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Carly’s hold over me is something supernatural; a magnetism stronger than anything else I’ve ever experienced. She’s all I can think about and I just have to,need tomake her mine if it’s the last thing I do.
As soon as I get home, I take a long cold shower. I need to cool off and gain some perspective on things. Freezing jets of water spill around me, helping to heal my troubled mind.
After I’ve finished drying off, I wrap a towel round my waist and go downstairs to the living room. Picking up my phone from the table, I call Tony Strickland, my private investigator. I’ve worked with Tony loads of times, and favour his services over all the others because I know he’s always discreet.
A frisson of nerves pass through me as I pace up and down the room, cursing the ceiling and begging him to fucking answer.
On the fourth ring, he finally picks up. “All right, Boss? Long time no hear.”
“Are you alone?” I hiss.Screw the pleasantries.
“Yeah. I’m at home, watching telly. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to run a check on a woman named Carly Singleton. She’s thirty-six years old and lives in Battersea”
I hear the rustle of paper as Strickland takes out his trusty old notepad. “Hmm… Singleton, eh?”
“Yes,” I nod. “Carly Singleton. I want you to find out everything you can about her: who she lives with, who her friends are, where she works, where she went to school, any boyfriends, who she’s currently seeing. I want all of this information by tomorrow night, do you understand?”
“Loud and clear, Boss.” He crunches something hard and I wince.He’s eating those damn cough sweets again.
Holding the receiver away from my ear, I continue: “If you can promise to have all of this for me by tomorrow night, I’ll pay you double your usual fee.”
“Wow, that’s generous,” Strickland quips. “You must be psychic. My car needs a new gear box so that money will come in handy. However, for the turnaround time you’re asking, I’ll need a bit more information about Carly. Have you got anything else for me other than just her name?”
“Hold that thought.” Reaching for the table, I pull out Tara’s questionnaire and reel off everything I know so far, including her address and medical history.
“Okay great, that will do for starters,” Strickland says when I’ve finished. “I’ll get on the case tonight and have something for you by tomorrow, I promise.”
“Brilliant. I look forward to it.”
I hang up the phone and catch my breath. I glance around the room furtively. Everything looks different: the marble-mantled fireplace, the oak flooring, the sash windows fitted with venison blinds. I feel as if I have been reborn. For the first time in ages, I have something to look forward to.
What the hell has Carly done to me?
In a daze, I step into the corridor and head for my study. For a moment, I stand in the doorway, my mind consumed by loving thoughts. Then, tightening my towel, I stride across the room to the full-length mirror and stare at my reflection. I’m not exactly handsome—far from it in fact. My nose is far too large, my face scarred by a lifetime of angst and grief. My eyes are dark and murderous-looking.
I look like a fucking killer.
Raising my arms, I study my broad shoulders, bulging biceps and rock-solid six-pack. Despite my many short-comings, I’ve got to admit that my body is damn near perfect. I can’t imagine Carly having any objection to what I see before me.
Slowly, I let the towel drop to the floor. Even flaccid, my cock looks huge.
With a grim smile, my mind drifts back to my childhood. On the whole, my formative years were happy ones. Growing up in Victorian London, I lived the kind of affluent lifestyle many can only dream of. My parents had a big house and gave me all the luxury money can buy. Even so, I never felt happy with my appearance. At school, the other children teased me mercilessly, calling me the ‘Little Hunchback.’ Back then, I never stood up for myself and allowed their cruel taunts to knock my confidence into the ground.
As a result, I spent my first nineteen years convinced that no woman would ever love me. I truly believed my ugliness prevented me from ever findingthe one.
That all changed on my twentieth birthday when a group of friends took me to Soho and arranged for a prostitute to ‘make a man of me.’
I’ll never forget my first sexual encounter. Franny Ward was her name. She was very much older than me, perhaps in her forties, but at the time I thought she was beautiful.
Today when I call to mind her bad skin and heavily made-up face, I suspect most of it was smoke and mirrors, but nonetheless, I’ll always remember her as being beautiful.
After all, Franny was my first.
I can remember it like it was yesterday—entering her squalid chambers in Soho, wondering if I was doing the right thing. I remember vividly the Turkish rugs and the orange glow of candles.
I remember Franny’s eyes scrutinising me inch by inch, making me feel like a horse at an auction house. I remember her stripping me naked and studying me methodically, before telling me bluntly: “Your face is a disappointment, but your cock is an asset to be treasured. What you have between your legs is so magnificent you will never be short of female company. With the proper training, I can show you how to bring great pleasure to women.”
