‘Any bites from animals out there? Spiders, or cats?’ he asked.
Cats? ‘No,’ she said. ‘No bites from animals, only from humans, ha ha.’
He ignored the joke.
‘Any history of insanity in your family?’ he asked, somewhat out of the blue. Shelley sniffed at the insinuation. ‘No!’ she replied coldly, wondering if she should tell him about her mother’s tendency to go mental at Christmas and attack her father with the electric carving knife. Surely everyone’s mother did that?
‘Any STDs?’ he asked.
Shelley paused for a moment while she struggled to remember what STD stood for. Then it came to her and she stiffened.
‘How dare you?’ she asked, before she remembered who she was supposed to be. Galloway looked up at her in surprise. ‘I mean no,’ she said. She covered up her error with bluster. ‘Should you not have got all this information from my GP?’ she asked. ‘Why are we taxpayers spending all this money on new IT systems for the NHS when you can’t even get your computers to talk to each other?’
‘This is a private centre,’ Galloway protested, reasonably.
‘But you do plenty of lucrative NHS contract work, don’t you?’ she followed up, her journalistic instincts taking over.
‘Well … yes, but the NHS doesn’t allow us to use its computers.’
‘You do have phones though, don’t you?’
‘I’m not really sure what all these questions are about,’ Dr Galloway said.
‘I’m just making sure you know what you’re talking about,’ Shelley said, enjoying the row. Attack is the best form of defence after all. ‘My brother is paying a lot of money for me to be here and if I think he’s wasting that money then I shall simply walk through that door and expect full reimbursement.’
‘Ms Carter,’ Dr Galloway said firmly, ‘I can assure you your brother will get his money’s worth. Now please calm down. I think it best if we continue this session at a later time, when we’ve both had time to reflect.’
Shelley took a deep breath and stood. As she reached the door Galloway spoke again. ‘And might I just remind you, Ms Carter, that when you entered the centre, you signed a Section Four voluntary admission form?’
Shelley turned around and looked at him quizzically. ‘So?’
‘So that means you specifically cannot walk out that door whenever you feel like it. You have been sectioned under the Mental Health Act and will leave this centre when a qualified doctor says so and not before. Is that clear?’
Shelley was stunned. Of course, that’s what Section Four was! The bit that said they could hold you against your will. And she’d signed it like a muppet. Oh God, what had she done? Deciding that defence was now the best form of defence, she nodded dumbly and left.
She was happy to have escaped without having had to answer too many difficult questions, but she felt she might have gone a bit overboard with the whole lunatic act. Considering she was basically a prisoner here now, she’d better be careful or she’d find something worse than bromide in her tea. She didn’t want to end up like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. In fact she didn’t want to end up like Jack Nicholson in anything.
That night in bed, Shelley dreamed about Aidan again, he was still carrying the truncheon, but this time, as she called out to him, she saw Dr Galloway was standing there at the foot of her bed, carrying an enormous syringe with no needle, just a blunt, rounded end. He came around the side of the bed and approached her as she struggled to break free. Mick Galloway smiled as he looked into Shelley’s eyes and squeezed the plunger. A thick jet of fluid shot out the end.
‘Are you going to inject me with that?’ she asked breathlessly.
He nodded. ‘It’s a truth semen,’ he replied.
‘Truth serum, you mean?’ Shelley said, nervously.
‘That’s what I said,’ Galloway replied and slid the end down between her naked breasts, over her flat belly, which was beaded with sweat, and down towards …
Shelley awoke in a sweat just before Galloway could plunge the syringe anywhere. She breathed heavily and tried to put the image out of her mind.
‘Are you okay?’ Rose said from the other bed.
‘I’m fine, just a bad dream,’ Shelley said.
‘I can’t sleep either,’ Rose said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Galloway’s bulge.’
There was then a long pause as they listened to each other breathe. Eventually Rose broke it. ‘Maybe we should …’ she said, before tailing off.
For an instant, Shelley considered it. What might it be like to feel another woman’s hand sliding across your tummy? What might it be like to kiss her soft lips?
But no, she put it out of her mind. ‘I’m really flattered, Rose, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hop into bed together.’
There was another long pause. Again Rose broke it.
‘Um,’ she said. ‘I was only going to say maybe we should … drink the tea tomorrow.’
Shelley giggled. Then Rose said, ‘I do fancy you though, if you were wondering. And if we weren’t in the middle of a sex addiction course I’d definitely seduce you.’
Shelley had to remind herself Rose was under the impression that she, Shelley, was bisexual fuck-addict. Having said that, even as a straight sex castaway, Shelley thought Rose wouldn’t have to work too hard to get her into bed.
As she drifted off, the images of the truncheon-wielding Aidan and the syringe-plunging Galloway were joined by a bare-breasted Rose falling out of a nurse’s uniform. The course was having the opposite effect to the one intended. It’d be just her luck, thought Shelley, to end up with her hang-ups cured just as all the shag-gable people here swore off sex forever.
At breakfast the next morning Verity stopped by to tell them the next confessional, from Abigail, would begin at eleven sharp.
‘I’d like you all to pop into the gym after breakfast, so don’t eat anything too heavy.’
Shelley stopped mid-chew and looked down at the full English she was halfway through. Rose smiled at her across the table.
‘I’m hungry,’ Shelley said defensively.
‘A tired body is a satisfied body,’ Verity went on. ‘Replacing a bedroom workout with one in the gymnasium is an excellent way of distracting both the mind and body.’
‘Surely we’re allowed to have sex sometimes though, Verity?’ Will asked. ‘I mean, I can have sex with my wife, can’t I? I don’t have to pop down to the gym every time I feel a little frisky?’
‘Of course not, Will,’ Verity said rather frostily. ‘A moderate love life in the matrimonial bed is a very healthy thing.’
‘Moderate? What’s moderate?’ Cian asked. ‘How often do you do it with Mr Verity?’
Verity flushed. ‘There is no Mr Verity, Cian. I have been celibate for three years now.’ And with that she turned on her heel and departed.
They sat in reflective silence for a while before Cian broke it.
‘Three fucking years! I thought three days was bad enough.’
Shelley changed in her room and wandered down to the gym. It was well-appointed, with long rows of cross-trainers, running machines and bikes. The gym and pool complex was in an outbuilding, attached to the rest of the mansion by a corridor. They had a lovely big bank of windows that let the light in.
Shelley watched low white clouds dancing across the motorway-grey background as she pedalled her bike madly, trying to burn off the black pudding she’d eaten.
After twenty minutes she switched to a cross-trainer and fiddled about with the needlessly complicated settings for a couple of minutes. What on earth did the machine need to know how old you were? Did it vend cigarettes if you reached your target? She was getting hot and bothered. She didn’t need this. Bloody Aidan.
Someone came into her field of vision and she was mildly concerned to see it was Cian, who’d stepped up onto a cross-trainer right in front of her. He turned back and grinned, then wiggled his bottom. Usually Shelley
found nothing remotely sexual about sweaty men in tight shorts down the gym, but Cian wasn’t sweating as he wasn’t actually working out. He stopped stepping and bent over, scratching his knee. He looked back at her again. ‘Itchy cock,’ he said, causing her to snort with laughter.
‘I can’t concentrate with you there,’ Shelley said, smiling. It was impossible to get angry at Cian. It was also impossible not to find him attractive, but whether there could ever be anything else, Shelley wasn’t at all sure: she imagined his cheeky-chappie routine could get really old, really quick. ‘I’m going to the rowers.’
As she wandered down to the other end of the room, she was distracted by the sound of Abigail shouting at someone. She stopped to watch. It turned out Will had finished his weights then gone off to do something else, leaving a pile of dumbbells scattered about the floor.
‘Why can’t men ever tidy up after themselves?’ she barked at him. ‘I wish I had my whip.’
‘Calm down,’ Will replied soothingly. ‘They have people who do that for you.’
Abigail closed her eyes. ‘Onetwothreefourfivesix …’
‘I have to agree, Will,’ Cheryl said. ‘It is kind of annoying to have to move someone else’s weights out of the way, especially if they’re really heavy.’
Will rolled his eyes. ‘I need to use heavy weights. I’m a man, and anyway …’
Shelley, who didn’t like the gym at the best of times, decided to leave. Rather than walk back to her room, dripping sweat all over the shag pile, Shelley decided to shower in the communal facilities. She peeled herself out of her Lycra and stepped into the shower, flinching at the wonderful heat. She lathered up, but dropped the soap when she heard someone else come into the ladies’ changing rooms.
‘Bastard!’ spat Abigail, stepping into the shower. She frowned at Shelley, making her feel as welcome as a giant verucca. Thank God she didn’t have her whip, was all Shelley could think. What she did have, though, was a spectacular body. It was almost too perfect to be sexy. She was tall, with high, shapely breasts, which, if they were false, had been made by a plastic surgeon whose phone number alone would be worth the price of a Lamborghini. Her straight hair flooded down her back, coal black on porcelain. She was neatly shaved between her legs and her steel eyes burned back into Shelley’s.
Shelley was too transfixed to realise she was staring until Abigail coughed.
‘Sorry!’ Shelley cried. ‘It’s just … you have a lovely body.’ Shelley winced at her own comment.
‘Maybe you should look the other way,’ Abigail replied. Shelley did so, embarrassed.
As she finished up hurriedly and got dressed, she reflected that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Abigail had caught her looking. It would help to convince the cold fish that Shelley was who she claimed to be.
* * *
Later that morning the group assembled in the Mountain Room, the routine starting to help them feel comfortable. They chatted amicably, though Will seemed a little distant and pouted when Shelley pointedly sat well away from him. She sat next to Larry, in fact, who rubbed his crotch involuntarily as he stared at her breasts. Poor old Will, Shelley thought, it can’t do a mature businessman’s confidence any good to be rejected by a sex addict in favour of a teenage toss-pot. She wondered if she should ignore Verity’s advice and get closer to the banker, but if he did fancy her, that might give him the wrong impression. It sure was complicated being a frigid journalist pretending to be a sex addict.
‘I’m looking forward to this,’ Larry whispered to Shelley.
She eyed him narrowly. ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to be enjoying this so much, as learning from it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Larry said, looking thoughtful. ‘She’s a hell of a woman though.’
‘She is,’ Shelley returned. ‘And I’m looking forward to finding out more about the real Abigail. Maybe she’ll be less intimidating once we’ve heard her story.’
‘Not sure about that,’ Larry said. ‘God knows what she does to her clients, but she scares the be-jesus out of me.’
‘Now, hush everyone,’ Verity said. ‘Abigail would like to tell us her story.’
Abigail stood and gave a little bow to Verity. Shelley tried to think of her as a real person rather than a terrifying ice queen standing naked in the shower. The dark-haired dominatrix smiled stiffly and went straight into the story without betraying a hint of nerves.
Chapter Twelve
When I was a little girl I liked to play school with my dolls and stuffed toys. But this was no ordinary school; it was a school for wayward toys, an Academy for Bad Bunnies and Troubled Teddies. I was a strict teacher. You had to be with these toys, turn your back for a second and they’d be fighting, or running away, or chewing gum. I made them pay attention to me. Every week they’d get a report card and the naughtiest would be punished, by a few slaps with a ruler, or the really bad ones would have some stuffing removed.
When I got a bit older, I moved on to my cat. I’d try to make her roll over, or miaow at me. If she didn’t do as I asked, I’d throw water over her. She ran away soon enough, and we got a dog instead. He was much easier to dominate, and I trained him to obey my every whim using a choke lead and an old slipper.
Now let me make this clear. There was nothing sexual in this. I don’t have a kink for stuffed animals, or household pets. That’s sick. But I do like to control. It was only later on that I realised sex could be a tool. A tool for punishment and a tool for reward.
I went to a rotten inner-city school in Bermondsey. Horrible place, the sort of town where anyone with any talent or work ethic moves away from as quickly as they can, then they spend the rest of their lives saying things like, ‘I wasn’t always successful you know, I grew up in Bermondsey; we had nothing.’
Anyway the kids there were a rough crowd. I was a bit of an oddball, I suppose, and I got bullied for most of my time there. When we all got a bit bigger and started being interested in sex, that’s when I realised I had some power, and used it to get my own back. I was pretty busty even as a sixteen year old and the boys stopped bullying me when they noticed. I’d lead them on, I knew what they wanted and I had no intention of giving it to them. I enjoyed making them beg. There were three boys who’d bullied me mercilessly in fifth form and I chose these three to make an example of. I led them into a deserted classroom during break and took my top off. They just sat there, leering, waiting to see what I’d do next.
I made each of them sit on a straight-backed school chair and I unzipped their flies, each in turn. These were sixteen or seventeen year old boys, you understand, they were gagging for it. I had them totally under my control and I loved it. Remember, these were boys who’d been bullying me. I hated them, and I wanted my revenge. Having power over them, having something they wanted, felt good to me. I felt strong.
‘I’ll give each of you what you want if you let me do what I want,’ I said. They all nodded furiously. So I walked behind the chairs and, using plastic zip-ties, strapped their arms to the chair legs. Then I came back around to the front and knelt down in front of the first boy. He was a rotten so-and-so. Craig, I think his name was. Used to throw twisted staples into my hair, which took forever to get out.
I slowly reached into his trousers as he twisted in his chair nervously. Craig was the sort who’d talk a good game when it came to sex, but it was well known in the school he’d never had a girlfriend. I took hold of his virgin cock and brought it out; he shut his eyes and groaned in pleasure. The other two boys stared at what was happening, unable to believe what they were seeing.
I looked into Craig’s face, his eyes still shut and features contorted. Then I began stroking him off. It doesn’t take much to make a sixteen-year-old male virgin come, and soon enough great wads of white fluid were spasming out of his engorged cock. He looked down at me as he came, naked lust filling his eyes.
I wiped my hand on his shirt and moved to the next one. His eyes followed me, wide as saucepan lids. I
reached into his trousers, about to pull his tool out, only to find he’d fired his wad into his underpants the second I touched him. I laughed in his face.
The third boy didn’t take much longer; he nearly cried as he orgasmed. He was a spurter, this one, and I had to duck to avoid getting a load in my eye. Giving these boys what they wanted had been easy. I put my blouse back on and walked for the door.
‘Hey!’ Craig said. ‘Aren’t you going to untie us?’
‘Oh, I’m sure one of the teachers can do that for you. I think Ms Pearson has a Geography class in here in a few minutes.’
And with that I walked out, and down the hall, listening to them shouting my name. The power felt so good. Debasing those three boys got me wet. Though I didn’t realise it at the time I think I may even have had a mini-orgasm as I walked away, leaving them to their fate.
The story of how those three were found in that situation became legendary in our school. You can look up the story on the internet, they reckon it’s an urban myth.
Anyway, from then on I continued to explore my interest in domination. The orgasm I’d had proved to be an aberration. Dominating people didn’t at first help me to achieve sexual satisfaction. That’s not why I did it. It’s hard to explain why; maybe Dr Parrish can help us all to understand. I started off visiting sex shops, where I’d pick up magazines and books called Bound Maiden, or Curl of the Lash. When other girls my age were reading Heat, or Cosmo, I’d be flicking through rubber-suit catalogues, or dungeon design pamphlets. The sex shops in Soho stock contact magazines as well. It was through a cheaply-produced, black and white brochure that I got involved with my first BDSM club. For the uninitiated, that stands for Bondage, Domination and Sado-Masochism.
They met once a week at someone’s house, and everyone would dress up and have a few drinks and a chat to loosen up. Then the negotiations would start. I was amazed and excited to find how different everyone was. It seemed everyone had a totally different fantasy and a different set of instructions. We first decided who wanted to dominate and who wanted to be dominated: there weren’t many who wanted to try both. There were far more there wanting to be dominated. I began to understand that for some people, being bound, and maybe hurt, was the only way they could achieve satisfaction. I filed the information away for later. I was there because I wanted to dominate and just then I wasn’t really interested in anything else.
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