear a bra and pants, either. But then, I had not taken the note as literally as that. So I’m definitely sure I made the right call. There’s an envelope stuffed into the pocket of the jeans – and a mobile phone.
The note reads: “Hi, Jenny: Here is a mobile phone and we will be in touch with you soon. Meanwhile, you need to have your hair cut. You have an appointment at one o’clock with Isla at NX Hair in town. Ask her to give you a number four crew cut. And have another piercing put in your left ear.”
I put my hand up to my left ear lobe. I haven’t worn earrings as the original note had said I shouldn’t wear jewellery, but I do have one piercing in either ear. I suppose that I’ve always thought anything more than that a bit unconventional, “But then,” I think, “what I’m doing is hardly conventional anyway. I’m not sure that I’ll go along with that though.”
I make my way out of the Sports Centre and off towards town. I am very conscious of the fact that I am naked beneath my tee-shirt, thinking that every man I pass must be staring at my nipples. The way that my jeans rub against my naked, shaved, crotch is even worse.
As I walk on, the mobile goes off.
“Jenny?” I don’t recognise the voice.
“Yes.”
“Hi. Are you on your way to NX?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The cut is on account and there is a message for you at reception. ‘Bye.” The phone goes dead, as whoever it was hangs up.
By the time I get to NX Hair, I am feeling discouraged and a little uncertain, but I overcome my fears and go in. “I’m Jenny McEwan” I say, “I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock. With Isla,”
“Oh yes. Take a seat,” the receptionist says.
Moments later a smiling, red headed girl appears, ‘Isla’ is embroidered in red letters on her black, high necked shirt. “Come through,” she says waving to a seat at one of the sinks. “Cut and a piercing, wasn’t it?”
“Ah,” I say sheepishly, “I’ve changed my mind about the piercing, if that’s OK.”
“Of course,” Isla says. “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s your choice. Now, how about the cut. What did you have in mind?” Isla has picked up her electric clippers.
“Well, I wanted something shorter. With summer coming, I just need something easier to manage. Actually, something like yours would be good.”
“This isn’t all that short,” Isla replies.
“Well, it’s shorter than mine is now. I think it will look nice like that and it will be short enough for what I want.”
“OK,” says Isla, “let’s go with that.” She seems abrupt. I wonder how much of this has been all set up by Inward Bound, but I’m not all that brave at the hairdressers at the best of times. Isla sweeps a black sheet across me and goes to work washing the chlorinated water out of my hair before setting to with comb, scissors and clippers. It all feels odd to me, but it doesn’t take all that long and when Isla has finished combing and cutting I feel rather pleased with the result.
I’m wondering what her next step will be, as Isla pulls the black sheet clear. “There you go,” Isla says.
I stand up. Isla is waiting, holding the sheet. “It’s on account,” I say, “it should have all been arranged.” Isla, evidently still hoping for a tip, looks across at the receptionist who pulls the earphones of her i-pod out of her ears.
“S’allright,” the receptionist says, dropping the copy of Hello! that she’d been reading. Isla looks maybe a bit disappointed, smiles and says she hopes to see me again before too long.
“Was there a message left for me?” I ask, beginning to get the hang of the game by now.
The girl appears to drag a faint memory from the depths of her consciousness. “Oh. Yes. Well there was this.” She pulls out another envelope. Inside is a note and a Travel Card good for a railway journey to London and the Underground. The note says “Warwick Station, London train 14:49”
I get to the station with fifteen minutes to spare before the train. Thinking that I’ll pass the time with a cup of coffee, I almost get to the front of the queue in the station café before I realise that I have no money on me. Embarrassed I slip out of the café, feeling as though everyone is looking at me now, not just the men. I step back onto the platform.
I feel the mobile in my pocket and think at least I can report in to Angela. I dial her number. The phone replies that I need a top up. “Very clever, Inward Bound,” I think. “You’ve given me a pay-as-you-go phone with no money on it.” I can receive calls, but I can’t make them. I’ve been neatly tied to an electronic string…
The train carries me swiftly on to London and I spend the journey gazing out of the window. I’m feeling increasingly anxious as I am carried further and further away from home and safety. As the countryside begins to give way to the London suburbs I am startled by the mobile going off again.
“Hi, Jenny. You caught the train then.”
I’m startled. How does she know? Was there someone from Inward Bound at the station? Is there someone on the train watching me?
“It sounds noisy.” Of course. She can hear that I’m on the train. “Anyway - more instructions! When you get in to Marylebone Station, I want you to go on to the Underground and go to Monument. Got that?”
“Yes,” I say, “and what then?”
But, by the time I ask the question, the caller has hung up.
I get to Marylebone Station and head for the Underground. The journey involves me my finding my way on to the Bakerloo line, to Embankment, changing and taking the Circle Line to Monument. As I emerge into the daylight, the mobile rings once more.
“Jenny?” It’s the same voice.
“Yes?”
“Not far now! Find Gracechurch Street, follow it into Fenchurch Street, and make your way to
The Elephant. It’s up beyond Mincing Lane. On the left. Bye.”
A pub! That can mean food, drink and company. Things are looking up!
As I walk through the streams of City workers making their way home, I’m still anxious about being naked under my tee-shirt and jeans. But of course, they don’t really notice me. They’re all thinking about getting home. Comfortable, familiar, secure home. But what about me? I kept musing that as they journeyed to the security of home, I was on my way to a very different type of security!
Oh dear! I stop as I suddenly realise that I can see The Elephant. Just what is waiting for me only a few steps ahead?
“The rest of you lot are in the function room,” the bar maid calls as I step into the almost empty bar. “It’s through there,” she nods.
I go through to a room at the back to find four other girls dressed just like me. With them is Charlotte, whom I’d met after my initial enquiry, and a short black guy. He’s talking in an American accent to a rather fit looking guy that looks like he's taking time out from training for some sport or other.
“Hi, Jenny,” says Charlotte smiling, pushing a strand of her blonde hair back from her face, “glad you got here. How did you enjoy the journey?”
“Well, I guess it was an anxious trip,” I say. Laughter from the others suggests that anxiety has been a common experience. They all look to be about the same age as I am. There’s a mixture of shapes and sizes. A bunch of normal looking girls having a drink in a pub. Well what did I expect? If I’ve learned anything from my forays into the fetish scene it’s that you can’t tell that someone is into this just by looking at them.
“Here, have a drink,” says Charlotte handing me a glass without asking me what I want. “It’s a good way to break the ice. This is Carrie, Sue, Anna and Judy.” She points to the other girls. “And these two are Gerry,” she points to the American. He returns a broad grin. “And, George.” George cheerily raises a hand. I see him smile, he's got a sort of Hugh Grant look about him, but tougher.
“Now,” continues Charlotte, “just a word to you five. This is your last chance to abort the mission.” She looks around at the four of us. Nobody says they want to bail out. The other four girls have got rather tense expressions. I guess I look the same. “OK,” Charlotte says, “so that’s us ready to roll.”
Gerry joins in, “the carriage awaits, duty and honour call us onward to our fate, so let’s go!”
The combination of the drinks and Charlotte and Gerry’s urgings mean that we get up in a more mellow frame of mind than we all probably arrived in, but I guess that the other four are still feeling as nervous as I am. Certainly none of us say anything as we follow Charlotte, George and Gerry to an NCP car park nearby. Gerry points out a smart Mercedes executive coach. “There you go, ladies,” he says jovially.
We take our seats and strap ourselves in. Still no one says anything. I guess we have all got used to following instructions on our journeys to London and now we wait for more. As we move off, things start to shift up a gear.
Gerry is driving. George, sitting beside him, turns around in his seat.
“Now, ladies,” George begins, as the coach bumps out of the car park and into the late afternoon traffic, “you may have noticed that the coach has tinted glass so you will not be visible to passers by or other road users. We have to be a little confidential about our destination and maybe you all could use some sleep, so I think it would be a good idea for you to put these sleep masks on.” He passes them back to us. “You can make believe you’re in business class. The seats in this are just as good!” George is an effective salesman. We obey his request without question.
A moment later, Charlotte comes to crouch down beside me. “It’s a good idea if you keep quiet for the ride,” she whispers. I feel her smooth a strip of tape across my lips. It’s just a small piece, and I guess I could easily dislodge it if I chose. It’s not exactly a gag, but it’s strongly symbolic. I hear her whispering the same thing to the girl next to me. I guess that she does the same to all of us. And then, Charlotte is back again to say softly “now don’t worry” before drawing my hands onto my lap and slipping handcuffs onto my wrists one on either side of the seatbelt lap strap.
So here we are, strapped into a strange car, blindfolded, gagged and handcuffed, all without protest. Ah the power of stress, hunger, alcohol and fatigue! And desire. After all, we’re all here because we want to be here.
Out of the car park and over the next ……hour, or was it two? We drive on heading for… where? Our fate I suppose, as Gerry had joked earlier.
As the coach whirrs along my mind wanders to The Story of O, which I read years ago. It begins as O is driven through Paris with her lover, her naked buttocks against the seat of the taxi, while she sat there in gloves. I had found this first passage as arousing as anything in the book. Now, my own situation is not so different as I am driven through the English countryside, a restrained captive, made captive with my own consent. This, I feel is every bit as bizarre and what’s more it’s real. Damn, the effects of the drink are kicking in. I’m going to be desperate for a pee, if the journey goes on much longer!
The slow stretching of my bladder begins to command my attention and the more it occupies my mind, the worse it becomes. Judging from the restless wriggling of my companions, the others are feeling the same!
Then, it’s Charlotte’s voice. “OK, girls I think we’ve got time for a comfort break. Does anyone want us to stop?” The chorus of “mmm’s” gives her the answer she expects. “Gerry,” she says. “Better pull off when you can.”
The coach stops. Charlotte takes our blindfolds off and releases our handcuffs, but not the tape across our lips. We get out to into the dusk on a lonely country road. It is silent and the trees all around cast deep pools of shadow.
“Just go on the grass,” Charlotte says, “You will all be OK. There shouldn’t be anyone around.”
I don’t make a habit of peeing in public places, but any port in a storm and it seems like we are miles from anywhere …..and oh the relief! - an emotion I could tell was fully shared by the others.
We get back in the coach and strap ourselves back in. Without being asked, we put our blindfolds back on. Charlotte slips the cuffs back on my wrists. “All ready, Gerry,” she calls and we move off. We resume our journey only to stop a few minutes later. The car makes a sharp turn and slows, turning this way and that until we can hear that we are driving on gravel. Finally, less than five minutes after our pee-break, we come to a halt.
“It’s a pity you girls couldn’t hold on for a few more minutes,” George laughs.
We are taken out of the car again and the blindfolds come off. The tape stays across our lips and our hands are re-cuffed in front of us again. We stand on the drive outside a rather large house, surrounded by parkland, enveloped in the smells of a summer evening.
As I walk past Charlotte, she is smirking and it seems to me that having the five of us relieve ourselves in the road has all been part of the script!
“OK girls,” says Charlotte again, “you have made it! You will get some supper. Next, you’ll get the chance to make your safe calls. After that, you’ll be taken to your rooms and given the chance to freshen up. Then, we’ll get you properly admitted. Welcome to Inward Bound.”
© Copyright Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2008
All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission.
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
All characters & organisations fictitious
Acknowledgements
Phil & Freddie would like to acknowledge the help given by the editors in creating the final version of this tale. Many thanks to Dennis, Peter, Red & Rohanna for their input, corrections and suggestions. If there are any typos, punctuation mistakes, inconsistencies or continuity errors left in Thesis then they are Phil’s and Freddie’s fault!
|
|
|