* * *

CHAPTER TWO - On The Case

After my meeting with the milk lady, followed by my hasty retreat to seek refuge at Sandy's, I guess nothing else worthy of reporting happened until some four weeks later.
It was March then, and daffodils, crocuses and tulips were starting to appear in my garden. Much to my surprise may I add, since I'd not planted anything. There'd also been an overnight frost. Other than that there is very little to report, except that it was a Sunday and I'd still not received that milk bill. The reason I know it was a Sunday is because I was preparing to take the short journey into the village to collect my newspapers from the local garage. And don't ask me why the garage? It's just another peculiarity of living out here I guess. All I can say is that the local paper shop in Lower Clunley always remains firmly closed on a Sunday.
Anyway, on this particular Sunday in March, my day started with a knock on the door. I'd been up for quite some time, but it was still early morning, possibly a little after eight o'clock. I must admit, I recognised the man stood in my doorway right from the start, even though I'd only had glimpses of him twice before through the windscreen of his Land Rover. Years of police training I guess. Recognising faces and remembering details was something I was a natural at.
"Mr. Jones?" I said as we stood face to face for the first time.
"Err! Mr. Sherwood," he replied.
I felt like denying it, but found I couldn't tell a lie.
"Yes, won't you come in. It's cold out there on the step," I said reluctantly.
I stepped to one side so that he could enter, then steered him into the kitchen, the only room downstairs not filled with crates of junk and stepladders, and I sat him down on an easy chair next to the solid fuel Aga cooker. The kettle on top was steaming away so I offered him a coffee. I could sense that the man had something to tell me. He looked tense and nervous.
The farmer was dressed in an old tweed coat, heavy trousers and wellington boots and looking nothing like the mega-rich person I knew him to be. I expected to see a length of baler twine holding up his trousers, but there was nothing of the sort. He wore a stout leather belt instead. However, he had only been rich for a few weeks, so I guessed there was still plenty of time to alter all that.
He took the coffee and I sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. I tried to look relaxed and make him feel at ease in my presence.
"Well Mr. Jones, what can I do for you?" I asked as he took his first sip from the hot mug.
"Ted," he said, "please call me Ted."
"Then call me Woody,… Woody's my name," I replied putting us both on first name terms, and, after all, we were neighbours.
Ted Jones was a big man, aged a lot close to myself, somewhere in his mid-forties, with ruddy complexion and a gait like an orang-utan when he swung his arms. He gave all the appearance of coming from countryside stock. He looked every bit a farmer, as indeed he probably was with all the acreage around his place, though I must admit I'd never seen him driving the tractor that occasionally trundled across the meadow behind my place: That, I assumed, must have been his son, or maybe even a hired hand.
My neighbour was nervous. He'd obviously come to ask a favour and was unsure of himself. Despite all his money this was a man lacking in self confidence. This I could deduce from his mannerisms and I waited for him to speak.
"Err,… Woody," he started, "you're a detective aren't you?"
"Was," I said, and putting the subject firmly into the past tense.
It did not deter him. He had obviously taken a long time working out what to say and was determined to carry on regardless.
"Mavis, that's my wife, and me," he continued, "have been thinking that we'd like to hire a private detective. It's our daughter you see. She left us three years ago this coming summer. It was our fault. There's nothing for her here you see. We didn't see eye to eye and she just upped and went. We had a big row at the time and she just stormed off. Well, I've got some money now, and we'd like her back. We want to hire somebody to find her."
I rubbed my chin. The man had said it all in just a few sentences. It seemed to me only natural that they'd want their daughter back. Something that must have been impossible before their great stroke of luck. Anyway, now that I knew what the man wanted, I began to relax. This matter didn't concern me. I had a few contacts in the private detective agency business and could recommend a few good names.
"I know some people who'll have a go at finding her for you," I said, then added: "Do you want a few addresses?"
The farmer looked a little disappointed.
"I was hoping that you'd look for her for me," he said.
"Ted, look around you," I said holding my arms out to the mess. "This place is a shambles. I'm far too busy to start messing around looking for lost people. I retired from the police force for one very good reason, and that was to get away from all that detective work and settle down and start a new life. In fact, I might even get married one day, if I don't get too old first."
"I can pay you well. I can pay you to have this place done up if you want. You won't have to bother anymore. Let me fix the place up for you," Ted suggested.
I must say there and then that I was tempted by the offer, but I stuck to my principles. Part of the fun was pottering on alone: It gave me something to do.
"Ted, listen to me," I said, "there are people who make a living out of tracing long lost relatives. They're good at their job, and know what they're doing. They'll find your daughter for you if she's out there to be found, I promise you."
But Ted was persistent.
"I still want you to do it Woody," he insisted, "I think I know roughly where our Judy is. She sent us a card this Christmas and I kept the envelope. It's got the postmark on it. It's 'London N12'," he added, then removed an envelope from his inside pocket and held it out for me to take.
I didn't have the heart to tell the man that London North Twelve was just a might bit bigger than Lower Clunley, and that was only where the card was post marked anyway, and not where she lived.
I took the card from him and for a moment stared at the address on the envelope. I must admit, I was immediately impressed with the handwriting. It was written in a very neat copperplate style of writing. From my years in the police force I was well aware that handwriting can tell you a lot about the character, and writing like this suggested to me that an intelligent and very articulate person sent this card.
I removed the card from the envelope and opened it up to read the message inside. It was  written in the same neat handwriting. The message inside read: 'Merry Christmas Mum. Buy yourself something nice with this. Love Judy. XXX.'
I looked across to Ted who was sipping from his mug of coffee. "How much?" I asked.
He looked puzzled at the question and did not answer.
"How much money was in this card?" I said, and spelling out more clearly what was meant.
"Fifty pounds. A fifty pound note was inside. My wife spent it on some perfume," he told me.
"Anything else?" I asked, then realising that I had to be more precise in my questioning I expanded on what I originally said: "Three years you say that she's been gone. Have you received anything else from her in that time?"
Ted shook his head. "No, nothing, just that card," he replied. "We didn't expect it. But I guess she's doing very well for herself now. That's why she sent us the money."
"Has anyone else you know received any contact from her? A brother, a sister, an aunt, an old school friend? Anyone at all?" I quizzed further and looking for a chink of light.
"Judy's our only child and she's not written to anyone else as far as I'm aware, otherwise I'm sure we would have heard," Ted said thoughtfully.
Well that put the lad who drove the tractor firmly in the farmhand category. It was interesting all the same. I'm sure he would have wished for a son just to help about the place.
I ignored any obvious comment and asked out of curiosity: "What made you keep the card and envelope?"
Ted shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Perhaps I dreamt that one day we'd be in a position to do something about it. Find her I mean. Mavis does really want her back," he explained.
The man was genuine, but I still had that gut feeling he was holding something back. I guess I didn't realise at the time, but the old detective inquisitiveness in me was beginning to churn.
"Why does she only mention her mother?" I asked.
Ted thought for a long time before answering. "Judy loved her mother. They got on well together," he gave as the answer.
However I read between the lines. Ted was the reason she'd stormed off, that was obvious. But why? What did he do to her? Beat her? Molest her? Abuse her? Was it because he really wanted a son that he mistreated her? I decided not to ask, it was none of my business. But whatever it was it upped the odds of getting them all back together. What if she did not want to come back? What if she was quite happy where she was? The Jones's had received some publicity recently in the national newspapers regarding their lottery win, so there was a fair chance their daughter would had read it, and by the subsequent lack of contact couldn't care a toss.
A thousand permutations flashed through my mind, but I asked the obvious question. "What if your daughter doesn't want to come back?" I queried.
Ted thought for a while before answering. "Arrange a meeting with her, that's all we ask. Just find her and get her to meet us somewhere. The rest will be up to us. If she doesn't want to come back after that, then we'll understand. But it's breaking up our marriage not having her around. If not for me but for Mavis's sake, please, just fix up a meeting with her, please," he said, his hands cupped around the mug as if in prayer.
Rightly or wrongly I had the picture in my mind that he'd kept the envelope in the hope that one day he would get her back. But not for his daughter's sake, but for his own. It had been an act of selfishness on his own part. His own marriage was on the rocks and his daughter's return was the only way out of it for him.
I had not met his wife Mavis, but I felt sorry for her. It was there and then that I decided to do it, if only to make his wife happy.
I spelt out my terms: "Okay Ted, you win, I'll find your daughter for you providing you pay for all my expenses up front, and then add a fixed amount if I find her. Forget about the offer to do up the cottage, we'll do this on a proper business footing."
I hadn't got a clue what to sting him for, but I thought big, in fact mega-huge, before putting something to him.
"My costs are a thousand pounds a day, plus expenses," I told him. "I want thirty thousand pounds up front to cover the first month, all that is non-returnable, followed by another thirty-thousand every month while I'm on the case. Then, as a bonus, I'll want a further fifty-thousand should I find her. If I don't find her then I don't collect the bonus, it's as simple as that. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."
Ted listened intensely to what I'd got to say, and didn't flinch at the asking price. I guess I'd pitched in far too low.
"Thank you Mr. Sherwood," he said reaching for his inside pocket and bringing out his cheque book. "I agree to your terms. I want you to find our Judy for us at whatever cost. I'm going to write you out a cheque for sixty thousand pounds to cover the first sixty days, and there's a lot more available if you need it. Just shout and I'll send it to you. Don't worry about the money please, I've got more than I'll ever spend in my lifetime."
He wrote out the cheque and passed it to me. I remember staring at it for a long time whilst I collected my thoughts. It was for more than I'd paid for the cottage, and far more than I'd ever saved whilst working in the police force, and that was only part of it. I would get another fifty thousand on top if I managed to find his daughter.
"Okay," I said finally, "I'm hired. I'll need photographs and a good description of your daughter, and I'll need to speak to your wife before I head off to London. Can I come round and see her sometime?"
"With pleasure Woody," he said standing up to go, and sounding a lot more cheerful and relaxed. "Come round anytime and we'll give you all the details you need. Mavis has plenty of photos and whatever else you need. And please, don't tell a sole. There's a lot of flapping ears and wagging tongues around the village and I'd hate for anything to get out. I don't want them to know that you're on the case. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly," I assured him. After all he was now technically my boss. "I'll not breath a word to a soul," I added.
I also knew that before the sun set that day, the whole of Lower Clunley would have got to know about the deal. But that was not my problem, it was Ted's.

* * *

Not long after Ted Jones's departure, I jumped into my car and headed for the nearest bank where I kept my meagre savings. I asked whether I could draw five-thousand pounds in cash on the strength of it. The little girl asked somebody at the back, and I saw a nod of acceptance. It turned out that the Jones's banked here too, which is not surprising since it was the only bank for miles around.
On my return to the cottage, possibly sometime around midday, I changed into some older clothes and took a stroll, not down the track to 'The Burrows', but along the bridle path at the end of the track to a small coppice on a hill that overlooked both the Jones's property and mine. From this vantage point I had an unobstructed field of vision down to 'The Burrows', with all its out-buildings and barns, and a clear view of the courtyard and all its goings on.
Why, I hear you ask, should I spy on the very person who hired me? To be quite honest there was no real answer. I think in those early days on the case I just needed the fresh air to clear my head, and the walk to the coppice was one way of achieving that, plus a chance to observe the daily goings on at the farm. Ultimately I wanted to speak to Mavis Jones alone. Not that I mistrusted the motives of Ted Jones you understand, it was just that somehow I considered that another aspect on the story would provide me with a more fuller picture of their daughter Judy, and perhaps give me more of a clue as to where to start looking.
Signs of the Jones's new found wealth were already very much in evidence. The old Land Rover had gone, replaced with a shining new one; there was also a new Range Rover in the yard, and a satellite dish on the roof of the house. I didn't have to wait long before I saw some activity. Ted Jones emerged from one of the barns with the young lad I'd earlier established to be a hired farmhand. I watched as they both got into the Land Rover and drove off down the track. This was the opportunity I was looking for and I set off immediately down the hill, crossing quickly the one large meadows that lay between the coppice and the farm, and sending a few sheep and new born lambs scurrying in my wake.
I knocked on the door of the old farmhouse. Mavis Jones answered. She stared blankly at me at first, puzzlement in her eyes as she tried to figure out exactly who this stranger was stood on her doorstep. Then suddenly the penny dropped and her facial expression changed.
"Mr. Sherwood!" she exclaimed.
"Mrs. Jones!" I retorted.
"You looking for Ted?" she asked loudly and with a very unmistakable rural accent.
"I said I'd pop round sometime to collect a few photographs of your daughter. Is he in?" I asked and knowing full well he was out.
"Why no, you've just missed him! He's just popped into the village to get some chicken feed. But I've got everything ready for you. Come in, I'll get them for you," she said wiping her hands on her pinafore.
She'd obviously been in the middle of cooking something when I interrupted.
She led me to the lounge and left me there whilst she went away to collect the things I'd asked for. The place had been newly decorated, I could smell the fresh paint on the plaster between the old oak beams. The room was also full of new furniture, and with a huge wide screen digital television set in one corner. I sat down on the settee and waited. There was a photograph of a girl in school uniform on the mantle piece, and the usual array of family wedding snaps, elderly relatives and such like all about the place.
Mavis was not gone long, arriving with a photograph album and a few loose packets. She placed them all on the low coffee table and sat down beside me on the settee.
She selected the album, turned to a page near the end, and passed the book to me. There were four photographs on the selected page, all of the same young lady dressed in a bikini and living it up on a beach somewhere. She was a good looking lass, aged about eighteen with everything in the right places. She was a blonde, but in all the photographs her hair was wet and combed back behind the ears. She was lying on her back on a towel in the sand on one of them, sitting up on the towel on two more, and standing knee-deep in the water on the fourth. On the first three there was an empty towel laid out beside her on the beach. I recognised the young lady as the same girl as in the photograph above the mantle piece despite the bushier hairstyle and a few more added years in age.
"These were the last photos taken of her before she left us," Mavis Jones informed me. "They were taken on holiday in Benidorm in Spain. She can speak the language ever so well you know."
"Who was with her? Who took these photographs?" I asked, and pointing to the empty towel laid out alongside her on the sand.
"Oh, it was a friend she met out there. Judy went there on her own. On one of those 'Eighteen-Thirty Club' packages. We paid for her to go. It was our little present to her for passing her exams. She got Spanish A-level at college and we thought it would be nice to send her on a trip to Spain."
Mavis sorted through one of the loose packets and selected a single photograph. "I think that's who was with our Judy. Her name was Rachel if I remember correctly. They shared the same room together when they were out there," she said and handing me the photograph.
Rachel was a dark-haired girl, very much the same shape and build as Judy Jones, with the same swept back wet hair look and shapely body.
"You say you think this is the girl she was with?" I asked.
"I got these developed myself. Judy left her camera here with a film in. I just assumed it was her, that's all," she said.
A little baffled, I asked: "When exactly were these taken?"
"It was the end of August two years ago. Three years this coming summer. Judy was eighteen then and just left college. We wanted her to go on to university, but she changed her mind and wanted to get a job and start earning a bit of money. That was part of the reason she left. We only wanted the very best for her," she explained.
It was March now. I did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. The photographs were about two years and eight months old. On the face of it that didn't sound too bad. It could have been worse. Their daughter would be getting on for twenty-one now, but faces don't change much at that age.
I continued with my questioning. "So she left soon afterwards did she?" I asked.
"The week after she returned. She didn't want to stay here any longer. She had a blazing row with her father. I begged her to stay. We both wanted her to stay. But she just packed her bags and stormed off, and we haven't seen her since," she said, and for the first time starting to sound a little emotional over the whole issue.
"Did you inform the police at the time?" I asked.
"Yes, but they said there was nothing they could do. They said they get hundreds of missing persons reports every week, and because she was over eighteen there was very little they could do about it," Mavis explained with a shrug to her shoulders.
"Do you think the Spanish trip had anything to do with her leaving?" I queried, thinking there may be a link.
Mavis Jones gave the question some thought before answering: "It might have done, I just don't know. It was the first time our Judy had been away on her own. But she was unhappy here before that. We know that. She never did like the farm. She always wanted to be away from here and go to the big towns or cities. We were always arguing with her about it. She always said the place was dead around here. In the end we just couldn't persuade her to stay, and she just upped and went."
"What did her father think about it all?" I asked.
"He was very angry. But they were always at it, fighting and all that," she said.
"What physically? Did he hit her?" I felt I had to ask.
Mavis bit her lip. I waited for her to answer.
"Not when she was bigger," she answered finally, then after a little more thought added: "Judy's our only child, our daughter you see, and Ted did so much want a son to keep the farm going. He did hit her a few times when she little. But not hard. He used to get his belt to her whenever she was naughty. After that she just argued with him all the time. Ted loves her really and wants her back, that's the truth Mr. Sherwood. We both want her back."
I was starting to get the picture and was feeling a bit smug with myself to say the least. I'd visited many broken homes in the course of my duties, and you get to learn that people just don't up and leave on the spur of the moment. These things take time and build up over a number of years. The packing of the bags and the storming off was usually the last straw, coming at the end of a long chain of events. Nobody liked it when it came, but in the end the result was always the same.
"Can I take these?" I asked, and pointing to the album and the loose packets.
"Yes, I've sorted all these photos out for you. The album's all of our Judy. Do you think I can have it back though when you've finished?" she asked, and sounding a little attached to them.
"Why of course I will," I assured her.
Mavis gathered everything up and handed them to me. I returned the loose photograph of Rachel to the appropriate envelope, then had second thoughts and took them out and quickly thumbed through the pack. There were a few more of Rachel, some taken by a pool, others in what appeared to be their hotel room. But there was one that caught my eye. Rachel was stood in the arms of a boy outside a building in a main street. From his well tanned body and dark hair I surmised that he was Spanish, but he could have been British or any other nationality for all I knew.
I showed Mavis Jones the photograph. "Do you know who this is?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No, Judy didn't mention anyone else. But she did say they'd  met a couple of nice fellows at a night club. Perhaps he's one of them," she replied.
"Spanish were they?" I asked.
"Spanish I think. It was what she wanted to do; go out there and speak their language," said Mavis.
I collected everything together and stood up. I was finding myself getting too carried away with the Spanish holiday angle, and it might all prove to be totally irrelevant. I decided to take everything back to my cottage and think it through slowly.
I got up and offered her my hand. "Well I think I've got enough to be going on with. And don't worry Mrs. Jones, I'll find your Judy for you, I promise," I said and hiding my crossed fingers behind my back.
She smiled and answered simply: "Thank you Mr. Sherwood," and we shook hands.
My assurances seemed to please her, and I remember leaving her looking quite cheerful. But I must say at the time I wasn't feeling half as confident myself.
It was with much thought that I trundled my way back to my cottage, and to be quite honest with you, I was at a loss as what to do next.
Perhaps it was that feeling of being at a loss that triggered off my next move. Basically I knew that I was not going to find anything out by sitting around here, since all the action appeared to be in London. But those of you who know London and its parking problems, then you know it's much easier to leave the car at home and go by train. The problem was, the nearest station to me was some seventeen miles away, probably didn't have overnight parking, and the line only took you either to Cardiff in South Wales or up north somewhere, probably Liverpool or Manchester. Exactly where I had no idea, since I'd never travelled the line before.
Anyway, I came up with a much better solution. I decided to head for London via Birmingham. I knew a place where I could leave my car safely, and also catch a direct train to London whenever I wanted to. Even at off-peak times the trains ran once every hour and a half.
I telephoned Sandy to tell her I was coming. She was naturally delighted. I reckoned on doing a bit more work to the old cottage before setting off sometime around dusk. I told her that I would be there sometime between eight and nine o'clock that evening.

* * *

Just to confuse you, it was six o'clock that evening when I arrived at Sandy's flat. I was at least two hours early. Somehow my heart was not into doing anymore work on the cottage, so I left sometime around three o'clock.
Sandy opened the door as far as the security chain would allow and looked a little surprised to see me.
"Woody!" she exclaimed. "You're early!"
I just put on my best smile.
"You know me, always unpredictable," I told her.
Sandy opened up the door and I looked her up and down. Once more she was wearing just a dressing gown and had a towel wrapped about her head, but as I embraced her in the doorway I was relieved to discover that she had at least had time to dry herself down this time.
I had my travel bag with me. I tossed it into the room, and it slid across the floor past Sandy's bare feet. This time I'd come well prepared and had four sets of handcuffs and a small truncheon packed.
Stood in the open doorway, we kissed and embraced, and I opened out the front of her dressing gown to reveal those luscious, firm round breasts of hers. Still locked in an embrace, and with me fondling her tits, Sandy dragged me into the room and gave the door a sharp kick.
The door slammed noisily behind me.
Our lips parted and I tweaked a nipple. "I see you've got yourself ready for me then," I suggested.
Sandy chuckled. "Come on in Woody," she told me, then turned and headed for the lounge.
I followed Sandy into the lounge. In front of the settee was a low coffee table, and to my surprise the surface was covered in bondage gear. There were a pair of handcuffs, a ball-gag, two longish lengths of white rope, two clothes pegs, a roll of tape and scissors. There was also something else on there that looked a little out of place. It was a small drinking glass that had been filled with water and then frozen. By the looks of it, it had just been taken out of the freezer.
"So you were getting yourself ready for me?" I remarked, and pointing to all the gear on the table. Though I must admit, I was uncertain as to the use of the glass of ice.
Sandy plonked herself down on the settee and I sat down alongside. She held my hand.
"Sorry Woody, but this stuff's not for you," she confessed, and pointing to the items on the table, "I wasn't expecting you for another couple of hours, so I was hoping to get in a little practice for tomorrow night," she explained.
I assumed 'practice for tomorrow night' had something to do with Hugo's BDSM club where Sandy worked on occasions. But with all her many years experience I was a bit surprised to hear that she was in need of some practice.
Of course I was naturally curious.
"Practice for what?" I asked.
Sandy's face gave a little knowing smile.
"Self bondage," she informed me.
I was stunned.
I put it to her: "What? I thought the men at the club paid good money to tie you up themselves."
Sandy shook her head.
"No, not this client Woody," she explained, "this one's a voyeur and never touches. His scene is to watch us girls applying a little self bondage to themselves, then get themselves out of it. The problem is, he travels about a lot, Europe mainly, and he doesn't come to the club very often. But when he does, he usually has a regular girl, but Doreen can't make it tomorrow night, so Hugo's asked me to step in. The trouble is, what I'm expected to do is a set routine, always the same, and something I've never done it before. So I wanted I'd get in a bit of practice first."
I guess it all made sense, but I was still curious as to the ice-filled glass. I picked it up and took a closer look. Now I could see that a small key had been frozen into the ice.
I was about to ask what all this was about, but Sandy enlightened me. "That's the key to the handcuffs. The theory is, once I've got all this gear on, then I can't get out of it until the ice melts," she explained.
"And you were about to do this when the doorbell rang?" I surmised.
Sandy nodded her head. "I was reckoning on the ice melting by eight o'clock, and I'd be free and waiting for you. But I guess I don't have time for it any more," she bemoaned.
I saw the grimace and decided not to spoil her fun. "Look Sandy, don't let me stop you," I told her. "You just carry on with what you were doing, and I'll take the part as the voyeur. I can rate you on your performance, and perhaps give a few tips along the way."
Somewhat relieved, Sandy cheered up immediately, and that big beaming smile of hers returned.
"Then you don't mind if I carry on then Woody?" she asked.
I returned the smile.
"No, I don't mind at all Sandy. Just carry on as if I'd not turned up," I told her.
From the arm of the settee Sandy retrieved a piece of paper. She handed it to me.
"That's the client's notes. I was reading them just before you rang. That's what I'm expected to do," she explained.
I unfolded the note and scanned the contents. It was all hand written and was an itemised list of every move. There was also something very interesting about the note. For the second time that day I was looking at a very neat and scripted handwriting. In fact, I would have gone as far as to say this was Judy Jones's own handwriting.
This prompted me to ask: "Did your client write this?"
Sandy looked to me and raised and eyebrow.
"Yes," she answered simply.
"And he's definitely a man?" I added.
Sandy looked bemused and nodded her head.
"He's most definitely a man," she confirmed, then added herself: "Why?"
I guess I was getting paranoid and was still thinking about the case. I tried to think of an excuse.
"Oh, nothing Sandy," I told her, "it's just this very neat handwriting, and from experience, writing this good is usually done by a female."
Sandy chuckled.
"Woody, you're retired now, forget about all the detective work," she said.
I realised that I was being stupid and did just that. Somehow the case was getting to me before I'd even started. I settled myself down on the settee and read item one to Sandy.
"Well, to start with it says: 'The girl strips naked before me.' I guess you'd better get started."
Sandy rose from the settee to stand on the carpet facing me. She unwound the towel from around her head and shook her long ginger hair free of tangles. There was a little spray from the remaining dampness from the shower, but other than a few droplets on my face there was nothing there to worry about. She tossed the towel to one side, then slowly began to remove her dressing gown. She undid the belt, then let the robe fall from her shoulders and glide gracefully to the floor. She then stooped down, picked it up, and tossed it away to join the towel.
Sandy, now completely naked, straightened herself up then looked towards me. "Well, stop ogling, the girl is stripped naked, what comes next?" she asked.
I must admit I was staring at her fanny. Sandy was a natural redhead, and a great mass of curly red hair graced her mound. I pulled myself together and looked to item two on the list.
"Item two reads: 'Girl sits down on floor and ties ankles to thighs on both legs'," I said to her.
I leant forward and picked up the two lengths of white rope from off the table. Sandy had seated herself on the carpet and I tossed the ropes to her. She caught them and separated the ropes so that she just held one in her hands. She then folded up her left leg, tied one end about the ankle, and passed the rest about her upper thigh. Then, with a series of tugs and weaves, she drew the heel of her foot up to touch the back of the thigh. She then knotted everything tightly into place.
When she was done I clapped my hands.
"Very good," I said, then queried: "I thought you said that you'd never done this before?"
Sandy looked up and glared at me.
"Never to myself before," she informed me, "but it's not the first time I've ever been tied like this before, so I've a fair idea of what to do."
I agreed and nodded my head.
"Sorry for interrupting. Don't listen to me Sandy. Just carry on," I said apologetically.
Anyway, I was quiet after that, and happy enough just to sit and be entertained. Sandy took up the second rope, bent her right knee, attached one end to her ankle, then set about roping the leg together. When she was done she rocked backwards to lie on her back with knees doubled-up in the air.
"What next?" she asked from her prone position.
I read out item three.
"It gets interesting from now on," I informed her. "It involves medical tape and a couple of clothes pegs."
I collected the items from off the table and tossed them to her, including a small pair of scissors which I assumed were in there to cut the tape.
I then read out item three in full: "The girl attaches the pegs to her labia lips and tapes them to her inner thighs."
Sandy collected the clothes pegs from off the floor where they had landed.
"Men ask for this all the time at the club," she informed me, "so don't say anything, I know what I am doing."
I didn't say a word. I told you I was content simply to sit and watch, and judging by the performance so far, I guessed tomorrow night's client would be feeling just the same.
Sandy, pulling herself upright to rock unsteadily on her backside, parted her moist labia lips with her fingers and attached the clothes pegs. There were two noticeable little grimaces there as the pegs gripped the folds of tender pink flesh, but like all true professionals, she carried on without a word of complaint. Next, after cutting away two fairly long lengths of tape from off the roll, she parted her legs wide and adhered  the pegs to her inner thighs.
From where I was seated I could see right up Sandy's open fanny, and I licked my lips. This was a delicious sight.
Sandy saw where my eyes were focused and berated me.
"You're ogling again Woody. You're meant to be helping me by reading out the list," she said and calling upwards from the floor.
Reluctantly I averted my eyes and returned my concentration to the piece of paper.
"We've got to item four," Sandy reminded me as I scanned the list.
I looked to the list.
"Ha! Yes, item four. It's the ball-gag this time. It says: 'Girl fastens ball-gag to mouth."
I collected the ball-gag and tossed it down onto the floor.
Sandy rocked backwards and rolled over onto one side. I guess it was easier to work like that. She collected the gag, placed the big red ball in her mouth, then strapped it in place behind her head.
I waited until she was finished before speaking.
"Well, aren't you going to ask what item five is?" I teased.
"Mmmm," came the muffled reply.
I began to chuckle at the situation. For an act of self bondage Sandy was doing a fine job. I decided not to tease any longer and let her carry on with the practice session.
"Well, item five is quite simple," I told her, "all it says is: 'Girl handcuffs hands behind her back'."
I checked on the handcuffs. The bracelets were already open and there was a spare key on the table. Obviously there in case of emergency. I tossed the handcuffs to Sandy to land on the floor between her legs. She rocked forwards and with an outstretched hand retrieve them. After a bit of fumbling she locked one bracelet about a wrist, then, rocking backwards and rolling over onto her side, she secured the second bracelet around her other wrist.
I listened to the clicks as she squeezed the bracelet into position, then, as silence fell, I clapped my hands in appreciation.
"What a performance," I told her. "That was a brilliant piece of self bondage. Do that again tomorrow night and I bet the man will be over the moon."
"Mmmm," came the reply.
I had no idea what it meant. But I guess it was something to do with 'hurry up and carry on reading the note'.
I looked to the hand written note. There were just two more items on the list. I read the last but one instruction to her: 'Girl lies on her back with legs open wide and tries to set herself free," I said.
Sandy, on hearing what I had to say, rolled over onto her back, opened out her legs wide so that I could gaze right up her open fanny, then began to writhe and squirm in a simulated effort to get free.
I must admit I was content to let Sandy struggle about on the carpet for quite sometime. With her ankles bound tightly to her thighs, and with those two clothes pegs displaying the soft, pink flesh of her wide open fanny, I guess I was content just to sit and listen to her moans and groans.
I must admit too, that it was a struggle on my own part to take my eyes away from the mouth watering sight that greeted me, but eventually I did so, and I return my gaze to the itemised list.
I read out the last item to Sandy: "It says finally: 'Girl rolls over on stomach, I extract the ice cube from the glass and place it in her hand. When it melts she is now in a position to get free."
I turned the glass upside down, knocked out the block of ice on the table and rose from the settee. In the meantime, Sandy, as instructed, had rolled herself over to lie on her stomach. I placed the small cylindrical block of ice in the palm of one hand, and she gripped it tightly.
With the temperature of the room, the hot hand, and the length of time the glass had been out of the freezer, the ice was beginning to melt rapidly. Almost immediately water began to drip from the tightly clenched fist. Here it formed a little puddle in the centre of Sandy's back before trickling sideways at the waist and down onto the carpeted floor below.
I estimated ten to fifteen minutes was all that was needed to melt away the ice, so I moved to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Knowing Sandy, I guessed that a mug of hot steaming coffee would be the first thing she'd ask the moment she was free.
As I returned to the lounge and carrying two mugs of coffee with me, Sandy was just untying a rope from about a leg. She looked up and smiled.
"Boy, could I just do with a cup of coffee after all that," she exclaimed.
I placed the mugs on the table and resumed my seat on the settee.
"Don't make yourself too comfortable," I told her, "I've got my own list of items to go through next."
Sandy chuckled.
"And I bet that includes the bedroom, four sets of handcuffs and a truncheon," she said with a glint to her eye.
I smiled back.
"However did you guess?" I told her.

* * *

End of Chapter Two