Folly (7 page)

‘Yes, I know,' he said quietly. He wasn't looking at me either but was staring at a point somewhere between my shoes and the folly door, with a set expression on his face, and I realised with a terrible lurch of my stomach that he was waiting for me to tell him I could no longer afford to pay his salary – that he had lost his job.

Goodness was no fool. He'd seen what I'd been going through. He'd even helped me carry some of the furniture to the car, on its way to be sold. Most probably, he'd been expecting, and dreading, this conversation for a long time.

‘Luckily, I have made a plan to earn more money,' I continued, not wanting to keep him in his misery for a moment longer. ‘I'm going to run a business from this place. You're going to need to help me with it, though.'

Now he looked at me and I saw on his face the beginnings of hope.

‘We are going to …' I began, and then started again. ‘Some men like to …'

At this point, I gave up.

‘Come and have a look inside,' I said, and turned to the folly's door. I flung it open and at last, thankfully, managed to find the words to explain what this was all about.

‘Some men like to be tied up and whipped,'I told him. ‘That's why I've taken all the whips out of the tack room and brought them here. These men are going to pay me money, and I am going to whip them.'

Goodness stood at the entrance with his feet planted on the doormat and peered inside. Round-eyed, he took in the red-painted horse, the silvery chains and leather straps hanging from the walls, the whips on the shelf, the candles on the bookcase.

‘Hau!' he exclaimed, shaking his head. ‘Hau!'

‘That's what I feel as well,' I told him, ‘but we need to do whatever we can at the moment to earn some income. I'm going to need you to help with security. You will have to let the people in and out, make sure there is only one person in the car, and also press the panic button if anything goes wrong. If you hear me screaming inside.'

He nodded.

‘If you hear me shouting, it is ok,' I hastened to clarify. ‘Screaming is not.'

‘I understand,' he said.

He backed out of the folly and moved a few steps away, still shaking his head and muttering to himself.

I went over the protocol with him a few more times and even verbally demonstrated the difference between a shout and a scream.

When I'd finished his doorman training, I felt a huge sense of relief. Goodness, my most loyal and trusted ally, was on board with this, and I knew for sure he would try his hardest to keep me safe and to do his job thoroughly.

I hurried over to the main house to contact the security firm, transfer some money and ensure my account, which I feared was a few months in arrears, was brought firmly back into the black.

Chapter 9

I
woke up in the early hours of Thursday morning to find a massive electrical storm raging outside. My bedroom window lit up in eerie bluish-white as lightning flashed, and the almost instantaneous thunderclaps that followed seemed to shake the house.

Hard rain – or more probably hail – was striking the windows. I got up to check that the study window was closed, and, pressing the light switch down without a response, found that the power had gone off.

I fumbled around in the bedside drawer looking for a torch I absolutely knew was there, eventually unearthing it from its hiding place right at the back. Its beam was weak and wavering and I'd have to replace the batteries if I wanted more than five minutes' use from it.

The study window was indeed open, and rain was blowing inside, splattering onto the documents on the left of my desk and trickling down onto the computer tower below.

I pushed it shut, and returned to bed, shivering in the sudden coldness that the rainstorm had brought, noticing that only Bob the Cat, the oldest and bravest of my felines, remained on the bed. He blinked up at me resentfully, as if blaming me for the change in weather.

I couldn't get back to sleep. I was too excited and too nervous about what the day was going to bring. I lay awake, alternating periods of trying to persuade myself not to stress with those of becoming at one with my stress and embracing it to the full. Heart racing, adrenaline making my skin prickle, I envisioned every possible worst-case scenario that might happen when Lowly arrived.

If
Lowly arrived, which was of course the number one worry.

As the storm abated, one by one, the cats crept back onto the bed, nestling against my legs, a hot, furry, feline invasion. They snuggled closer, glad of the comfort after the thunder, unaware that I was now starting to drip with sweat. Pinned into place, I was unable to do so much as turn over onto my other side without upsetting them.

Eventually, morning came, and dislodging the cats and extracting myself from the furnace of the bedcovers, I leaned across to switch off the beeping alarm.

Problem number one – there was still no power. A cable must have blown down in the storm. This was not a catastrophe, but it meant I'd have to use candles to light my dungeon, and Goodness would have to open and close the gate manually.

A knot of fear twisted hard in my stomach as I wondered whether the panic buttons would still work. Surely a serial killer wouldn't use the pseudonym Lowly? Or perhaps he would. For a moment the news story swam before my eyes:
‘The psychopath, who entered the premises in the guise of a submissive slave, overpowered the home-owner and chopped her into six separate pieces before consuming her organs …'

With an effort, I banished the thought.

When I was in the folly, I lit the candles. The flickering light against the

dark walls created the perfect ambience. My dungeon looked ready.

Now for myself.

I changed into my outfit in the small bathroom. The first item consisted of a black basque, which, somewhat optimistically, I'd bought in size medium. I would imagine it would be easier to squeeze inside a twelve-inch plumbing pipe than to put the bloody thing on. I broke into a sweat as I struggled with the front fastenings for what seemed like an eternity, my hands shaking with nervousness that I'd break them and then have nothing to wear. Eventually it was on. The straps dug into my shoulders, and although I felt like I'd been sucked into a too-small sausage skin, the garment still did a remarkably poor job of disguising the unwanted roll of fat around my waist.

‘Does this basque make me look fat, slave?'

‘No, Mistress, the ten extra kilos you're carrying make you look fat.'

I giggled nervously at the imaginary, and unlikely, conversation.

I pulled on a pair of black satin knickers. I was under no circumstances going to go the
G
-string route. Then came the black stockings. I clipped them into place. My thighs protruded fish belly-white above the stocking tops.

I added a pair of long socks before pulling on the well-polished riding boots. Finally, bending down with some difficulty thanks to the tightness of my damn basque, I fastened up my spurs.

I ran my fingers through my shiny, freshly dyed hair before applying some make-up. Foundation, dark eyeliner, brown eye shadow, and a copper-red lipstick. I took my black suede gloves and placed them on the black-painted wooden desk that Hayley had left behind and which, after Goodness had fixed the broken leg, I'd positioned just inside the doorway.

I picked up the panic button, now attached to a short length of black ribbon, fastened a patent leather belt around my waist, and looped the remote through it on the right-hand side.

Then, going back to the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and nearly lost my nerve.

I looked stupid. So stupid. Unbelievably pathetic. If I hadn't been on the point of tears, I might have laughed at the sight. On me, I thought the kinky outfit looked incongruous and forlorn. My reflection showed me up for what I was – a desperate, overweight, terrified woman who had absolutely no business trying to pass herself off as something she was never born to be.

The urge to strip it all off, climb back into my
T
-shirt and tracksuit pants, and head back to the house at a run was overwhelming. I resisted it. From somewhere, I found the strength to turn away from the revolting spectacle in the mirror and erase the sight from my memory.

‘You're in too deep now, Em,' I told myself. ‘At least see this first session through. And stop looking at yourself through your fear goggles because they're not telling you the truth about your appearance. You look exactly like a mistress should. Well groomed, domineering and dangerous … and with damned good hair.'

Over all this gear, I put on a lightweight double-breasted beige trench coat that was long enough to cover my thighs. My positive selftalk notwithstanding, I was not going to reveal myself in the domination outfit in anything but the strictest privacy, and I certainly didn't want Goodness or my wretched next-door neighbour to catch even a glimpse.

And then I felt my heart leap into my throat as a silver Mercedes eased its way down the narrow driveway. Oh, God, he was here.

My first client had actually arrived.

Waiting inside the folly, I heard the rattle of the gate. I peeked through the window and watched as Goodness leapt up from his plastic chair under the karee tree and pushed it open. He was wearing the navy blazer and the smart black shoes I'd bought for him, but had refused to take off his yellow Kaizer Chiefs baseball cap. He'd told me it was a lucky hat, and I could only hope that would prove true for both of us.

The gleaming vehicle came into full view as it stopped in the shade of the carport.

My throat was dry and I felt my palms grow damp. I opened the door and waited behind the desk, hearing footfalls scrunch over the gravel, and then he was inside, taking off a pair of sunglasses and blinking in the semi-darkness.

A rather chubby Indian man of average height, probably in his midfifties, with neatly cut hair that was greying at the temples and receding above.

‘Ah. Um … good morning – er – Mistress,' he said in a soft voice.

Amazingly, his servile manner gave me the confidence I needed to take charge.

‘Please, have a seat,' I said, indicating the chair opposite as I sat myself down with my back to the wall.

‘Thank you,' he said, rather hesitantly, and I realised with a sense of unreality that he was just as nervous as I was.

‘Is there anything special you'd like to do in this session?'

‘No – I think – just the normal.'

The normal. What was the bloody normal? Dear God, let me live up to his expectations.

‘Actually,' he said, ‘perhaps we could start the fantasy with – with you giving me a disciplinary hearing. Something work-related. If you could do that, please.'

‘I certainly can.'

Safe word, safe word, you nearly forgot the safe word, you moron …

‘If there's anything that we do during the session you are not comfortable with, or you want to stop, you may use the safe word Amber. Do you understand?'

‘Amber. Yes, Mistress Caine.'

‘There's a bathroom through that door there if you would like to freshen up.' I pointed. ‘When you come out, our session will start, and you'll be entering my office. I, by the way, will be the human resources director.'

Lowly stood and walked over to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was out of sight I jumped up, closed the front door, and, with shaking arms, scrabbled together some pens and pencils and put them in a row next to my new, hard-covered appointments diary before sitting down again.

I had done role-playing before, many times in the past, when working on the phones. This scenario was familiar to me – the script, at least. The actions I'd have to perform were uncharted territory.

A minute later he was out, walking towards me, eyes downcast.

‘Ah. You have an appointment with me, I see, Mr … er … Lowly.' I spoke in officious tones as I glanced down at the diary in front of me. ‘I am the Director of Human Resources. You may call me Mistress Caine.'

‘Yes, Mistress Caine.'

‘Please stand there.' I pointed to a spot on the floor and he shuffled his feet into place.

‘Now, it is never pleasant to have to call you in for bad news, but in this case I have no choice. We have looked at your most recent performance review and it is extremely disappointing.'

‘I am sorry,' he muttered, head bowed, his fingers twisting nervously in front of him.

‘Not only have you not completed your tasks timeously, but your superiors have also noted a number of accounting errors in your work which are entirely unacceptable. Have you been losing concentration while you do your calculations?'

‘No, no, I have been concentrating, of course, I don't think I've been too distracted by anything recently …'

‘In addition, I've been told you are a poor timekeeper and you've been clocking in late three or four days a week.'

‘I – er – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I – the one time I had car trouble and …'

‘Mr Lowly, I don't want your excuses,' I spat at him.

Poor little overachiever that he was, who had probably never been late a day in his life, nor ever made an accounting error, actually took a step backwards as he cowered away from my anger.

‘That is not the most serious reason why you have been called here, though,' I said.

I let the silence build between us until he looked up, peering at me apprehensively, and asked, ‘What is that reason?'

‘I have a report from one of the branch secretaries right here on my desk,' I tapped my finger on the open diary. ‘She said that when she delivered a document to your office last Tuesday, she saw that you were indulging in unacceptable behaviour.'

‘What behaviour was that?'

‘She said you were masturbating, Mr Lowly.'

‘I – no, I was …'