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best to appeal to
it, her options in Norfolk were narrow and she was treading water
while gaining valuable relevant CV points in market research.
Again, he thought, an illustration of that naivety, for psychology
seemed to him an ideal base from which to hawk useless shit to the
doltish masses.
    She was currently
employed gathering data for an infant-milk company, with specific
instructions to target only those women clearly in the baby-making
field at the moment. In the bluntness of youth, she had told him
she habitually found it hard to spot the bull’s eye, as, “everyone
over 32, maybe 35, looks the same to me”. And a breathing space…
“No offence.”
    Alasdair had
fleetingly wondered why she hadn’t simply deleted the words from
her message, as this was not during one of their Skype chats (two
so far), but ultimately he recognised it as a vital part of their
emerging power play; it was important that he knew his place. In
those chats, though, he had been unquestionably in charge, and how
ambrosial an experience it was to observe, with the dispassionate
air of a true dom, her descent from self-assured and in command to
placid and domesticated little girl. And again, he licked his
lips.
    As the distinctive
blips and bloops of the Skype ringtone echoed around his tiny
lounge, he had momentarily been convinced that she wouldn’t answer.
This was a frequent occurrence with first-time calls, and he was
girded for this, although desperate to hear her voice, which he
assumed would be devoid of the idiosyncratic Norfolk vowel sounds.
If they’d ever existed, he suspected they would have been smoothed
out by the university years. He smiled as he heard the excited,
rather breathy tones that eventually greeted him.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry,
Gentle, erm, Alasdair. I thought you’d been distracted and I
strolled off to feed Toots… erm, my, erm, cat.” There were no
images, their having opted for a voice-only conversation, which
thoroughly suited Alasdair, who by this point had been topping up
for 52 hours straight, and was definitively in the zone where he
sounded better than he looked.
    “Are yer wet, lassie?”
He knew his voice, deep and resonant, to be an unmistakable crowd
pleaser, and his words were greeted by an emphatically
unsophisticated series of giggles, accompanied, he visualised quite
clearly, by a slight squirming brought about by a blend of
trepidation and passion.
    “Are yer wet?” he
repeated, slower this time, same tone though – calm, in
command.
    The giggles died down.
His breaths were unhurried and casually measured, a counterpoint to
her shallower, lighter not-quite-pants but getting there.
    Weeks later, as they
lay, strangely separate considering the ardour of their recent
coupling, in that king-sized pine bed of his, her wrists and ankles
freshly released from the leather restraints that were a permanent
attachment there – indeed, his anticipation of this had been his
reason for purchasing that specific spindle headboard – she
confessed that she hadn’t actually heard much of the detail of his
words.
    Skype had shrouded his
salacious mumblings in odd, Tardis-like pulses of noise, but the
tone – serious, imposing, dominant – had come through clearly. It
was this that had brought her, with the aid of a small gold-tone
vibrator that lived in her tartan purse, to a fairly speedy and
intense orgasm, irrespective of the content. He could, she told
him, have been reciting the menu from the local Chinese to her, so
compelling was the timbre of his words. She hoped it had been as
powerful for him.
    This was not a
question and therefore he was not obliged to share the fact that
his own tool had remained in a stubbornly inebriated and enfeebled
daze so predictable that he hadn’t even bothered to unmask it from
beneath the flannel dressing gown that had been hanging flaccidly
around his increasingly emaciated frame.
    ********************
    It had seemed
natural when they settled on Manchester for