Amalia likes the Tube. Except at rush hour, no-one likes being on the Underground at rush hour. Not being employed, she has the leisure to ride beneath and between the streets of London all day if she chooses but it never comes to that. Sooner or later her attention is distracted – a throaty laugh, a lustful glance, a bulging crotch; it doesn’t take much – and she has found her next vehicle, her next adventure.
This is part 6 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below
She runs her fingers lightly across the welts and bruises blooming on her pale skin, luxuriating in their heightened sensitivity, their vibrant colours. She has never felt so alive and so much at peace; bound and beaten she was finally freed from the constraint of corsets and conventions which had thus far imprisoned her spirit.
She steps into view and-
oh, hel-lo gorgeous
-for she is, truly.
Often a source of displeasure, tonight her appearance sparks joy across my synapses. Luminous, carefully made-up dark eyes peer anxiously before widening with delighted recognition.
Tonight she is hunting, prowling the narrow dim-lit, littered backstreets; with jaguar stealth and reptilian intent. As she passes, dead leaves and empty cardboard takeaway boxes crumble to ashes, conversations fade to uneasy silence, streetlights flicker. In her wake, wholesome desire becomes ravenous depravity, admiration darkens to slavish worship, human eyes dilate with human lusts. She ignores their tiny whispers, mere nibbles at the edges of her awareness; tonight she is stalking bigger game and has no time for these insubstantial morsels of mortals. She likens them to the cheap fast food they seem to enjoy so much; dead consumables made of fat and starch, produced by an industrial slaughterhouse for degraded tastes.
I close the door of the hotel room and lean against it, kicking off my kitten-heel shoes with a sigh. Conferences are always so exhausting once the high of getting my geek on wears off. My mind is racing; notes to make, follow-up emails to send, ideas, conversations, names, faces…it’s all too much to cope with right now. I reach for my phone and text Him.
I’m not remotely susceptible to hypnosis, much to my bitter disappointment. Probably because of that, I find it fascinating and live in hope that it will work on me one day. I’d love to play with hypno-kink.