Kinky Conversations of the Finer Kind and Watch Out for the Fudge

It always amuses me when punters inadvertently recount stories with a decidedly kinky bent to them. I recently had a few drinks with an old friend of mine who has the unenviable job of escorting visiting oilmen around the dangerous Niger Delta. He was in town on much needed R&R.

He had started his homeward journey with a stop-over in Amsterdam where he had paid a visit to a coffee house. Being a sociable and adventurous cove by nature he availed himself of some of the infamous magic fudge that is freely available at such establishments. He says that he remembers very little of the next few hours but when he awoke in his hotel the following morning he was in some discomfort. Further inspection revealed a slew of red weals across his back and buttocks and red marks around his wrists.

I have known this chap for many years and he has never made any mention of BDSM inclinations and he did appear to be genuinely outraged, insisting that he must have been duped into being bound and whipped. I am not sure how that would work exactly but I shall give him the benefit of the doubt.

His story reminded me of a tale that my old friend Nixdown often used to tell. I have no hesitation in repeating this tidbit as I have heard Nix tell it at the most vanilla of dinner-parties (she never made any effort to disguise her tastes and quirks no matter whose company she was sharing).

Nix had a peculiar taste in gentlemen partners (in my opinion). Her first husband was an ageing rocker who had been a one-hit wonder and made gazillions from several advertizing jingles. They were an unlikely couple. Nix was a gregarious night-hawk who liked to be constantly out and about. He by contrast spent, as best as I could tell, twenty-four-seven closeted in the bedroom watching pornographic movies. The marriage did not last long.

Her second husband was an Irish poet. He was a charming fellow but his poetic endeavors appeared to be limited to waxing eloquent in the local bars that he frequented. He appeared to suffer from writers block when confronted with a type-writer. Somewhere along the way he inherited a property in the South of Ireland. It was in a beautiful setting but in a state of disrepair. Nix and the poet departed to the Emerald Isle to renovate the house.

As Nix tells it, one evening they had retired to their boudoir to indulge in a little recreational bondage. At the time the bedroom windows were being replaced and sheets of plastic covered the holes making it a little draughty. Apparently once handcuffed to the bed Nix dispatched the poet downstairs to fetch champagne (despite being a sub Nix can be extremely bossy!). Sadly the poet found the fridge to be lacking in supplies of bubbles so he decided to pop along to the local pub to secure provisions (it was a small country village). He fell into company and felt obliged to indulge in a few pints of the liquid gold leaving the scantily clad Nixdown secured to the bed in the freezing room. She was understandably aggrieved. I don’t know how much this contributed to her decision but the relationship came to a rather abrupt end about the same time as this incident.

The real-life Nixdown was an absolute hoot and totally incorrigible. Her favorite expression was, “I’m such a degenerate”, always delivered with glee and undisguised pride. Back in the day, when we collaborated on numerous stories, she had considerable input into the development of her alter-ego, who would later become Nicola Jane Nixon in the Woody Back to School Unit stories (not her real name by the way!).

It fascinated me that Nix had any interest in the subject of my tales. She told me regularly and in no uncertain terms that she absolutely abhorred being caned at the filthily expensive boarding school that she attended. It was not the pain, she had already developed a taste, but the principle of another gal not much older than her having the right to bend her over and whap her with a stick. Nix did not take being punished lying down and she responded to being caned by the Headmistress by fire-bombing her car. This resulted in Nix being promptly expelled and completing her education in a government reformatory for juvenile delinquents.

Nonetheless, she was an enthusiastic critic of my work and was very pedantic about the way that the character I had devised portrayed her. She did not mind in the least being characterized as dark, cynical, moody and promiscuous (which is a true reflection of her personality). Of course she reveled in her role as the unit’s resident degenerate. She was emphatic that she should always be presented as looking pristine; she was something of a fashionista, so I have gone to great lengths to accommodate her wishes.

I have not seen or heard from Nix for some years; she was last rumored to have embarked upon a third marriage and to be living in Cape Town or Durban in South Africa. She has not read the Woody Back to School Unit stories in their current incarnation but I like to think that she would approve and that in writing the new and improved Nixdown I have stayed faithful to the character that she helped me to write.

Bottoms Up! Thanks for stopping by … RH

Don’t Forget – Free Chapters of the Woody Back to School Unit spanking saga are available at the Woodettes Publications Page.