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Instead of more repartee, more witty comebacks, Preston scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over the desk.
“Here, you’ll want to be there at eight o’clock tomorrow evening, no earlier and certainly not a second later.”
“And what’s this?” I snapped, staring at the address on the paper, completely puzzled.
“What you’ve been waiting for, I suppose. I hope your weekend is clear of plans because this will keep you tied up until Sunday evening.”
His choice of words were gauged just right to maximize the effect. I’d never felt my emotions so efficiently dispensed with.
“Tomorrow? That’s Thursday,” I reminded him, while making the mistake of gazing into his eyes. Just one long and solemn stare was sufficient to put me back into my submissive place.
“I’ve taken care of your absence here at work. All you need to do is show up.”
“And what is this? What’s going to happen?”
“Let it be a surprise.”
“And what should I bring?”
“Just yourself, and your mind set on surrender—perhaps with more poise and dedication than you’ve shown me today. I trust you’ll recover your good grace.” The last was spoken as a threat.
“I’m sorry about that. This game makes me a little crazed.”
“I won’t always be this easy on you, Skye. You were out of line today; your behavior inexcusable and grounds for punishment. If you weren’t so damned charming you’d be naked now, tied over my desk and caned. Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, sir.” My whole body shook at the very thought. I was totally cowed by the time I left him. While returning to my desk, I was certain the entire office was staring at me, understanding not just the game we played in secret but my humble position within it.
***
42 North St.
I arrived on the street, parking my car in front of the small brick marker with a brass address placard; it looked aptly like a tombstone. I couldn’t see the house from the road… all those damn trees. But the neighborhood suggested an estate on a grand scale. I wouldn’t know that, however, for at least fifteen minutes. I planned to wait until two minutes to eight, when I would finally drive up the white gravel path.
The day was fading rapidly, predictable for early autumn. There was a hint of a chill in the air, or maybe it was just my own chilling panic affecting me. Another adventure awaited. Sometimes I felt lost in a maze from which I could not escape. Sometimes I very much wanted to be free of this bondage, and other times the maze itself was pure freedom. I couldn’t decide which, as I waited for my next trial to begin. Were these trials? Tests? Or were they simply events concocted by Preston Lockhart to please his kinky sexual tastes? With no immediate answer, that was one to mull for a while.
But then mulling would have to wait; the hour arrived, the minutes just prior to eight p.m., and my little car pulled away from the curb, slinking its way up the drive. I stopped the car in the yard, a bit deflated to find the glorious romantic estate of my dreams a little less splendid than I expected. It was grand, all right, but a bit rundown. The two-story stucco home had stone casings around the windows and doors in an Old World French design that was actually quite appealing, perhaps even erotic, if I could forgo my dreams of pristine palatial elegance. The whitewashed house was a bit dingy now, and the grey slate roof needed replacing since most of it was covered with moss and several tiles were missing. I could see that the overgrown yard needed trimming, and in general, the house and its grounds had been neglected for some time. But despite my initial disappointment, the setting seemed to match the mood of sexual debauchery that I expected of my weekend. Warm yellow light shone through the window drapery making me curious to see what was inside. I might have studied the structure and its surroundings a good deal longer, but my appraisal had to be quick. Eight on the dot, I was at the door, knocking—my fright setting my knees to knocking as my knuckles knocked on the wood.
A man wearing black pleated pants, a white shirt and a gold vest—looking a bit like a butler, a bit like an old-fashioned gentlemen—answered the door with a crisp formal air of command.
“And you belong to?” he asked me directly. No, “Hello” or “Welcome”, or “Please come right in”
“Preston Lockhart,” I promptly answered.
“Late is no way to start your weekend here,” he brusquely scolded me. “Property enters through the service entrance.”
He was about to close the door in my face.
“And where’s that?” I jumped in.
He nodded to his left. “The side of the house.”
The house was atypically placed on the property, turned 90 degrees to the right. Instead of facing the street, it faced woods on one side and backed into them on the other. While one ‘side’ of the house faced the street, the side of the house he referred to was adjacent to a driveway that swept around the back of the property. Although there were neighbors close by, it was unlikely that they could see much of the well-hidden house.
I walked around the corner, finding the only door on that side. It was three steps down from the yard, suggesting that it entered the basement or kitchen. There was a yellow light overhead, illuminating the small space with a dismal eerie glow.
A woman answered, eyeing me up and down, through a pair of thick glasses.
“You haven’t been here before, have you?” she decided. She was a big woman, but not without a womanly shape.
