Noise and Smoky Breath
After Christmas, spent entirely without George Gill, because he had to spend the holiday with his wife and boys, I felt like a wet dish-rag. When we were due to meet again, I would be seeing him for the first time in three weeks – an eternity to me, trapped in the false gaiety of a Festival we only paid lip service to, yet all the rituals still had to be observed. Even the mince pie and a glass of sherry for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph. Stacy had taken over this chore, even though she had known and accepted the non-existence of Santa and his Pals for about six years (although for the first two or three she had kept up the pretence under the false belief, encouraged by me, that only true believers received the 'Special' – a mystery gift purportedly from Santa himself (or in our case, Mrs Claus, for my Mum bought all the presents, even her own, as my Dad was usually too pre-occupied by the marking of Term Work for his Uni Students and attending a round of Christmas Parties for the various WEA student groups he taught. Several of them entailed overnight stops in Ullapool, Portree, Inverness and Stranraer and Stacy and I speculated that, like sailors, Dad had a girl in every port – a joke just between us, which came painfully true some years later when mum discovered a packet of condoms in the old Tutors Case he always took on his WEA tours. Poor dad, he was a rubbish liar!
     Mucho Screamo! Mucho Plate-smashing! He moved into the spare room and, otherwise, everything went back to what passed for normal in our home.
     Anyway, on January 5th I arrived at the Shop at five minutes to six. George locked the door and pulled down the blinds. As we squeezed through the doorway to the back shop, mistiming the moves, and found ourselves pressed together in the middle, I seized the opportunity and, holding up a piece of Mistletoe, demanded a kiss. George hesitated, I think genuinely thrown, because this was jumping a step or two in the order of his plans for my seduction. He literally did not know which way to go. So I took the initiative, threw my arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips – and held the position, until he took over. His hands pressed against my back, my body against his, and his tongue pushed it's way into my mouth.
 




      I hadn't bargained for that, didn't know what to do, so just let him get on with it. And he did! The kiss must have lasted about three minutes, but felt like half-an-hour, and it was only because of the awkward position that he pulled away and led me to a new (well, reasonably) sofa he had installed over the holiday. It was big and roomy and soft and when we both sat on it, his side went down and I toppled against him. He assured me that this was okay and wrapped one arm around me, to keep me by his side. And then produced a little gift-box. “Merry Christmas Teri, I know it's late, but good things come to those who wait,” he said, as I ripped the paper off and opened the box: a Gold Slave Collar, and Cuffs and Slave Earrings – large, dangling hoops. WOW!
     Now, the meanings behind Collars and Bracelets are obvious – they claim ownership. Earrings, though I did not know it at the time, signify Slavery in a more extreme way. Only Slave Girls wear earrings, or have pierced ears. Pierced ears = Slave. So a Slave, without her Collar and Cuffs, may just look like a Free Woman, or on Earth, anyone. But a Girl whose ears are pierced is immediately recognised, as with a Brand, as a belonging, a Slave with an Owner.
     “Oh George, these are gorgeous,” I squealed, “for me?”
     “Yes, Teri,” he said, and added the phrase which had long been a Hallmark of our 'Special' relationship, “just for you!”
     Now, at that time I did not have pierced ears. Mum was Dead against it, she didn't have her ears pierced, very occasionally, indeed rarely, wore clip-ons. So I didn't know how I'd be able to persuade her to let me get mine done. And I knew that I would have to, somehow. I owed it to George for my beautiful (and expensive) presents. And he seemed to read my mind, as always. He had that gift of being so attuned and able to read the slightest of movements, of gestures. An eyebrow, a lip, the tiniest of shoulder shrugs told him what words had not yet expressed. And he then said: “you will get them pierced.” Not a question, a simple statement, not even of hope or intent, but a given fact.
     “Yes, George,” I knelt before him and held up my arms, wrists crossed, in the posture of a Slave.
“For you, Master.” And though my head was bowed and my eyes downcast, I could sense that he smiled. And inwardly I rejoiced, for I had at last, after all the buts and what ifs of Courtship, finally Submitted to Mr George Gill, a Husband and Father and old enough to be my own Father, and in so many ways, already my substitute Father, my Moral Guardian, my Master, for whom I would do absolutely anything. And I did not experience the slightest twinge of Cognitive Dissonance, not the faintest whisper that this was in any way 'Wrong', for, for me, if, after all that George had done for me, principally giving me his presence (to make up for my real Dad's absence?) then anything that I could do for him was worth it. George himself was worth it. Getting my ears pierced for him, and to demonstrate to anyone who knew about Gor that I was his personal Slave. The thought thrilled me more than I could ever have described. Only 13 and already emotionally, psychologically and physically bound to a Man. Phew!
 




     This had turned out, after the enforced absence, to be the best Christmas of my life. I would eventually come to learn that deprivation followed by compensation was to be a feature of George's manipulation of me. But more would happen before I understood that. And as if nothing more could happen now, George said, “I've bought you a little van.” And I wondered what on Earth use to me was a van – I was 13 and wouldn't be able to drive for at least three years. And again he showed that he could read my mind. “Well, not really a Van, more a Caravan. It's a static on a little site in the Pentlands. It's a very special site. And a very special Caravan.” And he showed me the pictures. I was absolutely bowled over – it was a replica, I suppose, of a traditional Gipsy caravan, painted in bright colours, with curtains and brass pots and pans and ever so pretty. And there were four others in a little group. All end on to a kind of Green with a big camp-fire and a wee washhouse and poles with washing lines, it looked too pretty to be a real Gipsy site, but gorgeous. And I asked him how I could go there, my Mum and Dad would never allow it, but he said we could go for the evening, instead of spending it in the back-shop, for day trips at weekends, they'd never know, and I believed him – it was all so simple when you have a Man who takes the decisions and makes the plans and arrangements and fixes everything and I suppose, just then, I imagined that I must be in Love with him, though I didn't really know what Love was, just that I was being given all these things so that must be Love!
    And it never crossed my mind to ask him what we would do there that we couldn't in this little room where we had talked and listened and laughed and shared secrets and worries and angers and all the emotional baggage that a 13 year-old has to draw on. But I asked him who the other caravans belonged to and he said it was a group of his friends, they'd clubbed together to buy the plot and get basic services laid in and each had bought his own caravan and had it fitted out to his own preferences – some of his friends had occasional visitors and I might make some new friends there, which would be nice, but his real desire was to give a me a place where I could escape from the real world for an hour or a day and just be myself, with no demands on me, no nagging or pushing or pulling or making me do anything other than what I wanted to do. That was all. My Place. And I was so overcome with gratitude that I threw myself in his arms and kissed him and he held me safe in his arms and kissed me back and said everything else would wait till we went to the caravan and I said I could be free on Sunday, which was his day off too, and say I was going to the Museum with my friend Mimi and we kissed again and he walked me home and I felt like I was walking on air, with my head in the clouds and my hand held safe in his and I was the happiest I had ever been in my whole life!