Chapter 14

 

 

Waiting, fastened to the post, Rebecca remembered the last time she had been in these stables. It had been a defining moment in her life. One weekend they had driven over to the riding school where James usually kept his horses. The idea was to ride them to his house, leave them in his stables overnight and ride them back on the Sunday.

By this time they had been dating for few weeks, but only once had he shown himself willing to discipline her. Apart from that skirmish over breast implants, which had produced such promising results, Rebecca had been treading carefully. With the relationship still in its early stages she did not want to frighten James away. Yet, when she remembered how other boyfriends had crumbled in the face of her temper, she hoped for some early reassurance that he could handle her at her most headstrong. As it turned out, she got rather more reassurance than she bargained for.

The day had started out well. Rebecca was wearing pristine white breeches, which she had bought especially for this first ride with James, and which left nothing to the imagination about her shapely curves. They were more expensive than she usually wore for everyday riding, but it was a good investment because James had barely taken his eyes off her hips and bottom until she mounted the horse.

She was an excellent rider, but she and the horse did not establish a good rapport. Perhaps Rebecca had been too concerned with James to give the young chestnut mare her proper attention. Perhaps the mare herself was disappointed not to be ridden by James. Although he rode both horses from time to time, his favourite was the chestnut, Brownie. Brownie was younger and fitter than the grey mare, so he’d offered her to Rebecca.

At first the mare was restless and frisky, but Rebecca managed to control her and they set off at a steady walk across the fields, chatting happily. After riding briskly for half an hour they had a race across an open hillside to a small copse at the top. In a closely run contest James was careful to lose. He was being polite; he was still learning about Rebecca and had not yet understood her highly competitive nature. From childhood she had resented not being taken seriously as an opponent. Because the challenges to which she responded most enthusiastically were against men, her resentment was all the greater when a man let her win.

Although it rankled with her she realised he had not meant to patronise her, so she kept her cool. They dismounted to admire the views over South Oxfordshire and Berkshire and to give the horses a rest. He flopped to the ground, but reluctant to let the damp grass stain her breeches, she leaned against a tree. She listened while he recounted some tale from local history, then when he called her over she admitted why she wouldn’t sit down. So in response James stretched out his legs and invited her sit on them.

‘I’ll keep you off the ground,’ he promised.

She lowered herself onto his lap and stretched her legs in front of her, resting them on his. James pulled her to him and kissed her neck. His erection pushed into her bottom. He ran his hands over her hips. She felt helpless in this position, but she let him caress her to his heart’s content.

‘Brownie is looking at us disapprovingly,’ she laughed, and hearing her name the horse gave a brief blow and turned away in disdain.

He laughed too, but his caresses were becoming more amorous. She heard his breathing quicken. He kissed her ears and hair, and squeezed her breasts through the fleece she wore. His hands roamed over her hips and thighs.

‘You’re not wearing panties beneath your breeches, are you?’ he said, faking shock, as though he’d caught her red-handed in some peccadillo.

‘No,’ she admitted. Rebecca had thought it best to avoid the panty-line problem today, and she never found thongs comfortable for riding.

James began to probe between her legs. ‘Stop it,’ she laughed.

He did so, but whispered, ‘We could make love like this. You could stay on top to keep dry.’

‘No, it’s too open,’ she said, ‘and anyway it would distress the horses.’

He groaned in acquiescence. ‘If only there were a cold shower handy,’ he muttered.

As they were getting up James found that his left leg had gone to sleep and he stumbled against her. Rebecca was still finding her balance and fell forward onto the ground on all fours. When she rose her knees were green and wet.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she said angrily.

‘I’m sorry.’

The sound of genuine apology in his voice placated her, until he continued, ‘For a keen rider you seem very fussy about your clothes.’

Rebecca flushed hotly at this remark. She was an adventurous rider who could cope with the odd tumble and normally she didn’t mind if her clothes were snagged or mud-splashed, but today she wanted to look her best for him. But being a man he was too stupid to see that.

She mounted, still in a huff, unsettling Brownie again. Resentful of his remark Rebecca decided to show James what she could do on a horse. As soon as he was up she galloped off down the hill. She could hear James’ astonished cries disappearing on the wind behind her. After a few minutes he caught her up.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he panted. ‘This can’t be about my stumble can it?’

She ignored the question, but slowed to a walk. ‘Let’s have a proper race, to the pond on your land,’ she said, ‘and this time you don’t have to let me win.’

She tapped her heels firmly into Brownie, leaned forward and urged the horse into a gallop. James responded to her challenge and galloped after her. Soon he was just in the lead. Rebecca smacked the whip on her boot to stir her horse. She regained the lead but it was tight. Normally she never hit a horse but she was determined to win. She gave Brownie several sharp swats on her rump. It made little difference to poor Brownie’s speed; the horse was already running as fast as she could. If anything the rough treatment caused her to slow. In the end she won by a length, but by rights it should have been more since Brownie was a faster horse than the grey.

While they rubbed down the horses in the stable yard James said nothing, but Rebecca knew he was livid, and she had to admit he had good cause. Any host would be annoyed at a guest who mistreated his favourite animal. After they had carried the tack into the stables she was about to go out to bring Brownie into her stall, but James held her back.

‘They’re safely tethered,’ he said. ‘They can wait for a few minutes.’

He closed the stable door and picked up a thick wooden block, probably used to wedge it open sometimes. Rebecca sensed the gathering storm and decided to take the offensive. She complained vehemently about his condescending manner. When he said nothing but led her to the end of the stalls she pretended to be outraged by the lecherous way he had held her on the hillside. All in all she must have lambasted him for five minutes, during which time James said nothing. Eventually she shouted herself silent.

He lay the block flush with the outside wall of the end stall. She could read his thoughts: if she stood on the block the top of the wall would be waist high and she could bend over it.

‘You can’t just spank me whenever you feel like it!’ she snapped.

‘I’ll spank you when you deserve it,’ he replied grimly.

‘You’re always spanking me!’ she protested. In fact, apart from that first slap on the rear at the restaurant he had only spanked her once.

‘If you kept your temper in check I wouldn’t need to.’

She tried to run for the door but he moved surprisingly quickly, caught her round the waist and wedged her against his side. He had a very strong grip. There was a moment when both of them were motionless, breathing deeply. Then he laid into her backside with his hand. She struggled, but not very convincingly as without pausing the spanking he manoeuvred her to the wall so she could support herself against it. After that she didn’t bother to struggle at all. Nor did she cry out. She just grimaced into the wall and absorbed the stinging slaps. He stopped and cupped his hand over her now flaming buttocks. The new material of her breeches was getting some early extra wear. When he started to speak she anticipated him and slid her breeches down without being asked.

‘God you have a beautiful behind,’ he said in appreciation, and ran his hand around it.

‘“Callipygian”, someone once called it,’ she said, just for the sake of a reply.

That made him chuckle, but when the spanks resumed they were no more gentle. By the time he decided she’d been punished enough her face was screwed up with pain. It had been even harder than his first effort in the drawing room. Nor was it over, it seemed.

As he released her she started to pull up her breeches, but he stayed her hand. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I think today’s outburst deserves a special reward.’

He went to the tack store and returned with a riding crop.

‘You must be joking!’ she gasped.

‘You were ready enough to use it on poor Brownie. I counted seven swats, so that’s how many you’ll have.’

He took her by the hand and led her back to the end wall of the stall. With her pants around her knees she stumbled along, holding them up with her free hand.

When they arrived at the block he told her to take off her boots and breeches. She could leave on her top and fleece. She mounted the block. She had to stretch on tiptoe to be able to bend over the stall.

Rebecca’s expectation that he would flick her with the tongue of the crop was rudely shattered by the first piercing crack. The tongue had indeed hit her right cheek, but it was the shaft of the crop which cut across her left. She got off the block and danced around in front of him, gripping her buttocks in her hands and yelling profanities at him. Later in their relationship she would get several extra strokes for such a performance, but today he took pity on her, in her first true beating.

Rebecca recovered her poise and decided to show him that she was not completely cowed. Once she resumed her tiptoe stance on the block she said, ‘One, Sir James,’ in a slightly mocking tone.

Mocking your torturer is probably not a wise policy, she thought, and the next six strokes were to prove she was right. Outside she could hear the horses snorting restlessly at her howls, but she took her punishment well and counted the strokes, although unasked.

He held her in his arms while the pain subsided, stroking her hair, and she was thrilled when he told her how much he admired her bravery.

‘You handled yourself like a lady,’ he said seriously, and she smiled at the outdated phrase, which nonetheless was welcome to her ears. James believed that how people coped with adversity was a good guide to their true character. He kissed her upturned face.

Then he dropped his trousers and fucked her. To get better purchase he put his forearm under her bottom and drew her onto him, her yelps of pain at this new assault on her aching bum ignored.

Afterwards she dressed and went out to fetch the horses, and needless to say the stall over which she had been beaten belonged to Brownie.

Examining herself in the mirror later, she found that while the whole of her bottom was red and bruised, seven neat parallel stripes of the crop showed on her left buttock alone. It was plain that James knew well how to wield a crop. At the time she remembered wondering what other weapons were in his armoury, and of course, by now she had found out.

On Sunday her bottom was still so sore that she couldn’t ride and James had to call the stables to collect the horses. They spent a peaceful day together, free from emotional storms. Rebecca had her reassurance and James had her heart.

Her thoughts returned to the present. Another landmark of her life was now to be played out in the same stables.

She fretted over whether this was the best set up. Her footwear had been discussed at length with Nicola. It was far too cold for her to be barefoot. Nicola had proposed high heels, but Rebecca did not think them appropriate to the stables. Instead she had chosen her riding boots and polished them well. Even without her breeches the soft brown leather fitted snugly to her calves.

They had mulled over, too, whether or not Rebecca’s feet should be tied to the post. In the end they decided not, thinking he might prefer to see her dance with the sting of the whip.

Apart from the boots her only adornment was the diamond choker around her neck. She knew it was rude to wear it before James had formally given it to her, but it sent a clear message that she was ready to be his once more. And if he was that bothered about the poor etiquette he could whip her for that too; it would be fine by her.

The sound of feet crunching in the snow-covered yard brought her out of her reverie. She hoped it was James, or else she was going to be very embarrassed indeed. There was someone at the stable door. She sensed it was him, hearing his exclamation as he entered. She said nothing, staring meekly at the post, but when he called her name in a way which showed his happiness at seeing her, she turned to him with tears in her eyes.

 

Early on Sunday morning James brooded in his study. Their flight was in a few hours. Having slept on his decision time was running out to call the police.

Hearing a knock at the front door he went to the window. It was a freezing, sunny day. A thick covering of snow had fallen in the night, making a perfect winter landscape.

He was enormously relieved to see Nicola; all the more so because Carlo was not with her. When he opened the door she stood on the step, smiling up at him. She wore a woolly hat and a thick sheepskin coat over her jeans and furry boots. The tip of her nose was red from the cold. She looked utterly delightful and he felt a pang of regret that she would no longer be gracing his study, let alone his lap.

She refused his invitation to come into the house, even though she was shivering.

‘Where is your car?’ he asked, puzzled. The snow on the drive was unbroken by tyre tracks.

‘I came in at the back gate and parked near the stables,’ she explained. ‘Hope that’s okay.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ve only just played my messages,’ she said sheepishly. ‘We were out last night.’

‘I left it yesterday morning,’ he replied irritably.

‘Sorry, yes. Carlo and I were a bit, um...’ she hesitated, ‘...preoccupied most of the day. To be honest, I’d hoped you wouldn’t realise they were gone.’

‘Why did you take them?’ he asked, perplexed.

‘I only borrowed them, James,’ she said soothingly. ‘You said I’m like a daughter to you now. I wouldn’t steal from you.’

‘I know, Nick,’ he sighed. ‘But what did you want them for?’

Instead of replying she handed him the small blue box containing the engagement ring. He put it in his pocket, expecting the larger box with the choker to follow. ‘Where’s the necklace?’ he asked.

‘In the stables.’

‘What do you mean?’ He was losing patience with her bizarre behaviour. ‘What’s it doing there of all places?’

Nicola hugged him to calm him down, and instinctively James hugged her back.

‘The necklace isn’t important,’ she said. ‘There’s something else in the stables, too.’

‘Not important?’ He made to break away, but she clung to him harder and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Don’t be dumb, James,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You can put two and two together, can’t you?’

He stared at her in bewilderment as she stepped back onto the drive. He had the uneasy feeling that their roles had been reversed, and she was now instructing him. But what the subject was he wasn’t sure.

‘Got to go,’ she said brightly. ‘We’re leaving for the airport soon.’

She blew him a kiss and padded off round the back of the house. James called for her to wait, then ran back to grab a coat before trudging after her. By the time he got there Nicola was driving through the gates.

James cursed and plodded along to the stables. If she thought he knew what she was up to she was crediting him with more intelligence than he had. As he approached the stable door he was met by a wall of warm air. Someone, presumably Nicola, had turned the stables heating on high.

Propped just inside the open door was the finished portrait of Rebecca in white. Here was the ‘something else’ Nicola had mentioned. The face in the painting was very lovely and rather sad. Gazing back at her he too felt inconsolably sad.

A rustle to his left startled him, and when he turned to see what it was he was more startled still. Rebecca stood facing a wooden post in the wall. Her arms were held high above her head. Her wrists were bound by leather handcuffs which had been looped over a hook in the post. She was naked apart from riding boots.

‘Rebecca!’

When she heard his voice she turned to him. He went up to her and held his body against hers. Her chestnut hair fell down her back. He nestled his face in it and kissed her shoulder. Around her neck was the diamond choker.

‘Thank you for the necklace,’ she said. ‘It’s a wonderful present.’

‘Nicola was right,’ he whispered, ‘it’s not important compared to having you back.’

‘Don’t be angry with her for taking it.’

‘I’m not. She was only making sure it went to its rightful home.’

‘Have you the ring?’ she asked.

He remembered it was in his pocket and he reached up and slipped it on her finger.

‘Now you need to finish off what Carlo started,’ she told him. ‘Really, it was your job all along, but you were not to know what I’d done to Nicola.’

On a ledge in the wall lay the flogger James had seen Carlo using on Christmas Eve. He picked it up. Once again, he thought, I have the whip hand, but they seem to have been in control. He could live with that, he thought, if it meant regaining Rebecca.

‘How many?’ he asked, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.

‘That’s for you to decide,’ she replied.

He gently swept her hair over her shoulder, leaving her back bare.

‘Nicola told me that Carlo gave her forty lashes.’

She nodded.

‘So you shall have fifty,’ he declared, watching her closely.

She smiled wanly at him. ‘You know me so well,’ she said.

 

The whipping had been terrible, of course, but at least Carlo’s truncated effort had taught her what to expect. She danced and swung on the hook, sometimes screaming obscenities through gritted teeth. The more extreme of these earned extras, but James was lenient in view of the overall severity of the flogging. Rebecca didn’t faint; she felt every excruciating lash, but with each had also come the joy of knowing she had James back.

Afterwards he lifted her down and draped his coat around her shoulders. He offered to carry her in his arms, but her bottom and back was too painful.

She tried to stagger along supported by his arm, and when her legs gave way he stooped, held her around the knees and hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

‘Time for me to carry you off like a caveman,’ he said as he picked her up.

A spark of her old fire returned. ‘Except your cave has eight beds and five reception rooms,’ she quipped quietly into his back.

He took her to his bedroom and fetched a hot drink. After tenderly treating her wounds he left her to rest for a couple of hours.

She lay on his bed, beaten but triumphant. James knew her better than anyone, she thought, except perhaps her mother. Her insatiable competitive streak, her hot-headed tendency to go too far, and her innate sense of justice, which required that her excesses were punished. From the outset his refusal to accept Rebecca’s wilful behaviour had satisfied a profound need within her. He had a natural authority she could submit to, and it made her life at once richer and more ordered in consequence.

The change in her was noticed at work; her latest promotion had come as a consequence of a widely perceived improvement in her self-control. There was even talk of a directorship in the not too distant future.

After a while Rebecca drifted off to sleep. She and Nicola had been up late the night before planning what to do. Once again Carlo had been banished to the village pub.

When she awoke James was there with a tray and some food. He sat beside her on the bed. They ate chicken soup and beef sandwiches and drank some burgundy. Afterwards they made love. She sat astride him, trying as best she could to avoid pressing her injuries.

For the rest of the day they lay on the bed talking contentedly. They speculated as to whether the relationship between Nicola and Carlo would last. James was inclined to think not.

‘Do you think the police will find out that Carlo was the forger?’ she asked.

‘They already know he was.’

‘What?’ Rebecca pushed herself up from the bed, ignoring the stab of pain it caused.

‘Don’t worry,’ he soothed her, ‘your contract with Carlo is safe. Even if they could build a watertight case against him it was hardly the crime of the century. The forgeries weren’t even sold.’

He went on to describe his meeting at Scotland Yard on Christmas Eve. Officers from the Milanese Questura had been present, and they were after much fatter fish than Carlo. Pursuing him would cause a commotion that wouldn’t be helpful to their wider investigation.

‘They also told me why he needed the money.’

James related Maria’s tragic story. Rebecca was silent for a time. She remembered Carlo’s worried frown that night at the bar in Milan after he had phoned his sister. It seemed so long ago. The mention of Christmas Eve reminded her too of the nadir of her life.

‘So he isn’t a total shit after all,’ she said. She was pleased for Nicola’s sake, but for her own she would have preferred to be able to hate him unreservedly for what he did to her that afternoon, and how close it had come to breaking her engagement for good.

‘I love you, James.’

‘You’re not marrying me for my eight bedroom cave, then?’ he joked, kissing her.

‘No, I’m not. And in the marriage ceremony I’ll use the old words. I’ll promise to obey you, and I’ll mean it.’

Truthfulness and faithfulness would be cornerstones of their marriage, they agreed solemnly. That way, any repetition of the temptations and misunderstandings of December would be avoided. That and the fact that, from now on, Rebecca would be choosing James’ secretaries.

 

Carlo and Nicola had splashed out on business class tickets for the flight to Milan, which had also enabled them to wait in the comfortable surroundings of the British Airways Club lounge at Heathrow. Still sore, she preferred to sit on deep cushions and avoid the jostle of crowds. Forgetting to remove a cheap anklet she had triggered the airport metal scanner. The female security guard frisked her and Nicola jumped in pain when she caught a sensitive spot on her hips. The guard had cast Carlo a deeply suspicious look.

He had been suitably contrite since his fall from grace on Christmas Eve. Nicola had more or less forgiven him. In his favour he had been uncharacteristically understanding about her need to fulfil the agreement with James. Would he be as sympathetic when he had her to himself in Milan, she wondered?

Certainly he had hated her doing it. When he had returned to the flat on Saturday morning he scrutinised her stripes and bruises carefully, mortified to find they were worse than he’d inflicted at the cottage.

‘It’s not a competition, Carlo,’ she had chided him, yet she wondered if, in a way, for him it was. If so, James had won by a whisker, and she meant it to be a long time before Carlo could try to outdo him. The degree and frequency of her punishments in recent weeks had turned a sublime joy into a trial by fire. For the coming few months her misdemeanours would be of the merely spankable variety.

After inspecting her damaged skin Carlo had first worked his wonders with the lotion, and then his wonders with her body. Whatever Carlo’s skills as a painter there was one art form in which he was a consummate master.

After the small airline meal he held her hand and talked to her about his hopes for the future. His commissions included some commercial art work for an advertising company, which was lucrative business. Together with the contract for Rebecca’s firm and the removal of the shadow of his debt to the syndicate, it meant he was feeling more secure financially. He thought they might look for a larger flat, because his studio was really too small for two people.

Nicola let him talk. She liked the fact that his plans reflected her needs as well. The idea of moving to a new place, which she could help choose and decorate, was appealing. According to Rebecca his bachelor pad was a bit grim.

She considered how her one little disobedience with James’ shares had brought her so much suffering, and so much joy. She had won through trying times, and a more mature and confident young woman had emerged. Who knew what she was capable of if she put her mind to it?

At least there was the glimmer of a job for her. A friend of Carlo’s had told him that a language professor at Milan University needed a secretarial assistant, and for reasons which were not entirely clear the professor preferred English applicants.

Maybe life with Carlo would work out well, but she wasn’t building her hopes up yet; there were too many imponderables.

That story about his sister was very strange. She wasn’t sure she believed it; it sounded like something from an old gangster film. Could an innocent girl in modern Italy be caught so easily in the web of organised crime? Perhaps he had embellished it to put himself in a good light after screwing up so badly with Rebecca.

The thought of Rebecca reminded her of the morning’s stratagem in the stables. She prayed it had worked well. Rebecca had promised to call her later to let her know, and it would be good to get a call from England on her first night away. She would warn her that James was to feel free to use his new piece of furniture. Somehow, she thought, if Rebecca were to share the bonds that had once held her, it would cement their newfound friendship.

 

Maria drank coffee in Linate airport, awaiting her flight to London. She frowned with disapproval at some young Englishmen lounging untidily across more seats than they needed. Eleven in the morning and they were already drinking beer heavily. They were dressed in combat trousers, as though about to undertake guerrilla warfare rather than board a civilian flight. Maria hoped they were not representative of men in London.

Yet they could not dim the thrill she felt at escaping Italy to begin afresh. A strada senza uscita had miraculously opened up into a piazza of possibilities.

La Pera had given her an excellent reference which had landed her a job as a waitress in an Italian restaurant. It seemed sensible to ease herself into her new life in London in an environment where her Italian upbringing would help. She hoped against hope that the place had no mob connections. If she suspected any she would leave at once.

Carlo had told her that London was an expensive city, but Maria knew it was also vibrant and full of opportunities. She had a few thousand in savings as a cushion. Although her line of work had rarely been pleasurable, it had been well paid. The girls were allowed to keep nearly all their tips, because the managers knew they would try harder to please the customers that way. Maria supposed she had been fortunate in ending up in places catering for the discerning wealthy, but her natural beauty had helped her. There were other houses where the girls became drug addicted fodder to be discarded once they were no longer able to function. Drugs had not been pressed on her, and although she’d experimented a little she had never come close to addiction.

Nearing twenty, Maria felt much wiser than she was when she’d become infatuated with the well dressed hunks in her home town of Catanzaro in the south. Their expensive clothes, flash cars and full wallets, the deference they were shown in the streets, their superficial good looks had lured her into what seemed an exciting world. Only later did she realise it was squalid, brutal and empty. After a short stint as girlfriend to a minor henchman she was packed off to Milan, far away from friends and family.

Although well treated and not exactly a prisoner, it was made clear to her that attempts to escape would be dealt with mercilessly. Two of the girls with whom she worked were made an example of, and were no longer beautiful in consequence. Passports were taken from them so they could not stray too far. In any case, for Maria a life on the run and in fear would have been no life. Going to the police was pointless. Even if you found someone who wasn’t corrupt, your family was still vulnerable. Too ashamed to phone her mother she had retreated into an alien existence.

Carlo was her hero. After their mother died he tracked her down in Milan and bought her life back for her. There had been some last minute hitch with the money, but he came through for her. It seemed he had a new English girlfriend, and Maria hoped they would meet soon. It was a pity they had missed each other, crossing between Italy and England.

She wondered whether the English girl knew about Carlo’s sexual preferences. Probably she did. Maria had known since she was thirteen. From the top of the stairs one night she’d peeped down, goggle-eyed, as her eighteen year old brother bent her babysitter over the kitchen table and spanked her with a wooden spoon. It seemed Carlo had just come home and caught her smoking his cigarettes. And thereafter Maria’s mother had been bemused by how often and how eagerly the girl volunteered to babysit for her. Unluckily for the girl she was never to see Carlo again; he was rarely home before their mother and soon afterwards he went off to college.

Her thoughts took Maria back to the night Filippo had spanked and strapped her. He hadn’t hurt her at all really, just wounded her pride. He had promised to spend a weekend in London once she was settled. When he did Maria intended to be a little bit naughty, and to let Filippo decide what he ought to do about it.