Flawed Red Sil

Every Friday evening I visit Veronica, our local lady of the night, for some mild bondage and discipline. At six o’clock I knock on her door. She opens it herself, which she doesn’t do for most of her customers. As soon as it is closed behind me I am her slave for the next half-hour. When I leave I am ready to face the wife and kids for an interminable weekend.

I suppose I loved my wife once. Now I live and work in London from Monday to Friday, going back home on Friday evenings, returning to London late on Sunday. I still call the country house home but it isn’t, for me. Neither is my pied-a-terre in London. It is just somewhere to sleep.

If I feel at home anywhere it is in Veronica’s house with her boot on my neck. She seems to care about me. No one else does care, not my family, nor my fellow directors at work. They all want something from me but there is no personal warmth about it.

Veronica gives me what I ask for, a sense of security and usefulness, even if I pay her for her services. It seems odd somehow. She treats me as her personal servant. She humiliates me but I do meaningful things for her such as cleaning her bathroom, doing the washing up, or fixing minor faults around the house.

She tells me that some of her other customers like to lick her boots or to dress up as maids and clean her toilet with their tongues. I suppose it turns them on. What I do for her is more practical. If there is nothing specific for me to do I am tied in a bundle on the floor with her feet resting on me. If I peek up her skirt I get slapped.

My session ends with Veronica mounting me and wringing me dry. Then I pay her maid and leave; returning next Friday evening. During the weekend and sometimes during the week I flee from my mundane life to a daydream of Veronica.

My sessions with Veronica aren’t expensive considering that they keep me sane. Sessions with a psychiatrist would cost more both in money and commitment. I appreciate her more than I should. She is a professional doing her job well and getting paid for it. I shouldn’t expect more than that.

However, when Christopher Jones sent me a pair of exquisite French Knickers, it was Veronica I thought of, not my wife. On Friday evening I gave the wrapped parcel to her as she opened the door. She took it without a word until she had shut the door behind me.

Normally she would order me to drop to my hands and knees by saying “Down” as she would to a dog. This time she didn’t.

“What is this, Ralph?” she asked. She didn’t look or sound pleased.

“It’s a present for you, Veronica.”

“Ralph. We have a commercial relationship. I do things for you; you pay me. That is it. That is all we have between us. That doesn’t leave room for you to give me presents, does it?”

“No, but…”

She thrust the parcel at me.

“No buts. I don’t take presents from my customers. It changes the contract between us. I do not, and do not want to, get involved personally with you or any other customer. I have my own life away from these working premises. That life is my own affair. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Veronica. I thought…”

Her hand pressed over my mouth and stifled my words.

“Don’t think. Now leave whatever it is on the table. Collect it when you go. Back to what you want. Down!”

I put the parcel on the table and dropped to all fours. As she walked from the hall into the living room I crawled after her. I didn’t stay on my knees for long. She had a drip from the cistern in the loft so I climbed up there and replaced the washer. By the time I had cleaned myself up my half-hour was nearly over.

I walked downstairs for the usual perfunctory milking. Veronica was sitting on the settee and showed no signs of moving. She patted the seat beside her. I sat down.

“Ralph,” she said in a normal voice, not the mistress’s voice she usually put on. “I’m concerned about you. You come here every week, do things for me. I give you a quick fuck and you pay. I think these sessions mean a lot to you than they should. Why?”

I explained about my life commuting between a bored wife and family and my office. I told her that my visits to her were like a safety valve, a chance to be me without having to pretend to be a loving husband or father or a work-dedicated director. With Veronica I could relax. She was in charge; she made the decisions; I didn’t have to think, I just did what I she told me to do. I even told Veronica that I had daydreams about these sessions when work or family became too stressful.

She was worried about me. She told me that most of her customers wanted their scenarios just as a way of getting a sexual excitement before the sex. For some it was the only way they could get an erection. For me it was different. The sex wasn’t important. I agreed. She thought that I was emotionally dependent on her and what was she? Just the friendly neighbourhood whore.

My dependence on her was real unlike the play dependence of the others. She thought that without these sessions I might have real problems with my life.

I replied that I already had real problems with my life that were not Veronica’s fault. Neither she nor I could change them but with her I could escape them for half an hour a week.

The present had really bothered her. She knew my needs were different and so far had been willing to accept them and be paid for providing a service. The present suggested that I regarded her as an individual person, not a service provider who could be replaced by another provider if Veronica wasn’t available. She had no illusions about most of her customers. If she was ill, or went on holiday, they would find someone else. Could I do that?

When I thought about it, I realised that I couldn’t. It was Veronica I needed, not the whore. If we didn’t have sex I’d still need to come to her. I admitted that to Veronica.

“If that is so,” she said, “we have a problem. I can’t be any more to you than a whore. I might like you as a person, and I do, but it doesn’t change our situation. I don’t want it to. This is a job for me, a well paid job I admit, but I do it for the money and to support my real life that you are not part of and never will be. You know nothing about me. That is as it should be. I couldn’t do this job if my customers knew the real me. Everything I do here is an act. I could be the whore with the heart of gold who could be redeemed by a real man but it would be just that – another act. You have to understand.”

I nodded. I had followed her so far and in my heart I knew that she was telling me the truth. I was nothing to her and could not be except as part of another fantasy scenario.

“So what am I going to do about you? What I should do is tell you to go away and never come back. I don’t want to do that abruptly because I think you would react badly. Would you?”

“Yes. I am as addicted to you as I might be to any other person or thing that gives me pleasure in an unbearable life. I don’t think I could stop suddenly and keep up the pretence of the other parts of my life.”

“This is my suggestion,” she started to say before breaking off. “Oh, sod it! I need a drink first.”

She pressed the intercom to speak to her maid.

“Maria! Please bring two cups of coffee to the living room.”

She put her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Do you take sugar?”

“No thank you.”

She spoke to Maria again.

“One without sugar.”

Veronica picked up my hand and held it as if she was seeing it for the first time.

“While we wait for Maria I won’t tell you my suggestion but what I will ask is why me? I’m not a young girl. I’m probably as old as your wife...”

I nodded. Veronica was possibly a few years older.

“...and I’m no raving beauty. I never was which is why I went in for the ‘stern mistress’ act. So why?”

I thought back to the first time I came to Veronica. It could easily have been the last time because she was more demanding and dominating than I had expected. What changed my mind was the way she worked out what I liked.

“I think it is because you are a good actress. You give the customers exactly what they want and change your act and apparent personality to fit their need. You soon found the right act for me. You had become what I wanted you to be by the end of my first visit.”

“Perhaps I should have been an actress. I intended to train to be one but there is no money in it except for those very few who make it. Most actors spend their lives doing other jobs waiting for a part. I didn’t want to do that so I chose to be a whore and earn real money.”

Maria arrived with the coffee. Veronica let my hand go as the door opened. We sat side by side drinking the coffee. My scheduled half-hour had passed but Veronica didn’t seem in a hurry.

“I can’t restrain my curiosity,” she said, “what is this present that I shouldn’t accept?”

I spluttered into my coffee.

“It is a pair of silk French Knickers. They were sent to me from a manufacturer my company buys from. I couldn’t stand the idea of giving them to my wife. She wouldn’t appreciate them and they do need appreciation. They are pure silk and hand embroidered. They are a work of art and shouldn’t be wasted. I wanted you to have them, not because I wanted to change our relationship. I didn’t. I wanted to continue as we were. I thought you were the only woman that I knew who could value them for their beauty if for nothing else.”

“You think they are that good?”

“They are unique. They may have made others but the hand embroidery cannot be exactly the same.”

“You have convinced me, Ralph. Can I accept them without changing our roles?”

“I think our roles have already changed just by talking to each other as people. We can’t put that genie back in the bottle. You have seen me as I am. I have seen some of you without the actress’ mask. I don’t think the knickers will make a difference except that I am sure you have the artistic sense to understand someone else’s talent.”

“Ralph! Get them before I change my mind.”

I retrieved the parcel from the hall. I sat back beside her and handed the parcel to her.

“Here you are, Veronica. No strings attached. Just enjoy them.”

She opened the parcel as if she was a small girl opening a Christmas present. When the knickers came out she was delighted. She even kissed me. She had never kissed me before. This kiss was on my cheek and could have been from the little girl to a favourite uncle. It expressed thanks and nothing more.

“Oh dear, Ralph. They are all you said. I am proud to own them. Tonight they will go home with me and stay there. I don’t want them associated with my work. They are too good to be here. I will keep them for special occasions if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Veronica. Now you see why I couldn’t give them to someone who couldn’t see them as a work of art.”

“I understand, Ralph. Thank you.”

Her hand caressed my cheek.

“Now to your problems. These...” Veronica stroked the red silk, “...don’t make things easier. I’m no psychiatrist or counsellor but I suppose I could be described as a parody of a social worker. I understand men, at least the men that need me. I am a refuge from your problems. That cannot continue forever. You have to find a solution to your problems or some more permanent way of living with them. What you need is something to live for. You have made me your sole purpose in life. That is ridiculous because I’m just a whore.”

I tried to interrupt but she held up her hand, motioning me to silence.

“Let me finish, Ralph. You live, if it can be called living, for half an hour a week. You just endure the rest of the week. That is unhealthy and almost insane. If you won’t or can’t divorce your wife then you should do something about your work so that you can enjoy that. Now you hate your work and you hate your wife. Not because she is your wife or that she does things that are hateful but because you two have grown apart and have nothing left in common. You are alienated from your children. That is unnatural and is perhaps a reflection of your estrangement from your wife.”

Veronica shifted her position so that she was facing me directly.

“When did you last take a holiday?”

“Five years ago. We went to Disneyland.”

“With the wife and children?”

“Of course, why else would I go there?”

“So it wasn’t a break for you, was it? You spent all the time with them and didn’t enjoy yourself, did you?”

“Well, no. We went for the children.”

“Have they been on holiday since?”

“Yes. My wife went off with her sister last year for a month while the children went to a youth camp. The year before was similar.”

“What did you do while they were away?”

“I stayed in London.”

“And went to work every day?”

“Yes.”

“So when is the last time that you went on holiday to do something you wanted to do?”

“Before I was married.”

“OK. Would you wife know the difference if you went away for two weeks on a trip that you called ‘business’ but was actually a holiday? Would she find out?”

“Probably not. I would have to phone her once or twice a week but I could phone from anywhere. If I was staying at a hotel that I might use for business and she could phone me there I don’t think she’d know.”

“Who would have to know?”

“My fellow directors and my secretary.”

“Would they tell your wife?”

“If I asked them not to they wouldn’t. She rarely rings the office and if she does, it is only to speak to me. If she knows I am away and she has a contact telephone number she could ring me there.”

“Then you should take a holiday, alone, and soon. Go somewhere YOU want to go. Tell your wife you will be away on business and give her the name of your hotel. Take your mobile phone if you must but tell her that you will only switch it on during the evenings from say seven until eight. Take another mobile phone so that your fellow directors can contact you if you are needed urgently. Don’t give your wife that number. Follow that?”

“Yes, Veronica, but...”

“No buts. Do it!” This was an order and I was used to obeying orders from Veronica.

“I want you to arrange all that by next Friday so you are on holiday from next weekend for two weeks. Don’t come here on Friday. Go wherever go are going. Come back to see me at the end of your first week back at work – if you want to. I won’t accept an appointment from you before then. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then go now, with my thanks for your present. I will see you on the Friday four weeks from now and NOT before.”

“OK, Veronica. Thank you.”

I left, paying Maria as I usually did.

I followed Veronica’s instructions. The next Friday evening I was driving in the opposite direction from my home, down the M2 heading towards Dover. I kept going at the end of the M2 and arrived at my hotel in Sandwich by seven p.m. I had booked my evening meal in advance. After being shown to my room I changed for dinner.

I walked into the nearly deserted bar and ordered a Glenfiddich. I savoured every drop. It had been years since I had taken a drink before my evening meal. In the dining room there were a scattering of diners. I don’t know why. The food was passably good if not exceptional. The prices were very reasonable compared with London or near my home.

After the meal I put my overcoat on and strolled down to the riverside. The river seemed very small to be called the “Great” Stour. Perhaps tomorrow I would walk along its bank towards the sea that was now far from this former Cinque Port.

That night I slept better than I had for years. Even if my problems still existed I was far from them. I should have done this before. Why did it take a concerned whore to tell me I needed a holiday?

The next morning after breakfast and a couple of hours on the internet tiding up work things that were outstanding I asked the receptionist for advice on any walks nearby. She consulted a tide table. Living inland I had forgotten how significant tides are in a low-lying coastal area.

She suggested that I might drive to Sandwich Bay, a private estate. I would have to pay a toll to enter but once there I would have miles of nearly deserted beach with the tide ebbing as I walked. If I walked North from the car park to the Bird Sanctuary I would see the shoreline birds busy feeding as the tide ebbed. On my return the tide would be almost at its lowest so there would be many varieties of birds to see.

She gave me one last piece of advice. I should walk just above the waterline because as the sand dried out it became heavier to walk in. If I didn’t want to walk on the sand there was a track at the edge of the golf course that ran parallel to the sea.

I thanked her and changed my shoes for brown casuals before driving the few miles to Sandwich Bay. The warden stopped me to demand the entrance fee without leaving his car. He explained what I could and could not do within the private estate. His advice for a walk matched the receptionist’s almost word for word except that he added:

“Please help me by making sure that you leave the estate before dark. At this time of year there are very few people around except the residents walking their dogs. They don’t go more than a mile or so. If your car is still here after dark I will have to organise a search party to find you. That is a major undertaking because there is so much open space.”

The car park was large but empty. As I walked away from the car I felt totally alone. That seems ridiculous in England but apart from the view of Ramsgate miles away across a white-capped sea there were no houses in sight.

I climbed the grassed dune and the illusion was gone. Behind me I could see the golf course. To the South I could see the houses of the private estate. To the East, out to sea, I could see the busy shipping lane protected by a lightship on the Goodwin Sands. Even so, there was only one person in sight about half a mile away on the inland path. From the swirl of the coat I assumed that the person was female. She was walking briskly with a cane. As I clambered down to the beach she and the houses were out of sight.

I started to walk along the sand, sinking deep with every step before I remembered the advice to walk just above the retreating tide. I moved down the beach and found the walking much easier. Despite the white horses further out the waves reaching the beach idled up the sand before retreating. The effect was calming and I just enjoyed the sound and sight of the sea. I walked on ignoring time.

I stopped at an interesting shell, picked it up, examined it and then put it back. What would I do with a shell if I took it back to the hotel? I couldn’t take it home because I was supposed to be on business. I could put it in the London flat but it might be a painful reminder, not a happy memory. As I stood up I was facing the way I had come. The beach stretched away for apparent miles with the curve of the coast hiding the estate’s houses.

I would have a long walk back. It must have been years since I had walked so far. I clambered up the dune to get my bearings. Once on top I could see the houses. The track led straight to them ignoring the bulge in the coastline. Halfway between where I was and the houses in the far distance there was a bundle on the path. It looked vaguely like a heap of old clothes and seemed out of place.

I decided that I had walked enough today. I was on holiday and I didn’t want to wear myself out on the first full day, even if the hours of daylight were short. I set off down the path. The bundle was still about two hundred yards away when I realised that it was a person, or perhaps a body. I started to run then stopped. Whoever it was had been within sight for at least ten minutes and had not moved. If I ran I would arrive out of breath and not able to do anything useful. It was a salutary lesson on just how unfit I had let myself become.