Scarlet Women

‘Yes!’ he groaned as she raised the whip again.

‘Right answer.’ The girl grinned and trailed the whip’s leather lightly down between his quivering white buttocks. ‘Now that’s good, now we’re starting to understand one another. Because you’ve been a very bad boy, ain’t that right?’

‘That’s right,’ he muttered into the pillow. He was sweating and his eyes were closed.

The woman watched him, judging her victim. Sure he was sweating, it was a hot night. Damp and clammy and airless—welcome to a summer’s night in England, folks! The windows were closed though. She’d opened them earlier and shut them pretty damned quick; the constant roar of the traffic was an annoying distraction.

So he was hot. She was pretty fucking hot herself. Rubber might light the man’s candle, but it was a bitch to wear on a humid night. Just for the hell of it, she gave him another swipe with the whip. He gave a faint cry, flinched and strained against his bonds. Hell, anyone would think he wasn’t enjoying this. She sure hoped he was—it was costing him enough, after all.

Actually it was costing her too, in terms of energy and stamina. After an evening of wining, dining and shagging, she now had to get down to the add-ons, the not-so-little extras that the man tied to the bed required.

Most men, you did an escort job for them, they expected a bit of straightforward hanky-panky too, and that was cool. This client had more specific needs and he was one of her regulars. Her reputation as a dominatrix was legendary. Her speciality was what this client wanted, and the price had been fair, she had to admit that, and the price was all that mattered.

Take the money and run, she thought.

But now she was tired. She wanted to crawl into bed with her man, get some kip if it was possible in this heat. When he closed his eyes again she glanced at her watch. The extra hour he’d paid for was nearly up. Soon she’d be out of here; soon she’d be home.

Whack!

Oh, how he writhed. She sort of enjoyed that, to tell the truth, when they writhed. Just a bit. But she’d been doing this S & M gig for so long that it was beginning to bore her. Once the thrill had been in doing it, socking it to the punters. But she was a married lady now, and maybe this was not the sort of thing that a married lady ought to do—not even with her loving husband’s consent, which she’d always had…

The woman frowned. And maybe, just maybe, this was a thing that a loving husband ought to have a bit of a problem with: how was that for a thought?

This was something that kept popping into her brain more and more often. Did he love her so much, if he could be so fucking cool about his wife dancing the horizontal tango with strange men and then whipping them into a frenzy, and then coming home to him?

But the money was good, and money was always tight, and oh how she loved the money. Money to buy Biba dresses and Bill Gibb blouses, boots by the Chelsea Cobbler, waistcoats by Kaffe Fassett, and going to shows and dinners up West: she loved all that shit. So she did things sometimes that didn’t make her proud. Like whipping this punter’s snowy-white arse and wishing she was gone.

Time to draw their little sesh to a close now. Thank God.

Tenderly she leaned over and released the leather cords that bound his wrists to the headboard.

‘There you go honey, that’s all for tonight,’ she cooed in his ear.

And the bastard turned and whacked her right across the jaw.

Agony exploded in her head.

The girl went flying off the bed and fell to the floor. She sat up on the expensive carpet amid a tangle of shoes, trousers and shirt. Her eyes were filled with tears of pain. She could feel her heart beating hard against her ribs with the shock of it.

Fuck, where had that come from?

She clutched her jaw and staggered back to her feet, staring down at him in disbelief. He’d collapsed back on to the bed, face down. As if what he’d just done was nothing. As if hitting her, hurting her, was nothing.

As if she was nothing.

She’d dropped the whip but now she snatched it up again with a grunt of rage. Bastard punters! They were like tigers in a circus act: you were the trainer and you never let your guard down, you never turned your back, you always had to keep control—or they’d maul you as soon as look at you.

She waded in with the whip again. This time she put a lot of force behind it. This time she was angry. She was the sadist here, wasn’t she? Or that was the act, anyway. And he was supposed to be the masochist. He didn’t do the beating up, she did.

‘Better,’ he moaned happily, rolling over to display an erection the size of a baby’s arm. ‘That’s better, sweetheart, oh yes…’

And then he grabbed the hem of her rubber dress, nearly pulling her off balance, and held it over his nose and mouth. Twisted bastard. He always did that with her. Always.

She was so tired of all this.

It wasn’t that big a thrill any more.

Seconds later, he came all over the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

She watched him, her jaw hurting, her face carefully blank to hide her fear and disgust.

Boy, she was sick of all this.

Ten minutes later, she was out of there. She left the room with a big bundle of notes and a bad taste in her mouth—oh, and a jaw swollen to the size of a watermelon.

All in a day’s work.

It was raining by the time she left the snazzy hotel in Park Lane. The smartly uniformed concierge gave her a knowing look and a nod as she emerged from the lift in reception and went towards the revolving door. She’d been there before, she was no trouble, he wasn’t about to make a fuss.

Whatever the guest wanted, the guest got—that was his motto. A Roller to take them to the theatre? Certainly, sir. Champagne at a hundred quid a pop and a whole tin of Beluga caviar on the side? Mais oui, bien sur. A nice tart to share it with? No problem at all.

And she was a nice tart. Tall, slim and with skin dark as cocoa. A shock of dreadlocks framing her gorgeous face. She gave him a grin. You couldn’t get churlish looking at that grin, although it faded quickly and she seemed to wince.

Flamboyant dresser, too. Trailing a purple boa, toting a big carpetbag and wearing skin-tight denim hot pants. One of those cool-looking but very smelly Afghan coats flapping loose around her and big hoops of gold clattering at her ears. Could dress a bit smarter, but then it was late: few guests about, only him and the boy on reception, so all was well and why rock the boat?

Really, who gave a shit?

‘Get you a cab?’ he offered.

The grin returned. ‘What, you think I made o’ money, boy?’

‘Bet you’re making more than me.’

‘Ha! Don’t I just wish that was true. Nah, it’s okay, honey. My man’s pickin’ me up.’

He nodded and smiled at her. Yeah, she was a nice girl. No harm in her at all. Stressed-out businessmen, tired travellers, they needed the release of a bit of female company now and then. It wasn’t for him to judge. It was for him to say yes, sir, of course, sir, anything you want, we can get. Discretion was his watchword. Can-do was his attitude. It made him one of the best concierges in London.

He watched her swing through the revolving door and vanish into the rainy night. And then he thought of his own grown-up daughters, girls around the same age as this one, his precious girls tucked up safe at home where they ought to be at this hour of the night, and he thought: Fuck it. What a sodding way to make a living.

She walked quickly, head down against the rain, heading for the usual corner, around which her man would be parked up in his ancient Zodiac, waiting for her. Asleep, probably, stretched out across the single front sofa seat.