by Laurie Mann
Lisa was emphatic. “They all lack experience. I’m not prepared to give drivers experience, only to see them move on elsewhere. Besides, if their applications are so slapdash, what evidence is there that their attitude to work will be any different?”
“Hmmm.” Her words sounded distant as my attention was drawn to the neatly typed letter in my hand. I stared at the signature - R. Hudson - written in real ink! Who uses a fountain pen these days?
“What about this one from Mr. Hudson? He’s got experience and it’s nicely presented.”
“I’ve arranged an interview for tomorrow, and I’m hopeful, though keeping an open mind.”
“Good, let me know as soon as it’s over.”
“OK, Frankie. He’s coming at eleven o’clock.”
“Then we’ll have lunch afterwards. It will be my treat for your hard work. You can tell me about Mr Hudson then.”
The restaurant was quiet and Lisa seemed in sombre mood. Whenever I asked about the morning she changed the subject, much to my annoyance. I was keen to know more of Mr. Hudson, the only person in the whole bunch who had seemed literate. By the time coffee arrived I’d had enough of beating about the bush.
“How did the interview with Mr. Hudson go?” I was startled at Lisa’s response. She became agitated; shifting in her seat and deliberately avoided my eyes. Her usual poise and confidence had melted away.
“He’s not suitable.” She managed to splutter after what had become an embarrassing silence.
“Why, what’s the matter?” I couldn’t imagine what had happened to bring about the change in her, but whatever it was, it had made a profound effect.
“Nothing. He’s just not suitable, that’s all.”
“In what way, Lisa? He seemed to have everything we need.”
“Look, Frankie, just drop it, will you? He’s not suitable - OK? Can’t we just leave it at that?”
The way Lisa snapped worried me. She was normally unflappable and I’d never seen her in such a state. As I watched the tear form, my heart went out to her like a big sister.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, Lisa, take the afternoon off. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
I sat at my desk and worried about Lisa, reading the letter over and over again, trying to make sense of it. I searched for clues but found none. It was to the point, abrupt at times but offered nothing to account for the change. In desperation I called Monica into the office.
“What do you make of this, Monica?” I passed her the letter.
“In what way, Frankie?”
“Any way.”
“It’s very neat, well written which shows a good attitude. Loads of experience. Literate as well, which is more than some are. I’d say he’s ideal, certainly worth an interview.”
“Anything you can glean about the man himself?”
“No. Not really, it needs to be handwritten for that, but I’d guess that he’s confident, not too bothered what people think of him. A strong signature. I’d guess he’s strong minded.”
“Thank you, Monica.” Her educated guesswork had begun to make sense of the letter’s magnetism, “Keep this to yourself, can you?”
“Of course. What’s it all about?”
“I’ll tell you later, I’ve got to find out more first.”
I mulled over Monica’s comments, then, on impulse picked up the phone and tapped the numbers into the keypad.
“Hello.” Not said as a question or an invitation to speak.
“Is that Mr Hudson?”
“It is.”
“I’m Francesca Mildmay.”
“You’re too late. I bought a new kitchen only last week and if I want something I go out and buy it when I need it, not sit around waiting for you to phone. Goodbye.”
I sat, staring incredulously at the silent phone. Just who the hell does he think he is? I thought, while trying to keep my temper in check as I redialled his number.
“Hello.”
“Mr Hudson? It’s Francesca Mildmay again. I’m not trying to sell you anything. I own Mildmay Fabrics. I need to talk to you, please.”
“I’m busy.”
“Please, Mr Hudson. It really is important.”
“I wasted enough time this morning. I’m not wasting any more.”
“That’s why I need -” I began explaining before it registered I was speaking on a line to nowhere. Just who the hell does he think he is? Twice he cut me off. I wasn’t used to being treated that way. Nobody cut me off, ever! I stabbed an irate finger at the keypad.
“Hello.”
“Mr Hudson? It’s Francesca again, look, it’s ... “
“I know, so you said before,” he interrupted.
“But it is.”
“Dinner tomorrow night then. I’ll meet you in the bar of the Royal Oak at eight and we can move onto the restaurant. You’re paying.”
“I beg your pardon! Do you know who you are talking to? I own Mildmay Fabrics.” I was fuming at the man’s effrontery. He wasn’t asking for a date, which was ludicrous anyway, but actually telling me that I was his date and that I was paying as well.
“I don’t care what you own, you don’t own me. You claim you need to talk. I need to eat. Don’t be late.”
I sat staring at the dead phone; he hadn’t even waited for my reply. My boiling temper slowly subsided while I thought about it, increasingly aware of the spreading damp patch in my knickers. Only in fantasies had I been spoken to in that way. Life was turning around: first a woman dominated my life, then a man was doing just what I’d often dreamed of. It wasn’t what I expected but it was more than the interests of Mildmay Fabrics that drove the desire to meet this man face to face. I began to understand why Lisa had been so affected.
Maybe Lisa is even more like me than I thought.
I got home late, prepared the equipment for my mouth strengthening exercises, feeling tired. It needed all my fortitude and willpower to do my exercises as commanded by Madam and not go straight to bed. My jaws ached intolerably as water slowly pumped into my mouth, but through the pain came a new anguish. Previously I had thought of no one but Madam and enjoyed my self-inflicted agonies as I pictured her commanding demeanour standing over me. But now a new voice was forcing its way into my thoughts.
What’s happening? A few short weeks ago I was a business woman, totally focused on my business, dreaming of being, but never really expecting to be, owned by somebody. Then a woman, who I’ve still to see, invades my thoughts and now a man, whom I’ve never seen, has done the same thing! What if this new voice proves more powerful than Madam? What will she do? What if the reality of being controlled turns out to be a dreadful disaster? Is it too late to stop it? Do I want to stop it?
All night long my brain refused to rest, continuously recycling thoughts and doubts. I sobbed into my pillow as I felt my life being torn from me.
Why, oh why is the reality so much more scary but so much more enticing than the fantasy?
The day passed slowly, mundane office jobs were completed robot-like as the trepidation of meeting Mr Hudson intensified with the passing hours.
Eight o’clock. The car’s tyres crunched slowly over the gravel car park at the Royal Oak, I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, anxious to settle the nerves and appear as far as possible to be the composed business woman I usually am. The distance to the entrance took forever and I dreaded the prospect of walking alone into what I imagined to be a crowded bar, to meet someone when I didn’t even know what they looked like. The door creaked slightly as I opened it, releasing a miasma of food, alcohol, smoke and warm bodies. When it closed with a gentle thud, everyone turned to stare at me. All three of them. Their eyes burned as I marched purposefully to the bar. Why do the locals in country pubs look on new faces with such suspicion?
“Good evening. What can I get you?” At least the barman looked friendly, no drawn brows and scowling looks there. Maybe it was the money shouted from decent clothes and real jewellery.
“Mineral water, please. I’m meeting Mr Hudson here at eight o’clock. Is he here yet?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Hudson.” Had I been stood up? It seemed he wasn’t even known in the place. Anger flared but was doused by his next words.
“Oh, you mean Rock. Everybody knows him as Rock. Over there in the corner.”
“Rock?”
“Yes. He keeps himself to himself. A bit of a rough diamond, really.” I wondered briefly why he had said that; maybe Rockdidn’t seem to be my type. But how would he ...
A pair of blue jeans under the polished dark oak table, Daily Telegraph spread wide, wisp of smoke rising from behind it. No other clues, except he wore clogs. First impressions mean a lot to me and I wasn’t impressed. Here I was having dinner with a man and he’d turned up wearing jeans and clogs. Who on earth wears clogs? was all I could think as I nervously cleared my throat.
“Mr Hudson, I’m Francesca Mildmay.”
The newspaper lowered, revealing long hair and Z.Z. Top beard. Expressionless eyes started at my ankles and I felt myself being undressed as they progressed upwards until, with the merest hint of an approving nod, he stood up and offered me his hand.
“Rock will do. Pleased to meet you.”
“Rock?” I could only guess at the meaning of his last comment but he’d done a damn good job of making me feel about two inches high: I was still squirming under his gaze.
“I need to talk to you.” The words gushed out as my fragile bravado began to desert me.
“So it would seem. Better sit down then, there, opposite, so I can look at you.”
We chatted without really becoming comfortable, well, I wasn’t anyway, inane chatter about the weaather, the pub, everything but why I was there. Rocksank the remainder of his pint and pushed the glass toward me.
“I’ll have another pint. You can get yourself one while you’re there.”
I stared incredulously. His manner left no room for doubt so, unable to find a suitable riposte, I hesitantly made for the bar, acutely aware of his eyes following my every move. The barman’s look of ‘I told you so,’ did nothing to placate me. By the time I returned, I was trembling and blushing. Nobody spoke to me like that. People looked up to me.
“Do you always expect your ladies to wait on you hand and foot?” I banged the pint down in front of him.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not your lady. Don’t expect me to.”
“Why did you, then?”
“B ... Because I need to talk to you.” I knew my reply sounded silly, even as I spoke, but couldn’t admit to the effect of his presence and the growing dampness again. His all knowing eyes never left mine.
“After dinner. Shall we go in?”
It wasn’t a question, more a statement, made as he led the way to the dining room. There were more people there than in the bar. A gentle hum of conversation filled the room, along with the humming of the aerator in the huge fish tank set along one wall. The fish swam blindly around, butting against the glass from time to time, mirroring my thoughts.
The waitresses were efficient, serving rapidly and almost silently, the sound of clinking cultery taking the place of the talk. Expensive perfume wafted toward . The fish swam blindly around, butting against the glass from time to time, mirroring my thoughts.
The waitresses were efficient, serving rapidly and almost silently, the sound of clinking cultery taking the place of the talk. Expensive perfume wafted toward me, reminding me of Madam’s luxurious scent and I wondered why I felt guilty at being out with a man.
Throughout the meal we talked about this and that and realised Rockwas gently prying for details of my business. He was charming, polite, and totally in control. He knew what answers he wanted but left me in no doubt I’d only get what he considered I needed to know. The food was good and I became more and more relaxed, captivated by the man sharing my table.
By the time coffee was served I knew he’d owned his own lorry, driving to the Eastern Bloc countries and, as the Soviet satellite countries gained their independence, to those as well. He’d grown tired of it, sold his lorry and taken time out but now his feet were itching again. I decided that not only did I want to see more of him but that he would be ideal for the job. In truth, I was totally enthralled by his whole demeanour.
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about Lisa and what happened when you met her. She’s very upset and I don’t like seeing my staff upset. So, I want to know why. I also want to know why she turned against employing you when your application looked so promising.”
“Want to know a lot, don’t you?”
“I think I have a right to know, don’t you?”
“No. But since you’re here I’ll tell you. Not that there’s much to tell. She’s young and will get over it. It’s probably done her good, anyway.”
“Is that it? That’s all you’ve got to say? You’ve said nothing! No explanation at all!” My incredulity must have shown in my voice.
He dared me to break his gaze and in the same quiet, authoritative tone he’d used all evening he simply said, “I told her the same as I’m telling you. That is, there’s no way I’d consider working for anybody as ill prepared as you are.”
I was completely taken aback. Lisa’s reports had been excellent; she’d done a bloody good job.
“Lisa’s very good,” was all I could manage in her defence as the rage built in me, totally destroying the sexual chemistry that had been growing since I first met him.
“I know, she’s done an excellent job on paper. The only problem is that the real world’s not like university. You want to keep her, though, because when she’s got some experience she’ll be really good. It’s just that I don’t need the hassle she’ll create in the meantime.”
“Thank you for nothing, Mr Hudson, you’ve conned me out of a meal and I’m going. I’d expected better, I must say.”
“It’s Rock. Remember next time.”
“NEXT TIME!” I shrieked at him. “There won’t be a next time!” I suddenly became aware of the audience I’d created, the sudden ceasing of small talk and clatter of cultery had become an interested silence. I stomped out, but couldn’t resist a look over my shoulder as I left. He sat, lighting his pipe, totally oblivious to the other diners with their inquisitive looks. Jesus! He’s so sure of himself it’s frightening. Next time indeed! I shouldn’t have looked back because at that instant something in my heart said: he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Frankie.
***
Sunday morning, the numbness as my wrist cords cut the circulation and the all-enveloping darkness focused my anticipation as the limousine sped me once again to Madam.
As anticipated, I was roughly stripped naked then was lifted onto what felt like a garden sun-lounger. It had been adjusted so I was leaning back at an ideal angle, had I been sunbathing. It would have been really comfortable if the lounger had a cushion, as it was the wires criss-crossing my back and thighs were digging ever deeper as my weight pushed down on them.
My wrists were secured with wide straps above my head, ankles spread wide to the bottom corners and secured with the same type of strap. Thinner straps secured my elbows to the wire frame and moulded pads strapped tight above and below each knee kept them firmly locked straight. More straps around the tops of my thighs, waist, above and below my breasts ensured the only thing possible to move was my head. A band across my forehead abruptly stopped even that.
I wriggled my toes and fingers but no amount of straining achieved anything other than to cause the straps to dig deeper and the wires in my back t
o hurt even more. I couldn’t even fill my lungs with air as the straps crushed my ribs so tight. My breathing was no more than shallow gasps and I worried I’d suffocate, which further stoked the inferno raging between my legs, making my need for air more and more desperate.
It was Catch 22 again. The less I could move the more excited I became. The more excited I became the more I tried to move. Trying to move only reinforced the fact I couldn’t and that made me more excited, which only made me try to move more.
Fingers brushed my lips before pulling them wide, like a horse having its teeth inspected.
“Do you think It’s been doing It’s exercises?” Madam’s voice cut the air, adding to my considerable excitement. Pain had turned to something approaching pleasure, the sheer helplessness of the position fuelling the lust even further. She knew only too well what turned me on, and used every single trick to ensure it worked. The big question was - and had been from the first Sunday - why me?
“Yuthhh, mmmaauum,” was all I could manage with my mouth full of fingers. That only earned me a vicious slap across my cheek.
“I wasn’t talking to you. You only speak when spoken to. Clients don’t expect to be answered back.” Another swinging slap set the other cheek on fire, her words a stark reminder of Madam planned for me.
“We’ll try It out, I think. You first.” I don’t know who Madam spoke to but a picture of brown brogues and tweeds came to my mind. I assumed it was the same person as last time.
A gentle whirring sound started and slowly the chair folded forwards. As the skin on my back and buttocks stretched, so did the wires creating channels of agony criss-crossing my body. Slowly I was rolled into a ball, until eventually it stopped and I was left with every muscle straining against my unnatural position, gasping for breath which had been even further restricted.
What happened next was inevitable. The scent of aroused male sex preceding the warm glans pushing past my lips was no surprise. Neither was the retching feeling in the pit of my stomach.