Message-ID: X-Archived-At: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: stbush@iglou.com (S THOMAS BUSH) Subject: BOMBADIL 9,8,10 "The Bench", "Redeye", "The Piano" Author's notes: Hello all. I've just finished reading all (almost all?) of Deirdre's writings (156 stories). I think I've gone into withdrawals. For some reason, I wanted more. More! MORE! And there aren't any! So I'm trying to write some. Panties was first - it's been posted. Too long for a real Deirdre. It was more than twice as long as her longest. Chosen was next - posted around now. The consentual angle isn't right, and it's still too long. Whitewash - coming soon. I started this as a Deirdre style story but, within two dozen lines, the characters had taken over completely! Far too long for a Deirdre, so now its my entry into Celeste's writing contest! Redeye - included here. Nope. Very short, hot, but not a Deirdre. Bench - included here. Maybe. Very short, a little too dreamlike, but maybe close enough. Piano - included here. Closer. Probably more of a Paladin than a Deirdre. Deck - posted around now. By Jove, I think I've got it! Maybe someday I'll get it right. The stories are good, regardless, even though Piano doesn't have any real sex in it. Deck certainly makes up for that shortage. Disclaimer: All the standard rules apply. If you are offended by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this text from your computer. This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions described by me coming straight out of my imagination. As a work of fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or actions described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in my life, or known to me in the lives of any of my friends or relatives. You've been warned. I give permission for anyone to share or archive this story. ******************************************************************** Bench - [M/F] Short (very short) story #9 By Tom Bombadil (c) Dec 1996 It was dark. I sat on the park bench, alone, crying. I sat there - freshly wedded, freshly bedded, freshly deflowered. My husband slept in our room, on our nuptial bed, snoring drunkenly, sharing it with a pink wet spot. Tincture of lost innocence, lost hopes, lost dreams. A man walked by, stopped, turned, and stared. His eyes revealed nothing, yet hinted at everything - mystery, romance, danger. My heart stopped, my tears stopped, and I stared back, too surprised to run, which is what I knew I should do. He sat beside me. I stared. My objections were all silent, my rejection unvoiced. His eyes held me, captivated me, sent me on a journey I'd never been on before. He was blonde, he was tall, he was strong, he was silent. His eyes spoke to me of my inner thoughts, of my hidden desires, of my needs. Somewhere inside me a voice was screaming for me to flee. He revealed himself. On the bench, in the dark, in the park. Then he revealed me. I saw myself, reflected in his eyes. I wonder what he saw reflected in mine. He lifted me, he lowered me. An eternity later he was gone. I repaired myself and returned to my husband. I lay there in bed, sharing it with a snoring groom, a drying pink wet spot, and a growing white wet spot. I wondered. I wondered who he was. I wondered what his voice sounded like. I wondered if he had dreams. I wondered whose baby I would carry. This morning I shared breakfast with a smelly, grumpy, unshaven, decidedly hungover lout, who belched his approval of the previous evening. I tried to recognize the clean, handsome, delightful man I'd married, but failed. I thought of the man in the park. I wondered if he would return. Tonight, on the bench, in the park, in the dark, I will be waiting. ******************************************************************** Redeye Short (very short) story #8 By Tom Bombadil (c) Dec 1996 A hand on my thigh woke me. It was under my blanket, under my dress, and making its way up to my pantiless crotch. I kept my eyes closed, and gave a slight smile. We were on a redeye flight from L.A. to N.Y.C. I had the window seat. My husband had the aisle seat, right beside me. He was obviously still feeling frisky. His hand quickly reached its goal, and began playing. I was already moist from his previous exploits. Then, for the first time in our year of marriage, his hand found *the spot*. I wanted to scream my pleasure, but couldn't! I wanted to shout "Yes! There! Yes!" My eyes, and my mouth, stayed tightly closed. Only the faintest of whimpers escaped. Within seconds, I was lost in the most powerful orgasm he'd ever been a part of. It continued until he withdrew his hand. Shaking and trembling in the aftermath, I opened my eyes. My husband was just returning from the washroom. His seat was empty. ******************************************************************** Piano - A Short Deirdre-esq - [No sex] Short story #10 By Tom Bombadil (c) Dec 1996 I made a mistake. About a year ago, feeling a touch of cabin fever, and a touch of cultural appetite (I'd just seen Jazzman), I decided to learn to play the piano. I talked to my husband about it, one Saturday, after our weekly. "No big deal," he said. There was no way I'd ever become a concert pianist, not starting at my age anyway (I'm all of thirty four), but I'd settle for being able to carry a recognizable tune, or for playing the minute waltz in less than five. Within a week he had an upright piano, professionally tuned, sitting in the den. I hadn't expected him to take me quite so seriously, quite so fast. It was an idea I needed to sneak up on, to gnaw apart in the early hours, something that should fester in the back of my mind for months, or even years. Only then, surviving the gamut of personal ennui and newer and more exciting ideas, should it be taken seriously. The piano sat there for several weeks, collecting dust, leering at me. My husband never mentioned it again. He didn't have to. He'd done his part. Aside from learning which keys to hit for 'Row Row Row Your Boat' and 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', I had done nothing. Guilt eminated from that thing and pervaded the whole house. I couldn't escape it. My husband was oblivious to the almost palpable waves originating from the den. Maybe they were only tuned to me, or maybe I was the only one who could receive them. I felt haunted. Finally, one day, I gave in. I called some lady, whose ad I found in the paper, and asked about lessons. Her ad said : Personal Trainer - Confidentiality assured. Piano system, 14 days, $$$$$ The price seemed a little steep, but then again, I didn't know much about piano teachers either. When I talked to my husband about it, after our Saturday night fun, he said "Sure, no problem." He didn't even blink at her fee. So I called. Ms. Hawthorne sounded a little sharp, but, what did I know. She might have been one of the nicest little old ladies on the face of the earth. "You are interested in piano personal training?" "Yes I am." "For whom, specifically?" "Me." "You're calling about the piano training package, for yourself?" She sounded more than a little doubtful, almost like she didn't believe such a thing could normally happen. Maybe women like me only ever called her to enroll their kids. "That's right. For me." There was a brief pause. She seemed at a loss for words for a few seconds. "Very well. Who is your master?" Master? "Master? Oh, you must mean my husband." I gave her his name and mine, and our telephone number. "When does he want you to come in for training?" "Well, actually, he doesn't really care. It was my idea in the first place, so I guess it's up to me." "How ... unusual. When would *you* like to begin your training?" The woman was starting to sound intrigued herself. The cutting edge of her voice was dulled a bit, and there was even a hint of amusement in there somewhere. "I guess the sooner the better. How about next week?" "Next ... week?" She sounded puzzled again. "If that's bad, then how about the week after?" "You are certainly ... eager, I'll give you that much credit. If you can be ready by the Saturday after next, we can begin then." "Saturday is actually a bad day for me. Could we have the lessons on a Wednesday or Thursday instead?" "Wednesday or Thursday? I'm sorry, but training always begins on a Saturday and ends on a Friday, whether for the one week follow ups or for the six week immersion course. I take it you are looking for our two week basic training special?" Now I was confused. "If that's what the ad in the paper was for, then yes. But I thought the lessons would be for one evening a week over the course of a few months?" "Oh no, that would never work!" She definitely sounded amused. "There's no way anyone could remember everything without constant attention and guidance. I have found that only total and complete immersion, with the subject eating, sleeping, and living the reality, actually works. Anything else is just toying around. Are you still interested?" That sounded quite bizarre. A two week total-immersion piano course? What did they do, make you play scales twenty four hours a day? Read sheet music in bed? Despite myself, I started getting curious. "I guess, a little. I'll talk it over with my husband, and let you know." "I'm sure he'll sign you up. I look forward to working with you, *personally*! Good bye." And that was that. Very strange. I talked it over with my husband. His reaction? "Sure, no problem." He re-arranged his evening schedule, organized the kids' activities, set up babysitting, everything. I had no excuses left, no reason for procrastination. He even called my mother. I called Ms. Hawthorne two days later. "I guess I'm all set to go. Just to be sure, we are talking about piano training here, aren't we?" That *was* what the ad said, I thought. "Oh yes. Definitely piano. Nothing else would be practical for two weeks." I *thought* I understood what she said. We arranged the time, the place, and the payment. She said to bring only the essentials, as most of what I needed would be provided. My husband and I arrived on the Saturday at eight a.m. We were out in the country, at what appeared to be a big ranch. There were a number of largish buildings around, and I assumed them to be guest houses, barns, lecture halls, that sort of thing. They certainly had their privacy. We were miles from the nearest neighbour, never mind any kind of town. When they said confidential, they meant it! When we got there, my husband had to sign the form stating that he was enrolling me. As if *I* weren't capable! Talk about starting off on the wrong foot! Despite my brief spate of anger, I was more than a little intrigued. Piano camp. I'd heard of baseball camps, soccer camps, and even computer camps. But piano? What's the big deal about learning to play the piano? As soon as my husband left, the receptionist buzzed through to let Ms. Hawthorne know that I'd arrived. She walked into the foyer in less than a minute. The woman was *NOTHING* like I'd pictured. In her spike heels, she had to be at least six foot four - two inches taller than my husband, and almost a foot taller than me, even in my heels. She looked incredibly fit and strong as well, with broad shoulders, solid hips, narrow waist, and muscular arms and legs. The weirdest part was that she was completely dressed in skin tight leather, from neck to fingertips to toes. Ms. Hawthorne looked magnificent! The first thing she did was talk to the receptionist. "This is the new piano trainee?" "Yes Ma'am." "The paperwork has been properly signed? The release forms are in order? Payment has been made?" "Yes ma'am. She's all set to go." "Good. We'll begin immediately." She finally looked at me. I didn't like her expression. "Stand up straight! Tighten those shoulders! Eyes on the floor, hands behind your back! NOW!" Whoah! I must have looked a bit startled. I felt more than a bit startled - I was half way to complete shock! "Pick up that suitcase and follow me. Move it!" I did as I was told. Soon we reached a small dorm-style room. "All right you, strip down. I want to see what it is I'll be working with for the next couple of weeks." I stared at her, mouth agape. "Awww, what's the matter? Homesick all ready? Can't get used to following my orders this fast?" Her honeyed tone disappeared, and the harsh, steel-edged one returned. "Well, get used to it! I've got you for two weeks, and in that time, I'm going to turn you into the perfect slave! Now strip!" She punctuated her last order with a blow to my backside. She used some sort of leather covered stick with tassles on the business end. It hurt! I finally found my voice. "Slave? Strip? Orders? What's any of this got to do with learning to play the piano?" The woman looked shocked for a few seconds, then started to laugh uproariously. "Learning to play the piano? Ha! That's rich! Is that what your master told you?" "Master? I don't have a master! I called you because I wanted to learn to play the piano! I have no idea what you're doing here, and I don't think I want to. Now if you'll show me the way back to the reception area, I'll call my husband, have him pick me up, and we'll forget all about this nonsense." My little speech certainly sounded reasonable to me. She glared in my direction for a few more seconds, and then burst out laughing again. "Oh, you're a wild one! Call him up and tell him you don't like it here. Not what you thought it would be. Wanted to learn how to play the piano! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" It was my turn to stare at her. "Okay, slave. The joke's over. Just what my reputation needs, falling for some idiot line like that. I'd never live it down! Now strip!" She punctuated that with several blows to my bottom. They all stung like blazes! I turned to run, but she stepped in front of the door. "So we do this the hard way." The look on her face frightened me, from the top of my scalp to the tips of my toes. With a deft series of moves, she had me in a collar of some kind, wrist straps, ankle straps, and chains linking them all together. I could barely move! Then she took a pair of scissors and *cut* all my clothes off! I screamed in protest! The woman rewarded me by shoving something large and rubbery in my mouth and strapping it in place so I couldn't spit it out! "Now stand at attention!" When I failed to move, she applied that stick thing to my backside again. It hurt a *lot* more on bare skin! I straightened up in a hurry! "Now that I have your undivided attention, let me explain to you what will happen. You are here for the two week basic slave training course. You will learn all aspects of obedience and obeisance. You will learn all the basic postures. You will learn to walk properly, to talk properly, and even to eat properly. You will learn to please your master in every way, sexually and otherwise, any time he desires. When you leave here, you will *be* a slave, in mind and body. That is my job. Lucrantz has developed an eighty-eight point doctrine, nicknamed the piano system, that you will memorize. Failure to do so will not be tolerated. If you live all of them, all the time, with mind and body and soul, you will be the perfect slave. That is your job. We will begin immediately!" Two weeks later, my husband picked me up. He was as surprised as I had been. The problem is, he *liked* the new me. He *likes* having me available, ready and willing, any time of day, any day of the week. Since I finished that first course, he's sent me back for the six week total immersion package and two separate refresher weeks. He's also taken the week long master training seminar. To tell you the truth, after the shock of it all, after I'd learned the system, and after some time to get used to the totally different mindset, I found it to be not too bad. Of course, since I'm a slave, my opinion doesn't matter in the least, but my husband/master does ask me for it every once in a while - usually when he's feeling a little guilty. That's not too often any more. Like I said - I made a mistake. Piano training, anyone? ******************************************************************** -- Story Submission: Moderator Contact: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site (could be better):