The Greenwich Tales

The Greenwich Tales

By Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane

Introduction & New Readers Start Here…

 

This story sprang out of an exchange of emails between the Phil and Freddie during the posting of the Freddie Clegg story “Market Forces”. The two authors discovered a shared interest in Len Deighton’s “The Ipcress File” and an enthusiasm for exploring what happened to some of the characters outside of the Market Forces narrative. This is the result of that correspondence and a collaboration to create a new tale.

 

If you have read Market Forces then you can skip the rest of this introduction.

 

If not, shame on you (and if you like this then search it out, you’ll like that too), but you might like to know that……

 

Freddie Clegg Enteprises is a UK based organisation specialising in the acquisition, training and sale of female slaves. You’ll meet up with some of the employees of Clegg Enterprises as the tales are told and they’ll introduce themselves as they go along. You will also meet two of Clegg’s customers; Daphne Challis (an American entrepreneur) and Steve Glennis, a man of leisure whose main hobby is the stable of pony girls he keeps on his Caribbean island.

 

It’s Steve’s story that starts us off…

Prologue

 

Now, I’m no fan of medieval literature. In fact after you’ve got past the contents of the average castle’s dungeon, my interest in things medieval wanders off. I had to read The Canterbury Tales when I was at school. I was surprised by how much smut there was in history. Some of it was filthy.

 

Geoffrey Chaucer wrote the Canterbury Tales in around 1400AD. It’s a tale of a group of pilgrims and it starts like this…

 

            “When in April the sweet showers fall

            That pierce March's drought to the root and all

            …..

            Then folk do long to go on pilgrimage,

            And pilgrims to go seeking out strange strands,

            To distant shrines, well known, in distant lands.”

 

These days, it’s not so common for pilgrims to go to distant shrines in distant lands but there are other pilgrimages, other shrines, other grails.

 

My name’s Steve. There’s this woman I know; Daphne. We share some interests. She had some problems. I was concerned about her but somehow I never got around to helping out. I’m not proud of that, it’s just the way things are some times.

 

It turned out not to matter. She solved her own problems. She’s been on a pilgrimage but sometimes you don’t end up where you think you are going and sometimes you do. You might like to hear about it.

 

Like many pilgrims, Daphne’s path was eased by others on the way. There was a Merchant, a seller of souls. He found a Student for Daphne. Then a Clerk sought out someone else to help Daphne on her path. She encountered a Counsellor and …..

 

But that’s putting the cart before the horse – and if you know me then you know that’s something I never, ever, do!

 

It’s probably easier if they all tell their own tales…

The Merchant’s Tale

Part 1 : When Larry Met Daphne

 

I first met Daphne shortly after I’d joined Freddie Clegg Enterprises. I was flying back from a trip to the Caribbean. She was on the same ‘plane. My first impression of her wasn’t great. She looked shabby; overweight, badly dressed, poor complexion and greasy hair.  I guessed that she was about forty but it was hard to say. She could have been older.

 

Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Larry. I look after marketing for Clegg. Well at least I did when all this kicked off. This was one of the last jobs I was involved in before I moved on to run one of his new business ventures.

 

Clegg’s organisation is what you might euphemistically call a recruitment agency; except our recruits usually weren’t planning on a change of role before they met up with us. I suppose slave traders is the real name for what we are. The Caribbean trip had been to meet with a potential customer, a chap called Steve Glennis. No, he wasn’t planning on using his purchases to start a new sugar plantation. I’ll let you guess what he wanted them for but here’s a hint. They were all young. They were all women.

 

Daphne just seemed like another potential client when we spoke on the flight. My first thought was that she seemed pretty greedy as she sat next to me stuffing her face with snacks. But, since it seemed likely that would extend to her tastes in slaves, I just saw that as a potential opportunity for us. She certainly had the money to pay for them according to Clegg.

 

After our discussion on the ‘plane and her suggestion that we might do some business I asked Rick’s team in our research department to do a profile of her “Daphne Challis,” their report said, “was borne in Boston, USA. Her father was in the US diplomatic service, divorced shortly after she was borne but she stayed with him. She’d grown up pretty much everywhere, spending time in most of the countries across Europe. Picked up language skills in French, German and Spanish. Clever at school, but somehow she never got the knack of getting on with people socially. She read economics and accountancy at university, graduating very well. She joined a City bank as a foreign exchange trader, managed to cope with the bullying and sexism by ignoring pretty much everything except making money. Now in her mid thirties (I’d got her age wrong by at least five years – the way that most women wouldn’t ever forgive you for) she was a millionaire several times over and she’s mainly into investing. She used her capital in small entrepreneurial start-ups and her contacts in the city for any funding that she couldn’t cover from her own resources.  In her private life though she seemed to be still a lonely, awkward, socially inept, individual. Her business associates found it hard to square her business acumen and acquisitive drive with her lack of social skills - as one said, she’s like a little girl with a big bag of money.”

 

That much I could recognise in the woman I’d met on the ‘plane.

 

“It’s not clear when she first started keeping slaves.” The report went on. “The first purchase transactions that we are aware of were three years ago. Anecdotal evidence suggests that she had a number of BDSM relationships in her early twenties and that at some point she made the transition from consensual to non-consensual slave ownership. There were at least three male slaves “owned” by her at first. The Clegg organisation became aware of Challis first when she offered these three for sale at an auction run by one of our competitors in the States and acquired three females as replacements. Since then she has replaced these on a fairly regular basis, keeping three or four at any one time, not retaining any of them for more than six or seven months. She always takes trained / conditioned stock under twenty five years, but of no particular racial origin. She’s bought and sold around a dozen slaves that we are aware of. The money doesn’t seem to be a problem because she’s losing money every time she trades them in but it hasn’t affected how she’s been buying. To date none of her purchases have been through the Clegg Organisation, they have all been in US markets. She has been based in the Hamptons until three months ago. It is understood that she may be moving to the UK.”

 

Part 2 : First Client Contact

 

The report told me a bit more than I’d worked out for myself. As it turned out, it was useful background when I got a call from her. She was planning to set up in the UK, she said, and thought we might be able to let her have some pieces for her household over here. I said we could probably help. We agreed to meet. I suggested a restaurant in the West End; she came up with an alternative, “The Rose By The River Hotel.” I hadn’t heard of it but then I’m like a lot of taxi drivers – I hardly ever go south of the river.

 

When I got there, I realised I’d been missing something. It billed itself as a boutique hotel. Not far from Tate Modern and the Globe Theatre, it was a short walk from Borough Market and the City itself.

 

I got to the sixth floor and the restaurant. Daphne was already there. As I walked in she was chewing on a mouthful of food that had her face stuffed as well as the gags that we use in the Prep Centre. She barely paused in her eating and waved me across to join her. The remains of a rump steak, half a pile of chips, a smear of pepper sauce and an untouched portion of vegetables decorated the plate in front of her. A dribble of sauce was running down her chin. She wiped it as she swallowed the mouthful of food. I thought it wasn’t a great menu choice. From what I remembered of her backside, the last thing she needed was more rump.

 

“Larry,” she said holding out a limp hand, “nice to see you again.” She smiled. I could see a piece of steak wedged between her two front teeth.

 

“Ms Challis,” I said. “Good to see you, too.” I wasn’t being entirely sincere but she was a potential customer after all.

 

“Daphne,” she said, “it’s Daphne. Do you want to eat?” She asked. Without waiting for a reply, she called across to a waitress. “Hey,” she called. Can we get a menu here?” The waitress seemed more than a little pained by Daphne’s lack of finesse. She produced an impressively large menu and put on the table in front of me.  Daphne carried on eating. It wasn’t the most entertaining of sights. One forkful followed another into her mouth with barely a pause. There were a couple of sticks of white asparagus on the side of the plate. She picked one up with fingers sticky from pepper sauce that had dribbled down her fork and guided its head to her lips. I found the sight of her sucking at the white, fleshy vegetable slightly disturbing.

 

I hadn’t been very hungry before I arrived and somehow even the vaguest interest in food had disappeared. I didn’t see anything on the menu that I fancied. I passed it back to the waitress and shook my head. Daphne shovelled the last fork full of chips into her mouth. “I’ll never work out why you guys call fries chips and chips crisps,” she said to me. Turning to the waitress she said, “Chocolate cheesecake.”

 

The waitress said, “Cream or ice cream?”

 

Daphne said, “Both.”

 

I said, “How can we help?”

 

“I’ve got a requirement,” she said. “I’m going to be based here for a while. I’ve got a suite here in the hotel for a few weeks but I’m moving into a new place in Greenwich.  I need a house-piece. Someone to keep the place clean and me happy. You seemed to know what you were talking about when we met on Narod Jesper’s plane and Steve Glennis said you did a good job for him.”

 

“Thanks for the compliments.”

 

“I trust Glennis’s call. He was a big help when I first started out owning rather than playing. It’s a big change. He was really useful.”

 

“How about Jesper?”

 

Daphne coughed. The waitress appeared with her desert. The food looked excellent but it was obviously the size of the portions that attracted Daphne. “Too weird for me,” she said. “We’ve done a few private transactions; he’s taken a couple of girls off me. I’ve had one of his. He sold the plane, you know?”

 

I nodded. “Yeah, I came across the stewardesses a while back in Switzerland.”

 

“Oh yes. I heard about that from Steve. Even Clegg’s team screws up occasionally, then?”

 

“We worked things out. Steve was happy in the end. We ended up buying the girls.”

 

“So I hear.” She ran through what she was looking for. It didn’t seem anything special; - just a slave girl that would do for domestic and bedroom duties while Daphne was getting set up. It seemed straight forward. Then she added the rider. “Oh, and she needs to speak Portuguese.”

 

“Portuguese?”

 

“Uh huh. I’m going to be doing quite a lot of work with some Brazilian companies, opportunities with eco-friendly fuels, renewable energy resources, that sort of thing. It’s going to be hot technology. I need a translator.”

 

“Not, I hope, with a degree in bio-tech or engineering?” I was only half joking, we’ve been asked for more specific requirements.

 

“That would be good, but, no, not essential. I just want someone that can I can rely on for some of the more interesting documents.”

 

Portuguese wasn’t so easy – we’d never done much in Spain or Portugal – but I thought Rick would be able to come up with something.

 

Daphne thought she’d want maybe a couple more pieces when she was settled but the place she was moving into only really had secure accommodation for one at the moment. She wasn’t very specific about what she wanted beyond the language thing. I asked her whether she’d be happy with something from stock; I was thinking maybe one of our European associate groups might have something. Maybe the Contessa might have something. She shrugged her shoulders. She just didn’t seem bothered. “Just get me a good one,” she said. She waved to the waitress for the bill. It appeared with a bowl of mints. She picked up her handbag, Louis Vuitton in soft brown leather with a stain that looked like dried mustard just by the catch. Daphne pulled out her purse and flipped her key card onto the bill without reading it.

 

The waitress picked up the card and went in search of her payment terminal. Daphne emptied the dish of mints into her handbag. She paid the bill. “Call me when you’ve got something to view,” she said. “You’ve got my number.” She got her feet and moved towards the door. She didn’t move as if she was comfortable with it. Walking didn’t seem to be something she was big on.

 

The waitress came over to clear the table as I got up to leave. Daphne had made such a good job of clearing her desert that they wouldn’t really have to wash the plate. I was pretty sure the waitress let out a sigh of relief as Daphne waddled away.

 

I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Takes all sorts,” I said, and left her.

 

The Student’s Tale

Part 1 : The Albert Hall

 

I am Branca. I used to study here in London. It’s not easy being a student here in London. Not when you come here from abroad. Everyone is so busy; it is hard to make good friends. And it is so expensive. Much more expensive here than in Lisbon or in my home town, Porto.

 

But it is good to study here. The Imperial College is very good. To be studying engineering there is very good. And I thought I would have many friends. In Lisbon there were not so many girls that study engineering. Here it is the same but the boys, well they all work hard. It is not easy to get to know them. I think I am attractive. Perhaps I am a bit tall for the boys here: 1.8 metres but that should not matter? I like my black hair, I’m proud of how it shines. In Porto the boys think I look fine. Sometimes they are a bit too enthusiastic. If I want to study I have to shoo them away. But here the boys do not seem to notice my hair or my body. They think only of their books.

 

And London is so expensive. That is why I had a job as well as I my studies. To help pay for my flat and for my books. But for my job it was good to be Portuguese. There are not so many of us here in London so for translating there is a demand. And I made some good money from translating. From Portuguese into English, from English into Portuguese. I worked for an agency. They have a good system – for all their translators they have a web site it says to their clients what areas of specialising their people have. For me it says for engineering both electrical and mechanical and also bio-tech. Their clients can look for just the right person for what they want.  

 

I wonder if that is how they found me?

 

A man phoned me. He said he had some work that he believed I could help him with. I told him that he must speak to the agent. They get cross if I do freelance work. He said it was more to do with the university, some papers from another student. He just wanted someone to take a look at them and tell him what they were about. He wasn’t sure if they were important and worth translating or not. Perhaps if he bought me coffee? Well it didn’t seem like it could do any harm.

 

He was nice. He said his name was Harry. He showed me the papers. I read them through while we had some coffee. They were about a plant for producing bio-diesel. There are many developments of this kind in Brazil now. I told him I thought they were useful for someone planning to invest in bio-diesel technology. He asked if I could translate them properly for him. If his friend found it useful there would be other work but that he would put through my agent, of course.

 

I thought it would be all right. It was not so much work and if my agent got a big contract he would not mind.

 

I phoned him when I had finished. Could he collect it that evening, he said. He had to be at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. Perhaps I could bring it by afterwards? I said of course. It is very close to the college. Just around the corner from the library. It will be easy, I said.

 

It is very busy there, just after a concert. Everyone, milling around. A great bustle of people, chatting and laughing. And then it is very quiet. They all go home, of course. After the concert. And the pavements were empty. I saw him hurrying towards me. He waved. He was obviously worried that I would have gone.

 

There were two others with him. Two women. “Eva,” he said and “Doctor Jordan” They looked friendly. It looked like they have all had a good time at the concert. “Come and have some coffee,” he said. ”Please come,” said Eva, “Harry says you are from near Lisbon, I’d love to hear about it.”

 

So I said, “Yes,” and we walked to his car. It was parked not far away. Thurlow Gardens. It was a big car, a people carrier, a Mercedes, almost like a small van. Big and black with blacked out windows. I was telling Eva about Lisbon, about the Alfama, the old town. We all climbed in, Harry driving, Eva and the Doctor and me in the back.

 

The car moved off. I remember we were going towards Marble Arch. Harold said, “We are very pleased with your work Branca.”

 

Eva said, “I told him we need to take you on full time.” I think she is joking. I said, “No, but I am at University.”

 

And then Eva was pointing a gun at me and saying, “Sorry, Branca. You haven’t understood. We are taking you on full time. Just don't argue.” And the car was going quickly, along Park Lane.

 

I was saying no and pulling away but Eva pushed the gun against me. The Doctor leaned across me and makes a cut through my tights with scissors and she says “this will make you feel better Branca”, and she pressed a hypodermic into my thigh. I am struggling now but Eva and the doctor are holding me. There is a warm numb feeling in my leg.

 

I heard Eva, say “So what is that?

 

The Doctor said, “Ketamine. It’s safe, if you know what you’re doing, it doesn’t have to go into a vein and it’s quite quick and the more Branca struggles the quicker it is ” The inside of the van seemed to go dark but I could see bright lights through the windows still.  I wanted cry out but somehow my mouth wouldn’t work any more. I fell back against Eva, seeing Doctor Jordan smiling.

 

And then… 

 

When I woke up I was in a strange room. I was on a bed but I could not get off. Eva was sitting by me. There were wires from pads on my chest going to a monitor.  There was a tube going into my arm from a bag of fluid hanging from a metal pole at the side of the bed. I asked Eva, “What happened? Am I in hospital?”

 

“No, Branca, but you are somewhere safe. You are with us.”

 

Then Doctor Jordan came in and I started to remember what happened in the car. “How are you feeling now, Branca?” Dr Jordan said.

 

I was confused; they seemed so kind but they had taken me away. “I am feeling tired and sick. I want to go home now,” I said.

 

“Don’t worry,” Doctor Jordan says. “You may not remember what has happened to you, just as you may forget a dream. It will take some time before you feel well again. Movement is extremely difficult. It is better for you to stay here. You are home here, Branca.”

 

“No I want to go to my home,” I say. I tried to get up. I couldn’t.

 

Eva said, “Branca you are ours now. Our home is your home. You must stay here.”

 

I felt so weak. Doctor Jordan said for me to rest, “and when you are ready, we will move you to your very own room.”

 

I tried to get up again and then I saw they had strapped me to the bed. I was frightened, I started to cry. Doctor Jordan put her arms round me. She talked softly. She said, “You will be fine, Branca. We will look after you. You will be safe now with us. You'll see.”

 

I don’t know how long it was before I woke up again. I was still in the room, still strapped to the bed. I don’t know if it was the drugs but I didn’t seem to mind. It was quite dark. The walls were bare, the floor just tiles. There was a window but it was covered over with frosted glass.

 

Later on Doctor Jordan took the tube out of my arm. She let me get up from the bed and walk around the room. They had taken all my clothes.  “How are you, Branca?” she asked.

 

I was shaky. It was hard to stand and walk. The Doctor gave me a sweet orange drink and I began to feel stronger. “Now Branca, now you are here there are many thing you have to learn, many things you have to know. You want to learn don’t you? Like at the University?”

 

It seemed strange to me, not like the University at all, but I heard myself saying, “Yes, I want to learn.”

 

“Good,” said Doctor Jordan, “It is time for you to start to learn. We have someone to help you to learn. Connie will help you to learn. Connie is very good.” For a moment everything seemed strange and I thought I would fall over but Doctor Jordan reached out to hold me. “Do you trust me, Branca? Do you?” she asked. I nodded. “We’ll go and see Connie.” 

 

The Doctor put a wide leather belt round my waist and cuffed my hands to it. I suppose it seems strange but it did not occur to me to try to stop her. She put a blindfold on me and gently guided me somewhere else. 

 

There was another girl there, waiting for me: she had a deepish voice and a sweet perfume. I heard her say, “Is this the one?”

 

“Yes,” said Doctor Jordan. “She’s all yours now.”

 

“Kneel down,” the other voice said. “This is Connie speaking, Branca. You must do as I say.”

 

I said, “Oh!” and “Yes.” I was still confused but I got down to my knees. Someone put a bar between my teeth and strapped it behind my head. It felt hard and tasted of rubber. Connie trapped my head between her legs and brought a cane down on my bottom several times.  I squealed with pain and grunted around the gag. I was whimpering. Connie heard my sobbing and crouched down beside me. I felt the side of her face pressed against mine. “Hush, Branca, don’t cry. If you are obedient then all will be well. You can make things better by being obedient. Stop crying and you can see me.” She held me closely. Somehow I wanted to see her. I wanted her to take off the blindfold. “Stop crying Branca.” I sniffed back my tears. “That’s better,” said Connie. “Start crying again and it goes on again. Stop crying and you can see. You will soon learn to do your best for Connie.” Eventually I stopped crying.

 

 

Part 2 : New Learning 

 

Connie took off the blindfold. I shook my head and looked around me. I saw the room was small and cold, just bare walls and a tiled floor. There was a rubber mat on the floor and where the floor dips down was a toilet with a shower head by it over a floor drain. 

 

A black skinned girl stood in front of me. She looked African. Her face was finely boned as if made from some black porcelain. Her black hair was braided and tied back tight. She was wearing riding boots over tight cream trousers and had on a white leather T shirt. A riding whip hung from the belt of her trousers. She wore white leather gloves. She had a gold ring glinting in the septum of her nose. She looked so confident and strong and so very .... desirable. She smiled. White teeth. “Hello, Branca,” she said. “I'm Connie.”

 

I looked up at her.

 

She crouched down beside me, her head close to mine. “Branca, you know you must learn? You work hard and earn your privileges. You understand?”

 

I nodded.

 

“You thirsty?” Connie said. I nodded eagerly. “Uh huh?  That’s good. I'll take out your gag so you can drink.” She unbuckled the strap and the rubber bar came clear of my mouth. “If you want it to keep the gag out of your mouth put your face at my feet, rub your face on my boots.” I whimpered but I didn’t want the gag back, I bent my face to her feet, pressing it against her boots feeling and smelling the leather. She spoke again. “What about hungry? Branca? Uh huh?” I gave an mmm in response. “Well,” Connie said, “ask me to shave your head and then you can eat.”

 

I was puzzled, confused by her response.

 

“Sorry Branca, that was not quick enough,” Connie said pulling her feet away from my face. “You have to learn to say yes quickly. Not only obey but obey quickly.” With that she chained my ankle to the wall and left me locked alone in the room.

 

When Connie came back she asked the same question. This time I managed to say, “Yes. Yes, please shave me.”

 

Connie looked down at me disapproving.  “Not good enough, Branca,” she said. “I think you are not happy about being shaven. It is not enough to do as you are told you must want it. You must be happy with it. We’ll try once more, one more chance today if you want to eat.”

 

So I pleaded with her, begged her to shave me. Told her I hated my hair and that nothing would please me more than to lose it. Connie smiled, pleased with my response. “That’s better Branca, come over here,” she said. She bent my head over the toilet. I heard the soft whirr of clippers and felt the slight pulling sensation as she ran them from the nape of my neck up to the crown, over and over again. I saw all my hair falling away, together with my tears. Connie lifted my shaven head and turned my tear streaked face towards her. “Tears, Branca?” she said, sadly. “I said you must be happy with being obedient. Tears means you cannot be happy. That means just raw vegetables for your food today.”

 

That was how it started, how I learned to obey and be happy obeying. Life was simple. There was just me and Connie. She was my only visitor and as the weeks passed I found myself asking Connie to beat me, rape me, to let me lick her bare feet, do anything she told me to do, to think of things she might want me to do. And to obey and to enjoy obeying. And gradually I earned a warmer room, a blanket at night. She stopped shaving my head. They gave me more to eat than raw vegetables and water. And I began to think that I loved her and finally I would do just anything she asked me to do to her or for her. And then, when she brought her boy friends and girl friends and I would do anything she wanted for them, too.

 

Then one day Doctor Jordan and Connie both came to see me. The Doctor says, “My, Branca, you have done well! I am very pleased with you!” She stroked my hair. It was growing back. As long as I obeyed, Connie let me keep my hair. I’d been very good. It was still very short of course, but you could not see my scalp. That’s how good I’d been. “Just look at your hair now.” She can tell I am puzzled by her arrival. “It’s time to pass you on to your Owner.” She sees my distress at realising I must leave Connie. “You have been chosen specially, Branca. Chosen for your language skills and for what you know about engineering. Now Branca, we expect you to try hard. You have to do your best for Connie,” she says and I knew that I must and I knew that I would.

 

I started to cry again because I did not want to leave. It was safe there with Connie. If I did as she said and I was happy with doing what she said then all was well, I could manage things there. I looked at Doctor Jordan. “Will I ever see you again? Or Connie?”

 

The Doctor looked sympathetically. “Yes, Branca. If you are ill, I will look after you and when your Owner goes away, perhaps you can stay here with us again. So what will you do Branca?”

 

I knew what to say. “I will do my best for Connie,” I said and Connie and the Doctor smiled. I heard that phrase so many times in my training. I know when I hear it that I must do exactly as I am told. 

 

“Well done, Branca! That’s right,” said the Doctor. She placed a metal collar round my neck. I ran my fingers across the cool titanium. I could barely feel where the too halves joined. There was no screw or catch that I could feel. I could think of no way in which I might release it..  Even if I wanted to. She fitted a belt around my waist, a metal plate that runs down across my sex, two heavy chromed chains that run from that behind and around my buttocks up to the belt.  The fit is perfect for it really has been made for me. I explore the belt with my fingers. I could tell that I would be able to use the toilet but I could not console myself at all. My only consolation would be that I will do my best for Connie.

 

Part 3 : Branca’s Owner

 

They brought me here in some kind of van or truck. The first I knew was when they came to my cell with the straps and the gag and the hood. They didn’t say anything. But then they never do. They just started putting the things on me like they were wrapping up a parcel. Wrists strapped, ankles strapped, knees strapped. Then the gag. At least it was a plug gag with a padded strap over my mouth. I hate the ball gags and the ring gags are even worse – but maybe that’s because of what they usually want to do when they put a ring gag on you.

 

Then the hood. I can still remember the smell of the leather and the feel of the thick pads over my eyes and ears, the terrifying sense of blindness, the disorienting muffling of every sound.

 

I felt myself lifted and put down again. On something unsteady. One of the trolleys, I guessed. “Ready for shipment?” I heard a voice say. “Sure,” said another. “Sign here, then,” the first replied. And then I was moving. I didn’t seem to stop moving until I got here and the straps and the hood came off.

 

It was quite a shock when I saw her. I suppose I expected a man. I mean I suppose it’s just prejudice but that’s what you would think, isn’t it?

 

But it wasn’t a man. It was a woman that took off the hood and the straps. A woman that told me that she was my new owner. A woman that said I had to do as she said if I was going to do the best for Connie.

 

What about her? Well, surely a woman slave owner would be glamorous? Desirable, like Connie? I was wrong. She wasn’t. “Mistress,” she makes me call her but “Daphne” is her name. I don’t understand her. She seemed successful. She was obviously wealthy. Her house was very nice. But she was not happy.

 

She seems very – well closed off, I cannot tell what she is thinking, what she is feeling. If she feels at all. She can be kind. She took time to explain just what she wanted done and just how she wanted it done. I knew from my training that I had to do it. It’s what Connie would have wanted. Mistress reminds me about that.

 

Of course she punishes me. She beats me if I do things wrong. She keeps me in chains and locked up but I know that is what a Mistress must do with her slave. I know that is how a slave must live. That is what they taught me; that I must do my best for Connie.

 

For working during the day she keeps me naked apart from hospital scrubs and rubber flip flops. It isn’t very glamorous but it is practical for the cooking and cleaning. Oh, and the chains and the collar and the chastity belt of course. In the evenings she liked to dress me up; corset, high heels. She’d obviously got a thing about my figure. When she touches me she’s as likely to play with my waist as my breasts or my backside. She doesn’t work me too hard. It’s quite a big place but it doesn’t take to long to clean. It’s just the two of us and she’s not unreasonable about things the way that some owners I’ve been told about are. I mean she’s never done the thing with the white glove to see if things have been dusted properly. The worst part is clearing up where she’s been eating.

 

She came in late this evening – I have to wait up until she tells me I can go to bed – what ever time that is.

 

She’d been to some classy event - came in wearing a strapless, long, silk, evening gown and long evening gloves, great dangly earrings and what might have been a diamond choker. The dress was probably a bit tighter than it should have been. You could see the rolls of flesh under her arms spilling out over the top of the tight silk. She flopped down on the couch looking as though she’d had too much wine and not enough good company. A strand of hair had come lose from where she’d had it put up; it was dangling down across her face. She scowled at me, waving me to get some food.

 

I knew what she wanted. It was what she always wanted. My legs were aching from the stilt high heels she made me wear. She looked up from the couch, grinning. Definitely too much wine, I thought. She asked for a beer, cheese burger and fries with extra onion rings.

 

I fetched her the beer first. She crouched forward almost engulfing it, slurping the froth from the top, leaving a foamy line along her upper lip. She fumbled putting the glass down and splashed some on the table. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from her handbag and dabbed ineffectually at the puddle of beer.

 

“Why does she do it?” I thought. “She doesn’t need this.” I took the burger across to Mistress’s table.

 

She’d almost fallen asleep in her beer. “Hey,” she said, waking up with a start. “Don’t creep up on people.”

 

“Sorry, Mistress,” I said quietly as I put the food down. It was the best way. She was sitting elbows on the table. She picked up the burger in both hands, still wearing her silk gloves, and pushed it into her mouth. Grease and melted cheese dripped down her chin and onto her dress. A translucent stain spread from the neck line of her dress, down across her bosom.

 

“I dunno why I go to those things,” she slurred. “They’re always shit and they’re full of shits. And he’s a shit anyway. Why wasn’t he there? They don’t give a shit about me and I don’t give a shit about them and I ….” She seemed to lose track of what she was saying. “Where’s? Where’s my beer?”

 

“You’re holding it Mistress,” I said. It’s nights like that I wished she’d forget to lock the doors so I could go back to Connie but somehow she never did.

 

I don’t have to do too much for her in the bedroom which is good for me.  Well, she’s fat, and sometimes she just smells. It’s not as though she doesn’t bathe but sometimes she just smells. Especially up close. Especially down there. A good thing though, she doesn’t want me to do that for her very often. And another thing, she doesn’t punish me often either.

 

Except last night.

 

It started well. She seemed really pleased when she got back. “That’s the Canadian investment sorted,” she said. “That will clear about three million for two day’s work. Not bad. Start supper then come back and run a bath.”

 

It was pretty much the same all the time. I’d get the table laid, have the food ready to serve and then put on my corset and heels and go up to Mistress Daphne’s bedroom. She waits while I undress her and help her into her bathrobe. She always says to leave her clothes on the floor until she gets into her bath. It’s always a problem – makes more work for me to clean and press them. I follow her through into the bathroom carrying whatever she wants for the bath.

 

Last night I was carrying her bath towels and a tray with a glass of white wine.

 

I helped Daphne undress. She really isn’t anyone’s idea of the body beautiful. I mean sure she was tired after the trip. She looked pale. Sometimes her skin looks almost waxy. I took her robe, the flesh across her belly sags a bit, there are these two rolls of fat and there’s plenty more on her hips too. Her hair looks lank. There’s a shampoo for greasy hair and conditioner on the side of the bath but I can’t remember when I last saw her use it. She’s smoking again. I can smell it on her hair.

 

I’m standing there in my corset and heels. Holding the tray and towels. Then I see she’s looking right past me. She’s looking in the mirror. There’s a big mirror panel on the back of the bathroom door and she’s looking at it. There’s me in corset and heels, I’ve still got the tan from the summer in Porto before I came to London; my hair is neat - I like it to look good. It’s not a look I’d choose but I try to look nice. That’s what Connie taught me and I have to do my best for Connie. I think Connie would like how I look. And then there’s her. I look at her and I think, “You’re what I lost my freedom for? Why couldn’t I stay with Connie?”

 

I guess she saw the look on my face. Any other time it would have earned me a beating but now it was like someone stuck a pin in her and let all the air out. She just slid down to the floor of the bathroom, her back against the bath. She was crying and waving her hands at me. “Look,” she said, “look at you and look at me.”

 

“What do you mean, Mistress?”

 

“Look, look at me, I’m just so, so, disappointing. All that work, all that money, all that effort. For what?”

 

“You’re tired Mistress,” I said.

 

“Yes,” she said. “Tired of all of it. Tired of being like this.” And then she beat me. She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me across the edge of the bath. She used the back of the bath brush and she just kept bringing it down on my backside, over and over again. Until she slid down beside me sobbing. “Get OUT!” she shouted. “GET OUT!!” I was glad to leave her.

 

Part 4 : Daphne’s Epiphany

 

I left her for a while. I found her sitting in the lounge and took her a tray with her meal and some more wine.

 

“Thank you, slave,” she said. I think she was feeling a bit remorseful about how she’d treated me but of course she didn’t apologise. “Stay here,” she waved for me to kneel beside her. She didn’t seem interested in food for once but she gulped down the wine. She turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels. Too much choice. 50 channels of nothing. Well, even I can’t find anything to watch on it when she’s out and the alternative is working my butt off.

 

The channel changing stopped. It was just another lot of adverts. How many personal loans does anyone need? The screen changed. “International Athletics – Live From Melbourne - The 2006 Commonwealth Games,” the caption said. Daphne reached for the control but it fell from the arm of the couch. I went to get it for her. When I turned back she was staring at the screen, captivated. There was a girl standing, hands on hips, behind the starting blocks of the track. Now, I’m not into girls. I do what I’m told in that direction of course but it’s not my thing. I could see though that you could think this girl was hot. She was beautiful, strong, fit and sexy all at once. She drew her hair back, fastening it in a pony tail behind her in a final ritual before taking her place on the blocks.  The camera drew back, five others were crouched in the blocks. A horn blew. Six bums pushed up tense as the girls waited for the gun. The crack of the pistol launched them down the track. 100 metres of intense effort. The look of self assurance and power. The grace in the way she stretched as she breasted the line barely millimetres in front of the other competitors. And then the smile of triumph, the combination of extreme pleasure and exhaustion, her body’s entire resources exhausted in just a few seconds.

 

“Should I change the channel, Mistress,” I said. “There will be financial news on Bloomberg.”

 

“No,” said Daphne, studying the screen with an intensity I had never seen before, “leave it.”

 

She watched another race and another. The programme switched to the high jump and then the javelin. Daphne sat fascinated. The commentator said, “And now the leaders in the marathon are approaching the stadium. Kerryn McCann of Australia and Helen Cherono Koskei of Kenya ” The camera cut to a view of the road outside. There were just two runners, one white and the other black, still virtually neck and neck after almost 26 miles. Other runners could be seen some distance behind them, pressing on, trying to close with the leaders in the last quarter mile as they came closer to the gates of the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

 

The leading girl glanced back over her shoulder and responded, kicking out and pulling away with a smile on her face that said, “Maybe I’ve done 26 miles but so have you and I’ve still got something left.”  As they entered the stadium there was an enormous roar from the crowd and the white runner, a short rangy girl in a yellow vest and sunglasses, began to edge ahead. The caption on the TV screen read “Kerryn McCann, Australia” The big display screen at the far end of the stadium was ticking away the seconds as she approached the line. 2:30.52, 2:30.53, 2:30.54. She crossed the line and slowed, waving to the crowd. Well outside a world record time but pretty good nonetheless. McCann had finished only two seconds in front of Helen Cherono Koskei but two seconds was enough even after two and a half hours. The others from the leading group followed her across the line minutes later, their pace broken by the drive of the first two. “Impressive performance,” said the commentator, “from the thirty eight year old mother of two and a great repeat of her 2002 performance in Manchester.”

 

Daphne sat watching intently, her mouth half open, apparently stunned by what she had just seen. She became aware that I was watching her. She looked at me and scowled. “Get out,” she said. “I shan’t need you tonight.” I went to bed, feeling as lonely as Daphne seemed to. I took off my corset and heels but of course my collar and chastity belt stayed on. I fell asleep and dreamed of Connie.

 

Two days later the equipment arrived. The running machine, the exercise cycle, the weights.

 

“This,” Daphne announced to me, “is going to do it. I’m going to be fitter. I’m going to loose weight. Just watch.”

 

It all looked like top-of-the range equipment to me. I guess she started out with the best of intentions. It didn’t seem to work out too well though. Two days after it was all installed she had a TV put up in the room. She didn’t seem to get on with the running machine, she spent a lot of time sitting on the cycle watching TV but it looked to me like she was just going through the motions. Yesterday I saw her there, pedalling slowly, with a cigarette in one hand and a doughnut in the other. I don’t know much about fitness programmes but I’d be surprised if any of them involve that.

 

She was in a bad mood when she weighed herself that evening. “What a waste of money,” she snarled. “Two and half grand and I haven’t lost a pound!”

 

She took it out on me of course. With a riding crop this time. I’m getting used to that. The crop, the belt, the brush. The wheals, the cuts the bruises. It’s hard to bear but I know I must do my best for Connie. It didn’t help when I said that maybe she needed to talk to someone who knew about the exercise business.

 

The Clerk’s Tale

Part 1 : Lunch on the Town

 

It’s not often we feel the need to turn down a commission. I take a pride in the research we do and I get involved in almost every operation one way or another. I can’t remember the last one we turned down. I’m Rick, by the way. I look after the Research Division for Clegg Enterprises. We trade women, but I guess you knew that already.

 

I was with Larry, our marketing man, in a restaurant at the top of a hotel overlooking Hyde Park. He’d asked me to go along with him for a meeting with a client. “It’s a woman, Daphne Challis,” he said. I must have looked interested. Actually, I just recognised the name. Larry had us do a report on her a while back. “Don’t get our hopes up,” he said. “If there was her and a horse in the bar, you’d be looking at the horse!

 

“That rough?” I said.

 

Larry nodded.

 

It was a pleasant day in mid march. Our table overlooked the hotel roof garden and the park beyond, where the plane trees were just starting to push out leaves in anticipation of summer.

 

I saw what Larry meant about Daphne when she joined us. She sort of waddled in, wearing a skirt that stretched across her belly, a sweater that looked two sizes too small and pair of shoes that looked as if they cost more than some cars.

 

The restaurant was a better venue than most of the places I lunch in.  Green Stuff was a new place, built to cash in on enthusiasms for better food and healthier eating. Both the prices and portions were calculated to slim you down!

 

“Larry,” Daphne said, when he broke the news that we didn’t want the job, “what’s so difficult about it?”

 

Larry shrugged.

 

Daphne persisted. “I need a personal trainer. Someone who can help me with getting fit. You must have someone like that on the database.”

 

I pushed the leaves around my plate. What had been billed as “Country Life” on the menu had turned out to be a mixed green salad. I was missing some carbohydrates, the one thing I’d expected from lunch with Daphne, after what Larry had said, was that it would involve chips. Daphne reached over and poured some more carrot juice into my glass. Larry looked impressed. I guessed it was the first time he had ever seen her help someone else to some food.

 

“I can check but I’m just not sure it’s a smart idea,” Larry said. “Look – its going to be a challenge to find someone that will be right but of course we can do that with a bit of effort. Rick here can find something, I ‘m sure.” I nodded. “The problem will be prep.”

 

“Hungfg?” she said through a mouthful of salad. I took it to be a request for explanation. You pick up useful life-skills working a lot with gagged women.

 

“First it’s going to be a really difficult pick up. She’ll be fit – that’s a sort of requirement – works a lot with a lot of people, so not often on her own. Then there’s getting her controlled – athletes are really good with pain and stress so we’ll need to come up with a whole new approach. And, well, it’s like any creative type skill. If you discipline them enough to be a slave you lose the abilities you were after. If you don’t discipline them well enough they’re over the wall at the first opportunity. Plus, with a trainer, they will have to take you out to Gyms, Tracks, Parks. It’s not like you could keep them in a cage. They will be over the wall already! Trust me, I’ve just been through something like this with a writer and even with all Freddie’s resources first she was difficult to hang on to and second she was difficult to get working properly. Then your project is going to take what – twelve months, tops? At the end of that you’ll want to sell on and I’m telling you there has been zero requirement for anything like this in the past so resale value is going to be nothing like what you’ll spend in Prep costs, even. It’s a money pit project and much though I’d like to take your cash, I need to warn you.”

 

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. It left a green stain on the cloth but I guess that’s a hazard if you serve this sort of food. “Larry, I’m going to have one. You know what I’m like when I make up my mind.” She waved to the waiter and he came across. She pointed to her plate and said, “Again.” He wandered away. I didn’t think she quite got the hang of healthy eating.

 

“Let me make a radical suggestion.” said Larry. Daphne looked at Larry suspiciously. “Hire one.”

 

“What, hire a slave? How does that help?”

 

“No, not a slave. Hire a personal trainer. That’s what normal people do. You give them money and they work for you. Sorted – and it’s cheaper, believe me.”

 

“Hire one?”

 

“Yes, look in Yellow Pages. Put ‘personal fitness trainers’ into Google. You don’t need our database; you just need a cheque book. It’s how they make their living. You must be hiring people all the time in business.

 

“Hire one? But this is a bit  ……personal.”

 

“Hire one: Getting fit is going to bit a bit public anyway, Daphne.”

 

Her second plate of food arrived. She picked at it with a fork without saying anything. She seemed to be thinking about what Larry had suggested.

 

“You hire one. You’re the experts at selecting people. Find me a trainer.”

 

“Daphne, I’d like to help but, well, Clegg’s operation isn’t an employment agency.”

 

“Come on Larry, do me a favour. I’ve put business your way. I’ll pay a commission – 25% on top of her rates whatever they are. Rick,” she looked at me, “from what I hear you could do this without to much effort. Clegg won’t mind – put this down to account management – keeping the customer satisfied.

 

“Yeah,” I thought to myself “one step ahead of the shoeshine, two steps away from the county line.” What Larry said was, “OK, Daphne, we’ll think about it.”

 

When I sat down with Larry after she’d gone I must have sounded unimpressed. “You want us to research a girl but you’re not going to pick her up?” Larry nodded. “So overheads on collection down, operational risks down but do we make any money?”

 

“You heard her. Maybe some. Sort of. Not much. Rick give me a hand, can you? Look at it like this. The worst that can happen is you’ll have to spend some time looking at really fit women.”

 

“Well,” I said with heavy irony, “in that case, I suppose I could do a bit of work for you.”

 

I got back to him three days later with a portfolio of half a dozen possibles. “Well that wasn’t the worst assignment I’ve had,” I smirked. “I wouldn’t mind laying on a beach while this lot came and kicked sand in my face.”

 

“Thank you Arnold Schwarzenegger,” Larry said taking the portfolio and thumbing through it. “They all look OK to me but what do I know about it?”

 

“Ah, there’s a science to this you know. We’ve been very selective. One of the girls in research had done a bit of training a while back. She used to do a bit of amateur running - middle distance stuff. She’s worked with people like this. These are all people that will work with beginners – some of the top trainers won’t. We’ve gone for folk that use fairly conventional training methods and we’ve gone for those that are easy on the eye too. Your client seems to like that.”

 

“You have a deep understanding of customer needs, Rick, as always.” Larry had said.    

 

Part 2 : A Bicycle Ride

 

It took us a while but finally, we thought, we’d identified one.

 

My research team are pretty good when it comes to finding the right girl. When I saw the file I was sorry we weren’t actually going to pick her up. But then, as Larry had said, this one was legit.

 

She looked fit, which wasn’t surprising. Some of these athletes can look a bit muscle bound can’t they? Or out of proportion. Anyway, this one looked normal. In fact if I’d been looking for fit blonde for our normal channels, she’d have been on the list.

 

The research report had a lot of detail on her personal background – my team do a good job on that stuff. Katya Izotova was our recommendation.

 

Katya was born and brought up in Moscow. She was very much a product of what remained of the Russian State Athletics Training Programme - it still worked in some of the schools in spite of the disappearance of state funding. She’d been in England about four years. She had come here, following her lover, Nicky after they’d met in Moscow.

 

He was the son of a show biz celebrity of the 1970’s, a promising athlete but not quite good enough for the national teams. Armed with a degree is Sports Science he’d gone to study training methods at the Moscow State Institute of Physical Education. There he met Katya, who was also a student at the Institute.

 

The two of them came back to the UK as an item. Nicky had contacts in the entertainment and film world through his father. He set up in business getting actors fit for action movies. That led to personal training commissions. Actor clients attracted other celebrity clients. The business grew. Katya had turned out to be a real asset for his business, He did the promotion work and ran the business; she did most of the training. He provided the professional credibility and the contacts, she provided the glamour.

 

They were doing very nicely thank you; premium rates for their training business, more consultancy and adviser roles lined up. There had even been suggestions from some quarters of a cushy consultancy roll with the Olympic Games 2012 planning team.

 

Then the roof had fallen in.

 

The first Katya had known about it was when a journalist turned up at their house asking if she’d like to comment on rumours that the US FDA were seeking to extradite Nicky on charges of supplying anabolic steroids to US athletes. Word was that Nicky had been operating a sideline to help his actor clients to beef up, he’d extended that into on-line merchandising over the Internet and some US athletes had thought that buying off-shore would avoid the US authorities. Trouble was Nicky had overlooked the UK–US Extradition Treaty that meant he could be shipped off for US  trial on the basis of US Government allegations. 

 

With the press coverage the clients started to vanish. Nicky felt the urge to join friends in Argentina and Katya was left with her share in the business, financial overheads, no clients, few friends and lots of tabloid attention. The paparazzi were three deep every time Katya even tried to go to the shops.

 

The press attention wore off when Katya developed the best strategy for dealing with them; don’t say anything at all. In time they got bored but she was pretty hard pressed. She still had the share in the gym that they used - they’d put it in her name for tax purposes but that just meant financial commitments with no income. She had no clients. They had all run a mile and quicker than any of them had ever achieved in training.

 

That’s when I met up with her.

 

She was on a run. I was on a bicycle. We’d thought it would be less likely to spook her than puling up alongside her in a car. I was finding it difficult keeping up with her. “Ms Izotova,” I called as I went to overtake her. It wasn’t very easy. We were on an uphill slope. At least that’s my excuse.

 

She didn’t break her stride. “I’m not talking to the press,” she said, continuing to stare straight ahead as she pushed her feet forward one after another in a relentless rhythm that had me struggling not to fall behind.

 

“I’m not the press,” I puffed. “But I do have a business proposition for you. I’m looking for a trainer.” I missed a gear change on the bike, practically fell off the pedals and slipped behind her.

 

She slowed her pace and then stopped beside the road. She stood, one hand on her hip, the other pushing a strand of blonde hair back from her face as she waited for me to catch up again. As I stopped beside her she said,” You look like you need one!”

 

I caught my breath. “It’s not for me,” she looked like she didn’t believe me. “It’s a friend of mine.”

 

Katya looked thoughtful for a moment and then shook her head. “I’m committed at the moment. Many clients. Too much work.”

 

“That’s not what I’d heard,” I said, smiling. “You wouldn’t be doing road work on your own if you had clients to run with. I’ve heard that, since the boyfriend took his trip to South America, the business isn’t doing too well. That most of the clients came because of him and left when he did and those that didn’t weren’t too keen on training while trying to run with you through a crowd of paparazzi.”

 

“The photographers have gone now.”

 

“But the clients haven’t come back. Have they? Why don’t you see my friend? Talk. Maybe you’ll hit it off. Besides you need something to do, you can’t just go on pounding the streets until the money runs out or the Home Office remember that you came in on the back of boyfriend persuading UK Athletics to sponsor your immigration visa.”

 

Katya looked uncomfortable. I could tell I’d scored a point. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “I could meet. No promises though.”

 

I gave her a card from Green Stuff. “Can you do lunch?” I said. “Tomorrow?”

 

Katya nodded. I hadn’t thought that she would be busy.

 

Part 3 : Smart Objective

 

Daphne turned up at Green Stuff looking pretty much as she had when we had first met there. Katya was already there when she arrived. She did a good job of concealing a “you cannot be serious” as she saw Daphne at the entrance. I introduced them. I’d told Daphne that she needed to be nice, that Katya needed persuading. It wasn’t her default style but she managed it.

 

“So,” Katya looked at her prospective trainee, “you want to be fit? To feel better?”

 

Daphne, unused to being addressed so bluntly, nodded.

 

“Is not enough. Anyone can want things. Getting them is harder. You need a goal. Do you have a goal? Something concrete, something measurable?”

 

“I’ve thought about that.” Daphne appeared to be warming to the Russian girl. “I like goals and targets. I use them in my business. SMART – specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, timed - without them you get nowhere. I have a goal. To run a marathon. The London Marathon. Next year.”

 

It was my turn to conceal a look of disbelief but something about Daphne’s tone obviously encouraged Katya. “Hmm,” she grunted. “It’s a good goal. SMART as you say. Specific certainly. Acheivable? I don’t know. I could be unkind Ms Challis but - looking at you now - let’s just say it’s ambitious.”

 

“You are candid, Miss Izotova. We can agree on that.” The two women smiled. “But let me be candid too. From what I hear from my friend here, you need a demonstration of your own abilities if you are to restart your business career. This could be what you need. Besides, I will be able to cover your fees to allow you to focus exclusively on my challenge. And I am very committed when I decide on something I want.”

 

Daphne’s determined tone was something that was new to me. For the first time I got some sort of sight of how she had made a success of her business ventures. Maybe she could do this after all.

 

Katya frowned again. “So,” she said. “I train you. This is not easy for you. There will be changes. Food. You need to change what you eat and how much you eat to change how you feel. Exercise. Rest. Work, Cigarettes! All these need changes.” Katya folded her hands on the table looking straight at Daphne. “But there is more. Something which people do not consider often enough, perhaps. The psychological aspect.” Katya tapped at the side of her forehead with her finger. “The mind. Marathon running is the most demanding of athletic events, even for professionals. There can be unexpected psychological burdens and changes, particularly if they have far to go.”

 

“I expected your comments about the physical preparations. The others? Well, I can see they make sense.  I am sure I am mentally resilient enough to deal with the stresses of training,” said Daphne, returning the Russian’s look with determination. “I am quite prepared to do whatever we need to do in order to make this happen. You will need to see my house. I have a room we can use as a gym but you will want changes I am sure.”

 

“Certainly,” Katya was content to let Daphne continue.

 

“You will need to make arrangements regarding your current clients. My friend here,” Daphne gestured towards me, “can help if there any difficulties.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but since I was pretty sure that Katya’s diary was virtually empty, I didn’t think it would be a problem. I nodded. Katya shrugged.

 

“So,” Katya said. “We start soon. Tomorrow is Thursday. Monday I come to your house and see what we must do to start.”

 

Daphne got to her feet. “That’s fine, Miss Izotova,” she said.

 

“Please,” said Katya, we will be working together. I prefer Katya.”

 

“Of course, Katya. And please call me Daphne.”

 

“OK, Daphne,” Katya said. “On Monday then.”

 

“On Monday.”

 

The two of them got up and shook hands and headed out of the restaurant. I realised that they had left me with the bill. It took me ages to get the money back from Larry.

 

The Owner’s Tale

Part 1 : Daphne gets ready

 

This is me, Daphne. I’m going to run in the next London Marathon. Run in it and finish it. I tell everyone that. I’m beginning to believe it.

 

I was pretty pleased with what Larry had set up. Steve Glennis had been right, Clegg’s operation seemed to know how to handle things. The Izotova woman looked as if she could do the job. She was due to come to the house on Monday. I cleared my business diary for the day and told Branca she was to stay out of the way while Katya was around. That wasn’t so hard, she’d earned some time in ropes. She’s a bit of a bondage slut anyway. Her original trainer – Connie, I guess – must have used it quite a bit in her training.

 

I’d got Branca settled down in the bottom of my closet just before Katya arrived; sleeve arm binder, straps for her thighs and ankles, the lether hood and a rubber plug gag. She whimpered a bit when I locked her in but I really didn’t want to be disturbed. Katya and I sat in the lounge. I got her some coffee. She ignored the biscuits and looked pretty disapproving when I had a couple but she didn’t say anything at first.

 

I took her around the house and explained about Branca’s room. A friend of mine, I said. I thought Katya raised an eyebrow but then I guessed she wouldn’t be very interested in my personal life. Branca knew enough to keep quiet in the closet while we were in the bedroom. I know the conditioning means that they won’t ever try to do anything to escape but it’s really hard to remember that sometimes. I showed Katya the room, down in the basement that I though we could use for the gym. It’s actually next to a cell I can use for Branca, but I had carefully locked the door to that room! She looked at the kit I’d bought. She didn’t look very impressed.

 

We went back to the lounge.

 

“This is going to be difficult,” Katya said with a thoughtful look. “We have a lot to do. Your height is – what? – one metre 70?”

 

“What’s that in feet and inches, five feet six?” I said. I never could get this metric stuff you Europeans use. I can do weight though 20 kilos airline baggage – 44 pounds.

 

“Weight?”

 

“178 pounds say, 80 kilos.”

 

Katya looked sceptical. “Are you sure?” she said. “You have scales in the bathroom we could check.”

 

I felt a bit sheepish. “OK well maybe it’s a bit more. Last week it was maybe 182 pounds.”

 

“Hmm,” Katya grunted. She pulled a clip board from her grip and turned over a few sheets, looking at a series of tables. “BMI 28.5 Let me check that.” She pulled a pair of callipers from her bag and asked me to let her measure a fold of flesh on my belly. She looked at the reading and checked her tables again. “Uhhuh – border line obese.”

 

“Hey,” I said, trying to defend myself, “I’ve got big bones.”

 

Katya looked at me, scornfully. “You’ve got a big mouth and you spend too much time with it full of food. That’s not the real problem though. Sure you have too much weight but it’s not just food.” She was looking at my bare arms. “There’s no muscle tone. You don’t take care of your body. Cigarettes?”

 

“Err, maybe ten a day,” I said.

 

Katya obviously didn’t believe me. “Your aerobic capacity is poor, I am sure. There is a lot to do diet, aerobic work, weights, and grooming.”

 

“Katya, I’m paying you to make me fit, not to make me beautiful.”

 

Katya looked back at me as if such a task would be impossible. I must have looked crushed because then Katya looked more sympathetic. “It’s not about beauty. It’s about you liking yourself. You can’t be fit if you don’t like what you are.”

 

“I like me fine,” I said, folding my arms.

 

Katya looked squarely back at me. “So why do you do to yourself what you do?” she said. “If you keep on doing what you do, you keep on getting what you get. We do something new. We do new things, you will like yourself better. Diet, aerobics, weights, grooming. Four things. Not difficult. Now let’s look at food. Where’s the kitchen?”   

 

I showed Katya the kitchen, explained that Branca does most of the cooking – she lives rent free, I said in exchange for keeping the place clean and looking after things around the flat. I could see that Katya was making her own decisions about my relationship with Branca.

 

Katya was soon rummaging in the pantry and cupboards in the kitchen, in the fridge and the freezer. She was shaking her head. “Too much wrong food. Much has to go. I need a bag,” she said. “Much has to go.”

 

She started to pile food up on the breakfast bar. “Hey,” I said, “is this really necessary?”

 

Katya looked back at me with determination. “Daphne,” she said, “the kitchen is the hardest gym of all. Here it is too easy to go wrong. Too easy to slip back. Too much junk here.” She picked out a pack of burgers from the freezer and tossed it onto the pile. “You cannot run on junk. Cannot train with rubbish in your body.”

 

I found her a plastic bin liner. She carried on scooping things out of the cupboard and into the bag. I hadn’t thought I had that much food in the house anyway. At the end there didn’t seem left apart from a few vegetables – I’ve never had much to do with them, I guess – and some pasta.

 

Katya was standing hands on hips contemplating the pile of food she intended to discard. “Ha!” she said. “Is better without all these.” I was just pleased she didn’t seem to have found the chocolate. Next up was the wine cupboard. “You don’t need this Daphne,” Katya said, peering at the array of bottles inside. “Water, fruit juice, vegetable juice, green tea, that’s what athletes drink. I’ll take these for Larry – he deserves something for introducing us and if he has them you can’t nag me for them and I won’t be tempted to hand them over.”

 

It was odd watching her pack up the wine bottles into a couple of boxes. If you’d said to me a few days ago I‘d be content to watch as someone took my Burgundies, my Barolo, my Californian chardonnays, I’d have said you were mad. Somehow with Katya it just seemed sensible. In fact, I was beginning to feel that the relationship an athlete has with their trainer must be a bit like Branca’s relationship with me.

 

“Cigarettes?”

 

Reluctantly I handed over a pack of two hundred Camels that I’d been working my way through. Living without those was going to be difficult.

 

“Now, we’re going to start a diet. You say Branca does the cooking? I need to talk to her. Can she be here tomorrow?”

 

I was a bit worried about Katya meeting Branca and I guess it showed. Katya jumped to the wrong conclusion however.

 

“Daphne, I’m not worried how you run your love life if it doesn’t interfere with your training but we have to get your diet under control. Look, here is a diet sheet,” she passed me a printed sheet with a list of meals and foods. “Get Branca to look at this. You have to get Branca to help. This is going to be difficult Daphne. Maybe more difficult than anything you have done. You need all the help you can get. If Branca can, she should help.”

 

I nodded. I said that Branca was quite good at doing as she was told. If I told her to use the diet sheet, she would. Katya gave me a look that said she was drawing more conclusions about our relationship.

 

“Now we start with something very easy. We’ll go for a walk.”

 

“A walk?” I said.

 

“Yes. A walk. It’s not so difficult and you have to start easily. You have to get fit to be able to get fit. You aren’t in any shape to do anything strenuous so we start with a simple walk.”

 

“OK,” I said getting to my feet and turning towards the door. I looked back to see Katya had her head in her hands.

 

“Daphne, not like that. Go put on something loose, something comfortable. And some flat heeled shoes – you can’t walk far in those.”

 

I went and looked in the closet and checked on Branca at the same time. She looked up at me from the floor of the closet where she sat helplessly bound. Her eyes were blinded by her hood but she didn’t appear to be in distress. I checked her gag she was breathing easily enough. I left her. I couldn’t find much that qualified as comfortable but I found an old pair of jeans, a sweater and a pair of flat shoes. When I went back to the lounge I could see that Katya didn’t approve.

 

“You’ll need something better than that,” she said, “but we can fix that soon. That will be OK for now, I guess. Come on.”

 

She led the way out of the building and set a slow but steady pace as we walked out along the street and down to the riverside. After five minutes I was breathing heavily, after ten, I was running with sweat, after fifteen I was coughing and glad when we turned the corner back to the front of the building again. I let us in and collapsed, sweating, on the couch. I was wondering if the marathon was a realistic objective at all.

 

Katya was showing no more signs of effort than if she had just walked across the room and although we hadn’t walked far or quickly, we had walked steadily and without stopping. I was exhausted. “Don’t worry,” Katya said. “It’s going to feel hard at first but it gets easier.” I went to wipe the sweat from my forehead, pushing matted hair back from my face. Katya was shaking her head. She started to rummage in her bag. “I thought we’d need these,” she said. She pulled out a pair of scissors, a comb and a set of hairdresser’s clippers. “Sit there, I’m going to clip your hair back to a manageable length. If you try to work out with your hair like that it will be plastered to your scalp and face with sweat and that’s no good for your skin. When you’re a bit fitter we might let it grow back again.”

 

I looked in disbelief as she plugged in the clippers. “But…” I began.

 

“No buts. If things are wrong we change them. That’s how we make a difference,” said Katya and without waiting to hear anymore she spread some papers on the floor and started. The scissors took off great chunks of hair and then the clippers whirred as she pushed them through what was left. The sensation of cool air on my scalp was odd, to say the least and when Katya had finished I ran my hands through the short hairs feeling them spiky beneath my fingers. “Tomorrow we find some better clothes for you to exercise in,” she said. “Tonight, make sure Branca gives you something from the diet sheet. There was pasta – have that with tomato sauce. Make sure she measures quantities. Best to start right away. There is much to do. Back tomorrow, ten o’clock. We’ll work more then.” 

 

I watched as she packed up her bag. “Bye, Daphne,” she said. “Don’t worry, you can do it.”

 

I felt really odd once she’d gone. I spent ages staring in the mirror looking at the short bristle of hair that Katya had left me with. When I went to get Branca from where she was in the cupboard, the look on her face was one of shocked disbelief.

 

I told her what would be happening. Told her that she needed to follow the diet sheet. Told her that she needed to meet with Katya. I told her that it was all so she could do her best for Connie. That would make sure she behaved as she should.

 

Part 2 : Diet Plan

 

Katya came back this morning. Branca behaved herself, which was just as well. I had her wear some jeans and a roll neck top to cover up her collar and the chastity belt. I guess Katya thought she was my live-in lover, which was OK. I didn’t want to have to explain Branca’s collar and belt, though. I just wanted to keep things simple.

 

Katya went through the diet sheet with Branca and gave her a shopping list. The delivery company must have had a surprise with the change from beef and pork to chicken, whole grain foods and pulses. At least Branca is an OK cook, so I knew she’d make it as interesting as she could.

 

Mind you it was all a bit of a shock when Katya started to talk me through it.

 

“Right Daphne, here’s how this works. This is no crash diet, they don’t work or if they do they leave you weak and that’s no good to me because you need to be strong to exercise. So, we loose weight slowly; maybe one to two pounds a week. That way is practical. If you try to starve yourself thin, the body guesses that it’s being starved and cuts down the resting metabolic rate. So you burn food slower and lose less weight.” I nodded. I could see that made sense. “You have too much fat in your diet, we have to reduce that, so we use lean protein, carbohydrates, high fibre slow digesting foods like porridge, whole grain cereals, whole meal bread and pasta, brown rice, beans and lentils, fresh fruit, veg. You eat little and often. That way you don’t feel hungry and you have the energy to work out. We keep your metabolic rate high and you burn much more of what you have eaten with less left over to go into the fat stores.”

 

“Hey,” I said, “do I get time to do anything else but worry about food?”

 

Katya gave me a look. A raised eyebrow suggested to me that I’d better start taking this seriously. Katya went on. “So, little and often, that way there’s no craving between meals. No temptations to eat biscuits, crisps, chocolate éclairs,” Katya gave me another look that said she knew just what I’d be off stuffing given half a chance. “In other words no going for the sugar/fat combo. That’s what really destroys diets. Then no big meals after 6 or 7pm unless I OK it personally. The occasional evening do isn't the problem but I don’t want you out having big meals every night. Change your business dinners - get the work done during the day.” I felt like I was being pummelled. “And finally you need much more water. What colour is your pee?”

 

“What?” I was shocked. It wasn’t a question I was used to being asked. Or even something I was used to thinking about.

 

“Your pee. When you go to the toilet. What colour is it?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t really look. Sort of yellowy brown, I guess. Why?”

 

“You can’t be fit unless your kidneys are flushing the body out properly and they can’t do that without enough water. Your pee should be almost colourless. Maybe a very pale straw colour. I’ll want to check. Take a glass next time you go and bring me a sample. You’ll need to take a couple of glasses of water as soon as you wake up and then a couple before a meal. You need about five litres a day and,” she said guessing what I was about to claim, “wine doesn’t count!”

 

I guess I looked disappointed and embarrassed and I was. Katya ignored my concern and pressed on. “Then we change the lifestyle things. It’s not your food that make you fat, it’s your life that makes you fat. To change your weight you have to change your life. We need organised meal times, cut out eating to cure boredom – well, you’ll have plenty to do so there’s not much risk of that – no more eating at the TV and we’ll take time eating too. You eat too fast.”

 

“And you talk too fast,” I cut in. I felt overwhelmed by the detail and all the do’s and don’ts.

 

Katya stopped for a moment and then grinned. “Sorry,” she said. “It‘s just that I know this works and I know you can do it. You’ve already made the commitment to yourself we just have to set the goals, establish priorities so you can do it and get on with it. It’s not as hard as it sounds and it’s actually quite addictive once you get started.”

 

I took a glass to the toilet and brought a sample back for Katya. It was probably the most humiliating thing I have ever done and I stood watching as she peered at the amber liquid disapprovingly. She sighed and gave it back to me. “Lots of water, lots of water,” was all she said.

 

We left Branca to finish off in the house and Katya took me to buy some training clothes. It was funny, I’m used to turning up at restaurants or shops and having the staff recognise me. This way it was the other way around. Katya was obviously known to the people in the first shop we went to, the guy that came to serve us said he was sorry about what happened to her boyfriend and how he was glad that her clients were standing by her – he nodded at me.

 

Katya said thanks and asked him to get a selection of track suits, exercise tops and shorts. I tried some on, surprised at how comfortable it felt and how it made me feel – well – serious about it all. We picked out some underwear that Katya said would work better when we were exercising and a pair of trainers that cost more than the last pair of evening shoes I bought. Katya had me try them on and then walk up and down so she could see they would be all right when I was working out. She then had me go outside the shop to try and run in the shoes. I had to go through this with several different kinds before she was satisfied. I felt a bit odd parading for her. I guess Branca must have felt the same when I first insisted on seeing her in corset and heels.

 

I kept the training gear on. Katya bundled up my other clothes and asked the shop to send them on with the rest of the things. Then Katya took me over to the gym, showed me the equipment and introduced me to some of the folk there. It was odd, everyone was really friendly. Nobody said they thought that what I was trying to do was ridiculous. Nobody even seemed that bothered that I looked pretty unfit and overweight. They just seemed happy to let Katya and me get on with things as we wanted to.

 

 

Part 3 : Breaking Training

 

I was sitting in the bedroom, getting my breath back after another brisk walk – longer this time and quicker. I pulled out a chocolate bar from the box I had hidden under the bed and I’d just managed to gulp down a bite when I heard Katya coming in.

 

“Daphne, there’s some green tea in the kitchen and… Hey? What’s going on?” she said.

 

“Going on?”

 

“Daphne, don’t try to fool with me. You weren’t performing well today and you’ve got chocolate around your mouth. I don’t think that’s on today’s diet sheet is it?”

 

I looked embarrassed and tried to bluster about needing an energy boost or something.

 

“Not good enough, Daphne,” Katya chided and before I could stop her she bent down and pulled the box from beneath the bed. The only problem was that it didn’t just have chocolate in it. “Disappointing,” said Katya as she pulled the bag of chocolate bars from the box. As she did so a couple of packs of cigarettes fell out too. The fact they were Camel Nummber 9’s didn’t cut any ice with Katya. She was about to tear me off a strip when the pair of handcuffs fell out as well. Giving me a quizzical look she rummaged in the box some more, finding a vibrator, a leather hood, some wrist and ankle straps and a ball gag. “I see,” Katya started, “this explains some things. You are tired to death. I can tell; you have bags under your eyes. You aren’t making the progress you should.”

 

“What do you expect with all this exercise and no food?”

 

“That’s not the problem. You don’t have balance in your life yet. You need a better balance. You have to do your work. You have to do your training. You have to stay off cigarettes and alcohol and you need at least ten hours sleep every night. And sleep is not reading in bed or watching TV or playing with Branca. I guess she wears these?”

 

I nodded. Things were getting complicated.

 

“Well, if Branca is used to doing as she is told, she can help me to help you. All right?”

 

I wasn’t sure I liked the direction things were going but, embarrassed at being caught with the chocolate and cigarettes and at Katya’s other discoveries, I nodded. Katya called Branca in. She looked worried when she saw the toys from under my bed, concerned that perhaps she was about to be admonished for some mistake in tidying up. Katya reassured her. “Branca, don’t worry. I don’t mind what you and Daphne get up to. My boyfriend and I used to do some kinky stuff too. These things can help us to help Daphne though. What I want you to do is to put this hood on Daphne at ten o’clock each night and put her to bed. To make sure she stays there you strap her wrists and ankles to the bed frame. I am guessing you know how to do that.” I was a bit concerned by the enthusiastic way in which Branca nodded. I tried protesting but Katya and Branca ignored me. “If she needs to get up in the night for the toilet you can take her.  But the hood stays on with the eye pieces closed. And it stays on until I call in the morning to pick her up for training. All right?” Branca nodded. Katya turned towards me. “And,” she added, “if you can’t stay off the chocolates and cigarettes we’ll start using the ball-gag too.”

 

I felt really uncomfortable with this for two reasons. Firstly I’m a top. I’ve always been a top. Even before I owned slaves I was a top. When I played cowboys and Indians as a kid, somehow it was the cowboys that ended up tied to the tree not the little Indian squaw that was me. Secondly I wasn’t sure how Branca’s conditioning would cope with something like that. But I didn’t want to have either of those conversations with Katya, so I said, “All right,” when she asked if I was prepared to go along with her ideas.

 

I managed to call Larry to check on the conditioning after Katya left. I missed out the detail about the discipline hood but once he’d stopped laughing he said he thought it would all be OK provided I reminded Branca that this was all part of her doing her best for Connie.

 

So when, at ten o’clock, Branca arrived in the lounge holding the straps and the hood and I knew I had to get to bed. “It is time, Mistress,” she said. “I expect you want me to get you ready now.”

 

I tried to put as firm a face on it as I could, feeling that I wanted Branca to know she was being ordered to do this by me, but I still had my reservations. “Yes. Yes, you are quite right,” I said. “You know you need to do this if you are to do your best for Connie.”

 

Branca looked a little blank for a moment as she always did when I used those words but then she went on, “I should fit the hood now, Mistress,” Branca said. I looked puzzled. “Miss Katya said there would be less distraction if I put your hood on straight away and then helped you to the bedroom and undressed you. So you get to prepare for sleep from now.”

 

My biggest concern was that Branca went on doing as she was told, so I didn’t like to contradict Katya. “Very well, Branca, you had better do just that,” I said. I let her fit the hood. It was a peculiar sensation because, although I had worn hoods and masks before my hair had always been quite long previously and now I could feel the tightness of the leather across my entire scalp as Branca pulled the straps and laces tight.

 

“This way please, Mistress,” Branca said, taking me by the hand and leading me through to the bedroom. I stood passively while she took my clothes from me, a very curious sensation at once submissive, because of the hood, and dominant, because of the way in which Branca was serving me. Once I was naked, Branca helped me into bed and fastened first my wrists and then my ankles, spread out to the corners of the bed frame. There was plenty of slack in the chains but there was little doubt that I would be unable to leave the bed. I felt the soft cotton of my duvet as Branca pulled it over me. “Good night, Mistress,” she said. “There is a bell by your right hand if you need me. Now you must sleep.”

 

A moment later I heard the click of a light switch and the clunk of my bedroom door closing. I was alone.

 

In the dark, without sensation other than the duvet against my body, the tightness of the hood and the pull of the straps at my wrist and ankles, it took what seemed like forever until I fell asleep. But then that was it. The next thing I was aware of was the sound of Branca and Katya talking. “So she was no trouble,” I heard Katya say.

 

“No, not at all.” It was Branca’s voice this time. “I came back at about quarter past ten and she was asleep already by then.”

 

“That’s good. Well it is time for her to exercise now. You’d best get her up and get her into her track suit and trainers.”

 

I felt my ankle straps being unfastened. “Come along, Mistress,” said Branca’s voice. “It is time to get up.“

 

Once she had freed my wrists, I peeled the sweat soaked hood off. The skin on my face and scalp felt sensitive as though the light of the day was pressing onto it. I watched as Branca busied herself, tidying away the restraints. There was no sense that she had thought anything of the proceedings other than that she was doing as she had been asked. Doing her best for Connie.

 

Katya said we’d start the day with a walk. She had Branca fix me a green tea while I dressed. I sat sipping it while Katya explained what we’d be doing.

 

“So, Daphne, today we start in earnest. I know you have your business to do and bills to pay but our work has to follow a regular regime. If you establish a pattern then it is easier to keep things up. So here is what we do. Morning we start with walk then build up to runs. This will increase your metabolism so you will burn food more lose weight and grow strength in your legs. Then you have breakfast and work. Noon we do weights work and upper body strength. Branca will do lunch for you here – no more restaurant food for the time being. More time to work after lunch. Five o’clock gym for more aerobic work. Then back here for dinner and bed.”

 

“Hey when do I get to have some fun?”

 

“The training is fun. You will enjoy that. When we see how you progress then we may change things. OK?”

 

“Yes, sure,” I responded. I liked Katya’s no-nonsense approach, her breezy, confident manner. It was just the sort of style I liked in the people I worked with. Let’s get on with things, it said, get things done! My only reservation was that maybe she was taking charge a bit too much. I needed to make sure Branca remembered who was her Mistress and I needed to make sure Katya knew who was the employee and who was the boss. But there would be time for that later.

 

Part 4 : Progress

 

That was how it started. I think Katya and I got on really well. It was almost like the first – well – friend that I’d had. Of course she’s a bit bossy and while the business with the night time hood and straps seemed like a bit of a joke at first, it has become a part of the regime. Branca got all too amused by it in the early stages and I’ve had to give her a few thrashings just to remind her of what’s what but now we’ve got things running (if you’ll excuse the expression) nicely.

 

So after the first day my diet was carefully controlled, the booze was completely replaced by water and green tea, and the exercise programme was the only thing I had time to think about in between work and keeping Branca in order.

 

Katya introduced a proper plan of weight training.   It helps to be ‘cross training’, she says. If we just run I only get to work my legs and lungs the weights mean I work my body.  It gives us a change in the routine and I find it quite "intoxicating" once we really get into it. I mean we aren’t talking a good claret here but it’s got its own high. Katya said the work with the weights helps build up strength and stability in the core muscles of the stomach and back and chest. Katya said that helps my ‘running economy’ plus shoulders, neck and arms are all in motion when running and get tired if they are out of condition.

 

The more we did of the weight training the more weight I lost. If anything that seemed to get the fat off quicker than the running. Katya said it was because I was upping my metabolic rate, burning calories faster than I’m taking them in.

 

The other thing that happened was that Branca became a whole lot friendlier. It used to be a real fight to get her to go down on me, a real battle of wills even though she was well schooled in that as part of her prep. Then it was different. She seemed much more affectionate and much keener to play with my body. I didn’t blame her; even to me it looked better. It was nice.

 

Katya wanted me to get more active generally so, in addition to the training, I was supposed to take the stairs instead of the lift, get off the tube one stop early and walk the rest of the way. Walk up a floor or two to speak to a colleague rather than sending an e-mail. That made things a bit strange at work they thought I’d turned into some kind of health freak but I didn’t care, it was better than some of the other kinds of freak they used to think I was.  I even had one of the guys at work complement me on how my exercise routine was obviously having a beneficial effect and would I like a drink sometime?  I turned him down, mind. That was a complication I could do without.

 

Katya got really bossy in the gym where weights are concerned. “First we worry about getting muscles in shape,” she said. “Worry about technique, don’t worry about the weight. Your muscles, tendons, ligaments, joints all need to get accustomed to the new work load. We build overall strength, but keep development in balance, better endurance, better cardio-vascular fitness.” Ha! The first time we did anything we stopped after half an hour. I could hardly lift my arms past horizontal - and we hadn't really done that much! 

 

But after a while you get into it. Soon I knew all the equipment and how it works your muscles. Katya’s exercises alternate between the major muscle groups, it’s all very ordered and structured. I have to try for full range of movement and keep worrying about the technique. If I can't achieve that, the weight is too heavy.

 

So that’s what we did. Gym three times a week. Work-out time 45 minutes plus the warm up and cool down and stretches. She insisted I rest for 45 - 60 seconds between each set. We went around the circuit of exercises twice. Rest for 2 minutes between each circuit. Keep the tempo; lift to a count of two - lower to a count of three. It got to be like a mantra. I can do it in my sleep. I dream it in my sleep.

 

Then she started on the road work. Walking slow became walking briskly. That first sweating and wheezing mile walk became easier, then three miles, then six, then eight, then ten. I didn’t really notice when we started running. ”Hey Daphne,” Katya said, “lets just jog for a minute and walk another five to recover.” and this was repeated and repeated. The walking bits got shorter, the jogging bits got longer. We got back one day and Katya said, “You know that last run, Daphne? That was 5 kilometres – three miles.” And I really hadn’t realised.

 

Three miles became five; five became eight; eight became ten. Passing each milestone gave me a real high and Katya was really supportive. “Another mile,” she’d say. “Well done!”   

 

As I became more used to running, Katya began to modify my running training. We always take one long run each week, but during the week she varied my other running quite a bit. One day we would keep changing pace; then another day we would run off-road in one of the London parks; another day  we would do slow/faster/fast intervals.

On another day we’d do hills. You probably think London is flat. Well in parts it is and in parts it certainly isn’t. Katya seemed to know all the hills personally. They probably sent Christmas cards to each other. Sometimes we would tackle small hills several times. Then we would tackle large steep hills once and then maybe once more.

 

Gradually, my “form” and my stamina improved out of all recognition and with increasing strength, the long runs became longer. I found they were becoming more enjoyable, too.

 

I was amazed. My weight fell steadily; my BMI slowly approached what it should have been, and it was all down to Katya. Well and me, a bit, I suppose.

 

Katya was just as bossy about food; even though I was losing weight steadily, dropping it off at a couple of pounds every week. She had me keep a food diary (well, actually it got to be one of Branca’s tasks). “Eat when you are hungry, not when the clock says so. Eat a little, often rather than a lot with big gaps between,” she said. “Don’t eat out of boredom, find something else to do instead. Don’t bury your emotions in food, deal with problems some other way.” She could go on for ever about it. In the end it was easier to control the eating than it was to turn off Katya’s nagging. “Don’t wait for meal times. Don’t put off eating if you really are hungry but know the difference between hunger and desire.” (food isn’t the only place I have trouble with that one.)

 

But when it comes to desire there was a whole other problem. Mainly, I felt really horny. And I mean all the time. Poor Branca was getting the worst of it. She was being called to perform most evenings and given the fact that Katya has got practically every minute of the day divided up between work and exercise, I was having to sneak Branca off for a quickie whenever I could grab a moment. The poor girl’s tongue was getting worn out. I can’t remember when I’ve wanted sex so much.  But then as Katya had said, “don’t eat out of boredom, find something else to do instead”!

 

And, as if that wasn’t enough of a problem, I began thinking that Katya’s kinkiness was a bit more extensive than she had let on or maybe she’d just always sublimated that in training and coaching. I mean the thing with the hood and the straps was one thing and her general bossiness is another but now she’s started wanting to take photographs of me. And not just snaps. After each of our weight sessions in the gym she has me stand naked and then takes a series of photographs. One from the front, one from the back and one from either side. I asked her why. She said it was so she could see my progress. Each week she put the latest one up on the door of my fridge, alongside pictures of female bodybuilders, telling me that was what I was aiming for. In the gym room at home she pinned them up one after another along the wall. Goodness knows what Branca thinks about it all.

 

It all seemed a bit odd, but I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I was just caught up in the whole training cycle.

 

Then I got a fright. I was getting dressed after one of the sessions in the gym. As I went to fasten my skirt I felt something hard under my hand, beneath the skin over my navel. I panicked, rushing off to find Katya. “Quick,” I said, “I’ve got a lump. Feel!” I grabbed her hand and pushed it against my belly.

 

She felt carefully across my stomach. I was really scared. Katya looked very serious. “Hmm,” she said gravely, “I think I know what this is.”

 

“What is it? Do I need to see a doctor?”

 

“Well,” said Katya, “it’s not a rare condition but it is unusual to see it like this.”

 

“What is it? Katya, I’m scared.”

 

Katya, seeing my anxiety, relented. “It’s muscle, Daphne. What you can feel beneath the fat is muscle. Don’t worry, it was there all along. It’s just that now that it’s doing some useful work it’s firming up. You’ll find that you’ve got quite a few of them.”

 

She laughed and I did too.   

 

She went on taking photos. With a private client in her private weights room – she said it was too good an opportunity to miss. As time went on I could see I was making progress, clearly visible in the growing portfolio of photographs on the gym wall. My abs made a modest appearance, peeping out from underneath the blanket of tummy fat which had hidden them for so long. My shoulders and arms have got firmer.

 

And something else I’ve noticed. As we’ve worked on my pectorals, my breasts have become more pert. Needless to say, I’m not the only one that’s noticed. More things to worry about at work!

 

 

Part 5 : Getting In & Getting On

 

The other thing I hadn’t realised was how hard it was going to be to actually get on to run in the London Marathon. We had to start that almost as soon as I started training. Katya went through what we’d have to do. Katya could get a place as an elite athlete but that wasn’t the problem. It was me.

 

“But Katya,” I said, “Thousands of people run. How hard can it be to get in?”

 

“Daphne,” she said, “last year about 100,000 applied and about 35,000 got a place. Do you fancy those odds? They reckon if you go for the balloted places you might come up lucky once in five years. No, getting into the race needs a plan just like your exercise plan.”

 

“What do you suggest? Seducing the race organisers or the sponsors?”

 

Katya pulled a face. Somehow I had a vision of her sprawling on a bed, smothering a man with poly-unsaturated spread. I giggled and she gave me one of her puzzled but slightly disapproving looks.

 

There’s four ways we can get in,” said Katya. “One, you can be an elite athlete.” I pulled a face. “Two, you can be a celebrity, someone that the sponsors think will attract attention to the event.”

 

“I don’t think that’s me either,” I said.

 

“Three, you can join the ballot. I think we’ve already agreed that’s too chancy.”

 

“Four, you can get into one of the charity teams. Charities buy places from the organisers and then get runners to apply for them. The runner raises sponsorship for the charity. I don’t suppose you’ve got any involvement with any of the official marathon charities have you?”

 

I must have looked blank. I’ve never been much of a one for giving my money or time away. I’ve always had plenty of use for it myself.

 

“I thought not. Look how about this. Nicky was involved with New Start 2012. They’re promoting sport as a way of helping reduce poverty in the East End, using the London Olympics to give it all some focus.”

 

“Not much poverty in the bits of the east end I see,” I said.

 

“You’re not looking in the right places,” Katya replied bluntly. “Some places look worse to me than back home in Russia.”

 

“All right,” I said, “if I have to be Lady Bountiful to get a run, then fair enough. How much do I need to send them?”

 

“It’s not quite as easy as that. They’ll want to be convinced you’ll be raising good enough sponsorship to make more from your place than if they give it to someone else.”

 

“Well, there’s plenty of folk in my office I can squeeze,” I said, “they made enough in bonuses last year to build a new Olympic stadium. Hey, maybe, I can even get Freddie to pitch in.”

 

“Freddie?” Katya looked puzzled. I remembered she had no idea of who had procured Branca or for that matter, her.

 

“Oh, just a business associate,” I said. “Rick works with him.”

 

“Well, that’s what’s needed. Look why don’t you draw up a sponsorship plan. A bit like the business plans you’re always telling me these companies you get involved with have. Show how you might get the money. I’ll take it to the charity. They know me as a runner. We should be able to swing it. How’s that?”

 

I nodded. I certainly didn’t have any other ideas and I had plenty of experience in drawing up business plans. That bit was a whole lot easier than the rest of the training.

 

Well to cut a long story short. It seemed to work.

 

I can’t tell you how thrilling it was when the two envelopes turned up with the logo of the London Marathon on the front and the confirmation inside that we’d each been accepted. Somehow the whole thing seemed suddenly a lot more real. The furthest I’d run at that point was 10 miles. Now I was going to do more than two and half times that distance.

 

Katya’s kinkiness continues to intrigue me. I guess I’ve been flirting with her, playing up to her bossiness with the occasional fluttering eyelashes and the faux-submissive, “yes ma’am”. Well it’s fun, I don’t think I’ve ever really had the chance to flirt before and we’re spending a lot of time together.

 

This morning’s session, for instance. Katya had me working on the Smith Machine. “Squats,” she said, “today we work on your leg muscles. This time try three sets of ten with 25k on the bar.”

 

By repetition six in the third set, I was definitely struggling but I thought my technique was still quite good. Katya insisted that I should be sticking my bum out more as I come down before pushing back up for the power stroke. It was clearly just too tempting for Katya.

 

“Daphne, let’s help you along there.” Whaap! She had found one of my riding crops from the toy box. Whaap! It landed squarely on the sweet spot of my left buttock. Out of surprise and trying to put distance between my bum and the crop, I moved the bar swiftly back up in the power stroke of the exercise.

 

“Oww!” I yelped. “I didn’t deserve that.”

 

“Better,” said Katya. “Keep working! Keep technique!” She kept up the whacking whenever I looked like flagging. She wasn’t hitting me hard but it felt pretty odd all the same. After all I’m usually on the other end of the crop. Somehow we both got the giggles and the session ended up with both of us laughing. “There,” Katya said, “all you need is the right sort of discipline.”

 

I became aware that Branca was watching us from the door to the gym and grinning. I was guessing that she was amused by the fact that her mistress was being disciplined. I made a mental note to make sure she was reminded of who was the boss as far as she was concerned later.

 

Katya called her over. “Branca,” she said, “take Daphne now and see she showers.”

 

“Hey,” I said, “I can do that myself.”

 

Katya ignored me, carrying on talking to Branca. “Then can you trim her hair, give her a manicure and pedicure and a massage. And then we’ll all have something to eat before its Daphne’s bed time.”

 

Branca just nodded, and took me by the hand to lead me away. Somehow it seemed the right thing to do just to follow. I was all just part of the routine.

 

© 2007 Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane

All characters fictitious.

All characters fictitious.