of sea mists and (cyber) cityscapes...

September 2013

Here, in this place, and at this time, there is only the lull of the waves - barely breaking on the slight tide – and making no impact at all on the settled calm of this unsettling little village. (Or it is only the illusion of calm that is preserved.) It has been two weeks since I left the city, and it already it feels as though I have been away far too long. Soon, I ponder, this village will hold no more secrets from me at all – or me from it.

I had my doubts, of course, that this village had very much to hide from me in the first place. Perhaps, behind the heavy curtain of the Anyone-Inn – and unknown to me - the landlady was actually distributing hand-jobs to the last drunks still in their stools. If so would her husband stay to watch? Was he the sort of man who took pleasure in watching his wife pleasuring other men? Or would the joy have gone all out of it by now? He might prefer to leave her to it. Would he sleep soundly, and rise early to wipe away the stains from the barstools, and rinse out the glasses, and change the barrels that needed changing? Was that how it was, past mid-night, behind the curtains of the Anyone-Inn? Looking down over the moonlit and neatly kept little beer garden – pots of pansies and hyacinth – it did seem rather unlikely.

It is a village that smells of the sea, diligent husbands, and conventional wives. All three scents are unfamiliar to me.

Behind my own curtain - and a thousand miles away - Ms J waits impatiently for my return. We are strangers who happened across each other in a very different sort of village. (I detest the term ‘Global Village’, but, in this case, it would seem… applicable.) The Internet is not my usual medium, but an old ‘pupil’ of mine had recommended that Ms L contact me.

“My cunt aches and weary numbness pains my soul...!” she wrote.

It was not a very formal sort of introduction. But I have always had a soft spot for Keats, and there were few enough other distractions available to me at the time. Besides, Ms J seemed sincere in her desire to communicate with me further. In part she had been inspired, she said, by something that I had once written on the nature of involuntary arousal. (An article, I seem to remember, that owed a great deal to the observations of Pavlov: as dogs can be conditioned to salivate at the mere sound of a bell, so, we humans, can be conditioned to a state of arousal by the same means. It was not a particularly original essay.) Ms J wrote that she had been suffering of late from ‘control issues’, and was genuinely afraid of what she might be do. Her behaviour, she explained, had recently become… reckless.

“I have a reputation to preserve,” she wrote.

“A woman in my position can’t afford to be… as indiscrete as I have been of late. I’m told you might be able to help me.”

I dragged lightly on my cigarette (not the worst of my habits I assure you), and contemplated the sounds of the slackening sea. It had all seemed so seductive - the idea of retreat. For years I had longed (or so I thought) to escape the restless city – to find myself a place in the world that was at peace with itself. In some ways I had even longed to be rid of women - for a while at least. Now, after only two weeks of this village, I am more restless than the city ever was.

One thousand miles away, and on a screen less than a few feet from my face, Ms J floats, almost disembodied, in a strange amber light. Like a puppet she allows herself to be manipulated. I take her strings, and I play her lightly to begin with. With no opportunity to administer actual physical chastisement, I concentrate instead on her capacity for humiliation. Online training is new to me, but self-imposed exile alters how one goes about things. To begin with Ms J proved extremely malleable, and the exercise was not entirely unarousing. However, we had barely begun and i was already growing frustrated by the limitations of this form of communication.

I found that I missed the scents, and flavours too much. I missed the heat, and the immediacy of the shared moment. I missed the direct physical connection. I missed the sense of being in complete control.

I missed the city.

Because I tell her to - and because she needs to find some form of immediate release - Ms J fucks herself with her fingers. She is mute, and vague, and seems removed by far more than just those thousand miles. I am nothing to her but a voice. It occurs to me, eventually, that direct instruction is becoming counter productive. She is too indistinct, and too distant, to permit me to properly read her body - much less her mind. Her eagerness to comply only makes her seem all the more detached. This is not how I would normally train one of my pupils. I cannot see how I can possibly hope to help her when we are so hopelessly disconnected.

“You can stop now,” I tell her.

Ms L looks puzzled, wondering perhaps if she has displeased me in some way. I assure her that she has not.

“I want to try something else,” I say.

I tell her to lie still, and to just listen. There will be no more instructions. Instead I will read to her extracts from my ‘Book of Moments’. I have always made it a habit to write down something about my encounters with women. Over the years I have accumulated a substantial volume of notes, and observations. Some of these I have even worked into stories of sorts. I have no great faith that it will work, but it is all I have.

“Just listen,” I say.

I tell her to close her eyes, and to let the words wash over her. From that point on she should do nothing that she is not inspired to do for herself. As I continue to read I am pleased to observe that the quality of Ms J’s concentration alters for the better.

“And J.B. opened her cunt to me, and offered herself up to those stinging blows. Supple as the birch, she undulates, whipping her hips upwards to meet all the exquisite little agonies. Soon her inner thighs, and vulva, are striped pink with welts, and her wetness flows over her swollen lips, and almost swirls in the deep inviting dips of her. And then I pull her cunt-wet mouth onto my cock, and I forced myself over the untamed quiver of her tongue….”

For almost an hour I read. Ms J hardly appears to move at all. The orgasms, and there were five I believe, are almost imperceptible. But this doesn’t seem to make them any less intense. And, while her body seems almost eerily still, I can sense (even over that great distance) that her mind is far from motionless. For a while we are as almost one thing - and all the miles have melted away.

I read steadily from my ‘book’ until Ms J is spent, and can no longer keep herself afloat. When she sinks, at last, it is into a deep sleep, and I leave her to it.

The next day Ms J writes to tell me that when she woke, her bed was so wet that she was convinced that she must have pissed herself at some point. Perhaps she did.

“And everything aches,” she adds.

“Everything…!”

Such is the power of words, I thought.

Outside my window, the village continues at its own monotonous pace. The sea seems incapable of breaking its own dull rhythm. A thousand miles away, a woman I have never met, writes to thank me for an act committed on another woman, in another place, and at another time altogether. I am not sure how I feel about that. I have never thought of myself as having much potential as a ‘cyber-sexual’. But even old dogs, as they say, have to learn new tricks now and again.

Perhaps village life would not prove as… remote as I had first feared.

[original blog submitted Sept. 2013 – since re-worked.]

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