And yet I wanted him so much. So much that when, on Christmas Eve, a drinks guest of my mother’s embraced me wearing a scarf that smelled of Patrick’s aftershave, I had to go out to the conservatory and sit down until my legs stopped shaking. It was like my first ever crush all over again, complete with teen-style angst and kissing practice on the back of my hand. He was a decent, good, attractive, solvent man who wanted me – but I just couldn’t give myself to him.
Maybe, I thought, the week at His Lordship’s would put me off that path and open me up again to vanilla possibilities. Perhaps Patrick could be my “cure”. No, I was kidding myself. I was what I was. I would have to live with it for the rest of my life.
The night before I was due for my sojourn with His Lordship, I lay naked on my bed and put a mirror between my thighs. I suppose I wanted to know that my vagina was still there, in a recognisable form, after three weeks of being severely ignored and knocked back. The little aperture was still there amidst the pink and glistening whorls – it hadn’t yet sealed itself. My clit remained as cheerfully fat and red as ever. I thought about touching it, but touched Patrick’s necklace instead.
Tomorrow, everything could change.
By the end of the week, perhaps Patrick would be out of my mind for good.
I wasn’t to take anything to His Lordship’s house. No suitcase, no handbag, no money, no clothes.
I had dressed according to his instructions – high heels, stockings, simple dress, full-length coat, hat, scarf, gloves, no underwear – and admired my reflection in my long mirror, adding an extra coat of lipstick while I waited for the doorbell to ring. My pussy seemed aware of the possibility that it might be allowed to have some attention today and was wet in anticipation. The lack of knickers made this all the more noticeable and I pressed my thighs together, trying to warm the dampness away.
I wasn’t allowed perfume either, and I was worried about how much fragrance my excitable nether parts were giving off. I hoped my heavy coat and leather gloves might overpower it.
I was allowed my mobile phone, but had to keep it switched off unless an emergency arose. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the cool, slim rectangle, gripping it for reassurance. Now that the hour was almost upon me, it occurred to me how reckless I was being in giving myself up to a stranger’s pleasures and disciplinary measures for a week. He had given me every assurance of his credentials, and I wanted to do this, I really did, but nagging fears clung to the back of my mind regardless.
The buzzer rang. My chest burned. I could ignore it. I could make it go away.
I walked over and pressed the button, breathing deeply.
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Delray?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Your car is waiting for you.’
‘I’ll be right down.’
Lights off, appliances unplugged, windows secured, door locked, Cherry life left behind.
Keris life activated.
At the door of my building stood a man in an old-fashioned chauffeur’s uniform – well-pressed navy trousers, a navy jacket with a double row of shiny brass buttons, a peaked cap and leather driving gloves. I recognised him from my night out with His Lordship and I nodded and shot him a nervous smile.
He didn’t smile back, but led me immediately down the path and out to the pavement, beside which His Lordship’s black Bentley was parked.
With formal stiffness, he opened the back passenger door and watched as I climbed in and belted up.
Then, without saying a word, he took his seat, started up the engine and began to drive.
Somehow I had the impression that I was not supposed to talk, so I didn’t.
I watched the cold, grey city pass by my window until we were in the cold, brown-green countryside then I sat back and stared at the ceiling, wishing I’d thought to bring a book. I didn’t know how long this journey was going to take and it didn’t seem that the driver was about to tell me.
I emboldened myself to ask. ‘Where are we going?’
He didn’t reply.
For a wild moment I wondered if he was an abductor dressed up as His Lordship’s chauffeur, but I calmed myself by looking around the car and making a note of everything I recognised from my last short ride in it.
Within an hour, we were driving in snow. Nothing serious, just a few flakes whirling and skittering around the car.
‘Do you know what the weather’s like where we’re going?’ I tried again. ‘Is it proper deep snow? I hope we don’t get stuck.’
Again, there was no reply, but about ten minutes later, he pulled into a layby, got out of the car and opened my door.