Ode To My Family

Saoirse woke up as the morning sunshine began to penetrate the thick curtains of their bedroom, blinking hard and squinting as she shuffled and turned to try to get out of the line of the light, grunting angrily as she went. Once she had gained awareness of her actions, she quietly resigned herself to being awake, rubbing what was left of sleepfulness from her eyes; as much as she could sleep in if she tried hard enough, she knew with every movement there was an ever-increasing risk that she would wake Neira who was lying in bed next to her. Their bedroom was large, with a pale blue wallpaper affixed to the walls, a bay window to her right and ornate-looking wardrobes and matching chests of drawers covering the wall to her left. The bed was large, extravagantly so for two women their size but Saoirse had insisted since they were doing well financially that they should enjoy some of the finer things in life (a notion that was still very novel for both Neira and Saoirse). Saoirse lay her head down on her wife’s shoulder, gently putting her left arm around her body. Neira was wearing a pink satin nightgown, the black strap having fallen from her shoulder in the night. She had tied her hair neatly before bed and wore a sleep mask; evidently, she had the foresight that Saoirse had not the night before. Saoirse knew she wouldn’t have to wait long before she awoke but she was in no particular hurry to speed things along.

Saoirse had felt herself doze off when she felt Neira’s body shifting underneath her head which initially startled her. Whether it was an involuntary movement or a result of a bad dream, Saoirse instinctively tightened her grip around Neira’s waist, knowing that her partner found such a gesture comforting and reassuring, which soon put her at ease. Neira removed the sleep mask, placing it on her bedside table, before returning to look into Saoirse’s eyes. Saoirse always found Neira’s eyes to be particularly comforting and warm as she greeted her with a smile. It was unusual for them to be able to wake up together as they had, given their conflicting work schedules so it was clear both women were keen to enjoy the moment. Neira began to fuss, as she was prone to do when things seemed outside of her routine (though Saoirse had anticipated it, given the change) as she craned her neck to try to see the clock on her bedside table.

“What time is it?” Neira asked, automatically.

“Don’t know; early, I think. Doesn’t matter though, as… I took the day off, so thought we could spend the day together” Saoirse answered, running her fingers over Neira’s back. Neira turned back to face her, a look of surprise etched on her face. Neira, as Saoirse had learned over the years, was far from a competent speaker but she had somewhat mastered the ability to say a great deal with an expression; though it was something she was working on, as she had recently begun to learn sign language to become more able to express herself whilst not necessarily needing to use words. Saoirse could read her expression without any assistance, however, it was clear she was querying Saoirse’s schedule, due to the dual businesses Saoirse was involved with meant she rarely had more than a single day off in a week. “I delegated; the girls are going to go out into town, and recruit some contestants for a project next week. They don’t need me there to supervise, which is grand. That reminds me, Frances thinks you don’t like her” Saoirse explained, catching Neira up on their plans. Neira responded with a confused and somewhat offended expression.

“Why does she think that?” Neira signed, her annoyance conveyed in the frantic movements of her hands.

“Not sure. I think it’s because you two haven’t really talked, so her insecurities kicked in. I told her, you don’t dislike her. Unless you do, in which case, I shall fire her immediately!” Saoirse joked. “Actually, no. I won’t… I’ll put her through the machine, totally unexpectedly, so she doesn’t even have a chance to change clothes then when she comes out the other side, completely covered in slime, I’ll be like bitch, pack up your shit, you’re fucking fired.” Saoirse grinned sadistically at the idea. Neira chuckled, enjoying the satisfaction it brought to Saoirse.

“Mean” Neira replied, shaking her head with slight disapproval.

“I know. I’m a bitch, ask anyone. Plus, it’s very probably illegal, and would lead to her suing for wrongful dismissal, unfair treatment and all manner of other things… Plus, she hasn’t actually done anything to deserve it; I just like the idea of some girl having to drive home, completely humiliated after losing her job…” Saoirse explained with a sigh. She was glad she had the opportunity to share these things with someone who would hear her out without judgement. Neira proceeded to get out of bed, opening the curtains, now they were both awake. Saoirse saw something from underneath her gown, which was then confirmed by the sight of the bedsheets where she had laid, which were now stained with a multitude of different colours. Saoirse gasped at the sight of the mess, leading Neira to cover up her back with a shameful look instinctively.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got a tattoo?” Saoirse demanded, sitting up in bed, pointing annoyedly to the mess on the bedsheets. Neira bowed her head, looking like a schoolgirl who had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Ugh… This is why I have tattoo sheets!” Saoirse uttered, exasperatedly. She immediately saw the negative reaction it was having on Neira and proceeded to get out of bed to approach her. She wondered what Neira had decided to get sketched onto her body and why she had chosen to keep it a secret. She stroked Neira’s arm, trying to put her at ease and reaffirm that she wasn’t angry (despite the strength of her reaction). Neira proceeded to raise the back of her nightgown to show off the tattoo. The design appeared a lot more intricate than Saoirse had originally expected, indicating several hours of work had been needed; a particularly gruelling experience, especially as this would have presented her first foray into the world of tattooing. The tattoo was almost picturesque, depicting a field of wildflowers growing that Saoirse placed as thistles, the traditional flower of Scotland. Interspersed within the field, as if to make it a part of the design yet without affecting the artistic vision of the tattoo was the word ‘Freedom’. Saoirse smiled at the sight of it, knowing the meaning behind it without anything needing to be said.

“You know, people will assume it’s political but-” Neira explained, before trailing off, almost as if she had begun to regret her design choice.

“No, I get it. Nobody has ever stigmatised themselves for me before. It’s really sweet.” Saoirse explained, trying to give form to the way she felt at the gesture. Neira looked back at Saoirse over her shoulder, a nervous smile on her face as she tried to glean Saoirse’s feelings about the tattoo. “I love it. Genuinely.” Saoirse told her, reassuringly. Neira then proceeded to shower, to wash off the excess ink from her back as Saoirse proceeded to strip the stained bedding in favour of the designated set she used for such purposes in the vague hope that they might be able to salvage the sheets.

Saoirse put the sheets on to wash and emitted a disappointed sigh; she knew she had overreacted about it, realising now that she could hear the memory of her mother’s voice only this time it was coming out of her mouth. Saoirse heard the shower stop and she proceeded to prepare some breakfast for them both. Neira entered the kitchen wearing an old hoodie, it was far too big for her and she seemed to be drowning in it. Saoirse immediately placed it, which made her smile a solemn smile. Saoirse looked away, trying to hide that side of herself from her wife; she knew it was the wrong thing to do, and it was certainly something she would need to work on. The two chapters in her life had always seemed very separate, despite the earlier events informing her current choices. Saoirse proceeded to scrape the metal knife across the toasted bagel, pressing buttons on their coffee machine as she went. She smiled as Neira adjusted the sleeves of the hoodie, trying to find a happy medium between being fully encapsulated within the garment and having the ability to eat as she sat cross-legged on a wooden stool.

“I’m sorry about the sheets thing. I… I could hear my ma’s voice coming out of my mouth” Saoirse apologised, pushing the bagel towards Neira before she returned to the coffee machine. Neira shrugged as if to dismiss it out of hand; she was never one to harbour resentments.

“Did I ever tell you about how I got started in this business?” Saoirse asked, watching as Neira tore off parts of her breakfast. Neira shook her head, preferring to concentrate on her meal. Saoirse nodded, she had come to realise in recent months that she needed to try to be more open about her past and sharing such tales with her nearest and dearest was one such way to do so.

Saoirse walked down the old streets of her home town, walking towards her family home. The buildings were old, rustic in some parts, standing tall with the memories of generations who had lived and departed. Saoirse wrapped her black leather jacket tightly around her body to keep out the cold wind that blew towards her. She wore her black hair tied back in a plait. She anticipated some kind of comment or argument about the time of day of her visit, being that it was already quite late in the afternoon. For reasons unknown to Saoirse (and she suspected they were unknown to her ma, also) whenever they had talked since she moved out a few months before, they seemed to find themselves embroiled in an argument, often seemingly out of nowhere, about nothing in particular, only to entrench their differences further. Saoirse walked through the back gate and up to the back door. The back garden was quite large for the area, an old swing set standing unused and unloved for years, its red and blue paint peeling off the metal poles. The edges of the garden were exceptionally well cared for, with a myriad of plants growing, even a rhubarb patch which had been provided with a healthy supply of vegetables growing up. Saoirse pushed open the back door, entering her old family home, into the kitchen. The kitchen itself was small, quite cramped for more than one person, with a row of work surfaces and cupboards stretching down the wall with a small room off to the end where the bulk of the more sizable appliances was kept. On the stove was a large metal saucepan, simmering away. Saoirse knew based on that, her ma wouldn’t be far away.

“Ma?” Saoirse shouted, announcing her presence, nervously. She didn’t know why, she had never felt unwelcome in her family home before she had gotten married but whenever she visited now, she felt uneasy as if she were not entirely welcomed any longer. Saoirse poked her head through the hatch between the kitchen and the dining area, trying to see if she could see the woman. There was currently no sign of her. Saoirse opted to wait, collecting a wooden spoon and stirring the pot on the boil.

“Oh, it’s you” Saoirse heard from behind her in the doorway. She instinctively stepped away from the pot, moving back towards the back door as if to allow her mother ample space to work. Saoirse couldn’t immediately tell from the woman’s tone whether she was glad to see her. She was a little taller than Saoirse, wearing a black sweater and pale blue jeans with slip-on shoes. Her hair was dark but cut much shorter than Saoirse’s, though there was a clear family resemblance between the two women. Saoirse perched herself on the counter, taking the opportunity to sit down whilst out of the way. Her ma shot her an icy glare of disapproval at her gesture. “I didn’t see you at church on Sunday” she hit out, checking the meal that was cooking for signs that Saoirse had somehow ruined it.

“No, Jimmy and I work ma. We didn’t get home until past three, and the idea that we are going to be up and about and going to church for the Sunday morning mass is a little difficult. I’m sure Jesus would understand” Saoirse replied, somewhat flippantly. She scolded herself, silently, afterwards, immediately regretting her somewhat antagonistic response.

“Do you at least have good news for me? Is that why you’re here?” Violet, her mother, asked. She had been single-minded ever since Saoirse had gotten married some months earlier, providing her with articles filled with Irish baby names amongst other passive-aggressive hints intended to provide constant reminders of Saoirse’s purpose in life. Saoirse couldn’t remember when things had changed but she certainly missed the woman she used to be before she had adopted the more extreme interpretation of Christianity; as things stood, the revelation that Saoirse was not yet ready to start a family (she and Jimmy had discussed it, in broad terms, both agreeing that it was best to wait until they had a surer footing, financially speaking, so they could provide their child with the kind of life they didn’t have themselves), particularly that she was actively using contraception, would create a fissure within their already fractured relationship that was unlikely to ever heal. Saoirse bit her tongue, trying hard to not react to the question with the same aggression she had previously.

“No, ma, I’m not pregnant. I promise you, if I do have news on that front, you’ll be the first person I tell, okay?” Saoirse answered, trying her best to mask her frustration at the question. She was tired of the argument, it never seemed to end, with it beginning to harm her relationship with her da. If Violet had a response, she didn’t vocalise it, instead opting to look away and roll her eyes. There was a long silence as if Violet was stewing on that information like the food in the pan, simmering away for later usage.

“So why are you here?” Violet asked, dismissively.

“Ugh, ma… Can we not do this, please? I know we haven’t been close in a long time, I know I’m not the good Catholic girl you wanted me to be, and I accept that I can make things difficult between us sometimes. Let’s not fight, just because I’m a gobshite” Saoirse pleaded, trying to bury the hatchet between the two; she realised that her parents weren’t getting any younger and that it was important to have the opportunity to not leave things unsaid.

“Language!” Violet scolded Saoirse. “So why are you here? I’m not giving you money” Violet pressed, again, clearly chalking Saoirse’s pleas to little more than an attempt at charming her before a request as she added seasoning to the pan stewing on the hob.

“I’m not asking for…” Saoirse reacted, feeling the precipice of a fight approaching. There were clearly more resentments than Saoirse had initially anticipated brewing below the surface, so she needed to choose her words much more delicately than she had before. “Fine, if you must know, I came by to grab some boots, I think I left them here and I wanted to wear them out when I have a night off. You know, my fuck me boots” Saoirse retorted. “So much for trying to keep the peace…” Saoirse scolded herself, realising after the words had been said that the reaction would be negative.

“Saoirse Lianne McElroy! I should wash your mouth out with soap, using language like that in a Catholic home!” Violet hissed, clutching her pearls at the language Saoirse had employed.

“I’m sorry, ma, I’ll say some Our Fathers and all that when I get home. I thought it’d be rude if I just came over to collect stuff” Saoirse lied; she hadn’t originally planned to collect anything but since she had been backed into a corner, she decided to go with the easier excuse.

“You will have to speak to your brother. He has your old wardrobe now” Violet explained, waving her off.

“Why does he have my wardrobe? Does he want some of my old bras, too?” Saoirse retorted, feeling more than a little slighted that her things had been given away, so carelessly. Violet responded with another cold glare; Saoirse knew she was pushing it with that comment, so she decided to conclude their conversation, walking past the living room to the foot of the stairs. “I’m kidding. Lachlan wouldn’t dare do anything as interesting as crossdress…” Saoirse muttered to herself, getting her response to Violet’s outrage out of her system. Saoirse then proceeded to walk up the stairs, wondering why her brother, who was the same age as her husband, unemployed and still living at home could garner as much praise and support, whilst she, despite being employed, married and living away from home, when she wasn’t even nineteen years old as yet, didn’t cut it. Saoirse reached the top of the staircase, the landing was narrow, with the bathroom door to her left, her old bedroom immediately ahead, with her brother’s bedroom and their parent’s room to the right. Saoirse didn’t know why she didn’t wait, but that decision would change her life, forever.

Saoirse grasped the door handle, opening the door with no warning (a decision that in retrospect, she realised she needed to think much more carefully about than she had). The room was quite large, especially compared to the box room Saoirse had when she was growing up. The room had a thick musk about it, which Saoirse had come to expect of a single male occupant. The floor was littered with discarded clothes, clearly showing that despite having additional furniture, it wasn’t being used. Lachlan was sat with his back to Saoirse, looking at a computer screen on his desk, facing the window, his bed tucked up against the lefthand wall, on the other side of the window. It didn’t take Saoirse long to realise what Lachlan was doing; it was clear he wasn’t aware she was there as he frantically stroked his penis. Saoirse stifled a laugh, instead planning to startle him in the act. Saoirse tiptoed towards him, ready to strike when the images on the screen caught her attention. To her surprise, the blonde woman on the screen was not naked, instead, she was dressed in an expensive-looking grey dress and heels, and her hair and make-up had been done impeccably. She was sitting on a stool, looking especially nervous, surrounded by buckets of variously coloured substances. Somebody off camera then picked up one of the buckets and with the aid of another woman, began to hurl the contents over the blonde, who tried her best to prevent the contents from destroying her dress.

Her attempts only seemed to send the mess further, as she was splattered in her face and over her head with blue, green, red and purple. The substance had a thick, almost paint-like consistency, as her dress turned from grey to multi-coloured. The onslaught continued, mercilessly, despite her cries and pleas, which seemed to spur Lachlan on. Saoirse’s jaw hung open, unsure what exactly to make of what she was seeing, a certain curiosity about it engulfing her (though she wasn’t quite able to avoid the sheer awkwardness that she had now been in the room for far longer than she originally intended whilst her brother pleasured himself, which she knew would prove quite difficult to resolve with herself). Saoirse could see the liquid descending the inside of the woman’s legs, even her shoes not escaping the mess, as she tried her best to wipe her face clean. A good sport, she offered a smile and a wave to the camera, as if to bid farewell to the viewer, whilst showing that she was in fact okay with what had happened. Saoirse knew that she should simply walk back to the door, exit then re-enter, but she was still stunned by what she had seen.

“Oh my God, is that… What even is that?” Saoirse asked, trying to comprehend what she had just watched. Her question startled Lachlan, who leapt up, trying desperately to put himself away.

“What - why - how… Where did you come from?!” Lachlan cried out, red-faced with embarrassment as he fumbled with his jeans, trying to re-fasten his belt, in a vain attempt to disguise what he had been doing. It was quite clear from his words, he wasn’t used to thinking on his feet.

“Great retort. Truly. Wittiest comeback ever!” Saoirse replied, sarcastically. “I just came by to grab a pair of my boots but now I’m wondering if you didn’t want to keep them? I don’t know, you might not be done sniffing them or whatever it is you’re into these days. No kink-shaming from me…” Saoirse continued, revelling at the moment.

“Get out, I’ll tell ma!” Lachlan finally hit back, without the self-awareness to realise he was a man approaching his mid-twenties.

“Grand. I’ll tell her what you were doing…” Saoirse countered. In truth, she suspected that somehow she would be to blame, that her corrupting influence had led her perfect brother down the path of sin (even though in Saoirse’s mind, whilst she would have certainly preferred not to have witnessed it, there was nothing remotely wrong or sinful with what he was doing). The pair silently accepted that neither would win that particular battle, leading Saoirse to collect the boots from her old wardrobe, before she vacated the room.

Saoirse made her way home, stopping off at the local takeaway to procure their evening’s meal; Saoirse had always been told that when she got married, some sort of imprinted, genetic homemaker would come out and that she would suddenly pride herself on being a good cook (like the good little housewife she was expected to be, to cook, clean, wear pretty dresses, smile and churn out children, all in support of her husband: the dream of every good Catholic girl. After all, how could she want more than that?) yet she had quickly learned whatever gene had apparently kicked in for her mother, it had either skipped a generation or it was an entire fallacy, to begin with. Saoirse exchanged brief pleasantries with the takeaway staff, as she had always been taught to always be polite with people who handle your food. Saoirse’s thoughts were preoccupied with her earlier interactions with Lachlan, despite the uncomfortably awkward knowledge that she had walked in on him masturbating, it had, in a strange sense, endeared him to her in some way, like he had revealed that he was far from the perfect son their mother had expected him to be. He was, in his own way, more like her. In retrospect, she regretted her automatic reaction to discomfort, to make light of the situation and rarely take things seriously in order to deflect. She suspected that her reaction had only gone to further the distance between them, continuing the erroneous belief that they had to compete with one another in order to gain affection from their mother.

Saoirse opened the front door to the flat she and James shared, the old wooden door creaking as if awakened from a deep slumber, begging for a few more minutes of precious rest before it had to endure the challenges of the day. The door groaned once again as it shut, with Saoirse placing her keys on the table to the side of the door. The flat was small, but it was all that they needed and more importantly, it was theirs (thanks to an undoubtedly suspect acquaintance of her father-in-law, who had agreed to sell the property to them, for an appallingly low price, which only served to reinforce Saoirse’s theories about her father-in-law’s associations). They hadn’t long moved into the property, gradually trying to afford furniture and other necessities, meaning they had yet to find the funds to replace the particularly 80’s wallpaper with its incessantly floral design draped across the wall, the edges beginning to peel off the wall with impunity. Saoirse walked through the living room into the kitchen, collected two plates and cutlery from the draining board and returned to the living room, placing the plates down onto the small dining table they had tucked away in the corner, primarily used for the rare occasion when they had guests. James was sat on their old faux leather, brown sofa, his arms outstretched and his feet set on the coffee table they’d managed to buy from a charity shop. James was a tall man, with shorter dark hair and a goatee (much to Saoirse’s irritation) that he spent a great deal of time grooming to perfection. Saoirse noticed the TV was on with a football game playing.

“Are we winning?” Saoirse asked, glancing over at her husband, as she emptied their meal from the paper onto the plates. There was no answer, leading Saoirse to surmise that James had forgotten to put in his hearing aid. Saoirse shook her head, muttering to herself about the purpose of having an aid that is never used. Saoirse walked around the sofa, instructing James to take his feet down with a look. He was wearing a black sweater, blue jeans and canvas shoes. He proceeded to follow her silent instructions, and then Saoirse proceeded to place the plates onto the coffee table. She then asked her question again, this time, signing.

“We’re not playing this match” James replied, the room in a strange silence, that Saoirse was still getting used to. Saoirse nodded, then proceeded to sit next to James. Being a bigger man and their sofa being smaller (it was ideal for two people, but given James’ occupation, as a security guard, he had spent a greater amount of his free time in the gym, eating into the space that was available for Saoirse in such spaces), she wasn’t afforded much space between him and the armrest to her right. Saoirse sat down, collected her plate and began to eat.

The couple ate in silence, save for the low volume of the TV, until the halftime whistle had been called. Saoirse then proceeded to tap James’ shoulder, letting him know she had something she wanted to tell him.

“Are you pregnant? Is that why you bought a takeaway?” James signed with a sly smile on his face. Saoirse grinned, wryly at the question, it had become something of a running joke between them, ever since they got married. Saoirse had her suspicions that James was aware that she was taking birth control, but it wasn’t a conversation they had overtly had (in so far as James had asked her if they were practising safe sex and Saoirse had dismissed his question by saying “don’t worry about it” and he simply followed her instruction to the letter, with it not coming up again) yet she was abundantly aware the implication was there, even if he did insist on the pull-out method, despite its renown for being extremely ineffective.

“She did ask that like I have nothing better to do with my life than get pregnant!” Saoirse replied, saying her words aloud to aid with her signing. “I saw Lach, today. Walked in on him” Saoirse added, catching James up on the events of the day. He seemed astonished, disgusted and intrigued at the same time. Saoirse proceeded to fill James in about what had happened, paying particular attention to how awkward she felt, upon discovering what Lachlan had been watching; though she was amused by the experience, she held no rancour or disgust towards her brother for his fetish.

“Oh my God, I always knew that boy was a freak.” James retorted, emitting a verbal chortle as he responded.

“No, don’t do that” Saoirse replied, verbally chastising her husband for his attitude.

“What? He is a freak. Who would watch something like that?” James spoke out loud, switching to accommodate Saoirse.

“I said don’t! Just because shit isn’t for you or me, doesn’t automatically mean it’s bad. We all have our kinks, some are just more common than others…” Saoirse tried to explain to her spouse, though he was clearly having none of it.

“No, he was always an oddball, ever since we were kids. I should’ve known what a freak he was” James signed, laughing, mockingly at Lachlan.

“Seamus, I’ve told you how I feel about that word! He’s my fucking brother, so I won’t hear you talk shite about him” Saoirse hit back, not trying to hide her anger at his use of words. James, noting that Saoirse had used his birth name, as opposed to the Anglicised version, adopted a sheepish look, clearly feeling somewhat guilty at making her angry.

“You only call me Seamus when you’re really angry with me” James commented, somewhat redundantly.

“Really?! Well, that should be a useful clue, then!” Saoirse remarked, unamused by his attempts to pacify her. James reached his arms around her, rubbing her back, sensually. Saoirse often enjoyed the experience, but she was determined to stay the course, this time, out of principle, if nothing else.

“I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you” James whispered into her ear, as he proceeded to kiss her neck.

“Oh great, I get to lie there, while you grunt on top of me for all of five minutes, only to start getting into it, if I’m lucky before you finish then pass out on top of me, leaving me completely unfulfilled and bored! Every girl’s dream apology!” Saoirse mocked; it was definitely the upside of knowing he couldn’t hear a thing without his hearing aid, she could say exactly what she thought, getting it off her chest, knowing full well that unless James could see her lips, he would have little clue what she had said (it was a technique that had avoided many an argument, down to her tendency to be particularly outspoken). James pulled back, clearly aware she had said something, but unaware of exactly what.

“Shall we go to bed?” James asked, running his hands over Saoirse’s legs.

“Um… I will go to bed. This is your bed, for tonight, and tomorrow if you’re not careful” Saoirse clarified, summarising her remarks. James protested, trying to convince her to change her decision (he had, evidently, yet to learn that once Saoirse had decided something like that, she wasn’t going to back down).

The following morning came and both Saoirse and James went about their morning routine, amicably enough. Saoirse had inherited her father’s temper, rather than her mother’s (the contrasting personalities made for frequent fireworks in her childhood home) with her father being quick to anger but equally quick to calm, whilst her mother tended to stoke the fire for the long term, harbouring the resentment like she would nurture a treasured plant, only to wait for the opportune moment to unleash it, usually when everyone else had forgotten all about it. James explained that he had plans to meet up with his friends to play some sports and then set off, leaving Saoirse with much of the day free to do as she pleased. Saoirse didn’t like the way she’d left things with Lachlan the day before. They had never been particularly close, a distance that had been widened by their mother’s insistence on treating him, her firstborn son, like the golden child who could do no wrong, whereas, regardless of her accomplishments in life, she was always made to feel like the black sheep in the family, but Saoirse had always tried to look out for Lachlan, even though he was her older sibling, being considered something of an oddball, she knew he could easily attract negative attention. Saoirse had some time to kill so she decided to try to resolve the conflict. She proceeded to dress, wearing the boots she had collected the day before, with a light grey pencil skirt and a black long-sleeve top. She tied her hair back loosely and set off again to her old family home.

Saoirse let herself into the house and proceeded quietly up the stairs. Remembering the faux pas the day before, she made a point to knock on Lachlan’s bedroom door, before cautiously opening the door, announcing her presence as she opened it, slowly. There was no answer, leading her to believe he was either still asleep or he wasn’t in (Saoirse learned it was the latter, upon entering the room properly). Not to be deterred, Saoirse decided to wait for her brother’s return. She scanned the room for something that she could use to cover either his bed or a chair with, being abundantly aware of what she had seen him doing the previous day, she didn’t wish to park herself onto any surface without something clean separating her from it. Saoirse found a discarded towel, seemingly thrown carelessly onto the floor. She collected the towel and proceeded to check it for signs of cleanliness. To her surprise, the towel smelled of fabric softener, indicating that it was in fact, clean, likely unused, despite its unceremonious placement on the floor. She spread the navy blue towel over Lachlan’s bed, then lay down atop it, crossing her legs. Not being certain how long she would be waiting, Saoirse curiously (though not without a firm degree of caution) pushed her hand down the side of the bed, between herself and the wall. It didn’t take long before she found what felt like a magazine.

“Jackpot” Saoirse said to herself, with a smirk, as she pulled out the pornography from its rather obvious hiding place. Saoirse proceeded to flick through the magazine, sifting through to find articles that might prove of interest, whilst she waited for Lachlan’s return.

Some time had passed and Saoirse had found herself more engrossed in the magazine than she had initially thought, though it had proven a worthwhile pursuit as she had seen a woman whose hairstyle she liked, taking a picture of her, for future use. Saoirse was a little startled when Lachlan strode through the door, though she was surprised by the strength of her own reaction. Lachlan stared at her with an indignant glare, seeing that she had not only invaded his personal space but she had also procured his magazine.

“What are you doing?” Lachlan hissed, closing the door behind him as if guarding it against other people entering.

“Reading. Wee tip for you, Lach, hiding your porn down the side of your bed? The first place anyone is going to look for it. Plus, ma will know it’s there since she changes your sheets.” Saoirse quipped.

“Get out” Lachlan ordered, opening the door. Saoirse proceeded to move to the edge of the bed. She regretted her knee-jerk response, as it had once again, caused more animosity than she intended.

“I’m sorry. Truce, okay?” Saoirse tried to appease her brother.

“Why are you reading that?” Lachlan frowned, snatching the magazine from Saoirse’s hands.

“Well, if you had any books, I’d have gone with that, instead. But you don’t. If you had any non-porn magazines, then they would be my second choice, but none of them… So I went with what you had. I wanted to talk to you…” Saoirse explained, trying to get to the heart of her visit. Lachlan proceeded to sit on his chair, with an impatience that said he was still far from happy with her repeated appearances. “I want to stress, I don’t think you’re weird. I don’t like how we left things yesterday, I was caught off guard and didn’t react well to what I saw; I don’t understand why you’d like that but I’m not judging you for it. I’d like to understand if I can?” Saoirse explained, treading as delicately as she could. It took some persuading, however, Lachlan eventually agreed to Saoirse’s request and agreed to show her some of his video collection. Lachlan perused a collection of video files (though he insisted that she look away as he entered his password and went through a needlessly contrived file path to a folder he suspected nobody would think to look in, not that Saoirse particularly cared to remember these details) before he eventually selected his favourite. The video featured a young woman, seemingly in her early twenties, with dark hair just above her shoulders. She wore an expensive-looking ensemble of a bright green knee-length skirt and a smart black top with a pair of court shoes. She waved nervously at the camera as she introduced herself and another woman, a blonde whose hair was slightly shorter, wearing jeans and a leather jacket explained the premise; the dark-haired woman was to play a card game, in order to determine her prize. Should she win the game, she would go home with £50 and if she lost, she would be covered in slime.

“Hang on, £50? If she wins, she gets £50?” Saoirse queried, incredulously. Lachlan tried to wave off her question, clearly feeling uncomfortable at revealing this side of his life to his sibling. “I’m not nitpicking, well, okay, I am, I’m just saying, that outfit cost her way more than £50. That girl spent more than £50 on her hair! If you asked me to risk my favourite skirt, getting my hair all covered in gunk and shit, for £50, I’d be telling you where to go! Add a few zeroes onto it and maybe… The only way I would accept £50 is I owed £50 to some scary fucker who might hurt me and I had no other way of getting the money…” Saoirse clarified her query. Lachlan seemed quite off put by Saoirse’s apparent willingness to get messy if the sum were right (a detail Saoirse attributed solely to their familial relation, as Lachlan had always been reluctant to view her as a sexual being).  

“Just watch” Lachlan explained. Saoirse shook her head, dismissively and carried on watching, as the woman nervously played the game. Presumably, to the surprise of no one, though the dark-haired woman did seem to put in a good effort into seeming surprised and particularly reluctant, she lost the game and the blonde woman jovially opened the door to the perspex tank, instructing her to sit on the metal chair inside. The dark-haired woman followed the instructions, covering her face with embarrassment and adjusted her skirt. The blonde seemed to take great satisfaction in pulling the handle, leading to thick red slime cascading down over the occupant of the tank. She emitted a disgusted squeal as her dark hair turned bright red, trickling over her face and flowing completely over her head. The slime continued to flow, covering her top and pooling in her lap, clashing completely with the colour of her skirt. The gunge continued to flow until the woman was unrecognisable in the mess, with only her bare legs remaining relatively unscathed. She then stood up, removed the chair from the tank and proceeded to sit in the bottom of the tank, spreading the gunge over her legs and shoes, ensuring complete coverage.

Lachlan looked up at Saoirse with the expression of a rabbit in a car’s headlights, he was anticipating a deluge of abuse to be fired his way. His pleading eyes broke her concentration from the screen for the moment and she glanced at him. The unspoken plea burned the air like fire, with Lachlan’s desperation for her to not mock him too harshly for what he believed to be a peculiar fetish. Saoirse still had more questions than she had answers, but she had an avenue to pursue those answers without bothering her brother. Saoirse pressed her hand against Lachlan’s shoulder, trying to reassure and console him.

“I take it you could build something like that if you had the money?” Saoirse queried. Lachlan had been something of a mechanical savant from an early age, capable of putting together devices that could be used for a variety of different uses, such as the creative (and some might say, artistic, though Saoirse would never admit such a thing to her brother, lest the compliment goes to his head) sprinkler system he created for his mother’s plants.

“Yeah… Why?” Lachlan asked, still very cautiously and distrustfully, with the look of a man who was waiting for the other shoe to drop and an insult to fire through unexpectedly.

“Just thinking aloud. I’ll let you know if I have a need” Saoirse dismissed his question. There was still a lot of research to do before she was ready to commit. Luckily, she had afternoon plans with the person she would be able to find out everything she wanted to learn.

Saoirse exited the taxi from her home to one of the neighbouring towns. She would have ordinarily gotten the bus, so to save money (which was an issue for her and James, since they both worked often six days a week in order to scrape together some savings to buy things they would need for the future) but due to her morning detour, she was running late and didn’t want to seem disrespectful of Roisin who had very kindly agreed to donate her time to helping Saoirse out. Saoirse approached the door, looking around her to make sure the neighbours hadn’t seen her. Once she’d satisfied herself that it was clear, she knocked on the door. Saoirse wasn’t ordinarily prone to bouts of paranoia, however, given Roisin’s occupation, Saoirse absolutely didn’t want word getting back to her mother, as that would likely be the final blow that ended their already shaky relationship. Saoirse introduced herself at the buzzer, which lead to the heavy door unlocking. Saoirse proceeded to enter the building and subsequently Roisin’s place of business. The apartment opened up to a large room, which more closely resembled a scene from Hellraiser than somewhere anyone would live (though Saoirse knew that Roisin did not live there, as she used it as a strictly business premises; due to some more judgemental elements of Roisin’s family, it made sense for her to set up shop in a town that she didn’t live in).

Roisin was quite tall, though the extravagantly sized stilettos certainly accentuated her natural height, leading to her towering over Saoirse. She stood in a doorway, with a light illuminating her dark silhouette. Saoirse could tell she wore a black PVC or leather catsuit that was absolutely form-fitting and what appeared to be a black, studded leather cap. Her hair was long, reaching halfway down her back and completely white, which added to the Ice Queen vibe she had cultivated for herself.

“You’re rocking a very Rob Halford vibe today” Saoirse grinned, remarking on Roisin’s attire.

“How do you know I didn’t borrow this outfit from Rob? It might well be one of his favourites” Roisin smirked. Saoirse knew that Roisin had always enjoyed her quick wit.

“I could well believe that” Saoirse admitted. Her attention was then drawn to the person-sized cage in the corner, which currently had an occupant. Saoirse approached the cage, unable to tell anything about the occupant, in part due to the clothing they wore (a similar PVC garment) and a black leather hood covering their facial features. Their hands were protruding from the top of the cage, affixed to a set of shackles (in a position that Saoirse couldn’t help but feel must be quite unpleasant, especially for longer periods of time). Saoirse proceeded to kick the cage, which caused a startled jerk from the occupant.

“You’d better not be sleeping in there. You should be awake and devoting every second to Mistress; you don’t want her to get angry…” Saoirse instructed the occupant, before turning back to Roisin. “Who’s this, then? Actually, I don’t really care” Saoirse asked, rhetorically. Roisin chuckled at her apprentice’s actions, then led her into the private area of the apartment. Saoirse knew that Roisin used the entire property for her business but had sectioned a part off for her regular clients when it became relevant. She proceeded into the kitchen and Saoirse sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar, crossing her legs. The pair made small talk, as Saoirse caught Roisin up on her family (Roisin was her aunt, on her mother’s side, yet for some reason known only to her mother, Roisin had been ostracised from the family in all but name; the time-honoured tradition of sending a Christmas card to offer the illusion that she still had a familial relationship with her sister) whilst Roisin made them drinks.

“Have you talked to James, yet?” Roisin asked, sipping at the mug. Saoirse pressed her hands firmly against her mug, the warmth of the hot liquid within permeating the porcelain, providing a reassuring warmth to her hands as she toyed with the mug. Roisin looked down at her hands, knowing the answer to her question already.

“No” Saoirse replied, quite shamefully. “I’ve tried to bring it up, part of me thinks why should he care how I make a living? I’m not going to do anything intimate with these people. I guess I’m just scared it will hurt our relationship” Saoirse confessed. She enjoyed her chats with Roisin. Since she was young, Saoirse never felt like Roisin would judge her, no matter what she said or what she felt. She could be more herself with her than she could at home (she had, much to her mother’s chagrin, more than once threatened to up and run away to live with Roisin). Saoirse suspected it was the age difference between her and her aunt being quite substantially lower than between her and her mother.

“Sure, I get that. It’s why I tell men right away what I do. If they want to get outraged, call me an immoral whore or whatever? Grand. Quite funny, one guy broke up with me, called me every name under the sun… A couple of months later, I see him again, as a client! It was perfect!” Roisin beamed with satisfaction at the story.

“No way!” Saoirse exclaimed.

“Yep! I took his money, gave him the session he wanted, and then afterwards, I made a point of telling him, if we’d hit it off, I would have done all that for him for free and he wouldn’t have to go home afterwards. Really satisfying moment for me.”  Roisin concluded the story. “I think you could make a career at this if you want to. You really need to talk to James, your partner should always be aware of your ‘no’ list, he might want to add things to it that are only for the two of you. That might help to make him more open to it?” Roisin suggested, trying to be helpful.

“I want to. I’m hoping I can take a client, under your supervision, of course, and then I can show him the money I made. If he sees how much I can earn, it might make a difference” Saoirse explained her plan, with more than a little hopefulness in her voice. “There was something I wanted to pick your brains on. Do not ask me who but I saw someone watching this video where this girl got covered in slime” Saoirse summarised her earlier experiences with Lachlan, trying to avoid revealing his secret any more than she had already (though she knew James would keep it, after all, he had grown quite attached to his testicles in recent years and Saoirse had no doubt Roisin, given her professionalism, would be unlikely to judge him, it simply felt like it wasn’t her secret to share).

“Sploshing. Also known as WAM” Roisin nodded, acknowledging what Saoirse was talking about. “I’m assuming that this person wasn’t you?” Roisin asked.

“No. I’d tell you if it were. So it’s a common thing?” Saoirse asked, in a hushed voice, as if they were sharing state secrets.

“Common? No, not especially. It’s a niche, but it does go hand in hand with BDSM, as it can be quite humiliating and degrading for the submissive; I don’t do it, personally. Nothing wrong with it, it’s just a bit time-intensive in terms of prep and cleanup. I can ask around, and see if any of the girls cater to that niche if you’re interested in covering it. Honestly, I don’t know how much demand there is for that in Ireland, but you might strike gold” Roisin caught Saoirse up on what she knew about it.

“Maybe. I mean, there definitely seems to be something really fun and satisfying about coating some pretty bitch in all kinds of disgusting slop. There was this girl at my school who I would just love to tie up and ruin her hair and her clothes…” Saoirse drifted off, fantasising about her vengeance upon a school bully.

“You never know, maybe she’d be into that?” Roisin shrugged.

“No.” Saoirse shook her head, disagreeably.

“Why not?” Roisin enquired, trying to press her on the subject.

“I wouldn’t want her to enjoy it. In fact, I would want her to hate every minute of it, so it’s all the more satisfying for me. Bitch made my life hell, always remarking on the fact that all the other girls got boobs, but not Saoirse, maybe she’s actually a boy!” Saoirse mimicked the girl’s tone. “Of course, the moment they developed and I ended up with bigger boobs than her, suddenly she wants to be my friend, like I was just going to fucking forget her shit for years” Saoirse continued.

“It’s the McElroy curse. Your aunt was the same, very late to develop but once she did…” Roisin trailed off, indicating the size of her bust. “She ended up getting a reduction, in the end” Roisin added.

Saoirse concluded the afternoon after discussing the ins and outs of her prospective first client and what would happen, moving forwards.

While she waited, Saoirse returned to her normal life, working at a local bar where James worked as a security guard, a dynamic which suited them well, given that the couple could communicate with one another non-verbally, meaning that Saoirse and her colleagues felt more secure, as a result. However, Saoirse had tried, unsuccessfully, to pluck up the courage in order to speak to James about her planned career switch, much to her own irritation. The day finally came when Roisin called to inform Saoirse that she had been in contact with a new client, who was solely interested in a session with her. Roisin handled the communication with the client, agreeing on a percentage of the session’s fee with Roisin (quite a large sum, Saoirse had to admit, though given that she was using Roisin’s premises, as well as her time, Saoirse had grudgingly accepted, especially as the sum she was making for an afternoon was comparable to half a week’s work at the bar). Roisin had indicated her surprise that Saoirse had managed to book a session with a client whose interests ran towards WAM, though she had chalked it up to the distinct lack of practitioners in the area who were willing to take on such clients.

In the days before, Saoirse and her aunt and mentor prepared for the session, visiting a wholesaler to purchase a sizable amount of sweet, messy products (which seemed to raise a few eyebrows, leading Roisin to tell a young man at the counter that the latest reporting from Cosmopolitan was that custard was in fact exceptionally good for a woman’s skin, then telling him that she was approximately twenty years older than she actually was), in an attempt to dismiss the awkwardness of their purchase.

Saoirse was particularly nervous in the run-up to the day itself. That morning, she made up a story to tell James (telling him that she and Ellie were going shopping in Belfast, a lie that she was sure would come back to bite her and whilst she loathed lying, particularly to her spouse, she didn’t yet feel comfortable sharing the truth with anyone not directly involved) and she made her way to Roisin’s once more, despite the session being booked for the afternoon, the two women were unsure of exactly how long the preparations would take since this was new territory for them both. The morning went by quickly, in a blur of classic rock as the pair emptied numerous cans of dessert foods into buckets and prepared a selection of squirty cream with paper plates. Feeling satisfied they had enough, with a row of buckets that seemed enough to turn anyone into a creamy, yellow mass of custard, rice pudding and cream. Saoirse then decided to get ready for the session. She went into Roisin’s bedroom and undressed, slipping into her favourite thong, black stockings and suspenders, a black and purple lace-up corset and a black satin fishtail skirt before applying her make-up, opting for a gothic “Morticia Addams” look, a pale face with black eye shadow, dark red lipstick and nail polish, which she felt best to fit her alter ego’s identity. Saoirse had just about finished her make-up and was slipping into her boots when the client arrived. She hurriedly zipped up the boots and nervously smoothed out her skirt, hoping to garner some confidence from the gesture. Roisin proceeded to greet the client, in order to not keep them waiting unduly.

“Oh… Hi.” The client spoke in a soft and awkward tone. Saoirse was initially taken aback by their voice, indicating they were feminine, as she was anticipating a man. “Um… Sorry, you’re… Not what I was expecting” the client uttered, clearly having second thoughts upon seeing Roisin’s intimidating figure.

“Well, that’s good, because it’s not me you’re here to see. Come on in, Bronagh will be with you shortly” Roisin explained, using Saoirse’s Domme alias. Saoirse strode down the corridor to greet her first client, contemplating the name she had initially chosen; it didn’t quite feel right, she realised, after hearing it used. Saoirse walked into the main room, greeting her extremely nervous client.

“Hi, I’m Mistress Bronagh” Saoirse introduced herself, the name sticking in her mouth. “Yep, definitely going to have to change that, if I do this for a living.” Saoirse thought to herself.

“Wow, you’re so pretty. Sorry, I’m um… Victoria; Vicky” Vicky introduced herself, extending a hand to Saoirse. Vicky was dressed in a white blouse, a dark jacket and a matching pleated skirt that descended to just above her knees which she gripped tightly together, which Saoirse attributed to nervous behaviour. Vicky was closer to Roisin’s age than Saoirse’s, with Saoirse estimating that she was in her late thirties or early forties. Her hair was on the darker side, cut short, which Saoirse thought suited the woman. Saoirse sat down on a chair near the woman, whose gaze seemed to dart around the room, taking in the bondage equipment, along with the clear plastic sheet that had been set up to reduce the clean-up after their session.

“You’re very sweet” Saoirse smiled at her compliment, feeling Vicky’s gaze now looking over her body. “Mistress Scarlet is only here to observe, so you don’t need to worry about her” Saoirse explained Roisin’s attendance, trying to put Vicky at ease before discussing the ins and out’s of the session she had requested while Roisin took a seat at the edge of the room, so to be out of the way but still within eyeshot.

Once Vicky seemed suitably at ease, Saoirse instructed the woman to the sheeted area and then moved the restraints that descended from the ceiling into place, sealing the woman’s wrists into the leather manacles. Saoirse made a point of confirming that they were tight around her wrists but not uncomfortable, as she had been taught by Roisin (who had illustrated her point by locking Saoirse into the device, which provided quite a shock for her at the time). Vicky had the look of a person who wasn’t sure they weren’t going to wake up any minute, realising they had been experiencing nothing more than an extremely vivid dream. Saoirse proceeded to squirt plenty of cream onto a paper plate, then threatened to smash it into the face of Vicky, who squirmed awkwardly, trying to pull herself as far away from the messy fate as she could. Saoirse couldn’t quite tell if she was simply playing a part of a woman who didn’t want to get messy or if she was genuinely apprehensive about the experience.

“I really hope for your sake that you remembered to bring a change of clothes with you” Saoirse smirked before she unceremoniously smashed the paper plate straight into Vicky’s face. When she pulled it away, Saoirse saw that Vicky’s face had now contorted to a surprised O shape, half-covered in cream, with the remainder still occupying the plate. Saoirse put the plate back to her face, this time wiping the rest of the cream into her face and over her fringe in order to maximise the transference. Saoirse proceeded to repeat the process, this time adding a layer of custard to the plate before adding the cream. The pie landed in Vicky’s face with a particularly satisfying splat, sending custard down her white blouse, further covering her face and even splattering into Vicky’s hair. Vicky spluttered, wriggling a little, clearly trying to dislodge the mess from her face.

“Oh no, what a dirty girl you are. You’ve gone and ruined your nice white blouse! Look at the state of you…” Saoirse proceeded to scold Vicky, as the custard had begun to turn her top yellow. Saoirse proceeded to pick up a bucket of custard, poising it above Vicky’s head, letting her squirm a bit more.

“Please, Mistress, don’t do it to me. I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be a good girl!” Vicky pleaded. Saoirse had to admit, she even sounded like she genuinely didn’t want the bucket upended on her. Saoirse, however, refused to be swayed then slowly began to pour the liquid over Vicky’s head. She shrieked (presumably at the temperature of the custard) and Saoirse held the bucket in place as her head was covered, the deluge descending down over the neckline of her blouse, flowing inside and out of her top, further staining it yellow. Saoirse stepped back, retaining maybe half of the bucket’s contents, admiring her handiwork. Vicky’s skirt had even suffered some splatterings of yellow as she pulled against the restraints, shaking her head which only served to send even more custard down her body.

“This won’t do at all…” Saoirse muttered, shaking her head in disapproval. Saoirse proceeded to grab the woman’s blouse. Vicky flinched as Saoirse’s hand went close to her breasts, and then Saoirse proceeded to tear the cotton fabric from Vicky’s body, aided by a pair of scissors in her free hand. The buttons began to burst apart, revealing Vicky’s light purple bra with a fine lace pattern. “I love your bra. Is it lace?” Saoirse remarked, breaking character for a brief moment, waiting for permission to touch the fabric, given that it was a very intimate place for Vicky, who timidly nodded. Saoirse proceeded to remove Vicky’s skirt, letting it fall down her bare legs into a heap at her feet, fully aware that it was going to likely suffer the indignity of being completely covered in the mess that falls from her body. Saoirse noticed that her underwear bore the same design as her bra, confirming it was absolutely a purposeful choice; who was Vicky trying to impress or had she made the choice for herself, Saoirse pondered. Saoirse collected the half-full bucket again, pouring more custard over Vicky’s head, this time making sure her breasts received a fair amount of coverage. Saoirse proceeded to take pictures (a memento of the session for Vicky to look at later) and she had to admit, Vicky did have a rather impressively slender figure. Saoirse proceeded to empty another bucket over the woman, covering her shoulders, too. The thick yellow liquid fell from her head and shoulders, cascading familiarly down her chest, splattering down onto her discarded skirt as it went, leaving her increasingly a mess.

Feeling satisfied at how messy Vicky had become up to this point in the session, Saoirse proceeded to remove Vicky’s bra, delicately removing the straps (so as to remove it without damaging the garment or without releasing her from the restraints). Saoirse kept a watchful eye on her client’s expression as she went, trying to navigate the particularly difficult minefield of ensuring that she was enjoying the session despite any boundaries being pushed. Saoirse noticed her breasts seemed significantly cleaner than she had originally anticipated; whilst there had been some transference from custard that had leaked its way into her bra, it was far from a lot, leaving only a smattering of yellow. Vicky’s flesh now hung, unsupported, leading to her looking down at her feet and her quite possibly ruined skirt, with a sense of shame. Saoirse took a moment to put on a pair of black latex gloves then turned her attention further downwards. She collected a jug, filling it with rice pudding before taunting Vicky with it, pulling at the waistband of her underwear.

“I can’t imagine having cold, lumpy rice pudding in there is going to be very nice” Saoirse teased. Vicky grimaced in anticipation of what she knew was all but certain to happen, before pleading obligatorily. Saoirse let her speak her argument for why it shouldn’t be poured down there, nodding in acknowledgement of Vicky’s words and protests before she proceeded to empty the jug directly into the light purple garment. Vicky let out a loud, disgusted noise as the pudding bulged uncomfortably at her crotch. Saoirse noticed her panties held the liquid surprisingly well, with only a few mounds of rice making their way down the inside of Vicky’s legs. Vicky pulled helplessly against the restraints, clearly keen to rid herself of the cold, lumpy sludge that now covered her most intimate of body parts. Her movement had served only to dislodge some of the custard over her head, which had worked its way over her face, covering her right eye. Saoirse left Vicky to squirm for the moment as she prepared for the next stage of her session, collecting a box of wooden clothesline pegs.

Saoirse waved the first peg in front of Vicky’s face, as her eyes widened. She knew exactly what was coming but was totally powerless to prevent it. Saoirse could see in her eyes, that Vicky was contemplating the use of her safe word to call the session to a halt, so Saoirse continued her teasing for a little longer, affording her time to consider whether to go through with it or not. After Saoirse felt enough time had passed, she proceeded to attach the first peg onto the top of Vicky’s areola. Vicky emitted an audible gasp, Saoirse could only fathom a particularly painful experience shot through her skin. Saoirse proceeded to attach the second peg to her other breast, before placing a third below her nipple (and matching it with the fourth) before the fifth and sixth were attached to Vicky’s nipples themselves. Saoirse let her soak up the experience of the pegs while she prepared another three plates, this time sandwiching Vicky’s head between two, then a third directly into her face, obscuring her view altogether and sending cream down her chest, including over the pegs now protruding from her body.

Saoirse decided to move things forward, pulling Vicky’s underwear down and letting it drop down to her feet into the growing pool that was developing there, which fell down, adding more rice pudding to the mixture. Saoirse proceeded to tease Vicky further, threatening to attach the seventh peg to her clit, which caused Vicky to squirm in a much more nervous way. Saoirse opted against it, instead collecting a large toy and offering to use it instead. Saoirse proceeded to dip the toy into a bucket of custard, this time, then rubbed it against Vicky’s vagina. Vicky flinched, clearly feeling particularly aroused by the experience as Saoirse teased her with the toy, smothering custard over her private region, threatening to slide the toy deep inside her. Vicky began to pant, leading Saoirse to speculate that she was close to climax. Saoirse checked on the remaining time they had for the session, deciding that with the allotted time available, it would be best to let her finish the session on a high, Saoirse proceeded to push the toy inside the woman. Vicky emitted a loud gasp as the toy squelched, sliding in and out of her vagina, leading Vicky’s pants to become louder and more frequent. Saoirse turned on the vibrate feature, to further stimulate Vicky, collecting the remaining bucket in her hands and lifting it above Vicky’s head.

“I’m going to be nice and give you permission to come; but you’d better hurry, if you take too long, I might just have to be cruel and make you lick every last bit of custard off that toy, knowing full well where it’s just been!” Saoirse teased, holding the bucket in place. Vicky nodded, with the look of a woman who expected to awaken any second to realise that the entire experience had been nothing more than a dream, a fantasy her subconscious had concocted and that the dreary mundanity of life beckoned. Vicky wasted no time, perhaps correctly realising that Saoirse was not one for idle threats, closing her eyes and began to moan with increasing length and passion as the toy did its work. Saoirse remained poised, waiting for the exact moment that Vicky began to climax to maximise the sensation for the client. Fortunately, Saoirse didn’t have to wait long and Vicky’s moans became higher in pitch and with almost no separation between them. Saoirse poured the custard over her head, leading to a somewhat astonished gasp as the custard dripped around her open mouth and down her naked body. Vicky’s moans became one of satisfaction and Saoirse proceeded to remove the toy, and then released her from the restraints. Vicky removed the pegs from her breasts, collecting them up in a pile in her hand to return to Saoirse, who proceeded to show her to the bathroom. Vicky seemed to display a comfort or even confidence that she hadn’t earlier in the session, though she curiously couldn’t maintain eye contact with Saoirse for long. Once Vicky had set to showering, Saoirse returned to Roisin, ready to commence cleaning. Fortunately, the majority of the mess had been contained to the plastic sheet they’d put down, which seemed to mean cleaning would take far less time than she had initially feared.

“You didn’t know, back then?” Neira queried, a surprised, almost incredulous look on her face.

“That I like girls? No. I… Convinced myself that I had just gotten caught up in the moment, and that’s why I was ridiculously turned on by the sight of her naked body. Though Ellie insists she knew before I did, too, citing the fact that I wanted to meet - and I quote - a Scottish lad with long hair, good taste in music and who looks great in a kilt… So I guess I knew, I was just in denial. Probably because I knew my ma would never accept that in a million years” Saoirse answered. She even surprised herself by just how nonchalant she was about the revelation, now.

“How come you didn’t continue doing that work? I just mean I know you enjoy it…” Neira continued her questioning, although somewhat awkwardly, now. Saoirse nodded, acknowledging the question, giving careful thought about how to respond; she knew Neira tolerated her Domme work, though it was still a sensitive and contentious topic (which, thanks to the sound advice of Roisin, Saoirse had been able to thus far navigate successfully).

“Short answer? Jimmy. Longer answer? We had a fight, I pointed out that I made a lot of money for one session, even with Roisin taking a cut. I argued that I could take clients by phone or video while pregnant, so could still earn a living. I even tried to persuade him that it was to his benefit, me coming home, to him, ridiculously turned on, dressed like a hot, evil, bitch, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t accept it. You know, you can tell me if you’ve changed your mind about it; I meant it when I said, I will only do that work, as long as you’re in agreement” Saoirse explained, trying to reaffirm her point. Neira nodded, nervously. Saoirse could tell she was hiding something, or there was something that she had yet to tell her. “What is it?” Saoirse asked, with a smirk. She’d found it easier to confront the question, creating an awkward moment but having the question out there in the open.

“Promise not to be mad?” Neira asked, shrinking into her seat like a disobedient child.

“You know better than that. What did you do?” Saoirse asked, feeling herself adopting a more authoritative tone and posture.

“My sister is coming to visit for a bit. Over the summer.” Neira blurted out, looking down at the floor.

“Oh great… You know she hates me! Can I gunge her, if she’s a bitch? That would make up for not including me in this decision” Saoirse asked, with a wry smile. She knew the answer would be a prompt no, though the thought of it brought some satisfaction to Saoirse, even if it wouldn’t become a reality.