The year: 2037.
I’m lead to believe that the new Ford Clarity that everyone is raving about can reach speeds of 250mph at 10,000 feet but I’ve not been in a car for twenty years, let alone a flying one, so I don’t know. We’ve seen them on the television though. Maybe I’ll get one.
No, I’ve not been working on a Shale Gas rig or flying on a space mission, but imprisoned: incarcerated at His Majesty’s Pleasure for an act of violence I never committed. I remember the trial vividly as past lovers were hauled to the court to recount scandalous tales of my sex life. It caused a lot of media stir, sex stories always do: I was “The Savage,” I was “perverted” and a whole host of other ridiculous terms. I was a danger to women, an affront to my country. I even got a misleading “documentary” made about my life on YouTube Channel 5. Truth is, I’m none of those things.
I am a sadist, but I’ve never hurt anyone.
I know that sounds silly, but it’s true. I’ve inflicted pain to errant ladies, laid bare their innermost desires and taken them to within a gnat’s whisker of their safeword, but I’ve never hurt a soul.
And especially not Lucy. I loved Lucy. She was the centre of my world, the one I wanted to marry and be with for the rest of my life. She said she wanted the same, I believed her. Her safeword was “lollipop” but I never heard it. Even as we sank deeper into our depraved games, taken her further and further into the unknown, she never used it.
Night after night we’d play: sometimes experimenting, sometimes taking her to places we’d been to before. She always thanked me, us cuddling afterwards as her welts and bruises appeared on her abused skin. She loved me, and I loved her.
But I had to be harsher to show that: she needed more and I gave her what she wanted. I organised for two football teams to fuck her senseless, watching as her body became little more than a ragdoll to their brutish testosterone. That afternoon, she existed to satisfy their urges and needs, as they cared not for her pleasure. She loved it, coming repeatedly under their rough treatment.
She wanted to go further, and I obliged: I kidnapped her walking home from work, bundling her unceremoniously into a van and ripping her clothes into shreds as I tore them from her body. Eight masked men had their way with her in the warehouse as we assaulted her, striking her bare skin with our terrifying arsenal of whips, canes, floggers and crops.
She was bloodied and bruised: abused and used for six hours, flying through subspace and succumbing to dozens of orgasms. She slept soundly that night. It was her birthday present.
But, my most infamous session was the one that made it onto the Internet. It was filmed for our private enjoyment, the journalist stole that Blu-Ray disk from our house after my arrest. I don’t care that no-one on the video saw her give consent, she did. I would not have used any of my toys on her if she hadn’t.
She screamed as we electrocuted her, she yelled as we flogged her, she begged for mercy with the inflatable dildo and rocked as Andrew’s fists pushed past her anus. We pissed on her, we fucked her, we gagged her and we tortured her. She loved it, we all did.
But that was the beginning of the end. She told a friend about our play, and they went to the Police. They brainwashed her under questioning. They made her believe she had never consented to anything and I was a violent, dangerous man not a loving partner.
The prosecuting lawyers portrayed me out to a nasty, vindictive, malevolent beast who had tortured my lover for three years, dragging her deeper into the fires of depravity to satisfy my own twisted needs. The establishment declared war on me, because I wasn’t their version of normal.
And I paid for it, with twenty long, hard years of my life. While they retired with gold-plated pensions and Lucy married an achromatic banker, I rotted in prison until today.
They gave me my things in a cardboard box as the door slammed shut behind me. I had my prison discharge grant in my pocket and a plan. I knew where she now lived, and I had my trusty flogger in storage. No matter how much she may have been conditioned to dislike her urges, they would still be there. She couldn’t change her sexual orientation to please the politics of the day and one look at me, my flogger and my fiery eyes, she’d need to come with me. She’d need it again and I would be taking her far away from this Septic Isle. Far away from her husband of bland respectability to a life we should have had twenty years ago.
Until the politicians meddled with something they will never understand.
And I paid the price for their ignorance.
This is inspired by Joan Bakewell, a Labour peer, who has criticised BDSM as “violence.” Baroness Bakewell said “Violence has intruded into sex now. Perhaps it always did, but now a lot of sex is about tying people up and torturing them, treating them extremely badly. I don’t think people should be free to torture each other or beat each other up or abuse them. I think that’s not something to feel happy about or to feel tolerant of” before adding “Beating people up, even if they like it, has to be damaging and has to be criminal.”
Personally, I wish, politicians would stop caring what I do or don’t do in the privacy of my own home, and worry about submitting their expense claims properly and maybe, just maybe, on running the fucking country. Whatever I enjoy between my wife and I is no concern of Baroness Bakewell or any other of the political elite.
They are happy for me to consent to being beaten up in a boxing ring, but not in my sex life. If my wife dons boxing gloves before our sex games, is that OK to Baroness Bakewell? Spreading disinformation, not BDSM, is damaging and no, I am not your definition of normal: deal with it. It’s totally 100% your problem, not mine, and don’t let your prudish ignorance intrude on my life.
And after reading her ridiculous interview with politics.co.uk, the A Darker Flame story popped into my head. Unfortunately, I worry that it’s worryingly close to our future.