I did not know how to ask, so, once we were soaped and shampooed and towelled and perfumed and had done a little bit more kissing and light caressing, we parted company, well satisfied with our evening of debauchery.
At Lady Markham’s apartment a few days later, she interrupted me in my vacuuming and invited me to sit down and take a drink with her.
‘I hear a wonderful time was had by all on Saturday night,’ she remarked, smiling from ear to ear, as she handed me a tumbler of gin and tonic.
‘I can only thank you once more,’ I said. In truth, it all seemed like a distant dream now. I had gone back to work as normal on Monday morning – not to the Redvers’s, but to another similar family put my way by the agency. Bills needed paying, mother had a bad back, I was a single frustrated Polish lesbian not getting any younger.
‘You deserved a wonderful escape from your routine, dear,’ observed Lady Markham. ‘I’m so pleased it was enjoyable. Penny tells me she was terribly impressed with you.’
I looked up sharply. Lady Markham knew one of my pleasure slaves?
‘Oh, don’t look so stunned,’ she laughed. ‘I’m rather closely connected with the whole operation. I more or less bankroll it. I put Penny their way – she works at a dungeon I sometimes like to visit.’
‘You … a dungeon? You visit a dungeon?’
‘Strictly hush hush, my dear, you’ll understand.’
‘Of course!’
‘I do trust you, Krysztyna. I think you’re a good soul. A discreet soul.’
‘Oh, I am. I have my own secrets … as you know.’
‘Yes. Sometimes, a secret shared can be such a weight off one’s mind. Penny and I play scenes together on occasion, when I feel like a little submissive company in my suffering.’
‘You’re a …?’
‘You hadn’t guessed? Well, I hadn’t guessed about you being a marvellous Domme either, so perhaps that isn’t surprising.’
‘No.’ I put my glass down, unsure what on earth to say next.
‘The thing is, Krysztyna,’ said Lady Markham softly, so softly I could barely catch the words. It wasn’t like her to be shy at all. I leant forward, hanging on the words that dropped from her pristinely lipsticked mouth. ‘Marvellous as the dungeon club is, all the cloak-and-dagger creeping about round the back streets is such a bore. I constantly fear exposure. It would be disastrous for me, personally and professionally, if I were ever spotted. I’ve been thinking I probably shouldn’t go there any more.’
‘Oh. That’s a pity.’
‘There’s the wonderful Mr Collins and Mr Bryant, of course, but they are so difficult to pin down. And the preparations take so long. Sometimes one craves the experience too intensely to bear a long wait. I’m sure you know what I mean by that.’
‘I … do.’
‘I wondered if you … might … be amenable to a private arrangement.’
‘A private arrangement?’
‘I like to submit. You like to dominate.’ She shrugged, almost fearful of looking at me, it seemed.
‘Lady Markham!’
‘Oh, do call me Drusilla. Call me anything you like.’ She chuckled, a little desperately. ‘Bitch. Slut. Slave.’
It was only when my chest began to feel unbearably tight that I realised I had not drawn breath for a long time. Beautiful, über-sexy Lady Markham wanted to be my bitch. This could not be real.
‘Dare I hope …?’
‘I … am, well, I’m sorry, this is such a surprise.’ I laughed, a little hysterically. ‘A lovely surprise, please don’t look so sad! A lovely surprise, of course!’
‘Then you’ll consider it?’
I would have been mad not to, wouldn’t I?
I still clean my three houses. I clean for the new Redverses – known as the Blackleys, similar in profile but infinitely superior in manners. I still clean for Ms Livesay, but she has buckled down a little, acquired a boyfriend, and no longer leaves the flat in such a horrific state. Not since I threatened to quit, anyway. And, of course, I am Lady Markham’s domestic Dominatrix.
If she arrives home while I am cleaning, I often hand the trug of cleaning products over to her without a word, sit back on the sofa and watch as she sprays and scrubs in her expensive twinset, pearls crashing against the windows when she enthusiastically wipes them down. She seems to get a strange kick from the menial nature of it, though she has told me many times that she would hate doing housework if I weren’t there to watch and issue orders. It is one of her ultimate fantasies, apparently, to be made to submit to her cleaner.
Sometimes I only want her to take off my shoes and rub my feet or give me a massage. Sometimes we just sit and spoon and use fingers and tongues to take the edge off our longings. But when I am in the mood, she takes me to her secret playroom. I may dress her as a Roman slave or a schoolgirl; I may have her naked or trussed up to the neck in tight shiny restrictive rubber; I may whip her until she screams or I may tie her up and tease her until she gasps and begs for release. We do what I want – and what I want is always what she wants.
She has referred me to a City practice seeking a legal secretary – if everything works out, I may be able to resign from my cleaning jobs next month. Perhaps mother and I will be able to find a bigger, nicer flat. Perhaps I will find a proper girlfriend and live happily ever after. Even if I don’t, I have my Lady, and my Lady loves to be my tramp.
‘S
O
Mr C
OLLINS IS
busy tonight?’
‘Like I said.’ Bryant looked up from the syllabub, and Charlotte caught a defensive gleam in the usually reassuring blue. ‘He has some business or other to attend to.’
‘Family business?’ Charlotte tried to keep the tone casual, neutral, but she held her breath until Bryant replied.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what Collins does in his spare time, not being his keeper, Charlotte.’
Charlotte felt suitably tongue-lashed. For whatever reason – and surely it couldn’t be the one she was thinking – this was a touchy subject. Best let it go and take her head out of the gift horse’s jaw. It wasn’t every night she was taken to an expensive restaurant by one of her suave and handsome bosses – in fact, this was a first.
‘So where’s this club we’re going to?’
Bryant relaxed, taking up his napkin from his lap and depositing it on the table beside his empty dish.
‘Oh, it’s just around the corner.’
‘Really? In this part of town? I thought this area was all Dukes and sheikhs and movie stars. It’s Swanksville!’
‘Yes, and the members are some of its richest citizens.’
‘Oh, I see. For some reason, I always imagine that kind of stuff going down in seedy basements in Soho or Kings Cross.’
‘Some of it does. Some of it doesn’t. In swinging, as in real life, all types of people from all social strata are represented. You know, for a girl who gets fucked in bondage more often than she eats a hot meal, you’re surprisingly naïve.’
Charlotte’s ears burned – ludicrous as it seemed to take offence at a comment that was both true and probably well-meant, she was mortified at Bryant’s crude remark. She did not mind how many fucks and cunts he came out with mid-scene, but to treat her like a whore while she was innocently eating her dinner and trying to be normal struck her as too cruel. Collins would never have been so crass, she thought. Or would he? Why would she idealise men who were, after all, when it came down to brass tacks, procurers? Pimps, that was all they were, she thought, with an inward toss of the head. Think of them as such and perhaps she could drive back all these … feelings that had been boiling up in the last few months.
‘I’m not here as your submissive tonight,’ she reminded him tightly. ‘And actually, I’m not your submissive really. Not in any meaningful way. Am I?’
Bryant did a double-take, leaning in close to her and taking her hand.
‘Charlotte – are you all right? Have I said something to upset you? If so, I’m truly sorry. I would never seek to … there must be some kind of misunderstanding. Really.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ Charlotte lost her nerve, smiling wanly at him. ‘I just … sometimes I think you forget I have feelings.’
Bryant, as if made of stone, stared blankly at her for a long time, only his compulsive squeezing of her hand giving away the ticking heart behind the expensive suit.
‘I didn’t think,’ he murmured, as if to himself. ‘I didn’t think we could … oh, never mind.’
He asked for the bill and paid before giving his arm to Charlotte and escorting her out into the five-star Mayfair night.
‘So what do you think about swinging?’ he asked, leading her along the wide pavements, beneath the low-hanging branches of the trees that sheltered the street.
‘I don’t know much about it,’ confessed Charlotte. ‘I think of key parties, you know. People in kaftans, with pampas grass in the front garden. It all seems a bit Seventies/Eighties, if you know what I mean. Old-fashioned.’
‘I must admit,’ Bryant confided, ‘I haven’t really looked into this scene much myself. But when you passed on that email from the client, it struck a chord with me. I suddenly thought I ought to check it out. And I couldn’t go alone. Thank you again for offering to come with me, Charlotte. Do you think you’ll want to … partake? Or simply watch?’
‘Is watching an option?’ asked Charlotte nervously.
‘I should think so. I imagine a lot of the people here are voyeurs. Hopefully the figures balance, and there will be just as many exhibitionists. Otherwise it might be rather a dull night.’
They arrived at a gracious terraced house and descended some steps to the basement entrance – all very respectable-looking, with two potted bay trees either side of the heavy black-painted door.
Bryant rang a bell and a burly gentleman in exotic silk robes and a pillbox hat with a tassel answered, raising an eyebrow at them. Charlotte had a presentiment that this was going to be anything but a dull night.
‘Names please?’ he demanded, consulting a clipboard.
‘Bryant and lady.’
‘OK. You’re on the list. Please come in.’
He showed them through to a small anteroom, all crimson and purple with beaded curtains hanging across the arched opening. Erotic paintings hung here and there, and Bryant helped Charlotte down on to the low cushions that provided the only seating.
‘Well, this is jolly, isn’t it?’ he murmured into Charlotte’s ear, amused, while the doorman went off to do whatever procedure demanded. He slung an arm around her shoulder, sensing her escalating tension. Somewhere in the distance, music was playing. ‘Relax, darling. You’re so tense!’
On a low table in front of them lay paraphernalia relevant to various different recreational drugs. Charlotte found this ominous and tried not to look at it.
‘Will everyone be stoned?’ she whispered to Bryant.
‘Those that need a bit of extra stimulation, perhaps,’ he mused. ‘Personally, I like my sex straight up – I don’t need chemical distractions.’
‘It’s never occurred to me to try it,’ said Charlotte. She shivered, now extremely nervous. ‘I think I’m a bit scared.’
‘I’ll look after you,’ Bryant assured her. ‘We can leave if you really want. You can research things without experiencing them, you know.’
‘Oh no. I need to know how these things feel – or I can’t get the details right for the client.’
‘I suppose so. I applaud your dedication, Charlotte. You’re a rare girl.’
Charlotte was still wondering whether rare was good or bad when the robed man returned, carrying a cloth bag which he set down on the table before them.
‘OK, you are new members, so I have to give you the full low-down. This club is not to be discussed outside these four walls with anyone who you haven’t met within them. I know you have taken tests for sexually transmitted infections, but until you get your updated results, you must use barrier protection for the first six weeks. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ Bryant nodded. ‘I’m fully equipped.’
‘And your lady?’
‘I … yes.’ Charlotte’s face flared. The man’s dispassionate manner made her think she was preparing for a gynaecological exam.
‘Good. Now, there are different events – usually once a week. Tonight it happens to be a masked ball. I have masks for you here.’ He emptied the bag, disgorging two eye masks – one plain black satin, the other adorned with paste gems and feathers. ‘Put them on, please.’
Bryant looked dashing in his mask, Charlotte thought, like Dick Turpin or Zorro. She wondered if hers conferred the glamour of days gone by on her, or if she just looked a bit silly. Everything felt transformed, mysterious, alluring through the almond-shaped eye slits. It was like taking a holiday from oneself.
‘You notice that something else was in the bag,’ the man prompted. Charlotte picked them up – two long chains with different pendants attached. One was in the shape of a heart, the other a lightning fork. ‘For the lady, the heart.’
Charlotte put the necklace on. The heart was heavy, hanging low in her cleavage. Bryant took off his tie, loosened his collar and placed his own identifier around his neck.
‘At the party, you will see that everyone is wearing a necklace. Mr Bryant, you are free to choose any of the women wearing hearts. If none of them appeal, of course, you have recourse to your lady here. In the same way, she may choose any man with a lightning pendant. If she does not like them, she may come back to you. If you are chosen by somebody you really feel you do not want – then of course you are free to reject him or her. However, should you do this, you will have to find yourself another club. The choice is yours.’
Charlotte and Bryant exchanged mask-concealed glances. Bryant seemed to be waiting for approval from Charlotte, which she gave with a near-imperceptible nod.
The robed man motioned them upward and they followed him along a corridor that led through the prodigiously sized basement until a curtained double door was opened into … well, it wasn’t really what Charlotte was expecting from a ballroom. It was more like an underground bar or nightclub, low-lit, distorted music flooding from wall-mounted speakers, the furnishings reminiscent of an old-time bordello.
The floor was dotted with couples, swaying, smooching, some of them groping. There did not seem to be a uniform dress code, for some were in full eighteenth-century masquerade costume while others were in fetish-inspired underwear. Charlotte, in her short, low-cut cocktail dress and stiletto knee boots, felt positively conservative in comparison, and Bryant was one of only a few men in a business suit. Frilly shirts and britches were everywhere, interspersed with leather trousers and the odd bare chest. Charlotte was reminded of New Romantic music videos from the 1980s and rather wished for a pompadour wig and a ribboned shepherdess’s crook so she could really feel part of the scene.
‘Well then,’ said Bryant, after drawing a deep breath. ‘Shall we mingle?’
Charlotte, feeling shy, looked for a space on the low, cushion-strewn divans that lined the large bunker, but most of them were occupied by writhing bodies. None yet were at the stage of full engagement, but a few weren’t far off that happy state. Perhaps she could get herself a drink – where was the bar? She approached a rectangular gap in the purple silk wall, but there was no barman to be seen, merely bottle after bottle of champagne and a stack of glasses.
‘You help yourself,’ a male voice behind her said. ‘You’re new here, are you?’
She turned to see a squat figure dressed like a Civil War royalist, long curly wig and all, neatly-trimmed beard and … a pendant that was not lightning-shaped. She felt obscurely relieved. It seemed a bit early in the evening for claiming yet.
He reached and took her heart shape in his hand. ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Stars for me tonight. Ah well. Maybe next time. Enjoy your drink.’
She poured a glass of champagne and took a big gulp, leaning against the wall and watching the action in the room, trying to follow Bryant’s movements as he danced with a succession of women. He did not seem terribly keen on any, though, as he continually ignored his partners in favour of scoping the room until he caught sight of her, holding her eyes through the double barrier of their masks.
Charlotte was suffused with a warmth that was not just down to the champagne. Bryant. He had always been the nicer of her two bosses; the more solicitous, the caring one. He was the one who fixed the things that went wrong in her flat or slipped her an extra fifty pounds here and there when he thought she was looking pale or thin. He was a wonderful lover as well, skilled and mature. She could do much worse than seek him out tonight and take him on to the divans.
But that was not the point. The point was that any man here – perhaps more than one – could take her and have her. What a dizzying thought that was. Charlotte tightened her fingers round the stem of the glass and shuddered with exhilaration.
‘A heart!’ A triumphant male voice awoke her from her reverie, and there was a man at her elbow – as dandy a highwayman as she had ever seen. ‘And you may have mine, my lady!’ he said gallantly, drawing her into the mêlée.
Charlotte, deciding that he seemed like fun, allowed the highwayman his will of her, blushing and smiling coyly when he brought her knuckles to his lips for an extravagant kiss, eyes low and gleaming behind that tight black mask. He manipulated her into the first position, as if about to start some complicated ballroom dance, but instead he held her there, against his chest, one hand on her hip, the other interlaced with hers at the fingers, as if accustoming himself to her particular shape, size and scent.
‘Oh, you’ll do very nicely,’ he told her upswept hair, the warmth of his breath parting the strands until it reached her ear. He smelled of some brash old-fashioned cologne – perhaps Old Spice – but it mingled so deliciously with the smell of the leather strapped across his chest that Charlotte felt swooningly faint. If they’d had aftershave in the eighteenth century, she thought, perhaps the ladies would have fallen into dead faints even more often. ‘You’re a real find. New here, are you?’
‘Yes.’ She breathed in sharply as the highwayman’s hand slid over her hip and rested on the slope of her bottom. ‘What about you? Do you, er, come here often?’
‘Oh yes. I’m a regular here. This is the place to come if you want to … um …’
‘Come?’
‘Quite.’
‘And do you observe, or participate?’
The highwayman put sudden pressure on Charlotte’s rear, forcing her pelvis to crush against the crotch of his tighter-than-tight britches. Unless he had an antique pistol in there, Charlotte had to concede that his interest in her was genuine.
‘I participate, Milady. I can’t ask your name, so do you mind if I call you Milady?’
‘Milady – yes, I like the sound of that.’
‘Good. You may call me Dick.’
His other hand dropped hers and slipped instead around her back, preventing her escape from this dance-floor prison. ‘Are you a bad girl, Milady? I presume you must be, to be here at all.’
‘Yes. I am bad. Very bad. And wanton. A wanton hussy.’
‘Oh, that’s good. A trollop. A floozy. A strumpet.’
‘Yes, all of those.’
‘Mmm. Let’s dance.’
But the highwayman’s version of dancing was certainly the least energetic Charlotte had ever encountered. He simply gyrated very very slowly, one arm around her neck to guide her after him, the other busy gliding down the silky skirt of her cocktail dress. Before she could speak again, he had swallowed her words in a kiss and, as he kissed well, Charlotte was inclined to let him carry on, let that hand lose itself in the cloud of chiffon petticoats, let it find the elasticated lace of her stocking top, let it touch the cold, smooth skin of her thigh.