by Livia Ellis
So we meet at the club. In fact, we arrive at the same moment and enter together. Coats are handed over and we are ushered into the inner sanctum. I know several of the men we pass. They greet me both warmly and indifferently.
We are seated at our usual table.
How am I?
Eh.
Really Oliver. Use my words. Eh is no better than a grunt. How am I?
Fine.
I’m not fine. He can see it in the set of my shoulders. Just tell him what the matter is. Believe it or not, he has been around the block a time or two. He’s learned that nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Sometimes chatting with a friend helps find a new perspective.
Honestly I am feeling the pressure of it all. It’s as if I spend my life in this place where I am so desperately tightly wound that if I give up trying to control it all for a moment I fear I may fly apart.
Perhaps what I need to do is give up control.
I can’t do that. I can’t. How could I possibly give up control?
He removes a pen and a card from inside his jacket pocket. A number is scribbled down and passed to me.
Mistress Jennifer?
Mistress Jennifer. Wait a day before I call. He’ll contact her to let her know he’s referring me.
I don’t really know if that’s my sort of thing.
Of all the people he knows, he would have assumed I would be the one most willing to embrace an experience just to try it. Not to back away cowardly from the fear of the unknown.
Did he just call me chicken?
Never. He would never be so gauche. That I am un grand poulet is clearly evident by the fact I won’t even entertain the possibility of putting myself into the hands of a trained dominatrix. Perhaps her brand of making me let go might just be what the doctor ordered.
I will not have electrodes attached to my scrotum.
I’ve been reading too many of the wrong books and not enough of the right ones.
Is this something he’s into?
Yes. In fact he is. He and Mistress Jennifer go way back.
I won’t let her put a cowl on me.
Just trust that she knows what she’s doing. She’s really very good. She has an instinct for knowing what a client really needs and wants.
My mind is as open as a field of poppies.
Good.
After lunch we go back to the Doctor’s office.
Nothing has changed from the first time he paid me for my services in his office. Not a thing.
I sit in the chair, my legs propped up in the stirrups, his finger works my g-spot, and his mouth pulls me to a supernova of a climax.
I dress.
He would like me to arrange something.
Sure. Whatever he would like.
He would like to watch me engage in sexual congress with another young man. Someone attractive. Not particularly hirsute. He likes tall men.
We could…
No. As he has told me before, he has a certain way he likes to do things. In this instance he would simply like to observe.
I know an Israeli man that might do.
Avan?
Yes.
Avan would be perfectly acceptable.
I’ll sort it out.
The Matchmaker calls me as I leave the Doctor’s office.
Does she know Mistress Jennifer?
She does.
The Doctor recommended I make an appointment with her.
If I can get an appointment with her, she recommends I take it. Might do me a world of good to just submit to a world class dominatrix.
I don’t want my nipples squeezed in clamps.
Whatever have I been reading?
Nothing.
Call her.
I will.
Very good. She has me booked for that evening. A married couple. Colombian. Out of towners like most of my clients will be. They always book an escort when they're in London. Husband likes to watch the wife get fucked. Ask Olga. She's had them before. They take turns. Sometimes the wife likes to watch.
I need to go home. I'd rather not have another late night two nights in a row.
It won't be a late night. Elizabeth and I are expected at their hotel at eight.
Wait. Elizabeth?
Yes. Is that a problem?
Well no. But I’ve only worked with Olga before.
Time to branch out.
What is Olga going to think about this?
Olga had better think nothing of this or she’s in the wrong profession. I'll be done under two hours. They always pay for three, but I'll be out the door so they can get on with their night alone.
I can do that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Coffees
At home Olga gets me ready for the evening. While I'm shaving she tells me what I need to know. She's been with them before. They're nice. Not great tippers. But, they always pay for three hours, and she's usually done after two. The husband won't touch me. He'll just watch. That's his thing. If he does want to mix it up, just go for it. We both have clients at the Savoy. We'll go early so she can introduce me to The Concierge. Don't forget to tip him. Ten-percent. He can be a real little bitch if he doesn't get tipped.
Ten-percent? Really?
I can probably blow him.
Does she blow him?
Nope. She's not really his cup of tea. But me on the other hand... She runs the flat of her hands over my pecks. I'm exactly what he masturbates to.
Would she blow him or pay him the ten-percent?
She'd pay him the ten-percent. She doesn't like him. She'd rather him think he could never have her even if he wanted to. He's a little troll.
I'll pay him the ten-percent. If The Concierge wants to pay the £200 for an hour, he can.
Olga kisses me. That's the right attitude. She kisses me again. Her arms wrap around my neck. Another kiss. She's toying with me. Then she lets me go. She needs to get dressed.
She does know I’m going with Elizabeth, right?
She knows. She has a different client.
Elizabeth and I travel together to the hotel. She introduces me to the Concierge.
He’s not half as bad as Olga made him out to be.
I’m friendly.
He’s friendly.
Sometimes Olga is not as friendly as she could be. This could be why she has her issues with the Concierge.
I’ll tell him I’ll catch up with him when we’re done.
He gives me a wink (when is this ever not creepy?) then tells me he’ll be looking for me.
We go up to the suite occupied by the Coffees.
They are an attractive couple. He’s Colombian. She’s American.
We are offered cocktails and our cash which we take.
There is some conversation.
He’s wearing trousers and a shirt. She’s in a flimsy robe.
Elizabeth knows what to do. She very directly asks if they’d like to move to the bedroom, or stay in the sitting room.
The husband sits in an oversized chair. We will stay in the sitting room.
Elizabeth slips out of her dress revealing a whole lot of nothing underneath.
There is a lot of girly giggling and a fair bit of playful kissing. I get why the husband enjoys watching this. I’m certainly not bored.
Elizabeth unties the wife’s robe and slips it off of her shoulders while twirling her tongue around the woman’s mouth.
I’m waiting for the signal Elizabeth told me would come.
Both women have smooth bare pussies that they begin fingering simultaneously.
I swear I’ve seen this done in porn more than once.
The wife moves to the couch. With legs spread open and propped on the coffee table, Elizabeth uses the flat of her tongue against the slick soft skin of the wife’s slit. Elizabeth is aware of where the husband is. She must be. The way she moves her head and her hair indicate that she knows how to give him the best view of what she’s doing to his wife.
I have to say her as
s is particularly lovely as it sticks up in front of me.
The husband gives me a nudge. He flicks his fingers a bit and taps me into the game. That’s the signal. It couldn’t have come soon enough.
Only Velcro could have helped me get my clothes off quicker.
I tag Elizabeth and she moves away.
The husband calls her to him.
I sit on the couch and the wife gets on my lap. She sits facing away from me looking towards her husband. She uses her hand to guide my dick inside of her. I get two handfuls of full breasts as she fucks me.
Elizabeth is on her knees blowing him.
I can feel the eye contact between them. I wonder what this is like. To be married to someone and have this kind of open relationship. I don’t know if I find it creepy or intriguing. I think I should find it creepy but in truth I find it fascinating. I can’t say for certain that with the right wife that I wouldn’t want this kind of openness.
I move my fingers to her clit. She has a head tossing orgasm just as Elizabeth sucks off the husband.
We four move to the bedroom. The husband takes a chair and watches as Elizabeth and I fuck his wife.
When he moves to remove his clothing it’s time for us to go.
He’s very polite about kicking us out, but he’s still very firmly telling us it’s time to go.
We leave the bedroom and the door closes behind us.
We get our clothes on quietly and quickly.
I notice there is a leather picture folder on the desk next to the closed laptop. They have children. Two. Son and a daughter. Both under five. Society wants this to bother me, but it just doesn’t. In fact I like the Coffees even more. They’re consenting adults. They’re married. They’re not just parents. They’re lovers too. I want that when I get married.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
January
January
Get vitamins, more pens, padlock for bedroom door (possibly alarm? Nanny cam?)
Figure out who Israel Ruben is and why he keeps leaving messages for me
Figure out who the hell let the paparazzi know Olga and I were in Brazil and kill them
10:00am to 11:00am – Mistress Jennifer
12:00pm to 1:00pm – Lunch with Renata
2:00pm to 3:00pm – Tea with Dr. Gita Premji
4:00pm – 5:00pm – the Psychiatrist
6:00pm to TBD – the Actress
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mistress Jennifer
Why am I going to Mistress Jennifer? Why? Because I’m not a chicken. Or un grand poulet. That and I failed the football player. Okay he doesn’t think I failed, but the truth is I was out of my depth. What the hell do I know about spanking people? I don’t know anything about this. So what do I do? The same thing I did when I was in school and needed help. I find a tutor. Mistress Jennifer.
I’m nervous. I’ll admit this. Obviously I don’t think she’s going to start spanking me (god forbid!) but I don’t know what to expect and this makes me uneasy.
My fear stems from the unexpected. I’m terrified of the unexpected. I’ve had far too many surprises in my life recently. I’m all done with surprises.
I walk up to the black door in the brick wall over which the numbers as I have them written down are displayed. There was no name plate. Not that I expected one. What would it say? Dungeon?
Not knowing what to expect, I ring the bell.
I step back. I’m certain I have the right place. I double checked the address.
Three things I know:
If she answers the door trussed up in leather with a whip, I’m gone
If she blindfolds me, puts a dog collar on me, or trusses up my nuts with a rope I’m gone
If she expects me to call her mistress I’m gone
The door opens. I’m fairly certain I have the wrong door. Mistress Jennifer cannot be this woman in black wool trousers and deep purple tailored silk blouse. She is tall with short blond hair and the build of a runner. She is an attractive woman of an undeterminable age. Much like the Matchmaker.
I’m very sorry …
Oliver?
Yes.
Why am I sorry?
I thought I had the wrong address.
Do I spend a lot of time apologizing for things that require no apology?
Yes.
She is Mistress Jennifer. I am very welcome. Come in. Join her
We walk through dimly lit corridors lined with doors. I can hear other people doing god knows what. I pass both women and men (many trussed up in leather as I feared Mistress Jennifer would be) then enter a room. A leather bench dominates the space.
Take off my shoes.
I take my shoes off.
For once I’m the client.
I reach into my bag, remove the envelope with the cash and set it on the bench.
She picks up the envelope. This is very much like a business transaction. This is familiar and comforting for me. The envelope is put into one of the cabinets that line the walls.
She turns and stares at me. I’m nervous.
Yes.
Why?
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
What do I want to happen?
Can I tell her something?
Yes. I can tell her anything.
Okay – a while back – maybe three years or so ago – I was with my former fiancée – we were in Exeter driving home after a concert – it was late – she was asleep in the passenger seat – I’m driving along – there was this man – he was walking down the street – it was very late – the streets were pretty empty – here was this man – in a cowl and a dog collar – just walking down the street – in these tiny leather pants – and no shoes – he had no shoes on – so here is this man in a cowl, a dog, collar, little leather pants walking down the street in the rain well past midnight – all I could think is something has gone terribly wrong for him.
It sounds like something did go terribly wrong for him.
I don’t want to be that man.
Because I fear vulnerability and exposure?
Yes. I suppose so.
I am safe in this place. She places her hand on the door. Nothing will happen that I don’t want to happen. I can be as vulnerable as I need to be and I will not get hurt. I can give up my need to control and feel free to just be.
That scares the hell out of me.
Of course it does. Freedom is terrifying. We need a word.
A safe word?
Yes.
I’ve thought about this.
She thinks I probably spend a lot of time thinking too much about such things.
How does she like Clytemnestra? Not a word that comes up in regular conversation. Hard to mistake.
Scarlet.
What?
The safe word is Scarlet. I need to trust her to make the decisions. No cowls. No dog collars. No little leather pants. Put myself in her hands. Slowly, step, by step, she will help me learn new boundaries. I must have places where I am free to shut the world and all of its troubles out. Does this sound like something I would like to do?
Yes.
Then let’s do it.
Do I need to take off my clothes?
No. In fact – how about I have one activity in my life that doesn’t involve taking off my clothes. At least not yet. Maybe in time. But for the moment small steps.
From inside of one of the cabinets she takes a blindfold.
I…
Do I trust her?
I want to.
This is where we start.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Renata
Renata has become a splinter in my ass. My desire to banish her from my life doesn’t equal my ability to banish her from my life. She is tenacious. Nothing will deter her. Not even purposefully ignoring her.
I could have persisted, but she tracked down my mother.
This I cannot have. She succeeds in getting me to return one of her calls.
If I had appropriate boundaries in place in my
life, this would never have happened. Mistress Jennifer is absolutely correct. I need boundaries in my life. Not every place must contain my angst. I’m truly willing to ring a fence around Renata.
I agree to lunch. One lunch. The plan being to make it very clear to her that I am an exhausted resource. There is nothing she can do to get me to participate in her lunacy.
We meet at a café near Oxford Street. Her choice. It’s vegan. Of course. She knows me so well.
First impression: I don’t realize it’s her. What I see through the falling snow as I approach my destination is a woman with a baby bump wrapped in layer upon layer topped with a sort of floppy muffin hat. She looks homeless. The fingerless gloves and the ground sweeping peasant skirt over the oxblood Doc Martens enhance this impression.
I assume she’s begging. Which she is. She is begging. She’s asking for change from people passing by. I would not believe it if I didn’t know she did this sometimes just because she could.
I nearly toss a pound coin I have jangling around in my pocket into her paper coffee cup.
I see it’s her under the Dr. Who scarf.
This is really too much. It really is. Why is she begging?
Because Elon won’t give her any money.
So she’s been reduced to begging.
Yes.
I know Elon is supporting her. Elon and I talk. Often. Daily. I know he pays her bills, has provided her with a more than adequate living arrangement, and once a week has groceries delivered. She is far better off than the vast majority of women in her situation. Elon is not a monster. Without Elon she’d still be living with her mother. What more does she want from him? Or me for that matter?
He won’t give her cash. All she wants is cash. Why can’t he give her cash?
Because she’s irresponsible. Is that what this is about? Because if it is, then we’re done. It’s snowing. I’m in that weird place where I’m both roasting under my coat whilst my nose is freezing. I’m also starving.
Can’t I at least buy her lunch? She’s bored having to cook for herself. She’s bored being stuck at home.
Fine. I’ll buy her lunch.
She moves to the door of the café.
