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Sometimes I like to arrange an evening with those that I have been lucky enough to help. It lets me keep in touch with my clients and, I like to think, provides some of them with the additional benefit of contacts with like-minded souls.
It was with that in mind that I invited Meriel James and his wife to join me for cocktails on the evening of a Friday in late September together with a number of my other clients.
It was hot; so different from the cold and damp Spring evening on which we first met. We were in the drawing room. The doors to the garden outside were open, providing us with a breath of air that brought with it the scent of late summer flowers and the suggestion of the onset of Autumn.
There were, I suppose two dozen guests, all of them couples. The twelve women had all passed through my classes over the preceding year. The Darrows were there as well as the James. Amelia Robins whose buttocks had endured so much pain until she came to accept her role; Diana Johnson who must have carried the bruising from the fetters of her extended confinement for many weeks; all were there in support of their men. They all knew that they had shared similar experiences but of course all chose to keep their own personal insights to themselves. Their husbands, confident in the social accomplishments of their wives, were free to converse on matters of business and the politics of the day.
I looked around the room listening to the discussions, observing those who had passed through my portals, suffered under my whips, learned to ride the mechanism. Bright eyed, attentive, women and their successful, confident men, some deep in discussion about weighty matters of trade, others talking in lighter vein but all building the links and friendships that would ease their paths to wealth and success with the support of women that could smooth their paths.
I take some small pride in contributing not only to the individual wellbeing of those who make use of my services but also to the greater benefit of the economy. Without Mrs Johnson’s doe-eyed charms, would Mr Johnson have been able to attract the attention of the banker Robins and so secure the funding for his venture? And, without that, would the British army have had access to the finest repeating mine thrower yet developed? I think not. And would the watchmaker Mr Jestry and the engraver Mr Lewis have found the confidence to collaborate in the creation of their improved portable music device without the soothing attentions that their spouses were able to provide after my tuition?
On the far side of the room I saw Mrs Nicola James. Clad in a white brocade gown of the kind so often adopted by the wives of those in colonial service, she bore herself without embarrassment at the origins betrayed by the tint of her skin. Her corseted form – I was pleased to note she had continued in the use of Madame Genoux’s services – and the off-the-shoulder bodice made much of her already striking assets, and she had accumulated a small group of admiring men in the same way that a fishing boat attracts seagulls. The pearls clustered at her throat suggested that her husband was already reaping the results of his engaging my services.
As her husband approached she grasped one of her attendants by the arm and drew him towards Meriel. "You, must meet my husband," I could hear her say. "The work he is doing seems of great relevance to your own problems." The attendant nodded and Meriel began speaking earnestly. Nicola stood back watching with approval as the two men embarked on a conversation that would no doubt be mutually beneficial.
Seeing the results of my labours gave me great satisfaction. Of course my payment terms are such that my interest is very much increased by the results of my work but, even so, it still pleased me that these couples appeared well satisfied with the results of working with me. I was happy that Meriel appeared to have found the ways of growing his social and business circle as he desired and that Nicola had found, in meeting his needs, a satisfaction of her own.
My only regret was that I never did get to fuck the delightful Mrs Nicola James.
THE END
© Freddie Clegg 2011
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