Dirty Minds (8 page)

‘Doug.’ She hadn’t thought about him for years. ‘That’s true, and then there was Colin, and, of course, Carlos. I must be able to cobble something together.’

‘Here’s a tip. Stick in lots of sexy underwear. It can make up for a lot.’

‘Well, you remember that yourself. After you’ve bought the leg of lamb, stop off at a naughty knicker shop. If you are going to give the man a treat, you might as well go the whole hog.’

‘It’s a lamb, not a hog.’

Melissa left, looking a good deal happier than when she had arrived.

Sunday came and went. Monday dragged. Tom checked the train times from London but, as Exeter is served by two different lines, there was too much choice of trains for him to have any clear idea of when Ros would return. He’d picked up
The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown
on several occasions. But he couldn’t find the courage to open it. Noah found himself taken for no fewer than four walks that day, including one in the near darkness at the end of the afternoon. But there was no sign of life in the cottage by the river.

One positive thing to come out of this fiasco was the realisation that he didn’t want to lose the connection they’d just made . If she decided she didn’t want anything to do with a sexual deviant, as he now most probably appeared to her, he would be devastated. For the first time since Diane’s death, he could genuinely say he was attracted to another woman. More than attracted. He searched for the appropriate verb. He decided upon infatuated. He had spent most of Sunday discussing it with the Labrador, and was pleased to have been forced into this realisation.

Things took a turn for the better at six o’clock. He saw that he had a new e-mail. It was from Tiffany Rossi. He remembered her as the Oxford graduate. There was an attachment along with it, entitled
Two’s Company
. He clicked on it and started to read. She had chosen to set her piece in the early nineteenth century. It took place in a manor house near Oxford.

He read it with interest. Given the setting, he was anticipating breeches, bodices and spanking. Instead, it was an endearing description of a lovers’ tryst. The protagonists were the butler and the housekeeper to the lord of the manor. Their love had, of necessity, to remain a secret. His Lordship frowned upon romantic entanglements between members of staff. So it was that they were taking advantage of his absence for the day. He was out with his neighbours, following the Woodstock hunt.

He never took his mouth from hers as his fingers unbuttoned her dress. Beneath it was a chemise fashioned out of linen, trimmed with lace. His fingers felt the swell of her breasts, and he hardened against her. She reached up and caught his face in her hands, pulling his lips harder onto hers: her tongue and his entwined in passion. As her chemise fell to the floor, she stood before him, clad only in her petticoat. He stepped back to admire her. The material was so flimsy he could see her wonderful figure outlined against the window.

As he watched, entranced, her fingers reached up to the thin shoulder straps. She let first one, then the other, fall. The loose garment slid slowly down her body, revealing her nakedness. She smiled as she fell to her knees before him, reaching for his breeches.

Just as he was muttering ‘breeches’ to himself, the doorbell rang. Noah rose to his feet and ambled towards it. He was not a natural guard dog; he stood by the door and wagged his tail hopefully. The person the other side might be carrying food.

Tom hurried over and turned on the outside light. He twisted the handle and the door swung open.

‘Hi Tom. It’s me.’

‘Ros, hi, yes, hello.’ A feeling close to blind panic enveloped him. ‘Calm down, Noah. Leave the lady alone. Oh, you’ve got Sophie with you. Well, why don’t you both come in.’ He stood aside as the spaniel rushed in, followed by her owner.

‘At least it’s not raining.’ She sounded normal. Maybe the letter had been lost in the post. His hopes rose, only to be firmly dashed again. ‘I’ve brought you my thousand words. Here.’ She handed him an A4 envelope. He took it reluctantly, his eyes averted.

‘Um, thanks.’ He headed for the fridge. ‘Glass of wine?’

‘Definitely.’ Looking up, he began to realise that she was as nervous as he was. He drew strength from this discovery. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘I think it might be the other way round.’

‘Let me take your coat. Do sit down, please.’

After he returned from hanging her coat on the back of the door, he broke the seal on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and filled two glasses to the brim. When he raised his eyes, she was sitting on the other side of the kitchen table. She was wearing a grey check shirt, the top two buttons undone. He could just detect a black bra and the curve of her breasts. He swallowed hard and handed her a glass. Then, before she could stop him, he launched into his speech. He had been rehearsing it for forty-eight hours.

‘I’m not a pervert or a sex fiend.’ He could hear himself gibbering, but was powerless to stop. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s just an idea I had, to try and produce a book that stands a chance of getting published. In fact, it sort of wasn’t even my idea. You see – ’

‘Tom, Tom. You’ve got to listen to me, please.’ Her tone commanded respect. He stopped immediately. ‘Well, I’m not a pervert either, and I have never done anything like this before.’

‘I never thought you were.’

‘No, but you thought I might think you were. Surely if it applies to you, it applies to me. Anyway, listen, please. I’ve been practising this speech all the way down on the train. I’m in the same boat as you; in the same boat as hundreds, probably thousands, of would-be authors. We write our books but the publishing industry is in such a mess at the moment there is no chance of even getting them read. Publishers won’t take submissions unless they come though a literary agent. So the agents are swamped with submissions. They can’t cope. Unless you know somebody who knows somebody, you are lost. You’ve got to be immensely lucky and you’ve got to come up with a viable, gold-plated moneymaking proposition. I realise that, Tom. You’re right to try this. I think it’s a really good, intelligent idea.’

‘Intelligent?’ Things were brightening up after all. ‘You really don’t think it’s creepy and smutty?’

She smiled at him, relieved to have been able to deliver her speech. ‘I don’t know. I hope what I’ve written isn’t smutty, but it’s pretty risqué. That’s what’s needed, after all. Is your stuff smutty?’

He had to confess. ‘To be honest, I haven’t written a thing yet. I know it’s a bit of a cheat, but I thought I’d see what the others – you others – come up with first.’ He reached out for her envelope.

Her hand snaked out and caught his arm.

‘For the love of God, don’t read that till I’ve gone. I would die of embarrassment.’ She released him and reached for her glass. Noah, associating drink with food, padded across and laid his head on her knee. She scratched him behind the ears.

‘How was London?’ He made a brave attempt at small talk.

‘Stressful.’ She put her glass down again. ‘Not the work; that was fine. But from the moment I opened your letter, I have been in a real state. First of all I had to write the thousand words, only too aware that they would be read by you. What if it’s too rude? Or too corny, or too poorly written? What will he think of me? Writing pornography? What kind of woman will he think I am?’

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he thought she was a wonderful woman but natural reticence kept him silent. He did, however, risk making one admission. ‘I spent all day yesterday telling poor old Noah that if I lost your friendship as a result of this nonsense, I would be devastated.’

She dropped her eyes. He blundered on.

‘What I wanted to say was, this whole book thing, it’s only a project. To be honest, I got the idea, at least indirectly, from my therapist.’

He saw her eyebrows rise.

‘Bereavement therapy.’ He explained. ‘Part of the deal with the university is that I follow a course of bereavement counselling sessions. It was when I was talking to the lady there that the idea came up first. But, Ros, listen, if you like, I will just forget the whole sordid business. I couldn’t bear to mess things up between us. Just say the word.’ He was blushing.

‘Not on your life. It’s a good idea. It’ll be fine.’ His guilty look made her smile. Tactfully, she transferred her attention back to her glass.

A wave of euphoria swept over him. It was all right, after all. ‘Do you want to stay for dinner? It’s only ham and eggs, but they’re fresh from the farm. And I’ve got a packet of dog biscuits for Sophie. You did say that’s what she eats, didn’t you?’

‘You are too kind. I would love to, but only on condition that we don’t talk about the book.’

He agreed wholeheartedly. She sat and chatted with him as he prepared the food. He thanked God he had bought a fresh loaf from the farm shop. She took the knife from him and cut a few slices, while he lifted the lid on the cooker and put the pan on to heat up.

‘So are you a cordon bleu chef?’ She was watching him at the cooker.

‘Ham and eggs is not quite my full repertoire but Jamie Oliver has nothing to worry about. What about you? I bet you are a whiz.’

‘After spending most of my life until a few years ago living off raw carrots and rice cakes, I haven’t had much opportunity. I’m just beginning to get into it now. I hope you will come round one of these days and let me inflict one of my attempts on you.’

He busied himself with the cooking, concentrating hard, determined to avoid any mishaps. The laptop was sitting on the end of the table. There was a document open on the screen. She averted her eyes, but as she was doing so, the phrase ‘her tongue and his entwined in passion’ caught her eye He was still fully occupied, a wonderful smell of ham filling the air. She turned her head back and carried on reading, fascinated. The girl had just fallen to her knees, and reached for his breeches, when she heard Tom’s voice. She looked round guiltily.

‘I see you are checking out the competition.’ He was doling out the food into the plates.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to pry. The words just caught my eye.’ She was blushing.

‘Of course not. That’s quite all right. I only just got it a few minutes before you arrived. It’s the first. You can read it after we’ve eaten if you like. In fact, we both can. I only just started it myself. But for now, I’m afraid the eggs won’t wait.’ He handed her a plate.

‘Right, now I’m just going to tie your hands to the legs of the bed.’ Clinton did his best to adopt a domineering tone.

‘You’re going to do what?’ Dolores didn’t sound too keen.

‘Come on, gorgeous, it’s all part of my research. You said you were up for it.’

‘You didn’t say anything about tying me up.’ But she didn’t struggle as he tied first her hands and then her feet. He looked down at her: spread-eagled, the white bra standing out boldly against the deep black of her skin. The matching thong was thin enough to clearly show the outline of her body beneath. He stepped back in satisfaction, the old familiar stirring in his loins. He stripped off his top and his jeans. He was left with just his boxers.

‘You got a gun or are you just pleased to see me?’ She appeared to be enjoying herself. ‘So what happens now, lover man?’

A major snag now presented itself. While the white underwear looked good, it needed to come off. How was he going to do this with her arms and legs tied?

‘Fuck.’ He reached for the rope around her wrists.

‘That’s what I assumed, but why are you untying me now? You haven’t done anything yet.’ She looked on evenly as he untied her hands, reached round to unhook her bra, and removed it. He tied her wrists again and turned his attention to her panties. For a moment he considered ripping them off, but he didn’t want to have to replace them. They looked expensive. Instead, he set about the knots.

‘So why are you doing all this funny stuff?’

‘I told you, it’s a bet. The firm’s been dealing with one of those internet grooming cases recently. My boss thinks the girl must have known all along it was a man not another girl. He doesn’t think it possible for a man to pass himself off as a girl. I disagreed, so he bet me I couldn’t do it. For obvious reasons I couldn’t try it on with some random girl on the internet, so I opted for a bit of literary transvestism. What you are doing, apart from having the best sex of your life, is helping the British legal system. Does that make you feel proud?’

He realised that by just undoing one leg, he could pull the panties down, leaving them around her bound ankle. That would save time. In fact, he could have done the same with her bra, if he’d thought about it in time.

‘So who are you supposed to be, then? The Marquis de Sade?’

‘Something like that.’

He stood up and surveyed her naked body. The heating really did work well in this house. There was a sheen of sweat on her stomach and below her breasts. Just then he realised that cavemen would not have had such luxuries. And surely it would have been cold.

‘Now here’s a thought. Were the cavemen around at the same time as the Ice Age?’

‘Now why would you ask a girl a damn fool question like that at a time like this?’ She wriggled her hips enticingly. ‘Pull those pants down and let’s get busy.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed, a pensive look on his face. ‘But, seriously, would it have been cold in the caves?’

‘Of course it would have been cold. But I’m hot, and if you lie down here and join me, I’m going to make sure you realise just how hot I am.’

Clint had no illusions on that score. But instead of lying down he bent over and reached under the bed. He pulled the cardboard box out.

‘What’ve you got in there, honey?’

‘All sorts of stuff.’ He reached in and scrabbled around until he found what he wanted. ‘Like this, for example.’ He produced a riding crop. It was a bit old and battered, but for five quid at Camden market, he reckoned he’d got a bargain.

‘And just what in the hell do you think you’re going to do with that?’ She did not sound enthusiastic.

‘I use it to beat you into a state where pain becomes pleasure. You girls love that. That’s what I was reading.’

‘Reading where?’

‘On the internet. It’s full of useful information.’

‘Well, sweetie, here’s another piece of useful information: I have no intention of being beaten by anybody. You got that?’

‘Yes, but you’re tied up. You are helpless in my hands. I am your master. You are my slave.’ He swished the crop against his other hand. It made a most satisfactory whacking noise. It also left a red mark across his palm, and it hurt. He did his best to hide the pain.

‘Clinton Jones, you lay a finger on me and I’ll scream the place down. Then I’ll call the police and get you charged with assault. Not even all your fellow lawyers will get you off that one.’ The expression on her face and the vehemence of the outburst made clear her conviction. Most scary of all was the way she suddenly reminded him of her mother, give or take about ten stone. He retreated apprehensively.

It wasn’t like this on the websites he had consulted. She was supposed to be helpless, submissive, and quite literally open to anything. He had not expected to be threatened in his turn. He looked down at the crop in his hand and made the sensible decision.

‘Just joking, honey.’ He jettisoned the crop and sat back, deep in thought. He closed his eyes, mercifully banishing the image of her mother.

‘So what happens now?’ She wriggled. ‘Say, can you scratch my nose for me. It’s awfully itchy.’

He reached over and absentmindedly did as bidden. He was turning over in his mind what else he was supposed to do with a helpless victim. Spanking was out, because she was lying on her back. He ran over the other options. They all seemed to involve pain and she, not unreasonably, didn’t seem to enjoy pain.

Then he remembered the feather. He sat up and rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table until he found the seagull feather he had brought in from the lawn. He ran it through his fingers. At least it had dried out now. He slid the tip of it across her stomach. She murmured something incoherent. Her eyes were closed and she had a big, satisfied smile on her face. He ran it all over her body, the idea being that the tickling sensation would drive her mad. It had the opposite effect

‘I don’t know where you got that idea, but that’s great.’

He ran the feather down her legs and tickled the soles of her feet. No response. He snorted in annoyance and gave up. She opened her eyes.

‘Now what? Anything else in your box of tricks? Oh wait, I know what. You’re going to have to untie me, lover. I have to go to the little girls’ room. Pronto.’

He untied the ropes, still lost in his thoughts. None of this kinky stuff was working the way it was supposed to. He should have been the dominant master, her his obedient slave. When she came back, she found him still sitting there, a faraway look in his eyes. She came across and cradled his head against her.

‘What’s the matter, honey? Your little game not so good? Here, why don’t you let me do it to you?’

He hesitated. This was a new twist. After a moment’s thought, he gave in.

‘What the hell, it might be fun.’

‘Of course it will.’

She proved to be expert with ropes and knots. Catching his eye, she explained: ‘Girl guides.’

Soon he was helpless on the bed. She took up the feather.

‘Now, let me see, where shall I start?’ She ran the feather across his stomach. His body bucked.

‘Wow, that tickles.’ He panted, straining against the ropes.

She moved down to his feet, and he was soon jerking around and moaning. Running it up his legs, she concentrated on his groin and his stomach. He found himself screaming at her to stop.

Before long, Jimmy was hammering on the lounge ceiling. His voice echoed plaintively up the stairs. ‘Give it a break, Clint. I’m working down here.’

Pretty soon, the tears were running down his face and he was pleading with her to be released. Only then did she stop.

‘Now that, honey, is what BDSM is all about. Sure you like it?’

He was in no fit state to answer, only relieved that the punishment had stopped. She collected her clothes and dressed, a gentle smile on her face. Finally she bent down and kissed him tenderly.

‘I’ll be hearing from you.’ And she left.

As the door closed, he suddenly realised his predicament. He tugged at the ropes, but to no avail. He lay there fuming, until his bladder told him he needed to get up. With a very heavy heart, he cleared his throat, and called out.

‘Jimmy, can you come up here, please?’