Gilliflowers (17 page)

What followed was an uncomfortable session for me. Dick pushed me to the limit, making me service his cock orally and anally. Hard words and harsh orders were accompanied by stinging smacks and slaps to my thighs and bottom when I didn’t do Sir’s bidding to his satisfaction. Despite the discomfort I was excited and highly aroused. When he finally granted me permission to come I came strongly and noisily enough to be heard all the way to Birmingham.

There’s something wonderfully wicked about fucking in someone else’s house, especially when you know it wouldn’t be approved of. The thought of Penny laundering sheets I’d had sex on only added to the excitement and to my sinful enjoyment of it. What can I say? I’m a common tart.

Afterwards Dick reverted to his kind sweet self, petting and soothing me, bringing us both down to a calmer plane. However, I sensed some distance in him and asked if he was still pissed off with me because of the wine.

“No, not as such, honey, but I am concerned by it.”

“I’m sorry, really. I know I was a bit cheeky.”

“You’re always a bit cheeky, Gilli, it’s a part of your charm. What you did last night wasn’t a bit cheeky and nor was it charming. It was gross disrespect. Enough now.” He gave my bum a pat. “We’ll discuss it properly when we get home and not before.”

I shut up and cuddled into his arms until regretfully Shane called to warn us they were on their way back. I guessed he guessed that bed would be the first destination Dick and I would head for with everyone out of the way. We got up and re-dressed.

Dinner out that evening wasn’t as bad as I feared it might be, even if I couldn’t indulge in a few glasses of wine to ease my social nerves. For once Shane’s father was almost human and actually smiled when I congratulated him on being a grandfather in waiting. I nearly passed out with shock when he flashed his choppers at me. For a moment I thought he was going to go for my jugular and braced myself, but no, it was definitely a smile.

He seemed to enjoy having all his children around him, especially James, whom he rarely sees. He kept looking at him and wanted to talk to him more than anyone else. I watched him conversing with Lorraine and caught glimpses of a different man, maybe the man he’d been when the years were in his favour. He was flirtatious with her in a charming and courtly old world sort of way, even if he did slip up once when he called her by James’s first wife’s name.

It’s weird isn’t it? How we imagine old people have always been, well, old. We forget they were once young. Inside the fabric of ageing skin and bones there probably still resides someone who feels all the things youth feels, ambition, attraction and desire. It made me feel sad when I heard him wistfully tell Shane he was unlikely to live long enough to see his grandchild grow up. He wished it could have happened sooner. I never thought I’d feel sorry for the curmudgeonly old git.

Shane patted his dad’s hand and told him he had plenty of good years left in him yet.

The plan was to stay with Penny until Monday, but in the event we left for home soon after lunch on Easter Sunday afternoon. The Met office issued a warning that conditions were due to worsen over the bank holiday and Shane wanted to get a head start on it.

I took a dignified leave of our hosts thanking them for their hospitality before skipping gaily to the car scattering rose petals hither and thither while blowing kisses at passers-by. (Lie detector says only in your perverse little imagination, boy!) Oh all right, I confess I didn’t even adopt a jaunty walk let alone skip, but only because Shane would have skinned me alive.

The journey itself was uneventful. The weather seemed to have kept a lot of traffic off the roads and we made good time, heading into the home stretch just as a blizzard started up. Large snowflakes fell thick and fast, whirling madly in the darkening air, buffeted by a strong wind. They were a beautiful quirk more suited to Christmas than Easter. As if to echo the oddness of Easter snow I suddenly felt uneasy and out of kilter with my surroundings. I caught some flashes, like lightening at the periphery of vision. I knew I was gearing up for an episode even before my usual aura struck.

Okay, I feel an aside coming on. I think there should be a kind of Richter Scale for epileptic episodes so sufferers can measure them and brag about them afterwards as a perverse form of compensation:
I had a 5.7 last night…huh, that’s nothing, I had a
6.9. It caused structural damage to the house and made a tidal wave in the washing
up bowl that swept away three plates and a spoon.

Anyway, leaving aside asides, it was by my standards a strong episode. It made the muscles in both legs as well as my arms harden and tremble. It stiffened the muscles in my neck, pulling my head to one side. There was a new and alarming development. My hands began to twist in at the wrists, curling the fingers towards the palms. A horrible image came to mind of a live lobster convulsing in boiling water, its body and tail twisting and turning. A vile taste flooded my mouth. Why the hell my brain can’t release a nice taste of strawberries instead of something akin to raw sewage is beyond me. I’ve never knowingly eaten shit so how does my brain have it stored as a taste experience?

I can’t describe how strange and terrifying it feels to have your body doing things you have no control over. I am literally paralysed at the onset of an episode. It’s like having an autoscopic experience. I can hear and see things, but I can’t move or respond, then the tremors start followed by the piece de résistance when fear strikes, hitting like a punch to the stomach making me feel nauseous.

The men folk were unaware of what was happening. Shane was of course driving and Dick was dozing beside him in the front passenger seat. I wanted them to remain unaware, so I said nothing, huddling well down on the back seat, trying not to breathe too heavily. The stress of the episode brought on a visual migraine, which added to my panic as lights danced and sparkled in front of my eyes. I also felt slightly numb and tingly down my right side.

Because of the adrenalin rush I experience when my brain goes into fear overload I was still sweaty and shaky when we reached home. I stumbled as I got out of the car.

Dick reached to steady me, smiling and saying something about sea legs. The smile vanished as he cottoned on. Shane also cottoned and sharp questions were asked as to why I’d said nothing about having a seizure.

I strenuously denied fitting, claiming I’d tripped on the icy drive because I was a bit stiff from sitting for so long. Neither of them believed me, especially when I started crying. (Yes, yes, I know, I’m a big Jessie) It was a dead giveaway. I’m always highly emotional after an episode. It was bedtime for baby.

When I woke up next morning I felt a bit muzzy and my muscles were still slightly sore from the rigor that had tightened them. Other than that I felt fine.

Shane was sleeping next to me, lying on his side with his back to me. The trouser pup stirred prompting me to gently kiss him on the shoulder. He murmured and I was contemplating licking the erogenous zone behind his ear in order to rouse and maybe even arouse him when Dick, who was already dressed, came out of the ensuite and quietly told me to let him sleep. He looked tired and I felt a pang of guilt. I know they both sleep more lightly after I’ve had an episode because they’re listening out in case I have another in my sleep.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

“Fine, I feel good.” I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back.

“Put something on and come downstairs.”

His tone was serious and I felt nervous guessing atonement for Friday evening was nigh, and it would be of an un-sexual nature. Sir would be Daddy and dishing out punishment.

By the time I got downstairs he’d made a pot of tea. He’d also gotten out my morning medication, handing it to me along with a glass of water. I sat at the kitchen table as he poured us both a mug of strong tea. He cannot for the life of him resist putting extra teabags in the bloody teapot. It was like treacle.

“How bad was the fit you had yesterday?” He handed me a mug, getting straight to what was on his mind.

“The usual little twitches, hardly grand mal stuff. You know me, Dick, I tend to underachieve at everything.” My attempt at humour failed, thus proving the point.

“Stop it.” His voice was clipped. “I think it was more than
the usual
. You were ashen faced and your eyes were fully dilated. I’ve never seen you look so poorly after a seizure.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, hun. I don’t believe you are.” His brown eyes surveyed me sadly. He pushed aside his mug of tea. “I talked things over with Shane last night while you were sleeping. He agrees with me. Your behaviour on Friday night was objectionable. You know how we feel about you drinking too much. There was no excuse for what you did.”

I butted in, trying to offer one anyway, explaining how I’d felt that evening at Penny’s and how arrangements about alcohol didn’t seem to apply in the circumstances.

He vehemently disagreed. “The circumstances, Gillibran, are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter what they were or what company you were in or what that company thought of you or whether they knew or appreciated the nature of our lifestyle. You could be alone and half way up a mountain and the concords that bind us would still apply.”

“I was upset, Dick. I felt out of place and embarrassed.”

He shook his head. “It’s no excuse. You broke a rule. Therefore you are in the wrong. You chose to violate an aspect of the contract between the three of us, in this case obedience to our will. It’s bad enough you exceeded your limits in the first place, but to then blatantly ignore me when I told you not to drink anymore was beyond the pale. I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in you.”

I reddened. He really did look and sound disappointed.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “I’m disappointed by your failure to self-regulate your drinking to begin with. It isn’t the first time you’ve exceeded limits either. It simply isn’t good enough, Gilli. Shane and I have to believe we can trust you to stick to limits in circumstances where our personal intervention is difficult, such as at Penny’s.”

“I’ve let you down, I can see that.” I licked my tongue over dry lips, feeling mortified. I had seriously upset the balance between my men folk and me. “I’m sorry, believe me. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I do believe you.” His expression softened a little and he leaned across the table, briefly patting my cheek. “It’s not only your disobedience that concerns us though.

It’s the result of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The seizure you had.”

“What makes you think the wine I drank on Friday was responsible for it? I didn’t have so much as a sip of alcohol on Saturday or Sunday. My
episode,”
I said pointedly, “was more likely to have been caused by staring at the falling snow on the way home yesterday than any drink I had two days ago. I should have worn my Polaroid’s.”

“You can fool yourself as much as you like,” he stood up, leaning his hands on the back of the chair he’d been sitting on, “but you’re not fooling us. If you like we’ll go through your medical diary together. It will document that the most consistent proven trigger for your seizures even when you’re fully medicated is alcohol. It might not be immediately obvious, but you know as well as we do that research shows that after consuming booze there’s a seventy-two hour window when the risk of having a seizure increases significantly. A lot of your fits can be traced back to drinking.”

“Research isn’t infallible and anyway it doesn’t always happen.” I said defensively, not liking the way the conversation was flowing.

“More often than not it does, especially when you go over designated limits. I know you don’t want to believe it, but you’re becoming less tolerant of alcohol. Your brain chemistry has changed.” He eyed me in silence for a moment, before saying, “it’s why you tried to deny you’d fitted yesterday, because you knew what conclusion would be drawn. You were trying to indulge in damage limitation. Get your med diary. I want you to write up the details of your seizure.”

I got up, going over to the kitchen drawer where my medication lived along with my diary. I withdrew it, located a pen and went back to the table, sitting down again.

“I think you owe it to Shane and I to be totally honest about yesterday’s seizure. I mean it, Gilli.” He stroked his fingers through my hair. “I don’t want you underplaying it. I expect the absolute truth. I’ll know if you lie.”

I wasn’t chuffed. I dislike the term seizure for a start. I also hate putting the deed into words, making concrete something I’d prefer to pretend never happened. To me it’s a negative exercise. I did as ordered though. I would have liked to pass it off as so minor it wouldn’t even have made a ripple on the epilepsy Richter Scale, but I didn’t.

I told the truth as asked, holding nothing back.

“I knew it was a bad one. I could tell by your face and by the way you slept after it. You were virtually unconscious last night. You didn’t move a muscle.” He looked visibly upset as he read over my report. He closed the diary. “Shane will need to read it. You can take it to him presently.”

I was beginning to get that odd pseudo-erotic transmission of prickling apprehension along the nerves in my groin, as I wondered how I’d be disciplined. I had no doubt I would be. It was not what I expected.

I stared at him as he calmly explained that after much discussion he and Shane had decided my behaviour warranted more than corporal punishment or other short-term penalty. They had decided to remove all personal control concerning alcohol.

Booze of any description was off limits and not just for the holiday weekend. It was off limits for an indefinite period.

I felt driven to demand what the fuck was meant by indefinite, a week, two weeks, a month, what did indefinite mean in this instance? He reluctantly qualified. There would be a review in six months at the very earliest, but with no guarantee I would be given back the privilege. He put emphasis on the word no.

I was dumbfounded. I could have taken a week’s withdrawal of privilege, hell, even a month or six weeks. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I would have accepted it. Six months and with
a potentially forever
withdrawal of privilege
, tacked onto it, wow, that was hard to get my head around. I tried to negotiate terms, to bring the review forward, but he was having none of it.