anarchistic_masochist
08-07-2010, 10:57 PM
Yes, I've put this in the "Stories" section, as this is fiction told from my personal point of view. The male protagonist is also a figment of my imagination! The situation, i.e. being arrested for fighting while drunk is totally made-up. I've never been on the wrong side of the law! Yet, hopefully, this story will seem very real! The emotions are very real....
Read and enjoy...
Drunk and Disorderly
“Now you just stand there with your hands on your head and think about what you’ve done, young lady!”
I stood contritely in the corner of Mark’s spacious front room; the curtains to my immediate right were shut, despite it being midmorning. Privacy and discretion had always been his watchword, but it was usually in the evenings that we engaged in consensual CP play. Yet this was no ordinary session.
My head spun and I tried not to groan with the pain that engulfed my head. My brain felt like it was throbbing and little wonder, considering the ridiculous amount of alcohol I had consumed the night before. This was not the reason for why Sir felt it fit to punish me; it had more to do with the fact that in my intoxicated state, I had been embroiled in a brawl involving two females and a male, narrowly escaping a bottling by said male; I remember that much. Then I found myself being pounced on by several police officers and the next thing I knew, I was sitting cold, alone and frightened inside a tiny police cell, my ears ringing from the screams of abuse from neighbouring, less co-operative occupants.
Mind still addled with drink, I used my last semblage of sense and texted Mark. I knew I’d live to regret it and that he’d go absolutely nuts but it was better than facing prosecution. Unbeknownst to me, he had leapt into his car and drove up to the police station as fast as he (legally) could, as he never text back to inform me that he was on his way. Maybe that was a deliberate ploy to make me sweat a little longer, I could not tell, but what I did know was that I had been issued with a Fixed Penalty Notice – an on-the-spot fine and I was informed that I was being detained for the minimum of four hours for my own safety. I couldn’t pay the fine and I was panicking big time. Eighty quid! Where the hell was I going to find that? I did not want to face the prospect of being up before a Magistrate’s Court! Having never fallen foul of the law before, this prospect terrified me.
Then, as Mark informed me, he had marched into the station with a face like thunder, had paid the fine and assured the police that I would be safe and would certainly not be back out on the rampage. “Oh yes officer, I’ll see that she never does anything like this again.” After my subsequent release, I felt a combination of relief and dread when I saw him, his face one of pity, anger and disappointment. The demon of drink was well and truly exorcised and had left gnawing, unceasing guilt as its calling card. Nausea gripped my stomach. He drove me back to his house without saying a word. I did remember feeling confused; why didn’t he drive me home? I didn’t dare ask him.
******************************************
I was awoken at around 11am and I sat upright with a start. Here I was, in a strange room, with Mark stood at the foot of the bed. A pint of ice-cold water stood on the bedside table; he always gave me a glass of water before proceedings. A familiar outfit was also draped over the easy chair that was situated in the corner. I could tell that it had been freshly washed and ironed that very morning as the smell of fabric softener diffused throughout the room.
He yanked the curtains open with a flourish. God knows how long he had been standing there. I shielded my eyes from the painful glare of the sun.
“Ahhhhhh…..my head hurts!” came the anguished lament from the human wreckage that was strewn across Mark’s spare bed.
“It will be more than your head that will be hurting very shortly, young lady.” His voice was dangerously quiet and crackled with menace.
“Mark…?”
“Don’t you ‘Mark’ me!” It was just as well that he was now standing in silhouette, as the daylight’s rays of righteousness seemed to give him an almost ethereal air. It was almost a relief not to see his livid face. Rage bubbled silently under the surface of his skin. I had never seen him like this. Ever. He was convincing enough in role-play when he was chastising me for offences, both real and invented but now I could feel his gaze burning my skin with such anger and such…contempt.
“I am totally disgusted and utterly ashamed of you, Cherry!” he began. I shrivelled and shivered at his words. Already, I could feel hot, stinging tears of remorse prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Yet, despite myself, I found myself driving all the way to Coventry at God knows what time. I had to abandon my football match, did you know that?” The question was of course, rhetorical. I tried to answer him anyway but words froze in my throat. “No, of course you didn’t. You were far too busy, drinking yourself stupid and winding up in a brawl. To compound this, you end up thrown in police custody for good measure! Arrested! I ask you!” His frame became agitated as his right index finger stabbed accusingly in my direction, seemingly puncturing my heart with every rebuke. “I must be stark, raving mad…” He paused. “I should have left you there to rot. And yet, for some reason even unknown to myself, I bail you out…. eighty quid! Eighty quid you cost me!”
My face was painted with an imploring expression. I wanted to fix things. Make them right again. Regain some form of normality where we could talk about music and poker and beer. He’s going to hate me and won’t want to speak to me ever again. The thought made me weep.
“I’ll pay it back! I’ll…” My voice trailed off.
“Too right you’ll pay young lady, but you can keep your money. You can start repaying me by having a shower and putting on the clothes I have provided for you.” He waved his hand, vaguely indicating said garments and moved out of the glare. Now he was plainly visible. I could no longer meet his gaze. I stared at the duvet, absolutely frozen with fear. He then motioned for me to don the “compleat” schoolgirl outfit that he had so lovingly prepared for me: knee high white socks, white cotton panties, grey pleated skirt, starched white blouse, black blazer and a grey and white striped tie. The schoolgirl scenario was his favourite fantasy; he knew it was clichéd but he didn’t care, a definite pigtails and panties man. “Then you will take your water and come downstairs, knocking on the lounge door in the usual manner. Understand?”
I bowed my head contritely. “Yes Sir,” came the reply.
He made to leave but I caught his attention with a pertinent question. “Sir, why did you come and bail me out? Why didn’t you just leave me there?” He paused and his face melted a fraction. My heart leapt and I felt the tiniest glimmer of hope rise out of the pit of shame, guilt and despair that I had dug for myself. He sat down on the bed and held my hand. I never failed to be struck by how unusually soft his hands were. Maybe he used Fairy Liquid to wash his dishes.
“Believe it or not Cherry, I have grown rather fond of you. I’ve enjoyed playing with you.” He always used the word “play” to describe our CP sessions. I visited him about every two weeks to feed my twisted and kinky addiction. By this time, I would be aching for serious corporal correction; to be made to squirm as I was given the mother of all lectures; made to cry until I couldn’t cry any more, whether it is from the shame of being made to bare myself and submit to the ministrations of whatever implement that had been chosen, or from the pain itself; to be made to cum by his magic fingers and to be given the release that I had craved for far too long. Send me into the blissful state of subspace and let me stay there for as long as possible. No, no, don’t drag me back into the real world, the world of work and bills and drudgery. I want to stay here….
My reverie was broken by his soothing words. “I have seen your confidence soar and you’ve really come out of yourself. I simply had to come and help you.”
“Oh, Sir…” my voice trailed off. The tears started to flow again; bitter tears of utter remorse. I had betrayed him. The guilt was killing me. I knew Mark could sense this. He even gave my hand a squeeze.
“You’re too soft, Sir.” I even smiled at this point, blinking away the brine. This fraction of time was totally devoid of the brittle eggshell awkwardness that had pervaded the air just two minutes previously. We were friends again.
The word “soft” broke this spell of tenderness and he instantly reverted to his original state of harsh austerity. He rose off the bed and made his way to the door.
“I’m so sorry, Sir…” came a whimper.
“You will be. Now get out of bed and do as you’re told. I’ll be waiting. You’ve got half an hour.”
With that, he was gone.
Read and enjoy...
Drunk and Disorderly
“Now you just stand there with your hands on your head and think about what you’ve done, young lady!”
I stood contritely in the corner of Mark’s spacious front room; the curtains to my immediate right were shut, despite it being midmorning. Privacy and discretion had always been his watchword, but it was usually in the evenings that we engaged in consensual CP play. Yet this was no ordinary session.
My head spun and I tried not to groan with the pain that engulfed my head. My brain felt like it was throbbing and little wonder, considering the ridiculous amount of alcohol I had consumed the night before. This was not the reason for why Sir felt it fit to punish me; it had more to do with the fact that in my intoxicated state, I had been embroiled in a brawl involving two females and a male, narrowly escaping a bottling by said male; I remember that much. Then I found myself being pounced on by several police officers and the next thing I knew, I was sitting cold, alone and frightened inside a tiny police cell, my ears ringing from the screams of abuse from neighbouring, less co-operative occupants.
Mind still addled with drink, I used my last semblage of sense and texted Mark. I knew I’d live to regret it and that he’d go absolutely nuts but it was better than facing prosecution. Unbeknownst to me, he had leapt into his car and drove up to the police station as fast as he (legally) could, as he never text back to inform me that he was on his way. Maybe that was a deliberate ploy to make me sweat a little longer, I could not tell, but what I did know was that I had been issued with a Fixed Penalty Notice – an on-the-spot fine and I was informed that I was being detained for the minimum of four hours for my own safety. I couldn’t pay the fine and I was panicking big time. Eighty quid! Where the hell was I going to find that? I did not want to face the prospect of being up before a Magistrate’s Court! Having never fallen foul of the law before, this prospect terrified me.
Then, as Mark informed me, he had marched into the station with a face like thunder, had paid the fine and assured the police that I would be safe and would certainly not be back out on the rampage. “Oh yes officer, I’ll see that she never does anything like this again.” After my subsequent release, I felt a combination of relief and dread when I saw him, his face one of pity, anger and disappointment. The demon of drink was well and truly exorcised and had left gnawing, unceasing guilt as its calling card. Nausea gripped my stomach. He drove me back to his house without saying a word. I did remember feeling confused; why didn’t he drive me home? I didn’t dare ask him.
******************************************
I was awoken at around 11am and I sat upright with a start. Here I was, in a strange room, with Mark stood at the foot of the bed. A pint of ice-cold water stood on the bedside table; he always gave me a glass of water before proceedings. A familiar outfit was also draped over the easy chair that was situated in the corner. I could tell that it had been freshly washed and ironed that very morning as the smell of fabric softener diffused throughout the room.
He yanked the curtains open with a flourish. God knows how long he had been standing there. I shielded my eyes from the painful glare of the sun.
“Ahhhhhh…..my head hurts!” came the anguished lament from the human wreckage that was strewn across Mark’s spare bed.
“It will be more than your head that will be hurting very shortly, young lady.” His voice was dangerously quiet and crackled with menace.
“Mark…?”
“Don’t you ‘Mark’ me!” It was just as well that he was now standing in silhouette, as the daylight’s rays of righteousness seemed to give him an almost ethereal air. It was almost a relief not to see his livid face. Rage bubbled silently under the surface of his skin. I had never seen him like this. Ever. He was convincing enough in role-play when he was chastising me for offences, both real and invented but now I could feel his gaze burning my skin with such anger and such…contempt.
“I am totally disgusted and utterly ashamed of you, Cherry!” he began. I shrivelled and shivered at his words. Already, I could feel hot, stinging tears of remorse prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Yet, despite myself, I found myself driving all the way to Coventry at God knows what time. I had to abandon my football match, did you know that?” The question was of course, rhetorical. I tried to answer him anyway but words froze in my throat. “No, of course you didn’t. You were far too busy, drinking yourself stupid and winding up in a brawl. To compound this, you end up thrown in police custody for good measure! Arrested! I ask you!” His frame became agitated as his right index finger stabbed accusingly in my direction, seemingly puncturing my heart with every rebuke. “I must be stark, raving mad…” He paused. “I should have left you there to rot. And yet, for some reason even unknown to myself, I bail you out…. eighty quid! Eighty quid you cost me!”
My face was painted with an imploring expression. I wanted to fix things. Make them right again. Regain some form of normality where we could talk about music and poker and beer. He’s going to hate me and won’t want to speak to me ever again. The thought made me weep.
“I’ll pay it back! I’ll…” My voice trailed off.
“Too right you’ll pay young lady, but you can keep your money. You can start repaying me by having a shower and putting on the clothes I have provided for you.” He waved his hand, vaguely indicating said garments and moved out of the glare. Now he was plainly visible. I could no longer meet his gaze. I stared at the duvet, absolutely frozen with fear. He then motioned for me to don the “compleat” schoolgirl outfit that he had so lovingly prepared for me: knee high white socks, white cotton panties, grey pleated skirt, starched white blouse, black blazer and a grey and white striped tie. The schoolgirl scenario was his favourite fantasy; he knew it was clichéd but he didn’t care, a definite pigtails and panties man. “Then you will take your water and come downstairs, knocking on the lounge door in the usual manner. Understand?”
I bowed my head contritely. “Yes Sir,” came the reply.
He made to leave but I caught his attention with a pertinent question. “Sir, why did you come and bail me out? Why didn’t you just leave me there?” He paused and his face melted a fraction. My heart leapt and I felt the tiniest glimmer of hope rise out of the pit of shame, guilt and despair that I had dug for myself. He sat down on the bed and held my hand. I never failed to be struck by how unusually soft his hands were. Maybe he used Fairy Liquid to wash his dishes.
“Believe it or not Cherry, I have grown rather fond of you. I’ve enjoyed playing with you.” He always used the word “play” to describe our CP sessions. I visited him about every two weeks to feed my twisted and kinky addiction. By this time, I would be aching for serious corporal correction; to be made to squirm as I was given the mother of all lectures; made to cry until I couldn’t cry any more, whether it is from the shame of being made to bare myself and submit to the ministrations of whatever implement that had been chosen, or from the pain itself; to be made to cum by his magic fingers and to be given the release that I had craved for far too long. Send me into the blissful state of subspace and let me stay there for as long as possible. No, no, don’t drag me back into the real world, the world of work and bills and drudgery. I want to stay here….
My reverie was broken by his soothing words. “I have seen your confidence soar and you’ve really come out of yourself. I simply had to come and help you.”
“Oh, Sir…” my voice trailed off. The tears started to flow again; bitter tears of utter remorse. I had betrayed him. The guilt was killing me. I knew Mark could sense this. He even gave my hand a squeeze.
“You’re too soft, Sir.” I even smiled at this point, blinking away the brine. This fraction of time was totally devoid of the brittle eggshell awkwardness that had pervaded the air just two minutes previously. We were friends again.
The word “soft” broke this spell of tenderness and he instantly reverted to his original state of harsh austerity. He rose off the bed and made his way to the door.
“I’m so sorry, Sir…” came a whimper.
“You will be. Now get out of bed and do as you’re told. I’ll be waiting. You’ve got half an hour.”
With that, he was gone.