Catherine's Letters (7 page)

Chapter Six

Maria called Adrienne’s mobile just after nine on Tuesday morning. Before everything got busy, she said. And to give her time to book tomorrow afternoon off.

‘Why?’ asked Adrienne. ‘I thought we were meeting tomorrow night?’

‘We are,’ Maria replied, ‘but for what I’ve got planned we’ll need the afternoon as well.’

‘Since you put it like that,’ said Adrienne, her stomach flipping, ‘I’ll do it, even if I have to fake a migraine. Tell me your address so I can find it on Streetmap.’

‘There’s no need, I’ll take you there. Meet me outside Tottenham Court Road tube at two. No, on second thoughts, make it Centre Point. You should be able to find that, and it’s suitably phallic.’

‘You cheeky bitch! I’ll smack your bottom for that,’ Adrienne whispered into her mobile, checking there was no one passing by in the corridor where she had come to take the call.

‘Excellent. Tomorrow at two, then.’

For the rest of the day, Adrienne was on that knife edge between excitement and fear, as if she were starting a new high-pressure job or preparing to present to an important client. She did not sleep well that night, and was tempted to read another of Catherine’s letters, or masturbate over her coming experience. But she decided against both, believing abstinence would make the next day’s orgasms all the sweeter.

At the appointed time she was outside the giant tower block, which dwarfed all the other buildings around it in New Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road. As office workers rushed in and out of Centre Point, she stared at it, wondering why men felt the need to build anything quite so big.

Just then, she felt a dainty pair of hands covering her eyes from behind. ‘Guess who?’ a familiar voice chirped.

There was no need to answer. Adrienne turned and hugged Maria, the women pecking one another’s cheeks, the only display of affection Adrienne felt they could get away with in public. ‘Had lunch yet?’ asked Maria.

‘No. Too nervous,’ Adrienne replied truthfully.

‘Come on, you’ll need to keep your strength up for the rest of the day. I know a great place.’ Adrienne found herself being pulled through the traffic and down a couple of side streets until they reached a tiny sandwich bar. Over an espresso and a chicken baguette she chatted to Maria, who answered between mouthfuls of her brie. It was small talk, and Adrienne could not ask the question she really wanted to – what kind of sex are we going to have today?

It was only supposed to be a quick sandwich, but Maria seemed to make it last for ever, perhaps on purpose to heighten Adrienne’s anticipation. If that was her intention, it certainly worked.

In her working clothes Maria looked very different. Her demure navy skirt and matching jacket, set off by tan tights and a spotless white blouse, blended in with all the other office girls bustling about. Adrienne’s own business suit was sharper and more expensive. They looked like any pair of professional women, possibly an executive treating her PA to lunch.

Except they were not, and Adrienne could not forget it. So she was relieved when Maria finally pushed her plate forward and told her it was time to go. Adrienne followed blindly, wondering where to exactly.

They went even further into the maze of side streets before stopping in front of one particular building. ‘Here we are,’ announced Maria, ‘my Aladdin’s Cave.’

Adrienne looked about her. They were in the heart of Soho. ‘What are we doing here?’ she asked.

‘Expanding your horizons,’ Maria replied. ‘Come on – inside. I’m a good customer, we’ll get star treatment.’

Maria pulled Adrienne by the hand toward the shop. On the outside it was unremarkable, with nothing to attract the eye, then she saw exactly why that was. The windows were blacked out, the same black as the heavy frames and front door. The door was not completely blank, though. A small sign in the centre announced they were about to enter a licensed sex shop. ‘Maria, wait! We can’t go in there!’ Adrienne came to a halt, despite the insistent force on her arm.

‘Can’t we? Oh yes, that’s right, we’ve forgotten our dirty brown macs!’ Maria’s tone was light, but Adrienne could still hear her disappointment.

‘But won’t it be full of dirty old men?’

‘Possibly. But if it is, they’ll be more scared of you than you will of them. You’re a flesh and blood woman. Closest most of them get are the magazines. Come on; do yourself – and them – a favour.’ With a final tug, Maria opened the door and hauled Adrienne inside. She decided to follow – it seemed preferable to being seen standing on the street arguing about not going in.

She was surprised at how neat and tidy everything was inside. It was a medium-sized room with a bookshelf up each wall and another double one down the middle. The shelves were lined with magazines and paperbacks. At the far end another door was covered by a macramé screen, while the end they had entered by was given over to the till and counter. A balding, middle-aged man in jeans and a check shirt was perched on a stool behind the counter. As they came in he looked up from the dog-eared novel he was reading and gave Maria a smile of recognition. ‘Hi there, great to see you again. And you’ve finally brought a friend.’ Adrienne blushed deeply, imagining he must have guessed instantly the precise nature of her relationship with Maria.

‘Hi Bill,’ Maria answered sunnily. ‘A bit quiet today?’ This was an understatement. She and Adrienne had just become Bill’s only potential customers.

‘Middle of the week,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘It’ll pick up at the weekend when all the travelling sales reps come in for a magazine or DVD to take home. Anything particular I can do for you today?’

‘I’m just showing my new friend around, thanks,’ Maria told him. Adrienne blushed again, but smiled in return to Bill’s welcoming nod.

‘Help yourselves,’ he said, and went back to his book. Adrienne noticed it was a John Grisham, and wondered if being surrounded by pornography all day eventually put you off reading it.

She followed Maria, who’d headed for the nearest rack of magazines. When she caught up, Adrienne scanned the titles and realised why Maria had been so keen to get her in here. Every single one was about spanking.

She picked up the nearest title, a publication called
Rosy Cheeks
. Rather prosaic, she thought, given the subject matter. The front cover bore a photograph of a middle-aged man looking sternly at a young woman in a French maid’s outfit. Flicking the magazine open, she watched the story unfold as the man caught the maid stealing from the hotel mini bar, lectured her, put her across his knee, lifted her skirts and spanked her, then made her strip naked and lie face down on the bed, before caning her with the long bamboo handle of her own feather duster. There was a text to the story, but Adrienne did not bother reading it. The pictures seemed explanatory enough and she was too busy looking at the blonde girl’s lovely round bottom and imagining how it would feel under the sweep of the rod.

Putting it back on the shelf, she selected another edition of the same magazine. She was drawn by its cover girl, already being yanked over another woman’s knee. The woman reminded her a little of Rachel. This time the scenario was a tenant being punished by a landlady for playing too much loud music too late at night. Adrienne studied the girl on the receiving end carefully. She really did look very similar to her outrageous friend. Adrienne sniggered at the thought Rachel could be leading a double life as a spanking model.

Adrienne felt relaxed now, despite her surroundings. Maria had also been flicking through the magazines and they began comparing what they had found, making the odd catty comment about some of the men in the photo stories, or noting how pretty the girls all seemed to be. They spent half an hour browsing; in that time, five or six men had come into the shop. Adrienne had at first been mortified, but soon realised they were all smartly dressed business types like her and Maria and they did actually seem more scared, or at least surprised, to see the two women than she did to see them.

After some discussion, a lot of page flicking, and no small amount of conspiratorial chuckling, Adrienne and Maria settled on a magazine each to buy. Adrienne chose the edition of
Rosy Cheeks
with the redhead who looked like Rachel, trying to push aside the thought that she was giving herself an unconscious message. Maria went for something completely different; an American glossy with the subtle title
Paddled Lesbians.
Page after page depicted glamour girls with impossibly pumped-up breasts spilling out of skimpy bikinis as they whacked each other raw beside some Los Angeles pool or in the living room of a mansion. Adrienne imagined the elfin-figured Maria was attracted to the contrast of a busty blonde.

The brunette took the magazines to the counter and handed them to Bill. ‘Can you wrap these for us while we take a look in the tool shed?’ she asked. As Bill put the glossies into a thick brown paper bag and started to tape it shut, Maria took Adrienne’s hand and led her to the back of the shop. Adrienne saw they were heading toward the door covered by the screen, with a small notice above the frame announcing that this was “The Tool Shed”. Maria brushed the cord curtain aside and pulled her through.

She found herself in a large alcove with another extensive display, not literature or DVDs this time, but the implements used by people who appeared in them. Large and small leather straps, each with a price tag around a carefully cut handle, were piled on two of the shelves, while along one side canes of different lengths and thicknesses hung from hooks in the ceiling. On the opposite wall were long- and short-tailed whips, dangling by the loops of leather through the bases of their handles. The two shelves below were loaded with paddles: some wood, some leather, some round, some rectangular, a couple even cut into the shape of a hand. They all looked fearsome.

Adrienne stared around in wonder. ‘Pretty neat, huh?’ she heard Maria say. ‘I’ve got a few of these babies myself. I thought it would be the ideal place for you to start your collection.’ Adrienne looked at her but was too stunned to answer.

Undeterred, Maria picked up one of the paddles and tapped it gently against her palm. ‘Solid leather, excellent workmanship and reasonable prices. You can’t buy better in Soho. What takes your fancy, mistress?’

Adrienne had recovered a little. She was staring up at the multi-thonged whips, recalling Catherine’s description of Miss Prior’s martinet. Maria saw where her gaze was going. ‘Ah, a cat! Would you like a cat o’ nine tails?’

‘Don’t the French call them martinets?’ As she said it, Adrienne wondered if she had given too much away. If she had, Maria did not let on.

‘I believe they do, but whatever you want to call them, the result’s always the same – a deliciously sore bottom! OK, choose the one you want. I can’t reach them.’

Adrienne pulled down two of the whips. She did not really know what she was looking for but eventually settled for the smaller, lighter, and less expensive of them. She handed it to Maria.

‘Good choice,’ she said, stretching the thongs between her fingers. ‘Now a cane.’

‘A cane?’ Adrienne parroted.

‘Yes, a cane. Everyone who’s into CP has a cane, usually a whole collection of them. So you’ve got to get one.’

It seemed more an order than a suggestion. Adrienne turned her attention to the row of canes. Mystified, she turned back to Maria for help. ‘The one you want depends on what kind of bottom you’re caning and what kind of sting you want to give your victim. A thick one is obviously heavier and you don’t need so much force to make it count. A thin, whippy one makes a lovely noise and you can be more severe with it. Since it’s my bum you’ll be testing it on,’ she said, without a hint of self-consciousness or embarrassment, ‘I think a thick one with a sting which really penetrates. It’s best for small bums like mine, and since you’re a novice you’ll find a shorter one easier to aim.’

Blushing like a beetroot, Adrienne unhooked three likely specimens and gave them to Maria. She tested them with several deft flicks of her wrist. ‘We could try them out on each other before we buy,’ she said, a glint in her eye. Adrienne was worried. She really could not tell when this girl was winding her up. This time she was. ‘But I don’t think Bill would appreciate us risking his licence, even if he’d really enjoy the sight. This one, I think.’ She handed the other two canes back to Adrienne to replace on their hooks.

‘How much is this going to cost?’ asked Adrienne, opening her bag to find her wallet. They headed back into the main shop, four pairs of furtive male eyes turning on them as they entered.

‘You, nothing,’ Maria told her, ‘it’s my treat.’

‘Are you sure? That’s very generous of you.’

‘Think of it as my way of saying sorry for tricking you into bed on Saturday,’ she said. Four pairs of male ears pricked up from behind the bookshelves and Bill gave the two women a knowing smile as he slid the cane and the martinet into a long cardboard tube. ‘And as a “welcome to the scene” present. Besides,’ Maria went on, as they headed for the door with their purchases, ‘it’s not as if I won’t get any use out of them this afternoon.’

They quickly headed back toward Charing Cross Road, then south to Leicester Square. Adrienne found it exciting travelling the same journey she made every day, but this time clutching such illicit items, even if none of the tourists or suited businessmen around them could have a clue what was in the packages.

They got the tube to Embankment and changed onto the District Line for Fulham Broadway. They were still slightly ahead of the rush hour, so were among only a handful of passengers who emerged from the station. It was no more than a five-minute walk to Maria’s flat but it seemed an eternity to Adrienne, all too conscious of the magazines slid between the business papers in her shoulder bag. Maria was carrying the cardboard tube like a rifle sloped in shoulder-arms fashion. She looked as if she bought corporal punishment implements every day.

Maria’s flat was actually a studio on the ground floor of a converted Victorian house. She unlocked the door and led the way in. ‘Told you it was poky,’ she said, as Adrienne followed her. ‘Sit down and make yourself at home, if you can find a space.’