Edith and the Kingpin

We live in typical suburbia.  A nice brick detached house built in the thirties.  It is nothing too showy; it’s perfectly ordinary and thoroughly respectable; well on the outside, anyway.

In fact I suppose the house we live in and our outward appearance is the cliché that proves the rule that clichés are the essence of truth.  Behind the proverbial net curtains and the newish German company car on the driveway, perversities romp rampant.

So I’m sorry if I disappoint you with my predictability, but it’s no point pretending I am someone I’m not.  I’m a tall, slim forty-something, middle class [well now, anyway] housewife with a carefully coiffured blond perm regularly maintained by Chloe at Mandy’s in town.  I have nice tits, a neat arse and great legs.  I am the consummate company wife, although I haven’t always been such, but more of that at some other time.  I’m happy with my stereotypical image though, because it makes the sexual deviance and delicious depravity that goes on behind closed doors all the sweeter.

Do you know Joni Mitchell’s song ‘Edith and the Kingpin?’  It’s on ‘The Hissing of Summer Lawns.’  I always thought of myself as Edith; in fact as a young girl I would fantasise about being her, an attractive woman falling under the spell of a powerful man and I would take my fantasy further, I would be entirely in thrall to him, I would do his every bidding and allow him to do what he wished to me within the limits of relationship in return for his care and protection.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not a shrinking violet or a weak willed woman who would do anything just to be loved.  Far from it.  I used to be a career woman and a successful one at that.  But that doesn’t necessarily mean I found it a ‘full’ existence; it was in fact quite empty, and in many ways the exact opposite to what I feel today, beneath the hand and kneeling in front of the hard, twitching cock of my Master, which stands a few inches from my face as the ultimate compliment, the ultimate statement of need.