This is the second chapter of the Peppermint story; however, it is set before the events described in the first chapter. I therefore suggest that it may be beneficial to read that chapter.
As I drove home in the hours that followed our session I had plenty of time to think. Firstly, of course, of my delight at having tested you so harshly and you demonstrating a tolerance for pain beyond anything I would have predicted. Secondly, I thought of how much I had revelled in the power I had over you and the delight with which you had accepted it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I thought about the disconnect between the previous two points and the fact that in addition to your day job, you were a professional, in-demand and highly thought of dominatrix. I still found it hard to believe that not only had I whipped and twisted your nipples, but also left you with crop slashes across your thighs and buttocks, fucked your throat until raw and covered your hair, face and breasts in sperm. I knew very little of dominatrices yet this didn't seem to me to be something that one would find going on in the home of many of them.
The question also remained: how had we come to those circumstances? How did a young man like me, barely a quarter of a century old, come to be forcing his penis into the mouth of a woman like yourself, and how had she come to suggest it in the first place?
Stories such as this are rarely simple, and I began to think about how we'd met. It seemed easiest to start at the beginning. University had not been, for me, an enjoyable experience. Mostly I had hidden in my room, gone to my lectures and resolutely avoided any normal university activities. Eventually the financial situation became dire, and I looked for a job, finding one in a musical instrument shop. It was here that I gradually found myself being drawn out of my shell by Pete and Mick, the owner and his guitar legend friend. One day, they introduced me to you. The story of this has been told elsewhere, of course, but the short version was that I was instantly attracted to you despite you being nearly twenty years my senior. When you came in the shop my faculties would desert me and I'd be powerless before your beauty, your confidence and your scent. Pete took pity on me, explaining that you made your living partly through your strength, beauty and iron will. Each time you appeared in the shop you would do so immaculately dressed, your dark red hair a waterfall of temptation. For some reason you chose to treat me gently and would request my assistance when making purchases. We became friends, over time. To cut a long story short, we had remained in contact after I finished university and I would drive down to see you when work and family circumstances permitted. This was not a relationship between equals, of course. I was the junior, the project, and you were the senior, the holder of the power. You made the decisions about where we went, what we did, and paid for everything. I'd questioned this, once; your stare had been enough to quell my protests.
One night, over dinner in an expensive Gerrard Street restaurant, you broached the unspoken subject and asked me how I felt about your work. I'd replied that I was interested in what drove you, what you gained from the activities you undertook and how you treated the people who engaged your services. A slight smile played on your face as you asked: "And have you ever wanted to engage me, Jack?" I'd stuttered a reply about not wanting to spoil our friendship, and that was the last time we'd mentioned the subject. We continued to meet, to talk and to give each other what we needed in terms of conversation and companionship, until a few months later.
I may have been young, but I had grown in confidence since my university days. A couple of years working as a roadie for Mick's band had taught me how to deal with people (especially those who were drunk, over-assertive or out to take the band for a ride) and my gangly youthful physique had been honed into something much more solid. Although not violent, I found that a serious tone and a propensity to loom could work wonders when people needed bending to my will.
The telephone call had come one morning. I replayed it in my mind as the homeward miles unwound themselves. It had been short and to the point: "Jack," you'd opened with, your voice low, "he's back, and I need him gone. Can you come tonight? No-one must know we've been in contact about this." I replied that I could, and left work immediately, stating that some important family business had come up. "He" was your ex-husband, an unpleasant and vindictive man who had been known to periodically attempt to blackmail you into giving him money, usually threatening to tell a local newspaper about your parallel careers. I drove home, changed, and then walked to the station, catching the next train into London. I paid with cash, and also bought the next ticket, the one to the small town in which you lived, in this manner. I'd walked the mile or so to your house in the gathering dusk and spent thirty minutes or so in the shadow of the trees in your garden, observing the un-curtained windows as your ex followed you around your house. When I was certain that I knew where he was, I walked quickly in through the front door, found him haranguing you in the sitting room, and lifted him bodily by the collar, forcing him against the wall. You watched, amused, as I ground my left forearm into his throat and held it there against his struggling. As his face began to purple I stared into his eyes, ignoring his weak attempts to free himself. He was unfit and unready for this conflict; I was young, sinewy and, as I saw it, looking out for a friend.
"You will leave. Immediately. You will not come back. If you try to contact Deborah again I will return, and this will be a walk in the park by comparison". To reinforce my point, I used my right hand to reach into the pocket of my jacket and withdrew an antique silver-handled straight razor, flicking it open and allowing the light to glint along the stropped edge. His eyes widened in fear and a dark patch stained the front of his suit trousers. "If I hear you have tried to contact or make life hard for her, I will carve my initials into your pallid little face. Go. Now". I released him and he stumbled from the house without a word, flopping into his car and hurrying erratically away.
"Well, Jack, aren't you the dark horse?" you asked, arching one eyebrow. "I'll be in touch". Recognising a dismissal when I heard one, I pocketed the razor and walked back to the station; I was home by midnight. You'd never mentioned your ex-husband again, so I assumed my ministrations had achieved the desired effect upon him.
Since then we had become closer; never intimate, but closer. I found your directness appealing, to say nothing of the power of your personality. We saw each other reasonably often - you would squire me around London, taking me to the opera or an exquisite restaurant, refusing to entertain the concept of my paying the bill. Sometimes I flirted with the idea of enquiring about "engaging" you professionally but couldn't bring myself to ask for fear of damaging our curious friendship. One day though, six months or so after I'd ejected your ex-husband from your house, an envelope arrived at my house addressed to me. Upon opening it, I found a business card, ruby-red and framed in black, printed on expensive cotton paper. In white type, it said simply "Deborah". On the reverse of the card, handwritten in black fountain pen, was a date some two weeks in the future, a time (2100), a postcode, and the instruction to ask for Mary.
The intervening period passed quickly, and just before nine p.m. on the given Saturday night I arrived at the address suggested by the postcode on the card. This proved to be a block of very expensive-looking flats just off Brewhouse Lane in Wapping, as I knew it would be, knowing you well enough to have done my research, as I didn't feel that you would appreciate any tardiness. At the door to the block there were a dozen or so doorbells, the bottom-most one of which being labelled "M". Grinning despite myself, I pushed the button and instantly a woman's voice with an Irish accent spoke through the intercom. "State your business, please".
"My name's Jack", I responded. "I'm looking for Mary".
"Come in please, Jack. Take the stairs to the basement. I'll meet you there". Not waiting for any reply, she buzzed me in. I pushed the door open and stepped into a tastefully lit and decorated lobby. My army boots, worn jeans and biker jacket seemed incongruous in these surroundings but I was obviously in the right place. I descended an iron fin-de-siecle spiral staircase to the basement level lobby, where, true to her word, a woman was waiting for me. Despite the lateness of the hour she was dressed immaculately in a black pencil skirt, a cream blouse and a business jacket. Her hair was pale auburn and drawn up in a high bun. When she spoke I heard the softness of the Irish accent again.
"Good evening, Jack. Deborah is expecting you, so we'll go straight in. Everything is ready". I followed her as she stepped towards a black, gloss painted door set into the magnolia of the wall. She raised a key fob to the reader on the door, which clicked and illuminated a green LED. The woman pushed the door open and we stepped inside. The woman immediately stepped behind a desk and sat down at her computer, motioning me to hang my jacket on the ornate coat stand that stood in one corner of the small room I found myself in; I did so, and, nonplussed, remained standing for a few moments until another door opened and you stepped into the room.
Every time I saw you I would be taken aback by your presence, but on this occasion I found my breath catching in my throat. Your gorgeous darkflame hair was gathered into a long French plait and hung to the small of your back. A black corseted minidress left your arms and shoulders bare. Beneath this sheer nylon encased your legs, ending at your unshod feet. A strong yet subtle scent enveloped me as you stepped towards me, reaching behind my head and drawing me down to your height and kissing me briefly on the right cheek.
"Thank you, Mary. We will be about an hour, I should think." The Irish woman, nodded briefly and returned to her work. "I see you've met Mary, Jack. She doesn't say a lot, which makes her an ideal employee. In this line of work discretion is essential. Now, you're probably wondering what you're doing here". I nodded, my confusion obvious. "Well, it's simple; as a reward for removing
that man
from my house I felt that it was time for you to see me at work".
"Uh, Deborah, I'm not sure if...". You placed a finger to my lips to quieten me.
"Be quiet, Jack. This evening you will watch me at work with a client. I may even direct you to assist; if you make a decent job if it I will have another job for you to do".
I began to protest, saying that seeing some guy being humiliated, even by you, wasn't my scene but you cut me off, dead.
