Gilliflowers (41 page)

I examined the kitchen floor. “You sometimes read my mail.”

“Only after you’ve opened it yourself and what I read I have a right to read, bank and credit card statements. Your finances fall under my jurisdiction. I don’t open your personal mail.”

“You would if you thought there was something you felt you needed to know.

And you’ve always said you’d read my diaries if you thought it necessary.”

“True, but again I have the right as head of this house. You don’t. Why did you do it?”

I shrugged. “I was angry when I saw them. I didn’t expect other people to send you cards. I felt a fool because I hadn’t sent one.” I flicked my eyes up to his face.

There was no thaw in his icy expression. It was cold enough to freeze water. “Sorry, Daddy. I promise I would never open any other mail. I only opened them because I guessed what they were.” I took a deep breath, admitting, “I suppose I was jealous.”

“It’s no excuse. I don’t accept it as such.” Pulling a chair clear of the table he pointed at the latter. “Bend over.”

I reluctantly bent my upper body over the tabletop, gripping the other side with my hands. He placed his left hand between my shoulder blades and got straight down to business, raining fast and furious retribution on my buttocks. His hand finally stilled, resting against my smarting backside.

“That was for lying about the appointment letter and for throwing it away. You do not lie to me or destroy important mail.”

His hand began rising and falling again, cracking painfully across the seat of my shorts, generating a firestorm on the cheeks beneath, making me yell, yelp and squirm as much as I was able in my pinned down position. It stopped again.

“That was for tearing up Jak’s card.”

“He had no right sending a card.” I spoke defiantly. “He’s not family or even a close friend. He did it to upset me. It had a champagne bottle on it and a slogan about toasting the happy couple. The bastard knows I can’t toast.”

“The fact remains, boy, it wasn’t yours to open and trash.” He deposited another round of stinging smacks on my arse and yanked me upright.

An attempt to rub out the flames licking around my backside was prevented when he grabbed my right wrist.

“Is it right to open other people’s mail, Gillibran?”

“No.”

“Open your hand, keep it flat.”

I winced as he slapped first the palm and then the back of my hand. He dropped it and grabbed my left hand. I cried out as he repeated the painful slapping process, raising his hand high and bringing it down hard, making searing contact with mine, front and back. He fixed hard eyes on me. “Is it right to destroy other people’s mail?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” He dropped my hand.

Folding my arms across my chest I tucked my stinging extremities under my sweaty armpits. “May I go for a shower now please?”

“You may not. Go in the study, find a corner and stand in it with your hands on your head.”

I did as I was told, taking the opportunity to rub my stinging buttocks with my tingling palms before taking up the required position. It wasn’t long before he came into the room. Butterflies invaded my guts, fluttering madly as I wondered what he was going to do. Closing my eyes I silently prayed,
‘please don’t let him have a
cane.’
What I’d done had been wrong, but I didn’t think it warranted a caning. What I thought didn’t matter. It was what Shane thought that counted.

“Turn round. Keep your hands on your head.”

I turned, my butterflies dancing faster when I saw the leather thigh straps and wristbands he was carrying. Somehow I knew they weren’t for sex games. My knees developed a tremor. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Teach a lesson in kind. Hopefully it will serve to persuade you to keep your hands off other people’s letters in future.” He knelt down in front of me, placing the straps on the floor, impatiently tapping the side of my calf. “Legs astride.”

I moved my feet apart, stiffening my legs trying to stop them shaking. The thigh straps were made of thick leather and like the wristbands they had a D shaped metal ring attached to them. He picked one up and buckled it around my upper left thigh, over the leg of my running shorts so the D ring was to the outer side. He did the same on my right thigh. Standing up he ordered me to lower my hands. I did so and he slipped the padded leather cuffs onto my wrists, adjusting them so they were a snug fit.

Reaching into his jeans pocket he brought out a pair of double-ended steel trigger clips. He clipped one onto the D ring of each leather cuff and then drew my arms by my side clipping the bottom end to the matching rings on the leg straps. My wrists were now secured to my thighs. I couldn’t move them more than a few centimetres in any direction.

Taking me by the shoulders he turned me round to face the corner again. “I’m going to attend to some email correspondence. You’re going to stand in silence for fifty minutes and think about your behaviour today. It was dishonest, disrespectful and dishonourable.”

After thoroughly dissing me he got on with his work. I heard him turn the computer on and settle at the desk. Soon his fingers were busy on the keyboard.

My scalp itched, but I couldn’t scratch it. I couldn’t do anything with my hands bolted to my thighs. There was no element of sensuality in my bondage. It wasn’t a stage in a journey to sexual reward and orgasmic release. It was horrible. I felt myself getting tenser and tenser as time limped by. My neck ached, my shoulders, my back, my arms and my legs. I hated the sense of confinement, the restricted physical mobility. I began to feel claustrophobic and resorted to using my safe word; loudly speaking Shane’s surname prefixed with Mr. He came to me immediately and began checking the straps on my wrists and thighs.

“You’re not in any danger, Gilli. I’m here with you, nothing can happen. The straps aren’t too tight, they’re not digging in and they’re not interfering with circulation. This isn’t play. It’s discipline. Your safe word doesn’t apply. Why did you use it?”

“I don’t like it, Daddy. I feel panicky.”

“Because you’re breathing too fast. You’ve worked yourself into a lather.” He began to massage my neck and shoulders with his big warm hands. “Slow it down, come on, take a deep breath in through your nose, hold it a moment…good boy…now out through your mouth…and again.”

The breathing exercises combined with the soothing touch of his hands soon calmed me and I felt better. Tilting my chin up he looked at me sternly. “I said you were to wear the restraints for fifty minutes, it’s only been twenty minutes.”

I repeated my ‘don’t like it’ mantra.

“You’re not supposed to. I know what this is really about, Gilli, and so do you.

It’s about you pushing against my authority. I’m not giving in to you. You’re not fussing your way out of punishment. You’re going to trust me to be in control and to use it in your best interests. I said fifty minutes and fifty minutes it’s going to be. It isn’t an excessive length of time. By way of concession I’ll allow you to sit for the rest of it.”

Fetching a chair he placed it close to the desk and walked me over to it, giving my bottom a firm slap before sitting me down. “Thirty minutes left to serve. Think yourself lucky I’m not adding time on for the interruption.”

I no more liked the restriction, but I coped with it. Every now and again he briefly patted my knee or rubbed the top of my thigh.

At last the time was up. I was freed from my punishment bondage. It was a big relief. I wrapped my wonderfully free arms around his body.

“You’re a great big baby and a spoiled one. Dick has ruined you.” He kissed the top of my head, peeled me away from his body and gave me a little push. “Go and have a shower, bad puppy. You smell like overripe Camembert. It isn’t nice.”

As predicted Leo had laid on a celebratory dinner. His palatial dining room looked stunning, the food tasted fabulous and the champagne was some wonderful vintage I could have no taste of.

We were first to arrive at his house. I sought him out on the pretext of asking if he needed any help, but really to have a ‘few words.’ I told him he’d had no right to plan a special dinner without asking me if I was planning anything first. It was rude. They were my men folk not his and just because he’d known them longer didn’t mean he knew them better. I pointed out he was disrespecting their wishes not to have a big thing made of their anniversary.

He grinned, patted my face and told me to get back in my pram. He said he had every right to do something special for his closest friends regardless of the jealous opposition or permission of their headstrong concubine.

Dick arrived in the kitchen. Grasping me firmly by the hand he told me to stop nipping Leo’s heels and towed me away.

Mike and Jak were present at the do, as were Howard and Rob. Jak made a point of asking me if his card had arrived on time. I smiled sweetly and said no, adding I’d keep him posted as to whether it ever turned up.

At dinner Leo presented the assembled gathering with champagne. It was golden in hue and looked delicious sparkling in elegant flutes. He presented me with an alcohol free brut he’d discovered. He’d taste tested it and said it wasn’t half bad, a little sweet for a brut perhaps, but a passable substitute for fizzy wine. It was certainly no substitute for the quality champagne everyone else was drinking, but it tasted okay.

It had a slight tang, which wasn’t unpleasant, at least for the first glass or two. After that the process used to remove the alcohol came to the fore, leaving a chemical aftertaste. It looked the part though and I thanked him.

He proposed a toast: ‘to Shane and Dick’ adding with a wink ‘and their unruly pet.’ I let the remark go with good grace, mainly because I was seated between the men folk and they each kept a warning hand on my thighs.

I decided I couldn’t allow the anniversary to go unmarked by me. Leo might have presented them with a fine dining experience, but I had an ace or two up my sleeve. I reckoned I could top his gift no probs.

I presented it on Sunday morning while they were drinking coffee and scanning the papers. Donning my crop tee and low riders I invaded the lounge with the portable CD player from the kitchen and turned it on, blasting out Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me.’ Complaints died in the bud as I treated them to a sexy private dance making sure they both got plenty of teasing glimpses of my sweet and prettily jewelled glory hole.

Neither of my men are fans of ‘that rap shit’ but on this occasion they let Dizzee and me win them over. Yeah! I danced wiv them good.

The private consultation with Mr Ryall might have humoured an old man, but it didn’t humour this young one. I tried again to convince Shane the appointment wasn’t necessary, but he disagreed. He played the guilt card, citing how upset Dick had been when I took a dive down the stairs. It was simply a review, he said, to put their minds at rest and to bring my consultant up to date with things.

Referring to it as a review didn’t suit me to begin with. The only review I wanted was one I couldn’t have, the one that should have been due about now, but which had been postponed forever. I thought about mentioning it, then my mind flicked up a mental image of a cane and I thought better of it. I knew Shane would keep his word and bring a heavier cane into the subsequent discussion. Nothing would move him or Dick on the issue of alcohol, not even a crate load of chocolate Ex-Lax.

Shane insisted on accompanying me into the consulting room and it was he who did most of the talking, describing developments since my last appointment and expressing concern that my meds weren’t doing their job as efficiently as they ought.

God knows what Ryall imagines our relationship to be. There’s a kind of quizzical look in his eye sometimes. He probably suspects there is a sexual element, but he says nothing and is always deferential to Shane, signer of fat cheques.

Mr Ryall didn’t enamour himself to me when he expressed approval at my ‘very wise’ decision to give up alcohol: ‘well done, Gilli, it will make a big difference to how you manage your condition.’ (
Yeah, yeah, whatever, WHATEVER!)
He further pissed me off when after scanning my last blood results he said he’d like to run a few tests because drug levels were showing as only just above borderline.

My assertion that tests weren’t necessary was ignored and an appointment was made for me to attend clinic next morning.

Tests were duly done including an EEG. I was literally seconds into the flashing light part of the test when the technician stopped it because my brain started recording significant spikes of electrical activity conducive to seizure. I was gutted by what seemed to be evidence of my brains increasing sensitivity. Thanks to the tech guy’s speedy action I didn’t suffer an episode, but I did develop a headache. Shane could tell I was upset and gave me a hug of sympathy.

Mr Ryall said the blood test results combined with the EEG results indicated an increase in medication to be advisable. The dose I was on was no longer proving fully effective for my evolving condition. My body had adapted to it. He knows how much I hate the meds and was apologetic, but firm, strongly advising an increase in dosage.

Of course I had no choice in the matter. I came away from the clinic with a higher prescription.

The drive home was silent, but not from choice on my part. I was fizzing. I got into the car turned to Shane and opened my mouth, but his finger presented to my face like the barrel of a gun. It shot and killed the comment I’d been about to make.

“Hard limit, Gilli, no discussion, no argument. Keep your tongue behind your teeth.” He dropped me off at home, his parting words being, “get that prescription filled this afternoon, Gilli. I’ll be angry if you don’t.”

Later on Dick tried to mollify me. “There’s no point taking meds if they’re not at therapeutic levels and it isn’t exactly a huge increase, Gilli. You need it. It will make you less susceptible to triggers and that will make you feel better in the long term.”

And that was an end to the matter. Meds were not mentioned again. I took them as expected and life resumed, I’d like to say as normal, but it didn’t.