Other Services (open by PM)

[littlelove]

The man behind the counter at the newspaper office looked Leigha over as she walked into the building.

She was 5'1 and tiny, dressed in a wisp of a white blouse that left her supple silhouette visible through the delicate fabric and a pencil skirt that hugged her graceful thighs to the knee. Her long chocolate brown curls were tied up sleekly in a ponytail that cascaded to the center of her back. She had milky, pale skin, full, pale pink lips, and bright, attentive gray eyes.

Most men couldn't help but drink in the sight of her. Her beauty wasn't that of a model, it wasn't cold or sharp of forbidding. It was warm, and young, and ripe... and shy.

"Excuse me, Sir," her tone naturally soft, respectful. Submissive. "I would like to run an ad." She slid a sheet of paper with a short paragraph across the reception desk and he took it and read her clean, looping handwriting.

Live-in maid and personal assistant available for hire.
Young, but learns fast and takes direction well.
Cooking, cleaning, shopping, and secretarial duties.
And other services.
​

And then her phone number.

The man behind the desk quickly retyped the ad and handed it to her, "This how you want it to read, Miss?"

She looked through it and shyly handed it back. "And other services," she scarcely whispered, so shy she was to point it out, "Should be italicized, please."

He raised an eyebrow and she suffused with a beautiful blush under this tiny scrutiny, but that's how the ad ran...

And then, she waited.

 

[patrick1]

Mowbray

The advertisement made him smile. It would no doubt attract a great many calls.

Mowbray did not call. Not the advertised number, at any rate. Instead he telephoned a woman he knew – a woman he had once loved to whip, as a matter of fact, to her own profound satisfaction, until he had overstepped a limit he had not known was there, and she had asked him to foreswear their 'little secret'. She had also claimed marital prospects elsewhere, at the time. But six months later their paths had crossed again, and now she was an employee of the Metropolitan Police. Perhaps she always had been, for she had acquired some seniority, and he had been able to provide her with some assistance in a matter of the exploitation of two brothel-keepers in Gravesend. In return she provided him with occasional help: such as the address of an unlisted phone number.

What a treat the candidate with the unlisted phone number was. Mowbray sat in a coffee house opposite the block where she had a little apartment, and watched her come and go. How petite and polite she was. Why, she even frequented the same establishment as he, and doubtless felt his gaze upon her as she sipped at her mocha.

Other services. Yes. She would indeed do for the other services he had in mind. How delightful.

But how were her services to be so secured? It did delight some of her cast of mind – in Mowbray's not insubstantial experience – to be kidnapped, so as to make them feel they were providing such services against their will. But the sweet little thing had been so close to candid, he wondered if she wouldn't prefer him simply to lay his cards on the table, as it were, and await her pronouncement?

Mowbray sipped a little brandy from the flask he kept in his inside pocket to ward off the cold of winter, and ruminated on the problem.

 

[littlelove]

Leigha had a notebook folded on the table next to her with a list of the names and numbers of the men who had responded to her inquiry. She was meeting one of those men today at the coffeeshop across the street from her apartment: Jack Brighton, who was ten minutes late already, which in Leigha's regard, was a bad start. There had been no shortage of interest in what services exactly she had been willing to provide, but she was not interested in entering into any contracts hastily, or over the phone. She was not interested in selling herself to the highest bidder. She wanted to meet the man who would employ her (and more, she hoped). She wanted to see the intelligence in his eyes, estimate his potential for herself, make sure she would be getting what she needed out of the bargain, too, least of which was money.

She blew across the rim of her mug of tea and ruffled the surface, sending the essence of chammomile and black tea leaves stirring into her nose, and took a long sip, her eyes steadily meeting the gaze of a man whose eyes were following her from across the room. The moment lengthened. Most people would have looked away by now, but he hadn't. Leigha liked that, so she surrendered a soft smile to him across the length of the room.

 

[patrick1]

There are smiles that mean nothing, and smiles that mean a lot, and smiles that are somewhere in between, agnostics. The petite woman's smile was agnostic. But Mowbray thought he could become a believer. Or make her one. He started up humming a little tune as he got up. So tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for you-ou-ou...

He was humming it when he passed her table, his eyes still on hers. He was startled she was still holding his gaze. He loomed over her somewhat, but there was no harm in giving her an impression of size and strength.

'D'you know the song? ' Her shrug was non-committal. 'It's by the Kinks. Something about their name has always drawn me towards them.'

A bit obvious, maybe? Best he could think of, at the time.

And then the gaze was broken, and he moved as if to pass, heading for the counter. And then he turned: 'I'm having another cappuccino. Care for another,' the scent of it was on the air, 'chamomile?' Then, leaning into her, more quietly: 'Maybe I could use someone who learns fast and takes direction well.'

Then he was on his way, tossing over his shoulder, 'So, another chamomile, then?'

 

[littlelove]

Leigha's eyes remained placid and appraising as the man loomed over her. Yes, size and strength she liked. The ability to be tossed over a shoulder, certainly. To be manhandled a little. But as well as she guarded the interest in her eyes, her lips gave her away, the noncommittal smile lifting into one of decided interest.

As he offered to order another tea for her, she started to decline, started to explain that she was meeting someone, but no sooner had her lips parted to speak than he was leaned so close she could feel his breath against her neck. "Maybe I could use someone who learns fast and takes direction well." A sharp intake of breath as if he had touched a sensitive place, and her eyes, unseen by him, widened roundly.

"So, another chamomile, then?" he tossed at her, as casually as if he'd said nothing. Her answer was different now. Yes, she'd have another. She plucked up her satchel and her notebook, her pen, and joined him at his table, hands shakinig almost imperceptibly with excitement. She looked at him, her head tipping sideways with a curious uncertainty as she tried to make sense of him. "Jack? Jack Brighton?"

 

[patrick1]

He liked her eyes. After the careful look with which she began, now he saw a certain eagerness, but also a curiosity, and maybe a wily scepticism.

Or maybe he was reading too much into a chance expression. Or, indeed, using her eyes for a mirror, for wasn't that him? Eager, curious and a little sceptical?

He took a spoon, dipped into the chocolate-flecked foam of his cappuccino, and licked it clean.

'Sorry, no, I'm not Jack Brighton.'

He was surprised at the slight shake of her hands at her pen and notebook; don't be afraid. Not yet anyway.

'And before you ask...Martin Mowbray. I don't need a p.a. But I might want one.' He knew his look must be one of frank desire, for he suddenly felt it, a surge of a desire for both power and intimacy. He might user her as a footstool. He might place her naked on furniture in strange bondage. He might fuck her across a table. Or he might be proud to have her on his arm, talking of art and the history of the cappuccino, at someone's party.

'But when I want something, I like to tackle it in an unexpected way. So - tell me a little about yourself. How you came to like chamomile tea. Why you came to place this particular advertisement in this particular publication...'

 

[littlelove]

Noticing herself that her hand was trembling, she laid both of her hands in her lap, balling them nervously in the fabric of her skirt. Today, in anticipation of meeting a possible employer, she had dressed herself with her natural sense of presentation, in flowing black skirt that just kissed the top of her knees, a delicate pink blouse and a charcoal wool sweater that tied at her waist with gray ribbon. Her hair, worn down around her shoulders today, swirled to the small of her back.

Chills chased themselves down her spine as his eyes devoured her without remorse, as he paused before his answer to lick his spoon, how he willfully kept her waiting, coaxing her into the palm of his hand with anticipation.

"Sorry, no, I'm not Jack Brighton. And before you ask, Martin Mowbray. I don't need a p.a., but I might want one."

There is a certain feeling she got about a man, almost immediately, a sixth sense that allowed her to almost smell, almost taste his dominance. He was fucking her with his eyes. She was certain he saw way she swallowed hard.

"But when I want something, I like to tackle it in an unexpected way. So - tell me a little about yourself. How you came to like chamomile tea. Why you came to place this particular advertisement in this particular publication..."

And so the interview began, if you could call it that. The conversation where they would come to know each other well enough to decide whether she would leave the cafe on his arm.

"I... I used to keep a little garden before I moved to the city. Now I just have a little space on my balcony, so I only have enough room for a few of my favorites. Sage, lavender, verbena, chamomile. The fragrance of chamomile is divine. So delicate." When she realized she was rambling for the sheer purpose of ignoring the real question, she stopped, cheeks burning, and started to answer it with only a thoughtful moment of silence as transition.

"Have you ever had an assistant... who was diligent and attentive to her work, but then you parted at the threshold of your office and went your separate ways, lived your separate lives... and you start to think that you wish you had that kind of attention to detail, that kind of service in every aspect of your life..." She paused, giving him one last look of appraisal before taking the plunge.

"Because I have that trouble with men in the bedroom..." her cheeks pinked and her voice grew a little shy, "they may know what they want from me behind closed doors, they may pretend to possess me for a few hours, but they never really do. They're inconsistent. The facade of ownership evaporates when it's not convenient. They're not... full-time."

She paused, afraid she may have said too much, with words like "possess" and "ownership" there could be no mistaking now what other services implied. Oh well... if that wasn't what he was here for, he wasn't what she was looking for. And after all, he had gone through so much trouble to find her... Blushing from her own frankness, she closed her eyes and took a deep swallow of tea to soothe her frayed nerves.

 

[patrick1]

She started, eyes closed, when he touched her. His pale thin right hand ruffled her brown hair. 'There's no need to feel ashamed at frankness with me. If you'll be glad I'll be frank.'

He smiled, wanting her to respond through her shyness.

He was feeling she was the one.

What was it about her?

He smiled again before his hand fell from the side of her pale, delicate face.

'Perhaps what you want,' he said, and decided as he spoke to drop the fake New England accent from his voice and let the Old England show through, 'perhaps what you want to apply for is what I want to offer. Which would be serendipitous, would it not? A 24 hour, 7 days a week situation embracing, as it were, both the bedroom and the office.'

The coffee house seemed more crowded now. But perhaps there were only the same numbers of people there and it was the subject matter of their conversation, causing him to lean across the table to be more confidential and catch a whiff of the scent of chamomile and something else from her, that was making the room feel busy.

'You know,' and momentarily it was as if he already possessed her, he took both her hands in his across the table and looked into her eyes again, 'there used to be graffiti on a bridge where I drove to work, and it said NEITHER WORK NOR LEISURE. That's the spirit I'm thinking of. Something that defines itself, utterly outside the categories everyone else uses; something...Look...'

Desire. Her curious eyes, her pink lips, her hair, her trim dress and demeanour - he felt sloppy and yet surprisingly at ease with her already – everything about her sucked him towards her. 'Look,' he said, knowing he kept interrupting when she might speak, wanting to hear more from her but feeling they had already outgrown their meeting-place, 'why don't we jaywalk right across the street, and you can show me your place with the little balcony – yes, of course I know you live over there – and we can take about both our propositions a little further?'

 

[littlelove]

"Perhaps what you want to apply for is what I want to offer. Which would be serendipitous, would it not? A 24 hour, 7 days a week situation embracing, as it were, both the bedroom and the office."

An extremely perceptive young woman, Leigha noticed the note of artifice drop from his voice, and while she was very glad that he was presumably being genuine with her now, she wondered what sort of secret he might have to keep, what reason for disguising his voice the man might have. She didn't mind much. She liked a man with secrets. Leigha's face softened.

"Yes, I would like that," Leigha said delicately, and tucked a soft lock of hair behind her ear, eyes glancing up at him and finding his gaze bearing so deeply into her she wondered what he saw. Somewhere in the animal parts of her brain, she was dimly aware that she was slicked with excitement.

"Look, why don't we jaywalk right across the street, and you can show me your place with the little balcony –" he must have seen the momentary look of alarm in her face- "yes, of course I know you live over there – and we can take about both our propositions a little further?"

There was a long moment where she wrestled with the idea of bringing him into her space, into her tiny sanctuary. And then something jostled her out of her indecision. A man at the door, looking stern and offput, checking alternately his watch face and scanning the booths and tables... "for me," she thought to herself. "Yes," she said impulsively, and smiled at him and her hands tightened trustingly in his, "I'd love that."

 

[patrick1]

He tugged his pack on to his back and took her left hand, that he'd relinquished for a moment, in his right, just as the man at the door said, loudly, 'Is Lear here? Lear?'

Well, that's what it sounded like. 'Leah,' maybe. But then Mowbray looked down at his companion and saw that she was blushing. He'd never got further than 'L' from the phone listing. But it must be her. On their way out they had to pass the big man. 'Leah?' he was still calling.

Mowbray had to say something to stop her quivering. 'You're too late for Leah, I'm afraid,' he said, and squeezed her hand.

'She left?' the man asked, looking at the petite woman.

'She left,' said Mowbray, softly, to her, as they emerged on to the pavement.

They were maybe fifty yards from the pedestrian light and Leah, or whatever she was called, made to move towards it. 'Hey,' he said, 'I meant it about jaywalking.'

'But we could...'

There was about to be a lull in the traffic. It was an impulse: she was so determined, and yet so small and fragile. There was something he wanted to say to her and couldn't find the words. So he scooped her up in a fireman's lift and, her body slung over his right shoulder, walked across the street. A taxi slowed and parped and Mowbray waved cheerily.

He set her down on the other side. 'You,' she said, smoothing down her clothes, not looking at him..

He felt flushed, felt as if their flesh had touched: the exhilaration, the hope, the fear.

'So,' he said, making himself look at her, maybe his green eyes could persuade her, trying to find a jocular tone, 'take me to your boudoir. Set me down with olives and a glass of dry white wine and we will find out whether what I want to offer is what you want to apply for. How about that?'

And he smiled: waiting for her, for the first time, to take the lead.

 

[littlelove]

Leigha held tight to Mowbray's hand as the man looked deeply and questioningly into her, and then the two pushed out the door together.

As she tried to steer him towards the crossing, he simply tossed her up over his shoulder, leaving her bottom high in the air and her slender legs wrapped up in his arms. For a minute she was breathless. She closed her eyes as he hauled her across the road and felt his steady grip on her, his even stride that seemed undisturbed by the extra burden of carrying her small body.

And then it was over too fast, and she was set down on her own feet again on the other side.

'So, take me to your boudoir. Set me down with olives and a glass of dry white wine and we will find out whether what I want to offer is what you want to apply for. How about that?'

She bit her lip to contain the shy burgeoning smile. "Yes, Sir, Mr. Mowbray." She climbed the steps to the building and punched in the door code without taking much care that he didn't see, and walked a pace ahead of him on the stairs, painfully and somewhat pleasantly conscious that his eyes were on her hips as they moved under her skirt with each stair.

As they reached the third floor, she let him into her apartment, C8, and held the door so that he could step in first. It was a very vulnerable sort of feeling, actually. Her space was small, and very tidy, unfussy but feminine. A white cat sat on the back of the blood red sofa. Her table was laid with china for four. And yet, to someone very perceptive, there was an unmistakable air of loneliness.

She tilted a bottle of wine over the rim of a glass and twisted it gently as she straightened it from pouring with the elegant attention to detail that comes with experience in service. Professional or private he couldn't have said.

As he took a seat, she took a tablet of paper and pen and sat across from him, at once secretarial, though her eyes remained sparkling brightly with something more than professional attentiveness. "Should we discuss my contract, then, Sir?"

 

[patrick1]

Her eyes were diamonds. He saw riches there.

He reached down into his backpack, by his feet, and carefully lifted out the mask, and put it on the table between them, beside her pad of paper. The hooked nose, the gaps for eyes, the feathers. He watched her attention go from him to the bird-mask to him.

'It's an image of a gyrfalcon,' he said. 'Falco rusticolus. I have thought about this for a long time. The possibility of this moment. I like the analogy of a falconer and his precious bird. Gyrfalcons have always been highly-prized. Imagine: you are dangerous, a predator to the world at large, clever and beautiful and ominous. And yet you always return to the arm of your possessor at his will, yet of your own will.'

He stroked the feathers of the bird-mask. 'Write down in two columns, side by side. On the left: In five days' time at midday I offer myself up for possession. Please don't sign it for now, but place your full name in block capitals beneath where you would sign. And then, on the right-hand side: In five days' time at midday I shall take, and cherish, possession. Then the name Martin Mowbray, in block capitals, below.'

Only then, as he watched her write, did he take a drink of the wine, swilling it around his glass, savouring the bouquet, then taking a deep draught. When she'd finished writing he resumed:

'Don't say anything for now. Here is what you are in a moment to consider. Over the next five days you will sell your possessions, including all your clothes but one last outfit, and place all your money in a one-year bond, to expire in a week and five days. You may wish to tell people you are going round the world for a year. If you sign this contract, you will place yourself entirely in my trust, for an entire year. I shall expect to profit by you. Your possession will be the subject of a series of films, which you will help to produce, and edit, and distribute, though you may have your identity disguised if you wish, behind masks and electronic distortion.

Now – take the mask, it will cover only the top of your head and down over your eyes. Go to your bathroom, and strip naked, and put on the mask. Look at yourself for as long as you like, and think over what I've proposed. Make love to yourself if you wish. I'm in no hurry: honestly, hours may pass. Take as long as is necessary. When you're ready, return naked to me here. Have what you want to say, and how you want to say it, prepared. Make a speech to me. Now,' unexpectedly, reaching across the table and kissing in turn the back of each of her hands, 'go.'

 

[littlelove]

Leigha listened sharply as he enumerated the terms under which she would sign the contract, should she choose to. The idea of traveling thrilled her. She looked around the room at her things. She had a fondness for her space, but her things were of little importance to her, save a very few, and, her lingering gaze may have revealed, her white cat. She had no experience in front of or behind a camera, but she didn't doubt her ability to learn. She very rarely doubted her ability to learn. And then there was the mask. That haunting, strange visage that looked up at her from the coffee table. The glass tabletop glinted back at her through the eye holes, almost as if someone was looking at her.

As per his instruction, she picked up the thing, aware of the aura of a separate identity she felt within it as she held it in her hands, and she went into her bathroom. She removed her clothes and folded them, laid them on her vanity top. She took the mask in her hands and studied it, roan, dappled delicately, eyes lined with black. She tentatively lifted it to her face and viewed her reflection in the mirror. It's funny, but six square inches obscured can truly make a person unrecognizable. She felt as though she was looking at the image of a stranger.

His words played like a recording in her mind and she could make no more sense of them now than she had when he had said them.

"Imagine: you are dangerous, a predator to the world at large, clever and beautiful and ominous. And yet you always return to the arm of your possessor at his will, yet of your own will."

When she returned to him, she sat gracefully on the arm of his chair in mimicry of a falcon. Her body was pale and beautiful in the light of the early evening as it streamed through the window.

"I have been called clever before, and beautiful. I have returned to the service of a Master dutifully again and again, by his will, and of my own. But being dangerous, being ominous, being a predator... these are things you will have to train me to be."

There was a long pause.

"If I am to be yours."

She let that sink in, too.

"But we should both have to determine if that is to be the case, Mr. Mowbray, within the next five days. What will you do with them?"

 

[patrick1]

He stroked her white thigh. He took her left wrist, and made her hand grip his own right wrist, as if she had talons, to cling there.

She was already someone quite different from the woman in the cafe.

'You speak somewhat circuitously,' he said, 'but then, a subordinate should be an expert in the use of a subordinate clause, should she not? Here.'

He reached up, for the nape of her neck. It was as if he not she were the bird. He felt as if he was swooping out of the sky, to a small thing, scarcely regarded by others on the ground below, a small creature which he saw, straight away, had great value. He pulled her head down to his, and kissed her hard, for perhaps ten seconds.

He wanted it to go on, for a long time. But she was like the first drink that might lead to addiction. He wanted to wait, until he possessed her – if he were to possess her – to let the addiction take hold. He kept hold of her neck, though, to look at her.

'I see you have it in you. In the methodical way you sought to ensnare the one to whom you offered services. In the dance of your eyes. So...I wish to possess you. I am ready to sign. Tell me what you will need to know, or do, before you are ready to sign. Perhaps you will wish for time, and clothing, and so forth. Although I must say you look delightful without the clothing.'

He found his fingertips touching her skin, just lightly, here and there, even though he had promised himself austerity. She was a pleasure to touch, his gryfalcon. If that was who she would be...