Domination Inc. (22 page)

‘Only a dozen slaps, I think,' Roger said, ‘but you'll have to count each one and thank me for them. Any mistakes, and we go back to the beginning. Is that clear?' As he spoke he brought the flat of his hand firmly down on the crown of Nina's left buttock.

She stifled whatever noise of complaint she was about to make and said instead, ‘One, thank you.'

‘Very good,' Roger replied, treating her right buttock to a spank of the same severity. Obediently, Nina counted the stroke. Roger could feel his erection pressing hard against the cushion through his trousers, as though it might bore through the leather in its quest to reach Nina's sex. When he had finished punishing Nina he would order her to her knees and tell her to suck his cock. It was definitely her area of expertise, he had decided, and he could barely wait to feel those lips of hers closing around his glans and teasing him to a climax.

The thought of that impending pleasure took him through the next few slaps more quickly than he might otherwise have gone. By the time he realised where he was, Nina was muttering, ‘Eight, thank you,' the strain in her voice increasingly evident as she fought to keep control of the situation.

‘You are the most presumptuous woman I believe I've ever met,' Roger told Nina as the ninth slap fell on the fleshy crease of her buttocks, and she yelped, but did not lose track of her counting. ‘You seem so determined to get one over on that sister of yours that all other considerations become utterly irrelevant. Well, I assure you they definitely are not.'

The tenth and eleventh slaps landed in rapid succession on the very tops of her thighs, making her wriggle and kick her legs. It was the sight of her denuded sex, pink and glistening, that she afforded him as she fought against the pain of the penultimate slap that made Roger decide on the target for his
pièce de résistance
. Following Joe's lead, but this time unbidden by Nina, he parted her cheeks as she struggled on his lap, and let the last slap descend squarely on her juicy, pouting labia.

She bucked and shrieked with what Roger suspected was the merest ripple of orgasmic sensation. ‘Twelve, thank you,' she whispered finally.

Without ceremony, Roger pushed her to the thickly-carpeted floor and unzipped his trousers, releasing his rigid erection. ‘You know what to do,' he told Nina. As she took the bulbous head into her mouth, Roger entertained the thought that if his plans worked out, before very much longer it might be Laurel who knelt before him, naked and with her backside bearing the livid prints of his palm, obediently sucking him to climax. With that satisfying thought uppermost in his mind, he closed his eyes and reclined back to enjoy the wet pleasures of Nina's oral caress.

 

 

 

 

There was a message on the answerphone when Laurel let herself into the office. She pressed the play button and listened as a smooth, deep voice filled the little room. ‘This is Clive Lawson. The service you provide has been highly recommended to me, and I'd be interested in discussing some potential business with you...'

Laurel scribbled his number into her contacts book, before dialling it swiftly. The phone was picked up on the second ring, almost as if the man had been anticipating her call.

‘Mr Lawson, it's Laurel Angell here. I'm ringing about the message you left for me.'

‘Ah, yes.' His voice seemed to caress her ear. ‘I've heard lots of very good things about your agency, and I may be able to put a substantial piece of business your way, but first I'd like to know more about what you can actually provide.'

‘Well, the basic fee is—'

Lawson interrupted her. ‘There's something very sordid about discussing money over the phone, don't you think? What I want to do is hire a couple of your girls for a party I'm planning to host, and I'd really like you to come down and see the house, get a feel for the ambience I'm trying to create.'

‘Well, that makes sense,' Laurel replied. ‘When did you have in mind for this meeting, Mr Lawson.'

‘Please, call me Clive. Tell you what, I'm actually going to be throwing a small drinks party on Saturday evening. Why don't you come down for that? I live just outside Lymington, in the New Forest. Do you know the area at all?'

Laurel hesitated. ‘Yes, but it's a bit of a distance to come just for a party.'

‘Don't worry about driving back the same night,' he said, brushing her immediate objections away, ‘we've plenty of room for houseguests. If you arrived early in the afternoon, say half-past three, it would give you plenty of time to look round before my other guests arrive.'

Finally persuaded, Laurel took down the address of his house, Garside Hall, and details of how to reach it by road. A small voice nagged in the back of her head as she did so, reminding her of the agency's rule never to visit a client – albeit only a potential client in this case – alone at their own home. ‘Would it be okay if I brought a friend with me?' she asked.

She almost sensed a moment's hesitation before Clive Lawson said, ‘Yes, that should be fine. It'll round the numbers up nicely. Doesn't do to have wallflowers at a party, now does it?'

As Laurel put the phone down on Lawson, she felt that something vital had gone unsaid in the course of their conversation, but she shrugged her unease away. It would do her good to get out of London for the weekend, and if the man was simply attempting to get her into bed without paying the agency for her services, taking Joe or Warren along would keep her safe from his unwanted attentions or those of his guests.

 

Except that neither Joe nor Warren was free to accompany her down to the house on Saturday. Joe and Christian were booked to take a pair of submissive blonde sisters to an all-night fetish party at a warehouse in Victoria Dock, while Warren appeared to have lined up an evening with Sara, the red-haired girl he had been with when Laurel had first met him.

‘Couldn't you put her off till next weekend?' Laurel had asked him, knowing in advance what the answer would be.

Warren had shaken his head. ‘Any other time I'd have jumped at it like a shot. You, me, a double bed in a strange house, a pair of your stockings…' His grin was wolfish, knowing that, despite herself, Laurel would not be able to stop her imagination straying to the scenario he was creating. ‘The thing is, Sara goes back to Milan the next day. She's doing her year's teaching practice over there, and I want to give her something to think about while she's trying to tell the class about the possessive form.'

Salvation had come in the form of Cindy. Laurel had caught her moping in the office later that afternoon, staring miserably out of the window at the passers-by on the street below, a cigarette burning unattended between her fingers.

‘Are you okay?' she had asked, concerned to see her favourite among the agency's girls so far removed from her usual bubbly self.

‘Not really,' Cindy had replied. ‘Just another kick in the teeth, but I'll get over it.'

‘Do you want to talk about it?'

‘There isn't that much to say. You know that bloke I was seeing, Tom, and you know how he kept promising me he was going to leave his wife? Well, it turned out to be a load of crap, like it always is. He told me yesterday they're going to make a real go of the marriage for the sake of the kids, and they're going on a second honeymoon to Barbados at the end of the month.' She stubbed the remains of her cigarette out forcefully. ‘I just can't believe he kept me hanging on for so long. I thought I had it sussed when it came to men, but it seems I'm just as big a fool as anyone else. And the worst part is, I deliberately turned down a couple of jobs this weekend because I thought I was going to be spending it with Tom.'

‘Well, if you're not doing anything, why don't you come down to the New Forest with me?' Laurel had suggested. ‘I've been invited down to a party to meet a prospective client, and I don't want to go on my own. Come on, it'll give you a chance to get glammed up and have a good time. You'll forget all about Tom, I promise you.'

Cindy had considered the offer for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not? Thanks, Laurel. It's a date.'

 

 

Cindy had still seemed just as keen on the weekend's adventure when Laurel had collected her from the flat she rented in a converted terrace in Bow, a couple of hours earlier. Like herself, Cindy had dressed in a sexy but businesslike fashion; her damson scoop-necked crushed velvet top and tight-fitting PVC trousers contrasted with Laurel's elegant pinstriped skirt suit, under which she wore no blouse, so that the tempting contours of her breasts, cradled in a lacy white bra, were just visible.

The traffic on the South Circular was surprisingly light for a Saturday, and they had made good time in reaching the motorway. Laurel rarely drove in London, and relished the chance to take her Peugeot 306 for a spin. It felt good to put her foot down and feel the power of the car's engine responding to her demands. At the services on the M3 they stopped for coffee and toast, bought ice lollies on a childish impulse, cigarettes, and Laurel, noticing the fuel gauge was close to empty, filled the tank with petrol.

She walked back from the cash desk beneath the service station awning, humming lightly to herself. A watery sun had broken through the leaden January clouds, and she felt as though she had left all the stresses and strains of the agency far behind her.

As Laurel slipped back into the driver's seat, a coach pulled up on the tarmac beside them, its windows festooned with flags and red-and-white scarves. The predominantly male passengers on the side nearest Laurel's car stared out of the window, their obvious boredom dispelled as Cindy pulled up her top and treated them to a good view of her pert, braless breasts.

‘Cindy, what are you playing at?' Laurel asked, her attention momentarily distracted from the task of fastening her seat belt.

‘They must be on their way to the football,' Cindy replied. ‘Rotherham are playing Portsmouth in the cup this afternoon. There was something about it on the radio while you were paying for the petrol. I thought I'd give ‘em all something to remember the day by, even if their team doesn't win.' She turned to Laurel, a wicked grin on her face. ‘Go on, open your jacket. Give ‘em a flash too.'

‘I couldn't,' Laurel replied, appalled by the suggestion. She switched on the engine and put the car into gear, pulling away rapidly from the parked coach before Cindy could repeat her impromptu show of flesh.

‘Yeah, you could – if it was Warren who was asking you.' Cindy paused to peel the wrapper carefully off her strawberry Mivvi, wrapped her lips round it and sucked suggestively. ‘Except he wouldn't ask, would he? He'd tell you to do it, and you'd do it. He'd have you sitting in the passenger seat, playing with your pussy in the overtaking lane for the benefit of passing lorry drivers, and you'd love it.'

Laurel concentrated on the task of rejoining the flow of traffic on the motorway, her head turned so that Cindy could not see the flush which had risen to her cheeks. ‘I don't know why you're so convinced I fancy Warren.'

‘Of course you do. Don't be ashamed of it. I fancy him as well. You have to admit, whatever it is that makes a good master, he's got it in spades. Just look at the women who make repeat bookings; they all ask for him.'

‘You're right.' Laurel sighed. ‘It's just—'

‘Just what?'

For a moment, Laurel contemplated telling Cindy that however attractive she might find the infuriating Warren Keating, her feelings for Joe ran much deeper, but she simply shrugged her shoulders and indicated to overtake an elderly Vauxhall Cavalier which was idling in the nearside lane. ‘It's just he's so convinced he's a complete and utter fanny magnet, and I don't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing he's right.'

 

They reached Garside Hall slightly earlier than Laurel had intended, Clive Lawson's directions being explicit enough to prevent them losing their way on the poorly-signposted roads that ran through the New Forest. The house was on the outskirts of the postcard-pretty town of Lymington, set well back from the road and guarded from prying eyes by a thicket of holly trees. Laurel pulled the car to a halt on the smooth stretch of gravel in front of the main entrance and checked her reflection in the driver's mirror, fluffing up her shaggy strawberry-blonde hair until she was satisfied with her appearance.

‘Nice place,' Cindy commented as she clambered out of the car. ‘Whoever this Mr Lawson is, he's certainly not short of a quid or two.'

‘Well, as long as he's prepared to put some of it our way, I'm quite happy,' Laurel replied. She climbed the short flight of stone steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a few moments' wait, the heavy wooden door swung open. A suave-looking dark-haired man in his early forties, dressed in a black polo-necked cashmere jumper and dark, casually-cut trousers, stood before her.

‘Miss Angell.' The rich, deep voice was unmistakable. This was Clive Lawson. ‘And this is…?'

‘My friend, Cindy Beresford,' Laurel told him. ‘I hope we're not too early?'

‘Not at all,' Clive replied. ‘We're all ready for you. Do come in and hang your coat up. Cindy, if you'd like to go through to the drawing room, my wife Louisa will attend to you...'

There was an old-fashioned wooden coat stand in the corner by the door, and Laurel shrugged her long coat off her shoulders. She was reaching up to hang it on the stand when she suddenly felt her host come up behind her. She caught a brief scent of musky aftershave, and glimpsed a silver Rolex watch on his wrist as his hand clamped firmly over her mouth, stifling her shocked cry. His other hand caught her two wrists and expertly cuffed them together as she tried to struggle free from his surprisingly strong grip. The slamming of what Laurel presumed to be the drawing room door, followed by a high-pitched shriek, indicated that something equally unpleasant must be happening to Cindy.

Clive Lawson reached up and took a silk scarf from the coat stand, and wrapped it round Laurel's head, effectively blindfolding her. Before she could react he had dragged her a little way down the hall and pushed her through a door into an unknown room. Thick carpet muffled the tread of her heels, and the faint dry smell of old paper led her to surmise she had been taken into Lawson's library.

His hand loosed its hold round her waist and she staggered forward; with her hands cuffed behind her she was unable to prevent herself falling heavily onto the carpet. She lay for a moment, winded, then tried to right herself, unable to see what she was doing and knowing that Lawson was watching her undignified scrambling. Her knee knocked against something thick and wooden; the leg of a table, or perhaps a chair of particularly solid construction. Her second guess was confirmed when Lawson reached out and hauled her up, dumping her on the seat.

Lawson's fingers were on the front of her jacket now; she was unable to prevent him from unfastening it and pushing it off her shoulders. He gave a slight intake of breath, and she realised he must be staring at her breasts, lifted and presented to his gaze in her underwired, front-fastening bra.

‘Why are you doing this?' Laurel asked, but Lawson remained silent. She was aware of him looming over her again, and then his hands were on the hem of her skirt, pushing it up towards her waist. She tried to wriggle away from him, but he pushed her firmly against the carved wooden back of the chair with one hand, while the other reached up under her skirt to tug at her black silk panties.

‘Get off me!' she exclaimed, trying to lash out and catch Lawson on the shins with her high-heeled shoe, but her struggles were futile, and he tugged the little garment down and off, tearing the delicate fabric as he attempted to manoeuvre it past Laurel's squirming bottom. The next thing Laurel knew, a little wad of material was being stuffed into her protesting mouth; from the texture and the familiar feminine aroma, she knew it was her own ruined panties which were being used as a crude but effective gag.