by Henry Morgan
It was in the drug baron’s interest to ensure the Club stayed open and safe. He laundered a lot of his money through it and the midget also paid good money if he needed a girl delivered to a customer outside the country.
On sale already in the International Club was a video starring Donna. For those who chose not to buy the film, it was playing in the Green lounge every night for the next week. The thought of getting caught taking such a film through British customs was too daunting for David to even consider purchasing a personal copy. Despite guessing the content of the film he found himself seated in front of the large screen, a hookah by his side, a scotch and water in hand.
There were no credits to speak of, just an Urdu title that gave way almost immediately to the action. The opening scene could have been from a travel guide. A beautiful golden beach bordering lush vegetation that formed a verdant carpet at the foot of the mountains beyond. The camera panned around to the stern of the yacht. Into frame came a real babe; a blonde bombshell in white bra and panties. It was Donna from San Diego, and she looked remarkably well.
A voice spat an order and she made her way forward to where a sundeck spread out white and blinding in the sunshine. She stopped and looked apprehensive. Someone stepped into frame from behind the camera. He looked like one of the crew, and was carrying a severe looking knife.
The flimsy bra fell to the deck as the blade sliced through the light cotton strap. Then the glinting steel slid up her thigh and removed her panties with equally contemptuous ease. Another man appeared and Donna was made to lie on her back on the sun-bleached deck. The two men spread her legs and tied her ankles to the gleaming handrails. As she lay helpless beneath the scorching sun one of the men scraped away the light growth of hair that had appeared since her escape from the Club. Once satisfied, his accomplice rubbed oil into her smooth mound. The picture faded – end of scene.
David already found the film disturbing, and suspected there was a lot worse to come. He decided to watch no more. As he left the Green lounge he was glad to hear from a man he didn’t know that Donna was okay, and doing rather well for herself on Khan’s yacht. That cheered him greatly.
After two more drinks he decided on the nationality he fancied for tonight’s fun. Since frequenting the Club he’d screwed a German from Frankfurt, a Greek, a Norwegian, a Brazilian, and a gorgeous girl from the Cameroon whose supple body and tight vagina had to be experienced to be believed. Clubs back home were never going to live up to this, and he somehow doubted that British hospitality could ever compare to the nightly ‘cleansing’ provided by Salim. But home was after all home, and he knew the time to return was drawing near.
11.
Imran assured David there would be no trouble in transferring his money to London.
‘It will be there before you,’ he said confidently. ‘You will be a rich man, mark my words.’ David thanked him profusely and tried to force a wad of notes into his hand, but Imran pulled away. ‘Do not offend me my friend. If I ever come to England I know you will offer the same hospitality to me. Now, get upon your way.’
It was a long flight, and there seemed to be nobody on the plane who spoke English. Not surprisingly the film was also in Urdu. The only thing David could do was read, and the only literature he had with him was the papers on interrogation techniques given to him by Petr the day he was killed. He’d kept them, because as a doctor his interest was aroused. Also, as a man with his recent experiences, reading it was a must. He had a lot to learn.
It was almost a year since he had left from Heathrow. It was raining then and little had changed. Behind him was the heat of Afghanistan and Pakistan, and in front of him sloshed windswept, rain sodden England. It was good to be home.
As Imran had promised, the money was safe in the bank and David was indeed a wealthy man. He took a flat in London and spent the next three months doing the rounds of the city night-clubs. He enjoyed himself, but something was lacking. One night more than the others brought home to him just how different British women were to those he had met in the East. He was having a drink in a pub near Kings Cross. He had no designs on the opposite sex that evening; just a drink – pure and simple.
‘Do you have a light?’ asked a pleasant voice.
‘Certainly.’ David had answered before offering his lighter.
She drew hard on the cigarette, and then blew a cloud of blue smoke into the hazy pub atmosphere. David watched with appreciation but no expectation; after all, she had only asked if he could light her cigarette. She was middle-aged. Her hair was blonde and bobbed at the neck and she wore expensive clothes; a light knee-length skirt and box jacket, and a white blouse.
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ She returned the lighter and joined him before he had a chance to reply. ‘I hate office do’s, don’t you?’
David followed the direction of his newfound companion’s wave to a group of half inebriated women. One of them, an overtly dressed woman of about fifty with heavy mascara and a skirt around her arse, shouted over as the group headed for the door.
‘Ready, Immy? We’re doing Scruffy Murphy’s, then The Church of Sound.’
‘You go ahead,’ Immy replied. ‘Too much to drink. I’ve got a bit of a thick head. Catch you at The Church.’ She turned to David. ‘I’ve not seen you here before. Are you working in the area? Or just moved here perhaps?’
‘Neither.’
‘On holiday then?’
‘Lots of questions,’ said David.
‘I hate drinking with people I don’t know.’
David lifted his glass but didn’t drink. ‘That’s a lot of hate for a pretty women.’
She threw him a questioning look.
‘You hate office parties, you hate drinking with strangers.’
‘Oh that,’ she said, shaking an empty glass in the air. ‘Figure of speech. Anyway, I’m not drinking at all.’
David understood the message. ‘Right, of course. What would you like?’
‘A blue moon.’ She paused a moment. ‘But not here. Lets go someplace else.’
At one in the morning David and Imogen were heading to her house in the back of a black cab. They had dined at Planet, gone on to Dexters, and were now arm in arm with little pretext of propriety between them.
Once inside her large town house there was little in the way of sexual foreplay either. Imogen had simply undressed on the fireside rug, and David had performed the necessary act. It was not entirely perfunctory; Imogen had a remarkable body for her age, and looked wonderful in matching bra, briefs and stockings – all in midnight blue. Her considerable enthusiasm had quite excited David, and now as he lay next to her in bed he allowed his hand to drift between her thighs as she smoked another cigarette.
Suddenly dismissive of her lover’s actions Imogen sat up against the headboard and announced it was time for him to leave.
‘That was fun,’ she said dryly. ‘I expect you’ll want to be off now.’
‘Not really,’ David answered. ‘I thought you might want to fool around a bit more.’
‘Why should I? Aren’t you satisfied?’
‘Well yes, of course. I just thought we could, you know, do it again.’
‘Well we can’t.’
She got up, threw on a pink dressing-gown, and went through to the bathroom.
David was slightly bemused. ‘What’s up? Haven’t you had a good evening?’ he called.
‘It’s been lovely,’ her voice floated back. She paused. ‘But my husband will be home soon.’
‘Your bloody husband! Why didn’t you say you were married?’
‘Why didn’t you ask?’
‘Because…’ he was already in his trousers. ‘Because, you made all the running. You came and sat by me. Remember?’
From the bathroom David heard the sound of the shower running. ‘So what?’ shouted Imogen. ‘You wined and dined me a
nd I paid you back. We’re even.’
‘Even?’ exclaimed David. ‘Who’s paying what? For who? For why?’
Steam billowed from the bathroom and crept across the landing. ‘Don’t be silly,’ Imogen called above the hissing of the cascading water. ‘You were paying. For me. And it’s rather obvious for why. And now you’ve had the for why.’
David felt his anger rising. ‘And do you do this sort of thing often?’
‘What sort of thing? Come on David, it’s the way of the world. Men pay for the goods. And in case you don’t understand, that means us, women, we’re the goods.’
He was at the door now, watching her through the frosted shower cubicle as she lathered her body. ‘And your husband, does he pay for the goods?’
He saw Imogen’s pink outline as she threw back her head and shrieked a loud laugh. ‘Every day of his life. But I can assure you, the price I pay is greater than all the clothes or cars he’s ever bought for me. It’s not easy sleeping with someone you can’t bare to touch.’
‘Is he a bad man?’
Imogen’s arm appeared and motioned condescendingly for David to pass the shampoo. ‘Bad? No. Boring? Yes.’
David was definitely growing to dislike this lady. ‘Then why are you with him?’
‘He’s a good worker. That’s where he is now, at some meeting or other. I look good on his arm, and he pays for it with an account at all the best stores.’
British women. Listening to Imogen was confirmation enough that British women were the total opposite to those he had met in the East. Imogen was conniving and self-serving. Her husband was being made to look a fool. As David watched the naked woman he realised it was time to make a stand on behalf of all the men who had married the Imogen’s of this world.
‘Get out of the shower.’
‘Sorry? I’ve got shampoo in my ears.’
‘I said get out of the shower.’
Imogen rinsed her hair and then poked her head around the glass door. ‘I told you, Malcolm will be home soon. There’s no time to mess around.’
‘Get out!’
His tone clearly surprised her – and so did his actions.
‘What are doing?’
He was slipping his belt through his trouser loops. ‘Get dried,’ he ordered. ‘And get into the bedroom.’
She recognised his intent immediately, and stepped out of the shower and onto the bath rug. ‘Malcolm will be back soon,’ she said again, though less frivolously than before.
David let one end of the belt drop to the floor. ‘Well, you’d better get a move on then.’
She patted herself dry, and then sidled cockily past him to the door. In the bedroom she stood near the rumpled bed and displayed her body. She wasn’t shy, and she wasn’t stupid. She was trying to defuse his mood by belittling him; by making him feel inadequate.
‘Sit at the dressing-table.’
She did as he said. ‘What now?’
David opened the drawers of the dressing table until he found her make-up. ‘Do your face.’
She fumbled through the cosmetics, but made little attempt to apply anything to her face. David suddenly cut the belt across her thighs, leaving a raised welt on her skin.
‘Christ!’ she cried. ‘Christ almighty! There’s no need for that! I’m doing it, I’m doing it!’
‘Then do it faster.’
David could see from her expression that the unexpected pain was sapping her confidence; she was much less sure of herself. She stared at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. He had turned the tables on her and she knew it. He knew Imogen – well, he knew her type; she wasn’t used to being treated like this. She was normally the one who used others, and this situation she’d find difficult to cope with. Another swipe landed and she yelped again.
‘Faster.’
David guessed Malcolm wouldn’t really be home until the morning; he had a gut feeling. Imogen was obviously an intelligent woman, and she’d quickly realise it was in her interest to give him what he wanted.
‘How’s that?’
He looked at the pale pink lipstick she’d applied. ‘Not good enough, get it off.’ He rummaged through the drawer and found what he wanted; a stick of deep red lip gloss. ‘Put this on,’ he told her. ‘Where do you keep your underwear?’
While she put the last touches to her makeup David searched slowly and thoroughly through her large collection of bras, knickers, and assorted items of lingerie.
‘You’ve some nice underwear.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I try to look my best.’
David ignored her arrogant tone. He picked out a black choker, studied it in the light of the bedside lamp, and then threw it on the dressing table for her to wear. ‘Who for?’ he asked. ‘Who do you like to look your best for?’
‘You know…’ she gave a nervous shrug and tried to smile, ‘…whoever.’
‘Not just for Malcolm then.’
‘No… not just for Malcolm.’
‘Put these on.’ He tossed a pair of black French knickers with a matching bra and suspenders. A pair of black patent high-heeled stilettos lay underneath the dressing table. ‘And those.’
She obeyed his instructions, and stood before him in black silk underwear, black silk stockings, black stilettos, and a tight black choker around her slender throat. Her blonde bob and full scarlet lips contrasted perfectly to her sexy attire. David had to admit she really did look quite stunning, although he wouldn’t massage her already inflated ego by telling her so.
‘Downstairs.’
Without her noticing he grabbed a handful of stockings from the drawer, stuffed them in his pocket, and then followed her down to the lounge. He directed her to a Davenport desk that stood against a wall. She sat down and he handed her a pen and paper. She looked up enquiringly.
‘Write this,’ David told her. ‘Dear Malcolm. I am a slut. I have slept with dozens of men behind your back, and I have treated you with utter contempt.’ He paused to allow her time to take his dictation accurately.
He lifted the belt as a tangible reminder of his intent. ‘How long have you been deceiving your husband, Imogen?’
She looked down and whispered, ‘I screwed his brother at our wedding reception. I’ve always been the same.’
‘Write it down.’
‘What, that? No – it’ll kill him!’
‘No it won’t.’ He watched her finish writing, and then added: ‘Include this: I realise now that I’ve done wrong – that I have betrayed you. If it is not too late I want to make it up to you. Do what you will with me. Punish me, beat me, treat me the way I’ve treated you – God knows, I deserve it. No matter what you do I will remain faithfully yours. Now and always.’
David told her to put the letter in an envelope and then took it from her. ‘In the hall.’
She froze. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to help you. I’m going to show you where you’ve gone wrong, and how you can now put things right.’ He pulled the belt tighter around his fist. ‘In the hall.’
Imogen stumbled past him, her heels catching in the carpet.
‘Stop there. Pull the phone seat out.’
She did as he said, positioning the telephone seat across the hall about ten feet away from the front door.
‘Kneel down in front of it.’
Her knees sank into the plush carpet. David stood behind her and admired her trim waist and the rounded shape of her buttocks beneath the black French knickers. He then moved close and stood astride her silk-clad calves. He dropped the belt and leaned over her. Her heavy breathing made her breasts swell nicely. The black bra squeezed her cleavage very invitingly. He retrieved one of the stockings from his pocket, stuffed it between her lips, and knotted it tightly at the back of her head. He sensed she was enjoying this.
‘Lean forward,’ he whispered. ‘Bend over the stool. Put your hands behind your back and spread your legs apart.’
A second stocking bound her wrists together, and two others cut into her thighs just above her knees and secured them to the legs of the seat. When he was finished Imogen was bound and gagged over the telephone seat, her shimmering bottom facing the front door. She looked a picture.
‘Now,’ David said. ‘I’m going to give you what your husband should have given you a long time ago.’ He tugged her knickers down to her knees, then laid the belt across her bottom a good dozen times. He gauged her discomfort from her groans and from the amount of tugging she did against her bonds. When he was satisfied that he’d paid her back for all the Malcolms who had ever been taken advantage of, he put his belt back on and made for the door. As he reached for the lock he suddenly stopped and turned.
‘Almost forgot,’ he panted, a little out of breath from his exertions. ‘A little note for your husband.’ With that he pulled from his pocket the letter she’d written detailing her infidelities. ‘I think Malcolm might be interested in this.’ He placed the envelope between her knees. ‘Don’t you?’
12.
Imogen was really no different from any of the other girls he took home. They were only interested in his money. Oh, they would spread their legs all right, but that was like a payment for what they could sponge out of him. There was no unrequited gift of sex for the simple pleasure and enjoyment of the act. Not like Salim, or pretty Yasmin straining so hard to be good on her first white cock. David yearned for the days when a woman knew how to please a man. Imran was absolutely right; Western women were selfish. They had lost their way.
The club scene began to bore David and he moved into a rut, staying around the flat and watching TV all day. The only exercise he took was channel hopping with the remote control. It went on for a month before he realised he needed to occupy himself.
