The birds would sing and the petals would fall and I would sit on the garden bench and dream. What did I dream about? I dreamed that this would never end.
Once the artefacts were put back in their cabinets for the afternoon, it was time for the game. The game of master and servant, dominant and submissive. The best game in the world, infinite in its variety.
Every day brought something different, a new twist or take. Jasper, as befitted a man who made stories real for a living, possessed a jewel of an imagination.
One evening, I was a harem slave and he my prince, choosing me for the night, oiling me up, making me perform lewd acts for him while he lazed on a cushion, directing the action.
Another day I found myself suspended by my wrists in chains from the cellar ceiling while he introduced me to the dubious pleasures of the clover clamp.
I was a blindfolded prisoner brought up for punishment; a careless maid who needed to be made an example of; a proud lady blackmailed into humility by a wicked baronet. I was all of these and more. I’d never been one for drama, but Jasper drew these performances from me with ease. He was the consummate director.
Afterwards he would bathe me, rub soothing ointment into my bottom (or wherever it was needed), hold me in his arms, let me sail into sleep with him.
Nobody and nothing broke into our fantasy world.
When he took calls, he never told me what they were about. Now and again he went to London for the day, but I didn’t question him about his business. We were in a bubble: a perfect, shiny, fragile but all-encompassing bubble. I could think of no better place to be.
A humid July burnt off into a scratchy, thirsty August.
The petals dried and the skies hurt my eyes. Everything was bleached and desiccated; the waters of the lake were low.
On a day like this, I was ordered upstairs after lunch to change. He had bought me something, I surmised, and I was right. Laid out on my bed I found a set of riding gear. Jodhpurs, long-sleeved white top, hard hat, mouthwatering shiny boots.
It looked like a ride was in prospect.
This was odd, though, because, while the estate had stables, there were no horses. I had never ridden, being nervous of their size and their teeth.
Nonetheless, I pulled on the jodhpurs, smiling in advance at how Jasper was going to like the way they clung to every curve and accentuated the shape of my arse. The top went on next, and now I really hoped the ride, if it happened, might be a slow and stately trot because the thought of my bra-less breasts bouncing about on horseback made me cringe.
The boots fit precisely. The leather shone like twin mirrors. I watched myself put on the hard hat, looking down at my feet, then I saluted myself, took a final twirl and headed for Jasper.
He stood in the hallway, smart as the whip he held, in a dark riding jacket with brass buttons. I thought it must surely be too hot for the breathless weather, but he didn’t seem concerned. His boots were even shinier than mine and he looked slick, ruthless and jodhpur-dampeningly sexy.
‘Are you ready to ride?’ he asked me, slapping the crop down in the palm of one hand.
‘I’m … not sure, Sir.’ We’d come to an arrangement whereby he was ‘Sir’ after four o’clock, ‘Jasper’ before.
‘Have you ridden before?’
‘No, never.’
‘What, not even a pony?’
‘Not even a seaside donkey.’
‘Well, we’ll have to fix that. Come on.’
He patted my bottom with the whip, gently but firmly, ushering me through the front door.
‘I didn’t think you had a horse,’ I said, as he steered me around the side of the house towards the stables.
‘I don’t. This is on loan for the day, from a friend.’
‘Oh. Wow.’ On approaching the stables it became clear that a real horse was indeed in situ. I heard it snort, then saw it shake its head through the top of the half-door. ‘But there’s only one.’
‘Well spotted. Yes, there’s only one.’
We stopped at the stable door. Jasper patted the horse’s nose and gave him half an apple he’d had in his pocket.