Chapter Twenty Four

 

 

“And you see Mr. Wrayland, I need somewhere to have the mail sent.” Annie was all innocence, standing primly in her clinging jersey wool dress of emerald, the deep green making her blonde hair look even blonder. The dress clung to her curves, and she was aware of his eyes, knew he wasn’t so much a rigidly controlled man as he liked to make out.

“Sit down,” he indicated the overstuffed richly upholstered settee and sat down in an armchair opposite her. “Now, tell me what this advertisement is?”

“A contact ad, we want to get some guys to write to us about sex, and stuff like that.”

“And no doubt you’re going to offer yourselves as submissives.”

“Of course!” Annie giggled, an erotic sound starting deep on her throat, convulsing her face, rippling her neck muscles. “But only one of us is, I go along for the ride, as it were.”

“Just what hold do you have over your sister?”

“Nothing you need worry about.” She told him tartly, wondering where the question was going.

“I’m just curious, you seem to enjoy her coming as much as she does.”

“No point in not telling you. Tamasine and I are telepathically linked, I can sense what she is feeling, and so I get double enjoyment from her discipline sessions. I get the dominant side of me thrilled to pieces, and the submissive side of her to balance it. Nothing like it.

“Curious. You’re a very forthright young lady, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“And you’ve brought me a lot of pleasure.”

“I know that.”

Annie tilted her head to one side to look at him, let one of her smiles turn up the corners of her mouth, let him look at her crossed legs, uncrossed them so her panties winked at him.

The doorbell rang and he got up.

“That’s the other reason you’re here, isn’t it? To watch someone else getting theirs. Go on, in the kitchen with you.”

Annie snatched up her bag and disappeared into the old fashioned almost quaint kitchen area. She looked around in disbelief as she did every time. A gas cooker nearly 50 years old, had to be, all rounded edges and worn away knobs and rings. Wooden draining board, whoever had wooden draining board these days? Old fashioned square sink with one cold water tap, a battered old kettle sitting on the stove, waiting for someone to light a match and set it going. A table covered in some kind of plastic cloth with a material backing, a coconut mat under the table, and scuffed chairs.

Old. Old as Wrayland. Nothing changed. Living alone, he had no reason to change anything.

Annie moved closer to the door and looked at the mirror. Alfred Wrayland had all but shut the lounge door but there was enough of a sight line for her to see the man who had called, a thin bookish looking man, glasses and long floppy hair, twisting his hands round and round in nervousness as Alfred Wrayland lectured him. It was apparently part of the service, this lecturing, Annie could swear she saw a gleam of pleasure in the man’s eyes.

The lecture went on, interminably, a jacket was discarded, then a sweater, then the trousers were lowered, and he bent over as Annie heard the inevitable swish of the cane through the air and saw the man flinch even before the cane came near him.

It was a long and severe caning, Alfred Wrayland landing each one perfectly across the taut cheeks, underpants up and then down, caning hard, leaving distinct fine lines across the skin, bringing a howl of protest every now and then as they overlapped, blood specks springing to the surface. Annie counted 24, 30, then a further six. It was the most she has seen Alfred Wrayland give anyone, 36, and the man was clearly suffering. And clearly aroused. His erection thrust up in front of him and it was all he could do to pull up his pants and stand, zip up the trousers and pretend nothing had happened.

He left, red faced and walking stiffly, as Annie slid out of the kitchen and back into the lounge.

“Magnificent performance,” she said, with a small bow in Alfred Wrayland’s direction.

“Glad you thought so, my dear, nothing like praise from a connoisseur. Now, about this advertisement -”

“Tammy and I want to put an ad in a sex magazine for men to contact us who want someone to spank. We want to mull over the answers, see if anyone is worth responding to. We need an address to have the mail sent, even though it’s a box No. Would you oblige?”

“If that’s all it is -”

“Good.” Annie snatched up her coat. “Didn’t he wonder who’s this was?”

“I don’t think he even noticed!”

Alfred Wrayland slid the money from the table into his wallet and restored it to his jacket pocket. “Let me know when to expect the letters.”

“Oh I will.” Annie went to the front door and opened it. “Take care, Alfred.” and said it with a touch of menace so he would be sure she meant what she said. She had a hold now, and nothing but nothing would make her let go.

On the way home Annie stopped off at Phil’s house to ask Uncle Phil if he would be so kind as to teach his nieces to drive - to save Father the money for a full course, you understand. While she was there the phone rang, and they learned that Gran Webster had died that afternoon.