Oggbashan Stew Pt. 04

Copyright Oggbashan October 2019

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 have realised that I am NEVER going to complete all my part-written stories before I die, so I have decided to upload all the incomplete works as a set so that others could mine them for plot ideas. Despite my copyright notice anyone can complete these stories or use them for ideas. All I ask is an acknowledgement that the story was inspired by oggbashan. I will try to finish some of the longer drafts and part-written sequels which are not included here. Some are no more than the start. Others are longer. This is the fourth part with story titles from 'so' up to the end.

Story 060

Solitude Two

I came back to my senses slowly. My head was throbbing. I had pressure all over my body as if I was wearing a tightly-laced corset from neck to ankles. I opened my eyes and winced at the light. It wasn't a bright light. A dim bulb was far away but any light hurt. I tried to lift a hand to shield my eyes. I couldn't. My hands and arms were immobile bent around under the bench. I tried to say something. I felt the ball-gag. I could lift my head slightly. The pain banged in my head and I felt sore at the neck. I peered along my body. I was helplessly wrapped inside layer after layer of transparent plastic film. Under the plastic I was naked. My breasts were flattened. Heavy straps held my body to a long bench.

My feet were bent over the end of the bench and tied to the outside of its supports. Another tie pulled my knees apart. Cool damp air told me that my pussy was exposed, naked and vulnerable.

'What happened? How? Where am I?' I thought, before 'Who did this to me?'

I tried to scream as I thought 'What will happen to me?'.

A few months ago I had rented a small cottage in a Kentish village. I wanted to get away from my previous life, to recover, to find myself again. The divorce from Keith had been bruising and had affected my work as a lecturer. The college willingly granted me a sabbatical to finish my book on some small details of Tudor merchantile economics. As I was, I wasn't much use to them or to anyone.

My book wouldn't be a best seller but it would be good for my resume. It would add a little new information to our knowledge of the era. I had funding for the book. All I needed was time to write it, time to forget how Keith had hurt me, time to be me.

My landlord, Andrew, was odd. He was a young man, several years younger than I am, and seemed uneasy in his role as landlord. I found out why on my first visit to the village Post Office. He was a nephew of the previous squire. The squire, his wife and both teenage children had been killed in a motorway crash in thick fog. Andrew had been an Army officer who barely knew the squire because of some ancient family dispute. Andrew had attended the funeral in a wheelchair. His parents had emigrated to Australia to be near their daughter and the grandchildren so he was the only family representative there.

His presence had caused some awkwardness. He came by taxi. The taxi driver dropped Andrew at the Church's Lych-Gate and left him there. Andrew couldn't propel the wheelchair himself. Ralph Jones, a churchwarden, had seen him and offered help. Andrew accepted gratefully but Ralph was embarrassed to be a significant part of the funeral. He had been the squire's most vociferous enemy yet he was at the centre of the funeral service as Andrew's pusher.

I asked about Andrew's injuries. I was overwhelmed with information. Some of it was contradictory but I worked out the truth from the rumour. Andrew had been leading a patrol in Iraq. It had been ambushed with a land mine and rocket-propelled grenades. The whole patrol had been killed and Andrew injured. He had been rescued by a tank crew who had heard the gunfire. When the tank arrived they found Andrew firing the patrol's machinegun to pin down the attackers. He had killed a couple of dozen Iraqis and wanted to finish the job despite a missing foot and other injuries. He had tied a tourniquet above his ankle to stop losing blood but when he was taken from the gun he fainted.

Andrew had been awarded a medal and retired from the Army as unfit for further service. He had still been in hospital when his uncle, aunt and children had been killed. He shouldn't have attended the funeral but a doctor's 'No' hadn't stopped him. It had been several months before he had been fit enough to come to the village and move into the Manor House.

Within weeks of his arrival he had dismissed the Squire's steward, Michael Smith. The village approved of that. Michael had been a hard man to the Squire's tenant farmers and cottagers. Michael soon found another job, representing an investment company who owned farmland around but not near the village. The villagers pitied those who now had Michael watching them. They were mistaken. Michael in his new role was a reasonable man. His hardness had been at his late employer's direction. Andrew had arranged for Michael to have the new job, not fired him.

Not everything was sweetness and light. The old squire had been insistent on his rights. Andrew was learning. He wouldn't accept a tale of hardship at face value until he had independent verification. Ralph was one of those who considered that Andrew was as bad as his uncle. A couple of the tales of hardship were genuine and Andrew's cautiousness led some to believe Ralph.

As for me, Andrew's attitude was polite and distant. I thought he could be friendly once I had settled in. I assumed that he was still upset by grief. I wanted a cottage for a few months. He had several empty ones. I could take one as is. He had no money for renovations. He showed me around two or three. It was obvious that he knew no more about the cottages than I did. I took the one that at least seemed waterproof at a fair rent.

The village policeman was openly friendly. PC John Grimes was from another village. He admitted that some of the locals resented him because their home-grown policeman had been appointed to a village on the other side of the county. That was police policy. Friendships and contacts could be useful but they could also get in the way of police work. I think that PC Grimes saw Andrew and I as bastions of law and order without the compromises that the long standing inhabitants had made. The locals knew who the poachers were, who the smugglers were, who to ask for 'goods from the back of a lorry', and tacitly protected them.

In my first few days I had a stream of visitors to my cottage. Most were innocently and openly curious, like dogs sniffing around a stranger. Some were friendly and helpful. A few, a very small number, were hostile to an intruder. I put some of the hostility down to lack of understanding. I am alone, self-supporting and female. Almost everyone in village over the age of eighteen seemed to be paired. I must be a threat and the new Squire was also single. Was I his mistress, installed in one of his cottages as a ploy to disarm criticism?

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Story 061

Tax Affairs

I was just walking out of the staff tea-making room carrying a mug of tea. I could see Hazel coming out of our supervisor's room at the end of the long corridor. Even at that distance I could tell she was unhappy. I ducked back into the room to make her a mug of strong sugary tea. Hazel would need it.

My timing was perfect. As I came out Hazel was there. I handed her the mug. We walked back into our tiny office which had desks for just the two of us.

Hazel sat down opposite me.

"Thank you for the tea, Nigel," she said in a colourless voice.

"That bad?" I asked.

Hazel nodded.

"I'm not ready to be considered for promotion - again. You?"

"The same. What does she expect from us? We are England's acknowledged experts in obscure parts of the tax code. We keep on top of the workload and work harder than many in this building yet we are 'not ready'. I'm nearly ready to quit, to work anywhere else, even privately for tax accountants."

"Me too, Nigel. Last year wasn't so bad. We weren't in range for promotion and 'not ready' didn't matter. This year? There will be people less competent than us who will be going to promotion boards. Some of them will get through and be our seniors. It's not fair."

"It isn't. We know that Rose is a hard marker on assessments but this is the third year we've been marked as competent, nearly outstanding..."

I looked at Hazel. She nodded. I thought she would have had that marking too.

"...but we're not ready for promotion. We should appeal - or transfer elsewhere - or get out of government service altogether."

"I agree, Nigel. I'd like to wait until we know Rose's assessments on Colin and Mavis. If theirs is similar? All four of us should appeal her marking on us for promotion. I don't want to. Appealing an assessment marks one as an awkward bugger."

I was startled. Hazel doesn't use such strong language normally. She was right. An appeal against a supervisor's marking can leave a black mark on the personnel record as someone who is a potential troublemaker. You might win a temporary victory and get considered for promotion but the board would take your appeal into consideration. Appellants had a much lower chance of success at a promotion board. Maybe one in ten appellants succeeded in getting promotion. Those who were recommended by their supervisor had a nearly fifty/fifty chance of promotion.

Hazel took a deep swig of her tea. She put the mug down hard, so hard that the tea nearly slopped out.

"Bitch!" Hazel hissed. "Sexless and embittered bitch! She needs a good fucking before she can appreciate the staff she's got."

I blinked. I had never heard Hazel be so direct.

"I'm not volunteering..." I said.

Hazel laughed outright.

"No. I didn't think you would. Someone should - soon. But who would take Rose on?"

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Story 062

Trash The Dress

Introduction

There is an odd modern tradition for some brides to trash their wedding dress after the wedding. I think the rationale is that the gown is the most expensive item of clothing they will ever wear, and that after the wedding it is useless. Suggestions that a wedding dress could be adapted to be a ball gown are made but rarely work. Dry cleaning a wedding dress is very expensive. Even if cleaned, what will happen to it? If offered for sale on eBay it probably wouldn't repay the cleaning cost. Stored in a wardrobe it takes up considerable space but will probably never be used.

Trashing the dress can be a memorable event in itself, a celebration of the end of the wedding event, and a statement that the bride has married for life. Even if she isn't, she wouldn't wear the same gown for a second wedding.

There are several ways to trash a wedding dress. This story is about what a group of women friends did to their dresses after their weddings.

1. Water Melanie

Melanie was the first of our group to get married. Her parents were managers of a small hotel. They had lost their house after setting up a clothing shop when Melanie's father had been made redundant. The business had been doing well, as the only women's clothing shop in the town until two national chains opened within months of each other. Her parents' shop couldn't compete on cost or range. The bank foreclosed, and the family home was repossessed because it had been used as collateral.

2. Paint

3. Mud

4. Transvestite

5. Bondage

6. Bury

7. Burn

8. Sugar Daddy

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Story 063

Trust

"Jeff? It's Dave from the auction."

"Yes, Dave. What can I do for you on a Saturday morning?"

I'm a part-time dealer in small antiques. My main source is the local weekly auction. I sell on eBay. That is why I only buy small items. Transport or delivery costs for larger things would be unprofitable.

"I've got a problem, Jeff. Remember Ray and Maria, the young couple killed in a car accident?"

"Of course. And..."

"I'm clearing their house. Their only UK relation is Maria's grandfather..."

"The Methodist minister?"

"Yes, Jeff. The retired Methodist minister who hadn't spoken to his granddaughter for years."

"OK. What do you want from me, Dave?"

"I've got to clear the house by Sunday evening. It's going to be hard to do everything by then but I've got a problem. The cellar has been converted to a fully-equipped dungeon. I can't sell the contents at the auction. I daren't let the grandfather know. He's coming to inspect the property on Monday morning. Everything in the dungeon has to be gone before then. Could you?"

"Why me, Dave?"

"You've bid for some sexual items in the past, as did Rose. Rose has moved away. You're the only one I can trust to remove everything and keep quiet about it."

"OK, Dave. How much?"

We haggled for a few minutes. I wanted to be paid for removing everything. He wanted to sell it to me, sight unseen. He gave me an indication of what was there. I agreed to pay him twenty pounds and empty the cellar by Sunday lunchtime.

If my girlfriend Sandra hadn't been away for the weekend I couldn't have helped Dave. She knew, as the whole village knew, that Ray and Maria had been involved in unusual practises. They had been on the way to a BDSM-themed marketing event and when their car was hit by a heavy truck. They were killed instantly. Maria's contact with her grandfather had ended when she had appeared in some online BDSM videos and someone had sent a link to him. He was reasonably broadminded for a minister but even he was shocked by the content.

If Sandra, or anyone in the village, knew I was buying the contents of their dungeon? I might have an ex-girlfriend.

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I started up my ancient panel van that I used for larger collections, and drove it out of the former stable yard next to my house. I use some of the old stables and tack rooms to store my stock. Recently I had emptied another room. I hoped it would be large enough for whatever was in the dungeon.

I reversed into the car port beside their house. I hoped we could load up without being seen by the neighbours. Dave was waiting for me.

"It might take two trips, Jeff," he said. "Brought any tools? Some things will need dismantling."

"Yes. Can I have a look first?"

"Sure. This way."

There was a side door into the house just behind the car port. The access to the cellar or dungeon was under the stairs. In the cellar the obvious things were the two wooden crosses, the table, bench or rack, and a couple of heavy wooden chairs with shackles attached. They all looked as if they could be taken apart because they were bolted together.

I had brought some chalk to mark the pieces. I took many photos of every piece of equipment before marking them with the chalk and repeating the photos. The bench I marked 'Bxx'. The chair? 'Cxx' and so on. While I was doing that Dave was carrying cardboard boxes upstairs and loading them in the van. They all had labels from the same company. One or two had been opened but most were sealed. Four of them were over six feet long and nearly four feet wide. They were light but awkward.

I went upstairs to get my spanners. Dave told me that the boxes were all BDSM related and that the couple might have been local agents for the company. There were no outstanding invoices or debts. Their solicitors and insurance company had wound up all their affairs. Once the house was cleared and sold their wills would split the proceeds equally between the grandfather, the Ray's sister and Maria's mother. The sister and mother now lived in Australia.

There was an old computer with a CRT monitor and some equally old CCTV cameras.

"Don't you want those, Dave?" I asked.

"No. The computer wouldn't sell and I don't want to know what is on its hard drive. The cameras are clunky. I could sell those either. They're all yours to take away."

Dave was wrong. It wasn't two trips. It was three before the cellar was empty and showing no signs of having been a dungeon. The only odd thing left was a long plank attached to the wall that had many hooks on it. When I arrived each hook had a selection of handcuffs, chains, straps and whips. Now the hooks were empty.

Early that evening Dave and I sat in the kitchen with takeaway food.

"Can you take the odd clothes as well?" he asked.

"I suppose so. What odd clothes?"

"There are dresses no one would wear on the street, bondage if you know what I mean..."

When we had finished eating he showed me what he meant. There was a fitted wardrobe in a spare bedroom full of long gowns that had straps in unusual places. In the drawer unit were corsets and other peculiar underwear in various sizes. I loaded all the clothing Dave didn't want.

As I drove back home I wondered whether I had bought myself more trouble than the twenty pounds was worth. What could I do with bondage equipment? I shut and padlocked the door to the overfilled room. I'd think about the contents later.

That night I had a dream about using some of the bondage furniture on Sandra. It soon changed to Sandra using the items on me.

When I woke up on Sunday morning I remembered some details of the dream. Sandra had tied me down on the bench before gagging me with her used panties. She had tied one stocking around my head to hold the panties in place, and hooded me with another stocking.

It got me thinking about my relationship with Sandra. BDSM needs trust between the participants and a safe word or signal. Did I trust Sandra enough to allow her to tie me up? Did I trust myself to make Sandra my helpless victim without going further than she would want me to go?

The answer to both questions was - I didn't know. That worried me.

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Story 064

Vore Fantasies

We were sitting in the reception area of my uncle's industrial unit. We had takeaway pizza and some beers. We had spent a hard day helping the auctioneers sell and clear the abandoned Lazer Tag equipment left when the company went bankrupt owing Uncle Fred thousands of pounds in unpaid rent. The liquidation might pay him ten pence in the pound after other debts had been paid.

He had offered the building to the four of us. We thought we could open it as a night club fitted with Caroline's inflatable sex toys. The industrial estate had problems with parking vehicles during the day but there was ample space in the evenings. The whole industrial estate was accessed from a junction on a major road with no residential property nearby. Noise and traffic in the evenings wouldn't upset anyone.

The partitioning that had been part of the Lazer Tag environment would work for Caroline's entrapment machines. It was laid out like a maze but with emergency exits in each room leading into well lit internal corridors that were also the fire exits. We had worked out that the capacity could be about one hundred people simultaneously. The fire brigade suggested that we could get permission for a maximum safe capacity of one hundred and fifty. That would be too many for the devices to accommodate.

Uncle Fred owned the whole industrial estate and several others within a twenty mile radius. This one was perhaps the least profitable for him but he used it for starter businesses. If the business succeeded it could move to a larger unit on another of Uncle Fred's sites and several had. The Lazer Tag business had been poorly run. The idea was sound. The operators were enthusiasts but had little business sense.

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Story 065

Wedding Coach

Our local Riding School owns a Wedding Coach, a filigree ball-shaped silver coach designed for those who want Big Fat Weddings. If she is wearing a normal size gown, the bride can arrive in the Wedding Coach with her father and bridesmaids. It can carry up to six people inside and be drawn by two or four horses. The coachwoman sits at the front, and two footmen, actually footwomen, dressed in white tails, stand at the rear.