by Laurie Mann
“There’s nothing really wrong. Lisa’s done a bloody good job. But nothing’s really right either.”
“Will you help, please?”
He paused as coffee was served, then smiled at me.
“I don’t know. It depends on Lisa.”
“Why?”
“I threaten her. She’s been given responsibility while she’s very young. She’s desperate to impress and she has. Me included. As soon as I get involved, things start to change and people connect the changes to my arrival, then she’ll feel almost as if she’s been demoted. Imagine it, replaced at the top of the pile by a hired driver. If you’re not very careful she’ll see her position as untenable and then you’ll be losing all ways. And,” he paused, “I’ve seen the same look in her eye as in yours.”
“Are you always so perceptive?” I was stunned. The depth of his analysis and the arrogant assumption that he’d be changing things amazed me and made his last comment sound almost sinister.
“Usually.”
A thought flashed through my mind that horrified me. “Is it because her plans might be dangerous that you turned the job down?” Even as I asked the question it sounded silly, but my mind was on what he’d seen in our eyes. I didn’t want to confront that just yet.
“That’s an odd question.”
“Don’t mock. I’m serious. I’ve got to sanction this. How can I do that when I feel you’re hiding something, especially if I’ve no idea what that may be?” I hoped I was becoming more coherent as I recovered from the shock of his earlier remark.
“There’s always danger if you care to look for it. Inexperience makes it easier to find, that’s all.”
“Thanks. That’s a great help I must say.”
“Don’t worry about the danger. Concentrate on solving your problem with Lisa and it will all come good. I’m off home. Thanks for your company, keep in touch.”
I watched him leave, more worried than ever about Lisa, confused and intrigued by this extraordinary man. It seemed as long a walk to the car park as it had been to the bar the first time I arrived there, especially as sitting had stiffened all my bruises and aches again. As I left the car park the headlights picked out a familiar silhouette.
“Let me run you home,” I shouted through the half open window. He came over and leaned on the roof.
“Bad idea, Frankie.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do I’ll feel obliged to make you coffee and then you’d be alone with a strange man in a strange house. Mummy won’t be pleased.”
“Cut the poor attempt at humour, Rock. It doesn’t suit. Anyway I’d love another coffee so get in.” I wasn’t at all sure about the wisdom of inviting myself to his house, or of trying to be sarcastic to someone who so obviously dominated me, but felt helpless as his magnetism robbed me of my senses.
Rock’s home was down a narrow unmade road I would not have noticed in the dark without his explicit directions. Even in the half light of the moon it was obvious that he was no gardener, but it looked a nice place to live, albeit a bit small.
While he made the coffee, I looked around the cosy living room. Walls lined with bookcases, more books on shelves and a display cabinet full of tiny lorries like the ones in old black and white movies. A sturdy looking coffee table and very worn but comfortable looking Chesterfield completed the furniture and a heap of old tin cans filled the fire place. I looked for a seat but piles of magazines had got there first. It was clean but a complete mess. Debris was everywhere and, unnacountably, my hopes rose that there was no lady in his life.
“Thanks, where shall I sit?” I took the proffered coffee and Rock looked around, stroking his chin, trying unsuccessfully to look perplexed, which made me giggle. It was the first time I’d seen any softening of his hard exterior.
“How about here?” He scooped a pile onto the floor to join the others.
I wonder how long it will be before they get moved again? I wondered as I sat carefully in the newly vacated seat and watched as he scooped another pile away so he could sit.
I suddenly burst out laughing, unable to quell the image which had flashed into my head.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. I’ve just had the funniest thought of you sitting perched on all these magazines.”
“I don’t sit in here that often.”
“So I can see. Looks like a lady in the house would have her hands full.” My comment was deliberately ambiguous.
“No time for a lady, too much else to do.”
We giggled at childish banter for a while and he seemed to become more relaxed and human by the minute, his air of mystery slowly lifting and then it was time to leave.
I tried to look as worried as I could, coming back to the subject which had edged around my mind all evening, whether I wanted it or not. “Rock, what we talked about earlier. Will you help? Please!”
“Give me a couple of days. You can stand dinner again and I’ll think about your problems.”
“OK. If you find the solution I’ll give this place a spring clean.” I instantly regretted it as I looked round the room.
Then Madam’s voice boomed in my head: ‘I bet he can’t solve all your problems, Frankie!’
“Goodnight then, I’ll phone in a couple of days.” I beat a hasty retreat, shocked that Madam had intruded. Shocked that for the first time I’d recognised her as a problem to be solved rather than enjoyed.
The drive home through the welcoming darkness was full of confusion. Headlights picked up signs which my overwrought mind translated as: Did Rock want me or were his hints misread by me? The more I saw of him the more I wanted him but I was unnerved, even scared by his comment about the look in Lisa’s eyes. Why does Madam seem so much less palatable than she did? And how could I think such disloyal treacherous thoughts when I carried clear evidence of her domination over me, as well as feeling the brutal invasion even now.
A fine rain began, the wipers took up the metronome of thoughts. Why? Why? Why?
In just a few short weeks my once organised life and cool methodical mind been turned to utter chaos. The radio was switched on, mostly ignored until I found myself screaming at the inanities of the late night disc jockey.
If only you can solve all my problems, Rock, I thought as my thoughts calmed with the scream.
Monday 15th June
Habit is taking over: I’ve not been to see Madam but I am sitting here with my Journal. It could be the one sane strand in a wild life at the moment, so I am going with it. Who’s going to know, anyway?
The meeting with Lisa was difficult. I made it clear I felt Rock was the best man for the job and, in the interests of the company, he should be given it. She protested at first but when I assured her that the best interests of the company included hers, she relented a little, but not convincingly. My sisterly chat with her, I decided would be best postponed, at least until I’d heard Rock’s solution, if he had one.
“You’d better find a solution, Rock. I’ve trusted you, please don’t let me down.” I muttered to my designer styled but oh so empty office, fighting the temptation to phone before the agreed couple of days.
Time passed slowly. Lisa kept her distance and, as the weekend approached, I was becoming more and more confused, despite the day to day running of the business to keep me occupied. I couldn’t help worrying over whether or not Rock would be able to help and Madam was becoming more intrusive.
Why was I so sure I’d be there Sunday week as instructed? Why did I continue to painfully and carefully draw up my pint of water every night from the strangely erotically odd dish? Why did the prospect of another visit excite me so? Even without her hold over me while she had the journal, I knew I’d be hers anyway.
So, why oh why did I hate the situation so much? It had been so good to start
with, but now it had changed. Rationalise.
The only change in my life since Madam had been meeting Rock.
Could it be that the man, (I wasn’t sure he was interested in me) was going to destroy my relationship with Madam before it even had time to develop?
The need to serve had become more intense since Madam had introduced me to it, but surely I can’t serve properly if I hate my owner and yearn for another.
But - even if he is interested in making me his slave, will Madam permit it?
If she does, will Rock accept Madam? He’s very laid back, so I hope he will but then I also want him to be too jealous for anything but complete ownership.
What’s next? How can a successful business woman have made such a disaster of her personal life?
And there’s still Lisa, surely she’s too young for Rock to be interested, or is she?
I telephoned on Thursday, unable to wait any longer.
No answer. All day I tried and still no answer. It was Friday before he finally answered the phone, by which time I was frantic with worry and my frayed nerves made me gabble into the mouthpiece.
“Hello, Rock, it’s Frankie, have you got the answer yet, when can we meet?”
“Hey! Slow down a bit. Time ran out, I’ll speak to you next week.”
“What do you mean, next week?” I shrieked at him. “That’s ages away, you promised!”
“No I didn’t, I said I’d try. Next week’s only a few days away.”
“But this is important, time is vital.”
“Time’s rarely vital and certainly not now. I’ve got other things to do as well, you know. Besides, you’ve got plenty of days left in your life. You can afford to miss a few.”
“But we need to talk.”
“No we don’t. The problem is still there, so there’s nothing to talk about.”
“But when will it be solved?”
“Never, if you don’t back off a bit. I promise I’ll give it some thought over the weekend and phone you Monday.”
I was devastated. Not only did the problem of Lisa seem no nearer the solution I had hoped for so much, but Rock had given me the brush off as well. I wanted to see him, to be with him but in my heart I knew that if he said next week, then it would be no use trying to see him earlier. He was his own man, which was all of his appeal. Antagonising him certainly wouldn’t be the best way to win him over.
Monday 22nd June
Sunday morning, while I waited for the limousine that would whisk me to Madam, the buzz of anticipation returned. I paced impatiently up and down the deserted pavement, mind stimulated by the thought of the day ahead and cleared by the crisp early morning air. All problems drifted into insignificance, even Rock slipped from my thoughts as I luxuriated in the knowledge that today Madam controlled me - relieved me of any decisions or responsibilities.
“Life feels great!” I sang to the gentle breeze ruffling my hair.
The car arrived on cue and as I stepped into it the familiar darkness engulfed me. A different darkness than the first time; comforting, not frightening as it had once been, confirmation of another’s control. Obedient hands waited, crossed behind my back for the inevitable ropes, which this time never came. I was left free which I took to be a sign of growing trust. The day was getting better and better.
The journey seemed endless and instant, timeless and frantically fast simultaneously. Mixed emotions fought for precedence, each visit was a further step in the ever increasing severity of the training. Was I ready for it today?
Tyres grating on gravel signalled my journey’s end and I was helped from the car and led to the house as before.
This time the wait was shorter, another indication this was not a normal day. Imperative footsteps clacked toward me.
“You may remove the blindfold.” Madam’s voice was as commanding as ever, and believing I was to see Madam at last, my fingers trembled and heart thumped while I fumbled with the buckle before, at last, I could see the room I’d only been able to imagine before.
Powerful lights lit the room from chandeliers fixed high into the roof of the huge room with its grey stone walls. I blinked against their brightness as I looked around. It had long velvet drapes covering what I imagined were tall Gothic windows with deep stone windowsills. Polished oak floorboards, immediately reminding me of the day I licked up my own juices, supported heavy antique furniture. There was no sign of any of the tools of my torture.
Before me was a huge oak desk with the most beautifully framed antique mirror standing on it. From behind it the harsh tone of Madam’s voice shattered the silence.
“Undress.”
Disappointed that Madam had once again contrived a way of depriving me the opportunity to identify her, I stripped my clothes off as quickly as my nervous fingers allowed.
“Make-up as well.”
There was cleansing fluid and cotton wool swabs on the large dresser against the wall, quickly used while awaiting Madam’s next command.
“Use the make-up in the top drawer, nice and thick.”
I applied the new make-up, using the mirror on the desk, as there was no other available. Cherry red lipstick, blusher, black panda eyes. I hardly recognised the face staring back from the mirror. If I’d written TART in letters across my forehead it would have looked less obvious.
“Now, dress yourself from the tallboy.”
I realised, as I searched the tallboy’s drawers, that the mirror must be a two way one, Madam was watching my every move. It was unnerving to think how closely she must have been watching.
I stood looking disconsolately at myself in the mirror. The make-up and the scarlet, low cut top revealing the shape of my breasts, erect nipples stretching the light fabric. A black skirt barely reached below the underhang of my buttocks and high heeled boots which tightened thigh muscles and tipped me forward. I saw the reflection of a complete and utter tart, fit only for the back streets and not the businesswoman I was used to seeing. With growing horror I began to anticipate Madam’s plans for me.
A few pieces of cheap, tawdry jewellery and my transformation to street hooker was complete.
“I’m sure you are familiar with the term ‘on target earnings’. Today your target is one hundred pounds.”
“Yes Madam.” I answered automatically, struggling to come to terms with the magnitude of her demand.
“Show some enthusiasm, then, you’ll not find work looking like that. Besides, you won’t find anything on the streets that isn’t already in your journal. Try not to be disappointed if the public prove not to be as imaginative as you are, though.”
“Yes, Madam.” Her words only increased the dread. It was one thing to fantasise with no prospect of it happening but now it was reality time. Impossible to feel other than distraught at the prospect of walking the streets, making myself publicly available to any passer by who took a fancy to me.
Tumbling thoughts: What would happen if I didn’t reach the on target earnings? It couldn’t be worse than discovering that the customers chose somebody else and left me with nothing but the humiliation of rejection.
I hated Madam for her demands but longed to do well for her. I despised the thought of walking the streets but found it exciting. Was it the street, or obeying Madam that created the delicious warm feeling between my legs?
“Replace the blindfold.”
The darkness calmed my nerves, thinking Madam couldn’t see my expression, which helped. Though the confusion remained, the solitude was comforting.
The short journey ended and I got out of the car, diffident, embarrassed, scared senseless. An ordinary side street lined with terraced houses leading to a small industrial area. I wandered a bit to explore my new environment, curious as to where I was and bored with the empty street. I could have been in any inner city and suddenly,
with the realisation that I had no money or clue as to where I was, I realised I was very alone. More alone and vulnerable than at any time in my life. I shivered and cuddled myself as despair deepened. Bright sunshine found me, highlighting the tarty clothes, the outrageous makeup, the glitter of cheap jewellery, all offensive to me yet strangely exciting, too.
The street led to an avenue of trees interspersed with lampposts. It was wider than the side street, the houses were bigger, semi-detached with driveways and gardens. As the occasional car drove past I found myself slinking behind the trees, confidence destroyed, anxious not to be seen. I dreaded the first kerb crawler to pick me. Other ladies loitered in the avenue, some no more than school age, others seemed old enough to be grandmothers. All were dressed for the part, all inspected me suspiciously as I eyed them curiously, nervous of their reaction to the new girl invading their patch. It struck me as a particularly sad way to spend a Sunday. I had my own reason for being there but they had a different need. I began to feel guilty about stealing their trade but Madam’s needs had to come first.
A car slowed, the driver inspecting each girl as he passed before moving on to the next. I tried hiding behind the tree but he stopped alongside and my heart pounded as he wound the window down.
“How much, love?”
“Fifty pounds.” I blurted as I looked at the dishevelled driver, who I guessed was in his late forties. I immediately sensed that fifty pounds was way too high.
“Nah. I’ll give yer a tenner for a blowjob.”
The road was quiet, the prospect of trade slight, so I reluctantly agreed. At least it was a start but one hundred pounds seemed an impossible target. I slipped into the old and battered car. The smell of stale cigarettes and last night’s beer lingering on his breath was overwhelming, I had to fight the need to retch as the car drove away to who knew where and whatever horror. I was frozen with fear, certain I would not be able to do anything he asked without some degree of compulsion.
