Open-Minded
Justine Elyot
The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and, when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness. ‘I moonlight as a sex worker,’ she said. ‘Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdos hanging around the place. I know all my clients very well and they’re one hundred per cent decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.’
It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirty-something woman, sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a …?
‘I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,’ she sighed. ‘If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll re-advertise …’
‘Er, no, no, hang on,’ I said. ‘So you’re saying you meet your clients here?’
‘I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End, soon,’ she said. ‘The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.’
‘Start-up costs?’
‘You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.’
‘The job itself,’ I echoed. ‘You mean, like, whips and stuff?’
‘Yeah. Thigh-high boots, all that.’ She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. ‘I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?’
‘I can’t really,’ I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman: gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. ‘I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.’
‘Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?’ she said with a fake pout and a laugh. ‘No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way, at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head for emphasis. ‘No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.’
‘So you might take the room?’
‘Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.’ I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. But it could be noisy, what with all the walloping and howling that might go on. And what if we get raided by the police?
‘It’s really a great area to live in,’ Shona enthused. ‘The high street’s full of pubs and bars, there’s the cinema, loads of shops, leisure centre around the corner, park at the bottom of the hill …’
I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than I could with an extra half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.
‘How often do you see clients?’ I said.
‘Not that often at all,’ she said. ‘Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week. Usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.’
‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and … and … OK then. Let’s do it.’
She clapped her hands. ‘Thank fuck!’ she said. ‘Finally, somebody who knows what “open-minded” actually means.’
It wasn’t long before my interpretation was tested.
A week after I moved in, one of the famous Saturdays rolled around. I’d arranged to meet up with friends at six for dinner and drinks, but I needed to get ready in the flat that afternoon.
‘Will that be OK?’ I asked Shona at breakfast. ‘I mean, if I’m actually there for a bit of the afternoon? Just a short bit. I’ll go up to Westfield or something for a few hours first, but I’ll need to be here between about four and six. And I’ll need to use the bathroom. Will that be OK?’
‘I’ll be with a client until five,’ said Shona, ‘but I’ll shut up shop after that. I’ve got a full afternoon of bookings. You can use the shower whenever – the only possible problem is that my client might need to use the loo, but don’t worry about that.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I can always turn that into part of the session.’
‘God, really?’ This was all fascinating. I’d been too polite to ask questions until now, but I was burning to know more about the ins and outs of it all.
‘Oh, yes. It’s fine, really, Vix. Just giv
e us a quick shout when you come in, so we know.’
Which is what I did. I’d mooched around Westfield for as long as was bearable for a person with £18 left in her bank account, and if I saw another really nice but unaffordable top I was likely to throw myself on the floor in a tantrum.
I let myself in, as noisily as I could, at about ten past four.
‘Only me!’ I shouted, banging the door behind me. I took off my coat and hat and went to hang them up, but there was an unfamiliar coat on my usual peg. I put my hand on it. It was a good coat. Pure new wool, worth a couple of hundred at least.
I leaned back against it, enjoying the feel of it, and the smell of a delicious male cologne that wafted from it, and listened.
At first I couldn’t hear anything, but after my ears acclimatised, I became aware of a low, muffled, sobbing kind of sound coming from Shona’s bedroom. Seconds later, I heard her voice, but it didn’t sound like her voice. It was louder, harder – what you might call strident.
I couldn’t make out the words, but the phrase ended on a questioning note. A low, abject voice made a response that I just knew had to be, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Creeped out, yet also highly curious, I began to edge along the hallway towards her door, hoping to catch a bit more of what was being said and done.
The tail-end of Shona’s next sentence came to me loud and clear.
‘… have to pay for their disgusting behaviour, don’t they?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re a filthy pervert, aren’t you? I’m thinking perhaps I should put you in a chastity device until our next meeting, if that’s what it’s going to take. You know I ordered you not to masturbate. Why did you disobey?’
‘Couldn’t help it, ma’am.’ A pitiful whimper. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then I had to …’
‘Don’t say another word, you dirty, dirty boy. Bend over and touch your toes.’
I wondered if he was naked or dressed. Tall or short. Old or young. Good-looking or not.
I pictured a man pitched in between all these extremes, a well-dressed guy who looked after himself. He’d have silk boxers around his ankles and his shirt-tails flapping over the top part of his arse, which was peachy firm, perhaps a little pale. All the better to show up …
I swallowed. Was it weird to be turned on by this?
‘I’m going to give you twelve,’ said Shona.
‘Twelve?’ There was outrage, and a touch of fear, in the man’s yelp.