The plain white envelope lay face down on the doormat. She had not noticed it when she had first come downstairs for breakfast, so presumably the sound of the postman’s arrival had been covered by the morning news on her radio. Short of time as usual, she grabbed her car keys from the stand and stopped to pick the letter up. Miss Gillian Jane Howerd. Nobody called her Gillian, except of course her decade dead mother. Anyway she preferred Ms. It wasn’t a feminist thing really, just that she didn’t wish to be defined by her marital status. Miss conjured up in her mind images of old maids, those mythical spinsters who cycled to church on Sunday mornings through mist shutreded meadows, in an England that, if it had ever existed, had certainly disappeared at some point in the distant past.
She glanced briefly at herself in the hall mirror as she headed for the car, folding the envelope carefully into her handbag. The cut of her shoulder length hair, which in her youth had been a deep, rich auburn had recently lapsed into an unflattering style and had now faded to a tousled grey. Those years at university had seen her through her Goth phase, something that had passed into history when she had needed to get a job. The job itself had only lasted a further three, a living hell that had ended when she had quit the chaos of the classroom at the run down inner city school and joined Harrison’s as an HR trainee.
They were a big engineering company with more than three thousand employees. They had grown from a family firm in the a East Midlands and Gill, as she had always preferred to be known, had displayed a natural talent for the job. She was a neat, petite woman, standing only five feet four and a half, on those rare occasions when she was not in one of her many pairs of silettos, a slim, athletic body that had barely changed in those three decades since the onset of adulthood. Her slightness of build however believed her physical strength, a quality that combineed with an equally strong and agile mind. She was a tough and effective negotiator with an easy going assertiveness, something that never seemed to fail in putting her adversaries on the back foot. Her rise within the company had been steady rather than meteoric but now, on the eve of her forty eight birthday she headed up the whole HR department.
Stan Goodman’s file was the only one on her desk that morning. It had have been considered sufficiently important an affair to warrant being referred to her. The report of the IT specialist had listed all the sites that the purchasing manager had logged onto over the last month. Gill ran through them one by one. With relief she saw there was nothing that was actually illegal on the list, it was more what might be termed special interest. They had names such as Dominant Dames and Bitches in Boots, all the sites shared a common theme and none of them had very much to do with the purchase of materials connected to the manufacturing of industrialcrane jibs.
Goodman was nervous at first but when it became clear that these transgressions were not being regarded as a sacking offence he relaxed and was merely deeply embarrassed. He was a man of about her own age, married with a family and a good work record having been with the company for more than eight years. She listened briefly to his garbled excuses before she said. “Look, I am not being at all judgemental and I intend to deal with this by way of a reprimand”, adding. “But I don’t suppose that given your interests that is going to come as any great hardship”. He smiled at her joke. “I would just suggest that in future you keep this sort of thing to your own time”. She waved away his rather pathetic apologies and sent him scuttling back to his office.
Her interest piqued, she began to browser a couple of the sites. Bitches in Boots featured a black leather clad redhead who bore a vague resemblance to herself, apart from the silica breasts that had little in common with her 32b’s. She stood high and hatty on towering heels, a naked man on all fours, collared and leashed, cowered at her feet. She felt surprised at her strange twininge of excitement at the image. She lingered for a minute and then clicked off the site and turned her attention to booking an appointment to sort out her hair.
A brief flurry of sleep driven by the last gasp of winter swept the rather run down parade of shops that included the hair salon. Once inside she relaxed, a cup of coffee in her hand as she awaited her appointment time. With the imminence of her birthday she was maybe a little more susceptible to the stylist’s suggestion that she took a tint, it seemed a good time to maybe experiment a little. Her mind went back to the redhead in black leather on the website, it was a good look to combine those two colours. “Maybe this shade “. Her index finger hovered over the girl on the product manufacturer’s brochure. The willowy model flaunted her mid neck length copper bronze bob. It took Liza back to the early eighties, those pictures taken at Whitby in the summer holidays when she had hurt her Goth uniform with something approaching pride but little understanding of the esoteric nature of the subculture and what it entailed.
The house when she arrived home was the usual warm and welcome oasis, a cosy sanctuary from the late winter chill that had settled over the country as the arctic airstream that had spread from Siberia tightened it’s grip. Gill poured herself a glass of dry white wine from the fridge as she waited for the oxygen to heat. She flicked on the television for the evening news and then remembered the letter that was still in her handbag. The single sheet of cream A4 paper bore the heading of Newman, Wiley & Co. Solicitors of Northdene in Suffolk.
She was instantly transported back almost forty years to those long, hot summers of the nineteen seventies that she had spent with her Aunt Naomi. Even now a chance pop song onthe radio conjured up memories. Her father’s elder sister had been the odd one out in the family. Sometimes during the nineteen fifties she had worked for a publisher in London. It was there that she had met Louis, a fairly successful author with whom she had had an affair. He had bought the house at Northdene, a Georgian town on the Suffolk coast, home to a colony of artistic bohemians who made their way there every summer when London life became too hectic.
The solicitor’s letter advised her that she was the main benefit of the estate of the late Naomi Felicity Howerd. She placed it on the table and poured herself another glass of wine. Over the past decade Northdene had gained a reputation as a property hotspot with ever spiraling prices as buyers from London sought exclusive bolt holes for their summer weekends. She took out her i pad and dashed off a reply to the solicitors.
How a week and a half can change the feeling of England completely. Gill dropped the silver Audi TT a gear and feel the response of the powerful engine as she passed a line of container trucks heading east on the A14. Maybe she thought her employer’s products heading for Felixstowe docks. The warm morning sun even prompted a quick burst on the air conditioning before she left the dual carriageway for the last hour of the drive along smaller roads to Northdene.
She checked her makeup in the rear view mirror. She was getting used to the slightly vampish copper bronze bob hairstyle now, the contrast with her green eyes was striking. Since last Monday, inspired by the mix of colours she had bought herself a rather expensive pencil skirt. She loved the way the tight black leather clung to her slim hips and she had quite deliberately introduced a little more sway into her walk in her favourite siletto courts, wearing the outfit to the supermarket last night. Surreptitiously she had watched the male eyes following her. She enjoyed displaying her unattainability as the frumpy mums fumed at their husbands eyeing up this flame haired siren sashaying along the cat food aisle.
She parked in Northdene high street. Something that was still possible in March before the Easter holidays signed the start of the holiday season and the town filled up with visitors. The offices of Newman, Wiley and Co. were situated in a bay fronted red brick terrace next to a Costa coffee shop. Gill was shocked at Just how much the town had changed since the days of her holiday visits. Gone were the little, rather quaint family businesses, replaced by names more family in every other high street in the land.
She vaguely recalled calling at the office with Aunt Naomi on one of her holidays. She casually wondered if it had been the time of her making the will that Gordon Wiley now placed on the desk in front of him. “I can confirm that apart from a handful of minor bequests you are the sole benefitiary Miss Howerd.” She considered correcting him as to her title, but coNesdered it would be churlish to do so in the situation, merely nodding in acknowledgement. He continued. “The main bulk of the estate comprises the property known as Norwood, there are various accounts in addition, I have summarized these, it amounts to some forty two thousand pounds. If you would sign at the bottom I will release the keys to Norwood and transfer the money to you from our client account.”
Gill went to a restaurant along the high street for some lunch and then drive the mile or so out to Norwood House. It was a large detached chalet bungalow set in it’s own substantial wooded grounds that sloped away towards the river valley. In the months after Naomi’s death the house had been neglected. She parked the car in the driveway. Weeds were already sprouting through everywhere, despite the fact that it was still only early spring. The front door was covered in dark green paint that was dry, cracked and peeling. She slipped the key into the lock and entered the hallway.Shocked at the level of neglect she brushed away a dangling cobweb. The whole place smelled musty and damp.
Driving home she considered her options, the state of the place made her give some thought to a quick sale. Such was the popularity of Northdene that even in it’s dilapidated condition it would realize towards half a million. Then her thoughts turned to the events of the previous Monday at work. Several of the sites that she had viewed before speaking to Stan about his indications had advertises from men offering to do work free of charge in exchange for the pleasure of being under the control of a dominant woman. The more she thought about it the more the idea appealed. The forty two thousands pounds would go a long way if it was only required to cover materials. When she arrived home she made herself a light supper and settled down for an evening doing her research.
“Just turn your back to me and extend your left leg, yes that’s right, that looks really good”. MervynKelly snapped away, taking shots of Gill from several different angles. “Ok, that should do it, I will make up a portfolioo and you can pick them up tomorrow, I am really pleased, they have come out well.” She removed the siletto heeled boots that she had bought especially for the shoot and unzipped the skin tight black leather jeans that she had defeated beneath them. She had found the photographer online, he was an oldish guy and completely unfazed by her request, which she had told him had been a surprise for her partner’s birthday, he seemed quite disinterested in her motives.
She had settled upon “Strictly Obeying Her Orders” as the website for her advertising and she had kept it simple. “Mature redhead, petite and with a penchant for black leather requires obedient versatile guy for house renovation project”. There was no need to go into details. She attached a rear view picture that didn’t reveal her identity and posted it to the site, there was no fee, that was covered bythe applicants.
The following morning at work when she logged on there had already been eight applicants, by the time she sat at her table eating supper that number had almost doubled to fifteen. After she had finished sorting those a further two had arrived and she closed the advertisement. In the space of just over twenty four hours seventeen men had expressed interest in the position.
She wrote a more comprehensive description of what she required and, after deleting ten of the applicants, mainly because they were too young or their writing told it’s own story about them, she mailed her piece to the remaining seven. Her background in HR stood her in good stead here. She gave them two hundred words to explain why they should be the one to be selected, giving them a forty eight hour deadline to respond.
The first to arrive was from Simon. “Dear Mistress. If I may be considered for the position offered I would be extremely grateful. You will find me to be both obedient and industrious in my work. I can turn my hand to most things and would be a willing worker. I have a background in management but was made redundant two months ago at the age of forty five. I have long dreamed of being an owned submissive/slave and I am certain that you would find that your ownership of me would be most rewarding. Should I be selected then you can be assured that I would endeavour to repay your trust in me in every aspect of my life. Yours Simon.”
She liked the successness of the letter, it said everything that it needed to in barely half the allotted space. She marked his application as a potential front runner and ran off a short reply acknowledging his application and saying that it was being given consideration. Within a few minutes an e mail came in thanking her for her reply and saying that he would wait to hear from Her should she wish to progress. This was a good start, Simon was showing the kind of respect that she wanted.
She worked through the otherr replies. It was clear that Simon was the leading candidate, he scored well in almost every area. She e mailed a message: If you wish to progress then maybe we could have a face to face meeting. If you reply I shall give you some possible dates. You will be required to travel to a place convenient for me. She had added this as a small hurtle to weed out anyone who was not serious, as it turned out Simon lived only a hour away and a meeting was set for the following Saturday lunch time.
Simon Pattison was a perfect illustration of how not to put all one’s eggs in the same basket. He had effectively given his life to the management consultant company that had dumped him extremely after more than two decades. His boss had given him some meaty mouthed explanation before asking him to leave his car keys on his desk. Simon had been rationalised after a larger company had bought out his firm and moved their own management into the void in a cost cutting measure.
They met for lunch at a popular restaurant a couple of miles outside the city centre. She chose to dress deeply, the black siletto court shoes the only hint of her interest. She wore a fresh white blouse and a knee length black pencil skirt, not on this occasion of leather. She did not wish at this stage to focus too greatly on the fetishistic aspects, the main aim was to find a man competent in respect to the job in hand, but who would also submit unreservedly to her Every whim. Simon was tallish with a good build, possible a little over his ideal weight but neat and tidy, possible she thought a little old fashioned for his age, but that didn’t really matter. With the kind of relationship that she envisaged them having he would be subject to her choices in such matters anyway. As they chatted she turned over in her mind the idea of taking charge of this man, moulding him in every way to fit Her every desire. She imagined taking a razor to his rather scruffy dark hair, making him look in every wayher slave and seeing him on his knees at her booted feet answering her every command meekly with a “Yes Mistress” or a “No Mistress,” punishing him as she saw fit should his work not come up to scratch, and of course she would ensure that however meticulous it was it wouldn’t be up to scratch.
Gill had no idea where this had come from. Prior to her interview with Stan Goodman this sort of stuff had barely registered on her ratar. She had experienced a pretty mediocre sort of sex life. There had been lovers of course but longish periods without, and strangely she didn’t miss them in those times when she shared the house only with the ginger tom cat. But this would be different. She didn’t envisage Simon as a lover, no his role was to be different, he was to be her slave. The more she considered this new aspect of her life the More it excited her.
Gill decided that she would make him an offer. She made it quite clear what the terms would be, he would be invited to sign a contract for six months, a period that she considered would be sufficient to refund her house. During that period he would be subject to whatever sanctions that she decided were reasonable, once again she stressed that he would possess no rights whatsoever and would be subject to corporate punishment as and when she decided that it was necessary. Simon seemed to accept all of this without objection and when she produced a specimen document from her briefcase he expressed his wish to sign it there and then.
“No, I want you take it away, read it thoroughly and then if you are still of a mind to sign it we will meet again. Should we make it the same time and place next week?” Naturally he agreed, their relationship already on the course that it was destined to take with her calling all the shots.
For their second meeting she had a change of tack. The skin tight black leather jeans hurt beneath knee length siletto heeled lace up boots certainly drew male attention as she entered the restaurant and made her way to the restaurant.The alcohol table was private and Simon handed her the envelope with the contract signed inside it. She removed it and, slipping on her spectacles that gave her the look of a stern school mistress, something not totally unintended, studied it briefly.
“Very good. So you are one hundred per cent certain that you wish to be committed to this contract? You understand that it give you no rights whatsoever, your status will simply be that of a slave with all that entails?” Her serious demeanour briefly gave him pause for thought, he swallowed before saying quietly, “Yes Mistress.”
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