Journal of Discipline and Desire Read online

  Title Page

  JOURNAL OF DISCIPLINE AND DESIRE

  By Laurie Mann

  Kink Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This eBook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published

  by Andrews UK Limited 2012

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Previously published by The Olympia Press

  PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © Laurie Mann

  The right of Laurie Mann to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  Part One

  Friday 1st May.

  Today is my 35th birthday. Today I begin a new journal. It has been a while, maybe six months, since the original one was stolen: I have missed - so much! the release of writing down all my thoughts, wishes, desires and fantasies. Any sensible person would have begun a new one immediately; not me, I had to wait, to grieve, the mourn the loss of 20 years of scribbling - even if I never re-read any of it! And to worry about the person reading my words ...

  Forget it! Today is the first day of the rest of my life: trite expression, good enough for a new journal. So, where to start?

  With the truth. Journals, diaries, call them what you will, should always contain the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  I long for a man who is my equal but with a strong enough character to control my life. My knees go weak at the thought of totally submitting myself to my man. To relinquish all the responsibility I shoulder every day. I will never give up the responsibility or control of my business: the power I wield is stronger than any aphrodisiac and I love the way businessmen surrender to my intellect and position. Away from business, though, I yearn to be owned and pray that one day the reality will equal my dreams.

  Every time I meet a new boyfriend my hopes are raised, then dashed as they crumble under my seemingly strong character and they flee, or are happy to leave me to take the lead until I tire of them and send them packing.

  Tuesday 5th May.

  I am so excited! A phone call at work today. A woman with a very haughty voice claimed to know who had my journal and asked if I was interested in knowing more.

  “Of course!” I shouted.

  “Then you will await your instructions.” Her manner changed, she developed a most authoritative tone. “You’ve documented your thoughts and pleasures most thoroughly. I’m sure you will appreciate that disobedience will not be very sensible.”

  I began asking who she was but she hung up. I sat trembling, my mind whirling in all directions. I was excited about the journal, delighted it had been found, but now it had, scared of the cost of its return, if indeed it is to come back to me. Who is this woman? Common sense said I should report to the police, but what could I say? An opportunist burglar took my video, tv and journal - I told them about the video and tv, but kept quiet about the journal. It had no value, except to me. Oh the voice! I’d longed for such authority, but now it had come, and my wetness tells me it has, to find it’s a woman is a shock. Can I go with it? Dare I not go with it?

  Oh journal, you cannot begin to appreciate the speed questions raced into my brain, all to remain unanswered in my growing confusion. So many differing emotions!

  It was about then Lisa came in to discuss the reorganising of our transport systems. Lisa’s my logistics manager, only twenty-five, but very attractive and very, very bright. An up and coming yuppie, champagne ideas on Mildmay money, but she has her worth. Trouble is, I was still flustered and my face burned, I thought. I could only splutter that I was unwell and I’d see her tomorrow. I’m sure her plans will be good. But tomorrow’s another day and I’ve more important things to consider. If I don’t rationalise the phone call, I’ll not be able to concentrate on business and I never, ever allow my personal life to interfere with my performance in the office. Take that whatever way you will, journal!

  Wednesday 6th May

  Bad night last night. Kept replaying the phone call; imaginings growing more and more extravagant, picturing a tall imperious woman, her voice so commanding as she lectured me, used me and punished me when I failed her expectations. First time I’d considered the prospect of a woman controlling me, but the power in her voice made it seem so natural. Several times I woke from dozing to find my fingers between my legs, relieving the excitement created in my dreams.

  Breakfast was a laborious affair. The eager anticipation of the postman’s steps made my mouth dry and swallowing difficult. The coffee percolator, with its rich aroma and incessant gurgling, took an age. The minute hand on the clock seemed not to have moved each time I glanced at it until, at last, I heard the measured steps on the garden path. By the time the letterbox rattled, I was there - waiting. Excitement turned to disappointment: the promised instructions had not arrived and I had to focus on the day’s work ahead.

  The traffic and early heat of what promised to be another sweltering day made the journey more of a grind than usual. The prospect of the instructions being sent to the office turned from hopeful anticipation to dread. Andrea opens the mail. She’s reliable but - it’s better she knows nothing about secret journals.

  By the time I reached the office I was in a high state of agitation. Visiting the ladies was as much to settle nerves as to tidy up, ready for the day. I’m worried that, in a few short words, an unknown woman could so disrupt my normal calm and create such compelling excitement.

  I needn’t have fretted over my instructions being found. They were not with the mail, although the relief was tinged with disappointment.

  The meeting with Lisa was as informative and interesting as I expected. She wants to solve the problem of our transport by bringing it in-house. She’s very excited about it but it’s a complete change of direction, so I’ve told her I’ll think about it. Certainly the service we’re getting from carriers could be better. They’re generally acceptably quick with deliveries, but there’s a damage and shortages problem. I’m still not convinced that bringing the operation in-house is the right solution, though. It goes against market trend and the initial cost will be huge. The advantages are having total control from the manufacture right through to the finished product being delivered to the customer’s door, which will make quality control and customer service easier to monitor and maintain. Business talk in a journal, no less, but I need - yes! desperately need - to ‘talk’ this out. The ultimate decision’s mine, after all.

  Wednesday 13th May.

  It’s been a week since the phone call and still no instructions. The suspense is unbearable! I’m convinced she’s testing me for some reason. One call, suspense, and she’s managed to dominate my thoughts! I’m sure when she does contact me again I’ll be ready and willing. No matter what she demands.

  It’s so very exciting!

  Fortunately there’s been much to occupy me at the office, or the whole past week would have passed in a daydream, making the suspense even more intolerable.

  Back to business. My meeting with Lisa was very i
nteresting. I began to see her in a new light as we talked in the calm of my office. I like the contrast of modern designed clothes being directed from an office filled with antiques. They have a richness, a smell of their own. It also reeks of power and has an obvious effect on most visitors. Not on Lisa, which makes her even more special, in my eyes. With her usual efficiency she made her case, all questions were answered with an authority that left little room for doubt. When I said I was concerned about the initial costs, she had all the figures at her fingertips. Her presentation was brilliant. She obviously relished the extra work and responsibility. I have to give her more or risk losing her, whatever the final decision about the transport. She’s even got the arrogance I recognise in myself. She believed her case was invincible.

  We adjourned to the local restaurant for lunch, crammed with office workers and tourists, hustle bustle steam and the rich smells of food cooking and being served. Over our meal she started talking about the lorries themselves and really came alive. She comes from a road haulage family, it seems, it’s obvious lorries are in her blood, although how anybody can enthusiastic about them is beyond me. I hope it hasn’t clouded her judgement. I’ll have to keep a careful eye on her, I think.

  She’s worked out the number and sizes for the U.K. deliveries, her eyes positively sparkling when she started talking about the lorry she wanted for the European work.

  “It’s important for the image to have a flagship, 520 engine, top of the range cab and metallic paint to set it apart. Alloy wheels will look good and save weight, polished alloy fuel tanks and exhaust stacks. She’ll be a real head turner, worth a fortune in creating the right image. Customers will be impressed. Spread over the life of the vehicle and its higher residual value, it won’t cost much more than a standard one.”

  She was like a kid at Christmas, describing what was obviously the object of her dreams. Sometimes I had a job to get her to keep her voice down, I didn’t want the whole town knowing about Mildmay Fashion’s plans!

  When we got back, she produced computer graphics of the fleet and I must admit they looked splendid, especially the flagship with metallic dark blue livery and MILDMAY in gold leaf lettering along the trailer sides. I could see her point even if I couldn’t understand her enthusiasm.

  Thursday 14th May

  I’ve given Lisa the go-ahead on the strict understanding she delegates some of her more mundane tasks so she can concentrate on setting up and controlling what will be a completely new department. I’ve insisted she keeps me fully informed and my approval is required for any new staff being employed or capital investments made. I am still very wary of her enthusiasm clouding her judgement, but in return for keeping a tight rein on her, I’ve offered promotion and a bonus, subject to the success of her plans.

  I also made very sure she knew full implementation of her plans depended entirely on the figures working in our favour. I still can’t understand her enthusiasm for those huge monstrosities, but it’s like starting a whole new company from scratch - very exciting. I may even run it as a separate company with Lisa as the managing director. It will have a ready-made customer base and the opportunity to raise revenue from outside as well. Empire building certainly has its appeal and provides the challenges I find so important.

  But that’s enough of work. Something far more exciting has happened. Waiting for me on the doormat was a plain white envelope. No address, just ‘By Hand’ written in beautiful copperplate. My heart was thumping as I ripped it open and found a cassette inside. No letter, just a cassette with ‘Francesca Mildmay’ in the same copperplate on its label.

  It has to be my instructions at last, I thought and hurriedly put it in the cassette player. The gentle whirring of the cassette reels began. My heartbeat quickened with my breathing as the excitement of anticipation grew uncontrollably.

  Nothing.

  I fiddled anxiously with the controls. Still nothing, just the gentle whirring.

  “Oh no! What if it’s being wiped clean? What if there’s been a mistake and it’s a blank tape? What will happen when I don’t comply with instructions? Will she believe a mistake happened and it wasn’t my fault? How will she know to send me more, if she doesn’t know I’ve not received these?” Questions, too fast for coherent thought. And all the time the incessant whirring continued.

  I padded about the room, not realising until the mirror showed me, that I was nervously running my fingers through my hair. Perspiration sticky palms together with the pain of desperation was evident.

  “Who are you? How can you have this effect on me when I’ve never even met you?” I screamed, while thumping the cassette player in frustration.

  Nothing. Only the whirring and growing feeling of impending doom.

  “Hello, Francesca.” My heart skipped a beat; I was that fraught when eventually the voice boomed from the speakers. I scrambled to turn the volume down, forgetting I’d left it fully turned up in my earlier frantic attempts to hear a voice.

  Her voice.

  “Enjoy your little wait, did you?”

  Her condescending tone mocked, softer than when I’d last heard her on the telephone, but obviously the same woman.

  “Sit down and relax, there’s a good girl.”

  I found myself sitting, mesmerised by the mystery voice on the tape. Who is this woman, how can she know me so well, know the effect she’s having? Then I remembered she had the journal and regretted the intimate way I’d bared my soul on the pages.

  Tap - Tap - Tap.

  I started at the sound, very like my old schoolmistress rapping the desk with her cane when she wanted to draw our attention, and sat up straight.

  “Good. Now I have your full attention, listen carefully, very carefully. I am sure you are aware mistakes will not be tolerated.” The voice had resumed its previous authority. I waited, not daring to take my eyes from the tape deck.

  “A black limousine will collect you from outside your house on Sunday at six a.m. On entering the car you will be blindfolded. You will place your hands behind your back so they can be tied. Do not be late - the car will not wait. Do not underestimate the consequences of failure to comply.”

  The message stopped and I sat, transfixed, dry mouthed and trembling. The power in the voice seemed to have drained my energy. There was no way I’d be late.

  A loud click, more like a pistol shot than the tape ending, shattered the silence and my dazed thoughts. As I switched it off I realised, with some surprise, my clothes were sticking to me. The dampness of my panties confirmed the fire now raging.

  Monday 18th May

  I cannot tell you how slowly Saturday night passed! Wanting to look my best, clothes came out of the wardrobe, went back in, replaced by others. Smart trouser suit or dress? Formal or informal? Plain undies or lacy erotic ones? Time and again I changed my mind, wondering about the woman whose voice had created such confusion to contrast my normal decisiveness.

  Fear of being late and the excitement of meeting the mystery woman made sleep impossible. I was aware of every sound; cars, owls, the tortuous tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock as its hands, oh so slowly, edged their way round its face. By four o’clock I was in the bath.

  I had a half-hearted churning stomach breakfast, then dressed and made up, mind replaying the message on the tape, conjuring images of the woman I was soon to meet. Nervously adjusting clothes before the mirror; trembling fingers smoothing navy blue tight fitting skirt, fiddling with the lapels of the matching jacket for the umpteenth time, waiting impatiently for the minutes to pass.

  I glanced at my watch, pacing up and down the pavement. Twenty minutes early, so anxious not to be late. I stared up and down the deserted street, shivering in the nippy early morning air.

  Which way will the car come? What adventure awaits me? thoughts surged as I waited.

  Eventually distant church bells sou
nded the hour. Precisely on time, a shiny black limousine drew alongside. The door opened, I stepped inside, heart pounding in anticipation of meeting the woman behind the voice.

  The car was dark: before I adjusted, something was slipped on. It felt soft. I imagined a sheepskin lined black leather blindfold buckled tight. I tentatively placed my hands behind me, they were roughly tugged together, crossed at the wrist in the small of my back. Thin cord was wound round and knotted in the vee. I’d been tied by boyfriends, with silk scarves. This was different. This wasn’t playful, it was meant. I could barely wiggle my fingers, which soon began tingling as the tightness of the cords restricted circulation. I tested them by flexing my wrists, aware my release was entirely at another’s mercy.

  There was a rap on the glass partition and the car surged forward, pinning me to the seat as it sped away from the kerb.

  “Where are we going?” my voice quavering. Silence.

  “Answer me, please.” Panic setting in.

  Silence. I took the hint and kept quiet, adding to the excitement.

  Although the drive was smooth, I couldn’t see the corners coming, with tied hands it was difficult to keep upright. I slipped on the leather seats. It wasn’t long before my legs ached as I strained for balance.

  The journey continued in total silence. I couldn’t trace the route, soon lost as the car turned from street to street, until we must have reached the country as sharp corners turned to smooth curves. As the effort required in staying upright lessened, imagination took over. I pictured myself, hands tied, blindfolded, skirt riding high up my thighs. I’m proud of my legs and wondered if my captor was becoming as turned on by the sight as I was by my predicament. The car had a rich leather aroma, hinting at wealth and luxury.

  I began to relax a little, although the fire between my thighs still raged and the blindfold began to tickle, making my nose twitch uncontrollably as the car continued its serene progress.