by Fabian Black
“Are all these books his own work?”
“Yes, there’s a few of Anne’s and some of his favourite Wilbur Smith novels, but most are his.”
“Blimey.” I gazed at the rows of titles. “I see what you mean about him being prolific.”
“He could turn out a draft manuscript in a week, a day sometimes. He was amazing.” Tears suddenly filled his eyes. “I hate death. It’s so permanent. You never see people again when they die.”
“Hey,” I rubbed his arm. “Chin up. He sounds like he had a good life doing what he loved to do.”
“You’re right.” He managed a smile.
“So, are you going to tell me about your,” I made finger quotes, “favourite books.”
“They won’t be to your taste. They’re women’s books really, more bustles lace and lavender than guns war and gore.”
“Tell me all the same.”
“You won’t laugh?”
“I give you my word.”
Selecting a book from one of the shelves, a special favourite judging from its dog-eared appearance, Dee-Dee launched into an animated synopsis of it, and of his uncle’s writing history.
It seemed kinks ran in the family. Uncle Desmond had one, not quite in the same vein as his niece Anne, but a kink all the same. He had a spanking fetish. Like most kinks it demanded expression and consequently his early romantic fiction featured dominant heroes and headstrong heroines who always ended up in love with the hero, usually after various trips across his knee to punish and correct their waywardness via the spanking method. The alpha head of household and his tamed and content submissive wife then went on to live happily ever after.
Desmond’s early books (exulting in titles along the lines of Taming the Dowager’s Daughter) were popular, until rabid feminism took the ascendancy and exerted its influence on every level of society. Even fantasy became subject to demands for cleansing of any signs of male oppression and bullying.
Books appearing to promote domestic abuse of women were swept from bookshop and library shelves. Political correctness was in and correctional domestic spanking was out, even in fiction. The dominant hero who subjugated feisty heroines became something of a dinosaur - extinct, or at least disgraced and seriously out of fashion.
Desmond set aside his personal fantasies and proved his versatility by turning his hand to writing romance stories geared to suit modern market trends. Heroines matched heroes in equality both in and out of bed. Any spanking taking place was of the consensual sexual foreplay type rather than the imposed discipline and punishment variety.
Desmond didn’t mind titillating his readers, but drew the line at writing explicit erotica. He was a romantic not a pornographer. Niece Anne took up the cudgel in that respect. She was more hardwired than he ever was, in both her personal and professional life.
When Dee-Dee paused for breath, I asked him about his mother’s books, if he’d read any. It was a question regretted. All animation vanished from his face. He replaced the book he’d been showing me back on the shelf, running a finger down its spine.
“I like uncle Desmond’s stories better than Anne’s. Hers are too extreme. They’re well written, but I find them hard to read, perhaps because I know she’s done all of the things in them. I prefer fiction with emotional warmth rather than just sexual heat. She writes about pure physicality. The focus of her stories is sex, which is fine if that’s what you want. I like sex too, but I also want more than sex. I read to be moved and not just in a hand to genitals way.” He turned his gaze on me. “Do you like reading porn?”
“I have an online shufty through Nifty every now and again, but to be honest I prefer reading a good thriller or crime novel. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with porn or kink. I get why some of it can be a turn on, but I guess on the whole I’m a vanilla kind of guy.”
“Same here. I’m more of a vanilla type too.”
That puzzled me. “How can you claim vanilla status when you’re into spanking.”
“Who said I’m into spanking?”
“Dee-Dee, you’ve just spent the last twenty minutes or so extolling your uncle’s spanking stories and saying how much you love them.”
“So, that doesn’t mean I’m,” he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “into spanking. Being, his fingers waggled again, into spanking usually means you’re in it for gratification, for sexual pleasure and I’m not. If I was then I’d be kinky, but I’m not. Uncle Desmond wasn’t kinky either, not at all. His stories weren’t about sex and kink and they weren’t about abuse either. They were about love and nurture. It’s what I like about them. Kinky sexual spanking and caring discipline spanking are completely different. I don’t want someone to spank me as foreplay to sex. I want them to spank me because they love and care about me enough to discipline me when I’ve done something wrong.”
“As an adult you have to decide what’s right and wrong for yourself, not have someone impose it on you.”
“Even adults need guidance from time to time, discipline isn’t something reserved for children. I like the idea of someone taking charge of me.”
“Did your mother or uncle spank you when you were a child?”
“No, certainly not.”
He looked so indignant I moved to soothe him. “I meant no offence, Dee-Dee, just trying to get where you’re coming from.”
“My uncle said physically disciplining children fell into the same category as hitting an animal, neither has the emotional or intellectual capacity to understand the action on any level other than pain and fear. He said discipline is a concept that can only be understood by adults. In his stories it’s a component of love and care, and not an aspect of kink. It’s a contract of mutual respect between two people in an intimate relationship with one willingly accepting the authority of the other. Corporal punishment is only used when deserved.
“Fair enough.” I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Read some of his books and you’ll understand why I want that kind of relationship.”
I stared at him incredulously. “You seriously want a relationship where someone has carte blanche to hit you?”
“It isn’t hitting. It’s discipline and there would always be a reason for it. It would never be done in a random and abusive way. It would be lovingly administered discipline for my own good, to correct a bad behaviour, not as a sexual activity. Read my uncle’s books and you’ll understand. You’ll see the difference.”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Do I get the rest of the tour now?”
“You mean you want to have a nosey around?”
“Yes please. I want to see how your place compares to mine.”
“All the apartments have pretty much the same layout I think.”
“I’d still like to see.”
“Okay, but no stealing the silverware.”
“Scouts honour, or rather cubs honour, I never made it into the scouts.”
“Why not?”
“Couldn’t be arsed.”
He laughed. “Not much of a pack animal eh?”
“Not much. My sister was a Girl Guide and I reckoned one regimented person in the family was enough.”
His apartment was pretty much as mine was, but mine was better kept. The bathroom displayed evidence of his poverty in the form of sheets of the free local newspaper stacked on the cistern lid. He was obviously using it for toilet paper. It hadn’t done his loo any favours. The white porcelain was stained with black print. I stole a glance at his backside. God knows what state his arse cheeks were in. There was also a stale urinal smell in the air. It spoke of neglect on the cleaning front.
The kitchen was a mess, piled with unwashed pots and, I noted with disgust, there were a couple of black bin bags on the rather handsome granite worktop. He must have lifted them from the resident’s wheelie bin and recycling area to rummage through. They stank.
“Jesus, Dee-Dee, someone should spank you for this me
ss.” Wrinkling my nose I pointed at the bags. “You need to get those back from whence they came before they become a health hazard. They reek.”
“They’re from Wednesday night. I got my supper from them.” He pinked a little. “I’ll do it later. I’ll have a good clean up when I get my hot water fixed and can afford cleaning stuff again. I’m not a slob all the time.”
His bedroom was obviously his domestic hub and was relatively clean and neat, if a little dusty. A wide bench fitted along one wall served as a leisure station. It held his smart new computer along with a flat screen TV set and an Xbox, none of which he could use given his lack of power. There were shelves of DVD’s, books and CD’s. There was a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bedside cabinet. His bed was single and had no bedding on it other than a sleeping bag atop the mattress.
“Sheets and stuff are in the wash,” he explained. “They were getting a bit stale.”
“I see you’ve got company.” I pointed at two soft toy pandas propped at the end of the bed. One had a tatty blue bow around its neck and the other a pink one. Their furry fabric had shiny patches where the nap had worn away.
He picked up panda blue bow. “Jen’s mum gave me this for Christmas when I was six. Anne didn’t do Christmas, so it was nice. I loved it. Jen got the one with the pink bow. We used to play with them together. When she passed away her mother gave it to me for a memento.”
“Her death must have been a hard thing to deal with.”
“It was. I was close to Jen, and her family. For a long time I missed them as much as I missed her. I spent a lot of time at her house. It didn’t seem right to keep going after she died. Her mother and father were devastated, especially her dad. He collapsed at the funeral. It was horrible to see him in such terrible pain. They told me not to be a stranger, but I felt like it was rubbing their noses in the fact I was alive while their daughter was dead, so I stayed away. Never really made friends with anyone afterwards.”
He wrapped his arms around his body. “I think it might have been better if I’d died instead of her. I’d have traded if I could. My mother wouldn’t have missed me as much as Jen’s parents miss her. She was nice, Si, Jen I mean. She wanted to be a vet. Seems like a long time since I saw her. I sit with her sometimes in the cemetery. I can’t see her, but I can hear her in my head, memories I suppose. When I’m with her it’s like I regress to being fifteen, as if to match her, so she has company her own age. She was a bit shy, so she didn’t have a lot of friends, and none who visit her anymore.”
Remembrance took his eyes to a faraway place. It made my throat constrict. He was an oddity. He was forward and yet diffident, knowing and yet innocent. His feet seemed grounded well enough, but the rest had a tendency to wander into a dimension unknown to most of us. No wonder his uncle had considered him unworldly.
Gently taking the bear from his hands I placed it next to its twin. “Thank you for showing me round, Dee-Dee. You can have a proper nosey around my place if you want.”
We returned to his living room come studio. I was curious about his work. “What kind of painting do you do?”
“Whatever inspires.”
“That doesn’t tell me much. Have you ever exhibited?”
“No. I feel it would compromise my artistic integrity. I don’t want to be sucked into the commercial whirlpool so instead of feeling what I’m painting I’m only thinking about how much money I can get for it while worrying about what people will say about it. I paint and draw for me. I do stuff for Anne sometimes, sketches, but I don’t make money from them. I do them because her asking is the only contact I get from her. She doesn’t even acknowledge my birthday.”
I touched his arm in a gesture of silent sympathy.
“I’ll show you something, my latest work, just finished.” Darting across the room he picked up a cardboard tube from the floor, the sort you mail posters in, and took it over to one of the easels. Shaking out the contents of the tube he unrolled it and secured it to the board, using clips at the top and bottom of the easel. “Come see.” He gestured me over.
It was a black and white pencil sketch depicting an explicit bondage scene with a woman and two men. The artwork was stunning, but I was puzzled. “I got the impression you weren’t into this kind of scene?” His reply made my jaw drop.
“I’m not. I just wanted to show you Anne. That’s her with her men, Mark and Adam. She sends photos or video stills from scenes they play every now and again and asks me to make sketches from them. I ship them over to her and she has them framed to dot around their private dungeon rooms or whatever. Believe it or not this is a tame scene compared to some she sends.”
I stared at the drawing. The men were archetypical, butch specimens dressed in black leather chaps, which left a hell of a lot of flesh exposed. One had a heavy leather whip coiled in his hands, the other was holding a dildo. Anne (Dee-Dee’s mother, my mind struggled with the knowledge) lay naked at their feet, her body bound by an intricate network of ropes that contorted it into what looked like an impossible position, graphically displaying her breasts and genitalia.
“How old is your,” I couldn’t bring myself to use the term mother because it seemed grossly inappropriate in the circumstances. “How old is Anne?”
“Somewhere in her forties, though she doesn’t look it. She has the body of someone half her age, and she still has waist length black hair. You can’t see it there because it’s braided up. She’s always been considered a beauty.”
“It’s an amazing drawing, Dee-Dee. The fine detail is incredible. You’ve got some skill with a pencil.”
“Thanks.” He tried to make a smile, but failed. “I hate them, Si.” He fidgeted with his soiled t-shirt. “I hate the photos she sends. I hate the poses in them, the staging. They’re hard and contrived. Look at her, and them.” He pointed at the figures. “Even if real affection exists between them, real love, it isn’t on show here. The only objective is physical gratification. It’s cold, hard sex, and cold controlled orgasm. Sex drives her. It always has. All she thinks about is sex, how to get off. She thinks sex, writes sex, reads sex and lives sex. She’s an addict.”
His eyes darkened as he spoke, looking almost as if he’d slipped those eerie black lenses back in.
“You shouldn’t do them for her, not if it upsets you. She shouldn’t ask you. It isn’t fair. Put it away now. Roll it back up.”
“Sorry, Simon.” Pink roses bloomed in each cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sharing too much again, giving too much information. It’s funny, but I feel like I’ve known you forever even though we’ve just met.” He gave a little laugh, twisting a portion of t-shirt. “I obviously need to get out more and meet people.”
I felt the mundane was called for, boring, safe, and neutral. “I’m hungry, Dee. I’m going to make some dinner. Join me. I’ve got laundry to do too. Bring yours. I might as well sling it in with mine, kill two birds with one slug of detergent.”
Chapter Ten
It didn’t take much persuading to get Dee-Dee to make use of my shower and plentiful hot water while I prepared dinner. I defrosted a pack of lean minced beef in the microwave and then put it in a pan to brown along with some diced onions, grinning and grimacing in equal measure at the sounds emanating from the bathroom. He was singing Abba’s ‘Mama Mia’ and doing a good job of murdering it.
I added chilli spices, cornflour, water, a can of chopped tomatoes and a can of drained red kidney beans to the mince and set it simmering before measuring rice into a pan and covering it with cold water, putting it on to boil.
“Dee-Dee!” I knocked on the bathroom door. “I’m putting a load of washing in. I might as well put your top and shorts in while I’m at it. They could do with a spruce up. May I come in and get them?”
The water turned down a little and he shouted back. “I haven’t got anything else to wear. I can’t sit naked at your dinner table.”
“There’s a bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door you can use. I
t’s no good putting dirty clothes back on after you’ve showered. I’ll get them dry for you to go home in.”
“Okay, thanks, Si.” The water volume increased again and he resumed singing Abba.
Pushing open the door I retrieved his discarded clothing and left him to it. He sounded as if he was enjoying himself. Warm water was obviously a treat after showering in cold water. Cold bathing is no fun, not even in summer.
He didn’t have a lot of laundry, a few pairs of jeans, a collection of t-shirts, a pair of pyjamas, some dingy briefs and socks, a couple of bath towels, some paint stained hand towels and two shabby bedding sets. I smiled. He obviously hadn’t bought any new bedding in some time. Both duvet sets were washed out, one was a candy stripe and the other was printed with Gothic skull and snake images, the type of thing you’d find in a teenagers room. Time and detergent had faded it to something less garish than it would originally have been. I had a hard time picturing him as a Goth or Emo.
I set my walnut dining table (rescued from a junk shop and renovated) with mats and cutlery, pondering on how I’d cope if my mother sent me pictures of herself in explicit pornographic poses. It was a mind-boggling thought. I could see why he called his parent Anne rather than mum or mother. There appeared nothing maternal about her at all. She was a hedonist who seemed to have no connection to anything other than her own core desires. There was nothing wrong with being self-attuned, but she seemed to take it to a level where it excluded all else.
Maybe it was her way of breaking free from the restraints of her Catholic upbringing, swapping one set of bonds for another at the opposite end of the sexual scale. I was suddenly grateful for what had been a relatively ordinary upbringing. Okay my dad hadn’t been around, but mum had always been there, steadfast, loving, and fully clothed.
I was opening a bottle of wine when he entered the kitchen wearing my bathrobe. The mid blue colour suited him. His feet were bare and his hair was towel dried and ruffled making him look sweet and clean, and about eighteen. I marvelled afresh about him being older than me.
