He’d bought the house. He’d bought the boat. The Aston was on the drive. The world tour was over.
She was busy redecorating or furnishing the place (or supervising same) and her long-lost baking skills had returned swiftly enough to make her friends and enemies at the local WI.
He had taken over an outbuilding and was building a boat. A 25 foot strip-planked yacht to be based on Windermere (her motion sickness wouldn’t put up with anywhere with more of a rolling swell). He’d allowed himself five years to finish it.
She and he spent a couple of days each week deciding how to give away some of the winnings and taking part in the projects they helped fund – and that felt like enough of a job.
They’d moved away from the city and found somewhere remote enough to be who they wanted to be all day, every day. That was mostly good. Friends came and stayed – and that led to lots of intense good times, they loved hosting chums – whether those friends shared their lifestyle or not.
They were sociable people and were enjoying settling into the rural community they had moved to. But they were incomers and would be seen as such for time to come. They’d thrown the necessary parties but they hadn’t yet paid their dues.
They were building a new, big life. A busy life too. They were both contented. The future looked good: Philanthropy opened many doors and created opportunities for involving, exciting things and good relationships that came from them.
But, he was bored. He feared she was bored.
Most of all he feared that having everything they could ever wish for had taken them further away from having everything they ever needed.
The relationship they had was not one that could be explained easily with their new friends in the worlds of big charities and small, close rural communities. Their new found, unearned fortune had made it possible to live life as who they wanted to be, equal but opposite, as dominant and submissive. pillared on respect, responsibility, strength, service and obedience. What hadn’t been possible in a Didsbury flat was easy in a Herefordshire country house with neighbours too far away to hear her consenting screams.
But they’d reached a plateau. It seemed they couldn’t do more to be who they wanted to be. And that hadn’t brought contentment. Well, not for long anyway. Their new public life continued to grow and to bring new surprises. That was immensely satisfactory but, for once in all the years they had been together, it made the private life they shared seem – as they had always said they wished it to be – normal and unremarkable. For him, that wasn’t enough.
They talked. She clearly revelled in the opportunities the jackpot had brought. But she too felt that they’d lost something. Or, rather, that they’d not used the luck of the win to bring something new to the dynamic that had, up to now, driven who they were to each other.
He’d had an idea for years. In fact it had been a strong, well developed fantasy since they’d first met. One he had never shared. One he wasn’t going to share with her now. He was going to take then both on the biggest ride of their lives and he was going to watch her. His thrill would be seeing her react to every twist and turn of the coming months. Hers would be to wonder what was around the next corner. His objective was to make real what he’d always imagined – a household with her at it’s centre. A household designed to make her service to him as much of a joy as it could be. A place where fantasy was real.
It wasn’t without risk. Risk that it could become public and that their new life would fade away. Risk that it could become too absorbing and too introspective. But, most of all, risk that it could change the nature of their relationship. True, others had often played a part in deepening their relationship either as consenting toys or as friends whose friendship did not stop at the bedroom door. But other people had their own lives. Involving others was always a risk.
This could destroy all that their luck had brought them. Or it could make them the happiest they’d ever been.
He told her that evening:
“I’m having the cellar tanked and putting a shower and kitchenette down there. I’m afraid the playroom will be smaller than I’d planned. But it will still be adequate. It’ll be screened off from this bedsit and there will be a lockable door between.
“The rest will be accommodation. Cells. With wrought iron grills. A bit like the cellar at Townhouse”.
She pouted: “I don’t want to move down there. It is going to feel dark and cold whatever you do”.
“You won’t be. You are getting staff”.
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