August 16 th
My first encounter with Christmas decorations in a DIY shop while browsing for rope. I feel this is a bad omen. Brings back memories of previous Christmases, most of which I would rather forget. Perhaps I should retreat to Nepal this year to avoid the whole thing. Milk some yaks. Spend time in a monastery with lots of monks. Monks have always had a slightly pervy aura for me – thoughts of deep stone dungeons. And for some reason, in my mind the monks are always wearing shiny black leather habits with the hoods pulled up, their leering faces in shadow as they advance slowly, holding out sinister restraints in their hands. After I found the rope I went back to the decorations and used small cable ties to bind one of the wise men to a beam in the stable when no-one was looking. I was about to position a minor angel for fellatio but I was interrupted by a guy looking for hinges.
November 26 th
Vomit is in hospital because of the virus. She went to an anti-vaxxer protest to smash some heads in but got hers smashed in instead. Concussion, broken eye socket. She now has almost as much metal inside her as she wears outside. This is good - in theory. As long as she doesn’t know, I can take punters back to our place with impunity. But I daren’t; that woman has eyes everywhere. She’d find out, and then my life would be a world of pain. She’s turned into a rabid vaccination fascist: she won’t allow anybody within half a mile of the house unless they have a signed letter in triplicate from the Pope saying they’re fully vaccinated and they’ve been tested. This is bad for business – there’s only so much you can do in punters’ vanilla bedrooms, even if you take all the gear with you.
November 27 th
Vomit is livid that I haven’t visited her yet. I told her the hospital wouldn’t let me in. She called me a stinking liar. She knows the head nurse (intimately, it seems) and no-one bearing even a semblance of my name ever even phoned to try and get in. If I don’t visit tomorrow, she’ll castrate me. Slowly.
November 28 th
I visited Vomit. She was asleep the entire time. I left a box of Ferreros and a note.
December 8 th
The sun was actually visible today for a change, so I went to the park in full, shiny tight blackness: old biker jacket (one size too small) over a PVC T-shirt, threadbare leather jeans (patched, studded, at least two sizes too small), several bullet belts, one studded thigh belt, knee-high goth boots (more metal than leather), and even a cute little spiked choker. For the hell of it I put on black nail polish and a dash of eyeliner. I popped in earbuds, grabbed a book, and stomped to a bench, the sun on my back.
I’d read half a page when I had to shoo away the first punter. (Fat and bald, wanted to suck me off. Bristled when I mentioned my fee but came back three minutes later.) After a well-remunerated blow-job in the bushes (Vomit didn’t mind my working outdoors), I’d read another two paragraphs when a boy plonked down next to me, just a bit too close. I looked up from my book with what was going to be a snarl of irritation, but his melting smile made me glaze over. “You look amazing,” he said.
It took me a bit too long to compose myself. I took the earbuds out. “I know,” I said. “You look good too.”
He smiled again. “I know,” he said.
I cut the small talk and asked what he wanted. A session, he said. He’d dreamed of being tied up by a leather punk/goth/biker/all-of-the-above, of being helpless, and then of being soundly fucked. Repeatedly. Until he was sore. He also fantasized about being milked. Said he came far too easily, but that he loved nothing more than resisting, even if he thought he’d be crap at it. But there’s not much you can do to resist yourself, he said. And he’d like pictures of the whole thing.
When he was finished telling me his fantasies, I’d got a stonking erection in my leathers. I had to compose myself again. He too had started getting hard in his ridiculously tight (and thin) PVC jeans. I saw his cock jerk. I saw his heartbeat in its head. I rubbed my face – my usual cool had evaporated completely – and asked him how old he was. 19 he said. I asked for an ID. It checked out. You do realise I charge for this, I said. He shrugged and asked how much, then shrugged again when I told him.
“That’s fine,” he said.
I got up and he followed.
Things started going wrong when I asked him to wait outside while I grabbed some gear. He got nervous.
“Can’t I come in?”
“I live with a turd who won’t let anyone in who hasn’t had their jabs and has been tested. No exceptions. Not even for work. Her name’s Vomit, and she’ll hang my balls up to dry if I let you in.” I shuddered. “Have you had your shots?”
He shuffled around. “Eh” is all he said.
“So, no. You haven’t. Where do you live?”
He shuffled around more.
“It’s that, well, eh, …”
“You’re not living on your own. Flatmates?”
“No, eh, parents.”
“Ah.”
I called Jake to ask if his playroom was available. Now? Yes, now. Of course, it wasn’t. The boy looked lost, ready to start blubbering. He’d seen his wet dream materialise and now deflate like an overcooked cheese souffle. On him the expression was making him even cuter. I wanted to hug him, cuddle him, tie him up and rape him – make him feel good, and get some money in the process.
I looked left and right down the street. “Oh bugger it,” I said. “Come on in. Fuck the cow, she’s lounging in hospital anyway. As long as she doesn’t find out, all will be well.”
It was good to have proper facilities again. I lowered his PVC jeans, strapped him face down to the restraint table and started to fuck him. The boy was insatiable. And tight. I take pride in my self-control and usually I can make a fuck last quite a while, but with him I came far too quickly. While I was recovering from that I introduced him to several dildos - and also to Vomit’s special lime-green vibrator that she’d left lying around. Then I fucked him again. This went on for some time, and I remembered to take pics with my mobile. When he eventually started to squirm I thought that was probably enough.
I’d made sure he hadn’t cum at all, and when I got him off the table, I knew he was as horny as fuck. His skintight, shiny black PVC jeans were turning me on something wicked so I decided I’d make him cum in them. I hogtied him on the floor, took pics, hooded him, took more pics, and then set about milking him. When I first started he protested violently - “no spunk inside my jeans!” - but there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it – and anyway it made him struggle harder. Always a good thing. Over the next couple of hours I made him cum four times. By the end of that his jeans were sliding over him like wet clingfilm on a defrosted steak.
After his last orgasm I took a final photo and put my phone down while I got him out of the hogtie. He lay in the middle of the playroom, motionless for another few minutes or so, softly swearing, before I took the hood off him and told him I was going to put the kettle on. You’ll never get your arm through the spout, he said. I would be in the kitchen or the living room I said. You’ll find me.
He found me. He was holding the hood and the green vibrator.
“How much were these?”
I did a quick calculation.
He nodded. “I’d like to take those with me.”
I snorted. As if. Vomit would kill me.
He shrugged, took my cellphone out of his back pocket and started swiping. “You took some nice pictures of me,” he said. “Oh, here’s one of me hogtied, before you hooded me.” He looked up. I didn’t like his smile one bit. Much of the cuteness had disappeared. “It would be a shame if Vomit saw those pics, don’t you think? She probably wouldn’t be pleased. I haven’t had jabs...”
I made a grab for my phone, and to my surprise he let me have it. “I’ve already emailed them to myself,” he smiled.
Fuck. I realised he’d got me by the short and curlies. Fuck fuck fuck .
He left with the hood, the vibrator, and a muzzle he fancied. I made another desperate call to Jake. He had a vibrator identical to Vomit’s green one – they’d bought them together the same afternoon. I asked if he still had it lying about, and if so, could I buy it off him. He told me he’d lent it to someone else “just days ago.”
I hate my life.
December 10 th
The playroom is fully stocked again. Cost me the proverbial arm and leg. I took anything on the street I could get: old-fashioned whoring (time for some STD tests) – and I plundered my bank account. I visited Vomit yesterday, and all I got out of her was unintelligible grunts and moans. I brought her another box of Ferreros. The previous box was gone.
December 12 th
Vomit is home. I can’t play music. I can’t cook. I can’t shower. I’m too loud, she says. She can’t stand noise or smells or light. Even the idea that I might breathe she finds grating. It’s good having her back. Gives some perspective to how pleasant it is without her.
December 18 th
The main bandages have come off and the Bitch now has a sort of medical eyepatch, which she’s lacquered black (of course). She looks like a deranged pirate with sadomasochistic tendencies.
The rules make my business difficult, but yesterday I thought I’d cracked it. The boy was into rubber in a big way, and had lots of gear of his own. In fact he had a full diving kit – including breathing apparatus. “It’s a Viking!” He said, expecting me to be impressed. The name meant nothing to me at all. “As long as he puts it on before he comes into the house, and keeps it on until he’s out of the house, and it stays completely sealed while he’s here and he uses the breathing thing all the time, then Ok,” said Vomit in a rare moment of magnanimity.
He arrived already wearing the suit, but standing on the pavement putting flippers, air cylinders, the mask and the gloves on must have caused the neighbours some concern. I saw more than one net curtain twitching (Mrs Jenkins at number 24 was especially active, as usual. Note to self: buy her some new binoculars – hers must be almost worn out by now). Negotiating the steps with rubber feet that are 28 inches long was difficult, but finally he got inside.
The diving suit turned out to be dark green, thick, and as impenetrable as medieval armour. Exactly what he’d imagined I could do to him in it, I have no idea. And have you ever tried to restrain a guy who’s wearing air cylinders on his back? Apart from the problem of the physical shape, they are heavy. I thought about it for some time. If I put him on the restraint table he’d only be able to go face-down; fucking him was out of the question without resorting to industrial shears, and I wouldn’t able to get at anything anyway; spread-eagled between the posts would put too much strain on his muscles; and hogtie was a non-starter. The A-frame looked like the best option.
That frame hangs from ceiling chains, and getting him onto it was a farce. I pulled the restraint table over to keep the frame steady while I strapped him in place (even that wasn’t easy – I had to connect two pairs of straps together to make them long enough to go around him). With the table there I still couldn’t get at him, so I made the mistake of moving it out of the way. The frame swung forward, hung there for a moment, and then – with a creak I will remember for a long time - the ceiling rings slowly gave way with the weight. He landed on the floor in a cloud of plaster dust with the A frame on top of him.
More net-curtain twitching while a guy in full diving gear is loaded into the ambulance – a sight not common in suburban Clapham. I visited him in hospital this morning. A broken rib and a sprained ankle. And I cleaned my remaining bank balance out replacing the air tanks and putting the deposit down on the ceiling repair.
December 20 th
Tube ride to Shoreditch today to see another pervert. This guy makes gelatin eggs and loves to have them stuffed up his arse. Got him strapped to his bed (on a plastic tarp) and started fisting him. I hadn’t done that in a while, but the technique came back quickly enough – he was loose anyway and didn’t need much warm-up. The first eggs were the size of plums; the next of oranges; and then something approaching coconut. He said that the last egg I crammed up him was moulded from an ostrich egg. I tossed him off while massaging his stomach (as he’d asked), and he came while the eggs shot out. He cleaned up (thank fuck for that), and when I was about to leave – I’d just packed my stuff – he asked if I wanted to have a go.
“Sorry mate,” I said, “I think all I could manage would be a couple of hen’s eggs.”
“Can do that,” he said, and brandished an extra two very crisp and ever so appealing fifty quid bills he’d just fished from a drawer.
Five minutes later I was on a fresh tarp with my legs up, strapped down with my own gear. The guy was an expert in arses. His loosening my ring was pure art. I lost count of how many eggs he crammed in, and I started moaning, much to my surprise. I felt bloated. He told me to relish the bloating – so I did (there wasn’t much else I could do). He stuffed in another one – substantially larger (goose, at least) – which really hit my prostate, and before I knew it I was cumming (he’d been playing with my cock throughout).
On the way home, on the tube, I had an accident. I thought it was a fart. It wasn’t.
December 24 th
Christmas Eve. Merriment. Jollity. General good cheer. All those things are noticeably absent. Vomit is free of the eyepatch (though she likes it, so she’s keeping it in a little box on her dresser for future occasions which plumb the depths of her depravity). We’ve decided to have a quiet one this year: no guests at all. This is both a good thing and a bad thing: on the one hand there’s less cooking to do, fewer presents to buy, and less worrying about keeping people occupied; but on the other hand there’s nobody to suffer the full force of the Bitch From Hell’s bad moods. An unexpected encounter in Sainsbury’s, followed by a blow-job in the car-park of the Chinese supermarket next door provided me with enough cash to buy her an industrial-sized box of Ferreros, which I’ve wrapped in shiny black paper specially. I thought that was a nice touch. I hope she’s not expecting more.
She is incredible. She went for her booster jab the other day and came out with the orderly’s phone number. Apparently this guy has a fetish for Captain Hook, so the eyepatch is going to get used after all. I told her, she ain’t bringing him back here though unless he can provide written evidence of vaccinations and a full testing history. Bugger that. She sniffed. She was going to his place later.
She said she was going to get changed into her gear, then have a sleep. I was to wake her up at 7.45pm cos her taxi was due at 8.
There was peace for a while, and then the doorbell rang. A guy stood there, looking self-conscious.
Was I a diver?
No.
Oh.
Did I have a SCUBA suit for sale?
What? No.
Oh.
Did I like SCUBA suits?
At this point I realised that I was dealing with a pervert. He’d clearly witnessed either the arrival or the rapid departure of the diver the other day. I cut to the chase and asked him what kind of session he wanted. Anything with rubber. And bondage. In rapid succession I thought of my bank balance, listened to the gentle snoring coming from Vomit’s bedroom – deciding that it was going to continue for some time yet - thought of my bank balance again, and pulled him into the house.
This one would be easy: a quick restraint job, a fuck or a milking, and Bob’s your uncle. He would be out of here before the Bitch from the Underworld had even got to the good bit in her unspeakable dreams. I got my rubber suit out (not a SCUBA one - but by his delighted expression it was very acceptable), helped him to put it on, then gagged him and got him tightly restrained in a spread-eagle between the posts, pulled his cock and balls out through the hole, and went to work on him.
The doorbell rang again. I told him not to go away (the old jokes are always the best) and rushed out to see off whoever was out there. In retrospect I should have closed the door – you can see straight into the playroom. The carol singers got as far as “Si-lent nigh…”, then faltered and came to a complete stop with a sound like bagpipes suffering sudden and catastrophic bellows failure. They were staring past me with wide eyes. I followed their gaze and swallowed. A guy in a black rubber suit, gagged and spread eagled with leather cuffs to wooden posts and with his desperately hard cock waving in the air is probably not something carol singers see very often. While still mesmerised by the sight, one guy in the back row slowly put his hands over the eyes of the small girl in front of him.
I retreated, closing the door quickly.
Back in the playroom I resumed working on the boy, but my heart wasn’t in it any longer. I just wanted him gone. I made him cum, and was about to release him when bugger me if the bell didn’t ring again. This time I remembered to close the door on my way out.
It was one of the guys from the back row of the carol singers, and he had a policeman with him. It took a lot of explaining, that the view hadn’t been provided intentionally, and yes, I should have closed the door. Despite the singer’s protestations, the cop realised that it had all been accidental, and told the guy to drop it. I thanked him and closed the door again. I leaned back against it with my eyes closed, breathing hard for some time.
I hadn’t even got back to the boy when the fucking bell rang again. It was one of the others guys from the carollers. He wasted no time and asked me how much for a blow job. Vomit’s bedroom is by the front door so I made urgent shushing noises. But things were looking up financially. I ushered him in and sat him down on the settee in the living room. Told him I’d only be a few minutes and turned to go back to the rubber boy.
When the bell went again I sighed. It was the policeman. He’d taken his hat off and was much less official-sounding as we negotiated. I put him next to the carol singer in what was rapidly becoming a waiting room. There was a queue forming.
This time I had time to get the boy’s gag off him before I had to go to the front door again. Becky, Ron and Dave stood there, swaying slightly, with bottles in their hands. I started to say that they couldn’t come in, that Vomit had decreed that full vaccination evidence was to be shown, but they just smiled and pushed past me anyway in an alcoholic haze. I ran back to the rubber boy and released him completely.
The next to arrive was Jake. He’d got the vibrator back from the guy he’d lent it to, and did I still want it? I brought him in.
I was beginning to panic, but it got worse. The bell went again. This was the decorator come to do an estimate on the ceiling repair. I couldn’t believe that any British workman would work on Christmas Eve. Desperate not to wake Vomit, and not thinking at all clearly, I let him in. “Sit there,” I commanded. “With you shortly.” The room was rapidly filling with people and this was turning into an exercise in logistics I was incapable of dealing with.
I ran back into the playroom – at least I could get rid of rubber lad who was still in there. I didn’t get the chance. This time it was a pizza delivery boy standing at the door. He was looking for number 12a. I could have just pointed up to the next floor, but I didn’t. By that time I was past logic. I grabbed him, clamped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and pulled him inside. As I was closing the door the diver appeared as well – he’d left a special air-valve or something here. I gave a slightly manic laugh and invited him in.
In the playroom, rubber boy was still taking the suit off (his foot was stuck in one of the legs); while in the living room Ron and Dave were introducing themselves to the cop and the carol singer – and eyeing them up dangerously; Jake was demonstrating the vibrator to Becky, the pizza boy was looking slightly startled as the diver began searching the chairs, and the builder was tapping the walls. I pressed an ear to the door of Vomit’s bedroom – the snoring had stopped. I legged it back into the living room wondering how the hell I could get everybody out.
The bedroom door opened and Vomit appeared. She stopped in her tracks, staring open-mouthed at the roomful of people. With impeccable timing, the boy hopped out from the playroom, one foot still in the rubber suit. “Can you help me get this off…?”
There was a sudden silence.
Vomit’s mouth was working like a fish out of water. Her gaze swept around the room, ending on me. She started with a whisper. “Oh right.”
Then louder, “Well why don’t we take the front door off completely and erect a neon sign outside?”
Louder still. “Open house.”
Louder. “All welcome.”
Ear-shattering. “Come in!”
She was incandescent. The air shuddered with her screams of outrage. The assembled multitude cowered as a fiend in a black leather basque, fuck-off New Rock boots, fishnet tights and a shiny black eyepatch that was quivering with fury rushed about yelling incoherently, getting people up off the seats and herding them out of the door. The rubber boy had finally got free of the suit and into his underpants, and was dispatched with the rest of his clothes – and my fucking rubber suit - in his hands.
When everyone had gone and we were alone, the Bitch turned her gaze very slowly in my direction. I locked myself in the playroom.
December 25 th
I thought it wise to stay there with a locked door between us for a couple of hours. When I finally emerged I had to dodge flying Ferreros (those things hurt!) and a variety of internal turkey bits, but the Bitch gave up eventually.
The thing that really got me, though, is that I not only didn’t get paid by any of them, but I also lost my rubber suit. And as usual it was all down to Vomit.
Christmas Day was spent in silence. It was more than just an absence of sound, it was a solid, oppressive force-field that surrounded her and stomped on any sound before it had a chance to get started. I tried to make peace but didn’t get further than the third syllable.
New Year’s Eve
It’s been very quiet for the last week. Very quiet. In fact Vomit hasn’t spoken to me once since the fiasco. On the rare occasions she’s forced to communicate she leaves notes on the kitchen table. It’s a one-way street though – any replies I write are tossed in the bin unread. I keep telling her she’s acting like a child. Makes no difference, she just ignores me.
I’ve made a few quid in the bushes and on the street, though, and in spite of the unforeseen outgoings lately, for about a second and a half I considered spending it all on a present for her. But then I came to my senses and thought, fuck the bitch. Why should I? And she owes me a rubber suit. I have a boy coming round this evening. I’ve made very sure he has full vaccination evidence, so she can’t say anything. I’ve even photographed it with my phone in case he forgets to bring it.
Vomit was out when he arrived. He looked good in tight leathers and big boots. We were well into the session - I’d fucked him, and now he was hung upside-down from the hoist while I was working on his tits - when the playroom door opened. It was Vomit – and fuck me, she was smiling.
“Hiya,” she said. I’d forgotten what she looked like without a scowl on her face. “I was wondering – I don’t want to rush you but could I use the playroom when you’re done?” Sweetness and light.
This was a first: she’d never asked me anything politely before. I sensed that she wanted to make peace. “Er – Ok. Give us a few minutes.”
I went back to the boy’s tits, then gave him a slow and comprehensive blow-job. When that was done I released him and saw him out.
On the way back I blinked - there was an absolutely gorgeous guy sitting on the settee in the living room. I could see why she wanted to use the room. I nodded to him, and went into the bathroom to clean up.
When I came out there were noises coming from the playroom. I settled down to watch telly. A few minutes later the door opened and Vomit stuck her head out. “Can you give me a hand please?” She was still smiling disarmingly. “He says he’s always wanted to be fucked by a real cock.”
I switched the TV off and joined them. The guy was in his twenties, with long blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. I was about to start when it occurred to me to ask. “Can I see his vaccination record?”
Vomit looked uncomfortable. “Not now. Get on with it.”
I hesitated. “I’d be pleased to. But not without seeing his record.”
“He – he doesn’t have it on him. But I know he’s had his jabs.”
I looked at the Bitch. “Vomit, the vaccination record please.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “He doesn’t have it on him. But look at him. He’s gorgeous.”
I looked at the guy. He was indeed gorgeous. “Out,” I said.
When she came back from the front door she was looking sheepish. “You hypocritical cow,” I said slowly. “You should have been a politician.” I picked up the box of Ferreros. “After all that fiasco with my guys,” I pelted her with one, “I don’t believe it.” I threw another one. More followed. I chased her around the table. She made for the playroom.
I put the outside lock on the playroom door – she was going nowhere. I had turkey sandwiches, a bottle of wine, and a good book. She could stay there all fucking year as far as I was concerned. I settled down in the armchair.
The doorbell rang. It was her gorgeous blond boy again. He’d found his vaccination evidence. It was valid.
My bedroom doesn’t have the facilities of the playroom, but it has enough. I had an extremely enjoyable session with him. He’d never been fucked by a guy before, and it turned out that he loved it. I also introduced him to the slow, prolonged pleasures of edging, and of the very precise use of the tip of a feather. He made a lot of noise to start with – until I strapped the tight leather gag on him. Things were much quieter after that.
It was an excellent session. He came three times, I came twice. And what made it so much better – so much more satisfying - were the distant wails coming from behind the locked playroom door. The Bitch had recognised his voice and knew exactly who it was.
It was getting late, and I was letting him out of the flat when he looked at me. “Fuck,” he said, “you look stunning in that gear.” I was just wearing my usual tight leather jeans, jacket and boots. He grabbed me and started to lick me all over. We went back into the bedroom.
Later, when we’d finished, he gave me fifty quid.
When he’d gone and I let Vomit out, she was silent. But this was a different, more fragile kind of silence. I don’t think either of us quite knew who to blame.
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
“Pots and kettles,” I replied.
We looked at each other and then her face broke into a reluctant grin. “Well don’t just stand there, get the fucking wine out. And the Ferreros.”
“I’ll get the wine. You can get the Ferreros off the floor,” I said.
Radio 4 provided the chimes of Big Ben at midnight and we raised our glasses.
Although I was smiling, I was thinking: next Christmas it was definitely Nepal, I thought.
Sadistic monks.
Far less problem.
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