Back to Vanilla

by Jennifer Maschek

  Back to Vanilla

  By Jennifer Maschek

  © 2015 Jennifer Maschek

  All rights reserved

  Contents

  1. Alasdair

  2. Megan

  3. Lyall

  4. Jane

  5. Megan

  6. LittleGirlLost

  7. Alasdair

  8. Megan

  9. LittleGirlLost

  10. slUtty-fUckgal

  11. Luke_66

  12. slUtty-fUckgal

  13. LittleGirlLost

  14. slUtty-fUckgal

  15. Kindly_Meister

  16. Daddy’s_BiGal

  17. Luke _66

  18. Daddy’s_BiGal

  19. Kindly_Meister

  20. Megan

  21. Kindly_Meister

  22. Rich

  23. Tamsin

  Contact the author

  1. Alasdair

  About me: Daddy’s_BiGal

  (Previously known on here as slUtty-fUckgal)

  Gender: Female

  Age: 43

  Sexual orientation: Fluctuating/Evolving

  Role: Exploring

  How active you are: A Princess by day, slut by night

  Looking for: Playmates/Friends

  I am a sexy twisted lady, looking to take life by the horns, and push myself to my own limits. Having done the “good wife and mother” thing for more than 15 years, I am grabbing some totally me-time and I’m starting to explore myself in every little way I fancy. And I’m looking for like-minded people who’d care to journey alongside me, physically for sure, but, hey, we’re all just people… I’m looking for those who want to stretch their emotional and social conditioning boundaries too.

  I feel like I’ve been in so many figurative boxes for so long, I’m just aching to burst out. Having tried anal for the first time – yes, I know, THAT’s how vanilla I was – with a recent caring partner, I’m just a total slut for it. But I don’t want to stop there. I recently discovered how much pain excites me; just gives me goosebumps from the tips of those curled-up toes right up to the top of me, and I want to play more. Spanking, slapping, hair-pulling –¬ yes all this for sure, but I want to push it further. Am I the only one who is turned on by the total focus of a doctor or nurse as the speculum slides in? By the thought of a little pee trickling out on to their squeaky clean rubber-gloved hands? Mixing with blood as the sharp, cold metal slips and gently scratches the softest bit where my tender inner thigh meets my plump outer pussy?

  So, tie me up, get out your finest cat o’ nine tails, charge up the Hitachi wand and leave me – legs in harness, arms in rope – on yer makeshift operating table begging for more. Dress me up like your fantasy, send me out pantieless and kitted out with purple vibrating love eggs (yes, YOU hold the remote control) and see me giggle, shiver and smile. My overriding and only rules are that I will never purposely harm anyone along the way (unless it’s myself) and that my family are always number one.

  I’m playing with my bi side, so am up for chatting to anyone respectful, interesting and interested. Primarily I think I’m searching for a daddy who can play as an equal, though I’m also keen to play with my newly emerging dom side. So beware! Do feel free to message me first as I will never accept a friend request from an unknown.

  Kindly_Meister felt the tickle of a stir in the depths of his stomach. His breath may have quickened slightly, but this was not a sexual excitement, more a reaction to the tang of fresh prey he detected in her lines. Hers was precisely the type of profile he loved to read.

  Clearly she was clever, educated to an extent, and this helped with his line of approach; but what he detected most strongly, deliciously, in those words was an unfamiliar explorer, fresh with the zeal of the newly freed. Here was a mature woman who would be fun to play with. One who was experienced enough to know the fundamentals, yet new enough to be able to offer the enthusiasm and compliance on which he thrived; and yes, one he was fairly sure he could have, provided he took the right steps.

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted both his gentle perusings and his emerging plan of action, already well honed. Shuffling his slender bare feet into the once-fluffy slippers his son had handed over on his 63rd birthday, Alasdair walked through the narrow corridor, crammed with two bicycles (neither in full working condition), the remnants of an old piece of carpet, several piles of magazines – Angling Times and The Great Outdoors – and other clutter accumulated over six years, and opened his front door. This led not out on to the street, but into the cross path of two corridors, his flat being part of a much larger building, a sheltered-housing apartment he had inherited from his mother six-and-a-half years before.

  He was greeted by the Wednesday fish man, who offered a selection of fresh haddock, mackerel, hake and plaice, along with some-lesser known varieties, all caught reasonably locally. The fish man seemed as distracted, though friendly, as ever, and after a short exchange about the weather and its inevitable greyness, Alasdair bought a mackerel and a haddock, which he put on the bottom shelf of his freshly defrosted fridge.

  Sitting back down on the swivel-mounted computer chair, he clicked his way through Daddy’s_BiGal’s photos. The black, high-backed chair was a relatively recent purchase and about the only thing that had really changed since his mother’s day. His laptop stood open on her old walnut writing desk, on which he and his two sisters, as children, had done their homework, both before and after their father’s untimely heart attack during a business trip to Dublin. That was in the old house, before the onset of protracted dementia and eventually crippling osteoarthritis had led to his mother’s move here.

  Daddy’s_BiGal had posted 27 photographs, and most were pretty standard. Nothing particularly different: a selection of straight views of a middle-aged, dark-haired woman with greeny-brown eyes and the plump prettiness he favoured in those her age. There were also a few rope shots as he – whoever he was – had practised his knot-tying skills on her, and one with a neat row of small surgical needles laced up her back, tiny red droplets scattered over and around. The page he kept going back to, however, was a full face shot.

  She was on her knees, ropes elaborately interlocked, forcing her arms back and her wrists together behind her lower spine. His eyes hovered around the look on her face, in those hazel eyes. It was total submission with a hint of defiance. Kindly_Meister wanted a closer look.

  My dear – the words were tapped out quickly with his two index fingers – I already own both the cat o’ nine tails and the remote-control vibrating eggs. Both have been well, if infrequently, used over the years. What I do not currently own, as I believe only a truly special girl can withstand the intensity I am assured it can bring, is a Hitachi wand. Have you experience of them? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Yours, Kindly_Meister. X

  Going into the kitchen, Alasdair glanced at the brass mantel clock, a 70th birthday present to his mother from his elder sister, atop the bookshelf. He knew that she’d never particularly liked it and as her illness clawed deeper into her psyche, erasing all traces of empathy and politeness, she’d often expressed her feelings towards its endless, remorseless ticking in unambiguous terms. He felt the same about “that fucking clock”, as she put it, but the idea of removing it seemed disloyal, and so on it ticked.

  He methodically cut fillets from either side of the mackerel, bait-cutter style, and seasoned them with a little salt and pepper, before putting a large frying pan over a medium heat and adding a thin film of olive oil. When the oil was fairly hot, he scattered in some garlic and bay leaves, then lay the mackerel fillets over them, skin side down. Like mermaids in a little sea garden, he thought, watching three seagulls through the window of the flat as they swooped and pecked at the concrete
surface of the car park outside. The fish man had been kind or, more likely, clumsy, leaving the gulls what looked like a ling, from which they ripped away at flesh and bones.

  As he turned back inside to check on his cooking, his computer pinged, but Alasdair restrained his urgent desire to read what he suspected had arrived, and flipped the fish neatly from the spitting pan on to a prepared plate alongside a neat line of rocket drizzled with his own honeyed dressing. He then placed the plate on to his mother’s dining table, at the far side of the small area that doubled up as both eating and living space. Though merely three paces away from the computer, he cut his food quite precisely and chewed each mouthful at least ten times, before dabbing at his mouth and laying the fork and knife down together at a 4pm angle. Only after all these items were stored in the sink and the kitchen surface wiped down did Alasdair sit at the desk, lift the laptop cover a little and click Open.

  Good to hear from you, K_M, and yes, I’ve also heard that the wand is the ultimate experience. Like Stealth or the Saw at Thorpe Park… lol. I’d love to try, but I’ve promised myself I’m not doing it to myself. I like to give over control, especially when it’s so intense a thrill… does that makes sense? I hope so. As an aside, I took a glance at your page and notice you’re a writer? Weird – it felt like snooping to check out your stories without asking permission, especially as you say that they reveal more about you than your profile does. Silly, I know, but I suppose this is me asking if you’d mind? Megan xxx

  He smiled and closed his computer for the evening. Bait on the hook, he was slowly reeling her in, though he did not like to think of it in so crass a light, this being a two-way process between adults. Nevertheless, she was interested, that was clear, and he knew she’d want a response much more quickly than it was happening. Alasdair rationalised this process as being more like a dance than a game, and when both partners knew the steps, things tended to move swiftly and fairly. He suspected that young, or comparatively young, Megan was probably a whiz on the dance floor.

  It was shortly after this that, freshly shaven, short grey hair brushed back, Alasdair put on his chestnut desert boots, hauled a navy jacket over the blue shirt and jeans he’d been wearing all day and walked out of the front door. Going in to The Royal George, about a fifteen-minute walk away, and a pub he’d frequented for most of his life as a newspaperman in Edinburgh, was the last thing he remembered clearly about the next three days.

  ********************

  As his eyes flickered open and the world around him swam slowly into focus, Alasdair used his experience of gathering snippets to piece together what had happened. Most people might ask where they were, but to him it was obvious from the first glance that this was a hospital, and he knew that the nearest one in his area was the Royal Infirmary, so that was a waste of a question. And so he just looked, soaking in the environment, waiting for the inevitable barrage of information that would come when the staff, currently engaged elsewhere, noticed his new state of consciousness.

  “It’s okay, Mr Hammond…” and his brief peace was demolished by the kindly witterings of a young bird of a nurse; auxiliary maybe – he had not yet unravelled the hierarchical significations of the various badges and uniform colours.

  “You’re in hospital. The Royal Infirmary. Everything’s okay and you’re going to be fine. I just need to check on a few things.”

  His first thought was that it had been a heart attack, like his dad’s perhaps, although he was keenly aware that he was already 22 years older than his father had been when he was wiped out in a few minutes. A few short minutes, his mother had always said; but there must have been nothing short about them for his father as he gasped and heaved through those last moments. It was a thought that had stalked Alasdair from the moment his uncle had broken the news shortly after his tenth birthday.

  “Heart?” he asked, and the flustered look on the nurse’s face as her head shook a quick no brought back fragmented flashes of the evening. Empty pint glasses. Whisky galore.

  Aw fuck… He had no idea where he had been or what he had done, whether he made it home or not; and then he remembered in stark, vivid flickers a roaring conversation with a cab driver, a queue for a train, and somewhere in the fog in his head he was sure he recalled buying or giving at least a flower to a young girl, barely out of her teens, standing in line. Such a pretty wee thing.

  A larger older woman, dark blue uniform, came over briskly as she saw the waking man chatting. “Now, Mr Hammond,” she said, “you mustn’t fret yourself. You’re perfectly healthy, though why a man of your… maturity… would think he can down alcohol like that, I’ve no idea. I’ll phone your charming young son. He’s been here every day, hours and hours. What a relief.”

  Well, that answered some questions. But days? Jesus, how must Lyall have felt? This he pondered knowing he never wanted to hear the answer. He sank deeper into the two pillows behind his head and noticed the drip in his arm; the dam burst, the familiar toxins of guilt and shame flooded over him and, eyes firmly closed, he relaxed into them.

  “Well, no one can doubt your stamina, Da’,” and Lyall was there, looking down, smiling, with eyes that showed how scared he’d been, worry rather than disapproval. “I can take you home in the morning, they say, but I want you to come and stay with us. No quibbling. Just come. But now, you sleep.”

  He kissed his father on the head and Alasdair was instantly dormant, a strange scene like Prince Charming in reverse, with not a princess in sight.

  ********************

  There was no way he was about to inflict himself on Lyall and his wife Lorna’s already complicated domestic universe. With three girls under ten and a mother-in-law living around the corner and prone to “dropping in” with little, if any, warning, an extra presence in the house would only make things harder for them all. More selfishly, he truly didn’t like the idea of having to deal diplomatically with AA leaflets placed helpfully, and with the sweetest of intentions, around the house, waiting to be picked up by their resident needy alcoholic; there had been such subtle hints before, but he wasn’t up to deflecting them now.

  It was time for him to get his act together unaided and Alasdair prayed that his boy would forgive him for not texting him, simply calling a black cab immediately after being discharged, with a return address of his own home. After nodding his way politely through lectures from the doctor and matron, and feeling considerably older than his 66 years, he received a slightly more supportive arm squeeze from the little bird nurse as she helped him into the taxi, and he sank back into the dark vinyl of the car seat and stared purposelessly through the window as the world flew by.

  Grabbing his small plastic bag of accumulated belongings, Alasdair paid the cabbie, included a fair but modest eight per cent tip, and lugged his aching bones towards the main door of Fairbrooke, the block of 47 “semi-independent” flats in which he was the youngest resident. The skies were grey and spitting a little and he tugged his jacket tightly around him, although it might have been easier just to close the zip.

  He didn’t have his key. Normally this was not an issue, for, although it never happened during sober times, Alasdair was prone to leaving many of his possessions – including his key – in many different places, some retraced, others forever lost or gone to new homes, on his more crapulous days. The staff kept a spare and were used to helping him out. Feeling like a sheepish child, he rang the doorbell and counted on the gods smiling on him sufficiently to ensure that it was not Sheila who answered his call. It was.

  “Ah, Mr Hammond,” she said, shaking her short blonde bob despite her best efforts to remain professionally distant, using the formal style of address even though she’d been calling him Alasdair for the six years he’d been there. The two even had what could be described as a slight history, having shared the occasional bottle of wine, several curries and the odd tipsy fondle down the years.

  “Have you got even the slightest clue how much trouble you’ve caused us all? Oh
Alasdair, your boy was just distraught. You can’t keep doing that to him,” and as her guard dropped along with the feigned distance, she hugged him and reached out for the carrier bag. She grabbed a key from a rack in a cupboard in the front office, and they walked silently along the corridor, the sight at the end of which rekindled his shame and added a tinge of disbelief.

  “What happened?” He hated to ask, but this was beyond his ability to work out and better he found out from her than have to wait and ask Lyall.

  “When young Lyall got no response from his texts and his repeated calls after 24 hours, he called the police, who didn’t wait for the spare key, Alasdair… didn’t even ask. They just kicked at the door and the lock went straight away. We just heard this almighty cracking noise and ran. Dougie tried to patch it up for you – you must thank him for it, as it’s not really part of his job – but this was the best he could do,” and she gripped his upper arm a little tighter, before unlocking the door, around which lay splinters of the cracked wood the caretaker had tried to fix up.

  Walking in, he no longer felt like the sprightly elderly chap who’d taken early retirement when his mother’s death left him the owner of two flats, but rather, like an old alkie who was lucky to be alive. Alasdair closed the door, leaving Sheila on the other side. He threw his bag and coat on to his bed, slipped his toes out of his shoes and back into the comforting grey of the worn-out slippers, and thought about the bottle of whisky in the cupboard next to the fridge. Disgust wiped away this idea, and he negotiated past the old bikes, the magazines and associated junk, now added to by splinters of door wood, and into his kitchen.

  Having filled the kettle, lit the gas and got out a large mug, he walked into the living area, where he perched on his large swivel chair, flipped up the lid of the still-on laptop and reached frantically out for his other addiction.

  Megan. What a pretty wee name – Irish, I think? Good to connect with a fellow Celt. Sorry not to get back to you earlier, but I’ve been out of town on business. Tell me, did you read the stories anyway? You can be truthful… remember, Daddy knows when you’re lying. K_M XXX