Folly (16 page)

I understood that there were, theoretically, those clients who would not reach orgasm during their session but who would do so afterwards, in private, on their own, while thinking about what their mistress had inflicted upon them.

But in practice, so far every other man who had entered the doors of my domination dungeon had left having climaxed during his session.

What to do? How to help him?

I knew there was something he wanted – he'd as much as told me so, but I had no idea what it could be. Was I not doing enough? Or was I taking him too close to his limits? Simon wasn't exactly helping things along, either. He was full of contradictions. Easy to talk to and flirtatious, but reluctant – ‘not ready' he'd said – to voice what he needed. And I certainly hadn't been able to beat it out of him. He'd endured everything I'd done to him, usually keeping still and silent and only occasionally letting out a sound. He had never ever used the safe word.

At the start of his third session, after standing on the scale earlier that morning had confirmed what the better fit of my clothing was already telling me, I had dared to remove my trench coat and reveal myself to Simon in my full domination regalia as he waited by the punishment horse, his wrists lashed together with my leather reins.

As I'd expected, his gaze had roamed immediately and appreciatively over my body. Those piercing eyes had taken in every detail of my appearance from head to toe before I'd yelled at him for his insolence and, as punishment, blindfolded him before setting about thrashing him.

Even then, that session had not been enough to satisfy him.

After his fourth visit, I discovered the truth.

He emerged from the bathroom wearing his customary blue jeans, this time paired with an ivory-coloured shirt with pale-blue patterns tracing their way up its weave. It looked expensive but he wore it casually, the top button undone and the sleeves rolled back a couple of turns to mid-forearm. Again I noticed his tanned wrists and somewhat lighterskinned hands. Strong-looking hands, with long, lean fingers. I couldn't help remembering how tightly they'd gripped the chains I'd made him hold while perched in a pair of the high heels, when waiting for his punishment to start.

Refocusing my mind, I picked up my phone, which I kept muted during the sessions, and turned the ringtone on again.

‘Thank you,' he said.

‘Thank
you
,' I said, putting the phone back down on the desk.

He'd asked for my banking details after his second session, and I now received emailed proof of payment the day before he arrived. So there was nothing to do, nothing to pay. He booked in again, same time next week. Now that his building deadline was over there was clearly plenty of free time in his life for extramural activities.

We stood for a moment not saying anything, just giving each other a tentative smile, and I suddenly realised that there was an element of uneasiness in the silence. My instinct was proved right when Simon cleared his throat and said, ‘Emma, could I discuss a possible additional service for my next session?'

Automatically I felt my palms go damp. This was what he had been hinting at. I was about to hear the worst.

‘Yes … yes, of course you can.'
Please, Lord, let it not be golden showers or anything worse than that … because whatever he requests, how on earth can I say no when he's such a good client?
‘Would you like to sit down? Coffee?'

I was hoping he'd say yes; that he'd take a chair opposite me and have a drink. And that this special additional service he wanted would prove to be something that wasn't going to either disgust or terrify me.

I should have known better from the man who'd said ‘Lots' when I asked him what he liked to do.

He gave a small shake of his head when I mentioned the coffee, which meant I couldn't turn away and busy myself with kettle and cups. Instead I had to stand there, feeling slightly sick with anticipation, waiting for him to get to the point.

‘Coffee would be great some other time,' he said, ‘but I've got to be back into town for a site meeting in half an hour. What I wanted to ask, though … how can I put this …?'

Will you get this over with? I wanted to shout.

‘How do you keep a dominatrix in suspense?'

‘I'll tell you tomorrow, Mistress.'

‘What?' I asked him. My right hand found the edge of the desk. It was solid and sturdy and I rested my clammy palm on it.

‘I've been feeling that … you see, for me, I think you are the right person to …' He took a deep breath, obviously having as much difficulty in choosing his words as I was in not turning into a gibbering wreck while waiting for them.

Let it be: do I travel?

Why, yes, I do. I can pack a briefcase with a few selected essentials and meet you anywhere you like. You name the venue and I'll be there. Discreet, punctual and, as always as brutal and vicious as …

‘I'd like this to go two ways,' he blurted out, and I felt the desk scrape backwards a few inches and bump against the wall.

He added, hurriedly, ‘Not the domination side, of course. I have no desire to inflict pain on you – well, not unless you wanted to try it. But you see, for me – and this is my experience with the relationships I've had – a huge part of the satisfaction I get, or can get, comes from satisfying my partner. The truth is that I don't feel right about pleasing myself unless you are pleasured first. I'd like to be able to do that with you, Emma. Under your rules and conditions, of course, which we could discuss. I think it could be very good … for both of us.'

My mouth had dropped open. I clamped it shut and swallowed hard. My face felt hot and I knew his suggestion had caused me to turn an unbecoming shade of beetroot. For an instant I couldn't help but wonder what the Simon Nel version of ‘very good' might involve, given his love of extremes, and his wickedly creative imagination.

Unacceptable, of course. Completely unacceptable. What was I thinking, allowing myself to even briefly entertain the idea of becoming sexually involved with one of my clients?

‘I don't think that's something I would be comfortable with,' I muttered. And then, panicking that he'd walk out and take his three-sessions-a-month business elsewhere at a stage when I couldn't afford to lose it, I pulled myself together and managed to add, in more mistress-like tones, ‘I will consider your request, though, and I'll let you know on your next visit.'

His gaze was fixed on me and I suddenly knew exactly how a deer felt when it was caught in the headlights.

‘I understand,' he said. ‘I apologise for my shameless suggestion. I would never presume to cause my mistress discomfiture. However, I will eagerly await your final decision.'

Was he laughing at me? Did those words carry more than a hint of irony? From what I knew of Simon so far, I had a horrible suspicion that they did, but before I could mull it over any further, he continued. ‘And in the meantime …'

He stepped towards me.

‘You can punish me for my forwardness next time, if you like,' he said in a soft voice. ‘At any rate, I trust you will.'

And then he leaned forward and brushed his lips gently against my neck, just above my collarbone. The touch was soft and warm and I could feel the tickle of his breath. While I was still paralysed with astonishment, his hands slipped under my trench coat and moved around my waist to the small of my back, resting there for just a moment before they slid lower, cupping my buttocks through the silky fabric of my panties, caressing them sensuously.

The banging of my heart was drowning out any logical thought I might have had. I was frozen into place, unable to tell him to stop, realising that if anybody were to phone in right now and interrupt us, I'd have to kill them.

His lips moved slowly, deliciously up my neck before touching the corner of my half open mouth. His hands roamed lower, the touch becoming more intimate and causing me to draw in a sudden breath. His eyes drilled into mine, but I hadn't a hope in hell of understanding the intent behind them or, I realised, of telling him to stop.

He was violating all my dungeon rules, and I had a feeling that the rules were only the first item on a very short list of things to be violated. A list that ended with Emma Caine.

Without warning he stepped back, his fingers snaking up my inner thighs as he moved away. Wordlessly, he turned and walked out of the folly, closing the door quietly behind him. Through a gap in the window blind I saw him scratching Bob the Cat behind the ear as if nothing untoward had happened at all. Then he carefully lifted him and Sparkle off the roof of the dark green Jaguar and deposited them in the safety of the newly dug flowerbed nearby.

I walked round the desk, collapsed onto the chair, and simply sat there, my heart pounding, gazing blankly at the wall as the gate rattled closed and the purr of the car's engine receded into the distance.

Chapter 20

T
he brass plate discreetly nailed to the gatepost of the upmarket suburban residence was the same as I remembered it being on my last visit, five or six years ago.

‘JE Myers, Psychologist.'

I remembered Janice Myers, or Jan, as she'd insisted we call her, as a petite blonde woman with hazel eyes and a serene demeanour. It was in the consultation rooms adjacent to her house that Mark and I had sat for a total of six relationship counselling sessions, when our marriage was briefly, but painfully, hitting the skids. That had been a few months after I'd told him I'd worked on phone sex lines when I was younger, after which the unpleasantness had started in earnest.

Our sessions had been conducted with the aim of resolving our conflict, although, deep down, I'd half hoped that the psychologist would advise us we should split up. Divorce would have been painful, but not as much so as living with a man who was suddenly so different from the one I'd married: so angry, critical, swift to blame me.

In the end, though, that wasn't what she was there to do. She'd given us guidelines to help break the vicious circle of behaviour we seemed to be trapped in, and had explained to us both that this was not just about the fact that Emma had told Mark she'd had a naughty job when she was younger. That the cause of the friction had started long before my confession, its roots buried deep in the arguments we'd had even back when we were first dating. A struggle for power, was how she put it.

In spite of her advice and insights, I found that when Mark came home from work in one of his sulky and belligerent moods, he wasn't interested in breaking any cycles or trying to lay down new patterns of behaviour, and it was less stressful for me to keep on doing what I'd learned was the easiest – to surrender and withdraw.

Ultimately, I guessed that the sessions with Jan hadn't really made a difference, but here I was, going back to see her again. At least she wasn't a complete stranger, I told myself. I knew her slightly; and, more importantly, she knew me. I'd already told her what I had done in the past, and I hoped this would help her understand what I was doing now.

It would be simpler than having to tell everything to somebody new.

By the time I'd driven through the gate of the high-walled, fortress-like residence and parked in the paved area to the left of the driveway, Jan was standing outside the door to her consultation rooms.

‘Emma!' she said. ‘What a surprise! I didn't realise it was you, because the appointment diary just said Mrs Caine, but do you know, when you pulled in here, I actually recognised the sound of your car!'

Yup. For what seemed like forever I'd been driving the same dilapidated runabout with the same rattly exhaust that the dealership had told me was a problem for the exhaust specialists, and that the exhaust specialists had told me no, the dealership must fix. In light of the conflicting information from these two experts, I had subsequently decided to ignore the damned rattle rather than become trapped in the infinite loop that this problem presented. After all, wasn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

So, no vehicular upgrades for Emma Caine. Looking at the brand-new white
BMW
x5 parked outside Jan's garage, I thought I might as well have had a big L for loser tattooed on my forehead.

Jan, on the other hand, looked exactly the same. Trim, carefully made up, dressed in a stylish but neutral suit.

‘Come on in,' she said. ‘How are you doing? How are things going with Mark?'

Damn it all … I had forgotten how Mark had managed to charm Jan during our appointments. How she'd stared at me, not unkindly, as I cried into a handful of Kleenex from the box on her consultation table, and told me that I mustn't be so sensitive.

‘I don't think I'm being sensitive,' I'd sniffed. ‘I just really, really don't like our fighting. I don't like it when he becomes abusive.'

‘Abusive!' Mark had interjected, his voice full of outrage. ‘For fuck's sake, I've never laid a finger on you and never, ever would. Don't go manipulating the situation here like you always do, and trying to get Jan on your side. I just communicate differently from you when I'm angry, that's all.'

‘By calling me fat and frigid?' I'd snarled.

Pushing the memory aside, hoping I hadn't done the wrong thing by coming here again, I followed Jan into the consultation rooms.

Same comfortable beige couches. Same zooty yellow lampshade.

Same box of Kleenex on the table.

‘Mark's been badly brain damaged as a result of a car accident,' I told her, and saw her face constrict in sympathy.

‘Emma, I'm so sorry to hear that. So sorry. Please sit down, relax, pour yourself a glass of water.' She sat opposite, glancing down at a new-looking patient folder and holding her Parker pen in her right hand. ‘What can I help you with today?'

If she'd expected to be counselling me for grief, she was in for a surprise.