I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than I could with an extra half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.
‘How often do you see clients?’ I said.
‘Not that often at all,’ she said. ‘Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week. Usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.’
‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and … and … OK then. Let’s do it.’
She clapped her hands. ‘Thank fuck!’ she said. ‘Finally, somebody who knows what “open-minded” actually means.’
It wasn’t long before my interpretation was tested.
A week after I moved in, one of the famous Saturdays rolled around. I’d arranged to meet up with friends at six for dinner and drinks, but I needed to get ready in the flat that afternoon.
‘Will that be OK?’ I asked Shona at breakfast. ‘I mean, if I’m actually there for a bit of the afternoon? Just a short bit. I’ll go up to Westfield or something for a few hours first, but I’ll need to be here between about four and six. And I’ll need to use the bathroom. Will that be OK?’
‘I’ll be with a client until five,’ said Shona, ‘but I’ll shut up shop after that. I’ve got a full afternoon of bookings. You can use the shower whenever – the only possible problem is that my client might need to use the loo, but don’t worry about that.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I can always turn that into part of the session.’
‘God, really?’ This was all fascinating. I’d been too polite to ask questions until now, but I was burning to know more about the ins and outs of it all.
‘Oh, yes. It’s fine, really, Vix. Just give us a quick shout when you come in, so we know.’
Which is what I did. I’d mooched around Westfield for as long as was bearable for a person with £18 left in her bank account, and if I saw another really nice but unaffordable top I was likely to throw myself on the floor in a tantrum.
I let myself in, as noisily as I could, at about ten past four.
‘Only me!’ I shouted, banging the door behind me. I took off my coat and hat and went to hang them up, but there was an unfamiliar coat on my usual peg. I put my hand on it. It was a good coat. Pure new wool, worth a couple of hundred at least.
I leaned back against it, enjoying the feel of it, and the smell of a delicious male cologne that wafted from it, and listened.
At first I couldn’t hear anything, but after my ears acclimatised, I became aware of a low, muffled, sobbing kind of sound coming from Shona’s bedroom. Seconds later, I heard her voice, but it didn’t sound like her voice. It was louder, harder – what you might call strident.
I couldn’t make out the words, but the phrase ended on a questioning note. A low, abject voice made a response that I just knew had to be, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Creeped out, yet also highly curious, I began to edge along the hallway towards her door, hoping to catch a bit more of what was being said and done.
The tail-end of Shona’s next sentence came to me loud and clear.
‘… have to pay for their disgusting behaviour, don’t they?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re a filthy pervert, aren’t you? I’m thinking perhaps I should put you in a chastity device until our next meeting, if that’s what it’s going to take. You know I ordered you not to masturbate. Why did you disobey?’
‘Couldn’t help it, ma’am.’ A pitiful whimper. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then I had to …’
‘Don’t say another word, you dirty, dirty boy. Bend over and touch your toes.’
I wondered if he was naked or dressed. Tall or short. Old or young. Good-looking or not.
I pictured a man pitched in between all these extremes, a well-dressed guy who looked after himself. He’d have silk boxers around his ankles and his shirt-tails flapping over the top part of his arse, which was peachy firm, perhaps a little pale. All the better to show up …
I swallowed. Was it weird to be turned on by this?
‘I’m going to give you twelve,’ said Shona.
‘Twelve?’ There was outrage, and a touch of fear, in the man’s yelp.
‘I know you’ve only taken six before, but I’m losing patience with you, boy. You’re really trying me. So I’m going to try you. You know what to do. Missed counts will mean repeated strokes. Now keep still and keep that bum up high for me.’
I tried to picture Shona. What would she be wearing? I could see her in a shiny PVC bustier with matching pencil skirt. Soaring stilettoes, fishnets, a jaunty little peaked cap on her hair, which would be pulled back in a severe bun.
What was in her hand? I guessed it had to be an old-school cane, since that was the standard fantasy. Maybe a riding crop. Perhaps I’d be able to tell from the sound it made.
There was a thin whooshing sound, then a quiet sort of ‘snick’, then a howl of pain.
Definitely sounded like the cane. The riding crop would be splattier, I decided.
‘One, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
But he didn’t sound very grateful.
His protests grew with every additional stroke. I pictured him, grabbing his ankles for dear life, shuddering and jolting forwards every time the rod swiped across his offered cheeks. And the strokes, visible red lines, criss-crossing his well-exercised bottom, turning it into a kind of geometric pattern. I could visualise those all right.
I visualised them so vividly that, together with the swishes and grunts and agonised votes of thanks, they led me to shove my hand down the waistband of my jeans and seek out the ever wetter spot between my thighs.
I rubbed and panted through the dozen smart strokes, imagining them done to him, but also done to me, or even by me, or … I don’t know, but the feat of imagination was fervid and contained multiple images, spilling through my brain like photographic flashes. As the eleventh and twelfth were soundly laid, I thrust out my bottom, feeling the denim tighten and strain across my own unmarked cheeks, offering myself for the same treatment.
My orgasm coincided with the final stroke. It was sudden and strong, and I couldn’t restrain a gasp, putting my palm against the door to prevent myself tumbling forwards. To my horror it made a knocking noise, as the catch rattled in its hole.
Sobering immediately, even as the last fizzlings of my climax leaked out, I tried to straighten my wobbly legs. But I was too late.
‘What have we here?’
Shona, twice as tall and three times as intimidating, looked down at me.
‘Sorry, Shona,’ I muttered. ‘Wrong … door …’
I’ll remember that scene for the rest of my life. The man standing upright and covering his striped bum with his hands as he glared indignantly over his shoulder. Shona, cane still in hand, clad not as I’d imagined but in a business suit, silky nylon gown and fancy-dress mortarboard, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, waiting for my explanation. An explanation that was a long time coming.
I was still sheepish in the extreme the next morning.