Chapter 20 : Some Domestic Servitude - March

16 Months, 506 Days Since Jenny's Disappearance

A DOMESTIC SLAVE?

I have organised a couple of day's annual leave, but I forgot to change my alarm. The alarm does not forget and erupts at 6.30 in the morning as it normally does. I look bleary eyed at the clock radio. I am about to get up. I have a hazy memory that I have a lot to do today but in the event, I switch the noise off, roll over and go back to sleep until 8am, when I am woken by the door bell. A messenger has a large letter for me, which has to be signed for. It's from the office. I sign for it and plod into the kitchen, to make coffee.

What have I got to do this weekend? Suddenly I remember. George and Cathy Corbin are coming to dinner, there is the house to clean, food to buy, a meal to cook, clothes to wash, I'm supposed to go to the Gym for a reassessment with the trainer and now there is something from work! And tomorrow I have an appointment with Ylena...

How on earth did Jenny cope with all this sort of thing? Well, if she could do it, so can I.

I tear open the envelope. It contains some concrete casting specifications. Can I comment on them? The client has changed their requirements and the shape of a concrete retaining wall. How will that affect the strength? Can the on-site team go ahead and cast anyway? Would it be better to get factory made pre-casts to be assembled on-site? How long would that be likely to take? What would the cost implications be? Can I let them know by Monday?

There are engineering drawings, specifications, various sets of calculations and the architect's plans.

I cast it aside and quickly throw breakfast together and then go to get washed and dressed.

By 9 am, I am more ready to face the day: what should I do first? I decide to confirm the menu. I want things which are nice to eat but easy to make. There was a time when this would have been simple – I would have had Jenny. Now there is no Jenny and I'm supposed to be working on my diet. What about a seafood casserole with white fish, mussels and prawns and have ... have ... have a crème brulée to finish with? Jenny did it once. There is a recipe in Delia Smith's book. The dessert might be rich but we don't have to have much.

As fast as I can, I check the ingredients, make a more general shopping list and I am about to go to the supermarket when I remember about the washing. I head back inside, grab the dirty clothes (at least the washing machine is in the garage not the kitchen) separate "lights " from "darks" and set the machine off – and then go shopping.

It is Thursday morning, but the shop is still busy. It takes much longer than I thought and its 11.45 before I get back. I dump the food in the kitchen and go to deal with the washing. The darks are done and I put a second load on for the lights. It's a dry breezy day. Perhaps I should peg the damp washing outside? Everything has tangled itself up, so before pegging out, I have to carry it back into the kitchen and carefully untangle and separate the individual items before I can take them outside.

At last the job is done and I glance at the clock. Its 12.30pm. I had arranged to have a reassessment at the gym at 3pm. That is going to take a couple of hours by the time I have seen the trainer, worked through the programme and got changed, so I could be back at 5pm. Cathy and George are supposed to be coming round at 7.30 so that gives me a just couple of hours to tidy and clean the house, get myself ready and prepare the meal. Idiot! Why did I arrange to go to the gym?

As I start cleaning, I notice the concrete calculations on the dining room table. They peer reproachfully at me form the envelope. What's the point of taking leave if you are sent urgent work to do when you are on holiday? Next time I will tell them I am going out of town and I will not take a mobile.

By 1.30, I am about to start on the meal again when I remember the washing. Blast! I go outside, collect the dry clothes and fold them prior to ironing before I return to the garage to collect the second load of washing. Once more, I have to untangle them and shake them out before I can hang them up. Should I be doing all this anyway? What if we had a tumble dryer? Couldn't I just dump them all in a tumble-dryer and let it get on with its job? I once said this to Jenny but she was never in favour of them: first there is the cost, then it's not "green" then not everything can be tumble-dried and finally, some things take much longer than others, she said and so I am now left with old traditional technology.

1.40 – there is just enough time to make the dessert before I have to get away to the gym. I need to set off at 2.30 to be sure of being on time for Greg, the trainer, at 3.

Feverishly I make preparations and by 2.20 it's ready. At last!

Jenny seemed to be able to do all this sort of thing so effortlessly, but it must have taken a huge effort. Did I ever notice? Not really. Did I ever tell her how well she did? No. In retrospect, I feel ashamed and as always happens when I think of Jenny, I remember the aching void inside me.

It's 5pm and I am back from the gym. Bad news. I have not lost as much weight as I had hoped for. I have been found out by the skin fold callipers. I suppose it's the curse of being alone. I often eat easy, fast food, appetising and filling but not very good for me. I promised Greg I would try harder for our next meeting in six weeks. Six weeks. That sounds a long time but I am going to have to mend my ways quickly. Should I have made a fruit salad for George and Cathy, rather than the crème brulée? Probably, but now it's too late to do anything about it.

Rain has begun to fall. There are still things on the washing line. I rush out to collect it before it gets wet again, then I finish preparing dinner and finally at 6.45 I go get washed and dressed to greet my guests. As I am getting changed I find myself thinking about the day I have spent. What if I had been entertaining my Domme? How would I have felt if all my work was to be inspected, marked, assessed – and then punishment meted out for every infraction or example of poor performance. The cane licking across my bum for unappetising vegetables or floors which were not clean enough...

A DISCIPLINED SLAVE

My alarm goes off. It is 7am. The room is still dark and the central heating pipes click as the heat comes through. It was a good evening. The food was OK. We did not drink too much. I was in bed before midnight. The conversation was - easy. Not having Jenny here, conversation can sometimes be difficult. People try not to rub salt in the wound, so we steer carefully around topics which might bring painful memories centre stage. The elephant in the room. It's a good phrase. There it stands. Looming. Quiet. Unmistakeable, but no-one mentions it.

Now that Cathy and George have gone home I can spend a few moments with Jenny on the FindJenny website. Inga has posted another appeal for information. I think about trying myself and then remember the replies I got last time. I don't need more people telling me what they think about what I should have done. There are more hits, but no news. News must come sometime, surely? The people from the Charity have put together a slide show of the photographs I sent them. As it plays, it almost seems like a video. It's overlaid with a message string recalling who Jenny was, what she did, when she vanished, asking for information, encouraging site visitors to contact if they think she has seen her and finally a message from Andrew and Inga thanking visitors for their interest and asking Jenny to get in touch, in touch with them or in touch with the Charity if she would prefer. But she never does...

I take a deep breath. I would rather like to sink back to sleep but I can't because today, today I have another appointment with Ylena. I feel a shower of adrenalin. What, exactly, is the day going to hold?

...

"Stand up!"

Ylena looks down at me, on my knees.

I stand.

She walks round me.

"What's this?"

The tip of her riding crop gently rubs my tummy.

"It's my stomach, Gaspazha."

"Your stomach. How old are you?"

"Twenty eight."

"Twenty eight and you are beginning to have a little stomach?" She rubs again. "I am not satisfied. You told me you were going to the Gym, going on a diet, going be careful about what you were eating."

"Yes, Gaspazha."

"Yes what? Yes, I said that, but I did not mean it? Yes I said that, but had no intention of doing as I said? Yes I said that, but I do not have the will power to do what I ought to do?"

"I am afraid I have been careless."

"Good! Points in favour for honesty! Would you like me to help you?"

"Da, Gaspazha!"

"On your knees again!"

I kneel. She places a blindfold over my eyes and straps it on tight. I feel her clip something to my collar. "Come!" is all she says and I feel a tug at my collar. We walk through her establishment. I can't see a thing. I have to trust her, as she pulls me left and right and forward and left.

"Step up!"

I step up onto some sort of platform. I can feel it beneath my bare feet, for I am completely naked, save for the collar and blindfold.

"Now what do we have here? A trans-meatal ring! How convenient."

I feel her manipulating the ring through the head of my prick. She clips something through it and I can feel a gentle tug.

"Kneel!"

I kneel down. She strips the blindfold from me and I see I am on a treadmill, just like the ones at the gym but this time the control panel has been covered and my prick is tethered to a ring on the frame. Suddenly I am afraid.

"Now Joseph" (she pronounces my name Yosef) "it's time for you to pay for your carelessness and this machine will help you to do it. You are going to run for the next hour. Some times on the flat, sometimes it will feel as if you are going up hill. Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. You cannot see the controls and you will not know how much longer you will have to work or how hard you will have to work. It's an exquisite torture and chaining you to the machine by your pick will provide all the encouragement you will need to keep going. Imagine what might happen if you fell, or stopped?"