Chapter Two

“You on a speakerphone with a roomful of clients?”

 

“No you’re OK. My ears only.”

 

“Oh good. How’s the commando warrior this morning?”

 

“Well she’s actually managed a thong and is not so sore, but has gone very blue and purple and she’s wondering how she’s going to get through a long meeting this afternoon. The chairs in the conference room aren’t nearly as soft as her executive office one.”

 

“A long meeting eh? You’ll have to try and get to the bottom of things as quick as poss.”

 

“Har har, very funny. It’s the trip home I’m really not looking forward to. I think that wind this morning came straight from Siberia. Like a bloody scythe round the privates.”

 

“Ah, you poor darling. All this suffering, and all so self-inflicted. Tell me, is it still worth it?”

 

“Absolutely worth it.”

 

“Phew.”

 

“How about you? You wear the boots today?”

 

“Yep. Got ‘em on now over some skinny jeans. Had a client meeting earlier and they were putty in my hands.”

 

“Or putty under your heels.”

 

“Ha Ha. That client’s such a lecherous old bastard, but I’ve got him round my little finger. I could tell him to paint his whole factory pink and he’d just ask what shade I want. There was moment at coffee break though when this new marketing manager woman he’s got said she liked my hair and asked what dye I used.”

 

“Oh dear. Did she survive?”

 

“I told her I use the blood of people who think I dye my hair. Funny, she agreed to everything I suggested after that.”

 

“You’re cruel to your clients.”

 

“Chew ‘em up, Take their money and spit ‘em out. But hey, they keep coming back for more. And since my new boots seem to have paid for themselves this morning, me thinks I’ll swing by the shops tonight and have that black Bordelle as well.”

 

“Ooh. So who’s going to be the lucky man to see that first?”

 

“Well, there’s a couple of names in my address book that spring to mind, but I might use it for a dirty one nighter with a stranger.”

 

“You in that Bordelle, I wouldn’t mind being that stranger myself. Especially if you had a tube of Arnica handy.”

 

“Any time you want Arnica rubbed on your poor, bruised, or even perfectly healthy bottom, you have only to ask and I will come running just as fast as my Manolos will allow.   But anyway, I was looking on the web last night at… err… some machines. I didn’t see anything like what you described though.”

 

“Oh, so she takes the piss about my bottom, but then wants to know about The Machine. You wanna try it now do you?”

 

“I’m… err… intrigued. I’d like to see what it does.”

 

“Yay. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. You’re gonna love it.”

 

“Hey, don’t get carried away. I just want to look that’s all.”

 

“Yeah, whatever. I’m staying at Richard’s on Wednesday. Why not come over for dinner and a sneaky peek?”

 

“Wednesday’s fine. But what about Richard? He be OK with this? I mean, it’s a bit personal isn’t it?”

 

“Err, I guess he’ll have to be OK with it. If he wants to love me, he’ll have to accept my friend as well. I only come in a twin pack.”

 

“He’s a lucky man indeed.”

 

“Oh, I gotta go. The fundraising mob have just turned up for their meeting. What’s the most important job for a charity chief exec?”

 

“Err, sleep with potential wealthy donors?”

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Slut.”

 

“Till Wednesday Hun.”

 

“Wednesday.”

 

oOo

 

I’ve met Richard briefly on a number of occasions since he and Sue hooked up, but this is the first time I’ve had dinner with them. His house is well across town and my taxi costs me nearly as much as the three bottles of Dead Arm Shiraz 2009 I’ve brought with me. Richard is quite tall and thin, and has black hair that matches Sue’s. He makes me think of Clark Kent: that somewhere in there is a devastatingly handsome Superman, hiding under a deliberately drab disguise. He’s dressed in just a T shirt and jeans and Sue is similarly casual in a plain top and leopard print leggings. It makes me feel a bit overdressed in my moderately posh Miss Selfridge frock and Stella McCartney heels. The two of them have concocted a rather wonderful and proper curry with all those little side dishes: croutons, cucumber, cashew nuts, banana, mango, nori, coconut, tomato, olives and the like, and I’m on my best dinner party behaviour. It’s a bit odd having dinner with someone you’re only passingly acquainted with, but about whom you know all sorts of intimate details and secrets. I manage not to let slip any of the dodgy details I know of their love life and keep my conversation extremely civilised. We run through the usual list of small talk subjects: the weather, the news, work, before touching on politics and fashion.  By the time the third bottle of Dead Arm has given up its contents, we’ve arrived at society.

 

“I’m surprised a successful business women like you doesn’t approve of women’s lib,” says Richard

 

“Feminism just tries to turn women into men. And what’s the sense in that?” Is my reply.

 

“But aren’t you a perfect example of the liberated woman and what she can achieve?”

 

“Helena is a mass of contradictions,” says Sue. “She’s the toughest, most independent, hard-working and self-reliant woman you’ll ever meet, but yet she longs for the old days when all a woman had to do was look pretty and go to the opera in the evenings. Isn’t that right Hels?”

 

“And what’s wrong with that? It’s great to have the same opportunities in life as men, but that’s not enough for the bloody feminists. They want us to be the sodding same as men. But we’re not, or at least I’m not. I don’t want to do the dirt, the grease, the lathe thingy. If I get a flat tyre, why would I want to muck about with a jack and a spanner when I can get the job done using a short skirt and a pair of heels? There’s stuff I want to do and I take pleasure in doing it, and everything else I can take pleasure in getting a man to do it for me. Feminism is just for women who are no good at being a woman.”

 

“I see. An interesting, but maybe controversial view you have there.”

 

“Being happy is what life is all about. I’d rather be happy than equal any day,” I pause to empty my wineglass. “And on the subject of being happy, when am I going to see this marvellous machine you’ve got here?”

 

“What machine would that be?” replies Richard.

 

Sue nudges him with her elbow. “You know very well what machine she means.” She wiggles her bottom on the chair and groans comically.

 

“What? You told her about that?” Richard doesn’t seem amused. “And I suppose you’ve broadcast everything about our love life to the world.”

 

“No.” replies Sue suddenly looking rather huffed. “I only told Helena about it. I tell her everything about my life, you know that.”

 

“Yes, but there are some things that… well, should stay private.”

 

“Whoa. I’m sorry, I thought you knew that I… Look, emm, Sue just mentioned something about it briefly the other day when I noticed she was a bit sore. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up. Too much Dead Arm perhaps.” I seem to have released a vexatious little genie from his bottle and try to stuff him back in, but he’s not going and a stony silence settles over the table. I’m feeling embarrassed and annoyed at Sue. Didn’t she tell him why she invited me here tonight? I’m wondering if I should make my excuses and leave when Sue shatters the awkward quiet.

 

“Oh fuck this. I’m not having dinner with my best friend and my lover, and all of us sitting in silence.” She thumps the table with her fist. “Richard, I tell Helena here everything about my life and about you. She knows you’re a seven inch kinda guy, maybe eight on a good night if I let you tie me up, and like to listen to Brat Pack music when we’re fucking. And she knows you’ve built a football sex machine that last Saturday nearly skinned my arse. Helena, Richard knows you’re a slut and a man eater, and that you’re probably wearing black Bordelle underwear tonight so you can indulge your predilection for shagging innocent taxi drivers on the way home. Right. No secrets now. Deal with it you two. I’m going to make coffee and you better be chatting away like best pals by the time I get back.”

 

She gets up and flounces off to the kitchen leaving me alone with Richard, who is looking rather taken aback. I’m not as surprised: it’s a very typical Sue rant. In fact I’m trying not to laugh.

 

“Has she err… always had the ability to make you feel like a naughty schoolboy who’s just been caught smoking behind the bike-sheds?” Richard eventually asks.

 

“Hmm, yes. Or worse. Apparently I’m a slut and a man eater. And she’s left you alone with me.”

 

A sly grin starts to creep across Richard’s face. “Should I be worried?” he asks. “I’m not a taxi driver.”

 

I burst out laughing. “Ha, Unfair. Twice I’ve done that. Twice in, I’m not saying how many years. Hardly a predilection. But erm… she might be right about the Bordelle underwear.”

 

He laughs too and the air seems cleared. “I’m sorry about before,” he says. “I was just a bit surprised. She says she tells you about everything, but I didn’t think that meant everything.”

 

“Well a girl whose bottom can’t be sat on has to have some sort of explanation.”

 

“Oh, yes. She’s been funny, mincing about the last few days. Just between you and me, I think she’s actually enjoyed the whole sore bottom thing. But who would have thought Arsenal would get hammered five nil by West Ham? Jesus. I was tempted to let her out at half time, but then I thought no, it’s all part of the game, learning to take the agony of your team’s defeat. And the computer would have backed off if she’d been in any real trouble.”

 

“Now, you see there’s all these little snippets I keep getting. ‘Let her out’, ‘computer’, ‘real trouble’. This machine’s not just some dildo on a motor is it. It sounds kinda complicated.”

 

“Has Sue not told you how it works?”

 

“No, she’s been keeping very quiet about the details. Crafty bitch has told me just enough to spark my interest, but then gone all enigmatic on me.”

 

Richard’s face lights up. He looks like a little boy who’s just been asked to show his spider collection to his sister’s arachnophobic friends. “Ah well, in that case, and as we’re apparently not allowed any secrets, let me enlighten you on my little pet project. It’s all based on an idea I had a while back. You know all the statistics and stuff they keep sticking up on the screen during sports matches these days?”

 

“Err, no not really. I don’t watch sport. In fact I haven’t got a telly.”

 

“No telly? Oh. That sounds kinda cool actually. Implies you’re always doing something more interesting than watching the box.”

 

“Picking up strange men usually. Or windsurfing. Sometimes both at once. This body looks good in a wetsuit you know.”

 

“Err yes, well I can imagine,” he pauses and I can see the picture of me, or maybe Sue in a rubber suit pass through his mind, disrupting his train of thought completely. “Erm, yes, well, where was I? Ah, when there’s some sort of big match on, the TV companies have a load of PAs who keep track of things like where on the field the ball is, the time each team has possession, how many corners, fouls, shots at goal, saves, all that sort of stuff. They stick this information into a computer so they can put up graphics on the screen that show how the game has been going, even if there’s been no score, and it gives the commentators something to witter on about. I had the idea that all this data could be used to control the atmosphere in sports bars where the game is being shown. Play rousing music as the home team attacks. Trigger balloon releases if a goal is scored. Change the lighting to match the mood of the game. Play canned booing when the enemy team has the ball. Remind punters to go to the bar and avoid the queue as half time approaches. Stuff like that, to give the average sports bar some big stadium atmosphere. My company pitched the idea to Sky and they went mad for it. Pub subscriptions are big money for them apparently. So we’ve got a development contract to make it all work. It’s not been that hard really. They gather all the data anyway, so all we had to do was encode and embed it in the TV signal, and then extract it out the com port on the Sky box and into a PC. The PC can then control anything you want. Like I said, lighting, sound, fireworks, anything the bar owner can think of really.”

 

“Right, I think I’m getting the idea. And you can control more than just bar equipment.”

 

“Yes. Anything a computer can control can be linked to what’s going on in the match. And after Sue told me for the ten thousandth time how boring she found football, I hit on the idea of using our system to make it more interesting for her.”

 

“And it certainly did that.” Sue returns from the kitchen with coffees. “I see you two are getting along just fine now. Apparently I don’t have to get my whip out then.”

 

The thought of Sue wielding a whip on me sets off that hot, gooey feeling in my loins and I find myself biting my bottom lip as she serves the coffees and sits down. Richard continues his explanation.

 

“The first version was a bit crude and simple. I just connected a TENS machine to the computer and set it to tingle Sue when her team had the ball. She tried the pads on various parts of her body…”

 

Sue interrupts: “Yes I tried them everywhere. Tummy, boobs, nipples, bum, labia, even on my clit, but the place I like them best is one pad on each thigh, on the inside right at the top. The electricity seems to flow right through all my juicy bits then. I soon started taking an interest in the game.”

 

“Yes you do like them there don’t you.” Richard continues, slightly miffed at Sue’s interruption. He’s obviously rather proud of his invention and is enjoying telling its story despite his initial embarrassment. “And so we decided to try some other things. I soon had a selection of vibrators wired up and Sue seemed to be developing quite a taste for football. But I thought there was something missing. It’s all very well getting your fancies tickled when your team is doing well, but there needs to be some sort of punishment when the enemy has the upper hand, otherwise there’s no real excitement. Ecstasy when you’re winning, but agony when you’re losing. That’s the lot of the football fan. And agony was much harder to do. You can’t just buy torture machines off the web like you can sex toys. So I had to make some from scratch.”

 

“Some?”

 

“Oh yes, variety is the spice and all that. Need to have a few different ways of doing agony to match the selection of ecstasy toys.”

 

“Err, OK. Sounds fair enough… I think.”

 

“The first was just an electric shock. A bit boring, but easy to do and quite safe if done with a little discharge circuit. But it did throw up a problem. My lovely subject here would just pull the pads off as soon as she got zapped.”

 

“Yeah, well you try just sitting there passively while your butt cheeks are being fried,” interrupts Sue again.

 

Richard gives her another miffed, ‘stop interrupting’ look. “I tried tying her up, but she would just wriggle and roll about till she pulled the cables out. It was obvious she needed to be properly secured if it was going work. So I got the boys at work to knock up a steel frame, sort of like an old fashioned pillory. I had to get several of them to make it as separate parts so they wouldn’t guess what they were actually making.”

 

“I felt like a naughty medieval wench the first time he put me in it.”

 

“Yes, if we’re talking medieval, I think I need to get work to make up a scold’s bridle as well, so I can talk without being interrupted.”

 

“Yeah, right,” I say. “I can really see Sue letting you put one of those on her. Ha Ha.”

 

“Bloody cheek. Both of you.”

 

“Yes, well talking of cheek, now that I had her secured properly and that lovely bum staring up at me, it seemed only right that some sort of spanking was the right thing for when the opposing team score. I set about designing a machine to do this but it’s surprisingly hard. If you look on the web, there’s lots of drawings of some sort of simple wheel with flappy pads attached that look like they’ll fly out with centrifugal force and spank the victim when it’s spun, but no photographs or videos of such a machine in action. I think this is because it doesn’t work in practice. After the initial impact, the flap has to drag across the skin to get clear and that would damage the skin very quickly. I destroyed a lot of cabbages and a few water melons trying to get it to work. I think you could do a whipping machine like that, but whipping’s not very nice in my book. A spanking must slap the skin and then lift off, rather than dragging. I had to design a system with a sprung paddle that is pulled back by compressed air and then released so it springs back and strikes, and then lifts clear of the target. My cabbages were now just slowly pummelled to destruction rather than being torn to bits. The other thing I found was that you can’t just hit the same spot all the time. It needs to move around and vary it’s intensity to get a proper spanking. Doesn’t it Honey?”

 

“Oh, allowed to speak now am I? Having one spot that’s on fire, or your whole bum smouldering, hmm, tough choice. It’s the knowing that it’s coming, but not knowing exactly where and how hard that gets me. And he’s put something in now to break up any rhythm so I can’t even know exactly when it’s coming either.”

 

“Ah, yes. Timing randomiser. Keeps her guessing.”

 

As I listen to Richard’s explanation of his machine and how he made it, I am impressed not only by his technical and engineering wizardry, but also by the way he understands the subtleties of human feeling. He knows it’s not enough to simply inflict pain; it has to be done in a sensual and erotic way. But there is an obvious question I have to ask.

 

“This all sounds very clever, but why go to all that trouble to get a machine to deliver a realistic, human-like spanking when you’ve got a perfectly good pair of hands? Why not just count the number of goals or whatever, and then just administer your own spanking after the game? Wouldn’t that be more fun for you both?

 

“But it wouldn’t be the same,” replies Sue. If we just made a score sheet and then adjourned to the bedroom, I’d know I’m in for say, thirty whacks and ten orgasms. It would just be a matter of working through the list till it’s done. Ok, that could be fun, but it’s the unpredictability of having it done live that makes it exciting. I might be getting my arse whacked and pleading for someone to tackle the bastards and get the ball and rescue me, but I don’t know when, or even if it’s going to happen. Or I could be lifting nicely to a fabulous orgasm, only to have it all cut short when the enemy plays the offside trap, which I still don’t understand by the way. The frustration just makes the next one even more intense.”

 

“Mmmm, yes I think I can see that. So it can spank, and it can shock, and vibrate and tingle. Any more?”

 

“Yes, it can constrict, and poke, and err… bend, and stretch as well. And now that my pretty heroine is held securely in place, it can err… penetrate too. Why don’t we go and gaze upon the beast when we’ve finished coffee?

 

“Oh hell yes. That’s an invitation a dirty minded girl can’t refuse.”

 

oOo

 

With the meal over, we adjourn to Richard’s workshop which is in a large room across the hall. It looks to me more like a teenage geek’s bedroom than an orgasm factory. Two of the walls are fitted with workbenches upon which all sorts of electronic and computer gizmos are strewn. Various larger gadgets and boxes cover much of the remaining floor. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a pillory or stocks or anything else that looks like a sex machine.

 

“Okay. I don’t see it. Or am I missing something obvious? I ask.

 

“That’s it over in the corner” replies Richard, gesturing to a black box about the size of a sofa in the far corner of the room. “Not what you were expecting?”

 

“Err… I don’t know what I was expecting really. Maybe a pillory with some wires and stuff attached. Certainly not a big box though.”

 

“Well it’s inside the box. I had to put a sound deadening cover over it. Even with a gag, Sue makes a lot of noise and I often have friends over to watch the match. It would be a bit embarrassing if they heard her.”

 

“A gag? Friends round at the same time? Phew. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder…”

 

Richard crosses to the box and lifts it up. It’s fitted on some springs that hang from the ceiling and the large cover swings up with seemingly little effort and hangs in the air like a giant mousetrap waiting to strike. I stare in awe at the sight of what has been revealed.   

 

“What do you think then Helena?” asks Richard with obvious pride.

 

In front of me is a mass of wires, pipes, pistons, motors and God only knows what else. Almost every inch of the space under the cover is filled with stuff. At first, there’s no clue that this thing is supposed to interact with a human being. There doesn’t even seem to be space for one. But as I look harder I can see some bits that look like they should interact with parts of the human, and particularly the female anatomy. But I still can’t see exactly how the “user” would fit in amongst the cornucopia of engineering.

 

“It err… looks like sort of cross between Demon Seed and a Steampunk computer. The spirit of Gord lives on by the looks of it.”

 

“Ah, familiar with The House of Gord are we?” replies Richard

 

“Err… Well I have a friend who might have told me about it. I’m too much a lady to look at that sort of thing on the internet.” I try to make light of my little slip, but I can feel my cheeks flush slightly. In other circumstances I might be really embarrassed, but what the hell? He’s showing me his sex machine for Christ’s sake.

 

“I’m trying to work out where the lucky victim fits in. There doesn’t seem to be much space for them.”

 

“Here, let me demonstrate.” Sue walks over to the machine and kicks off her shoes. She lifts one leg into the mass of pipes, points her foot straight downwards and places it through two small metal hoops towards the bottom. She then awkwardly places the other leg in another pair of hoops so that she is standing in the middle of the machine with a hoop at each thigh and calf. “See, the hoops keep my legs held in place and I just bend forward like this.” She leans forward until her torso is lying horizontal and her tummy rests on a padded plinth. She places her hands onto what I now recognise as the bottom half of a classic pillory and her neck goes into the centre cut out. In order to do this she has to open her mouth and take an odd looking tube thingy inside, as it occupies the space immediately beside the pillory. “Hats how oo hit in it,” she says.

 

Now that Sue is in the machine, the layout suddenly becomes obvious and makes perfect sense to me. Standing, bent over with her legs secured in the hoops, I can now see some evil looking spanker paddles lurking with intent behind her perfectly positioned bottom and a more complicated looking version of some of the sex machines I saw on the internet is positioned ready to do its stuff. There’s also some intriguing looking mechanism waiting just below Sue’s breasts which had it not been for her bra and top, would be dangling down into it. Richard now slips the top half of the pillory over Sue’s neck and wrists and there’s a click as it locks in place.

 

“Ay. I’m onee ho-ing Hehena how I hit in. I’m not aying”

 

Richard moves to her waist and fastens a wide strap around it, securing her to the plinth her tummy is resting on.

 

“There’s various other little straps and stuff go on, but I think you get the idea Helena. She’s fixed in and the machine does what it does. She has no choice but to enjoy or endure as appropriate. Agony and ecstasy. What do you think then?”

 

“Well I think I’ve seen some weird stuff in my time, but this is truly the king of weirdness,” I reply as Richard fiddles with a computer nearby. What I’m actually thinking is how close this is to my little fantasy that I totally got off on just a few nights ago. If only it were me strapped in there and Sue doing the strapping my life would be complete. I can feel that my Bordelle underwear is not having to wait for the taxi home to get moistened. My lust for Sue is going into overdrive. It’s probably a good thing that she is surrounded by so many pipes and wires otherwise I might not be able to stop myself from jumping in and burying my face in her crotch.

 

“Weird is good. I like weird,” says Richard while he types something into the computer. “Ah, here’s what I’m looking for. Device F9. Ping and test.” Suddenly there is a hiss of compressed air in the machine and one of the paddles withdraws and then springs back, striking Sue squarely on her left arse cheek. The sound is deadened by her leggings, but I can still hear the slap and almost feel the sting of it.

 

“Oowww! Ot the uck! Auwwww,” yelps Sue and she thrashes against the restraints which don’t give at all.

 

“Oh wow. I felt that. That’s rather a mean thing to do to someone with an already bruised bum,” I say, and without thinking I reach into the machine and start to stroke Sue’s poor bottom. “But I have to say, that gag’s not very effective. No wonder you need the big lid.”

 

“Oh that’s because she’s not got the gag in at the mo, only the stalk it sits on. There’s one of err…” Richard looks around the worktop and spots what he’s looking for. “…one of these goes on the stalk and in her mouth.” He picks up a black ball from the worktop and shows it to me. “Conductive rubber,” he continues. “The machine can inflate it and give little shocks through it too. And it keeps her nice and quiet so us lads can enjoy the match next door in peace.”

 

“Ould oo et me out o here ow, oo arstard!”

 

“I think I better let her out before I really get myself in the doghouse.”

 

As Richard releases Sue from the pillory, I realise I am still stroking her behind, and not only that, my finger tips are pressing into the cleft between her cheeks. ‘Shit Helena,’ I think to myself. ‘Get yourself under control.’ I pull my hand away as Richard undoes the strap around Sue’s waist.

 

“What the fuck?” says Sue indignantly as she lifts her head from the pillory. “Doghouse? You’re in the fucking shithouse Sunshine.” She lifts her legs awkwardly out the hoops and climbs out of the machine. “Just as well my real friend was here to soothe my suffering.” She turns to me and gives me a big comedy kiss right on the lips. Oh God but her lips feel lovely on mine. If only she knew what she’s doing to me.

 

“What about it then Hels? You going to give it a try?”

 

“Err… what now?”

 

“No silly. When there’s a game on. If you’re gonna try it, you have to do it properly.”

 

“I think you better check with the creator of this contraption before inviting me to try it.”

 

“The creator will bloody well do as he’s told after his behaviour tonight. Won’t you.”

 

“Fine by me,” says Richard. “I’d love to hear what somebody else thinks of it. Of course I’ll have to make some adjustments and stuff to make it fit you Helena. You’re a bit more… err…”

 

“You mean I’m not a stick insect like this one here?”

 

“Err. Well if you put it that way.”

 

“Well yes. What the hell? You only live once. I will still be living afterwards won’t I?”

 

“Yeah, of course. One thing though. When you go in, you’ll have to be pretty much naked. We can get Sue to do all the touching and strapping and fitting pads etc, but I’ll have to show her where and how. So I’m going to have to see you naked. You OK with that?”

 

“So Sue gets to strap me in? Oh hell yes. I’m totally up for that.” My heart fires up as I realise my fantasy is going to come true. I hope I didn’t sound too lust-filled when I said that.

 

“Yay!” says Sue excitedly. “I think a drink to celebrate. Come on Hels, let’s get snozzled while Mr Bastard here reflects on the merits of celibacy till he works out a reason why I should forgive him.

 

 

oOo

 

It seems to me that there is a something of a conundrum with women’s panties, in that the sexier you want them, the smaller they get. This is a problem because with minimal panties there is very little material to soak up one’s juices if one happens to become particularly aroused while in polite company. This problem is exacerbated when stockings are worn in preference to tights and it can become necessary to keep rubbing one’s thighs together to stop any embarrassing dribbles from announcing themselves below the hem of one’s skirt.

 

And so it is that I have a somewhat strange gait as I totter down Richard’s driveway to a waiting cab. Stiletto heels, gravel and too much alcohol don’t help. I don’t think I can remember being quite so turned on as I am now. As soon as the cab pulls away I’m making a call.

 

“Now I can think of only one reason why the lovely Helena Dex would be calling me at this time of night,” says the voice on the phone.

 

“What about it then James. Can you oblige?”

 

“Well, heh heh, I‘ve actually got someone here at the moment. But err… she’s not really in a position to object if you wanted to join the fun.”

 

“As long as I get fucked I’m up for just about anything tonight.”

 

“Well come on over then. I’ll keep this one on ice till you get here.”

 

“I’m in a cab now. Give me twenty minutes.”