(NEW FAX TRANSMISSION)
Simon picked up the new writing book given to him for Christmas. It was a hardback with a coloured marbled cover. "This is breaking the ice," he said out loud to himself as he took the top off his blue Parker pen and wrote the word 'THAW' at the top of the page.
"I don't know why you think you've got to write a novel...a short story would be fine."
By 'fine' Annie had meant the thaw would take hold. 'A short story' had been one of Annie's recent mantras purred out to Simon whilst massaging his fucked up back. Her suggestion had immediately seemed like the solution...maybe even to his back problems...which had been going on for over four years....ever since he'd folded up the Ashram in the Scottish Highlands and moved south to a flat off Leith Walk in Edinburgh.
His previous enthusiasm for being `a teacher' had completely vanished after Shanti had left and gone off to live with Arnold and Molly in London. Left on his own...he crashed to the bottom...and went right through it...and found himself buried...beneath the level of ordinary daily life. He felt totally dead...so dead there was no will to do anything...but smoke tobacco. Tobacco...which had been banned for the whole ten years of the Ashram existence. Now tobacco had become Simon's link with what he now thought was 'normality'. A normality which he prayed to hurry up and embrace him.
It was at the point when he found himself contemplating getting a T.V.....that he decided it was time to pack up the Ashram and start his life all over again. He kept thinking he should go to India...to visit who he used to imagine was his Master...but once he'd got established in his third floor flat...he couldn't face the journey. His back hurt all the time...which is how he got to know Annie...and through her...he faced the truth....that Indian philosophy had never done Simon any good. Annie had been to India and thought all the gurus she'd met were sexual vampires. "I've seen what they DO in front of those IMAGES of goddesses," she scoffed.
"I like short stories...and even some poetry. The sort of poetry that's got a story to it. Long poems...which are short stories. I haven't got the patience to read novels...particularly like that huge lump you've got over there." She was referring to Simon's brand new copy of Eco's `Pendulum' which Simon had bought the day before..now resting....unopened on his workbench/desk. "I like it when you can get into something...deep...but be able to finish it in a lunch hour. The trouble with long novels is they take you over. They're like Indian gurus...or T.V."
Yes...Simon now owned a T.V. set...but he didn't watch it much. It was in the kitchen where it was easier to control and he never watched it when Annie was around...so he felt a bit hurt by Annie's dig.
"T.V.'s not contolling my life," gasped Simon as Annie started beating his bare buttocks with her fists. He quite liked the fist treatment...but what he didn't like was the elbow up and down his spine. The pain was excruciating and she always kept going until he screamed out for mercy.
"No, self-doubt controls your life Simon...like it did my ex-husband's. He would rather read...anything than write something himself."
Simon flinched...inside. That's what he'd been doing for a long time. `Checking out' how the others did it. Why not? People who want to paint well go to art schools...and practising painters visit galleries regularly...and artists go through periods of re-assessment..like Picasso did. For years he never painted a single canvas.
Suddenly he remembered the tale about some comedian romping about the stage wearing a nappy and screaming out for his mummy! That gave Art Janov the idea for Primal Therapy...and the Primal Institute in Los Angeles where John Lennon cracked up and learnt to really scream. The comedian wore diapers and screamed out for his MOMMY. If I had done some real screaming after Arnold and Shanti split...my back wouldn't have gone...I'm sure. It was the strain of trying to stay HIGH which did it.
Simon now held the view that when he'd been `a teacher'...he'd been living on the upper floors of a fantasy pagoda. Being a big noise. Being somebody...with a superior overview on normal life. But when his female supports vanished...he didn't calmly walk down the fire escape...and take up his abode on the normal ground level. No! He crashed from his ivory tower...right through an absence of any ground level...into hell!
Since then he'd been desperately trying to get on the level with ordinary people. More than anything else...he wanted to resurrect his real buried self...and relate to normal people in the daily common sense light. That's why he still smoked a bit of tobacco...which he kept in the kitchen drawer...under the Sony T.V.
Of course it had been inevitable that smoking tobacco would lead to a joint...now and then...with Annie. Another re-orientation strategy was reading The Guardian most days...coupled with an occasional drink...and of course lots of massage...and a visit to Saul the osteopath at least once a week. "How's that love?" whispered Annie in her reassuring Liverpool voice. Simon jiggled his shoulder blades about and winced into his pillow.
"It's a bit better," he spluttered.
"A bit more?"
"Please." Simon wondered who was in charge of his voice? He didn't actually want any more...because he didn't really believe Annie could do the trick...and anyway, he was more or less convinced...by Cesar...Annie's ex-husband...that the pain was nothing to do with a slipped disc...but was due to a peptic ulcer. It was true that he'd drunk too much whiskey for a time...and the alcohol had eaten through his stomach lining...which caused massive turbulence in his bread basket...which in turn caused the acute discomfort in his higher back.
But now...ever since the latest crisis...caused by Cesar's disappearance...with Simon's wad of bread...(from doing a bit of dope dealing)... two thousand five hundred quid in ten pound notes plus Simon's jewellery box....yes, ever since then, he couldn't bring himself round to trust anything Cesar had ever told him. Anyway, this time he really had SCREAMED...and got into some very weird feelings of self-betrayal. He made up his mind he would go out and buy some Roter tablets when Annie had finished.
There'd been times in the past...(what other times were available?)...times when Annie's touch seemed pure magic....as if she could make her hands penetrate the taut surface of flesh....and go right deep inside his innards....and stroke them gently and firmly. It had been an amazing sensation...like he'd been bathed in a warm liquid gold...or warm gold light...and it had been in those sort of moments that Simon had seriously considered Alchemy as a possible way of life for him.
This was how he'd got involved with Cesar...after telling Annie about his insights into Alchemy. She had immediately suggested he meet her ex-husband...as she always referred to him. She didn't say he was an alchemist or anything like that...in fact the picture of Cesar... (pronounced 'SAY-TZAR')... which Simon inhabited before he encountered the swarthy Armenian....was distinctly unattractive....but Simon put this down to the fruits of the domestic distortion virus. After all, the artist was Annie...and Simon...throughout her `painting process'....had never been anything in her hands...but a pummelled over stretched meat canvas.
So because Simon had come to the conclusion that Annie was too distorted to be trusted...he had looked forward to meeting what he had imagined would be an interesting but awkward thinker. Awkward to grasp…to handle.
Simon had never met anyone who handled their schizophrenic behaviour with such grace...aplomb...enjoyment. Cesar seemed to be passionately in love with his own madness...or was it madness? Cesar put Simon on that knife edge...within a few minutes of their first meeting. No conclusion seemed possible in the opening meetings. Of course, Simon was anxious to believe that Cesar was not phoney...but it was an uphill climb accepting that the tall, slim heavy-moustached Armenian was over two hundred years old.
According to Cesar, his life in Paris had been disrupted at the time of the French Revolution. His father had been guillotined after he and his mother fled to Vienna...where Cesar continued to study Alchemy. Well anyone can say things like that...so Simon couldn't resist laying what he thought were well disguised intellectual traps...which either Cesar easily saw through...or Cesar really was on the way to becoming an immortal!
Anyway laying such traps hadn't helped Simon when it came to the unexpected...which doesn't mean that all strategies are useless...it's just that Simon never suspected that Cesar would rob him...and of course, had Cesar fallen into one of Simon's traps...and therefore revealed to Simon his lying disposition...Simon would have been saved a large slice of time.
Precious...precious TIME. A slogan which Cesar, time after time, had used to pummel Simon's brain. "The creation of time is an absolute criterion for the success of the Great Work", insisted the Armenian `magus'. "There's no point in beginning The Great Work if you haven't got enough time to complete it. That's the only reason an alchemist is concerned with longevity...because he is totally convinced that death is the enemy of The Great Work."
When Cesar said he was having a lot of trouble with his landlady...Simon had invited Cesar to stay with him...until he found somewhere suitable. Three days after moving in with Simon...Cesar vanished with Simon's jewel box containing the two thousand five hundred quid. Yet even that obvious betrayal didn't convince Luke that Cesar was a phoney!
"Alchemists are not moralists, laddie," Luke proclaimed. "They simply don't give a shit for consensus-mind standards. They're committed to one end...and all the materials in the world are nothing but potential for their use. They're queen Bees...determined to get their golden honey. And that's it mate! You're fukin lucky to have met such a wizard...so stop fukin grumblin!"
Luke was like that. A starry-eyed idealist. Simon now regretted that he'd ever introduced Luke to Cesar. But Simon was addicted to sharing. He had to turn every new experience into...what? Into a usable currency. So it appeared to Simon that Luke had turned his back on normal people...and was behaving like a frantic hornet exploring the wild reaches of his imagination…and believing his imagination was the real reality. Two hundred years didn't give Luke any problems...in fact, Luke hinted to Simon that he thought Cesar was more like a thousand years old...or more to the point...an extra-terrestrial operating in a different time dimension from Simon.
"My guess laddie...is Cesar is a fifth density WANDERER! All those painful inconsistencies were opportunities for you to have admitted to Cesar that you thought he was taking the piss...and you would have seen him give you a hint of a friendly wink...because Cesar would have felt relieved that you were WAKING UP!"
"Are you seriously saying that he's a spaceman....looking out for those...like you, Luke...who can see through his tacky disguise?"
Luke gave no reply. He could feel Simon's anger reaching out to envelop his soul. "I'll catch you later, laddie," he finally said as he pedalled off on his old 1950 green upright Raleigh bike...his filthy tweed cap pulled down over his plastic goggles.
"O.K. sweetie-pie," Annie purred. "That's it for now."
"Thanks Annie. I'm ready to do some writing."
"Don't hurry. Take your time. In fact find your own time...and if I were you...I wouldn't even give my ex-husband a thought...let alone write about him. I'm sorry that I suggested that you meet him."
"It's not your fault Annie. You weren't to know."
"That he's a crook. No I didn't darling. Well...certainly not a common thief...I think it's very noble of you to not call the cops on him."
"I'm not being noble Annie...I just don't want the fuzz cross-examining me on where I got the bread from."
"I understand, darling. Anyway shall I put a tape on? ...coz I've got to go....quick!"
"I don't mind...yeah...put on 'the sounds of the Amazon forest'. Not too loud."
"Coming up," she whispered...quietly shutting the cream painted door. Then deftly she made her way to the kitchen...without making a creak. Annie detested creaking floorboards...but she had given up trying to get Simon to carpet his flat. Simon only felt at home in a workshop atmosphere. Annie was too much like a mother for Simon's liking. Buying carpets to suit Annie would be too much like a capitulation. So she was forced to learn the geography of the floorboards...because the Glaswegian bully below Simon's flat yelled abuse every time the floorboards screamed out.
After a few minutes Simon's reverie was invaded by the insane sounds of the Amazon jungle.
`This is a dream', Simon wrote instead of putting on the T.V. `A dream to which I'm attached...in a way I don't understand. I'm afraid to wake up from this dream. In fact I'm afraid to really face the fact that this is a dream. I mean...if this really is a dream...what is reality like? I'm even afraid to imagine what reality is like. Is it possible that Cesar stole my bread because of a metaphysical altruism? He probably realised that I would get onto this line of thought. That I would get round to wanting to forgive him. And who would benefit from that? ME!
Cursing him is doing me no good. But how can anyone forgive whilst still feeling ripped off? Hurt.
This is a very painful dream. Why is it painful? Because I'm refusing to face up to the fact that it's a dream. Deep down...I want this tacky dream to be real. And to last forever! And...of course...I know it's not going to happen...well maybe for a while it will...but I'm not going to be able to stay in this dream for ever. I'm going to die...in the future...and then will it matter that I've had my marbles nicked? No, it won't...or will it? What if I've still not forgiven him...and I meet him in the future...in a different dimension...beyond all belief systems?
Our chances of having a good time together are remote if I carry on insisting that he's hurt me...in some distant past. Any past. But why should he get away with it? Maybe that's not the point. The point is...I'm writing...again...and writing...the very act of it...may enable me to allow what 'I think' to be transformed...and if that happens...I guess I'll feel different about Cesar.'
Simon felt an unexpected SURGE of excitement. Suddenly it all seemed obvious! Writing really is a way of developing consciousness. To think I spent all those years looking for...encouragement. Years and years and years of reading Indian and Chinese mysticism...The New Testament..Lama Govinda...and now I'm coming home...to my self. The fact is...that I'm in THE WEST. The WEST is my home. I think it's time I studied someone like Rudolph Steiner...or Peter Ouspensky. But that's no good. They've both been infected by Eastern philosophy. No wonder Lance hated even the word 'Advaita'!
Poor Lance. His thought circuit was even worse. What is the point? The point is an illusion. That brilliant point...to which billions of souls are racing to grasp...is a trap. A trick.
All those countless souls have agreed to be tricked. That point...when you get there...is a speck of dust...just like any other speck. It doesn't seem that way...before you get there...because that blinding...brilliant point...has got its fantastic magnetic power from all those billions of souls who have craved to be embraced by it ...and thereby...have fed it with the substance of their own souls...making them completely empty...and being empty they get sucked into the point...where they all crash...into the pile...and become compost...food for the tricksters.
You want to know who the tricksters are? That's part of the trick! The trick is to get you to leave home, to abandon the MOTHER VIBRATION...and fly off to the point. THE viewpoint. GOD! When you leave home...your true soul position...you become food...and so become empty...cold...dead. Just another empty viewpoint.
The real universe is POINT-LESS. There are no points to be found. The true pulse is pointless. The pointless universe is home. The soul is point-less. Love is pointless. To be real is to be point-less. No wonder I've been so uptight living in this flat. I thought I had to see the point in living in Edinburgh...and I couldn't see it...so I made myself depressed...sick! Actually I have been compressing myself into a point. How mad can one get? I've been trying to shape myself into what I've been seeking.
FROM TIM'S DIARY
When I read this piece to Master, He said, " Metaphysics is the whirld of viewpoints." (He emphasized the word 'whirld' by twirling his agile wrists). O God I don't want to leave Master and go back to England. I've just had to pull myself together...because I can't record exactly the words of Master if I allow myself to become so emotional about him. So, Master continued: "This whirld is driven by a belief that there ought to be a viewpoint from which everything can be clearly understood. What is not understood by the devotees of this belief…or by the devotees of other beliefs...is the ontology of viewpoints. And because of this profound ignorance...this total blindness to the nature of viewpoints...the implications of operating in that realm are not recognised.
Every person who is engaged in the effort to gain an understanding of existence through metaphysics...that is, through the construction...or assumption of a superior viewpoint...is doomed to be no more than a story teller. A dry story teller whose only enjoyment depends on the hearing of his or her own story.
Tim, there is no way any real soul could ever enter and participate in any viewpoint-generated story. The story serves the voracious conned-senses 'mind'...ever hungry for another view of what it's been told is going on...and because almost everyone one meets today....is no more than a disconnected viewer...the sense of looking at life through a de-human-eyesing sheet of glass...is assumed to be normal! Well Tim, I have to agree...it has become normal for man to not experience reality...which is of course LIFE."
Master gestured that we should leave the cave and walk...so together we walked silently to his favourite spot, a large rock overlooking a thousand foot drop. It was about an hour after noon and the air was crystal clear. You could see far down into the valleys. High above, black and white kites were circling in a fantastic blueness.
Master...after a long silence said, "The devotees of viewpoints imagine they know what it means to experience life...but all of them are totally asleep. This sleep makes them totally unaware of where they are coming from. They are like raving souls living in those sputniks circling the Earth...believing they know what it's like to be on the Earth...NOW!
In other words Tim...they really believe that their viewpoint (constructed in the past)...allows them to enter LIFE's real event-ING...even though they are not actually HERE! This vicarious activity is driven by the urge to escape 'physical life'. But this so called `physical life', which all the devotees of metaphysical viewpoints wish to escape...is nothing but an image of physical life constructed from a multitude of viewpoints.
The question is...is it possible for someone who is liberated from all belief systems...from ALL viewpoints...yes, is it possible for such a free person to communicate their real-I-sation? For this to occur the other person would have to be eager. Eager to be free of the constraints of being an agent. An agent for a viewpoint. And don't ever forget...every viewpoint has a manufacturer! Every viewpoint is someone's probe...into your mind. No....that's incorrect Tim,...every viewpoint is a probe into your LIFE...for even the word `mind' indicates a concept in the realm of the prober's viewpoint system.
So, if the other is not an agent for someone else...whoever he or she may be...God...angel...guru...demon...extra-terrestrial...ghost...Asura…or power-seeking human...yes Tim, if the other to whom the free person intends to communicate...is already only themself...only then is it possible for real communication to take place. That is...communication in the realm of LIFE.
Real communication is not between viewpoints. Real communication can only occur when two or more real, awake beings play with each other in the same element. The idea that there is a viewpoint which is supposed to be THE ABSOLUTE VIEW...is ashes talk. Absolute information without a trace of life...without joy...without the unexpected...Total staleness...total unawareness of texture. Total unawareness of the isness of the great mystery.
This real indescribable now...is totally...point-less. So in your novel it should be clear to the reader that Simon is trying to wake up to the nature of his imprisonment. When YOU have totally woken up Tim...YOU will see clearly why YOU can-not in any real way communicate to anyone who is asleep...and wants above all to remain asleep.
Always remember that psychological sleep implies that the sleeper is an agent for a belief...for a viewpoint. And in the end you will come to see that sleepers have to wake themselves up! They have to be so sick of their state of sleep...their stink...that they yearn to wake up...yearn to be dis-illusioned!"
After that lecture I've decided to re-write the whole `novel'. I've started already and I've decided to cut out all the mathematics. Of course all of this depends on me getting my original manuscript back from Stuart...but I can't imagine that will be an enormous problem. Basically I've been trying to remember what I actually wrote when I look through Stuart's cannibalized version. It's lucky for me that I've got such a good memory.
(END OF FAX TRANSMISSION)
I'm sitting in pitch black. There must be a pylon down. It happened half an hour after I read the latest fax from Mary. There's a terrific storm raging away. The nearby pines are groaning and all my windows are rattling. I thought I was draught proof but my two candle flames are distinctly un-easy.
I keep having to remind myself that Tim is already dead. It's like looking at a star and being told that right now...that star which I seem to see...is already non-existent! But who am I to say that Tim is non-existent...because his body's vanished? Again I get this sense that I'm being pulled along by a strong current...set up by Tim and his master. If Tim is pulling from the same place as his master...then it must be from a pointless place. The un-noticed perfection of the obvious. It's all beginning to make sense...why I've been contacted...and why I've got to put this stuff out...into the whirld...as it might contact other members of our scattered group.
I'm definitely involved in a project. The project of helping a group of scattered souls...and I'm one of them...meet up. Meet up where? Perhaps On the other side of the body! And I think it's really happening because that answer simply popped into my mind. From where?
I've just un-plugged the telephone because I don't want to be confused any more by Mary. I just don't feel up to talking to her in the middle of this ferocious storm. Obviously I don't know where that answer came from. `On the other side of the body'. What does that mean? It must mean from the space beyond death. This is so stupid...I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm lonely. Terribly lonely...yet I un-plug the telephone. I'm mad! Lonely and mad. This previously un-admitted lonliness has driven me mad. Right now this whole hut-life seems stupid. I mean really stupid. Like suicide! Yet if I can get this damm book out quick I've got a wonderful opportunity to get involved in real life in India.
Basically I'm living in fear. It just shows that having loads of bread doesn't do anything for one's peace of mind. Maybe I should abandon the idea of going to India with the mythical Mary and go to South America and try to find my mum. Christ! I thought the roof was going for a burton then. These winds must be over 100 miles an hour. I think I'll smoke a really big joint and then crash out. I'm so bored with myself.
(NEXT FAX TRANSMISSION)
`Yes, this life is a very painful dream...if you want it to match your expectations and continue for ever without any disappointment or pain.'
Simon kept reading the sentence over and over. Then he crossed out `match your expectations and'...then studied the statement `yes, this life is a very painful dream if you want it to continue for ever without any disappointment or pain.' It felt...clumsy. So what?
I've got to start somewhere...and who said that every sentence should be elegant? That was the simple, honest way it came out. But is that really true? He could feel himself getting near to being stuck again. It's so easy to get caught-up in imagined put-downs. But, thought Simon, placing his new Parker pen down on his workbench, does that mean I only struggle to be elegant in order to be accepted? Surely this can't be entirely true. Yet I do admire and enjoy reading well-crafted prose. Yes I'm always being tempted to emulate what I've admired. So I'm trying to get admiration...from my self! Then...I'll have enough oomph...confidence...to join `the club'. Simon felt an onrush of the wobblies...racing through his basement.
God knows...Simon had never in his life felt confident about his...style...in fact he felt imprisoned by the conviction that he was totally lacking in any real style...or if he did have something of the skeleton of a style...it was very pedestrian! No sooner had Simon reflected on his past efforts at gaining a foothold in the literary world...he felt about twelve years old. God...he was a mass of envy.
He next crossed out `Yes'...and `or pain', and then read out loud in his echoing flat, `This life is a very painful dream if you want it to continue without any disappointment.' He immediately doubted the whole concept of life being a dream...so the next form of the sentence ran...`Life is painful if you want it to continue forever without any pain involved.'
The fact is, thought Simon, there is pain involved...and our life doesn't last forever. Maybe what's more true is that the pain of life doesn't last forever. Yes, if I totally accepted life as it is...there would be no pain involved. The pain is consequent on preferring illusions to truth...to reality. And the plain fact was that his so called pain was nothing else but guilt.
He had always felt guilty about his relationships to women. Take Annie for instance. It was true that he had never pretended to be in love with her...but he had never let on that he hated fucking her. He had convinced himself that he had to do it from time to time because she was so kind to him. But he disliked her cunt. It was so over-used. So meat-like. So flabby. And her tits were like lumps of sweaty dough. He despised himself for going through the ordeal but he could see no way out of it.
Then there was Jill...Lance's widow. He had never admitted to Shanti before she left that he had...?…had definitely sexed it up with Jill...the very next day after Lance's funeral. He had pretended to his poor Mother that he was going round to see Jill to console her! Yet he knew bloody well why he was going round to her mansion.
On the phone, Jill didn't sound in the least upset that lance had been murdered. She was clearly elated at his death...but furious that Lance's slag...as she called her...had the gall to attend the funeral and weep over his open coffin. Jill was waiting for Simon in the dining room after he'd phoned to say he was coming round to see her. And when it is said she was waiting...she was waiting dressed in the most erotic gear he had ever had the pleasure to witness. Basically she was wearing nothing but ropes, belts, chains, high-heels and black real silk stockings. She'd told him on the phone to not bother to knock but come into the dining room where she was relaxing after the ordeal.
He certainly wasn't sexually dishonest that day. He couldn't believe it. She'd handcuffed her ankles to the table legs...and her belly and tits were spread across the highly polished table. The first thing she said was, " tie my hands behind my back and fuck me into ECSTASY! NOW! DO IT RIGHT NOW SIMON! Fuck me to kingdom come!"
Simon had never felt so perplexed in all his life. Rooted to the spot...in the walnut doorway...directly facing Jill's polished arse. Simon reckoned it was shining so blatantly because Jill must have smeared her body all over with some sort of oil...or maybe it was sweat. Suddenly...before saying a word or making even the slightest move...the fifth pensee by Joseph Joubert popped into his head. ` Of the two, I prefer those who render vice lovable to those who degrade virtue.'
Moving towards the table and grabbing a soft very clean white rope…the thickness of a clothes line...Simon did his best to not sound nervous. "Jill...I'll try my best."
"If that's the best you can say...just keep ya mouth shut...and give this slut what she NEEDS. NOW!" Simon obeyed and tied Jill's hands tightly behind her back. He then slowly slowly caressed her shoulders, neck, tits, back and then squeezed each cheek of her oily bum with both hands...before sliding his hands between her thighs and squeezing her already swollen pussy lips very hard. All the time he massaged her in this erotic manner…she never stopped uttering a non-stop litany of obscene commands like " stick your fingers up my cunt...then fuck me up my ass with your crude cock."
Whilst Simon was obeying some of her commands, he kept wondering if he was actually making vice lovable? Also there was a voice going on inside his head saying `this is my dead brother's widow who is corrupting me.' When she finally came...it was like the screaming of a sow being dragged into the abattoir. But that wasn't enough. Simon was commanded to carry on with dildos and whips until she erupted again and again and again.
In the end Simon got sickened by the whole event and left Jill still tied up and screaming for more whilst he went to the bathroom and took a shower. Eventually he took pity on her, and returning naked let her suck his swollen prick whilst he squeezed her flattened tits as hard as he could. After he'd filled her hot mouth with sperm he returned to the bathroom, took another shower, dressed and left by the back door...without telling Jill he was leaving.
Driving back to his mother's house in her old Daimler, he felt positively weird. He kept wondering whether Jill would ever be able to escape from her self-created bondage? By the time he'd parked the car in the garage and was slowly approaching the front door of his mother's house he was getting close to guilt and real fear. Then on the spur of the moment…he was back in the car and racing back to Jill's house. When he entered the sumptuous dining room she was exactly in the same position as when he'd left her...in fact in the same position as when he'd first encountered her wanton display earlier in the day.
"O Simon baby, that was beautiful...leaving me on my own...tied up like this. I've rubbed my cunt against the table so much...it must be bleeding. I'm dying for you to molest me and rape me. I've been fantasising that a total stranger would walk in and violate every code of sexual decency ever invented.
Simon all my life...in my imagination...I've been a filthy whore...a real slut...but your arse-hole brother never discovered my real crude nature. So throughout our marriage I lived a total lie...and did the best I could with dildos and pornagraphic literature...which I had to keep hidden from Lance. Now all that mental torture is over...and I can fuck as much as I want with whoever I want. Simon baby...whip my ass till I bleed...and then untie me and lets go out and have something to eat...then go somewhere sleazy and celebrate."
When Jill sold up and bought a flat in Brighton, Simon visited from time to time...but he soon tired of the same routine...of transforming Jill into primeval jelly. Finally he had to tell her on the phone that he couldn't cope with her voracious appetite. She didn't take it well and managed to make Simon feel guilty and very weak. The way that came to an end also contributed to his bad back. But he never blamed Jill. All those years with Lance! No wonder she was now a horse on fire!