by Anne Randall
After a few weeks she’d felt that they’d told each other just about everything. Then one night he said he had a secret he had been wanting to talk about. That’s how it had started, innocently talking about their needs and desires.
George had been his usual gentle, loving self as he’d explained that he’d tried to keep the secret from her, but it was putting a distance between them, and if she really wanted them to continue, he needed to tell her. Later, he would claim that she forced it out of him, but she hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t.
He’d told her that, before they’d met, he had been active in the BDSM scene in the city. ‘My job is so full on. Look, I help people all day, every day. I’m a very caring type of a guy, but sometimes I need downtime, a fun way of unwinding. You understand?’
She’d nodded.
‘It was a great scene and I loved that kind of role play. It was fun and I got an incredible rush from it.’
She’d listened while he’d told her about all the excitement and thrills he’d had with other women.
‘Well, it was before we met, so you can’t really complain, can you?’
She’d supposed not.
‘I mean, what we have is fine, but the other stuff? It’s like a drug. And it’s a drug that’s pulling me back. A few times, I had the master/servant relationship going and it was a complete mental trip. I mean I’m getting hard just thinking about it.’
She’d seen that for herself.
Eventually, he’d blurted it out. ‘Would you be interested in going along with me to one of the clubs?’
She had felt a pain in her chest, as if the air had been kicked out of her lungs. She’d struggled to formulate an answer. Finally, she’d told him the plain truth. ‘No, George, it’s not my kind of thing. I’m really sorry.’
But he hadn’t given up. ‘Just try it? For me?’ Until finally, his tone hardened. ‘You wouldn’t do it for me? To save us?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ It had been more of a whisper and she’d watched his expression move from excitement to anger. She had tried to explain. ‘You know I’m so introverted and I’m on my feet all day in the café. I’m exhausted in the evenings. And the thought of going out to party, in that kind of a way, with complete strangers, just doesn’t do it for me.’ She’d reached for his hand, held it tightly. ‘Besides, if we love each other then surely that’s enough?’ She had waited for the response she craved, but George had said nothing. He had merely disentangled his hand from hers and walked into her bedroom and begun to pack. His trip to London had meant that they would be apart for a week. He’d ignored her attempts to continue the conversation. By the time he was ready to leave, she’d relented.
He’d been delighted, ‘That’s great, Angie, just give it a try. Entry level, master and servant. Just you and me, I promise. No club. I am willing to give up the club for you, if you want me to? I’ll do it because I love you. It’ll only be psychological, nothing physical at first. We can do it by Skype. It’ll be fun.’
That had been the beginning of their new ‘special relationship’, as George began to refer to it. Today was her birthday and he’d told her that he had a present for her. Angie crossed from the window, switched on her computer and waited for the familiar Skype icon to appear. George was leaving for London again the following day, for another conference, this time something about Carl Jung’s archetypes. She trembled with anxiety. Lately, he’d been getting angry with her and had accused her of not being committed to the relationship. She wondered if it was the stress of his job.
Suddenly, he was online. ‘Master.’
‘Have you eaten yet?’
‘No, nothing at all. Just as you ordered.’
‘Good.’
Angie relaxed.
‘Since it’s your birthday, I want you to do something special for me.’
‘Yes?’
‘I want you to wear your nipple clamps. All night.’
‘I can’t tonight, Master.’ She swallowed.
‘It’s an order.’
‘I—’
‘No refusal.’
‘I need to be at work tomorrow.’
‘Not my problem.’
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Silence. Now, I want to see them on you. Do as you’re told.’
She waited.
‘Move.’
Angie crossed the room. She took off her T-shirt and bra, opened the drawer. She reached for the clamps and took a deep breath before she put them in place. She felt the familiar, dull pain as she made her way back to the monitor.
‘Good. Wait there.’
She heard him leave the room, the door close behind him, the lock fall into place. Knew she was required to wait until he returned. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the door slam behind him, saw his face come into view on the screen, watched him position himself in front of the monitor, making sure that the takeaway was visible.
‘Tonight, it’s beef and pork meatballs with tomato sauce and spaghetti.’
Angie felt saliva gather in her mouth.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Excellent.’
She watched while he slowly and methodically worked his way through the meal, stopping now and again to wash the food down with a glass of red wine. When he’d finished, he peered into the monitor. ‘The clamps stay on all night.’
‘I can’t, George—’
‘Master,’ he corrected her.
‘I can’t, Master. I have to be at work in the morning.’
She watched his face contort, his anger obvious. She shivered. She wanted more than anything for them to go back to the way they had been at first. When he had told her that he loved her.
‘Do you want this relationship to work?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Then do as you’re told. I’ll leave the connection on, so that I can watch you during the night.’
She knew then that she couldn’t go to work. She thought fleetingly of removing the clamps, but George had explained that the rules had to be obeyed. She knew in her heart that he loved her, otherwise why tell her? She crossed to the unit and picked up her mobile and punched in the numbers. Texted her friend at the café, Jenny McLoughlin.
Jenny, I am so sorry but I won’t be coming in tomorrow morning. I just don’t feel well.
She pressed ‘Send’.
A minute later she heard a reply come through.
What’s wrong, Angie?
Stomach upset.
Maria’s going to be pissed with you. You’ve been skiving off a lot recently. You sure you can’t drag yourself in?
Positive.
Shit.
Sorry. Can you do my shift for me?
It’s not what I had planned, OK. But you owe me :)
I know I do. Sorry :(
Angie put her phone on the table. She knew that she was in danger of losing her job at the café, but she was more worried about losing George. But she had obeyed him, that was what was important. He’d see that and go back to his old ways and they would be fine. Every relationship had its ups and downs, she chided herself. They’d get through it. She thought of her parents and their marriage. Shuddered. Remembered her dad’s cruel and casual violence towards her mum. They hadn’t set a great example.
Chapter Six
The McIver Club
The clubhouse, a very fine example of Scottish baronial architecture, was set in fifty acres of park land and woodland. There was also a walled garden, manicured lawns, peacocks and a lily pond. The windows of the grand old building glowed.
Inside, they were seated at a table in the bar. Paul Furlan, head of security, was on one side, Skye Cooper faced him on the other. Furlan was six foot three, 230 pounds of muscle and had a boxer’s nose. His face was tanned and relaxed but his jade green eyes were shrewd. Skye thought that Furlan had a restless energy and his bulk made him even more expansive. Even the way he w
alked was authoritarian, he led with his shoulders. Beside him, Skye felt like a boy. A boy who had just signed a contract agreeing to the terms and conditions of the McIver Club. He pushed the contract across to Furlan. ‘Why are you doing the admin? I thought you were security?’
‘Jeffrey’s on holiday. Besides, we like to keep things within the family, it keeps it nice and confidential.’
‘Streamlined,’ said Skye.
‘Yeah, that too,’ said Furlan. ‘Now you can celebrate your membership.’
‘My platinum membership,’ Skye reminded him. ‘It cost enough.’
‘It’s well worth it, I can assure you. Everything, and I mean everything, can be supplied here at the McIver. In the meantime, another drink?’
‘Same again.’
Furlan called a waiter. ‘Two vodka Martinis.’ He stood. ‘You relax while I go file this.’
Skye looked around the bar area, recognised Thom McClure, the Premier League footballer; Gil Varela, a prominent journalist. At a table at the back, Ronald McMasters. McMasters had recently won a ten-million-pound court case and was famously quoted as declaring that he ‘had such extensive experience of law, that it was pointless calling for anyone else’. Skye watched McMasters debate with other club members. Saw him flick back his shoulder-length hair, gesture wildly to make a point with elegant hands.
Skye thought of the last club he’d frequented. It had been in Amsterdam, before the band had made it big. It hadn’t been in the same league or nearly as upmarket as the McIver. In fact, it had been a shitty dive of a place. The services and prices had been chalked up on a board above the bar. Breast bondage. Nipple clamps. Clamps with weights. Ball gags. Strappado. There had been nothing classy about it. Purely a financial transaction. Partying in such a downmarket club with ugly, scarred women had only reinforced his feeling of desperation.
Furlan returned.
‘How many women do you have?’ asked Skye.
‘Over twenty on call-out.’
‘All here at the club?’
‘Not on site but they can be here in half an hour or so. We tend to rotate them; it keeps them fresh.’
‘You have photographs? Only I know what I like.’
‘We all do. Sexual attraction is in the first instance visual.’ Furlan slid a thick leather folder across the table. ‘It’s like choosing a cocktail, it depends on the night and how you’re feeling. What we need can change daily depending on our mood. The McIver can accommodate all of these needs.’
The waiter brought their drinks, as Skye flipped through the photographs. Each woman had been photographed naked, then in various outfits and finally in full bondage. Their age, height, weight and nationality were listed underneath their pictures.
‘No names?’
‘Not used by either party. That’s not what we do here. It’s a clean deal. Names are too personal, they blur the boundaries and where does it lead? Do you start talking to each other, trading life stories? All that shit? What’s the point? You’re a member of the club. The women are here to work.’
‘She’ll need to be blindfolded,’ said Skye. ‘The band, you know – I can’t have her recognising me and talking to the press. My manager would kill me.’
‘If you insist, but there’s no need. They’ve all signed in-depth confidentiality contracts, and I mean in-depth. Our lawyer has them just about sign away their lives. Nothing leaves here, no information, no names. And that includes you, Skye. Whoever you recognise here at the club, however connected or famous they are, it stays right here. That’s why we have such an exclusive clientele; they know that whatever happens at the McIver is completely confidential, they know they’re safe.’
‘Yeah, I just saw Ronald McMasters. Very high-flying guy.’
‘No one is ever publicly recognised. Our members come here, without judgement, without titles and, more importantly, without restraint. Just like yourself. Here at the McIver you are a club member first and Skye Cooper second.’
Skye finished his drink.
‘Another?’
‘Why not? I’m starting to relax.’
Furlan ordered two more drinks and then stood. ‘Let me attend to another guest for a sec and then we can get you organised.’
While he was gone, Skye watched a man leave the bar. He was laughing with a companion. Skye recognised the white hair and moustache, the pronounced limp. Mark Ponsensby-Edward, QC, had been the defence in the Amy Dawson/Marcus Newton case a decade earlier, the trial which had kick-started Skye’s carnal journey. Ponsensby-Edward looked even more gaunt than he had at the trial, but his hands were still claw-like and, when he smiled, the incisors were still as sharp, still as pointed. Skye remembered that at the trial he’d thought of the QC as a modern-day Dracula. If anything, he looked more the part now. ‘Vampiric’ was the word that came to mind.
Skye smiled. He was among friends here at the McIver. He scanned the bar, noted another two Premier League football players. He relaxed. Thanks to Paul Furlan, this place was watertight. Skye knew that he badly needed release from the tensions of his life and that whatever he needed to do, he could do it at the McIver, secure in the knowledge that it wouldn’t get out. He trusted Paul Furlan. Everything about the man suggested business. Skye took in the polished oak of the bar, the huge mirror behind it. He glanced at the food menu, saw that it included beef heart stuffed with mushroom and spinach, ox heart with buttered potatoes. Steak tartare. Skye tossed the menu aside; raw meat wasn’t what he was looking for. Well, at least not of the animal variety.
He took a long drink; he was where he wanted to be in his life. The Kill Kestrels were going well, their fans loved them. The group was on an upward trajectory. It was just the sex. After jury duty a decade ago, he’d started on a journey and over the months that followed the trial he’d got high almost every time, but over the years, the highs had dissipated. He craved the hit he’d had the first time he’d seen the photographs, but that experience had become more and more elusive. Skye looked around the room, thought about the options at the club, ‘without restraint’ Furlan had told him. Well, perhaps the McIver would be his salvation after all.
Chapter Seven
The McIver, Moroccan Room
The large, windowless room was in the basement. The only light came from seven lamps with glowing brass bases and intricately carved leather shades. They cast a gentle, warm light around the room. The walls had been painted in dark blue hues and the floor was tiled with brightly coloured mosaics. On one side of the room there were low, leather sofas, plump cushions and side tables. When she’d first started at the club, Holly had reached for the bowls containing the macadamia nuts, but her hand had been quickly slapped away. ‘The food is for the guests, Holly, not for the likes of you. Besides, you don’t want a bloated stomach. Not a good look. Get into position.’
Now she knew better. She stood naked and waited while she was tethered and her wrists secured to the hoist. The spreader bar was affixed to her ankles, preventing her from either closing her legs or balancing properly. Strappado. Holly knew that if the client demanded it, she would be blindfolded. Despite knowing that they’d all signed confidentiality contracts, she’d been told that some of the clients were paranoid about being recognised. She’d heard that a few of them were high-up lawyers. A rumour was that one of them was a judge, who liked having someone sit on his face. To her they were all just punters, she’d no desire to recognise them for who they were outside the club. Besides, what would she do with the information? Then there was the staff member who’d washed her mouth out with soap while calling her Jean. At the thought of him, Holly shivered.
‘You cold?’ Jimmy Weightman, one of the doormen, sounded solicitous.
‘No, I’m fine, Jimmy, thanks. Just raring to get started.’
‘He’ll be here in a sec.’
A few minutes later, he limped into the room. She saw that he was tall and slim and both his hair and his moustache were white. She watched while he sipped from a champagn
e glass, the opened bottle placed on the low table beside him. His too long nails tapered from bony hands. The man ignored her until he had made himself comfortable on one of the leather sofas, then he looked up and clapped his hands together softly. Jimmy started the hoist. The mechanism rolled and the cuffs tightened around her wrists as she was lifted towards the ceiling, until she was suspended high above the floor, splayed like a spatchcock. She would be lowered soon enough.
As the evening continued, a second bottle of champagne was brought to him. Holly waited, tethered, as he drank. The client raised his glass to her. ‘Ravishing. You look absolutely ravishing.’ She heard a cultured voice, vowels pronounced like he was on the BBC, she’d heard it all her life. How posh folk talk, was how her mother used to describe it. This guy was certainly that. She watched him signal for her to be hoisted and then released. She dropped quickly, felt the mechanism abruptly halt before she hit the ground. Holly writhed and turned, moaned quietly. Made it look painful. At the very least it was bloody hard work.
The man watched for a few seconds before signalling for Jimmy to suspend her again. He crossed the room and peered up between her legs. Holly was glad she’d gone before the performance; this wasn’t the time to need a pee. Although she’d heard that some punters wanted that and more. Fuck, but these guys were a bunch of perverts. She swung gently, contented herself by doing the maths in her head. In her previous job, she’d been on £6.50 an hour and had been standing all day in the shop or stacking shelves, when she wasn’t dodging the creep of a manager. That meant that, less tax and National Insurance, she’d earned around fifty quid for an eight-hour day. Here, she was paid cash in hand. OK, it meant that she was self-employed and so had no holiday entitlement, or sickness pay. But for an hour’s shift, she cleared £150. Three shifts a week and a doubler, and she’d be earning over three grand a month. Add extras, and she was made up. She reflected on what her sister Nikki didn’t understand. That it was all about hard cash. Nikki was having sex with her pimply boyfriend Kyle for free. Here Holly was, carving out a career for herself. Her sister might think that she had the moral high ground, but she would be on minimum wage at the hair salon for the rest of her days. And as for that wee freak Angie Burns at the café, she’d be on the same or even less. And besides, before Angie should bother judging her, she should try to remember to feed herself. Shit. Holly felt the tiniest amount of gas escape. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She waited. Had he noticed?