Chapter 8: Consultation

After leaving Cerys and the helpless Gordon, Allison headed home. Although it was early she felt tired; emotionally drained, she supposed, as a result of the strange experiences of that evening. She went to bed.

The weather was sultry. A bout of late autumn sunshine following on from a week’s rain meant the city felt damp. In Allison’s bedroom, with windows closed it was stuffy but she knew that leaving them open would mean a chilly early morning.

Allison lay, unable to settle, pulling her duvet over herself and pushing it off again at regular intervals as she tried to get to sleep.

She was resigning herself to spending an uncomfortable night. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as Gordon would be having, she imagined, but the thought of how Cerys and he might be spending their time was more than enough to prevent her from sleeping.

Lying in bed, it was as much as she could do to keep her fingers out of her knickers, guessing what Cerys would be getting up to with Gordon. With the ball gag locked in place and his cock in a padlocked cage, it was pretty obvious that he’d have to do anything she wanted.

Thinking back, Allison remembered the look of distaste one of her boyfriends had given her when she’d suggested that he might like to return the favour after she’d given him what she had thought was a pretty good blow job. “Nah,” he’d said, “not my thing.” She’d been angry at the time but had said nothing. Thinking back, Allison told herself, it would have been your thing if you had your cock in a cage and your hands were locked behind your back. Then it would be very much your thing.

From that thought it wasn’t much of a leap for Allison to suddenly realise that, if she wanted it, she would have no trouble getting Lionel Fairbrother to oblige her. Would that be such a terrible thing? She suddenly noticed the mess in her bedroom; the scattered clothes; the coffee cups that she suspected harboured interesting fungal cultures; the pile of paper from where she had printed out things for her researches. The place was a tip, she really hadn’t had much of a chance to tidy up while she’d been working on the contract for Cerys. Of course, she thought, if Lionel was into the same sort of things as Gordon was she’d have someone to clean up her flat too.

As she rolled over in bed she caught sight of her handbag sitting on the table. Sticking out of the front pocket was the corner of a folded paper. It was the note that Lionel had written. Allison realised that in her haste to sort things out for Cerys she hadn’t even opened it. She reached out for the note, pulled it to her and unfolded it.

“I shall not,” the note began, “presume to call you ‘Mistress’. I hope that ‘Miss Terry’ is sufficiently formal and respectful.” Fairbrother’s hand was steady – curious given the circumstances in which the note had been written. His script was neat, his grammar and spelling exact. There was only one point about half way through when he had evidently stopped in the middle of a word. Allison smiled to herself, realising that it must have been at this point that their curious meeting had been interrupted. Allison wondered what he must have felt at that point, crouched under his desk and at risk of being discovered. The note went on, “I have long wished to find someone that I could serve as well as I believe I can. I have had some limited experience with a professional lady who has been helping me to develop the skills I know I need. I am sure that she would provide me with a reference as to my seriousness. Nothing could bring me more pleasure than to be able to serve you, crouched at your feet as I am now or in whatever way you would choose. Your obedient servant,” Allison giggled at the literal meaning of words that would once have been merely a convention, “Lionel Fairbrother.”