Black Bodied BeautyChapter 2
- 3 years ago
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Pantry free porn video
Copyright Oggbashan July 2016.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary, the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
**********************
I woke up feeling awful. My head pounded. My vision was blurred. I was stiff and lying on a hard surface slightly softened by a blanket underneath me.
I tried to focus my eyes. I could hear the rumble of a machine. I peered blearily. There was a tumble drier about six feet away on a raised brick plinth across a flagstone paved floor. I tried to lift my head but that was too painful. I moved my eyes as far as I could.
Next to the tumble drier was a washing machine, also in operation. Beyond that was a doorway up a step into a lighted kitchen. I was lying on a light blue blanket on the stone floor. I closed my eyes again and tried to sleep.
+++
I opened my eyes again. The tumble drier had stopped. It had been emptied because its door was ajar. The washing machine was still running. My head still hurt when I tried to move it. I lifted my head slightly and looked through the short corridor into the kitchen. I saw just the flutter of an edge of skirt that went out of my sightline. At least I wasn’t alone. I went back to sleep very aware that I was completely naked.
+++
Some time had passed because the light had changed. The sun had moved around and was shining on the empty washing machine. The sun? There must be a window I hadn’t seen. I lifted my head and shoulders. There was a metallic rattle as I moved. Yes. There was a high window behind me with a thin net curtain.
The rattle? I looked at my hands. They were cuffed together with about eighteen inches of chain between them. Padlocked to that chain was a longer chain leading to a metal bench support. Much of the chain was wrapped around that support leaving me about six feet of slack. Why was I naked, chained to a solid strong point? I needed to piss, urgently.
‘Hello!’ I shouted. ‘Is anyone there?’ My voice echoed against the high arched ceiling.
The noise I had made hurt my head.
‘What is it?’ A female voice said from beyond the corridor.
‘I really need to piss,’ I said, quieter this time.
‘There’s a bucket beside you. Use that. I’m busy.’
I rolled over. She was right. There was a galvanised bucket. I tried to stand. My head was spinning too much. I stopped in a kneeling position and pissed noisily into the bucket. I sat down with my back to a bench support. My head was pounding far worse than any hangover I had ever had. I felt nauseous. There was a sweet smell in the room, a very strong smell of jam. I hurriedly grabbed the bucket and retched over and over into it, my chain clashing against the metal as my hands shook uncontrollably.
I had to concentrate to put the bucket down carefully. I eased myself back against the bench. I was shaking all over and my skin felt clammy. I dragged the blanket towards me and wrapped myself in it as much as I could. It must have been a blanket for a child’s bed. It was far too small. Most of me was still naked. I shut my eyes. That was a mistake. The world started spinning. I opened them again and tried to focus, to see my surroundings. I tried to list everything I could see to try to work out where I could be. It was hard because my brain wasn’t working properly.
The floor sloped towards a central drain. The bench behind me was solidly fixed and ran almost the length of the wall, ending a couple of feet before a ceiling height wooden cupboard. There were a couple of worn wooden stools pushed underneath the bench. The brick plinth opposite was also as long as that wall. On it stood the tumble drier, the washing machine, a stainless steel sink with a cupboard underneath it, and a tall fridge freezer. The electric sockets were at least a foot above the machines, and fed by conduits coming down from the top of the wall. All of that looked out of place in an obviously ancient room. It seemed to be an old fashioned farmhouse pantry.
To my left was a crude shower with two taps on surface piping. It drained towards the centre of the room. One side of the shower was the side of the cupboard which had a plastic sheathing. On the other side of the shower was a four foot high wooden partition and a heavy dark wood door, presumably to outside. There was an iron bar locking the door closed. Above the door was a glazed window. Beside the door was a large brass bell on an ornate bracket. A chain led to a pulley beside the door and presumably to a bell pull outside. I hoped no one would ring the bell. My head wouldn’t like the noise.
Beyond the door were several hooks fixed to the wall with a couple of long raincoats. Below the coats were several pairs of wellington boots.
‘There’s water behind you if you want a drink, or to wash your mouth out,’ she said from the kitchen.
I dragged myself upright, holding on to the bench. There was an old ceramic butler sink with a cold water tap. On the wooden draining board was a white enamel mug. My hands quivered as I half filled it, rinsed my mouth out, rinsed again and drank a couple of mouthfuls.
‘You can empty the bucket in there. That sink’s for dirty jobs like washing wellington boots.’
I was pleased to flush the vomit away and reduce the smell of stale alcohol. I splashed my face with cold water and dried myself with a corner of blanket. The strong sweet smell was still there but I could live with it. The water seemed to have made me feel more like myself, weak and delicate, but less fragile. But why was I handcuffed and chained, naked? I didn’t recognise the room. The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar but who was she? Had she kidnapped me? If so, why?
I tried to remember where I had been last. Yesterday evening, Saturday if it was yesterday, after a micro-waved meal I had gone to a pub about half a mile from home. I had been decorating the spare bedroom, had had a quick shower and dressed in clean jeans and T-shirt. I just wanted to relax for an hour or two and congratulate myself on doing more than I had expected. All I had on me was some cash and my house key — all I needed for a couple of pints. What had happened after that?
Vaguely I seemed to remember a noisy group of people and then some rock music. Did I remember Tracy’s voice? No. It can’t have been Tracy. Where was I? In a field? A field? What field? How had I got to a field from that pub? It must have been an illegal rave. There had been several such events nearby over the last few weekends, annoying the locals and extending our small Police force. But why and how had I got to an illegal rave?
After that, the next thing I knew was waking up in this pantry, handcuffed, chained, naked, and feeling very unwell. I was at some strange woman’s mercy and I had no idea where I was. What was possibly worse, no one else would know either. No one would come looking for me until Monday when I didn’t turn up for work.
No. Not even then. I was on holiday for a week to catch up with house repairs, decorating and just relax. It was my first break for a couple of years. No one would miss me for eight days. I was in real trouble.
At that point she walked into the room. I looked at her and looked again. She didn’t look real. She had a helmet of lacquered blonde hair curling stiffly outward at the bottom, a heavily pan-caked face with bright red lipstick and blue eye shadow. She looked like a woman in a cheap, garishly-coloured magazine advertisement for a 1950s kitchen. Her flowery dress emphasised the 1950s look with a tight bodice strained by her breasts, a full flared skirt several inches below her knee, and a small blue gingham apron. Her legs were in tan stockings ending in white high heels that clicked on the flagstones as she walked.
‘Hello Mike. How a
re you feeling? Better?’
I ought to know that voice but I didn’t know any woman who dressed like this.
‘Slightly. I felt terrible.’
‘I’m not surprised. Last night you were raving and throwing yourself around in fits. I was really worried about you.’
I held up my handcuffed wrists.
‘Why these?’ I asked.
‘Why? I couldn’t control you without them. You wanted to fly, to climb, I don’t know what. I suggested that you needed flying gloves, and you accepted the handcuffs as gloves.’
‘I must have been delirious,’ I said.
‘You were, Mike, you were. Whatever you had taken, it wasn’t just alcohol. At first, when I picked you up, I thought you were just drunk. Later you went berserk, hence the cuffs to protect you, and me.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘I was driving back home when I saw you lying in the road. I only just stopped in time. I was driving fast because I wanted to get home safe, well away from a noisy rave nearby. You appeared very drunk. I would have called for an ambulance for a stranger. I didn’t want to. I was too close to the rave to want to hang around. I recognised you in my headlights. Once I knew who you were I couldn’t leave you in the middle of a dark country road. I helped you into the back of my truck onto a bed of hay and brought you here. I thought you would be sober by the morning and then I could run you back home. But once I brought you in here and turned the light on, it was obvious you were more than drunk. You were spaced out and climbing the walls. You were sick all over your clothes so I persuaded you to strip and stand in the shower.’
‘That shower?’
‘Yes. After the shower you were even worse so I used the handcuffs and chain. I was very scared that you might hurt yourself and perhaps me. Me? Probably not. You tried to behave like a gentleman even stripped naked and out of your head. You kept apologising for your state.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I watched you for a couple of hours until you calmed down and went to sleep. By then it was almost morning so I started doing the washing including your clothes. There was no way you could wear them in the state you left them.’
‘Thank you, again. But who am I thanking? You know my name. I don’t know yours, nor do I recognise you.’
‘Recognise me? I should hope that you don’t. This is my professional appearance, not the real me.’
‘And where are we?’
‘My farm.’
‘What do you farm?’
‘That’s a good start, Mike. You recognise that a farm is productive. OK. It’s a fruit farm, mainly soft fruit but also some orchards. My appearance? This is a trial run for a blog post next week, promoting Rosie’s Country Jams. Meet Rosie.’
‘Do I know a Rosie? I don’t think I know a Rosie.’
‘I should hope not, Mike. Rosie will be a trade name. Wait there just a minute. Oh. And close your eyes until I tell you to open them again. Please?’
‘OK, Rosie, or whatever your name is.’
I closed my eyes. I heard water running in the stainless steel sink.
‘OK, Mike, you can open your eyes now.’
Rosie’s blonde helmet had gone, replaced by short-cut red hair. The thick make up on her face had been removed, showing an attractive spread of freckles. This woman I knew. She was my sister Helen’s friend Anna. Anna’s head on top of the 1950s dress looked odd. Anna usually lived in jeans or dungarees, not in a fitted and flared dress with stockings and a decorative apron.
‘Hello Anna,’ I said. ‘And thank you again for all you did for me last night.’
‘That’s OK, Mike, but I’m still slightly concerned about having a naked man around. I’ll leave the handcuffs on while I make you some breakfast. You probably don’t feel like eating, but you should. I’ll make some porridge.’
Anna left me. I couldn’t follow. I was still chained.
‘Blast!’ I heard Anna say in the kitchen.
‘What’s up, Anna?’ I asked.
‘Your jeans. They’re wrecked. Whatever you were doing last night, your jeans are badly torn including the waist and fly. They need stitching just to hold them together. You couldn’t wear them until I’ve repaired them. I don’t think I’ve got anything you could wear…’
I heard a microwave ping.
‘…Porridge coming up. While you try to eat that I’ll change out of my Rosie dress and see if I can find anything at all to cover your nakedness.’
A half minute or so later Anna brought a bowl of porridge, a jug of milk and a spoon.
‘Eat slowly and carefully, Mike. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
It was an effort to eat that porridge. I sat on a stool by the bench. I took small spoonfuls and washed it down with plenty of water. The handcuffs and chain clanked against the edge of the bench as I ate.
I had to pause halfway through because my stomach was churning. I drank more water, waited about five minutes and started eating again. The pounding in my head was easing but I still couldn’t remember anything more about last night.
I tried to recall what I knew recently about Anna. That wasn’t much. I had seen her briefly Saturday a week ago. My sister Helen had rung me in a panic from a pub. She and Anna had dropped in for a drink on the way back from visiting some other friends. The pub had been invaded by a large group of drunken young men. The men had made unpleasant suggestions to Helen. She and Anna had retreated to the Ladies but the men were waiting outside the door to the toilets. Please could I come and rescue them? I arrived within ten minutes. Helen was right. The group of men were being a real nuisance and half a dozen of them were standing in front of the door to the Ladies. I went outside the pub and rang Helen’s mobile to tell her I had arrived. I went to the door of the Ladies and stood between it and the men.
‘What are you up to, mate?’ One of them asked belligerently.
‘Collecting my sister,’ I replied.
He looked as if he might object until he noticed just how large I am. He and the others walked back into the bar. Helen and Anna emerged. I followed them out to my car and they climbed into the back seat. All I had noticed about Anna was that she was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt. I took them to Helen’s flat. They had climbed out, said their thanks and were gone.
Anna had been at school with my sister. Anna went to our local Agricultural College while Helen went to University. I had known and liked Anna as Helen’s friend when Helen and I were still living at home. Since I had moved out to my own flat I had seen less of Anna. I knew that Helen met Anna frequently and that Anna had boyfriends. If she had been at school with my sister, Anna must be between eighteen months or two years younger than me. I had never seriously considered Anna as a possible girlfriend. She was too close to my sister.
I thought again about Anna. If Helen had asked me to do something to help Anna, I would have done it. I would have even if Anna had asked me directly. I liked Anna and always had. She had been unhappy the last couple of times I had met her with Helen. Now it seemed that Anna was helping me.
I needed to piss again. I used the bucket, emptied it down the sink, and rinsed it out. I washed my hands and dried them on the small blanket before I sat down again.
I remembered something Helen had said. Anna’s boyfriend of a couple of years ago had been a pain. Helen hadn’t been specific but had said that Anna was well rid of him. Helen’s language about him had been unusually strong. I didn’t know his name, or what was wrong with him, but he had gone away and wouldn’t be coming back, whatever that meant. Would Anna want revenge on a shackled Mike for whatever her last boyfriend had done? She hadn’t behaved as if she did. Apart from handcuffing me, she had looked after me when I was incapable of looking after myself. But I was still in an unknown location, chained to a bench, and Anna could keep me prisoner for hours, or days, and no one would kno
w.
Anna came back into the pantry carrying some clothing in her arms.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long, Mike. Your boxers were ripped as well as your jeans. I’ve repaired the boxers, but the jeans might need my sewing machine, wherever I’ve put that. If you stand up, we’ll get your boxers on.’
I stood. Anna knelt down and held open the boxers. I stepped into them carefully. Anna pulled them up and adjusted them. I felt a slight reaction in my groin as her hands brushed my skin. Was that a sign that I was feeling better?
‘I want you to cooperate while I get your T-shirt on. I’ll undo the handcuffs one side at a time, but I don’t want to let you go — yet. OK?’
I didn’t have much choice.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I was worried that someone else might come in and see me naked.’
‘They wouldn’t. We’re a long way from any other property and the outer door is barred. The only person who will see you is me. I wouldn’t have dressed as Rosie unless I knew no one could see me. We are as safe as if we are in a castle. Why not? This was a castle.’
I didn’t absorb the information. I was still confused and embarrassed that Anna had seen me naked and had done so much for me.
Anna unfastened my left wrist and pulled my T-shirt up my arm. She fastened the wrist again and did the same for my right wrist. She pulled the T-shirt over my head. She unlocked the padlock holding the chain to the links between the handcuffs and let it fall to the floor.
‘This was the best I could find,’ she said, holding up what appeared to be denim shorts. I lifted one leg and the other as she put them on my legs.
‘Hands down by your sides, Mike,’ she ordered.
I did, as far as the link between the handcuffs allowed. I should have asked why.
Anna pulled the shorts up further than I expected them to go, up my chest and over my shoulders. It cut into me between my legs because it wasn’t really long enough. She swiftly zipped up the front to show that the shorts were a denim playsuit, and my cuffed arms were trapped inside it. She buckled a wide leather belt that had been hanging from loops on the playsuit. Not only were my arms inside but my elbows were strapped to the side of the body. My hands were squeezed by the legs of the playsuit. Even without the handcuffs, my arms would still be restrained. Why wasn’t I objecting?
‘Nearly there, Mike. You’ll have to wear this dress. It’s all I’ve got that is large enough. Once it’s on we can be more comfortable in the kitchen.’
Anna picked up a long sleeveless denim dress. She threw it over my head, pulled it down, zipped up the back of the bodice over the playsuit, and finally tightened a back tie behind me. Even without the handcuffs I wouldn’t be able to undo the two zips and the belt.
‘Come on, Mike. I’ll make you some coffee.’
‘And how could I drink it?’ I asked, flapping my impeded hands the half inch or so of movement I had left.
‘No problem. Your hands are still shaking. I can hold the mug. Come on.’
I followed Anna from the pantry through the short corridor into the very large kitchen. Although still an ancient high ceilinged room it was a complete contrast, modern, bright and equipped with serious cooking machinery. There were dozens of jars of jam lined up on a work surface. In the centre of a long wall there was an inglenook fireplace partly filled with a gleaming AGA cooker. Either side of the AGA there were armchairs with small tables beside them.
‘Sit there,’ Anna ordered, pointing to one of the armchairs.
I lowered myself gingerly. I had to kick the trailing hem of the denim dress out of the way as I sat down. The chair was much more comfortable than the stone floor or the wooden stool of the pantry. If I hadn’t been restrained I could imagine this would be a pleasant place to sit and watch the kitchen activity.
I did watch as Anna made the coffee. She had changed out of her 1950s dress but she wasn’t dressed as I remembered her. She was still wearing a skirt, a tiered dark blue summer one, over bare legs and sandals. Above the waist she had a white skinny sweater emphasising her prominent breasts, with a deep V-neck showing freckled cleavage. Anna noticed me looking at her.
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