(Note: this is an awkward call: one unwieldy piece, or four fairly short chapters? Please do try the whole thing rather than jumping straight to chapter 3, it makes far more sense that way. I hope you enjoy it.
As always, my profound thanks to Lisa Jones for advice, encouragement and inspiration.)
© 2013
Client 07c/1*.
As with so many other sensual pleasures in life, my love of cider goes back to Trude. There had been drinking before, of course, I was more than a little smashed the night I truly fell for her. That was just drinking for getting drunk; even more it was drinking to fit in when I was so far outside in other things. Those lethal cocktails on the back seat of the bus, mixed by Jen Wilson stealing just enough not to be noticed from every bottle in her parents' drinks cabinet. I felt my lips were blistering, in retrospect I'm pleasantly surprised I can still see.
Trude and I drank wine a few times, we drank as much as we could of cheap lager to stiffen our resolve before we went to that shop and bought the whip and handcuffs. But mostly we drank cider, and I came to actually enjoy the taste of it. I can see us now, sat on the seawall with a huge plastic bottle of Gaymers between us and a long hot afternoon before us.
That's how I remember her: the scent of cider and the androgynous sandalwood perfume she wore. The seduction of sin and sex and being all grown up. I have always liked the Bible, long before Annsofie turned me on to the language of the KJV I enjoyed the stories and the symbolism. Trude wasn't just tempting me, she was tempting me with something made from apples. How naughty is that?
Whatever my mother might have told herself about her innocent little girl, I was at least as up for it as Trude. She never needed to get me drunk and take advantage. We just liked to get drunk: liked the buzz; liked the way it took the edge off my compulsions and made me a tad less snotty.
Now it's twenty-two years later and I am the age my dad was when he died. I have a beautiful house and the love of the best woman there is; and at the end of my garden I have apple trees.
*****
I picked the wrong field of endeavour for someone with an innocent view of the human race. I never thought I had one, of course, not with my own esoteric tastes around bedtime. Nonetheless, over the first few years I received a worthwhile education in foibles. Some of them were very quickly shown the door -- I had the huge advantage that I didn't actually need the money, and I wasn't catering to the sort of market that were likely to beat or rape if they didn't get their way. I did learn how to cope with sulking, swearing and snivelling. After well over a decade in the business, not much surprised me anymore. At least, not much that involved a single client.
"Sorry, there's been some mistake. I don't do groups, it's a purely one-to-one gig as far as I'm concerned. I can give you a name ..."
Nicely dressed couple, smart casual and obviously rolling in money if they could afford me. He was around fifty and a tad petulant looking; she was a seriously cute little pixie a good fifteen years his junior.
He was the talker.
"That's what we were looking for. You see, we'd like ..."
"Who's the client?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well I'm sure 'we'd like' is all very sweet, but it must have been someone's idea first; and someone must be paying. Which of you would I be working for?"
"Me."
I asked her to take the wooden seat in the anteroom and led him through to my study, closing the door behind me. They were recently married; he was into it, she hadn't been. He -- that is, they -- wanted her trained. I didn't much like him, but that's not a requirement for a business relationship. I will freely admit I did like the look of her. It's hardly my place to judge, but I found the whole notion bizarre, like those packets of grated cheese you see in supermarkets. Who buys that stuff? Who wants a sub broken in by someone else? How is there satisfaction in that?
Should I have refused on principle? Not a chance: she looked like fun; and one of the many things I am not is a safety net.
"OK, pal, these are the rules. I'm not a tart, I'm a consultant: you do not tell me what to do. I don't have sex with men -- not for fun, not for money; not even by proxy. I don't have sex in front of men so they can watch. I don't have sex on film so you can toss off over me at home. This conversation turning you on, by the way?"
He shifted a little uncomfortably to hide his erection. As I said, I didn't much like the man. Not that I'd have walloped him for nothing, you understand, but if he'd been paying me for that I would happily lay on a little harder than requested. He harrumphed, and I continued.
"If you're the client, then the lady gets treated exactly the way I'd treat any other man: discipline and instruction without sex. As I said, it's a one-to-one thing. I run a very discrete and confidential business. You two can chat all you want at home, but I'm not having it under my roof. I'm not even prepared to talk to her in your presence. Take it or leave it."
As a final flourish I took out my fountain pen and wrote a ludicrous sum on the desk jotter before passing it across to him. His eyes bugged out, then he swallowed.
"Is that by the
hour
?"
"Flat session rate. If it's fifteen minutes, or if it's three hours -- which is my choice, by the way. You want training, then you trust me to decide what's necessary."
We arranged payment details and I gave him an appointment that Wednesday afternoon. Then I sent them both away.
***
I buzzed the street-level door open without a word when she pressed its bell three floors below me, then went out to wait. I took the six steps along the dead-end corridor from my door to the landing as softly as I could, because I could already hear her climbing. One of the nice things about those bare concrete stairs was the way footsteps rang so loud up the well; the way you could hear them getting slower with nerves as my clients got nearer to my lair. One of the even nicer things was that it gave me fair warning on the rare occasions anyone else was in the building.
I stood against the wall and rested one hand on the metal banister as I leant a little over. Unless she looked straight up at the bottom of the last flight, she wouldn't see me watching her. She did not look up -- nor around nor even down at her feet -- she was following that old advice about staring straight forward when you are called in to see the headmistress. Left hand out to the rail: balance or reassurance? Reassurance, I thought: she was gripping more than sliding over it. Slightest rise to her shoulders as she took a deep breath with two steps to go. I felt myself inhaling to match her: savour that last brief moment of watching unseen before she turned and ...
She gave me a shy smile. It was an awkward situation, after all. How she would welcome a smile back.
"Hello. I'm --"
"Not interested ..."
She was looking decidedly cute: a little Audreyish in her short hair. Not my usual type, you will admit, but I've never been one to let that constrain me. Nicely turned out: dress just above her knees; smart cardigan thing; heels. That was nice: short leather skirt screaming 'I'm a tarty sub' wouldn't have suited me. Apparently it wouldn't suit the owner either, he wanted me to make him a nice pretty little lady rather than a whore.
I took one pace forward and folded my arms. I ran my eyes down the length of her: face to feet, slow enough to make it quite obvious I was imagining what was underneath. Back up to the hem of that dress.
"... Are those tights or stockings?"
"Stockings."
"Your idea or his?"
"His."
"I don't like them."
"I'm sor--"
"Not interested in that either. What do you want?"
What did she see? As I said, it was an awkward situation, and not simply for her. Had she been a man, there would have been a detailed questionnaire of kinks and by this time I'd know whether it was catsuit or schoolmarm or any of the other delights in my wardrobes. Had she been
my
woman, I'd have been relaxing in one of my silk robes and strappy sandals. This sweet little hermaphroditic conundrum had me flummoxed, so I was doing my very smart out for the evening look. Navy jacket and skirt, ivory top, navy suede kitten-heels.
Except I wasn't out for the evening, I was working. My chestnut hair was pulled back in a plait tight enough to make my eyes water and I was wearing my black kids with buttons at the wrist. I started that little impatient tap of right finger on left elbow that signals Victoria is going to make your life pleasurably painful in the near future. Five-three of command presence: Little Miss Scary. I was, if I am honest about this, at the peak of my powers and so very good at my job.
Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed.
"I'd like ... My husband would like you to --"
"Stop there. You and your husband, I take it you play already, yes? Does he have a title? What do you call him when you ..."
... when you do whatever it is you do. Which, to be quite honest with you, I didn't want to know. Not that I wouldn't be making her tell, of course.
"Sir."
Oh well, it would have to do. When you get right down to it, there's so few good choices and so many people playing, how can you possibly be individual?
"Try again."
"Sir would like --"
Simple small cruelties. Ask questions; demand answers but don't allow them
to
answer. Kicks the legs out from under people, takes their balance away and makes them vulnerable.
"Kneel down please ..."
Balance taken right away, not to mention that she was in heels. She didn't know whether to look at me or the floor. One hand hovering towards the wall for security, dress getting trapped under one knee.
"... Not acceptable. Stand up. Kneeling is an art, and like any other art it needs to be done with grace or not at all. Hands at the sides, eyes on me. As you go down, hands just oh so slightly lift the dress clear. You're kneeling, which shows you are subordinate; at the same time you're showing willing to lift your skirt whenever commanded. That's your place: inferior and sexually available. You need to plant the image in the depths of my mind of you on your back with your knees up, but without spoiling that scared little innocent look. Try it again, please ..."
I can't begin to explain how much I owe to learning control from a soldier. Not that we ever talked theory, that wasn't her scene at all; but she had been marched about by some of the world's best practitioners of disciplinary theatrics and when she suggested what might or might not work, you can be sure I listened. Calm voice, level voice; just exactly as loud as it needs to be and never any louder. Don't lose your temper. The calmer you are, the scarier you are. 'Tits out for Miss' isn't particularly sexy; 'would you please expose your breasts for Miss' is, especially in the tone that makes it clear how little you meant that 'please'.
"... And up. Take off your shoes and try it again."
Third time lucky. Her chin was shuddering a tad: angry or sobby? It would need just a little further push to see which. I walked round her and picked up her shoes. I am not a connoisseur, give me kinky sandals for playtime and my M&S courts for the rest and I'm happy. Whatever these were, you could feel the money sitting in your hand when you touched them.
