FOREWORD

Hello there, I'd like to tell you a story.

My name is Nicholas Sherwood, 'Woody' for short. I'm an ex-policeman. I took early retirement at the age of forty-five. That was one year ago. I'm tall, dark and handsome. The rest I'll leave to your imagination.
To begin with let me tell you that I have recently concluded my first, and possibly only engagement as a private eye, and I'd like to tell you all about it.
As I sit here hitting the keyboard of my brand new personnel computer with my one typing finger, I see from the calendar on the wall that a year has almost passed since I retired from the police force to concentrate on doing up an old cottage I managed to acquire deep in the heart of the Welsh border country.
That, like I say, is nearly a year ago, and it is remarkable how circumstances have changed. For now I find that with the money from the case, and a gratefully rich neighbour, I need no longer struggle on my own to renovate the old cottage. Instead, as I sit here typing away merrily I can actually see the builders at work through the scaffolding outside my window.
But I digress, and I bet you're wondering just when I'm going to begin telling this tale.
So no more waffle, I promise you.
This is how it all began:

* * *

CHAPTER ONE - The Milk Lady

I got up early one morning in February, and it was a Tuesday, that much I do recall, for it proved to be quite relevant. I remember that there'd been a deep frost overnight and the air had quite a nip about it as I trundled my way down my long garden path to collect a bottle of milk from a crate next to the gate.
On this occasion I managed to meet up with the local milk lady doing her rounds. She'd just pulled up in her four-wheeled drive Subaru pickup as I arrived at the track outside my home. I'd been meaning to see her for quite sometime, since I knew that I owed her quite a bit of money. As I recall I had not seen her, or for that matter found any bill to pay, since way before Christmas.
I greeted her: "Good morning Mrs. Edwards," I said, and fumbling through my pockets to see if I carried enough money on me.
On counting but a few pence I realised that I was way short of the cash needed and a trip to the bank should reckon high on my priorities list.
Undaunted by my apparent financial embarrassment I asked her anyway: "How much do I owe you Mrs. Edwards?"
"Oh, don't worry about that Mr. Sherwood," she answered in that broad cider-country accent that everyone seemed to speak around here.
Somehow I half expected her answer. It seemed the way in the countryside was to only bother with the paying of bills when Mars was in conjunction with Jupiter, and Saturn in retrograde motion and about to disappear behind the moon, or something even more remote and infrequent that I'd not as yet managed to figure out.
"It's been over two months now since I last paid you. Do you think you could let me have a bill sometime please?" I pleaded with her.
She stopped dead in her tracks and poised motionless with an empty milk bottle held halfway out of the crate whilst she thought for a moment. Eventually she came to a decision.
"I'll get the old man to make out a bill for you next week," she promised as she gathered up the rest of the empties and took them to her pickup truck.
I smiled. I knew that in reality next week would probably turn out to be sometime next month. It was country double-speak to say you'll get it when I feel like it, and not a moment before.
It was at this point the detective in me took over. I just couldn't help it. It just came out. Unfortunately twenty-seven years in the police force had seen to that. Mrs. Edwards only delivered twice a week on Wednesdays and Saturdays, just three bottles at a time, and I still hadn't taken in Saturday's delivery, the three bottles were still there in the crate and about to be doubled up to six.
But why I asked myself? For today was a Tuesday, I knew that to be the case. I was not exactly cut off from civilisation living where I was, though I must admit the only people I ever met were the building supply delivery men, and the only regular appointment I had to make was with the local garage to collect my Sunday newspapers. But all the same my routine had been broken. Mrs. Edwards was not meant to be here today. Today was definitely a Tuesday. At least I was ninety-nine percent certain that it was.
"What brings you here today Mrs. Edwards?" I asked stupidly.
Yet if I'd said nothing I guess everything would have been a whole lot different today. That, I guess, is what one must call a twist of fate. Something that just cannot be put back to see what might have resulted had I just wished her goodbye and walked away.
"Why haven't you heard?" she replied.
The Mona Lisa smile on her face suggested that she knew something more than I did, and I didn't disappoint her.
"No! What's happened then Mrs. Edwards?" I said and shaking my head.
The milk lady grinned from ear to ear.
"It's the Jones's, they've gone and won the lottery. They picked all six numbers. They had to share the jackpot with three other people, but all the same they got well over two million pounds they did," she told me with a certain excitement about it all.
I felt pleased for her and the Jones's, but I still didn't see what that had to do with the milk being delivered one day early. However I ignored any urge to continue on with that line of questioning. The milk got delivered when the Edwards's thought best and I was powerless to alter a way of life established and refined over a great number of generations.
"Who?… Not the Jones's that live over there surely?" I said, and pointing to a couple of chimneys protruding above the trees down the old cart track.
The Jones's were in fact my nearest neighbours, yet I'd only managed to bump into them twice. On both occasions I'd come face to face with them in their Land Rover along the old cart track we shared together, and on both occasions, I must admit, it was I that gave way and reversed the hundred yards or so to the one and only passing place along the track.
"Yes, old Ted and Mavis Jones from 'The Burrows'. Their picture's in all the newspapers. You'd better get one and see," she said, and rightly confirming that I had pointed to the correct chimney pots.
For the record, I'd managed to establish the name of the farm way back in the early days when first trying to locate the cottage I now call my own. I recall everyone I asked at the time telling me that the 'Old Gamekeeper's Cottage' was up the track past 'The Burrows'. That was the easy part, actually finding the track was the worst. The only connection being, that 'The Burrows' was up the track, or that the track went past 'The Burrows', but what I couldn't get from anyone was where to find the track. Anyway that's all ancient history now and I assure you that I can now navigate myself home even on the darkest night.
I tried to sound impressed and whistled. "Phew! Over two million pounds hey! It's not everyone who's got millionaires for neighbours is it?" I joked.
"They're holding a party tonight... Why, haven't you been invited?… We've been invited… Most of the village have been invited… I'll have a word with them tonight and get someone to pop over and fetch you," she spouted enthusiastically as if it where her own party.
I wanted to stop her, but by now she had put the empties in the back of the pickup truck and was opening the cab door about to step into her Subaru and drive away.
"You don't have to bother. I hardly know them," I called, then added: "No doubt I'll get to see them later when things are more settled."
"Don't be silly. They'll be pleased to see you. You being an ex-policeman an' all," she said whilst getting in and slamming the door.
She shocked me. As far as I was aware I'd told no one around here that I'd worked for the police force. Still, I ought to have known better. No one keeps a secret for very long in such a closely knit community. I bet they found out all about me within the first ten seconds of my being here.
Anyway, I felt inclined to correct her statement. Policemen plod the beat, I was a detective and had a desk all of my own.
"Detective," I said putting the record straight. "I was a Detective Inspector not a policeman. They told me I'd got the wrong shaped feet for plodding the beat."
"That's even better Mr. Sherwood, a real live detective. Did you catch any murderers?" she asked whilst winding down the window and peering out.
"A few," I replied modestly, and not telling her that it was I, along with a few dozen other officers in the team that came up with the correct solutions. Detective work is very much a team game in this modern hi-tech world. Columbo and all that crap is for the media hype and nobody works like that in real life.
Thinking back I guess that was the true point when the finger of fate pointed my way. Perhaps I should have denied all knowledge of being a cop. But I didn't, and I suppose it's too late to gripe now.
"Oooo!" she mouthed at my revelation. "I bet you've got a few tales to tell haven't you Mr. Sherwood. I'll definitely make sure someone comes to fetch you tonight, probably about nine." She then looked at her watch and began to panic. "Gosh! Is that the time? I've got to rush! I've got to finish my round then get my hair permed."
The rest I didn't hear above the noise of the revving engine and the squeaking of brakes as she managed a fifteen point turn in the track before heading off down towards 'The Burrows'.
I picked up Saturday's three bottles from the crate and satisfied myself that perhaps the answer to the riddle of the early delivery was the Jones's party. If everyone was planning a mighty booze-up tonight then perhaps both Mr. and Mrs. Edwards were intending to have a lie-in tomorrow. It sounded a reasonable explanation but still did not resolve who would milk the cows in the morning. I pondered a little more, then gave up and went inside.
During the rest of the morning my mind played between the two options I saw open to me. One was to find a clean shirt and dress reasonably, then wait for someone to come knocking on my door. The other was to piss off in the car and not come back until the following day. I took the second option and left about three o'clock that afternoon. There was someone in my old home town of Birmingham that I knew would put me up for the night.

* * *

I arrived in England's second city about six o'clock that evening. I was now back on home territory. This is the place where I was born, grew up, went to school and spent all my days as cop. So I knew exactly where I was going and felt very much at home. I parked my car below a big high-rise block of flats and scaled the stairs to the fifteenth floor. I had to, the lift was out of order, and thinking back, I can't ever recall it ever working.
I must admit the friend I had come to visit was a little surprised to see me. It was my normal habit to phone her first. But I must admit I left in a panic and making a prior phone call was the last thing on my mind. Anyway, I think at the time I wanted to surprise her, and that was perhaps the real reason. For as well as having a phone in my cottage I also carry a mobile phone around with me, so I guess I could have made a call at anytime on my way here.
"Hello Sandy," I said as a face peered through the gap in the door held by a security chain, "remember me?"
Sandra Miller, better known as Sandy to all her friends, was a leggy redhead some five years younger than myself, and despite getting on a bit in years, she still somehow managed to keep a trim, fit and shapely body.
"Woody!" she remarked on seeing me. "What on Earth brings you here?"
"Let me in and I'll tell you all about it," I told her.
The door opened. Sandy was wearing just a shower-robe and had a towel wrapped about her head. I stepped inside the door. We hugged and kissed, and I got a little wet from the embrace. From the apparent dampness of my shirt I figured that she had just come out of the shower. I can't help but notice these things. I guess it's the detective in me.
"Just getting yourself ready for me?" I joked and opened out the front of the robe to reveal her shapely rounded breasts.
They were just as big and as firm as I always remembered. I tried to recall the last time I saw them. It had to be well over a year ago now, and that saddened me. Suddenly I was starting to regret ever moving out into the countryside.
Anyway, I think I embarrassed her. She closed up her robe and shut the door hurriedly in case someone was looking from the corridor outside.
We kissed again in the hallway of her apartment. This time there was no chance of prying eyes and I didn't mind getting my shirt wet.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not the sort of guy who's got a girl in every city. But Sandy and me went back a very long way. We were first introduced on a vice squad raid. In fact she was probably one of the first people I ever arrested. She was then a hooker in a strip joint called 'Hugo's' in the centre of the city. She's reformed now, or so she tells me. But I think that's mainly due to age. She tells me she's thirty-nine. But I think it's been stuck like that for a couple of years now.
For the record, Sandy and me struck up a relationship almost right from the start, and we've been seeing each other on and off ever since. Also, she was never actually taken to court, or for that matter were anyone connected with Hugo's. It was just one of those things. Lack of evidence and little conviction to pursue the matter any further caused the investigation to be dropped.
As for me and Sandy, well I think it was the handcuffs that made her fall for me in the first instance. At least I've always put it down to that. I could never see it being my natural charm and good looks.
We got around to talking.
"I'm off out Woody. I was about to get myself ready," Sandy informed me after our little getting to know you again session came to an end.
I raised an eyebrow. It was my own fault I guess. I knew that I should have phoned her first.
"Where to?" I asked, yet I think I already knew the answer.
"Hugo's club," she replied. I frowned and she went on to explain: "He's short on girls again. Tuesday's always a bad night. It's usually quiet in midweek, and the weekend girls don't like coming in. Three days is enough usually. So I said I'd fill in for him tonight. I don't do it very often, but Hugo's a big friend and I don't like to let him down."
"Submissive work?" I asked.
"Afraid so Woody," she confirmed with a shrug to the shoulders.
"You're still into that weird crap then Sandy?" I remarked.
"It helps pay the bills," she reasoned.
"When have you got to be there?" I asked.
"Seven o'clock, he's got me down for a two hour stint. I'll be finished by nine. Anyway, what brings you here Woody? I thought you'd walked out of my life last year. Something about retiring to the countryside if I remember correctly," Sandy told me, and perhaps with a little bit of bitterness showing through in her voice.
I ignored her remarks and told her the reason for coming.
"Sandy, I'm looking for somewhere to stay the night. It's just for one night, so I thought I'd look up an old friend who'd put me up. In return I thought I'd let her play with these," I said, and I took out a pair of handcuffs from my pocket and held them to her face.
Sandy smiled.
"You smooth talker Woody," she said with a chuckle, "you always seem to make me an offer I can't refuse."
I smiled too. I guess I did come over with the charm a bit strong.
"What about Hugo's club tonight? Can you get out of it?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Sorry Woody, but my submissive work must come first," she replied.
I knew that would be her answer, but I had to give it one last go.
I therefore decided to go along with her to Hugo's. After all, I was sort of a club member. Not official mind you, but me and Hugo went back a long way too, and silly as it may seem, I reckon we were the best of friends. Especially now that I was retired and he had nothing to fear from me.
"Do you mind if I tag along with you then Sandy?" I asked. "Me and Hugo can have a little drink and chat about old times whilst you're enjoying yourself having your fanny tickled and your pretty backside smacked."
"I wish it was fun," she mumbled, "but why not come along anyway Woody? We can come back here as soon as it's over, and I've got a few toys of my own in the cupboard I think you'd like to play with."
I kissed her again.
"You'd better get dressed then," I told her, "the sooner we're there, the quicker we can get back."
And with that she scurried off to the bedroom to get herself ready to go out.

* * *

Hugo's club was close to the city centre. It was about fifteen minutes drive from Sandy's apartment. I took Sandy in my car and parked up outside. Nothing had changed. It was the old seedy joint I remembered from the past. The neon sign outside flickered randomly, and the letter 'U' was unlit.
I smiled at the bouncer on the door. He was a fresh face, if you call having thick lips, cauliflower ears and a flattened nose a fresh face. But being with Sandy and wearing a tie, I was allowed to pass without even a question being asked.
We went inside to the bar. It was badly lit and I needed sometime to adjust my eyes. Sandy didn't seem to have the same problem. She immediately recognised a man seated on a stool at the bar. She whispered a few words in the man's ear, and then scuttled off to the girl's room.
I scaled up onto a high stool at the bar, smiled at the big man opposite, and ordered a whisky with a splash of soda from yet another fresh face. When the drink arrived I was shocked at the price, but paid up with a smile. For the record I had one penny returned from a five pound note. I dropped the penny into a charity box on the bar.
"Is Hugo here tonight?" I asked as the penny clattered down a series of ramps into a box below.
The young man behind the bar looked surprised. It was probably not the sort of question generally asked of him.
"I think so," he replied eventually, but I could see that thinking was not his strongest point.
"In his office?" I queried and trying to make my question as simple as possible for his brain to cope.
Again the young man looked surprised, or perhaps it was just his natural look. Perhaps his chin always rested on his chest. I had no way of telling.
"I think so," he replied once more.
I picked up my drink and got down from my stool. It was a long way down and I was getting vertigo. I was also wondering if the words 'I think so' were the only three words the barman knew. I decided to go and find Hugo myself. It seemed easier that way.
"We're old friends. Me and Hugo go back a long way," I explained as I began to walk away.
There might have been fresh faces around, but none of the building had changed. It remained dark and seedy, and by the faded look of everything, still had the same coats of paint I used to know. After leaving the bar I passed down a long corridor. What went on behind the doors to the left and right was none of my concern, but I knew that Sandy would be heading for one of these rooms as soon as she got herself undressed and powdered her nose and a few other delicate places.
At the end of the corridor I stopped outside a door I once knew to be Hugo's office. There was no name on the door, but then neither had any of the other doors down the corridor. So, wanting to appear polite, and probably with a little bit of uncertainty thrown in, I knocked on the door and waited.
I heard a muffled voice say: "Come in," and I entered.
Hugo was seated at his desk and seemingly doing some paperwork. It must have been legitimate too, since he showed no concern to hide anything. He looked up, saw me and nearly dropped his big cigar from his mouth. I guess he was expecting one of his bar staff to enter, and not someone from his shady past.
"Sherwood!" he exclaimed, and calling me by my surname, which I must admit was something I'm not used to.
"Right first time, but please call me Woody," I told him and trying to put him straight on the issue.
"How did you get in here?" he asked and still looking very concerned.
I guess he must have thought that security had broken down and he was about to sack his bouncer on the door.
"I came with Sandy," I explained.
Hugo drew on his cigar and the end glowed bright red. I could see that he was agitated. After all, the only times he had ever seen me, I was a cop.
"Don't worry Hugo, everything's fine. I'm not a cop anymore, remember? I retired last year," I reminded him in the hope of putting his mind at ease.
Hugo, a big fat man with balding hair, appeared to relax a little. Thinking about it now, it must have been quite a shock to him when he looked up and saw me. Anyway, after telling him that everything was fine and reminding him that I wasn't a cop, he smiled for the first time.
"Came here with Sandy you say?" he said after another long pull on his cigar.
I nodded my head. "I drove her here and said I'd hang around until she's finished. So with a couple of hours to kill I thought I'd look up my old mate Hugo and see how he's getting on," I explained to him.
Hugo appeared totally relaxed now. His little trauma over and done with. He chuckled the only way he knew. It was a raucous cackle that echoed about the room, and sounded something akin to a chicken that had just laid an egg. From a drawer of his desk he tossed a business card to me. Apart from the address, telephone number and all the usual stuff that appears on these sort of cards, across the middle were printed the words: 'Special Pass -Admit One Adult'.
"Use that in future Woody. We try to keep strict security here," he told me, then asked: "And how are you keeping anyway?"
I took the card, put it in my wallet, then nodded my head.
"I'm fine Hugo, and how are you getting on these days?" I said to him.
Hugo drew on his fat cigar before answering.
"I'm just fine Woody," he told me and blowing smoke rings at the same time, "bogged down with paperwork at present though, but otherwise I'm just fine."
I looked to the pile of papers on the desk. "You ought to get yourself a good secretary," I told him.
Hugo blew another series of smoke rings before answering. "I have Woody," he replied eventually, "but she still ends up dropping all the queries on my desk. I think this lot's going to take me till midnight to sort out, and it's all got to be done tonight, the tax man's coming tomorrow."
Suddenly I felt sorry for Hugo. A visit from the tax man was the last thing I would wish on anyone.
"Oh! I didn't realise you were busy," I apologised profusely.
I guess after hearing the sad news I was prepared to go back to the bar, clamber back up on that high stool and wait, but Hugo, being the gentleman that he always was, put an alternative to me.
"I'm a bit pushed for time at the moment Woody. Must get this lot done tonight," he told me, but, after giving the matter a little bit of thought, he added: "If you're waiting for Sandy to finish, how about watching her go through her routine with her client?"
That, I think you must agree, was some alternative.
"What! Be in the same room as her?" I exclaimed, and evidently sounding a little surprised if not alarmed.
I'd seen Sandy's client sitting at the bar when I first came in. He was huge, and even heavier than Hugo, and that was saying something. If I got into a tussle with him, it would be like wrestling with a grizzly bear, and even though I'm a black belt at karate, I didn't fancy my chances. If he fell on top of me it would be like going under a forty ton truck.
Hugo chuckled. He also had a sense of humour.
"Woody, we've made a few changes around here since your last visit," he explained.
This statement surprised me. I was meant to be the detective, but I had seen nothing to suggest that the builders had been in.
"What changes?" I asked suspiciously.
Hugo rose awkwardly from his seat and waddled his way to the door. It was also evident that any serious movements made him completely out of breath. It made me wonder why he kept on smoking those big fat cigars.
"Come with me," he said.
I did just that and followed on behind, and taking my glass of whisky and soda with me. Well, it cost me a fortune and I wasn't going to let it go that easily.
Hugo moved along the corridor, then set off up a flight of stairs. I continued to tag on behind and listening to his ever increasing panting. For the record I always knew the stairs to be here, but as far as I could recollect, I had not ventured up them before now. So I was intrigued to say the least. At the top I looked around. The layout above was very similar to that below. There was a long corridor which must have been directly above the one below, and there were doors to either side, with probably identical rooms also to those below. Hugo waited a few seconds to regain his breath, then opened up a door and beckoned for me to go in first.
The room was in darkness and contained several chairs. They were just ordinary chairs, the sort that you find in a works canteen, and they looked out of place. But then so did the rest of the room, so what did it matter? The walls and ceiling were painted a matt black and did not reflect any light. There was also no light in the room; or at least nothing behind the door to switch anything on. Yet I guess that didn't matter either, for there was plenty of light in the room anyway. It filtered up through a large glass panel set into the floor. There was a low handrail all around to prevent anyone inadvertently walking upon the glass surface. I leant against the rail and looked down. I was looking into the room below. There was no one down there at present. But the room was well lit, and furnished with the sort of equipment one associated with bondage and dominance.
Hugo, still panting heavily from the strenuous climb, came to lean on the rail alongside me. It buckled under his huge weight. He pointed down.
"It's a two-way mirror," he told me. "If you look up from the room below then all you see is your reflection. But from up here you can watch everything that goes on. We've got it working in four rooms altogether, and it's proving to be quite a success."
"Sandy's going to be down there then?" I asked and pointing down to the floor below.
Hugo cackled and nodded his head.
"It's the room that's been booked," he informed me. Then leaning forward and pointing down to a tray left on the floor alongside the door, he added: "The fruit and thick cream's down there, so it's got to be."
I looked to the tray. It was almost under the spot where I stood so I had to lean right over the rail. Not only could I see half a dozen of those aerosol type cans of cream, but a bowl of cherries, a banana, a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses all resting on the tray.
Hugo chuckled again, then slapped me on the shoulder. I shook violently. I was still holding that glass of whisky I'd ordered from the bar and a little bit spilled onto the mirror.
"Don't worry about that," he told me. "I'll get a bottle of whisky sent up, plus a bottle of soda, and then you can settle down and watch the show from up here."
I did not know whether to thank him or not. Voyeurism was not exactly my scene. But, after weighing up the two alternatives, it was either being perched up on a high stool, suffering vertigo for two hours and holding a conversation with a moron, or this. So, quite naturally, I opted to remain where I was.
I turned to Hugo and smiled.
"Okay Hugo, I'll sit and watch the show," I informed him, "but will they know I'm up here looking down?"
Hugo shook his head.
"Not if you don't want them to know," he said. Then with a wink and a punch on the arm, he added: "It can be our little secret Woody, hey?"
I nodded my head uncomfortably. As I've already told you, I'd already had the misfortune of seeing Sandy's client for the evening. He was a big man in every sense of the word, and quite capable of putting my nose out of joint if he ever found out.
"I'd prefer it if nothing was mentioned," I said tactfully.
Hugo chuckled and smacked me on the shoulder again, and I shook violently once more.
"That's the spirit Woody," he told me. He then turned to go out of the door. As the big man disappeared he added: "Make yourself comfortable Woody, and I'll get the whisky and soda sent up."
Hugo closed the door behind him, and leaving me in the darkened room to look down upon the scene below. Immediately beneath the mirror was a bench, or it might have even been a table, it was difficult to see without seeing the legs. All I can say is, that it was rectangular and covered with black leather. It was just about the right size for someone to lie upon, and there were brass rings on each corner. I was weighing all this up when I heard the door below open.
Sandy entered the room, followed by the big man I'd seen at the bar. The man had not changed his clothes, he still wore a navy-blue pinstriped suit, but Sandy was dressed quite differently now. She was wearing a flower patterned silk dressing gown and slippers on her feet.
Seeing the show was about to start, I drew up a chair and settled myself down. With my arms, elbows and chin resting on the handrail, I leaned forward and peered down.
The man seemed keen to get started. He removed his jacket and placed it on a hook behind the door. He then draped his tie over the hook, loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves. He then turned to Sandy. She was waiting for him to finish before doing anything herself. She undid the belt of her dressing gown and let the front partially fall open. At this point it became apparent that she was naked beneath. Slowly she removed the silk gown then handed it to the man. He took it from her and placed it on the same hook behind the door. At the same time Sandy kicked away her slippers and leaving her standing completely naked.
Sandy turned her back on the man. She did it slowly and deliberately. So much so, that whatever fantasy they were enacting, it looked awfully scripted. It was either that, or Sandy had been through this so many times before that everything just came automatically to her. Anyway, the man found a blindfold from somewhere, which he promptly placed over her eyes and knotted at the back. She then moved a little way forward to fumble for the edge of the bench, then, once established, she climbed up on top and settled herself down. She adjusted herself to lie with legs apart, and with feet touching the bottom two corners. She then raised up her arms. The leather padded surface was not big enough to stretch out the arms fully above the head. Instead, with elbows bent, she positioned her arms so that her hands rested next to the top two corners of the bench.
The man then took up the action. With four short lengths of white rope, he set about securing Sandy's ankles and wrists to the four brass rings affixed to each corner of the bench. I guess I began to take interest at this point. Up until now I'd seen all this before. Sandy was always a willing participant when it came to being anchored to the bed. In our case it had been handcuffs, but that was only because they were more handy than rope. I always made sure that I had at least four sets when I went to visit her, and generally my diligence was well rewarded.
Anyway, I digress. What puzzled me at this stage was the use of the cream and fruit salad on the tray behind the door. But I was not disappointed, and was soon to find out. Picking up an aerosol can from the tray and shaking it as he returned, the man then proceeded to squirt out a line of cream that stretched from her mound, past her navel, then on up between her breasts before ending just below the chin. Then, after another shake of the can, he retraced his path, this time moving from neck to the outcrop of light, fluffy hair that graced her mound. The man must have done all this many times before, for it appeared that he'd judged everything to perfection, and the can spluttered empty at the very point he started.
At this stage, just when things were getting interesting, the door behind me opened and in came the lad from behind the bar. He handed me a full bottle of whisky and a siphon of soda.
I took the bottles from him and said: "Thank you."
He seemed to understand these two words, closed the door and went away.
I must admit I missed the application of the second aerosol can. After pouring myself a another drink, and getting the feel of the pressure inside the soda siphon, I looked down to see a complete mound of cream had settled upon one of Sandy's breasts. I made myself comfortable on the chair and watched the next can splutter out its contents, this time building up a second mountain of cream all over and around Sandy's other breast.
I then came to find the reason for the cherries. Carefully the man placed first one cherry atop one pile of cream, then added a second to the other. If this work of art was meant to represent large breasts with cherry red nipples, then I must say I preferred to see the real thing any time. Anyway after carefully positioning the two nipple cherries, the man moved on to place a row of cherries in a line, from a point between her tits right down to her bellybutton and beyond. He then went away to collect yet another aerosol can of cream.
The fourth can was used to construct yet another huge mountain. This time the target was Sandy's mound of ginger coloured hairs. Again I thought this to be a waste, but every man to his own taste I say, and I guess the man was paying heavily for the experience. Two hours at Hugo's didn't come cheaply, so good luck to him I was thinking. Anyway after the mountain building exercise was over, the obligatory single cherry followed to sit atop the mass of cream. I guess the man considered himself to be creating a work of art, and I had to give ten out of ten for artistic merit.
I thought it to be all over at this point, but no, I was wrong, there was more to come. I'd forgotten about the banana. Anyway, a fifth can of cream appeared, got vigorously shook, then the nozzle placed between Sandy's legs and inserted into her virgina. The can then coughed and spluttered the contents into her cavity. Once satisfied that she was completely full of cream, the man collected the banana and peeled away the skin. He then slowly began to push the banana inside of her, with the cream oozing out from the sides and spilling out onto the surface of the bench as he did so. Then, when most the banana had been poked and squashed inside, and disappeared from view, a final squirt of cream sealed up the entrance of her cavity once more.
What happens next? Well you've probably already guessed. The man set about licking away the cream. I now realised why he was so big. He lived on a high cholesterol diet.
All I could do was look on in wonder and in awe.
First the contents of one breast was licked away and the cherry consumed. This was then followed with insatiable appetite on the other, his tongue licking away every last drop of cream until Sandy's breasts looked clean, if not a little shiny under the lights.
The tongue then moved on down the body, stopping briefly to consume the row of cherries on the way. The feast then continued on down the stomach and to the great mountain of cream piled high upon Sandy's mound. Here the man stopped to take a break, and probably throw up everywhere. But that was not to be. Instead he popped the cork of his champagne and poured himself a drink. I took this as a cue to do likewise and prepared myself another glass of whisky and soda.
The action got interesting from now on. The final cherry on top of the great pile of cream disappeared amidst intermittent sips of champagne. I guess the man was struggling to finish it all by now and he was taking his time. But I gave him ten out of ten for perseverance this time. The man must have had a cast-iron stomach.
Now, to remove the presence of anything from within a woman's fanny with just the use of the tongue, must take an awful lot of practice. I doubt if I could ever do it. But this man could. It required patience and a lot of licking and sucking, and also the ability to put up with having a lot of cream spread all over your face. But good luck to the man, his tongue had stamina, and kept on going until not only was all of the banana consumed, but most of the remaining cream licked away as well.
I felt pleased for Sandy. That amount of tongue work would not have gone by unnoticed, and from the way I saw her writhing about near the end, I guess she must have enjoyed the closing stages.
Anyway, that basically was the end of show. The session almost over, with not a lot more happening. Sandy was untied from the bench, her blindfold removed and finally offered a glass of champagne.
Sitting on the edge of the bench, she sipped it down and began to hold a normal conversation with man, just as if nothing had happened. Nothing like, you licked my fanny sore, or, you bit my nipple you swine, was ever mentioned. Instead, thinking back, I recall the conversation being about what the man should buy his wife for her birthday. But I could be wrong.
Anyway, afterwards Sandy put on her dressing gown and slippers, kissed the man goodbye, and left the room.
I took this as my cue to return to the bar and wait there for her. But not before having another glass of whisky. Neat this time. The spluttering soda siphon was becoming a bit of nuisance and only seemed to work when I didn't want it to.
After a while Sandy returned to me at the bar. Her client had long gone by this time, perhaps to be sick in the gutter outside, I just don't know. Anyway, she looked relaxed, and being a true professional she kept her experiences of the evening all to herself. I also said nothing about watching her through the mirror in the ceiling.
After one more drink we left Hugo's to return to Sandy's flat. She drove my car. By that time I'd had a little too much to drink and the last thing I wanted was to be picked up by my old colleagues.
Oh, and yes, once back at the flat, we did get around to testing out those handcuffs.

* * *

End of Chapter One