The Joys of Spring · Part 1

The Joys of Spring · Part 1 (1/2)
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Foreword

Many of the forums that deal with fetishes, in particular bondage, will invariably have asked the question: “When did you first get into bondage?”

The answers will usually contain tails of self-bondage and experimentation as teenagers, in some cases, early teens. But behind these explanations, the conversation will usually ask what gets you hot, or what was your first experience of bondage? The answer, for many people, tends to be film or literature that is not aimed at a bdsm audience. For me, it was horror movies and stories. Horror movies of the time, although having the usual slasher pics, also contained many images where the heroine was bound, ready for the hero to rescue. However, before this scene, you will always have a body count of heroines who did not escape the sawmill.

Literature was not so squeamish. Many short horror stories depicted remote communities scenic, brooding countryside. The hero or heroine of the piece was not always assured of a happy ending. In fact, a sticky end was more the norm. The most famous examples of this genre in films are the Wicker Man or The Devil Rides Out. It is from this background that my interest in DID first emerged and it is to this story line that I find myself returning occasionally. Enjoy.

“Following last years flooded summer, many food retailers are warning that prices may rise again this year. Although this has been the wettest spring on record, with over three months typical rainfall recorded in the first two weeks of April, the Met Office has advised that clearer skies are forecast and that it is unlikely that we will have as bad a harvest as the markets are fearing. In fact, news from the farmers associations puts a more positive outlook on this years crops and that the supermarkets are merely promoting the down side in an attempt to push up the price.”

The interviewer chose this moment to interrupt.

“Many people fear that this sort of weather will become worse as global warming takes hold. What can you say to the listeners that are pressurising the government to ensure cheaper food? What do you think the government can do against this pressure to protect local producers?”

Cathy was listening with only half an ear as she packed her suitcase. The same arguments had gone around and around since the second crop failure, washed out by heavy rains so that entire harvests rotted in the fields. She had other concerns. For the moment the rains had stopped. If anything the next few weeks were supposed to be sunny and fine. She was far too excited to pay much attention anyway.

This was her first year at university and it was amazing. She loved her subject and, more importantly, her new sense of freedom. Although she had spent Christmas with her family, this time was different. She had met a boy. Not only that, but he had invited her to spend the spring break with him at his parents place.

She had met him in the University library a few months ago. They had both reached for the same book at the same time and, after some apologies and shy fumbling for words, they had eventually struck up a conversation about the weather, of all things. This had turned into a conversation about mountain bikes, places to eat and, well before she knew it, they were sitting in a movie theatre together. Cathy had been going out with Andy ever since.

Although their relationship hadn’t moved into the bedroom yet, Cathy was certain that it would. However, although she fantasized about loosing her cherry to Andy, she was prepared to wait. She was prepared to enjoy their relationship as it gradually moved into something stronger, more permanent. Cathy toyed with future possibilities. Rings, white dresses, a semi detached with dogs and children. Cathy’s smile turned into a worried frown as she pondered the trip to Andy’s home and the meeting with his parents. Would they like her? Would she like them?

As Cathy worried, she played with her bracelet. It wasn’t much, just a cheap, brightly coloured, woven bracelet, with beads sewn into it. But it was the first Present that Andy had bought her. They had been going out for a couple of weeks and there had been a craft market on. She had been looking at the handmade items when she picked this up to examine it. Andy, seeing that she was interested in it, bought it for her, placing it around her left wrist and tying it in place. She hadn’t taken it off since.

Cathy bit her lip before returning to the suitcase. Now that it was packed she could relax, all that she had to do was wait for Andy to return from his final class and they could go. Making herself a new coffee, she sat down to watch the rest of the news and take her mind off of her nervous butterflies.

“As it approaches the first anniversary of the disappearance of Sally James, the Police have organised a recreation of Sally’s last movements, using a look alike, in the hope that it will stir memories from people who may have witnessed something at the time.”

Cathy watched as a young girl walked along a busy street, shadowed by uniformed Police and the press. She wore jeans and a T shirt with some sort of motif on it.

“Sally was last seen wearing jeans and a distinctive “Suicide Girls” T shirt.

The scene changed to show a cheap bead necklace with a yellow stone flower as the centrepiece.

“Sally is also known to have worn this necklace which, if found, may prove of great value to the investigation”.

Cathy was snapped out of the news as she heard the door bell and immediately jumped out of her seat, and running across the room that she had called home since last September, taking a moment to compose herself before opening the door to her first love and possible future husband.

“Ready to go?” the handsome and, if Cathy admitted it, decidedly fit, young man asked as he smiled shyly. A look that made Cathy weak at the knees as it hinted at things to come.

Ten minutes later and Cathy was carrying her bags, while Andy strode along with a rucksack full of his clothes, having handed in her keys to the University porters, as they walked towards Andy’s car.

Andy’s car was hardly new. He drove an old Fiesta, with over 100,000 on the clock. He had bought it on e-bay for £300. It was not a great car. Not all of the locks worked, or if they did, you had to jiggle the key a bit. It had rust and dents. However, it still had 6 months MOT, it was cheap to insure, it started first time and it had four good tyres.

The drive was uneventful. They had planned to leave in the morning and had therefore avoided the rush hour traffic, or other Friday commuters and university students, who would not start their journeys until mid afternoon. Consequently, the M5 was manageable, clearing Bristol after only two and a half hours.

Despite this, the journey slowed its pace as they turned off of the motorway and started onto the A roads, before moving onto the B roads. The last five or so miles of the journey tested the ancient car to the limit as all pretence at roads were abandoned and single width roads, with high hedges and pull in places, meant that the cheerful conversation which the two had shared for most of the journey, when Cathy wasn’t fiddling with the radio in a vain attempt to find a local station or signal of any description, died off as Andy concentrated on the twisting roads which followed the contours of the hills that rose and dipped in a seemingly random pattern. However, at last, they crested a final hill to be presented with the small community that Andy had called home before setting off for university.

Cathy’s first impression was of a coastal community, which settled in the protection of the sheltered valley, looked similar to a picture post card fishing village. Stone cottages – check. Small protected harbour – check. Picturesque farmland, with occasional woods – check. Fishing boats – check. All of the clichés that Cathy would expect to find were evident in wonderful, sleepy, picturesque, detail.

Fifteen minutes later and the car had pulled up in front of one of these oldy worldy cottages and Andy was unloading their bags. Rather than the front door, Andy led the way through a gate at the side of the house, into the garden and into the kitchen.

Cathy stood quietly, fiddling with her bracelet, just inside the kitchen door as a quaint and slightly plump older woman shrieked and ran towards Andy, arms wide, and drawing him into a tight hug as she chided him for not calling and how wonderful it was to see him as, after a few moments the woman raised her eyes as she embraced her son and took in the stranger in the camp. Cathy was glad that she had chosen a smart, floral dress for travelling. Although she would usually have travelled in comfortable jeans, the dress meant that she could give, she hoped, the right first impression to Andy’s family. A dress also had the added bonus in that; during the car journey her legs were available for stroking and fondling. But that was an added perk. The main reason for the choice stood before her, hugging her son.

“Oh you know how hard it is to get a signal in these parts. Anyway, we had already left and I wanted to surprise you,” Andy explained as he broke the hug and stepped back, turning slightly towards Cathy.

“Here it comes,” Cathy thought, as the moment that she had been nervously anticipating for the past 200 miles was finally upon her.

“Mum, this is,” Andy started.

“You must be Cathy. Andy has told us so much about you. Come in. Come in. Don’t stand in the doorway and please, call me Martha,” Andy’s mother gushed as she opened her arms and walked towards Cathy with a large welcoming smile on her face.

Cathy smiled and accepted the hug and kiss on the cheek that Martha bestowed upon her in welcome.

Several hours later, Cathy changed into her cotton nighty and brushed her teeth as she prepared for bed in the spare bedroom. She might, as Martha’s welcome and friendly hospitality, which included a mountain of home cooked, high fat content, tradition full roast dinner and pudding, that the woman was able to prepare quickly and expertly, be a potential daughter in law. But no vows had been said and, even though Cathy had not lost her cherry to Andy. She had not lost her cherry to anybody. When she did, it would not be under Martha’s roof. Not until she had been dutifully walked down the aisle at any rate.

This was fine with Cathy, although the way things were moving; she made no promises about her continued virginity in the coming term. Smiling, to herself, she touched her bracelet for good luck and to remind herself of the boy that was sleeping only a few feet from her in the next room.

The following day, Andy and Cathy spent the morning in the village, as Andy took her for breakfast at the local café. The locals seemed friendly enough, welcoming her with smiles and politeness that Cathy had not experienced before. Breakfast, as she expected was a high cholesterol tour de force. A mountain of protein that Cathy was unable to finish, as she imagined she could actually feel her arteries hardening and her waist line expanding as she ate.

After breakfast, they returned to the cottage, complete with some groceries that Andy had collected for his mother. Andy led her to an old shed at the bottom of the garden. After a few moments of rummaging, accompanied by thumps and bangs, Andy emerged pushing two bicycles. The first one, Andy stated, was his. It looked very modern to Cathy, having suspension at the front and big, nobly tyres. It also, looking at the sprockets, had plenty of gears.

The next bike was his old bike, from when he was still at school. At first, Cathy thought that it did have any front suspension, but she noticed a strange rubber boot where the forks joined the frame, which flexed as he leaned on it. Unlike Andy’s Scott, the “Dale” had V brakes, rather than hydraulics. It was also smaller than Andy’s bike. Other than that, it looked in reasonable condition.

“I was a bit smaller when I had this at school. It should fit you though.”

Having said this, he started to mess about with the seat post and, before she knew it, she was perched on the older bike as she squirmed to try and get comfortable on the saddle. However, a few minutes later, Andy having checked the tyres and chain, the pair were cycling up the hill, out of the village and towards a farm gate. Having pulled the bikes over the gate, the two set off for what Andy called a leisurely ride in the countryside.

After an hour of riding Cathy was thankful that she chose sensible trainers to ride in, but was not so sure about jeans since the heavy seam in the crotch was rubbing in places that would probably be painful for the next few days. She was relieved when, after clearing a woodland track, she now knew why her bike had so many gears, Andy called a halt.

Cathy took a big swig from her water bottle before walking over to where Andy stood looking out over the valley. She wrapped her arm around him, before guiding her hand to slide into the back pocket of his shorts. She had thought he was mad when he put them on. It was warm, but not that warm. However, after an hour of exercise, and feeling quite hot and sweaty, Cathy understood why he had not wrapped up warm. She eased into him, lowering her head onto his shoulders and looked out at the valley spread before them.

“What’s that?” Cathy asked as she pointed down the slope to a pole sticking out of the ground some twenty yards away.

“That’s the Iron Man,” Andy explained as he led her over towards the pole.

As Cathy got closer she could see that it was just an iron bar, perhaps three and a half foot high and cemented into a posthole in the ground. Other than this, no other man made object was present. It was just an iron pole in the middle of a ploughed field that served no purpose as far as Cathy could see.

“Doesn’t look like an Iron man. What’s it for?”

Andy seemed to consider for a moment as his eyes drank in her earnest expression, complete with flowing copper curls, pale freckled skin and grey eyes.

“This is just where the iron man is placed. It is one of several sites around the valley. It is considered bad luck for the Iron man to be placed in the same place for two years running. So we move him around every year,” Andy explained.

“Um, OK. So what is the Iron man and where is he at the moment?” Cathy teased with a smile as she curled a ringlet around her finger.

“It’s nearly the spring festival, so he is probably at the blacksmiths being repaired and refurbished.”

“The spring festival?” Cathy enquired.

“Yes. The Iron man is the central figure. He is very important for the village. Every year he is given a new coat of paint, then during the festival he is carried around the village before being brought out to one of the fields overlooking the valley, where he can keep the crows off of the crops and ensure that we have a plentiful harvest. It sounds a bit rural, but it’s quite an old tradition around here. Anyway, you will see next weekend. That’s when the festival is. That is, if you still want to hang around with me?”

“I would love to. It sounds charming.”

Half an hour later and Cathy was whooping as her bike stormed bumpily down a steep hill towards the field gate, which Andy had powered ahead to open for her and which she shot through onto the road and down into the village.

That night, after supper, as they gathered around the fire, half watching television, Cathy asked Martha about the festival.

“You will see for yourself next week,” Martha stated. “That is, if you want to stay”

“Oh I would love to,” Cathy assured her hostess, eager to make sure that she made the right impression for her future mother in law.

“Then I will make you a costume. We all dress up for the festival. It’s tradition and one should not mess with traditions,” the older woman smiled.

And so it was settled. The following day, while Andy was out cutting wood for the fireplace, Cathy stood obediently as Martha scurried around her with a tape measure.

“You’re taking quite a few measurements for a simple dress,” Cathy mused.

“Oh but you will need a crown of flowers and I must make sure that it falls to the right length,” Martha assured her as she continued with her measurements.

Finally, Andy returned and Cathy joined him for a stroll around the village and a pint at the local pub. All around, Cathy noticed, the village slowly prepared for the coming festival. Small figures made from wire metal started to appear above doorways, or hanging from windows. Also, Cathy noticed that people started to wear daisies in their hair or on their lapels “The iron man I sort of get. But what’s with all of the daisies?” Cathy asked as they sat outside of the pub sipping their beers.

“Its in honour of Blodeuwedd,” Andy explained pointing up at the pubs sign.

Cathy squinted as she looked at the pubs sign, swinging above the entrance. Sure enough the Pub was named Blodeuwedd, the painted sign depicting a young girl with wild, red hair and wearing a dress made of flowers. Behind her, perched on a tree, was an owl.

“Blodeuwedd is a central figure in the Iron man festival. She is the goddess of spring. She was made by Gwydion, the Wizard to be the wife of Lew Llaw Gyffes. He had been disowned by his mother and so could not marry. If he could not marry, he could not be a man and so, to overcome this problem, his friend and guardian Gwydion made him a wife out of flowers. That’s what the daisies are for. Anyway, she betrayed Gwydion and was turned into an owl. It’s a bit of a long story, as most Celtic tales tend to be. But the bottom line is that she is a goddess of spring and fertility.”

“Oh,” was all that Cathy could say to this. She wasn’t sure what it was all about, but she would probably get the hang of it eventually, after she had been married and settled for ten or twenty years, or so she hoped.

The rest of the week went as a pleasant, friendly period, walking in the woods, cycling, pub lunches or trying on what Cathy was sure would be wonderful dress, but at the moment looked like a shapeless white sack, as Martha buzzed about her with pins and thread in a blur of movement and domestic efficiency.

During this period Cathy tried to find out a bit more about the festival. She discovered that Boleudwedd was an old, pre Christian story and was celebrated locally with a festival dedicated to spring. It was similar to, as far as Cathy could gauge, the May day festivals, except that people would dress as characters from the story, or as other deities from Celtic religion.

At last the day had arrived and Cathy was introduced to the local festive delicacy, a sort of stodgy bread, which she had for breakfast, smeared with jam. As was the custom, she had worn a daisy in her hair for the week, since hearing the story. It was a local custom and, as Martha had often said since she came to stay, it was not wise to mess with tradition.

Lunch was again a festive speciality, a lamb broth with the stodgy bread. Conversation was all about the festival, which would start properly in the late afternoon with a fair and a hog roast.

Cathy was quite pleased with the way she seemed to have been accepted by Andy’s family. Even his father, a dower fisherman who had arrived home two days ago, having spent the last month in the North Atlantic, seemed to accept her as a part of the family. He was dower at first, but seemed to have warmed to her quite quickly. They had spent an hour last night playing cards in the living room, with Martha and Rob forming one team and Andy and her another. It had been a pleasant foretaste of the life that she hoped she would soon be regularly included in. Especially since the last dress fitting session, when marriage had been discussed. One moment they were talking about how she should breath in and how the garment would fall and then Martha just came out with it: “ So would you like to marry Andy then?”

The Joys of Spring · Part 1 (1/2)
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