How Green was your Traffic Light

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It is a Saturday morning. I am standing naked, spread-eagled and facing the wall in the tiny hall of my apartment. There is barely (ha, ha!) enough room for the door to open behind me without it hitting me on my bare ass. It is now 10.30 and I have been standing here since 10 o’clock. I cleared out all the coats and stuff to make the tiny space as big as possible. It is a small square shape with the door to the bedroom on one side and the door to the living room on the other side. Behind me is the front door and facing me is the blank wall I am leaning against. In the position! This wall has a row of coat hooks running along it at about six feet off the ground. Each of my hands is grabbing a coat hook just now because I’m fed up having them flat against the wall. But I am still ‘in position’ by and large; still obeying the instructions. Anyway, I will put my hands back flat against the wall the minute I hear him coming.

Once that door swings open my nakedness will be revealed to the corridor outside, and to Anna Jankowsky’s apartment door directly across from mine. All of me, in the flesh, the rear view, standing with my legs wide apart, my arms stretched wide on either side over my head, hands against the wall. Anna would be agog, to say the least. The classic ‘come and do what you like with me’ pose. When that door does swing open I am not to look around. I am to just wait, spread-eagled and naked for… whatever. The instructions were quite detailed in that regard. Even if there was no sound I’d feel the door open by the wind it would make it as it swings past my ass with about a quarter of an inch to spare.

Actually, I’m not totally naked. I’m wearing black fishnet hold-ups and black lacy fingerless gloves. I thought it would look sexier. I’ve thought lots about how this will go down. In fact I’ve been thinking about this morning solidly for the last three days. At the library, where I work, they decided I’m in love, because I’d keep forgetting what I was asked to do or else they’d find me standing in a trance in front of the returns trolley, book in hand, obviously miles away.

Even though his instructions were that I be totally naked, I thought it worth the risk. It would show a bit of character if I didn’t obey to the letter. And I think men prefer it if the woman isn’t just a total obedient slave type; makes it a bit of a challenge. Christian Grey in Fifty Shades of Grey would have liked it more if his Ana showed a bit more spunk, as though that would justify him punishing his slave for being disobedient, since he wanted to punish her anyway. That was his thing. That is what’s going to happen to me: I’m going to be punished by a total stranger. That’s my thing, I think. Only I’ve never had it done before.

He’d instructed me to put the door on the latch before taking up my naked stance. I was to do this from 10 o’clock in the morning and maintain the position, until 12 noon. Sometime during that time he will turn up and do his thing. Having the door on the latch means that if anybody just pushes against the door it will swing wide open. It’s usually quiet enough in the apartment block in the middle of a Saturday morning. Still, it’s all a bit worrying. At first, my heart jumped every time a door slammed anywhere in the building. I nearly wet myself when the lift kicked into life at 10.05 and rattled towards me on the second floor. It was a false alarm.

The origins of this adventure are a bit odd, but that’s what makes adventures what they are; tales of the unexpected. I ran a red traffic light last Wednesday coming over the bridge and turning onto the quay. It wasn’t by any means the first time I have run that traffic light just as it turned red, but it was the first time I was pulled up for it.

I knew I’d run the light because I always glance in the rear view mirror after. It must be some kind of guilty reflex. If I go through on green or even orange I don’t look to see who is following behind me.

This time I look in the mirror and see that the driver behind me going through the light too. Not unusual. And I take that as proof positive that the traffic light can have barely changed when I went through. Tut, tut, that car should have stopped, I was thinking, when suddenly I saw a blue light flashing on its dash and it gave a brief blip of a siren. Arggggh! an unmarked police car. Nothing for it, pull over. He slid in behind me as I stopped in one of the parking bays along the quay. I turned off my engine, rolled down the window and waited. That’s what you do, in America anyway. I’ve seen it on TV enough times. Here in Ireland; god knows.

Suddenly all was quiet. I could hear the water lapping against the quay wall, a few gulls were swooping and diving over the fishing boats moored alongside. It seemed peaceful. It’s probably how you feel before you get shot by a firing squad. You look up at the clouds floating serenely by overhead. You feel the wind on your face and you think: fuck it!

It’s going on for eleven o’clock now and I’m still waiting patiently, cihangir escort like the good obedient slave I hope to become. I’ve started to take little rests. Nobody could be expected to keep ‘in the position’ for two hours, though his instructions said stay in position until noon. Every time I hear a sound, my heart starts pounding and I go back into the position in a flash. But it’s only the creaks and groans of the old building heating up, so lots of false alarms. Then the lift starts up again. This is it. I ready myself for the moment: ass pushed up, nice and pert. He’s coming now. I have a last minute urge to turn around and lock the door and call the whole thing off. It’ll only be a couple of penalty points on my licence and a fine of €80. I’ll get over it.

I put that moment down to panic, and get a grip. After all this is the thing that I’ve fantasized about as long as I had a sexual thought in my head. And now it’s about to happen. So I don’t lock the door. I resume my position of readiness, my heart still thumping, my breathing ragged with rising panic. I took a deep breath and held it. The lift rumbled past and on up to the third floor. I nearly cried with frustration. Maybe that’s just what he wants. He’s making me wait, building the tension; a touch of the ‘you can’t come yet’ treatment. A taste of what’s ahead: ‘Not yet, slave.’ After all there’s still an hour to go, the cruel bastard, or I should say, my cruel master. Thank you for making me wait, Sir. I listen to the lift doors swish open and close on the third floor and all is silent again. I go back to waiting, my heart beat comes back down from the heights and my breathing slows to normal; still naked, still wanting it.

I had watched from my rear view mirror as he got out of his car and sauntered over to my open window. Nice looking, 29 ish, leather jacket and chinos. Full of himself the way cops are, he leaned one elbow on my open window, the sleeve of his leather jacket creaking, his head level with mine, looking around inside, probably trying to see if there was a sniff of alcohol of my breath. Highly unlikely at 8.30 in the morning, but they say you never know with some people. Then out came this weird question.

‘How green was your traffic light, young lady?’ he said with a grin, and a country accent.

How mad a question was that? No answer to it, though. Because I’d have to I have to admit it wasn’t green at all. I couldn’t say it was slightly green, now could I? I wondered briefly if he had handcuffs, and if he was planning to use them on me. I wouldn’t mind.

‘No answer to that,’ I said, thinking best to play it cool and neutral, handing over my licence before he even asked for it.

‘True. It’s not a question really.’ He mused as he took in the details on the licence. ‘It’s a bit like saying, How Green was my Valley. That’s the title of a book about a valley in Wales, in case you haven’t come across it. Maureen O’Hara was in the film of it. You’d catch it on daytime television. I’d sometimes watch that sort of stuff after coming in off night duty. Do you remember her in the Quiet Man? A powerful film that.’

What’s this? Is he psychic? Do I remember it? How could I not remember it! I had my first wet dream about it when I was twelve years old. Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne, him with the big stick and dragging her through the fields and going to beat her with it, and the crowd of villagers all egging him on. The film used be on TV at Christmas every year and I’d watch it every year, just waiting for that scene and living through every moment of it, except that in it I made John Wayne take me over his knee, lift up my skirts and reveal my bare bottom to the whole village and start lashing it with the stick. And they’d all cheer him on and he’d keep on hitting me, and I’d be helpless to make him stop and dying of the mortification.

He looked up from my licence. ‘Jean Murphy. Are you the Miss Jean Murphy that is the newly appointed library assistant in the town library?’

How’d he know I was working in the library? It’s only a work experience job for six months. A job I was trying to be on time for when I broke the lights. That’s what I hate about a small country town.

At 11.15 my neighbour from the apartment across the hall, and her three year old son, came clattering out their door. The door! Dear God, don’t let the youngster throw himself against my open door. I’d die if that Anna Jankowsky saw me like this. She’d never let me live it down. As it is she thinks I’m a slut just because I sometimes get pizzas delivered and don’t cook everything from scratch. She once knocked on the door and gave me a mug of some Polish soup she that she’d made. Must have been trying to convert me to the benefits of home cooking. It was heavenly.

I leant against the door until I heard the Jankowskys head off down the corridor, rattling and banging the buggy, the scooter and the myriad bags and bundles that seemed to be essential for the shortest mecidiyeköy escort of mother and toddler excursions. Off to the park via the Polish shop in Castle Street, I suppose. Back into ‘the position’ I went. Forty-five minutes to go.

He was still yammering on.

‘Enjoying that book, he said, it’s a good one, isn’t it? I read it myself’

Oh help! That book was Fifty Shades of Grey. It was sitting on my passenger seat in full view. I was in the middle of reading it and loving it. The whole country was talking about it. It was all about bondage, and whips and that sort of stuff. Which is my thing; big time. Il bet the minute he came over and leaned in my window he spotted the book and decided to test the waters, with his Maureen O ‘Hara questions and all that stuff. He guessed that’s what I’m into and it’s a safe guess that he is into it too. His next line proved it.

‘I suppose now you’d like me to lean you over the front of your car, have you spread your legs in front of all those people on the other side of the street, while I cuff you and pat you down for hidden weapons in all sorts of sensitive places?’

This was the moment of truth. I could have stopped the game right there. He’d put it up to me. Here goes, I thought. It’s a small town. This could be my only chance of a bit of kinky action. On the other hand, I might never live it down. My answer would decide my fate. I went for it. Big time.

‘If you wish, Sir.’

‘Well, I wish alright, but I won’t, not today anyway. Not out here on the street,’ he said. ‘Somebody might report me for excessive use of force.’

‘I wouldn’t report you, Sir. I’d be grateful. I’d bend right over for you, sir, especially if you wanted to use excessive force, Sir.’

‘No can do,’ he said, ‘after all, it’s not exactly a hanging and flogging matter is it? You only broke the lights.’

‘Well, it could be a flogging matter, Sir. That’s up to you …Sir.’ OH MY GOD! Did I actually say that? Talk about holding up a big sign with ‘Take Me” written on it. Surely that was too much? But no, not at all. My mother used to say you can’t make it too obvious for some fellas, and for some fellas you can’t make it obvious enough. She had her moments.

‘Well let’s make it a flogging matter, then, if that’s the way you want it.’ He plods back, boxing me in eventually. Game, set and match – at last.

He was all business then, with his black notebook out. ‘Is your address still as on your licence?’ I said yes. He wrote it in, and my phone number too.

‘I will text you to tell you exactly what to do and when to do it. You are going to follow my orders to the letter. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

As I listened to the fading sounds of the Jankowsky’s normality drifting away down the corridor towards the lift, it seemed a bit freaky to be standing naked, inside my own door, waiting for some strange man to ‘take’ me. But I still wanted it. I still ached for it as a ‘thing,’ even if I was getting a bit fed up waiting for this particular manifestation of it. I listened to the swish of the lift doors sliding open. Then the thwack of the doors sliding shut as the lift swallowed up the Jankowsky’s and conveyed them to the ground floor. It came to a halt with a thump. The doors swished open again and off they went towards the park.

Silence reigns. The waiting resumes. I’m thinking how the sound of the lift door opening and closing might be a bit like the sound his whip, or cane or whatever, would make on my ass. Swish… thwack. Swish…thwack. Swish… thwack. At least Anna Jankowsky won’t be around to wonder what that the strange sounds from my apartment are. Standing there naked, in position again, totally exposed, I wondered what she had done to snare her man. Not this anyway, but not enough to keep him either. He was long gone when she moved in across the corridor from me.

Twelve o’clock. The two hours are up. So he’s not going to come, is he? There wasn’t a sound to be heard in the whole building, unless it was the sound of my horniness draining out of me. I ‘m about to turn and lock the door when I fell this a big, cool hand on my ass. I jumped a mile. He’s here! Silent and sneaky, but God! He’s come. He’s right here, right behind me, right now. It’s going to happen! I feel a bit faint. I want to look around, but I know I’m not allowed to. That’s one of the biggie rules: His rules. Is he going to handcuff me, naked? My heart starts hammering, my breath coming in shallow pants. His hand presses more firmly on my left buttock and gives it a squeeze.

‘Easy there, girl.’

Like I am his pet horse! I love it. I could whinny for him. I try to get my breathing to slow. That firm hand and his steady, commanding voice has the right effect. I manage to get out a wobbly ‘Yes, Sir.’

Next thing I feel him slide something thin up between my buttocks until it is wedged in the crack of my ass. What the hell is that? Not cold, so not metal, so not a knife. But I kurtuluş escort start having some bad thoughts, like about horror movies I’d seen. This was not a wise choice. I’m getting panicky again, trembling and gasping for air. I could be about to die, horribly. It would be all over the local paper. Pictures of me lying there naked in the hall, blood everywhere. My mother would be mortified.

He takes his hand off my ass and massages the small of my back slowly. Then he says, ‘keep still, breathe deeply and slowly. Count to five between breaths. You are going to be all right.’

I give him another ragged ‘yes sir,’ and try to calm my breathing, counting to five. I start thinking this is going to be OK. He’s can’t be a nutter. He’s a policeman after all. He takes his hand off my back. I take another breath. I count to five. This is going to be it. This is the moment. The next thing I will feel is an explosion of searing pain on my ass as he starts the flogging. My breathing is under control now, the panic attack over. I tense and bite my lip, and wait. Nothing. Still I wait. He’s toying with me. Still nothing. This is beyond funny. I’m beginning to feel like an eejit here. Still nothing, not even a sound. Feck it, I’m going to turn around and look. I don’t care.

He’s gone. The bastard is gone. Disappeared, like the scarlet pimpernel. I’m all alone and naked in my hall on a Saturday morning and the sun shining outside. I quickly turn and lock the door. As I do a brown envelope flutters down from between my legs. So it was an envelope he slid into the crack of my ass. What sort of sick pervert would do that?

Maybe it’s a note with instructions. Like in one of those games where you’d have to go to a mystery address in the middle of the night and put on a blindfold before knocking on the door. But it’s neither. The envelope has an official stamp on the front, with two wet stains on either side of it, from me, what with the state I was in down there. ‘Fixed Charge Notice’ it says on the front.

FIXED CHARGE NOTICE! The fecking nerve of him. He’s after serving me with the ticket straight into my cunt! And I let him!

He had slipped the traffic summons up next to the lips of my naked, wet and panting pussy and walked away while I was counting to five, like an eejit! He’ll be boasting about it to the guys down at the station. He could even have filmed me and put it up on YouTube already. I’ll have to emigrate.

I’m calmer now, though it took a while. After he vanished, I took off the stockings and gloves, and showered and dressed. Had a little cry, to be honest, maybe from relief but mostly for the shame and humiliation of it. I’ll meet him on the street, and every time I see a cop looking at me I’ll know that they know, and they’re laughing. I sat at the kitchen counter and opened the envelope. It was a single sheet of printed paper titled ‘Fixed Charge Notice.’ It gave details of the offence: Failure to observe a traffic signal at such and such a place on such and such a date. Four penalty points, FOUR! will be affixed to the driving licence of the person driving the car at the time that the offence was committed. Pay the fixed charge fine of €80 by such and such a date or face a summons to appear in Court. Blah, blah, blah, on it went.

He had underlined the small print at the bottom. ‘If you are aware of any mitigating circumstances in relation to the penalty that you wished to be considered in regard to this notice you should submit them in person to the officer who noted the offence or to the station sergeant at the Garda station indicated at the top of the form.’ He had double underlined ‘submit’ and had written in his mobile number at the bottom of the page and an instruction; phone after 6.00 pm.

Is this it? Am I now to be his total plaything, a bit of sport for him to tease and torment as he pleases? First, he has me stand naked for him for the whole morning, as good as in public. Anyone could have walked in on me. Now I am expected to phone him, no doubt with lots of ‘please sirs’ and ‘thank you sirs’ thrown in. And if I do, no doubt I will have to beg for my punishment once more, after already mortifying myself on the side of the road last Wednesday, and again today. Now I know what total and absolute humiliation is about – which was the point of it all, I suppose. But it seems worse to be played with and still be helpless as to what further humiliation he might decide to heap on me. It’s just that it’s not how I thought it would be in my slave fantasies.

I sat there holding the fixed penalty notice, imagining myself totally under his thumb, a slave to his whims. On some future night being a stupid, stammering, blushing backdrop, standing naked in his apartment while he played cards with his pals, and me the stake they were playing for. I could imagine him saying, ‘Slave, get Joe a beer out of the fridge and be quick about it. The way things are going here you’ll be his for the night, so you better be nice to him.’

I could feel the unsatisfied ache growing in my loins again at the thought. I still want it. I haven’t really got there yet. And to get there it looks like I will have to go through the base humiliation of phoning him and thanking him for making an eejit of me…sir… and asking him to please do it to me again…sir.

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