‘Your Facebook. You changed your status. It’s him, I suppose?’
‘Oh. Yes. It is.’
Rob made no further comment for a while, absorbed in picking his duds for the day. At the door to the dressing room he paused and said, ‘So we’ll be seeing you in the pages of Glamour magazine, will we?’
I laughed. Honestly, nothing seemed further from the realms of probability. In my mind, it was still Jasper and I, shielded from the world, safe in each other’s arms.
I did a double-take, then, when I got a text later in the day, from Jasper.
‘Swish do in London this wknd, fancy a turn on the red carpet?’
‘What is it?’
Rob tried to peer over my shoulder as we sat in the staff room, drinking cup-a-soups for lunch.
‘An invitation,’ I said, jabbing out a swift reply. ‘WTF shall I wear?’
‘What to?’ Rob was still peering. I held the phone away from his gaze.
‘Some event. Probably boring as hell.’
‘Leave that to me.’
I grinned. ‘Not a stretch lace bodystocking!’
‘Oh, it’s lover boy, is it?’ said Rob, turning away in disgust and picking up the newspaper from the coffee table. ‘What was that film of his? Weird, it was. Pretentious twaddle.’
‘I don’t suppose anybody forced you to watch it. Stick with Disney in future, eh?’
‘Oooh.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Touchy.’
My phone bleeped. ‘You’ll wear what you’re told, madam.’
I giggled.
Rob had had enough and left the room.
‘Srsly, though, what sort of do is it?’
‘Schmoozy magazine thing in a Mayfair marquee. 100 Influential Brits in the Arts or something. Free fizz etc.’
Suddenly I was terrified. This was real. ‘Must we?’
‘I’m afraid I must – somebody I want to talk to there re. backing for new film. Come with me. Hold my hand.’
He wasn’t the one who was going to need hand-holding.
‘I’m rubbish at parties, J. Can I sit in a corner and read?’
‘Don’t be silly. I order you to come with me and enjoy yourself. Or face the consequences.’
‘Mmm, depends what the consequences are …’
‘No spanking for a month.’
‘Damn. All right then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Magazine-quality arm-candy I ain’t.’
‘That’s why I’m with you.’
‘Sweet talker.’
I tried to be calm. I tried to convince myself that I’d be all right, because I’d be with Jasper, but all week I recoiled from every magazine stand I saw.
All those teeny-tiny, spray-painted-to-perfection images of women everywhere made me feel sick with inadequacy. Not that anybody would be looking at me, of course, but if they did, surely they would be asking what the hell a man like Jasper was doing with a country mouse like me. I’d wear a posh frock, I supposed.
But the posh frock wouldn’t solve the other problems, like my imperfect skin and my unstyled hair and my untoned body.
I was a low-maintenance girl, propelled into a high-maintenance world. What on earth was I going to do?
Jasper had meetings and post-production business in London for most of the week, so I didn’t get to see him again until the Friday night. The party was on Saturday.
‘Are you ready for your close-up, Miss Wells?’ he asked as he let me into the house.
I didn’t get the chance to reply, caught in his arms and waltzed into the drawing room and on to a chaise for a long, heavy snog before I could open my mouth.
Eventually, after a battle of fingers and tongues and grinding crotches, I escaped his clutches and said, ‘No.’
‘What? What’s “no”?’
He had forgotten the original question. He looked adorably dazed and confused, not to mention rumpled and dark and hot.
‘I’m not ready for my close-up,’ I said.
‘You look all right from here,’ he growled, lowering his face to mine again and nipping at my lip.
‘I mean tomorrow,’ I persisted. ‘I’m scared.’
‘I’ll give you something to be scared of.’ His teeth reached my neck, nipping and sucking.
‘Do you really think love bites will be a good look?’ I said, trying to push him off.
‘Fair point.’ He sat up, straddling my waist, and ran a hand through his disordered hair. ‘OK. Let’s deal with this, then I can deal with you.’
‘Can we pull a sickie?’ I whispered.
‘No, we can’t,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve booked you into a spa for the day. I’ve bought you a dress and some bits and bobs to go with it. You’ll get your hair done at the hotel. None of this means that I don’t think you’re perfect as you are, because I do. In fact I prefer you the way you are. But I know you’re anxious about being photographed and compared with the fake-tannerati, so …’
I didn’t know what to say. It was all so thoughtful of him, yet it made me more nervous than ever.
He seemed to see this, because he rested his knuckles against my cheek and said, ‘Think of it as an act of submission to me, love. I’m going to make you do it, whether you like it or not. Yes? Does that make it easier?’
It did.
He was easy on me that night because, as he said, he wanted to ‘go to town’ on me tomorrow. So we stuck to kissing and fondling and sucking and licking in the big four-poster bed. No wrist or ankle marks where I might have been tied, no welts across my bottom and thighs; no sore, used pussy or stinging back passage.
Not today, Jasper Jay.
* * *
We slept well and set off early for London the next day. The spa resort was off the motorway on the way up. I had never been to such a place. In some ways it was like a very luxurious hospital, all the staff in their stiff-starched white uniforms. In others, it reminded me of a church – the hush, the semi-religious emphasis on purity.
I didn’t find it soothing, but I lay back and let them do what they wanted to me with their Dead Sea mud and their warmed-up pebbles because, in doing so, I submitted to Jasper.
We met for lunch, both of us in massive white fluffy bathrobes, and picked at crayfish salad and sipped mineral water.
‘Am I done now then?’ I asked him. He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Pretty sure he’d had a facial.
‘I think they’re going to do your hands and feet, that’s all. Oh, and they might pluck your eyebrows.’
I inspected the sleeve of my robe to make sure the spray-tan wasn’t rubbing off on it. It seemed not.
‘What if I don’t want to be plucked?’ I said.
‘Trust me, girl, you’re getting plucked.’ He smouldered at me over the rim of his glass of San Pellegrino. ‘If I have to pluck you myself.’
The way he was looking at me made me want to fling open my robe and invite him to have me right now. We were in a private little alcove overlooking the terrace and the grounds beyond. If we really wanted to …
But I knew he wanted to wait until the evening – I think he wanted me to have something to look forward to, an insurance policy against my backing out at the last minute.
‘Even if I do get plucked,’ I said, ‘it won’t help with conversation. What shall I say? Nobody’s going to be interested in me or my geeky little job, are they?’
‘Just be yourself,’ said Jasper wearily. ‘Half of them will only talk about themselves anyway. If they remember to ask your name, you’re on to a winner.’
‘You like people like that?’
‘Like them? I am one. I’m completely selfish. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘I think that’s just a protective shell. I don’t think you’re completely selfish at all.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ he said after a short pause. ‘You can’t deny that I’m a total egotist, though.’
‘You’re a driven, successful man driving himself to further success,’ I said.
‘Who’s your
optician? Can they rose-tint my spectacles for me too?’
‘Stop it, Jasper. You are who you are and I love you.’
He took my hand and stroked it.
‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Christ, those nails need a trim. Go and get them seen to.’
He tapped my knuckles and sent me on my way.
An hour later, with matching coppery finger- and toenails and eyebrows that made me looked startled, I joined Jasper in the car.
‘Sleek,’ he said admiringly. ‘Streamlined.’
‘I feel like a doll.’
‘You are. You’re my doll. I’m going to pull your strings and make you dance to my tune.’
‘You know, sometimes, Jasper, you sound a little bit more sinister than I think you realise.’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said, with a smile of relish, leaning over to kiss me. ‘I really am the creepy bastard you take me for. Now, London is waiting for us. Better not hang around.’
* * *
London didn’t look that bothered to see us, going about its traffic-heavy business as usual. Once the valet had taken the car down to be parked and we were in the lobby, though, things were different. It was ‘Sir’ this and ‘Madame’ that. I wanted to laugh and tell the porter not to be so daft – it was only me!
But Jasper was in his element, completely unruffled by the opulent surroundings. Well, he did live in a beautiful manor house and jet all over the place making movies, so why would he be ruffled? It was another indicator of the stark divide between our life experiences.
We went straight to the hair salon. I could hear his voice, loud and confident, chatting to the other stylist while I had my hair twisted and pinned into something approaching glamorous elegance. At least this high-end coiffeur seemed to understand that not every customer wanted to chat about holidays, and she let me sit quietly while she worked her magic.
The make-up artist was the same, transforming me with eyelash curlers and primer while Jasper watched over my shoulder and made suggestions.
‘I don’t know about glitter,’ he said, vetoing an eyeshadow. ‘I don’t think she’s a glitter girl. More a sort of subtle sheen, yes, like that one.’
I wondered what the hell the make-up person thought of this. Did they draw any inferences about our relationship? Or did they assume that Jasper, as a film director, was used to dictating the look of his ‘characters’ and extended it to his partners?
I brought up this point as I accompanied him into the lift, styled and painted to within an inch of my life, feeling how tightly my hair was scraped into its fashionable style.
‘What did she make of all that, I wonder?’
‘What did who make of all what?’ Jasper had clearly moved on, adjusting his collar in the lift’s mirrored walls, smoothing his fingertips over his trimmed beard.
‘The make-up woman; of you, telling her what colours to paint me.’
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder and looking at us in the mirror.
‘She knows it all,’ he said teasingly, briefly covering one of my breasts with a hand. ‘She knows you’re my creature and that you do my bidding.’ With his other hand he performed a swift upwards flick of my skirt hem, showing my knickers for a second or two just at the very moment the bell pinged to indicate that we had reached our floor.
‘Jasper!’
I think it had fallen back by the time the door opened, but I couldn’t be sure. At any rate, I avoided the eyes of the guests who stepped in after we stepped out and made it my business to get out of that vestibule in double-quick time.
We had only been in the room two minutes when there was a knock on the door and our outfits were delivered.
‘Is this actually a dress?’ I held up the strappy gold affair, frowning. In its scantiness, it reminded me of that rude lace bodystocking he’d made me wear for dinner at his place once.
‘Of course,’ he said, taking it from me. ‘Get naked and I’ll put it on you.’
‘That’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?’ I said, with a quickening pulse. ‘Getting naked around you? Shouldn’t I keep my undies on?’
‘You don’t wear undies with this dress, my dear. But don’t fret. I brought some tit tape.’
‘Tit tape!’
‘Yes, don’t you know about it? All the red-carpet stalwarts swear by it.’
‘But I get to keep my knickers on?’
‘No.’
‘Jasper!’
‘There’s no functional reason for that. It’s just my preference.’
‘Pervert.’
‘Guilty. Come on, get those clothes off.’
I started to wriggle out of my day outfit of cord skirt and sweater, eyeing the dress with suspicion.
‘I don’t think I can go knickerless, Jasper. Not to a big event like this, with photographers and everything.’
He put the dress on the bed and held my arms by my sides, looking down at me with the twinkle doused from his eyes.
‘One, from this moment onwards, I am “Sir”, not “Jasper”. Two, from now on, you are doing as you are told. If you want to safeword, of course that’s an option.’
Of course it was. As was walking out and refusing to take part in this whole glittery charade. But Jasper’s tone had got me right in the pit of my stomach, and somewhere between my legs lights were flashing and bells were going ‘ding’.
I nodded.
He let go of my arms and made a gesture indicating that I should carry on with my undressing.
I pulled my sweater over my head, trying my best not to muss my perfect hairdo, then shimmied out of my skirt and thick tights. I always felt muddled and graceless when I took off my clothes in front of him and today was no different.
‘I’m going to teach you how to strip one day,’ he said. ‘I can do it. I’ll show you.’
‘Did you learn that at RADA?’ I asked cheekily, remembering at the last minute to add, ‘Sir’.
‘Never mind where I learned it. Well? You still seem to be wearing a bra.’
I reached behind and took an age to unclip it, trying not to give unattractive vent to my frustration. I didn’t want to get all cross and sweaty, but I just wasn’t made to be a serene swan.
Jasper frowned and pulled me towards him, fingering the marks where the elastic had dug in under my arms.
‘You need to get some better-fitting bras,’ he scolded. ‘Look at this red line. That’ll show up on the photographs. You’ll be in all the trash mags with a big circle over your armpit.’
‘Perhaps I should wear something else, then, sir.’
‘No. It’s too late for that.’ He sighed, then tweaked my nipples between cruel fingertips. ‘Go and bend over that dressing-table chair.’
‘Sir?’ I held my breath. Why the hell would he want me to bend over, unless …?
‘No questions. Do it.’
I did it. I was still wearing ditsy-patterned cotton briefs, but not for long, because they were soon pulled down and left to fall to my ankles, leaving my bottom bare.
I could see him in the dressing-table mirror, rummaging in his holdall. He scrabbled about until he pulled out his square-backed wooden hairbrush. Oh God, I hated that thing, and I had the most nauseating feeling that he wasn’t about to use it for the purpose for which it was intended.
I wanted to protest, but there was no point unless I invoked the safeword, and I wasn’t at that stage. Not yet.
‘Now, listen to me, Sarah,’ he said, coming up behind me and laying the cold, smooth back of the brush against my upthrust bum. ‘Even if you weren’t being a little bit pettish and a little bit skittish, I would still want to use this on you now. Do you know why?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Because it’ll make me feel better. It’ll make me feel better because what I really want is to take you to that party with your thighs dripping wet and your pussy so raw you have to swagger up the red carpet like John Wayne after a hard week in the saddle. But I can’t do that.
It wouldn’t be fair to you. Though perhaps next time … Anyway. I can’t do that, but I still need to know, every time I see all the other men looking at you in that tiny, sexy dress, that my mark is on you. That you belong to me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Heads are going to turn when you walk into the room, Sarah. Eyes are going to be upon you – hot, lecherous, lustful eyes.’ His face in the mirror was intense, his gaze boring into my reflected face. ‘What those eyes won’t see – but what you and I will know – is that underneath that saucy little dress, your arse is bright red and sore, because of what I did to it. Because you are mine. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’
‘Whatever you say, sir,’ I said faintly, meaning it. He could do anything to me, when he spoke into my ear in that rich, sinful voice.
‘That’s good, love. You see how the prospect of a spanking settles you down? It’s so good for you. I should call your GP, tell her to put it in your medical notes, hmm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When in doubt, prescribe a sound spanking.’ He smiled, tapping the brush against my proffered cheeks.
‘You should have done that in Open Heart Surgery. Best episode ever.’
‘Oh, dear, the smart mouth is still there,’ he said, tutting. ‘I think I’d better add a few strokes to the number I had in mind.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s nerves,’ I gabbled.
‘I hope that mascara you’re wearing’s waterproof,’ he said, his grin ghoulish now.
I could barely breathe. I dreaded the first stroke, dreaded all the strokes, and I knew he wouldn’t hold back just because of some showbiz party.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, so tense, so clenched,’ he said, rubbing my spine and digging his fingers into my shoulder blades. ‘Better relax, love. That’s it.’
He waited until I had forced myself into optimum looseness, then he brought the brush down with an almighty smacking sound on my defenceless right cheek.
Jesus, God, I hated that thing. Hated it more than a thousand leather straps and riding crops all bunched together. No matter how many times he made me take it, the first stroke was always a shock to the system. I didn’t think I would ever get used to it – only the cane could fill me full of dread at a quicker rate.
By His Command Page 10
