His Mistress’s Voice (20 page)

When he came back Harriet was still putting the shopping away. She looked grim and Tom concluded she was still upset by his remark. He shrugged again. No accounting for her moods. Nothing to do but wait for them to change. If he had learned anything about women, Tom knew that anything he might say now would only make matters worse. Best keep quiet and out of the way. Wait for the weather to clear. There was no telling when that might happen. Another imponderable. And there was the rest of the day to get through and tomorrow as well.

So he said nothing and went to make a cup of tea. Usually he would have made coffee, but tea seemed more appropriate at this moment. When the ship goes down, when your cat gets run over, when your mother is murdered, a cup of tea is the universal remedy. So it ought to work when your Mistress is angry.

He turned on the TV without being asked and they sat drinking the tea. Harriet seemed pleased by his manner and by the service, which he had performed in silence. It took an hour or so for the first smile to appear, ostensibly at something on the box. Tom reckoned he was halfway home. The first word required another hour.

‘Did you really find Helen attractive?’ Harriet asked.

Tom thought it best not to tell the obvious lie. ‘From her picture, yes. But you have to remember that I had no idea what she looked like until you showed it to me. And, before you ask, I enjoyed the surprise very much. I liked the idea of being helpless while someone else – a complete stranger in this case – did everything. Wasn’t that the idea? He turned the conversation around to what Harriet had done, rather than dwelling on Helen’s part in it. It seemed both safer and more effective in restoring the normal atmosphere. He relaxed when Harriet’s rueful grin told him she was getting over her fit of pique.

The rest of the evening passed in desultory but relaxed conversation that cleared the remnants of the tension from the air. When it was time for bed Harriet led him to the basement cell with her old manner and air of cheerful good humour. She locked him inside with a cheery good night. Even though this was apparently not going to be the night he got promoted to one or other of the upstairs bedrooms, Tom went to sleep with a feeling of relief and satisfaction.

In the morning Harriet came to unlock the cell door. Tom was pleased to see that she was wearing a dominatrix costume once again. It was not the one she had worn up till now. This time she wore a leather harness including a brief uplift bra that emphasised her breasts (needlessly, Tom thought, but he liked the effect). Below the tit level a strap ran vertically downward to a wide belt that nipped her in at the waist and gave her a pronounced hourglass shape. A further strap descended from this and passed between her legs, where it widened slightly to cover her mons veneris. When she turned to lead the way out of the cell, he saw that this strap continued up her back, dividing her generous bottom most provocatively. It led up to a collar at her neck and was pulled tight with a buckle. Suspenders from the waist belt held up a pair of glossy grey stockings. This morning Harriet wore a pair of knee-length laced boots with stiletto heels. She was a most agreeable sight. Quite daunting, in fact.

Instead of going upstairs, Harriet turned towards the back end of the basement where the rest of her gear was stored. It began to look as if she intended to settle the account she had told Tom she was keeping. As he followed her Tom felt the first stirring of the mingled desire and apprehension he associated with his sexual arousal since meeting Harriet.

She led him to one of the cabinets at the side of the room. Inside there was a step ladder. ‘Carry that over to the post there,’ she commanded tersely, pointing to one of the pillars that supported the ceiling and the floor above. ‘Lean it against the post and wait there.’ She moved to another cabinet to collect some other gear.

The pillar she had indicated was obviously meant to serve as a whipping post. There were several hooks set into it at various heights, all of them above head level for the average person. As he stood where she had directed, Tom watched her open the cabinet and extract a quantity of rope and a riding crop. He watched in a detached fashion as she came back to him, admiring the way she moved and the way the leather harness defined her body, underlining her eroticism. He found the sight of her more absorbing than the thought of what she was about to do to him.

Harriet wasn’t interested in his admiration just then. There was something more pressing on her mind. She climbed the step ladder and beckoned Tom forward. Without being told, he brought his arms around the post and waited while Harriet tied his wrists together. She hoisted his arms up until he was stretched and tied the rope off to a hook near the ceiling. This left Tom standing against the post with his arms high over his head. Harriet climbed down and moved the ladder out of the area of operations. She picked up the riding crop and showed it to him. ‘This will hurt you a good deal more than it hurts me,’ she told him jovially.

He smiled stiffly in spite of the tightness in his scrotum and belly. He was struck by her indefatigable humour.

Then Harriet stepped behind him, out of his view, and he was struck by something more weighty. The first blow landed on his bottom – the obvious target. It stung more than anything else. He thought it wouldn’t be so bad if that was the best she could manage, but it wasn’t the best, as the next blow told him. Harriet didn’t pull her punches this time. The blow drove the breath from his lungs in a surprised snort. It too landed on his bottom, but it felt more like someone had laid a line of fire across it. Harriet didn’t pause for effeot. She continued to lay into him, criss-crossing the blows up his back and over his bottom and down the backs of his legs. Tom didn’t dare turn around to see when the next one was coming for fear of bringing other, more essential parts of him into range.

Harriet changed the target often enough to avoid drawing blood, but Tom felt as if his entire rear elevation was on fire before she had finished. He was biting his lips to stop himself crying out. He thought that would be too undignified. Begging her to stop seemed equally undignified, and he didn’t think she would. He held as still as possible.

When she finally paused she was breathing heavily. Tom could hear the rasp of her breath as she stood behind him. She came closer and pressed herself against his back. A nice sensation, that, he thought. Harriet took his prick in hand. ‘I don’t want you to get the idea that it’s all suffering here, even when we settle up for your lapses. I want you to begin associating pleasure with pain. You have to know about that so you can help me teach it to others. So, are we having fun yet? Yes, I can see that we are,’ Harriet said, using the editorial, the royal and nurses’ ‘we’.

‘Umm,’ said Tom. This really was quite agreeable. He was stiffening beneath her hand. The memory of the lashing was fading as Harriet continued to fondle him. He could see how her method worked. First the whip, and then the hand that had wielded it bringing pleasure. Keep it up long enough and your subject would soon be thinking of them as cause and effect. It was one of the few times when even a logician might not object to the
post hoc
fallacy.

Long before he lost control she stopped. Harriet got the ladder and untied him. He rubbed his wrists but deliberately didn’t rub the other parts. He might as well have saved himself the trouble. She was paying no attention to what he was or wasn’t doing. Tom wondered if her lack of attention was intended to underline another point, that bondage and sex were no big thing, just part of the day’s activities. If she was she gave no sign of that either. She was her usual matter-of-fact self. That saved him from having to remark on what they had done, which was just as well, because he had no comments ready. In any case Harriet was already moving towards the stairs, and he didn’t fancy commenting to her retreating back. Instead he followed her upstairs, admiring the way her bottom was divided by the leather thong.

Chapter Six

Up until now Tom had been forbidden to call Harriet or communicate with her during the week. As it had with Beth, the week became a period he had to get through in order to enjoy the weekends with his Mistress. Nor had she ever attempted to communicate with him during the time he spent living the other half of his life. Therefore he was surprised to get a letter from her. It was waiting for him when he came home on Wednesday evening. The handwriting was strange to him at first. He didn’t connect it with Harriet because of her weekends-only rule.

When he did eventually make the connection, he hastily tore the envelope open half fearing it was her notice to him that he was not to come back. Such things happen even with people in Harriet’s line of business. Maybe he had not measured up to her standard and she was going to look for another assistant. Tom realised with a start how much he would miss the tantalising sessions with her. She had become a part of his life in the short time he had known her, as Beth had, and she had gone abruptly.

Before you come on Friday evening, I want you to do several things
, the letter read. Tom felt a huge sense of relief. It wasn’t the dismissal he had feared.
First, you will have to buy some lingerie to go with the maid’s outfit I have for you. Get a panty-corselet and several pairs of the firmest support tights you can find, in case we ladder one pair.
That sounded vaguely ominous. Tom thought of the riding crop again.

He also thought of the embarrassment he would feel buying the things she specified. He remembered the first time he had bought a peignoir for his first serious lover. It had taken several days to screw up the courage and the saleswoman had looked at him rather queerly. She had added to the embarrassment by holding the chosen garment up for him (and everyone else in the vicinity) to view. He had wanted to shout at her, ‘Put it away! Hide it!’ But in the end he had fled from the store with what he wanted. The orders from Harriet condemned him to another such scene. This time it would be complicated by the knowledge that the lingerie was for him and not for a lover. But Harriet had spoken. Nor had she finished:

Second, you will need to borrow or hire a closed van or an auto with tinted windows. We have to pick someone up at the airport and I do not want people on the street to be able to see what we are doing.
That was both mysterious and intriguing enough to distract his attention from the first part of the letter. It was no use asking Harriet for further details. If she had wanted him to know more, she would have told him. And in any case he was still bound by the no-calls rule. If she decided to break the rule by writing to him, that was up to her. She gave the orders. The letter concluded:
We need to be at Terminal Two at Heathrow by 1900 hours, so make your plans accordingly
.

The 1900 hours sounded military, and was just the sort of touch Harriet would relish. He didn’t have much time to get things done, and failure to do what she wanted was not something he wanted to contemplate.

On the next evening, after work, Tom bought the corselet and tights. It was almost as embarrassing as he had feared, and he guessed that Harriet had taken that into consideration when she had told him to get the things. She could have got everything as easily as not, so she had probably wanted to humiliate or, at least, intimidate him. Part of the treatment. At home he had wrapped the lingerie in plain paper and put it into an anonymous plastic carrier bag.

The next day he had phoned a car-hire firm and rented a Rover with tinted glass. He assumed Harriet wanted something large and impressive, but not as memorable as a Rolls-Royce. When he arrived at Harriet’s place with the car, he found her ready to go. She looked approvingly at the car, and only then gave him a quick hello and a smile. She stood expectantly at the passenger door, waiting. Only at the last moment did Tom realise she was waiting for him to open the door for her. He hoped his hesitation would not be noticeable to passers-by, but he guessed that Harriet had noted the lapse and would add it to the next lashing she decided to give him.

She directed him to drive to Heathrow. The evening rush was beginning to thin out, and he made good time to the M25. When they arrived, she directed him to the Terminal Two car park, and waited again while he came around to help her out. Perhaps she let her skirt ride up deliberately to reward him for his diligence. Or maybe it was accidental. But in either case Tom admired the view of her legs as he got out. Harriet had not been schooled in the ladylike method of getting in and out of cars and she didn’t seem to care.

All during the drive Tom had wondered who they were meeting, but Harriet had not enlightened him. There was also the question of how greatly this mysterious party would disrupt the weekend with Harriet. He didn’t fancy sharing her time with anyone else, and was prepared to resent whoever it was. It did no good to tell himself not to be so proprietary, but he had the wit not to mention these sentiments to Harriet. He knew she would regard them as trivial or irrelevant when set beside whatever she had decided to do.

Inside the terminal Harriet checked the flight arrivals as, if daring the board to show a delay. Tom went to get coffee for them and a table at the restaurant. She joined him, looking satisfied. Tom wondered if she had ordered the airline people to make sure the plane arrived on time. He waited for her to supply further information. She continued not to. The public address system said something incomprehensible, but Harriet looked up at the sound and checked one of the ubiquitous TV monitors displaying arrivals and departures. She must have seen what she was expecting, for she finished her coffee quickly and got up, motioning for Tom to follow her.

There was the usual steady stream of people emerging from the customs area into the arrivals hall, looking bewildered or anxious or tired, or all three. They would look around until they caught sight of a familiar face, or gratefully make for someone holding a cardboard sign with their names on it. Since Harriet had no such sign, Tom assumed that she would recognise the person or people she was looking for. Or vice versa. Presently she did, stepping forward as a couple emerged from the doorway. Harriet waved cheerily, and they came over to her.