Whip Hands (23 page)

‘How many?'

‘Twenty-five, ma'am.'

She released his neck and walked round to the other side so that subsequent strokes would cross the previous diagonal. The curve of his buttocks was now taking harsher punishment, as his sharp intake of breath showed. He began to struggle again, so she put one hand on his fleshy neck and held it there. Small sections of twig were now lying around the stool on the floor, testifying to the increased force of her strokes.

‘How many now?'

‘Forty, ma'am.'

‘No, you worm. Thirty-nine. For that we may have to start all over again. Are you ready?'

‘No, please, no. I'll never lie again, I promise.'

‘Good. Your punishment is beginning to have some effect already, but we really must finish it in style. Stand up.'

Raymond raised himself shakily. He tried ineffectually to hide his jutting member. The purple head glistened with its own oil, bobbing as he stood up. It was quite an impressive sight now it was fully erect. His hands went instinctively to shield it.

‘Hands on your head again.'

He obeyed hesitantly.

‘Now get ready for another dozen. Some to the back and some to the front.'

He looked at her in genuine horror, obviously unable to believe anyone could possibly want to strike at his magnificent erection. Well, this self-satisfied legal eagle was going to learn a lesson or two about dispensing justice.

She struck him three times across the back, giving her arm full sweep this time. Swish, swish, swish in quick succession. He cried out shrilly at the last one and tried to reach down with one hand, then he saw the backhand stroke on its way, too late to avoid it. He shrieked as the birch raked the back of his hand.

‘Keep your hands on your head or I'll repeat the dosage!'

Now Jane had him totally at her command. When she struck him in the groin the shrimp went into a crouch, leaving his arse exposed. After a swish or two she could reverse the process as he tried to tuck in his beetroot-coloured buttocks. He now cried out at every stroke and tried to move away out of reach.

She grabbed his upper arm and gave him a succession of strokes across the lower belly. He jerked and howled but after each one remained limply in her grasp, making no attempt to struggle free. It was as if the shrimp were encouraging Jane to take total control and tread him into the ground. Treat him like dirt; do unspeakable acts on him. She was well into her frenzy and could feel the telltale signs of liquid warmth on her thighs.

By now she had lost count of the strokes and couldn't care. She was going to make this shrimp look like a lobster before the night was out. She kept a firm hold on his upper arm and beat him with increasing savagery all over his back and arse. At last he began to howl with a mixture of agony and genuine terror.

‘Mercy! Mercy!'

She heard it faintly through the drumming of her own blood. Restraining herself, she took a couple of deep breaths and lowered her arm. Her breasts and abdomen were running with sweat.

‘Had enough?'

He was gasping for breath and couldn't reply at first.

‘I certainly have. Good God Almighty, you gave it to me.' He moved gingerly over to the mirrored wall. ‘That was far harder than I normally receive from you ladies.'

Jane snorted derisively. ‘You'll survive. Birching marks fade pretty quickly.'

‘I really don't see how you would know unless you've been on the receiving end.' He grimaced as he ran a hand over his haunches. While he went behind the screen again she pressed the green button that connected with Vanessa's flat. She was down in two minutes.

‘Jane, darling, I just have to see you in that cloak,' Vanessa said on entering. As usual she was on a perpetual high.

‘Absolutely wonderful. I said it would suit you, didn't I?'

‘So where did you get it - and the judge's wig? They look like the real thing.'

Vanessa let out a shrill peal of laughter, as she was joined by the once more dapper Raymond. He held out his arm.

For a moment Jane was nonplussed. Then she realised.

‘So they're yours!'

‘Yes, my dear, they are indeed,' he said with a tight smile. ‘And I hope you never have to encounter me when I'm wearing them, because it would mean you were in a great deal of trouble! Although, of course, I'd be happy to recommend some excellent defence counsel if need be.'

Vanessa pealed again on cue as Jane handed over the wig and gown.

Would I make the grade then?' Jane asked, feeling light-headed.

‘Well, in some ways you were admirable, my dear. But I certainly wouldn't come to you expecting a light sentence.' He took her hand and slipped a large note into it. ‘So make absolutely sure I don't get off lightly next time, eh?'

 

 

 

I know it's a cliché, but I'm sure my heart did really skip a beat. He was in a far corner of the room talking to an adoring trio in neo-punk outfits and my attention was drawn to him by the incongruity of the group. The women had day-glo hair while Douglas was immaculately turned out in a pale blue blazer and twill slacks. Still the matinee idol, I thought, even though he was my side of thirty.

We had been at drama school together, but we seemed to be heading in totally different directions. I took classes in tap and voice while he had immersed himself in classical drama and Alexander technique. After we qualified our careers had taken very different directions. In the last few years I had been mainly in the West End playing supporting roles in musicals. I had noticed Douglas' name coming up mainly in local rep.

I sidled over to join the group. Gratifyingly, he recognised me immediately and recollected my name, Arlene, without a moment's hesitation. Not that it was Douglas' style to come over all luvvie; he just seemed slightly taken aback to see me. It must have been all of five years and unfortunately we hadn't parted the best of friends. In short, a brief and unexpected final-term romance where he made all the running had come to an equally unexpected end as I was swept off my feet by a director who promised me stardom.

However, that was all in the past. From our initial exchange of glances, perhaps there might be something worth rekindling. He admitted he was currently unattached and, just like myself, not working. It had been several months since Douglas' last substantial part - a supporting role in a country house whodunit - and he was clearly worried about going stale.

Well, to cut a long story short, we both had a few drinks and became inseparable for the rest of the evening. We shared a taxi ride, since we lived only a mile or so apart, during which the following exchange took place:

HE: ‘This has been great fun, Arlene. Why don't we meet up again soon?'

SHE: (with a sloshed attempt at coyness) ‘Whatever for, Douglas my dear? Surely you don't still have designs on my body after all these years?'

HE: (hastily) ‘I was thinking more in terms of professional progress. We could try some improvised scenes together, work on character development, keep our hand in so that we're still fizzing for auditions. Good idea or not?'

SHE: ‘Not bad as far as it goes. What sort of scenes did you have in mind, bearing in mind that our repertoires do vary quite considerably?'

HE: ‘Mm, good point. I'm keen to try out something lighter, extend my range. All I seem to be offered are naff parts where I strut about the stage looking woebegone or faintly chuffed depending on the turn of events. How I long for some contemporary drama, or something sensationally Gothic or...'

SHE: ‘Douglas, this is where I live. Here's an idea I tried out once before with a girlfriend. Tomorrow evening I'll phone you. Whatever book you're reading when the phone rings, that's what we'll use for our improvisation.'

HE: (aghast at my nonchalance or possibly that final glass of Bulgarian Merlot) ‘What a splendid idea! You really are an amazing girl, Arlene...'

 

Well, the girl escaped eventually with his phone number. And sure enough, the following week, we spent a very pleasant afternoon at my flat rehearsing a scene from some humorous novel about academic life. At least, he thought it was a great laugh. For me there were too many wordy diatribes and the female lead was a man-hater with a sharp tongue. This was a part that stretched my resources rather too far.

I had thoughtfully provided a bottle of vodka as an aid to relaxation after our theatrical exertions, possibly as a prelude to those of a different kind entirely. I decided it was needed much earlier in the scene. With a glass of vodka and blackcurrant in hand I became much more at home in the part. Unfortunately, as experience should have taught me, one glass led to others. And improvisation somehow slipped into the background as Douglas and I picked up the threads of the time we had spent apart. Of course, we lost track of the time.

When Vera returned from work at quarter to six precisely she became even more tight-lipped than usual - a facial feat I had thought impossible. True, the living room furniture had been rearranged to suggest a fountain in a college quadrangle. But the idea had been to return everything to its exact location before she returned. We had marked them on the stripped pine with crosses of sticky tape.

Douglas retreated in confusion, pursued by Vera's acid glare. We just had time to confirm that I should choose the next book and he would phone in two days' time. The same arrangement, but this time at his place.

 

A rainy afternoon two days later saw me cradling a copy of Jane Eyre in one hand, sprawled over Vera's precious moquette cushions. I had arrived at the chapter where Jane begins her life as a governess at Thornfield Hall. The strange situation in which she found herself helped me to retreat into my own private world where I could identify readily with the heroine.

Jane was just going out on a cold winter's afternoon to post a letter. As the sun is setting she comes across Mr Rochester who has suffered a fall from his horse on the icy road. Of course, neither has met the other before. She tries to calm the horse, but fails. So she has to take Rochester's weight on her shoulder as he limps over to remount. They talk briefly and he then points to the riding crop lying under the hedge where it had fallen. Jane goes over and hands it to him. And then the phone rang:

SHE: (as if awaking from a dream) ‘Who is it?'

HE: ‘Title and chapter please. No cheating now.'

SHE: (after a moment's incomprehension) ‘Douglas, you caught me in another country entirely. I'm reading Jane Eyre.'

HE: (camping it up) ‘My dear, Rochester's a role I would just kill for. You were definitely reading a scene where that angst-ridden hunk appears, weren't you?'

SHE: ‘I'll say. I just happen to be at the chapter where Jane and he meet for the first time. It's made for us, wouldn't you say?'

HE: ‘And how. I've always fancied myself in riding boots. I trust you can find something authentically early Victorian to wear?'

SHE: (with a pout) ‘Fear not, I shall make an entrance that will be quite unforgettable. I'm sure I've got some fake Laura Ashley number that will do.'

HE: ‘Good, I'll expect you mid-afternoon at The Wharf. Ring my bell and take the lift to the top floor.'

SHE: (suggestively) ‘Sounds
tres romantique
. Looking forward to getting down to some serious work with you. We'll do the whole scene from the point where he falls off his horse.'

HE: ‘Can you find your way over here or shall I come and collect you?'

SHE: ‘Only if you arrive on horseback, Mr Rochester.'

 

The next day was bright and clear. As I set out towards Douglas' penthouse overlooking the marina the sun was already sinking and I was glad I had brought a warm coat to cover my rather thin costume. Phrases from the description of Jane's winter walk ran through my mind. Odd, since trees and hedgerows were in notably short supply in that part of town. The flat was part of a converted Victorian warehouse with an impressive stone frontage now warmly glowing in the reddening sun.

As I stepped from the lift at the top floor I undid the buttons of my winter coat and rearranged my Regency-style decolletage. This had been achieved with the use of a chiffon scarf tied around the bust instead of a bra. It would surely catch Douglas's eye the moment he opened the door.

Difficult to know whose jaw dropped the more when we confronted each other. For his part Douglas had somehow found a chestnut-coloured riding cloak and top-boots which, together with a canary yellow felt hat sporting a feather, made him the spitting image of Jane's saturnine employer, Rochester.

He beckoned me in but did not take my coat. I was at first blinded by the ruby light pouring in through a series of small windows on the far wall. There was little furniture in the open-plan apartment and this had been cleared away to leave a generous acting area. The dominant feature was a white-painted, cast-iron spiral staircase leading through a hole in the ceiling to an upper level. From this room, presumably the bedroom, a faint light was already discernible.