Stephen's alarm woke him and he started his morning ritual until his sleepy conscience realised it was a Saturday. It was the second weekend in succession where his body had tricked him and, now dressed, he made out a shopping list.
On a hunch, he also sent a text to Hugh and asked him to meet, who responded almost immediately. Stephen met his friend in the corner of a quiet cafe, on the outskirts of town. Hugh's mop of untidy hair and bead necklace offered a nod to his new age upbringing and liberal attitudes. "Victoria Braithwaite," Stephen said as he changed the subject. "What do you know of her?"
"Avoid her," Hugh replied and sipped his fizzy drink with a wide expression. "She's weird, and that woman is bad news. You're not getting involved with her, are you?"
"A bit."
Hugh rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I'm not saying much. If you are thinking of doing anything with her, don't. I've still got the mental scars."
"I already am involved. That's what I want to know. I think she did something to you and I'd love to understand what."
Hugh slowly shook his head. "I am not telling you that. Just get out as soon as you can and don't fight her. She's crazy. It was like playing truth or dare with the devil."
"Hugh, come on ..."
"I can't." He inhaled sharply and downed his drink. "She's a perverted witch."
"I know, but that's the attraction. A bit. Please, tell me what happened." Hugh snorted. "She made me wear a leotard - a dancing outfit - across town last night. I got wolf-whistled by a couple of drunk men coming out of the pub, but she was trying to get in my head. What did she do to you?"
"Get out. Report her to her mum or her aunt or the bloody Police if she abuses you or whatever if you have to, but avoid her, Stephen. It's not worth it. You're thinking with your dick. You always think with your prick when you see a controlling bitch. But this isn't a game, and she doesn't come from a Marvel comic. She isn't a sexy avatar from your PlayStation, or the character of one of those dirty stories you love to send me. She's not harmless at all." Stephen shook his head, and Hugh got up from the table. "I'm meeting Col in town in half-an-hour. But don't dismiss what I said, mate. She'll get nastier and crazier. She has more than just a screw loose. She is going to take you to Hell and there's no escape and no fucking mercy. Just run."
Hugh shook his head as he left, leaving Stephen deep in thought, who finished his drink and took a bus into town to do his weekly shopping; his kitchen cupboards were bare, and his adventures with the crazy Victoria had stolen his attention.
His phone beeped when he returned home, and he glanced at the message from his torturer.
Stephen,
You will come to my house at 8pm. Bring me an Indian takeaway and cans of my favourite cider. Be at my door, wearing just the leotard.
Victoria
Six hours later, and one trip to the local convenience store later, Stephen stood in the doorway of a popular Indian restaurant in his T-shirt and shorts, with the pink dancing outfit under his clothing. Victoria hadn't told him what meal to get, and his enquiry as to her favoured curry went unanswered.
However, he had a promotional voucher for 33% off his bill, so he ordered the Buffet Banquet, that gave him four different curries and two cartons of rices, as well as the usual accompaniments.
Stephen had planned to change in the same bushes he had done so before, but after he collected the takeaway meal in a plastic bag from the Indian restaurant, three-quarters of a mile from Victoria's home, he felt a sudden urge of adventure. The footpath, a shortcut between two houses, was deserted. With a furtive look up and down the path, he pulled his black T-shirt over his shoulder, and then dropped his shorts, before stuffing both in his backpack and picking up the warm bag.
Two drivers honked their horn. The lithe young man, dressed in just a pastel-coloured tight leotard, attracted second glances from pedestrians and drinkers outside the pub. Drunk patrons made comments as the unusual sight of a teenage guy walking in female dancing attire drew attention.
Stephen loved it. His cheeks burnt as he walked, and his insides bubbled with excitement and fear. His body felt hyper-sensitive and his mind was attuned for any screams, shouts, cries or laughs. A hen party staggered out of a hotel, en route to the station for a night in London; scantily dressed inebriated women with angel wings propositioned him, and the young man had to escape by fleeing across the road.
With seconds to spare before the stated time, he rang Victoria's doorbell. "Oh, hello Stephen," Anne-Marie called as the Latex-clad dominatrix burst from her house. "Back again? OK, be good, love. I'll be home at midnight, if you're still here. Victoria is in the garden, go on through." She unlocked her car and turned to see the startled man watching her put a large bag in the boot of the saloon. "And nice outfit. It suits you." She giggled as she blew the young man a kiss.
Stephen walked through the house and stood at the back door. Victoria was reading, and the young domme, dressed in just a short kilt, sat on the chairs in the centre of the garden. He took a few moments to admire her beauty; the soft curves of her bosom, her shapely hips and her well-defined calves. She sipped elegantly from a glass with graceful movements of her fingers that clasped around the vessel and drained it of liquid. "Are you going to give me my meal or stand there ogling me?" She called out without looking up from her book.
Victoria rose from her chair and gestured at the picnic table near the house. "Evening," Stephen called to his ex-classmate, and she smiled at him. "You didn't say which curry to get you. I'll have whatever you don't want."
