The Fourth Room
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...
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