This is very stereotypical and full of cliches but I had nowhere to go with this prompt; this is attempt number four.
Britishness. What is it? What does it mean to be typically British?
Sure, there’s the blind sporting optimism and ability to appreciate toilet jokes, but possibly the key British traits are unrivalled hypocrisy and unfathomable logic: I’ll demonstrate with a little example.
“Indigenous British:” that’s a nonsensical phrase! These fair Isles been successfully invaded by the Celts, Normans, Vikings, Romans and the Dutch, and that’s just in the last 2000 years: before then there were an assortment of territorial tribes, sharing an island and often skirmishing over sheep: there’s never been a British identity: we are Mongrel nation.
One of those crazy tribes founded this village, and named it “Cool” or “Cold;” it’s a pretty good name for Calder as most of the year it’s the wrong side of fucking freezing. The winds are at their peak here, and the surrounding mountains mean that the amount of direct sunlight is at an absolute minimum: it’s a ridiculous place to build a settlement.
But some lunatic thought it would be a cracking place to live, and several thousand years later, 173 nutters had agreed with him and had made it their home. Including me.
See, the British unfathomable logic, in action.
We had a few characters who shared our village: the war veteran running the pub, the ex-convict who owned the farm, and Lucy: our “good time girl.” She was nineteen and studying at University, but made regular trips home, full of tales of drunken debauchery and shameless behaviour: everyone knew Lucy.
I had never really had the pleasure until one fateful August day. It was cold, of course, and I was hurrying back to my workshop with my Daily Mail tucked under my arm as she sauntered past in her evening attire: it was disgraceful.
“Such a slut.”
I muttered those words way too loudly; it was nasty and she reacted; her short cocktail skirt flaring in the biting wind. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I cowardly murmured as I unlocked my workshop door. She followed me inside. “Err …”
“I like sex and you dare judge me; what is this, the Victorian times?” I loved her spirited defence and tried to placate the Politics student as she launched into an aggressive rant. It was strangely sexy, watching her animated frame gesture angrily towards my critical opinion of her morals.
The simple turth was that nobody would want to date a girl who had been through the entire village: it was fine for men to be “Jack the Lad,” but not women: that’s when she turned incandescent, arguing against my double-standard misogyny with renewed zest.
She orated with awesome power: why should she want to be with anyone who was so nasty about her life choices? I was a worm, a hypocrite and a small-minded imbecile. I was also aroused: the heave of her breasts as she lectured, the fire in her eyes and the confident control in her voice; she was amazing; causing my ire to wither before her!
She shook her head as she caught sight of my crotch. “Do we like being chastised?”
Her words stung as she sniggered and picked up a small cane from the wall. “Put that down!”
“Bend over,” She tapped the wood in her palm ominously. “Now!” Excitement surged; I felt powerless against her domineering tone. My resolve weakened as she traced the cane down my chest with a giggling sneer. “I’ll teach you a lesson.”
Those words resonated – teach me a lesson. It oozed absolute power and ascendancy: she was the lioness, the schoolmistress or the policewoman: about to illustrate the errant male of his aberration with unrelenting zeal. She touched my fantasy and slapped my workbench her cane.
I had no choice: my arousal and desire won over my rational mind. I watched detached, as my body excitedly bent forward to present my posterior to her whims.
Her cackle ignited my loins: a sadistic teenage woman, standing behind me with one thing on her mind. It was a dream, a heavenly explosion of humiliation and pain as she lashed her weapon against my presented rear. Inside my fires danced, savouring the first mark on my skin.
How her welts delighted all my senses: the sexy sound of the firm smacks, the rivulets of fiery pain across my rump, the gorgeous sight of a beautiful woman punishing me and the bitter-sweet taste of my submission. I whimpered: not in pain of her dozen strokes but in disappointment of her finishing.
“Now what do you say?”
“Sorry,” I muttered, but she was not placated, and roughly pulled me from submissive pose, sitting on my workbench and lifting her skirt.
My cock rose even further at the knickerless woman, her bare slit exposed as she glanced down at me. Show me you’re sorry!”
“Kiss it; show me how sorry you are.”
My cheeks burnt as I hesitated: the embarrassment of being ordered by someone half my age, but I could not resist. It looked so wonderfully pink, delightfully sexy and gorgeously ripe for my tongue.
I leaned forward to taste her musky delight: her eyes bathed with her twisted arousal as I ran my tongue up her slickness: she must have liked spanking me as much as I liked being spanked!
She groaned, holding my head against her slit, as I knelt on the floor and submissively savoured her feminine charms. Tongue swirled against clit and her lust whirled inside her; she was hurtling towards her climax, grunting and groaning with uncontrollable passion.
She swore as lust powered through her, and she tossed my longing away, sliding down from my worktop. “Let that be a lesson to you,” she demanded as she turned her back on me and my erection. “I play with whomever I want.”
So, I’ll say it again, only this time without the judgemental malevolence. She’s a slut. A wonderful, beautiful, powerful, independent woman in control of her sexuality, and who I think is absolutely fabulous.
And that’s the British hypocrisy.