Melinda and the Master Read online

  It was six o'clock. She had already bathed and washed her hair. Remembering Walter's specific instructions, she had carefully removed the nail varnish from her fingers and toes. Now she sat down at her dressing table and meticulously removed all traces of her make-up, going over her eyes twice to be sure of stripping every trace. When this was done, she took out the small stud earrings from the pierced lobes of her ears and took off her rings. She took off her wedding ring last of all.

  It was a strange feeling. She felt free, liberated, unmarried. But at the same time she knew her freedom was born in an act of singular submission. She was unbound only to be, she knew, bound more securely than ever before.

  Exactly what was about to happen to her she did not know. But her imagination had run riot all week. Wherever she had gone, whatever she had done, Walter Hammerton's eyes had followed her, boring into her, fuelling her speculation as to what he planned for her.

  She had not tried to make love to her husband again. How he had done it she did not know, but clearly Walter had planted the idea in Mark's mind that he should not, must not, have physical relations with his wife. In fact Mark's attitude to her had been altogether remote. Even this morning, when she had attempted to say goodbye with more than usual ardour, bearing in mind he was not to see her again for a year, he merely pecked her on the cheek and went off to work with no more than a casual farewell.

  Strangely too, though Melinda had previously practised and enjoyed masturbation, her attempts in the last week had proved totally abortive; despite all the provocation of her encounter with The Woman in White, an image she found impossible to forget. She had lain on the bed several times with every intention of bringing herself off as she saw that naked, white-painted body, felt that heavy breast, looked into those passive, pliant eyes; but she had no success. Her first tentative movements, her fingers straying between her thighs, nudging exploratively at her clitoris, had led not to tension and excitation, but to a feeling of lethargy and relaxation. A short circuit in the mechanism. The first couple of times Melinda had thought nothing of it, but after the fifth or sixth attempt she had begun to suspect that her husband was not the only one under the influence of Walter Hammerton's mesmeric powers.

  Stepping out of the towelling robe she was wearing after her bath, Melinda picked up the black cotton knickers and stepped into them. She pulled them up over her hips and smoothed them into place. They were a very old-fashioned design, wide at the sides, and low cut, the elasticated waistband seating on her natural waist. Her whole navel was covered at the front, and her buttocks were covered at the back. The bra was similarly full, hiding her breasts completely, its straps thick and functional.

  Melinda looked at herself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe door. She was used to wearing sleek, minimal modern lingerie; satin, silk and lace concoctions cut to display and flatter. This underwear looked as though it came from a prison.

  Quickly, she slipped into the tracksuit. This too was not cut to flatter, but at least did not appear as institutional as the underwear. She poked her feet into the shoes. Despite the fact she had given no one her size, everything, including the shoes, was a perfect fit.

  She looked in the mirror again checking she had not missed anything. That she wore 'nothing of her own'. She looked at her face, scrubbed clean. She looked young, innocent even. There was nothing innocent about what was going on in her head.

  Downstairs she took the house keys from her handbag and a ten pound note for the taxi. She looked at her watch. Damn, she had nearly forgotten her watch. She unstrapped it and tucked it away in a drawer of Mark's desk. Her heart was beating rapidly in alarm at her mistake.

  It was six-thirty as she walked out of the house and locked the front door, posting the keys back through the letterbox. As she heard them drop on to the mat she felt a shiver of excitement she could not control.

  Already everything was different. She could never remember going out with nothing, without a handbag, without keys, without even her purse. It was an extraordinary feeling. Wasn't this what they did to you in prison? Stripped you off, showered you down, gave you clothes to wear? It made her feel somehow exposed and incredibly vulnerable.

  At the end of the street she picked up a cab, the ten pound note crumpled in her hand. She gave the driver the address on the card.

  Sitting back in the black leather seat, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. Her excitement was so intense, she felt almost alienated from herself, as if the body sitting in the cab in these anonymous clothes did not belong to her. She stared out of the window but saw nothing of what passed by.

  She sat with her legs crossed. It was some minutes before she noticed the discomfort. The soft sensitive flesh between her legs began to itch. Rapidly the itch turned to a sting, as if she was sitting on a bed of nettles. She uncrossed her legs and tried, surreptitiously so the driver would not see the manoeuvre, to pull the crotch of the knickers out of the crease of her sex. But it didn't help. The stinging increased. Only then did she notice her nipples. They felt sore too: the same itchy feeling turning to a sharp stinging. They had puckered and were hard. She could not resist the temptation to scratch them but that only made matters worse, increasing the contact between the material of the bra and her tender skin.

  She realised it was something in the underwear that was doing this to her. She hadn't felt anything untoward when she'd first put them on, but it was obvious now that the crotch of the knickers and the cups of the bra were not normal cotton.

  She squirmed on the seat, trying to ease herself into a more comfortable position. In the rear-view mirror she could see the eyes of the taxi driver watching her with curiosity. She wriggled like a cat on heat. Nothing worked. No position eased the discomfort.

  Well, at least she could undo the bra, she thought. Trying to shift into a corner out of range of the rear-view mirror she reached behind her back under the loose tracksuit top to the clip of the bra. Her fingers felt the familiar hook and eyes and deftly, with years of experience, performed the little pinching movement that usually resulted in the elasticated strap of the bra springing free. Nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. The hooks refused to disengage from the eyes. Melinda repeated the action, straining her arm up behind her back. But the bra was firmly locked in place. Short of stripping down and pulling the whole thing off her shoulders there was nothing she could do.

  The irritation was getting worse. It was making her hot. She could think of nothing else, nothing but the stinging sensation in her nipples and labia. Between her legs it was even worse; the crotch of the knickers seemed to cling to her, working its way up between her puffy lips until she felt it was right inside her, the stinging spreading right up into her cunt itself.

  She was hot. Sweat was running down her neck into her bra. Beads of sweat ran down her face. If she had been wearing make-up it would have run.

  She tried a different tactic. Instead of squirming she tried to remain perfectly still, hoping this would reduce the friction of the material against her flesh. It didn't work. The stillness only seemed to increase the pain.

  It felt like a thousand bee stings, a throbbing, poisonous, feverish pain. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensation changed, changed from the angry heat of pain to the pulsing tempo of pleasure. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, the line between pain and pleasure crossed so rapidly, that Melinda moaned aloud.

  'You all right, luv?' the driver shouted back to her.

  'Yes, fine,' she managed to reply. She grabbed the handle on the side of the taxi for grim life, as her body drowned in sensation. Her sex felt as though, instead of stinging, a thousand bees were kissing it, crawling over it, applying the gentle touch of their fragile wings to the most delicate of her nerves. They touched everything: her cunt; her clitoris; even the corona of her arse. Her nipples too sung with pleasure.

  She reached behind her back, found the material of the knickers and pulled them tight into the crease of her sex,
wanting more contact now, not less. As the material bit into her labia she gasped, trying to gag the sound but not at all sure she'd succeeded.

  'Oh my god...'

  'Do you want me to stop, luv?' the driver asked, seeing her face beaded with sweat, her body squirming involuntarily on the leather seat.

  'No... no...'

  That was all she could manage before the orgasm flooded through her body, rolled her eyes back and blanked out the world, as wave after wave of hot sweet pleasure broke over the tortured, tenderised flesh of her sex.

  When she opened her eyes again, when the long, seemingly infinite orgasm had freed her finally, the taxi was stationary.

  'You sure you're all right?' the driver asked, turning round in his seat and looking concerned.

  'Yes. Sorry. Bit faint,' she mumbled. 'I'm fine now. You can go on.'

  'This is it.'

  'What?'

  'We're here.'

  'Here?'

  'The address you gave me.'

  'Oh. Oh right.'

  Regaining her senses, Melinda stumbled out of the cab and handed the driver the ten pound note. It was crumpled into a ball and distinctly damp.

  'Keep the change,' she said.

  'Thanks. You sure you're all right? You look a little shaky.'

  'I'm fine,' she replied, turning to look at the house he had deposited her outside. The cab pulled away, the sound of its noisy diesel engine gradually fading into the distance.

  As she had expected, Walter Hammerton's London house, like his country estate, was vast. A long, sweeping gravel driveway lay behind tall wrought-iron railings. Beyond, a beautifully manicured garden - lawns interspersed with shrubberies and carefully planned flowerbeds surrounded the house, which was largely hidden from the road by three or four mature and majestic oak trees.

  An entryphone was mounted on the side of the railings beside the wrought-iron gates. Melinda pressed its chrome button. Immediately, she heard a whirr of electric motors. She looked up to see the security camera mounted at the other side of the gates swivelling round in her direction. The lens zoomed in.

  'Yes,' a female voice said from the speaker of the entryphone.

  'Melinda Elliot,' she said, looking up into the camera.

  The entryphone went dead. Another, much louder, whirr of machinery filled the air, and the two wrought-iron gates began to open, swinging inwards.

  Melinda's heart was beating fast again. The release she had experienced in the taxi had only temporarily dulled the soreness between her legs and at her breasts. They still throbbed, making her intensely aware of her body, and in particular of its sexual components. She knew, of course, it was no accident, no chance allergic reaction to the material of the underwear. The lining of the bra and knickers had been coated with something - she had absolutely no idea what - that had produced these feelings. It was deliberate. The irritation had narrowed her consciousness down, and made her capable of feeling and thinking of nothing, on the way to the house, but her sex. From the moment she had stepped out of her house she had been under the Master's control. What she was reduced to in the back of the cab was, she knew, a measure of what her life was about to become.

  Which did not mean she hesitated. She walked through the gates confidently, wanting whoever was operating the camera to see that she was not afraid. As soon as she was clear of their track, they reversed direction and closed with a clung of iron that made Melinda start. Despite the finality of the noise, she did not look back, though she could not suppress a momentary panic. She increased her stride and the panic abated. She was committed, there was no turning back.

  The gravel crunched under the thin suede shoes. She spotted two more security cameras mounted in the shrubbery along the driveway. They moved to follow her as she passed. As the drive curved round to the left she saw the whole house for the first time, an eighteenth-century double-fronted mansion with a columned portico. The house was painted white, with an ancient wisteria dripping across it in a diagonal stripe. Trees and shrubbery hid most of its depth, but it had obviously been massively extended at the back. The panelled front door was painted black, with a highly polished brass door knocker in the shape of a lion's head, its individually crafted teeth holding the ring of brass.

  As she approached, Melinda glanced at her watch, only to be greeted by the sight of her bare wrist. There was no way to know whether she was exactly on time. But it was, she estimated, five to seven.

  She stood in front of the black door under the portico. The moment she had waited for, the moment that had seemed so far away all week, had, at last, arrived. Her fevered imagination had supplied her with a hundred scenarios of what lay behind this door. Now she was to be faced with reality. Without hesitation, she reached up to the lion's head and rapped on the door twice. Her heart was knocking just as hard inside her chest.

  It was only a few seconds before the door swung silently open.

  'Come in,' the woman who opened it said.

  'I'm Melinda—'

  'I know who you are,' the woman cut in chidingly.

  She was over thirty, Melinda thought, and strikingly attractive. Her long, very black hair was pinned up into a neat chignon on the back of her head to emphasise her slim, sinewy neck. The neck held her head high. Her face was strong, marked by high cheekbones, dark brown eyes below thick black eyebrows and a complexion that was flawless. She wore the expression of someone who had seen and done everything, for whom the world held no surprises. She was the same height as Melinda and her figure was equally slender. The tight, knee-length skirt she wore covered an iron-flat navel and a well-rounded bottom. A simple white blouse delineated an ample bust. Under it, Melinda could see the outlines of a lacy bra.

  'Follow me...' she said, not sparing Melinda more than a glance.

  They walked into a large vestibule floored in white marble, inset with black slate diamonds at the corners of each tile. A curved double staircase, its balustrades carved from wood, led up to the first floor. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung above their heads.

  The woman led the way under the arch of the staircase, and down a long marble-floored corridor. She was wearing black court shoes with remarkably high heels which clacked loudly on the marble floor, in contrast to Melinda's flat heels, which made no noise at all. Her legs were sheathed in sheer black nylon and were long and shapely, her ankles pinched, her calves neat and slim, the line of her thighs clear under the clinging black skirt. Her hips rolled from side to side as she walked.

  They were in a long courtyard now, where the back of the original house had been extended and attached to what was clearly once a stable block. The courtyard between the stables and house had been glassed in to form what was virtually a huge conservatory. The whole area was littered with exotic plants, flourishing in what was nearly a hothouse atmosphere.

  The woman reached a small door at the nearest end of the long, narrow building that had formed the stables. It appeared now to be the only entrance. To the side of the door was the panel of a computer lock. The woman punched in four numbers and the door sprung open.

  Inside, Melinda saw a long corridor, its floor covered in the sort of wood flooring used in gymnasiums, its walls painted white. At regular intervals down the length of the passage were a series of doors, each with a computer lock identical to the one outside. On each door a number had been painted in a delicate white script.

  The woman strode right down to the end of the building, her high heels echoing once more on the flooring. Melinda followed, her mind blank, her heart in her mouth, the incredible tension of anticipation making her tremble slightly.

  Near the end of the corridor, the woman stopped in front of one of the doors. Its white number read '20'. She punched the computer panel and the door sprung open.

  'In here,' the woman said, standing aside to let Melinda enter first.

  The room was completely bare, its walls painted white, its floor covered in the sort of fibre usually used for front door mats. There was one o
ther door in the room, but no window. The only furniture was a small three-legged wooden stool no more than a foot high. Above the door they had entered, a video camera was mounted in the corner, just below the ceiling. The room was illuminated by a fluorescent light panel set in the high ceiling. In fact, the room was higher than it was long. It was narrow too, no more than six or seven feet wide.

  The woman closed the door behind them. It made a heavy clunking sound as the lock engaged.

  'Take your clothes off,' the woman said. Her voice was hard and unsympathetic.

  Melinda's mind was not working properly. She felt as though she was experiencing everything at one remove, so far was all this from normal reality. It took some seconds for the woman's words to sink in.

  'Do as I say...' the woman prompted crossly.

  'Sorry,' Melinda said, hastening to obey. She pulled the top of the tracksuit over her head. She took her shoes off. The coir matting prickled the soles of her feet. Quickly she pulled the tracksuit bottoms down to her ankles and stepped out of them. The woman's eyes did not leave her for one second, scanning every inch of her body critically.

  'The bra's stuck,' Melinda said, suddenly remembering her experience in the taxi as she was about to reach behind her back to unclip it.

  'Don't speak unless you're spoken to,' the woman rebuked. She stepped up to Melinda and pulled the straps of the bra down over her shoulders. Melinda co-operated, pulling her arms out of each strap in turn. The woman tugged the bra down until it fell to Melinda's waist, freeing her breasts. 'Now down over your legs,' she said as if talking to a stupid child.

  Melinda pulled the bra over her hips. It fell to her ankles. She wanted to ask if the clip was deliberately made not to undo, but dared not. She knew the answer anyway.

  The woman was looking at her breasts. Melinda was expecting them to be red and raw after whatever irritant they had been exposed to, but when she glanced down at them they appeared perfectly normal.