Exploits

by Poppet

  You see, Gary was my first long-term boyfriend. What we did, I just thought, was how it was done. Mr Crabs didn't have time to teach the potato sack how to dance, so when I did learn, I had no idea that I was shacking up with the demon-lord of sexual depravity.

  There were rules. And if I wanted to keep him, I had to abide. If I was disobedient, he managed to make me feel as though I had betrayed him in an all night orgy with every person I could find at a moments notice. I was his puppet. He made me into who I became. I was addicted and lived, breathed, for him. (And my next fix of him.)

  When the rules began trickling between us, I accepted them. I had no reason to question them, or him. No, not for years.

  Rule Number 1:

  The woman serves. That means she gets what she wants. First you give the man what he wants, for as long as he wants it. Then you get to have your say.

  Rule Number 2:

  If the pants are off, fellatio is the introduction. Without it, nothing is going to happen.

  Rule Number 3:

  Always do what he says and we'll get along just fine. Otherwise there's the door. It's over.

  Rule number 4:

  Sex is as vital as water. Without it, a man and his 'loving' demeanour are doomed. Put out, or piss off.

  Rule Number 5:

  Be available when I want you. No matter who died, or is getting married. Your previous life is over. If you want me, then you have to be mine.

  I would do ANYTHING to avoid breaking rule three. This guy was hotter than chip oil and the other girls were going to have me on my feet and ready to please him no matter what. They had balls those girls. Cheeky wenches would phone him, hit on him, all in front of me. I had to get a ring on my finger. And the only way to do that was to give him one made of lipstick, every time I saw him.

  Hence, I discovered a way to make sure he was always happy to see me. He'd pick me up, off we'd whisk into the day. I never knew where we were going, or what we were going to get up to, or with whom. Life was one endless surprise. (Now I hate surprises.) But it always took us at least fifteen minutes to get there. At the first traffic light, that guy looked like he was driving the car, and was alone.

  I'm telling you, how I lived to tell this tale is a miracle. A BJ at top speed in the fast lane on the highway, um, how many laws did I break? But this became my signature move. And he became an expert driver. He was behind the wheel and I was going to ride that highway all the way to the end.

  Which reminds me of that song by Tom Cochrane which sings about life being a highway. It's so apt.

  But instead what I have ringing in my ears is AC/DC - ‘Highway to hell’.

  Chapter 4

  Move over Madonna

  Within the first three months of my seduction, I had gone from ‘hardly ever been kissed’ to ‘let's get it on’. We were inseparable. (What can I say? He was obviously enjoying tutoring me.) I drank far too much alcohol, (he liked me drunk, said it lowered my inhibitions and made me more fun); smoked too many slimline cigarettes, and learned to dance like I was permanently attached to a stripper's pole.

  I learned to head bang to his heavy metal as if I was seducing the gods of rock; I call it the snake dance. Snaking from side to side, but the long blonde hair went too. I learned to pout, was finally given my bedroom eyes, and the master key.

  I also beat all of the other girls to the finish line. I met the parents. He was so strung out I was beginning to fear he would violate me unconscionably if I ‘fucked up’. I had to be the Virgin Madonna for his parents. And I was to be raunchy Madonna Ciccone for him. (Big secret – he was like a double agent. His parents had no clue that he drank, smoked, listened to heavy metal … oh , and was the spawn of the devil.)

  My demure prissy-missy upbringing had me in good stead. I wooed his refined and sweet parents living in their sprawling and expensive home in Groot Constantia, and we were given the thumbs up. Finally, I was moving in with the hottest man this side of the universe.

  His laugh, smile and eyes were seductive. And I have witnessed this charmer seduce friends and work foe alike. He can talk the talk and twist the most resistant mind around his little finger, (or his pen ...oopsy … or his pool cue.)

  * * * * *

  I'm ready for this. My things are unpacked in this refurbished home in Rondebosch. Finally we have our first night alone, legitimately. The candles are lit, dinner is made, the music is on, and I am wearing suspenders, hold up stockings, a camisole, g-string and stilettos. Oh and Van Cleef and Arples.

  Game on!

  So that’s why men wear ties. (Blasphemes like a sailor under breath). Blondie walks through the carved door and doesn't give a damn about the perfect roast waiting for his arrival. He pulls off his silk tie, kicks off his shoes, and targets me like a homing missile. I'm thinking, ‘Oh yay!’ expecting the usual. This was the day my life changed: he had plenty of ties– oh and handcuffs. WITHOUT A FLIPPING KEY.

  Picture this if you will. I am blindfolded with the tie he took off when he got home, his evil grin charming me into compliance. His whims are, after all, my commands. Whatever he wants, he gets. And if he wants me to suck on his toes, I'll do it. He was pretty darned adamant that I could not see anything before leading me off into the spacious boudoir. I am placed on the bed, listening to his chuckling.

  Christmas came early for Gary! I am scolded for wearing so many clothes.Oookay. I went to all this effort, why? No, he must not be displeased. He's torrid when displeased. And he can be pretty ruthless too when he gets that way. In hindsight, he is worse than a woman.

  You know how we get accused of 'sulking' for days? Well Gary had it down to a fine art. He knew there was nothing I wouldn't do to make him a happy man again. So he used this technique to break my mind and every boundary I ever owned.

  I'm stripped in under fifty-five seconds. Then I am tied with more ties to the bed. He thinks this is great fun. I'm not minding it myself. He is a master, and seriously knows how to work it.

  Hang on! "What are you doing?"

  "Having some fun." More baritone chuckling. "How does that feel?"

  "Cold."

  I'm hearing noises. "What are you doing?"

  "Taking my clothes off." The clincher. "Don't you trust me?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then trust me and stop asking questions."

  "Gary, this is hurting."

  He whispers into my ear, "I thought you'd like my present. You look so good in handcuffs."

  Naturally I think this is amusing. So I laugh and relax. But those buggers bite into soft skin worse than piranha.

  He was tireless. I mean it when I say he was like a demon. But, he wanted me on top now, so off came the blindfold. He untied my ankles, and then leaned his toned torso over me to take off the handcuffs – and those bastards weren't going anywhere. Every time he tried to 'unhinge' them, they became tighter. I'm not that into S&M yet, and I'm not enjoying this at all.

  He finds it hilariously funny and pisses off to get himself a beer and a Marlboro. He waltzes back in, sits himself down like the don of the Mafia–(he was such a confident, arrogant prick)– and laughs through the smoky candlelight, "Looks like I'll be eating alone."

  "You're joking, right? Come on Gary. Where's the key?"

  "There isn't one."

  "Haven't you done this before?"

  "Plenty."

  "So? How did you get them off then?"

  "Like I just tried. It usually works."

  I'm beginning to get cold and I'm not having fun anymore.

  He puts his smoke down, rifles through my bag, finds a hair-clip and comes back again. This time I hear a satisfactory click. I hadn't realised my hands had gone numb, until I can move them. My arm muscles are aching.

  (Hello! What is wrong with me? Why do I not stop and think, um, how come this dude can pick handcuffs anyway? Don't fall for refined. Where a man lives, the school he went to, the money he has, none of it gives you any warning about his character.)


  This dear man doesn't offer me a drink, a smoke or a hug. He doesn't care that the roast is drying out. All he does is grab my hair and haul me in for chalking the cue. I have my pride. And there is no way I'm giving my mother the satisfaction of knowing I've just moved in with a sadist.

  So, I'm not leaving. But regret: now that's a word to use. (Okay, I admit it. She doesn't like him. I am stubborn and determined to prove her wrong.)

  Yep, we did every position I know inside that carpeted monochrome bedroom, until 2 a.m. I had my tush thrashed a few times, it seems he likes the satisfying slap of his hand on my skin. Then he decides he wants a massage. Head to toe baby. (And you have to use the talc, not the greasy oil.) Finally at 3 a.m.-ish, we get to eat roast chicken, roast potatoes, baby carrots, gravy, onion, all the trimmings. I am no longer hungry.

  Grrr! He makes all the right noises. Says all the right things. That fishing line has me hooked and the heart angler is reeling me back in. That cocky smile that melts my heart. The possessive way he runs his hand up my chaffed thigh. The way he whispers softly to me as though I'm the only person he could ever care for. I've finished the wine, and I'm doing fine! I am the best cook in the world. The hottest lover. To prove it I get more AC/DC therapy: ‘Got you by the balls.’ Alluding to the fact that I'm IT. THE ONE.

  I'm relaxed. I light his smoke. I light mine. I at least have my satin g-string back on. The scented candles are burning low. When THWAP! That flippin hand connects with my rump again and he says, "Woman, go get me a drink."

  I looked at the burning ember at the end of my cigarette and considered putting it into his eye. But he'd kill me if he lived to find me. (I loved him. I cannot explain to you how much I was willing to live through, because he was hot, delicious, and knew how to mess with my mind.)

  My face is burning with degradation and I'm fighting my reflex to punch him. I am so angry I can hardly breathe.

  He grabs my hand and I lose my balance, ending up in his lap, "I mean that in a loving way. From now on I'm calling you ‘woman’."

  I look at what I consider to be a moment of insanity flirting in his eyes. It's so dim they look charcoal. His hand assertively rubs my thigh, "Oh come on. Don't be so old fashioned. I love you."

  The kiss sealed the deal. Right. From now on, I was nothing more than ‘woman’.

  Chapter 5

  The Coat

  So it's another cold, gusty, depressingly grey and wet winter. And I live to please Gary. In a spurt of what later would be deemed momentary madness, I go out during my lunch hour to my usual snob shop. (Stuttafords in Cavendish Square, if you must know.) I forgot to mention that I like designer clothing. And in winter, I like real wool. (This too will change.)

  Perhaps I have seen too many movies, but I thought it would be a great idea to get one of those long black woollen coats that I can wear when it's freezing. And then I can wear nothing but my sexy underwear and those arousing stilettos underneath it. That should surprise him nicely.

  Finally, I find one that is just perfect. I don't think twice at the money I'm spending. I earned it. It's mine. And anyway, this is completely justified. It's for Gary. (What most men don't know is that flimsy underwear is crazily expensive. I would spend this much on underwear in a month. And he just snaps it off me. So I have to keep on replacing it.)

  I get home after him. And I'm happy as a hornet on a stinging mission, when the scowl from those beautiful blue eyes stops me dead. My stomach starts to tremble. I know it's bad.

  What have I done?

  I can't get that image out of my head. He is beautiful. He has eyes that stop meteors, hair blonder than pollen, and is sculpted to athletic perfection. The owner of the haughtiest dark eyebrows and the most sensuous smile ever owned, by any man, woman or child. But the image of that beauty livid with rage, his tie half undone, a Castle Lager in one hand (bottle), I stopped dead. I didn't even close the front door. I began shivering just from the impact of that angry scowl.

  "Take it back."

  Huh?

  He's advancing, across the plush carpet and onto the white tiles, closer to the front door, and my instinct is yelling at me to RUN. Oh that would work on anyone else but me. I don't run from a confrontation. I run toward it.

  He has the black woollen lapel and is yanking it, "Get it off and get it OUT OF MY HOUSE."

  What the fuck?

  "No."

  "Woman, I won't tell you twice. Don't come back until it's gone."

  This is insane. I thought it would be so sexy, and make him happy. And he’s behaving as though I just brought a boyfriend home.

  * * * * *

  I never got the chance to explain why I bought it. But, I wasn't going anywhere, and it was too late to take my sexy, long black coat, back today. It was the first real fight, and I did not like being dictated to about what I could or could not wear, or how I spent my money.

  What a bad night. One I will never forget. I cooked dinner in silence. I ate in silence. I cleaned up in silence. I was torn. I wanted to fight him, but I didn't. I just kept quiet. Biting my tongue with tears duelling for supremacy. I didn't want to cry from hurt, or fear. I was so bitterly livid, I wanted to cry tears of frustration.

  We drank together in the spacious lounge, reclining in deep chairs and staring at a wide screen LED TV – (he always has to have the latest.) We smoked together. And we went to bed together. When that commanding hand reached for me, for the first time I pulled away. For once, his outer beauty could not hide the beast that lived inside. But no one denied Gary, especially not his woman.

  I didn't know this ... yet.

  I was property. And I had allowed myself to become property, willingly. I woke up sometime between midnight and sunrise. He was taking me from behind as I lay asleep on my stomach. He knew I'd wake up. He did not care. He had a point to make. And he was nailing it home. Now the black sheets seemed fitting. His darkness closed in on me, suffocating the life out of my independent spirit. Holding me down, deriving dominant pleasure by teaching me a lesson I will never forget, all I could feel was the freshly ironed obsidian sheet I was clutching. Silent tears baptising the linen, choking my pride silent.

  (Blame the heating in his home. That's what you get if you go to bed naked. Because he scolds you for having any degree of modesty.)

  * * * * *

  I took the coat back.

  It was the first time I ever returned a purchase. That was the night I should have taken a stand. That was the night, he knew he had the power to dictate and I would blindly, compliantly and without resistance, follow.

  It was a power play. And I chose to lose.

  Chapter 6

  Saturdays Never Change

  Something that happens to all couples, is routine. Saturday was King Day. And my king liked his routine. (I can see I have to explain that. Hello? Every man likes to be the ‘king of his own castle’ ... get it?)

  I am not a morning person. Gary is. As usual my day starts with blaring Metallica. He likes to kick start his day. With metal and beer. The 'Master of Puppets'– (no pun intended)– album is drilling a hole through my hangover, as I make my way to the rambling white kitchen for the drugs to kill the disease. The tiles are icy under my soles as the shining perfection of our state of the art, heart of the home, threatens to blind me with sterile reflection.

  He walks in behind me, beaming with cheer. I am naked. He grabs a fondle and whispers, "What a good woman. Getting up to cook me breakfast."

  Oh! (So, he thinks I got up to serve him?) OOOOOH! (Realisation dawns.)

  THWACK.

  One day I am going to thwack him back with a cast-iron frying pan.

  "I saw a movie once with a broad cooking breakfast in nothing but an apron." The hmmmmm in my ear gets the hint across. I make myself coffee and don the apron. Bacon and eggs coming up, master.

  He yells from the lounge, "Where's my tea, Woman?"

  I make his breakfast with precision, and feel good about his pleasure at being served by a not y
et fully compos mentis me. When he is happy, he's so loving. That's when he smiles, cuddles and gives me a warm happy feeling. He's showered and dressed after eating. He's ready!

  "Hurry up, woman! We're going to be late!"

  "Where are we going?"

  "Out."

  Great. Thanks for clearing that up. So I dig, "What must I wear?"

  "Jeans!"

  I pull on my jeans, my Doc Marten's, over a skin-tight body suit and give my nipples a modicum of decency by covering them with a waistcoat. (Gone are the designer classy days.) I flip my wavy tresses and fluff them out. Grab my smokes, stuff them into my pocket. Put on my sunglasses, and walk to my master.

  … Pause …

  (Catch a wake up! You know you're in a screwball, highball, tea-ball relationship when you have to ask him what to wear!)

  It was a slow poisoning of my taste. Endless criticism, to downright, "I'm not being seen with you dressed like that." And each time, I bought the clothes he wanted me to be in, I wore the clothes he preferred for each occasion. It was often subtle, but it undermined my self-confidence perfectly.

  … Play ...

  The cocky smile says he approves.

  THWACK.

  That manages to successfully catapult me out the door. Two helmets. Right, we're taking the bike then.

  "Why are we taking the bike?"

  "Because you get a nipple stand from the wind and I like to feel you press them into my back."

  Is everything in life about sex?