Apart from the bed and the large oblong mirror, still reflecting the contemplative topless Margaret, the whore in the boudoir, there were two other items of furniture; a small three draw chest of drawers, which like the wall was skinned in red velvet, and the complicated form of a leather covered bench. The bench reminded him of a handy-man’s workbench, it appeared to be adjustable and bore several black fittings, various straps, hoops and fastenings. He could only imagine what purpose this might be put to.
“I asked Jeff if I could have a chat alone with you, first,” he explained, still fascinated by the bench, “he seemed good with it. Is that OK with you?”
She glared at him, funnelled anger as a defence. “As you might have noticed,” she said, in as sarcastic a tone as she could muster under the circumstances, “I am not exactly in a position to make decisions.”
He returned his attention to her, his searching gaze sweeping from the puddle of her skirt, up stocking clad legs, lingering briefly but perceptively at scantily covered thighs and a little longer at her naked breasts, before fixing with her own uncertain brown eyes. She saw no uncertainty in his eyes. They were as bright blue and superior as she ever remembered them, his face even more impossibly handsome than she remembered. Olive skinned, his high cheekbones, aquiline nose, ready smile and close cut pitch black hair, were the features of a Persian prince. He positively beamed back at her. Despite herself, the defensive shield of her anger collapsed.
“You do appear to be a little, cornered, would you prefer it if I helped you free?”
“Do you think I would be standing here chatting to you like this if I did not have to?” she snapped, forcing the angry response to try to recover her defence...