Stephen Leather - Tango One

"Soon-to-be ex-wife? You're getting divorced?"

"Something more permanent, hopefully," said Donovan. Then he shook his head.

"Joke."

"Didn't sound like a joke," said Louise.

"I'm still a bit raw," said Donovan.

"You'll heal. Here we are." She parked the car at a meter and jumped out before Donovan could continue the conversation. She fed the meter and locked the car, then went into the coffee shop with Donovan. He reached for his wallet but she slapped his hand away.

"No way. My treat, remember? Cappuccino okay?"

Donovan got a table by the window while Louise fetched their coffees.

She sat down opposite him and slid a foaming mug over to him. She clinked her mug against his.

"Thanks. For what you did."

"It was a pleasure."

Louise sipped her cappuccino and then wiped her upper lip with a serviette.

"I don't want you thinking I'm a victim, Den. A damsel in distress, maybe, but I'm not a victim. I fought back." She took off her sunglasses. Her left eye was still puffy and the redness had given away to dark blue bruising.

Donovan smiled.

"You should see the other guy," he said softly.

"I kneed him in the nuts and he probably wouldn't have done this if he hadn't caught me by surprise. Doing what I do, I know how to handle men."

"I'm sure you do," said Den, straight faced.

She grinned and put her sunglasses back on.

"You know what I mean. There's a psychology to it. A way of maintaining control."

"I'm sure there is."

"He caught me unawares. It won't happen again. I am really grateful, Den. You barely know me, but you were there when I needed someone.

Friends, yeah?"

Donovan nodded enthusiastically. He picked up his mug and clinked it against hers again.

"Definitely," he said.

"You've been a bad boy, haven't you?" said the woman. She was in her late twenties with shoulder-length red hair. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt, thigh-length black shiny plastic boots with four-inch stiletto heels and a black mask, the type that Catwoman used to wear in the old Batman TV show. She had a riding crop in her hands and she flexed it as she paced up and down across the blood-red carpet.

"Yes, mistress," said David Hoyle. Hoyle was naked and tied at his wrists and ankles to two planks of wood that had been nailed together to form an X-shaped cross that stood in the middle of the room. On his head was a black leather hood with holes for his eyes and a zipper across his mouth.

"And what happens to bad boys?" asked the woman, slowly running the crop from his left knee up to his groin.

Hoyle's scrotum contracted in a reflex action that was part fear and part sexual excitement. It was the mixture of emotions that he craved, that kept him returning to the basement flat in Earl's Court. The fear and the excitement, followed by a relief that was far more intense than he'd ever had with his wife in almost twenty years of marriage.

"They have to be punished," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, muffled by the mask.

She slowly unzipped the mouth hole.

"That's right," she said, walking around behind him and dragging the crop along his skin.

"How do you think you should be punished?" she asked.

Hoyle swallowed. His mind was in a whirl. It wasn't often that his mistress allowed him to choose the method of punishment, and he had to choose carefully. The crop was too easy. The paddle barely hurt. The burning candle wax was painful, but it meant lying down and he had grown to enjoy being punished standing up. Or bending over. At the thought of bending over he felt himself grow hard and he knew what he wanted her to do to him.

The door to the chamber was thrown open with a bang and Hoyle's erection died on the spot. Two men stood there. Men with hard faces and crew-cuts, big shoulders and tight smiles on their faces. One of them pointed a finger at the woman.

"Out," he said.

She nodded meekly. She put her crop on its hook on the wall, then walked out of the chamber, her hips swinging as if deliberately trying to tease Hoyle. The two men stood behind the lawyer. He tried to twist around to see what they were doing, but his mistress had done too good a job with his bonds. He started to breathe heavily and he could feel sweat beading all over his body. His insides went liquid and he knew that he was close to soiling himself. All the excitement had evaporated. All he felt now was fear.

A third man appeared in the doorway. He wasn't quite as big as the two men who stood somewhere behind Hoyle, but he was over six feet tall. He was wearing a long grey overcoat and had his hands thrust deep into the pockets. There was something familiar about him, but Hoyle was sure he hadn't met him before he had a great memory for faces. Then it hit him. He looked like a younger version of Sacha Distel. When the man spoke, however, his accent was Spanish, not French.

"Mr. Hoyle, I presume," he said.

"Who are you?" asked Hoyle.

"That doesn't really matter," said the man, 'considering the predicament you're in. What is more important to you is what do I want. And what I will do to you if you don't co-operate."

The man walked into the chamber and closed the door. The only illumination came from a dozen candles around the room, and their flickering cast eerie shadows on the walls. He turned and looked at a shelf laden with dildos and vibrators of various shapes and sizes. He took his gloved right hand out of his pocket and picked up a huge black dildo. He looked at it with an amused smile on his lips, and then turned to Hoyle. He held up the dildo.

"She puts this up your arse, does she?"

Hoyle shook his head, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Bit big for you, is it?" said the man.

"Working your way up to it? How would you like one of my guys to push this up you?"

Hoyle shook his head, more emphatically this time.

The man grinned and put the dildo back on the shelf. He looked around as if trying to find something to wipe his hand on.

There was a pink towel on a radiator and he picked it up, wiped his gloves, and then tossed it on to a black leather-covered vaulting horse. The man gestured at the horse.

"She ties you to that?" he asked.

Hoyle nodded.

"I've never seen the attraction in this," said the man.

"Domination. I don't think I'm the least bit submissive. The idea of a woman hitting me…" The man faked a shudder.

"There are so many better things a woman can do." He grinned.

"I guess that's why they call it the English vice, isn't it?"

He walked over to Hoyle and stood in front of him. Hoyle flinched as the man reached up and held the zipper over his mouth. He ran the zipper back and forth several times, an amused smile on his face, then zipped it closed.

"You get given a get-out word, don't you? A word you can use when the pain gets too much. When you really want it to stop, right?"

Hoyle nodded.

"Just so you know, Mr. Hoyle, I won't be giving you such a word. The only way you're going to stop me is by doing what I want. Do you understand?"

Hoyle nodded again. His penis had shrunk to nothing and sweat was dripping down his back.

"Good," said the man. He stepped back and pointed up at a brass light fitting in the ceiling, below which was suspended an etched-glass bowl.

"Did you know there was a camera up there? She records everything. For insurance. In case a client should die down here, she could prove that it was all consensual. She keeps the tapes. I've got all your sessions. I'm about half-way through them." The man grinned.

"You're a naughty, naughty boy."

Hoyle screamed as something hit him hard on the left thigh. Hoyle's eyes watered. One of the men was brandishing a cane.

"Now, on the plus side, if you do what I want, I'll make sure that nobody else ever sees those tapes. Your wife. Or your partners. Or the tabloids. Or your mother." The man unzipped the mouth slot.