Aprons for Gayle

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is the brain child of the ruggedly handsome (he made me say that!) Scooter Titenbum, my editor extraordinaire. He made a flippant comment, and I thought it was a brilliant idea. So we have been collaborating together for the past few weeks.

There's a big transition for Gayle in the beginning so the fun and good bits are gradually introduced. Their play times will be worth the wait, I promise.

I love reading all the comments, even constructive criticism. Scooter and I are obsessive, die-hard perfectionists.

And please vote.

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CHAPTER ONE

SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 2014; Leuchars, Fife, Scotland

"Will you marry me?" Hamish asked.

In that moment and with those words, Gayle knew it was over.

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER, JUNE 2nd, 2013; Gaithersburg, Maryland

Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom of her home, Gayle Boyce brushed back her shoulder-length, curly light-brown hair and scoffed at the puffiness under her eyes. She couldn't believe she was only 22; she felt at least 40. Gayle's three hours of sleep every night was aging her rather quickly.

A year earlier she'd been a junior studying archaeology with a side interest in architecture at Montgomery College. Everything changed when her mother had an unexpected stroke at 46. Her father couldn't afford to put her in a live-in facility, so everyone decided to care for her at home.

The strain on the family was a difficult adjustment for the Boyces, especially for Gayle. As the oldest daughter, she'd taken it upon herself to take charge of the home.

The lasting effect on her mother's condition was paralysis on the right side of her body and slurred speech, which wasn't very often as she was rarely comatose. The food that she ate had to be pureed with a special formula for extra vitamins.

The worst part of it all was that her mother rarely remembered her husband or her children. The only blessing was the few times a month she did know her family, and they would share a laugh from memories or a joke between them. But the next day all would be forgotten and everyone was a stranger to her again.

To make ends meet from the insurmountable hospital stay and other bills that were piling up, Gayle's father changed his work hours to part-time, while Gayle dropped out of her junior year of college to take on two part-time jobs. They would then alternate their work schedules to care for her mother.

Her younger sister, Catelyn, who had just turned 19, was a freshman in college and worked part-time as well. But her father insisted her money go to her college expenses, not to the family. Catelyn never let the chance pass her by when she could care for her mother, mainly when there were work conflicts between Gayle and their father.

It had worked out fairly well at first.

"Gayle! Breakfast is on the table!" Catelyn hollered from the kitchen.

Gayle straightened her waitress uniform, took one last look at her wretched reflection and went downstairs. Sunday mornings were her favorite day of the week, it being the one day she had an hour to sit down and get caught up with Catelyn and her father.

"Hey, Cat," Gayle said, trying to make her voice sound upbeat. "Dad still in with Mom?" she asked as she sat down and opened the 'Help Wanted' section of the Washington Post.

"Yeah," she replied as she stuffed a piece of bacon in her mouth. "He said he was almost done dressing her."

Catelyn even appeared to Gayle to be ten years older than she was.

"Have you been studying for your exam tomorrow?" Gayle asked.

"Yeah, but English Comp isn't as easy as you'd think it'd be. Michael's been asking me to go out with him, and --"

When Catelyn saw the expression on Gayle's face change to sadness, she suddenly grew seriously. "Sorry, sis. I know you haven't been out much since ... Gayle, before Dad comes in there's something I want to talk to you about."

Gayle instantly lost her appetite.

Lowering her voice, Catelyn whispered, "I heard Dad crying in his bedroom again last night." Gayle nodded; she'd heard him too. "I think it's time we put Mom into Cherrydale. They can take care of her better than we can, and --"

"You know we can't do that. First, it would kill Dad. Second we don't have the money." She lifted up the newspaper. "Why do you think I'm looking for a third part-time job?"

"Oh, please. You know that won't be enough even if you worked twenty part-time jobs."

"What other option do we have?" she spat, her voice rising a little too loud.

Catelyn placed her hand on Gayle's wrist to silence her then handed her sister a piece of paper. "Look, my roommate's older sister has worked for Discrete Servants Agency as a maid for two years in Ireland, and she actually loves it. She gets an insane amount of money."

Gayle read the card. "Are you kidding me?" She laughed hysterically. "I can't go to freakin' wherever thousands of miles away!"

"She told me her sister made nearly $60,000 the first year, and she's been able to sightsee all over Ireland and even England." She sighed, knowing she wasn't getting through to her sister. "You said Cherrydale cost, what, $20,000 a year."

"Cat, drop it. She's probably working as a sex slave, for that amount of money." Gayle huffed.

Catelyn didn't have the chance to reply because their father walked into the room, ending the discussion.

They talked mainly about how her mom was and what Catelyn was studying in school. Gayle's mind wandered to the agency's proposition.

Soon Gayle was left alone. She drank another cup of coffee, cleaned up the kitchen then went to sit with her mother. Often she'd just sit by the bed and read her a Reader's Digest or a Cosmopolitan article. This day her mother was awake but staring blankly at the ceiling. Again as she read she kept thinking about the agency and whether it was even a possibility.

Catelyn was right. They really didn't have any other option. She made a mental note to make sure to call the agency the next day.

THE SAME DAY; St. Andrews Golf Course, Scotland

Hamish McDougal lined up his shot on the approach to the 17th hole, taking his time because he absolutely hated this hole. The pathway, out of bounds area to the right and the dreaded road-hole bunker to the left had always been a challenge for him, as well as most golfers. I am damn well going to hit the green this time, he thought confidently.

He settled in, recited a quick silent Golfer's prayer to himself then swung gracefully. The club connected directly with the ball; the gentle 'snick' told him he had hit a beauty.

The ball flew straight as an arrow at the flag briefly before the treacherous cross wind nudged the ball to the left. With his heart in his mouth, he watched the ball hit the front of the green, its momentum taking it closer and closer to the dreaded trap. With what looked like the last turn of the ball it toppled over the edge into the bunker.

"Fuck!" Hamish exclaimed and threw his club at his bag with a disgusted sigh.

His long-time friend, Dr. Jack Jenkins, consoled him. "Hard luck, mate. You didn't deserve that."

The words were sincere, but the gentle, gleeful smirk told Hamish that with the game all square, he was grinning inside triumphantly. You bastard! he blasted his friend with a low growl.

Walking onto the green, Hamish looked disconsolately down into what had to be the deepest bunker he had ever seen. The ball nestled close to the back edge with sand piled to the rear.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. And more shit," he groaned again.

Hamish knew the shot to get it out and onto the green was nearly unplayable, never mind getting close to the pin at all. If he didn't make this shot, Jack would win this hole, making the match a draw, at best, for Hamish.

"Looks like luck is on my side," Jack teased as he stood on the edge of the bunker.

"The game isn't over yet, you jammy barstard," Hamish spat playfully.

"Is that a challenge? Hmm. I'll bet you the after-round drinks against me getting a nude Kate Winslet in your bedroom that you don't make this hole in the next two shots."

"Ha! You know Ms. Winslet personally, do you? And how, exactly, will that work when I win?"

"Not to worry," Jack answered. "You get it onto the green, up and down in two from there, and I will get you Kate naked as the day she was born in your bedroom. Fail and you buy the drinks. Deal?"

He thought, Jack is joking, surely. But he is looking too serious to be joking, and with him having a prestigious Harley Street practice then just perhaps ...

Hamish shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Deal."

Hamish slid down into the bunker and settled next to the ball. Sighing heavily, he lined up the shot, shuffled his feet into the sand to give him a solid grip, gave the club some gentle practice swings then held his breath. He swung at the ball with all he was worth.

A cloud of fine sand flew up into his face; the wind again looking to ruin his entire day. He closed his eyes but not quickly enough; the sand instantly blinded him and his eyes stung horribly. Coughing and spitting out the sand that made it into his mouth, he forced his eyes open, not wanting to scratch them, and looked around. The bunker was as deep as he was tall, and he couldn't see the green past the edge.

"Where the hell is the ball?"

As Hamish looked around, he caught the expression on Jack's face. His chin was at his feet agape with a look of pure shock on his face. Stepping out of the bunker and following his gaze, Hamish saw that the ball was no more than a foot from the flag, an easy putt to make his four and par.

Hamish had just played what was probably the best shot of his life. With Jack's shot being some 40 feet from the hole, Hamish had a very good chance to actually win the hole and to probably win the match.

A few minutes later and some three further shots from Jack, Hamish had won the hole.

Turning to Jack, Hamish said, "Looks like you are going to have to persuade my baby to get her kit off for me. But how in hell's name are you going to manage that?"

"I promised you a night with Ms. Winslet, and a night with a naked Ms. Winslet you shall have." Jack dipped into his pocket and handed Hamish two one pound coins. "Get yourself to Blockbusters and hire a DVD for the night. That gets her naked in your house. 'The Reader' is the best I've heard for some good ogling, but 'Titanic' is pretty hot too."

Hamish stood scowling at his former best, long-time friend and no less a bastard knowing he had been had. "Hope your next shite's a hedgehog, and you get terminal syphilis."

Chuckling deeply, Jack managed to contain himself from going into a laughing fit. "Best two quid I've ever spent ... your honour, I believe."

Finishing the game, the two men were in the club house catching up with one another and their families while Hamish enjoyed his victory drink.

"How have you been since your Dad's death a few months back?" Jack asked.

Hamish shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Dad left in his will that in order for me to get the title and land I'd have to marry by the time I'm 30. He never did anything unconditionally."

"Well, then, what about Winnie? I know she's pining for you."

Hamish chortled. "Hell, no! That woman could talk to a brick wall for hours. I like my women submissive, you know that."

"Good luck finding a lass like that in these parts, mate."

"I'll have no trouble finding a wife. Being in love with her is the question. I just need someone to keep my home clean and fuck occasionally to relieve the stress. To hell with love."

Jack laughed. "There's the Mr. Stone Heart I let beat me today! I forget you are a bit of a control freak." He paused a moment. "You remember John Ramsay? He found an American maid with some agency in Washington, D.C."

"Is she submissive?"

Jack laughed again. He found Hamish very entertaining with his fetishes. "Of course she is. Isn't that the one thing you two had in common when you were at university?"

Hamish thought for a moment. The idea of having a submissive maid would solve both of his problems. Having an American, though, was the only drawback. He'd heard how aggressive and stubborn they were, and he didn't want to have to deal with the emotional burden that came along with them.

On the other hand, the reason why maids were found overseas was because a Scottish woman being a maid was beneath them. Sign of the times.

The thought appealed to him. He would get his house in order and have a bit of fun with her until he found a woman to marry.

"You still friends with him?" Hamish asked.

Without a word, Jack picked up his cell phone, asked a few questions, wrote something down on a small notepad and ended the call. "Call her after noon."

Hamish took the paper. "It's worth a shot, I suppose."

TUESDAY, JUNE 4th; Washington, D.C.

Gayle had just completed filling out the application in the lobby of Discrete Servants Agency for her interview with Mrs. Monroe then gave it to the receptionist. She caught herself biting her cuticles and wished she could stop altogether, but it wasn't easy. It was a terrible nervous habit she'd had since childhood, and she had managed to stop until she dropped out of college when her mother became ill. She never had the willpower to stop herself, and she hated feeling so weak.

A woman walked out from a door looking like a prostitute with her cleavage overflowing from her low-cut blouse and short skirt with a slit on the side that practically went up to her hip. Gayle's apprehension about how conservatively she was dressed went out the window.

Gayle watched the receptionist take in some papers to Mrs. Monroe's office then came back out. "Gayle, Mrs. Monroe will see you now," the receptionist announced.

"Thank you."

Gayle took a deep breath and walked into her office, where Mrs. Monroe was putting a manila folder into a cabinet. She was instantly relieved when she saw Mrs. Monroe dressed the complete opposite of the prior interviewee.

"Good morning, Gayle. Have a seat," she said after they shook hands. "Thank you for being punctual and decently dressed. Let me tell you about Discrete Services. Our clientele are looking for very specific maid services to be provided to them. Most are single men who need their homes maintained in a certain manner."

Gayle frowned, thoroughly confused. "Certain manner? I don't understand."

"They want a woman submissive, some prefer male. No strings."

"Mrs. Monroe, I have to come right out and ask. Is sex involved in any way?"

"It can be, for some men. It depends on what he's looking for." Gayle's eyes widened. "It's nothing illegal, I assure you. Would that be a problem?"

To her, if sex was involved it was still prostitution. She battled with herself for a moment about morals and her upbringing versus the dire need for the money for her mother.

"Um, I don't think so under the right circumstances." She whispered hesitantly. She could always back out later.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself."

"Well, right now I'm working two part-time jobs waitressing." She then went on to explain about her mother's condition and the appeal of possibly making so much money in such a short time.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. I did some waitressing myself when I went to college, and it drove me crazy sometimes with rude customers. How do you handle the demanding, persnickety ones?"

"I smile, tell them no problem, give them what they asked for then curse them when I walk away." She smiled sweetly, trying to hide the fact that she was being serious.

She laughed. "I had more days like that than I can count. What do you like most about waitressing, Gayle?"

"I've never wanted a desk job, and being on my feet constantly keeps my mind preoccupied from watching a clock all day."

"Very good. And your least favorite?"

"Hmm. Probably not getting a thank you if their food is out promptly or that I've kept their glasses full. Extra tips don't matter, strangely enough. I've always appreciated a pat on the back more than a bonus. It's a job, I understand that, but common courtesy every once in a while makes it worth it, in a way."

Mrs. Monroe nodded. "Are you willing to go the extra mile to please your employer?"

She chuckled. "All the time. I'm the designated person to call during a small snowstorm or when a coworker is sick. I don't mind, though. It makes me feel needed, and the extra money doesn't hurt, either."

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes, actually. Do you have any ideas where I can learn a little more about ... being a submissive?"

She reached inside her top drawer, pulled out a small pamphlet and handed it to Gayle. "First of all, there's really nothing to learn about Dominant/submissive. Being one or the other is a natural, innate characteristic in everyone, at least that's what I've observed. I was submissive myself until I got older and took on a more Dominant personality as my business grew. You and I being waitresses have something to do with us being submissive, in a sense.

"The pamphlet has some information that will help you, along with more about the agency regarding what is expected of you. The only pre-requisite that's required of you is for you to attend one Black Rose meeting at The Crucible here in D.C. The address is in there. They have a meeting this Thursday at eight for newbies to give you the basics. Think you can you make that?"

She thought for a moment. "I can change my schedule, and I think a friend might be able to cover for me."

"Perfect. Can you give me a call on Friday and let me know how it went?"

"Of course. It's not a problem."

"Excellent. Don't be nervous when you go and stay open-minded. You are not required to participate in any of the scenes -- as a matter of fact I would highly recommend you don't. If you have any problems I want you to see Pete Martin."

"Yes ma'am."

"Do you have a valid, current passport?" Gayle nodded. "Great. I don't mean to be insensitive, but with you being in the situation you're in with your mother, I wouldn't dream of giving you an assignment so far away from your family. But to be honest, positions overseas pay the most, and they're usually only three-month assignments. Is that something you would be willing to do?"

Gayle thought a moment. "Honestly, Mrs. Monroe, it depends on the pay."

"That's very understandable. Alright. I think I've got everything I need." She handed Gayle a business card. "Call me anytime if you think of any other concerns."

THURSDAY, JUNE 6th, Washington, D.C.

The entrance to The Crucible was nothing more than a plain black door and awning with the name on it; beside was a garage door. Gayle looked at the piece of paper again to make sure she had the right address. It was.

Just then a man pulling a medium-sized suitcase with a woman trailing a few feet behind him walked past her, chains clinking. The man had a long, braided pony-tail and wore a black leather vest with black jeans, while the woman wore a purple corset and black skirt. Just as the corseted woman opened the door for the man, Gayle saw the reason for the clinking noise -- she had a chain link secured to the ring of the collar around her neck.

"Open the door for the woman, bitch," the man barked.

"Yes, Master."

The woman smiled, unfazed at the derogatory name, opened the door and let Gayle walk through before the man did. She couldn't help but notice the woman's cleavage spilling out over the corset, but the morbid instrumental music coming from behind the curtained wall distracted her. She dreaded knowing what else came along with the gloomy music. Stepping to the small room on the left, she gave the woman at the booth her information and was allowed through.