Domination Inc.

 

 

DOMINATION INC.

 

 

by

 

DRUSILLA LEATHER

 

 

 

 

 

 

Domination Inc.
published by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

 

 

Digital edition converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

 

 

New Authors Welcome

 

Copyright © Drusilla Leather

First printed in 1999. Reprinted in 2005

The right of Drusilla Leather to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

Chimera
-
a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

 

 

 

 

 

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

 

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

 

 

 

 

 

The next thing she felt was a gentle tap on her bottom as Joe measured his swing. She tensed herself, eyes closed tight, but nothing could have prepared her for the feel of the first blow as it landed. She squealed, and would have fallen from Joe's lap had he not held her tight. There was a stinging line of pain across the fullest part of her bottom, like nothing she had known. The ruler fell again, sharp and unforgiving as before. Joe was spacing the strokes carefully, so that when a third landed, and then a fourth, each was on an area of skin that had not yet been touched. She was squirming and kicking as he beat her, and her bottom felt twice its normal size and unbelievably hot. Tears of pain and shame stung her eyes, and she did nothing to blink them away.

‘I'll bet your bum looks beautiful now, all pink and sore,' Joe said. ‘Shall we have a look?'

 

 

 

 

 

‘On your knees and worship me.'

The wording on the card caught Laurel Angell's attention as she waited for Joe to answer the phone. It featured a photograph of a voluptuous dark-haired woman encased in a skin of shiny black leather, brandishing a whip, with a Soho phone number featured prominently beneath the image. It was not the only such card stuck to the phone booth wall, but it was certainly the most striking. Laurel carefully peeled the card from the glass and slipped it in the pocket of her leather jacket, not quite certain why she was doing so. Having agreed to meet Joe in a pub just off Camden High Road, she replaced the receiver and went to wait for a break in the traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue.

As Laurel trudged down the subway steps towards Tottenham Court Road tube station, she reflected that anyone else in her position would have a flash company mobile phone, so they could make a call without breaking their journey. But since Roger had disappeared, there was hardly enough money to pay for a company two-pound phonecard.

Laurel did not consider herself to be a violent woman, but if she ever got her hands on Roger Preston again, murder would almost certainly be committed. The two had been partners in the Moonlight Escort Agency for almost three years, and in that time Laurel had come to know the suave, well-spoken Roger like a brother. Or, at least, she thought she had. Now she realised there was a side to Roger that she had never known. A side which would allow the man to conveniently vanish from the face of the earth when the business had run into trouble.

Everything had seemed so promising, at the start. Running an escort agency had never been the career Laurel had envisaged for herself as she studied for an English degree at university, but when she had graduated it seemed that the only jobs available were in telesales. After nine months of trying to sell advertising space in a technical journal and fighting off the attentions of potential clients who were more interested in the sound of her soft, husky voice than in placing an advert, she'd had enough. If she had to sell anything to earn her living, selling the company of a beautiful woman for the evening seemed easier and infinitely preferable. Roger Preston had a certain smooth charm and a way of hooking in a client, and Laurel had quickly learned from her partner's example. The agency had never made a huge profit, but with its innate discretion and a reputation for providing attractive, intelligent girls, Roger and Laurel had always been comfortable. In the last six months, however, things had gone badly wrong: a rival agency, Promises, had appeared, offering girls at half the price Moonlight was charging. It was not long before the number of clients had fallen off dramatically. They'd had to lay off several of their best girls, a couple of whom had, ironically, begun working for Promises shortly afterwards, and even an attempt to branch out and attract female customers by offering male escorts was not enough to stop the rot.

Laurel would never forget the afternoon she had climbed the flight of stairs to the agency's office, above a travel agent's in a busy Soho street, to find its doors locked and Roger absent. In all her time of working with him she had never arrived at the agency before him, and as she fumbled in her handbag for her own keys to the office, she wondered if he might be ill. She had been out of London for a couple of days, attending the wedding of an old school friend, but there had been no message from Roger on her answerphone when she returned to indicate that anything might be wrong. Certainly nothing to suggest that there would be a pile of what looked suspiciously like bills lying on the floor behind the door, or that the lighting and telephone would not be working.

By working her way through the post, with its increasingly abrupt threats of disconnection unless payment was made, it became obvious to Laurel that Roger had been lying to her over a considerable amount of time regarding the agency's financial state. Both the phone and the electricity supply appeared to have been cut off, and there was also a couple of months' rent on the office outstanding.

She had gone down to the travel agency and persuaded them to let her use their phone. A couple of wheedling calls and the promise of a sum of money in the post had mollified Moonlight's most pressing creditors, and she was assured that everything would be reconnected within the next couple of days. Much as she was loath to do so, Laurel knew she could raise the necessary sums by pawning a couple of pieces of antique jewellery her grandmother had bequeathed her. Then she tried Roger's number, furious with him for letting the business fall into such a perilous state. A recorded voice told her the number had not been recognised. Something was definitely amiss here, and it seemed the only way to find out what was happening was to visit her partner in person.

When she turned up at the house in Notting Hill where Roger rented a self-contained ground floor flat, and peered through the window, the place had the same deserted air as the agency. She tried the intercom and received no reply. As she walked back down the steps, a middle-aged man came towards her, clutching a brown paper bag full of shopping to his chest. Laurel recognised him as Roger's landlord, who lived on the first floor.

‘Excuse me, I'm looking for Roger Preston,' she began, as the man fumbled in his pocket for his door key.

He flashed her a look filled with irritation and distaste. ‘Aren't we all, love? You, me, the bailiffs.' He turned the key in the lock. ‘If you find the bastard before I do, tell him he owes me three months' rent.' He shut the door firmly in Laurel's face, leaving her standing impotently on the doorstep as a heavy rain began to fall.

That had been almost a fortnight ago; there had been no word from Roger, and her attempts to track him down via his friends and business associates had come to nothing. No one had seen the man for a couple of weeks, and he had given no forwarding address. Laurel had been left on her own to sort out the mess he had created. The agency was dying on its feet: despite her assurances that she had no intention of closing the business, all bar a couple of the girls who remained on her books had drifted away in search of more secure work, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to cater for the thin trickle of clients who still continued to call. To compound her problems, as she began to look through the muddle of paperwork in the office, it became clear that Roger's duplicity was greater than she had at first believed. His name was entirely absent from every single one of the bank loan forms, rental agreements and contracts of employment in the files. Even though the documents outlining their initial partnership had been drawn up over three years ago, Laurel had a clear memory of Roger putting his signature to everything. They had been equal partners, but now only Laurel appeared to have a stake in the agency – and, more importantly, the responsibility for settling its debts. Quite when Roger had altered the paperwork she would never know, and she had no way of proving what he had done: it was her word against that of a man who, effectively, had ceased to exist.

She had sought legal advice, but it had become clear that unless she could find a way of paying the money the agency owed its various creditors, she was in serious trouble. The sums involved were such that even selling the family heirlooms would not meet them. Her meeting earlier this afternoon with her solicitor, Peter Greycott, had clarified the situation: unless she did something soon, she was looking at bankruptcy and the prospect of having her flat in West Hampstead repossessed.

Laurel tried to put the gloomy thoughts out of her head as she reached
The McColgan Revived
, Joe's local. She pushed open the door that led into the pub's cosy interior and wandered in. A couple of heads turned at the sight of her tall, curvy figure, even buried as it was in a sloppy fisherman's rib jumper and loose-fitting PVC jeans, but she barely registered their interest. She ran a hand through her shaggy, shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair and looked round for her friend.

The red-headed Joe was already sitting on one of the high stools at the bar, studying the racing form in the
Evening Standard
, a half-drunk glass of Guinness on the wooden counter in front of him. He looked up as Laurel approached him.

‘Hi, Laurel, how's it going? Can I get you a drink?'

‘Thanks. A white wine and soda, please.' Laurel smiled at the good-looking blond behind the bar as he reached for a wineglass.

Laurel had liked Joe Gallagher since the first time they had met, a little over two years ago. Then, Joe had been a detective constable who had turned up to investigate a break-in at the travel agency beneath the office where Moonlight Escorts was based. The routine conversation had got friendlier over a couple of drinks when Joe had come off duty, and she had found herself warming to his wicked sense of humour and the grin which perpetually lit up his face. The two had continued to keep in touch, even when Joe had been transferred to a station out in Essex. He had lasted a mere four months there before his career had come to a sudden end after a serious accident. While pursuing a suspect in a stolen car at high speed through Epping Forest on a rainy November night, Joe's squad car had spun out of control and crashed into a tree. It had taken the best part of two hours to cut him and his colleague free from the wreckage, and by the time Joe's mangled, unconscious body had been retrieved and taken to the local intensive care unit, doctors were speculating that he might never walk again. He had proved them wrong, a slight limp and a tracery of scars on his legs bearing the only testimony to his brush with death, but he had never been fit enough to rejoin the police force. Now, he worked in an upmarket sandwich bar in Holborn, catering to the hungry insurance brokers and bankers in the area. Laurel looked at her friend, still studying his newspaper, and wondered if he ever missed his old job. It was a stupid question, of course: how could you not miss something that had been your whole life?

‘Have you got a pen?' Joe's words cut into Laurel's reverie. ‘I think I've found the little beauty that means I never have to cut another sandwich as long as I live.'

‘Sure.' Laurel rummaged in her jacket pocket, searching for the ball-point pen she knew was in there. As she did so, the prostitute's card fell out. Joe picked it up off the floor and looked at it quizzically.

‘What's this?'

‘I got it from a phone booth.' Laurel felt her cheeks reddening. ‘Don't ask me why. It's not like I'm going to make an appointment or anything.'

‘Is that because you don't want to, or because you just can't afford it at the moment?' Joe's tone was gently teasing.

‘That's not funny,' Laurel replied. ‘You know I was seeing my solicitor today? Well, it's worse than I thought. It looks like I'm going to lose the business, my flat – everything.' Unexpectedly, she felt tears pricking the backs of her eyes.

‘If there's anything I can do…' Joe said gently, catching her hand with his and giving it a squeeze. ‘I've still got some money left from the payout they gave me when I was pensioned off from the force.'

‘Thanks, Joe, but I couldn't.' She sighed, and gently disentangled her fingers. ‘It's not just a question of settling the debts I've got. I don't want to lose the agency. I need to find some way I can keep it alive.'

‘Well, have you considered specialising?'

‘Specialising?'

Joe tapped the card where it lay on the table between them. ‘Look at this. You've seen how many cards there are offering services, but how many are just for girls giving nothing more than quick hand relief, or maybe a blowjob? And then you get one or two that are aimed at this market. Domination, bondage, the stuff that's more highly sought after – and pays better, too. I tell you, Laurel, there are lots of men looking for a woman who'll dish out a really good spanking, or make them wear a dress and humiliate them; all these straight-as-a-die City types, and judges and MPs, wanting a good old thrashing just like they used to get at public school.'

‘How come you know so much about this?' Laurel asked.

‘I had a girlfriend who was into it. Not the heavy stuff so much, but she loved to be spanked.' Joe drained his glass and attracted the barman's attention. ‘Same again?'

She nodded. ‘So who are we talking about?' There had been so many girls flitting in and out of her friend's life that it was almost impossible to keep track of who he was seeing at any one time.

‘You remember Judy?'

Laurel cast around in her memory, finally recalling a petite Scottish girl with a mass of curly dark hair, whom she had met at a Sunday afternoon barbecue party Joe had hosted a couple of months before his accident.

‘Well, there was always something about Judy, I don't know if you'd call it feistiness, or what, but I always got the feeling that she was trying to goad me into something. She had this real impudent streak, and she was always trying to see how far she could push me. I could never work out what her game was, until one night when I was trying to watch the football, and she was really annoying me, standing in front of the TV screen to block my view. Eventually I said something like, “If you don't stop that, I'm going to haul you over my knee and give you a bloody good slap.”‘

Laurel had a sudden suspicion of where this story was heading. Her guess was confirmed when Joe continued, ‘Do you know what she did? She just put her hands on her hips, flashed me this wicked little smile and said, “You wouldn't dare.” Of course, that was when it hit me that she'd wanted this all the time, she just hadn't known how else to broach the subject. Something about the way she was looking at me, and the thought of having her wriggling on my lap while I tanned her backside really started to turn me on. I forgot all about the match I'd been watching, and I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her over my knees.