69 Things to Do With a Dead Princess (15 page)

Below Garbit Tap, midway between the tops we visited, but a little to the south, there is an old disused quarry and adjoining it a ruined smiddy. For a number of years in the 19th century this was the abode of William Jamieson, a character known locally as the Heddie Craw o’ Bennachie. Jamieson was a social outcast and he acted the bogie man to all the children round about so well that for a time his celebrity spread outside the immediate area. We made our descent to Beeches Well and then skirted around the base of the mountain and back to the car. After our hill-walking we were hungry so we charged back to Aberdeen on the A96. Once the car was parked outside Alan’s flat on Union Grove we walked the short distance to Pappagallos on Holborn Street. There’s nothing like a light but perfectly prepared Italian meal for igniting the fires of passion and over coffee we agreed to repair to Union Grove for a horny-arsed fuck.

Alan’s flat was much sparser than the first time I’d visited it. There were no longer any books in the bedroom. Indeed all the furniture had been removed and the clothes he still possessed were heaped up in a corner. There was no longer a bed, just a mattress on the floor with a rough blanket thrown over it. Alan went through to the kitchen to fetch some whisky and some time later returned with a bottle. The Laphroaig was placed on the floor and my love descended upon me like shadows at dusk enveloping a pretty country hamlet. His roseate limbs seemed floating in celestial light. I stretched up my arms and told my love how delightful it was to be with him now. I felt his dear hands groping between the lips of my palpitating sex. I opened my thighs and heaved my bottom as I murmured that Alan should feel up my cunt, how hot it was in its longing for his prick. His fingers tickled me nicely but it was his cock I wanted, his cock encased to its very root in my maidenhood.

Alan turned me over and lay upon my back. He slipped a blindfold over my eyes and then drew back so that he might drain his dram. He moved forward and poured my dram down my throat. I could no longer see Alan but I could feel him, his arm around me and his warm body pressing me deliciously. He put his prick in my hand. It was large and stiff. Letting the head pass through my fingers, I drew back the soft covering skin. I felt it bound in my hand. I told Alan to put it inside me as I drew his root towards my cunt. I told him I was longing for the plunge and that my cunt was burning with desire. I felt the head rub between my moist lips. I felt it press on the heated orifice. I heaved up and it slipped in. I let out a little scream of pleasure as it passed up my sex extending each humid fold and sensitive crease of the damp passage. The prick felt larger than usual and I was suffocated with rapture at the way Alan fucked me, since it was rare for him to treat me so roughly.

Alan rammed home his prick with desperate energy and with a low moaning cry shot forth a torrent of boiling spunk. I felt my cunt filled to overflowing. I knew it was bubbling out at the sides. I passed my hand over Alan. He had grown larger and heavier since we’d last fucked. His skin was less soft than I remembered. Then Alan, or at least at that point I still believed the man to be Alan, stood up. He moved away and then it was Alan who placed his arms around me. I found out later why Alan had taken so long to get our whiskies. He’d fetched the big brute of a student from downstairs. The student had hidden outside the bedroom until Alan had me blindfolded, then he slipped in and took my love’s place. Realising more or less what must have happened, I felt even hornier than usual when Alan shoved his root up my buttered bun. I screamed at Alan not to beat about the bush, he was to fuck me hard. Alan obeyed my instructions and minutes later we’d both come, my insides flooded with spunk once again. Alan got up and poured our guest a dram, I fell back against a pillow and moments later I was asleep.

That night I dreamt that all about me there were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees and beneath a humble valley comforted with a silver river, meadows, emerald with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers and thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds. Each pasture was stored with sheep feeding in sober security, while pretty lambs with bleating oratory proclaimed the peace and comfort of this arcadia. A shepherd boy was piping as though he would never grow old. A young shepherdess sat knitting and singing, her voice comforting her hands and her hands keeping time with the heavenly music she was spinning. The houses of this valley were scattered about, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off that distance barred mutual succour. A show, as it were, of accompanied solitude and of civil wildness. The scene picturesque and in marked contrast to the black sublimnity of Bennachie, whose pink granite quickly darkens upon exposure to the elements.

NINE

I AWOKE
to find Dudley ravishing me, or rather Alan woke me as he helped his ventriloquist’s dummy simulate rape. A large dildo had been screwed into Dudley’s groin and Alan was attempting to ram this up my queynt. I screamed, Alan placed a hand over my face. Shortly afterwards I found myself gagged. I struggled but Alan, who was determined Dudley should have his way with me, had tied my limbs to the four corners of the bed. At some point Alan picked up a short riding crop and beat me. After these stimulations, Dudley’s extension slipped easily inside me. I don’t recall when I’d first confessed to Alan that I had fantasies about being raped by the dummy but he’d listened attentively and the sympathetic way he catered for my sexual needs was very pleasing. After Dudley had exercised his detachable part, Alan brought his moist lips down upon my steaming cunt so that he might worship there. He worked his tongue around my swollen clitoris and thrust two fingers up towards my womb. Eventually he bit the fleshy part he’d so excited with his lingua and an orgasm of immense power and duration shuddered through my heaving bulk.

Alan got on top of me and plunged the chief implement for the propagation of our species into my welcoming vulva. This felt good but what I really wanted was another beating. Alan tore the gag from my mouth and I told him to tan my backside and then fuck me the Greek way. I hadn’t even finished uttering this request as Alan began unfastening my bonds. Roughly, very roughly, he rolled me onto my stomach and then began to horsewhip me. Alan, who I momentarily misidentified with Dudley, understood my true nature and my most secret desires far better than I did at that time. Not only did he bring out increasingly deep red blushes as he bruised my buttocks, he worked the crop up and down my legs and back as well. As Alan explained to me later, a single area of flesh that is whipped soon goes numb and the slave being chastised feels little pain. Since I was seeking more than mere humiliation my pleasure was maximised by enlarging the area of my distress. Eventually Alan threw the crop down and mounted my chaffed buttocks. Oh joy to feel him burst through the puny resistance offered by my sphincter muscles and plunge up my backside. My partner had made perhaps ten strokes before the sap rose within him and he fell upon my back, smothering me like a collapsing building.

We dozed before rising. As he made breakfast Alan began talking about
Alexander Trocchi: The Making of the Monster
by Andrew Murray Scott. Alan was indifferent about whether Trocchi was well served by this biography, what interested him as a reader was what he could get from the book. The laughs squeezed from filtering Trocchi through the perspectives of Scottish nationalism were both hollow and purely unintentional on Murray Scott’s part. Indeed, Andy Scott had so little understanding of his subject that one doubted he had the intellectual capacity to knowingly lie. Dismissable as he was, Alan continued dismissing Murray Scott as we drove to Ellon. We passed through the town and doubled back on ourselves as we laced the four and a half miles by minor roads to South Ythsie stone circle. Alan parked the car at the top of a lane that led down to the monument. He threw Dudley over his shoulders and we took our bearings from a wooden arrow marked with the words ‘stone circle’.

The circle had been ‘restored’ in 1994 on the initiative of a local heritage project, which meant that at the bottom of the lane there was a notice board with information about the stones. We followed the path around a corner and crossed a field of corn where a sign proclaimed ‘Cross here’. There were six stones with a mound of earth heaped up around them. The earth was indicative of the problems of restoration, since it was not clear whether those who erected the stones intended to heap earth around them or if this feature was a later addition. The earth mound had been removed more than 100 years ago and recently restored. The main Aberdeen-to-Fraserburgh road was a couple of fields behind us, so there was no danger of anyone using the ‘A’ route noticing as Alan wedged Dudley in the cleft of the split south-west stone, then got me to jerk him off into the dummy’s face.

Once Alan had zipped up he slung Dudley over his shoulders and we made our way back to the car. We were using back roads since they got us closer to where we were going than the arterial routes radiating out from Aberdeen. Our journey towards the Shethin stone circle was circuitous. As he drove Alan talked about Alexander Trocchi’s work with the Olympia Press and John de St Jorre’s book
The Good Ship Venus: The Erotic Voyage of the Olympia Press.
Of course, Olympia was not simply a pornographic operation, it also published ‘serious’ works by the likes of Samuel Beckett and Jean Genet when few other English-language publishers would touch them. Alan said he’d known what to expect from de St Jorre from the kick-off, since in his preface this cretin speaks of banned books being burnt in the same way heretics were burnt by religious tyrants. Alan was always quick to denounce the cruel inhumanity of liberal fuckwits who wantonly blurred the lines between human life and the products of a literary culture that had yet to escape its commodity form.

We parked the car beside some cottages that lined up with Shethin stone circle on Alan’s Ordnance Survey map. The land sloped upwards and we couldn’t see the stones as we trudged through a field of barley. The circle was ruinous, with stones cleared from the field piled up on top of it. Alan threw Dudley over a stone that was still standing and spanked the dummy before we went back to the car. All the way he complained that he couldn’t understand why Shethin had been included in
69 Things to do with a Dead Princess
, since in his opinion it didn’t merit a visit. Once we were heading north in the Fiesta Alan returned to the subject of de St Jorre’s book which he considered boring. Its half-witted author didn’t appreciate quite how central Trocchi’s role had been in the Olympia Press and didn’t give him sufficient space. Instead, there were four chapters dedicated to the litigation over Olympia’s mishandling of the rights to
The Ginger Man
,
Lolita
and
Candy.

Alan complained bitterly about the chapter de St Jorre dedicated to revealing the ‘true’ identity of the individual who wrote
The Story Of O
, since although he’d read and enjoyed this work he found it hard to believe anyone very much cared who was responsible for it. Equally ridiculous was de St Jorre’s desire to explain the work of William Burroughs as if it was in some way difficult. Another wasted chapter that might have been dedicated to various Olympia Press japes like putting out a sci-fi, porn and politics crossover novel entitled
President Kissinger
and issuing a dirty book called
Sir Cyril Black
with a sadistic central character who was based on the right-wing British MP Sir Cyril Black. Being a bourgeois bore de St Jorre dismissed pranks of this type with a few sentences instead of giving them the space they deserved as characteristic examples of the Grub Street mentality.

Eventually Alan turned up a farm lane and parked the car as close as he could to the Aikey Brae stone circle. There were no signs but a path was laid out for visitors. First we crossed a field, then we made our way through a little wood, the path marked out with a pebble boarder. On the other side of the trees we found the circle. Only four of the upright stones are now standing. Six uprights have been overthrown and lie about in fragments, great and small. The stones are of diorite, gneiss and granite. Gneiss is the rock of the district, granite is found within half a mile, but there is no diorite rock visible in the neighbourhood, though ice-borne blocks may be seen in the fences of nearby fields. On the south side of the circle, lying east and west, is a vast diorite stone, 14 feet and 9 inches in length, five feet and nine inches in height, the same in width and about 20 tons in weight. The upper surface presents a considerable plane, the whole forming a substantial platform on which half a dozen persons may stand with ease. This recumbent is closely flanked by two of the largest of the uprights, the one on the east, still standing, being six feet wide and more than seven feet high, while the one on the west is six feet eight inches wide and nine feet high. The latter is broken down, but its form and dimensions are easily ascertained from its huge fragments. Right and left of those two flanking stones were two others, also of great size, being respectively nine feet and six feet in height.

Since we were well hidden from view, the trees obscuring the nearest sections of road, I began to strip. Alan sat Dudley up on the recumbent and proceeded to give me a slow handclap, every now and then throwing his voice so that it appeared the dummy was telling him to shut up and encouraging me to hurry up and get my kit off. In this fashion Alan argued with Dudley for the best part of 20 minutes. Once I was starkers Alan told me to spread my legs and piss. I did so and when I opened the floodgates, Alan shoved his hands into my fast flowing waters. Once I’d finished Alan inspected the sleeves of his jacket. He was furious when he noticed a few drops of urine. I was ordered to lick them off. Then I was made to stand with my arms spread against the recumbent and take my punishment.