Iffy Miffy

Iffy Miffy by Neil McCall

It all seemed so simple on the phone; take the A56, join the A5, turn
left at the sign for Caernarfon and in four miles take the turning to ?
except that what I'd written down bore no resemblance to any place name
in the locality, which all seemed to be a long string of strangely
juxtaposed consonants, full of "l"s and "g"s with the occasional "y"
functioning as a vowel. I didn't really want to stop and ask for
directions, as my desired destination, the Pant-Y-Down Very Private
Hotel might mark me out as an unwanted pervert in these austere
chapel-going communities where such places had to be Very Private for a
good reason. But I couldn't trundle up and down this bloody road all
evening.

I stopped outside a house where an elderly lady was pottering in the
garden; she'd know everyone in the district and with a bit of luck
would be too unworldly to have an inkling of what some of them get up
to.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a hotel ? maybe a guest house ? run by Miss
Myfanwy Jones ? I forget the name, but I'm sure it's very close to
here?" I put on my normal-clean-living-tourist look and was rewarded
that rarity, a beaming Welsh smile.

"Yes, second-left and it's the third house along. Might I ask, what are
you down here for?"

Oh shit, she knows, she'll be noting my car registration and telling
the police, or maybe the minister?

"Just a bit of sight-seeing," I blustered.

"Can I give you a tip?" she asked.

I nodded, blushing furiously, and thinking, if this is anything to do
with whips, I reckon I'll die on the spot.

"If you've got an afternoon free, get up to South Stack cliffs and see
the puffins. They'll only be here another couple of weeks."

Relieved, I mumbled thanks and moved on.

I soon pulled up outside the hotel, unsigned except for a tourist board
logo; it was certainly small and discreet. I was late, and being late
is a discourtesy which, when visiting a domme, can cost you dear. If
she's cross, you'll probably get extra punishment and if she's very
cross you'll probably go away with no punishment at all ? not for the
first time, I wondered just how I'd got into such a weird and crazy
scene.

As I walked up the path the kitchen door opened and there stood the
bulky figure of Miss Myfanwy Jones. I had half expected to find her
dressed in a black PVC corset and matching tall Welsh hat but she was
clearly in vanilla today, though my practised eye could discern the
contours of the corset. She was well into middle-age and it clearly
showed, but anyone who chooses a domme on the basis of looks alone is a
fool and doubtless has the scars to show for it - age and experience
are what matter in this field, together with the ability to present a
realistic scenario. She grunted hello but at least didn't drag me
inside by my ear, nor did she offer to help with my luggage. I gave my
name but merely received another grunt for my efforts.

"Dinner's at seven-thirty, you're in room 4," was all she said before
waddling off through a door marked "Private".

I made myself at home. The bed was lumpy, but at least had an iron
framework for handcuff play. The view was disappointing too; the advert
had promised a glorious vista of the Menai straits on the one side and
the sun-dappled rugged peaks of Snowdonia on the other, but all I could
see was a yard, an access lane and a copse which probably hid the
rugged peaks from view. An hour to go before dinner. I lay on the
uncomfortable bed and read a chapter or two from "The Story Of O" to
get myself in the mood for the evening session.

Dinner was, I supposed, a mini-punishment in itself. The leek and
potato soup was watery and tasteless, and the organic Welsh lamb was in
all probability organic to the point of having staggered down from the
hills in a state of advanced senility to become roadkill on a
Caernarfon roundabout. The vegetables came from the same aqueous stable
as the soup, except for the roast potatoes which were burnt. The
dessert was a bowl of blackberries in gloopy custard; I had to admit
that the blackberries weren't at all bad, but then they'd probably been
picked for free from local hedgerows. I feared that the coffee would be
some powdered monstrosity full of chicory, so I settled for the
value-label tea.

"You can watch TV in the lounge," suggested Myfanwy as she took my
plates away, and I decamped to watch a soap opera in Welsh on S4C. One
thing was beginning to worry me, namely that I appeared to be the only
guest for the weekend's entertainment, and I can only take so much of a
bad thing; I was hoping for a carload of giggling women in oversized
Japanese schoolgirl outfits to turn up, but they never did. Timidly I
went and knocked on the door marked "Private"; Myfanwy opened it and I
tried to peer beyond the expanse of her shoulder to see what equipment
she'd later be using.

"I was just wondering ? what time does the first session start?" I
asked. Her eyes suddenly gleamed, and she informed me that she'd be
with me shortly.

Ten minutes later she strode into the TV lounge and stood before me.
She wasn't wearing fetish gear, in fact she was now wearing nothing at
all, but her body still bore the indentations of her hastily-discarded
corset.

"I expect you're waiting for Miss Myfanwy Jones, alias Iffy Miffy, the
Gwynedd Lash Queen?" she asked.

"Yes ? please," I gulped.

"Well, I'm not her, see. It's a very common name around here, you know.
That pervy place is half a mile up the road. You're not the first
English gentleman to make that mistake but, since you're here ?"

Then she clutched me in arms which were horribly strong, and thrust her
lipstick-smeared, hair-fringed mouth suggestively towards mine. Now I
know that in BDSM fear is your best friend, the one who holds your hand
when you're bound and vulnerable, waiting for the first lash, making
sure you're respectful and promising you such a sweet endorphin high
when it's all over. But this wasn't fear I was feeling; it was a sudden
sheer, mindless, gut-churning terror.

The door marked "Private" closed behind us.