BDSM House Calls of an Architect

This is chapter one of a 'confessions of a window cleaner' type story following our protagonist, Thomas, as he learns the ropes at a small Architecture consultancy in England. Each chapter may have a different theme, maybe some domination, maybe a little incest or taboo, maybe some mature action, maybe some romance, and maybe some repeat characters, or... who knows. Let's see where it goes together.

If one chapter doesn't tickle your fancy, maybe the next will....I hope so. Oh, and I'm very open to any suggestions for what might happen to Thomas next...just add it to the comments.

As always, all characters are of age and consent to the activities described, and unfortunately, none of this relates to actual people I know, but some may come from personal experience.
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*****​

Chapter One: First day at work introduces Thomas to Ms. Brown.

I drive into the Gallagher & Holmes parking lot and slot my ten-year-old Ford Focus between a brand-new Jaguar XF and a relatively new Mini coupe. It's my first day of my first proper job. It's Monday, it's eight twenty in the morning, and I am a cordial ten minutes early.

My name is Thomas McAllister. Friends call me Mac.

I should clarify a little. This is actually day one of my two years of employment experience required as part of my six-year Architecture degree. I've completed four years. These next two years will be followed by exams back at University before I am a fully qualified Architect.

I check myself in the rear-view mirror to ensure my hair hasn't somehow become wild or my face mucky in the short journey from home to the offices. All looks good. I had my hair cut on Saturday, so my brown locks are neat and tidy in what I perceive to be an office-ready style. I went for a mix between the Hemsworth brothers and Timothy Chalamet. Turned out alright, if I do say so myself. I shaved this morning, so, unfortunately, I look about sixteen, even though I am twenty-three. People say my eyes are my best attribute. They are green and weirdly translucent. I'm never sure whether it's a compliment or not. It kind of ignores the rest of my face, which is pretty good, and ignores the rest of my body, which is pretty good too. I'm not ripped or anything, but I've played a lot of tennis, so I'm toned and fit. Why do people just focus on my eyes...sorry, no pun intended.

Depending on how you look at it, I have either been really lucky, or really unlucky in the location of my work experience. It is five miles from my childhood home, which is located in a sleepy village in the south of England. This means I can live at home and not pay rent for two years and get home-cooked food. Thereby saving myself at least twenty thousand pounds. On the flip side, some of my friends found work placements near the University and are, therefore, enjoying the social life of a student for an extra two years. In contrast, my social life will fall off a cliff now.

The offices are in a converted stable block that was originally built in the 1850s. The founders of G&H bought them in a state of disrepair and designed them into beautiful offices. It's the kind of project I would love to do once I'm qualified. Exposed stone walls and original beams. Large floor-to-ceiling windows where stable doors would have been. Lots of nooks, crannies, and original features give it an oldie-worldie feel but with the necessities of a modern office dotted throughout - large flat screens in meeting rooms, video conferencing, and large drafting tables. It's wonderful. The downside being that it is in the middle of nowhere. Want a Starbucks? Drive twenty minutes. Cheeky KFC for lunch? Twenty minutes. There is at least an equally old pub within walking distance. But most people drive to work, so I can't see many after-work drinks happening.

I grab my rucksack from the passenger seat. The contents of which currently consist of a moleskin notebook (a present from my father's girlfriend), a banana (presented to me by my father's girlfriend as I left the house), and a half-full reusable water bottle (I did at least source that myself). I feel a bit of a fraud carrying such an empty bag, but maybe I will get something to fill it with today. I silently scold myself for not cleaning the inside of the car. It has drink cans, the mandatory paper bags, cardboard boxes, and paper cups from a drive-thru thrown in the footwell.

I have been to the G&H offices twice before for interviews, so I know my way to reception. I catch my reflection in the glass of the doors. Simple, smart, blue, button-down shirt, paired with blue chino's; Brown leather chelsea boots complete my professional but casual selection. I must have changed my outfit four times this morning. I ended up discarding my jacket, as the day is relatively warm - for the UK anyway - and I opted for no tie. Surely an Architect doesn't wear a tie?

The building is a 'U' shape, otherwise known as a courtyard design. The main entrance is in the middle of the bottom of the 'U'. Meeting rooms and offices then branch off on either side. The stable doors would have faced into a central cobblestone courtyard. The doors now replaced with large glass panels or glass doors facing into a manicured garden area. As I wander to reception, I remember the girl who greeted me last time, and hope it is the same. I am not disappointed.

"Hi Thomas, it's good to see you again. Congratulations on getting the job. I'm Lauren, by the way, if you've forgotten my name from when you were last here." Lauren beams at me from behind a large reception desk.

How could I forget Lauren? She is maybe nineteen or twenty and absolutely stunning. Absolutely stunning. She's sitting there in that way only beautiful people can. A serene, relaxed calmness in any situation. Her platinum blonde hair cascades over her shoulders like it's been styled by pure chance, but it's perfect - effortless. Talking of my eyes, her blue eyes caught me first, last time I was here. They're piercing, almost unnervingly so, like they can see right through me. See what I am thinking, every sordid secret I have. There's a kind of energy in them, something playful but deep, like she's got a story worth unravelling. I feel something unravelling anyway.

Her skin is flawless, this soft glow that makes her look like she stepped out of a dream. And her lips - don't get me started. They're the kind that make you forget what you were going to say. There's nothing loud or flashy about her, just this quiet confidence that will somehow draw every eye in the room. She's wearing this simple black top, nothing extravagant, but, again, I come back to the beautiful people thing, on her body, it might as well be couture. She's the kind of beautiful that look great in absolutely anything.

The understated top doesn't flaunt her boobs, but, my god, from what I can see they are spectacular specimens. Large mounds of pure joy pointed proudly outwards from her slender frame. I can't see under the desk, but my mind imagines endless, toned legs.

Maybe it's the way she tilts her head slightly, the way her hair catches the light or the way her lips spread as she smiles - but she's magnetic. I would sell my soul for her. I want to know her, everything about her. She's the kind of beautiful that doesn't just stop you in your tracks; it sticks with you.

That she actually remembers me, throws me a little. "Hi Lauren, of course I remember you." I feel myself flushing slightly. "Thank you. I'm er looking forward to er getting started." I'm beginning to feel awkward, but I can't stop looking into her eyes.

"Let me ping Sandra and tell her you are here. They will have lined up an induction and stuff for you." She does me a favour by breaking the gaze and tapping on a keyboard.

"You're local, aren't you?" She enquires as she looks at the screen.

"Yes. Charlton under Thames. But I'm at Uni in Manchester." I make sure I throw in the Manchester bit, I don't want her to think I'm just a little village boy. "How about you? Local too?"

"Quite local, yeah. I live in Gorchester. My parents only moved there two years ago from Canterbury, though. So, a newbie, really."

"Gorchy is not too bad. I used to go out there quite a bit with mates. It's not quite the city of Canterbury, though; it must feel quiet around here."

"You can say that again! Yeah, and Manchester..." she gives me a smile that almost dissolves me. "But it's nice here." I'm not sure whether she is saying this for her own benefit, or to me. Her computer pings and, at the same time, the front entrance door opens behind me.

"Sandra is on her way, Thomas. If you want to take a seat, she shouldn't be long," Lauren nods at a small area with soft, brown leather chairs before turning to the door. "Morning Rob, nice weekend?" There is a smile with the greeting, but I think I also see apprehension. I pick up a brochure, so it doesn't seem like I am paying attention to them, but I listen in and keep them in the corner of my eye.

Rob: (grinning as he walks into the office) "Morning, gorgeous! You're looking like a breath of fresh air today. Lovely weekend, lovely. Eighteen holes on Saturday, followed by too many sherbets in the clubhouse, nine holes yesterday, and a few pints watching the football in The Oaks. Perfect weekend."

Lauren: (smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes) "Sounds great, Rob."

Rob: (leans on the edge of her desk, clearly invading her space, trousers too tight around his crotch) "You should've been there - you'd be the prettiest thing on the course, no contest."

Lauren: (forces another small smile, keeping her tone professional) "Sounds fun. I don't really play golf, though, Rob."

Rob: (chuckles, patting his stomach) "Well, I could give you lessons! I'm pretty good, if I do say so myself." (jumps up and putts an imaginary ball with an imaginary golf club).

Lauren: (turns back to her computer, then looks at me, I see an idea spring into her mind): "Rob, let me introduce you to Thomas. He's starting today. Trainee Architect."

I look up, as if I have just heard my name. I don't mind being used as a distraction. Rob is a smartly dressed man of about forty. His beer belly is stretching his blue, checked waistcoat to its limit, the buttons pulling the material into bunches, and his matching trousers are fighting equally hard to wrap around his waist and thighs. Slicked back, brown hair. Moustache. 'Dangerous' is the word that comes to mind. He's wearing a tie.

"Well, well. What have we here. Fresh-blood." He stands and walks over to me with an outstretched hand. "I'm Rob. Rob Smart. Smart by name, Smart by nature."

I'm sure I see Lauren's eyes roll as he says it.

"Quantity surveyor. I do the hard work after you Architects dream up your crazy ideas. Tommy, was it?"

"Nice to meet you. Thomas. Thomas McAllister. People call me Mac."

"Is the Ford focus yours, Tommy?"

"Er, yes. I think so," I'm surprised by the question. "It's Thomas, Mac."

"Mines the yellow MX5 convertible, Tommy, can't miss it Lauren, can you!" It's not a question. "You have to take me up on that drive sometime," he's turned back to Lauren, she smiles.

"Yeah, yeah, sometime," professional again.

"Well, I'll be seeing you around no doubt, Tommy," he says over his shoulder. "See you later too, gorgeous," he points at Lauren and pretends his finger is a gun before walking through a door that separates the reception area from the offices.

To Lauren's credit, she smiles and replies, "Have a good day, Rob."

My mouth is open in disbelief. I can't believe this character still exists in the workplace. I look at Lauren, who gives me a resigned smile, but before either of us can say anything, the same door opens, and a homely woman in her mid-forties comes through and approaches me.

"Thomas. Sandra. We talked on the phone. Welcome to the family."

"Thanks Sandra. Good to meet you in person."

Considering it's well before nine o'clock on Monday morning, Sandra already looks stressed. Straight brown hair that, when she left the house, probably looked lovely, probably brushed, probably shiny and conditioned. But it is now pulled back tightly into a scrunchie to keep it out of her way. She has a curvaceous body, thin legs and arms, with a fair size pair of tits and a good size ass. A thin frame of her face, but chubby cheeks give her an added warmth. In another life she could have been a school head-mistress. She holds herself in a confident fashion, but her pretty eyes dart around, appearing insecure -- imposter syndrome? Unsure of her job?

She has her phone out, which she is reading, plus juggling a folder and a cup of something. "Come on through. Come on through. Let's show you your desk and give you the tour."

I follow her as she turns and walks back towards the door. I want to say something to Lauren but can't think of what to say. "Thanks, Lauren." I don't know what I am thanking her for.

"Laters... Mac." My head twists. She doesn't look up from her computer screen. I'm not sure if she is taking the piss out of me, or if it is genuine. My stomach twists.

Sandra leads me into an open-plan office space on the other side of the door and past a collection of occupied desks, waving her hand, explaining the groups of people sitting in each area, but not introducing anyone. Less speed-dating, more speed-skating. "This is the accounts team, this is purchasing, this is HR..."

I should clarify that each of these teams appear to consist of two people sitting opposite each other.

"This is the little kitchen area, there's free tea and coffee, milk in the fridge. You can also store your lunch in the fridge, but write your name on it, there are thieves amongst us," she laughs. I think of my banana.

We reach Rob, who has a larger desk than the others.

"This is Rob, he's..."

"...two steps ahead of you Sandy. Me and young Tommy met already, so there's no need to introduce us. Move along. Move along" He waves his hand to encourage us past. I'm surprised he doesn't slap Sandra on the ass as she passes.

"Ok, great. Thank you, Rob." We keep walking a couple of steps. "This is my desk," Sandra announces, and I immediately feel sorry for her. The desk she is pointing at backs onto Rob's desk. She must have to put up with him all day, every day. It may also explain her demeanour. We keep walking.

"And this is where you will be sitting." There is a bank of three drafting tables, with smaller desks with large computer screens next to each. Two face each other, against the window looking into the courtyard. The third crosses the end of the other two. A guy and a lady are seated at the two next to the window.

"May I introduce you to your new best friends, Poppy and James. They support Mr Gallagher, and you will be joining their team."

As Sandra says this, both stand and make a move toward me to say hello. However, we are all distracted by a raised male voice in reception. Our heads turn as the door flies open, and I recognise Jeremy Gallagher coming towards us. He of Gallagher and Holmes. I recognise him because both Jeremy Gallagher and Leo Holmes interviewed me for the job. He walks through the office without saying anything and enters a glass cube of an office just past where we are standing, throwing a satchel onto a chair, and closing the door behind him.

We look at each other in some confusion, before carrying on with our introductions.

"As I said, your team supports Jeremy, there's another team that supports Leo," Sandra continues. Poppy's computer starts making a bleeping sound, and she ducks back to it, picking up the headset.

Poppy is around fifty. Maybe I'm doing her a disservice. She might be younger, but she doesn't seem to take much care in her appearance, so may appear older than she actually is. She looks to be the kind of person who doesn't wear anything that has come from animals, but keeps chickens, and burns lavender oil when no one's looking. There's a handmade scarf draped over her chair, the colours of which are as eclectic as the stories that I'm sure she tells around a campfire on the weekend. Bohemian? Is that the term? She wears a linen dress, its muted green hue complements her natural, earth-toned skin, and the long strands of wooden beads draped around her neck sway gently as she moves. There's something calming about her... I don't want to say it...her 'aura'. She looks like she will be an interesting character to learn from.

"Hi Lauren, how can I help?" She pauses. "Okay....of course...will do...bye."

She turns to me and somehow, I know that this is not going to be good. Looking at me lovingly, as if I am her own child, or I am a patient in a counselling session, "Thomas, could you be a love and pop outside and move your car. I think you've accidentally parked in Jeremy's parking spot."

I feel the eyes of the whole office upon me. I feel my face start to burn. My armpits suddenly want to secrete my body weight in sweat. My feet are glued to the floor, I can't move. My mouth opens, but I can't speak. Seconds feel like hours.

The thing that breaks me from my stupor is the sound of Rob laughing behind me. Bastard. He saw my car. He knew.

Poppy continues, "Lauren's got Jeremy's keys, James, could you move his car once Thomas has moved his?"

"Of course. No problem," James says. "Come on, Lightening McQueen," he beckons to me and starts to walk. I follow, keeping my head down and ignoring Rob, as well as everyone else. When I reach reception, I can't look Lauren in the eye either as she gives James the keys for Mr Gallagher's car. I do at least manage to mumble a 'Sorry' to her. James and I walk out into the car park. I do at least manage to mumble a 'Thank you' to him, too, as he walks to Mr Gallacher's Range Rover.

When I sit in the car and turn the key, every bone in my body wants to just drive. Get as far away as possible. Just drive.

Instead, I rev the car loudly and shout 'Fuck!' at the top of my voice.
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***​

Somehow, I get through the rest of the morning unscathed. In between dealing with crises, Sandra gives me a briefing on many topics; gives me an ipad of my own; gets me setup on teams sites and payroll systems, and completes the morning with a tour of the rest of the building. The other side of the 'U' has the majority of the meeting rooms, another small kitchen, toilets, desks for another three Architects - who support Mr Holmes - none of which are in the office, and then there is Mr Holmes' office. It's a mirror of Mr Gallacher's, on the opposite side of the courtyard. They can wave at each other if they so desire or exit through large bi-fold doors of each office, and trot across to one another, if they so wish.

As we walk through reception Lauren has been replaced by a guy around my age, who introduces himself as Charles. He's covering Lauren while she's on her lunch break. I'm mixed between being relieved that I don't have to re-live the embarrassment of earlier, and disappointed not to see her.

Mid-morning - a small van turns up outside, and a lady called Julie comes round selling sandwiches from a basket, which I take advantage of to add to my lonely banana.

As I am tucking into my mediocre chicken salad sandwich -- a recommendation from Julie - James asks Sandra if he can steal me for the afternoon. He is visiting a new client and wants to take me along for the experience. Sandra seems more than happy to pass me on. Maybe the car park incident is still casting a shadow over me, and she doesn't want to be associated with the pariah.

James is tall, with a solid, bulky build, it suggests he either plays rugby, or did so in his youth. He's mid to late thirties, I would guess at. His dark brown hair is neatly cut, with a slight wave that gives it a bit of character. His face is open and friendly, with a neatly trimmed beard that frames a strong jawline. His eyes are warm and expressive. His smile is wide and genuine, the kind that puts people at ease.

He's dressed with understated style: a well-fitted navy blazer over a dark sweater, paired with a crisp white shirt peeking out at the collar. It's professional but relaxed, wealthy but not showy, making him approachable yet put-together. If I look as good as him when I am his age, I will be delighted. He's wearing a tie.

"Shall we take your car?" He asks, giving me an intense look.

The horror of the morning floods back, and my face drains of all colour, only for James and Poppy to start laughing.

"I'm messing with you, Thomas. Lighten up, forget about it. These things happen. Come on, we'll take my car."
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***​

"So, who is the client?" I ask, once we have exchanged a few personal pleasantries on the car journey and talked about the weather.

"Ms. Harriet Brown. Apparently, Jeremy knows her, so we have to be on our best behaviour. It's an extension to the house, but the house is quite old, so we need to be respectful of the original style. Today is about sizing it up."

"And Jeremy trusts us to do this, not him?"

"What do you mean? Am I not good enough for you?"

"No. No. Not at all. I mean, yes, yes, of course you are. I just meant if he knows her, then I thought he would do it. That's all, you're great, more than enough, well I don't know you, but I'm sure you're great too, I mean..."

Fuck, I'm blabbering already, and now I've pissed off James as well as the boss. Can it get any worse? But James is smiling.

"Fucking lighten up, Thomas. I'm joking..."

I give a sigh of relief.

"Actually, I thought the same thing as you. But it happens. Jeremy and Leo bring quite a lot of the business on through contacts, so not unheard of for them to send us out for the first physical meeting."

"Ok. So, what do you want me to do?"

"Watch and learn young padawan. Watch and learn."

We've driven for about half an hour when we pull up at some large iron gates with an intercom. James announces us as architects from G&H, and the gate opens, allowing us to go through.

"Wow. This is incredible," I exhale the words, as we slowly meander up a long drive, admiring the extensive gardens either side of us, flowing towards what appears to be a Victorian-era property, likely built in the mid-to-late 19th century. If I can bore you with Architect speak for a second; Its architectural style is Gothic Revival, evident from the steeply pitched gables, pointed arch windows, and decorative stonework; Features such as the symmetrical façade, tall chimneys, and ornate detailing on the roofline point toward this period's design trends. The building is of local stone construction and very solid, typical of Gothic Revival homes in the UK. There, that wasn't so bad, was it.

"The size of the place. Why the hell do they need more room? And are they allowed an extension, surely it's protected, listed?" I ask.

"Lesson number one, Thomas. What the customer wants, the customer gets. It's part of our job, to take those practical constraints and make it a reality. Design it so it's correct, design it so they are happy, and, when required, design it so they get planning permission," James winks at me.

We pull up on the gravel driveway in front of the house and jump out. A lady of, I would guess, around forty-five, steps from the massive front door to greet us. The word 'buxom' pops into my head. I must pause now, I must do this scene justice. Describe what my loins tell me.

Her legs are impossibly long, stretching from glossy leather heels that reflect the surroundings, but the shoes are just the start. Her legs are wrapped in black leather trousers that fit her like a second skin. The shine of the leather isn't overdone, just enough to draw attention as the fabric shifts with her every move. The high waist frames her perfectly, giving way to the soft shimmer of her champagne blouse. The silk is smooth and fluid, tucked neatly into her pants but loose enough to suggest effortlessness. It catches the light of the sun with every step she takes, draping over her figure in a way that is striking, elegant and bold. Slightly unbuttoned at the top, revealing a lace bra, adding a softness to her look, but displaying a vast cleavage between two large, heaving breasts.

Her hair is a cascade of chestnut waves, flowing just past her shoulders, moving with her as if it, too, was part of the moment. Her lips are painted a deep, daring red, standing out against her glowing skin, and her eyes, framed by smoky eyes, heavily made up, dark lashes, carrying a deliberate intensity.

Her black high heels crunch against the gravel, steady and deliberate. She moves with the kind of confidence that makes her surroundings irrelevant, her stride unshaken, graceful, unapologetic. She owns the gravel under her heels and everything beyond it. Her breasts bounce wildly, drawing our attention as she approaches the car. The country house behind her, the vast grounds - all of it seems like a backdrop for her. She is composed, magnetic, and entirely unforgettable.

James sweeps round to the rear of the car and grabs a bag from the trunk. I don't move.

"Greetings, gentlemen. I am Harriett Brown, please call me Harriet. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," her voice is refined and educated, but a little playful. I don't think the accent is from birth, she's almost a caricature of an upper-class lady. She doesn't extend a hand, so neither I nor James make the move either.

"Likewise, lovely to meet you. I'm James and this is Thomas. I'm sorry to say, Jeremy sent us in his stead," James gives the kind of smile that looks like it's used often, radiating a subtle confidence without any arrogance. His 'client smile' does so much of the heavy lifting.

I, on the other hand, stand there looking stupid, not sure what to do or say. Her body, her presence, her breasts have mesmerised me. I give a strange little wave. 'Shit' I think, 'I've got to learn the 'client smile'.'

"Indeed. Rest assured; Jeremy did extend his forewarning. He assures me of your exceptional experience. May I offer you a refreshment, perhaps? Tea or coffee, before we commence?"

"I'm fine, we just had lunch, honestly, we can get started and then maybe a coffee to finish things off later." James replies. Harriet looks at me for confirmation.

"I. I. I'm fine too. Thanks." I stutter. What's happening to me? When did I forget how to speak? I'm a mess.

"Please excuse my colleague, it's his first day on the job," James gives my hair a ruffle, which I shake off.

"Bless him. Fret not, Thomas, I do not bite!" As the words come out of her mouth none of us believe this is true. She definitely bites. "Very well, gentlemen, this way, follow me!"

With that, she spins on her heel, and we get to admire her peachy ass in her tight leather trousers as she walks back to the house. Her figure is not slim, but appears toned in all the right places. Unashamedly sexy. She sways as she strides, an erotic, efficient version of a cat-walk.

We follow her through a grand hallway, the kind that's been designed to humble visitors with its soaring ceilings and intricate mouldings. In contrast to the fresh garden air, the room smells faintly of polish and old wood. Passing through a sitting room dominated by a massive, ornate fireplace - an empty hearth, but I imagine the roaring flames casting flickering shadows on the dark-panelled walls, we continue on. The following two rooms are equally steeped in Victorian splendour - gothic arches, heavy drapes, and carved furniture that seems more suited to a museum than a home. I get the strong smell of incense and leather as we continue through.

Finally, we arrive in a smaller, darker room. The atmosphere here is decidedly masculine: leather armchairs arranged around a low table, several antique side tables, two large book-cases, a piano in the corner, a cabinet stocked with decanters of amber liquid, and, I don't think I imagine it, the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. It's the kind of space where I imagine the gentlemen would retreat after dinner, leaving the women to their tea while the men indulged in whisky and 'worldly' conversation.

At certain times in the walk, James blocked my view of Harriet's bottom. But otherwise, it was a very nice walk with a great view.

Harriet gestures toward the west wall, her tone brisk and purposeful.

"I've been contemplating an extension from here," she says, pointing toward a set of double glass doors that open onto the garden. "A new chamber through these doors. It shall be soundproof, devoid of windows, with reinforced girders for structural stability. The floor shall be lowered by one metre beneath the ground level, whilst a suspended flooring shall be erected at conventional height, incorporating entry points to the subterranean level. Access shall be granted through these doors, yet I desire an auxiliary set behind them for optimal soundproofing. Envision it as an airlock, if you will."

She pauses, her eyes narrowing as if already predicting resistance. I could listen to her all day. Her accent, her choice of words, is exquisite.

"The endeavour will not be a simple one, given its situation and the designation of the building, but I implore you both to be creative. To use one's ingenuity. Jeremy possesses confidence in your abilities, and I, too, place my trust in you." She fixes me and James with a pointed look, leaving no room for argument.

James nods, already mulling over the challenges, but before he can respond, his phone rings. He frowns, glances at the screen, and quickly excuses himself. "Apologies, Harriet. It's my wife, I need to take this," stepping away to take the call.

Harriet waits, arms crossed, pushing her breasts up higher. I stand awkwardly, trying to not look at them, trying to distract myself by piecing together the logistics of her vision, but not wanting to say anything about it before James has had a chance to comment.

I go to my safe topic, Architecture. "You have a lovely house," I offer. "How old is it? I'm thinking eighteen sixties?"

"You are so nearly accurate, Thomas. A commendation, gold star. The undertaking commenced in the year eighteen sixty-six, yet it consumed five years to realise the vision before you, due to certain disagreements between the proprietor and the original vendor of the land. Thus, completion was not achieved until eighteen seventy-one. The proprietor of that era hailed from a lineage enriched by the Spice Trade; however, his later fortune predominantly stemmed from his status as a Landowner."

At first, I am simply caught in her voice. I stumble out of my daze, "Er. Impressive, you seem to know a lot about the er history of the building."

"It is utterly captivating, Thomas. The secrets I could tell," she raises a single eyebrow.

Before I can say anything else, James returns, his expression taut but composed.

"She's gone into labour," he announces, his voice edged with urgency.

"What?" The word escapes my lips before I can stop it. He said nothing in the car about his wife being pregnant, and particularly how pregnant she is.

This time both of Harriet's eyebrows shoot up. In surprise. However, before she can speak, James is already moving toward the door.

"I'm really sorry, I have to go. It's earlier than we expected. Thomas will take over from here."

'What?' This time the word doesn't escape my lips, I bite it back, my stomach lurching with panic. He can't be serious. I'm barely prepared to draft window placements, let alone navigate the complexities of a project like this - and certainly not under Harriet's gaze when she knows it's my first day.

He sees the panic.

"Thomas will take down the requirements, take measurements and take photos. It's just an initial view for us to take away and come back with thoughts. So, it's no problem at all," James says to Harriet, his face composing itself into that reassuring smile again as he firmly, claps me on the shoulder. The message was as much for me as for Harriet.

I glance at her, keeping my face calm and neutral, but my mind is racing. Creative solutions? Soundproof rooms? Listed building permissions? I feel the sweat prickling at the back of my neck.

"Absolutely fine, James, I harboured no greater expectations for the day. Thomas and I shall fare perfectly well. Now, do take your leave. Off you go!" Harriet urges.

"Great. Thanks, Harriet," before disappearing through the door.

I swallow hard and turn back to Harriet, who is watching me with an expression that is equal parts curiosity and expectation. No escape now. Time to sink or swim.

"So..." I begin, trying to sound professional, "...a soundproof room with no windows, reinforced joists, and... a dug-out floor?"

Harriet nods, her lips curving into a faint smile. "That's correct. As explained, it will be accessed through these glass doors here," she gestures again towards the double doors leading to the garden.

"There must be other rooms in the house that could meet the requirements, or be transformed into something similar, rather than building," I suggest.

"I have contemplated that, Thomas, yet regrettably, the majority of partition walls within the house are rather insubstantial, thus lacking soundproofing; the ceilings, too, are not adequately fortified for the purposes I desire, and I require the passage to extend from this very chamber in which we stand." She isn't dismissive of me, but her expression shows some exasperation.

I hesitate, "It's quite unusual. Is it going to be..." I look at the piano "...a recording studio or something?"

Her laugh is low, almost mocking. "I believe it would reside within the 'or something' classification. Most assuredly not a recording studio."

I shift uncomfortably under her gaze. "Then... what is it for? I mean, it will help give me an idea for the specifications," I add for clarity.

She tilts her head, studying me like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You present me with a quandary. Should I divulge this information? If I decide to, you absolutely must refrain from incorporating it into the planning permission submissions. Such a revelation will undoubtedly impede approval. However, you are correct, it would enhance your comprehension of the requirements. If I do indeed pass this information to you, this understanding shall remain strictly between you and myself, with not a soul, not even James, privy to it. Is that clear?"

My curiosity gets the better of me. "I really want to know now," my voice stronger than I expected.

Harriet takes a step closer, her smile widens.

"Therefore, allow me a candid moment, young Thomas. Inspired, no doubt, by those beautiful, enchanting eyes that have been gazing upon myself since your arrival." Another step closer. "It shall be a dungeon, Thomas, a realm wherein I shall exert dominance and bestow delight upon gentlemen of my choosing..." She pauses, for no other reason than to watch my expression change. "...Soundproofed for obvious considerations, fortified to elevate individuals and apparatus, replete with contrivances, enshrouded in shadows to enhance the atmosphere and ensure privacy." Her words (some of which I didn't understand) hang in the air, electric and exotic. Magical and mystifying.

"The room in which we find ourselves..." she waves an arm, "...serves as my antechamber for anticipation, an arena for leisurely pursuits, and a sanctuary for recuperation; thus, the new chamber must seamlessly be accessed from this very point. My current situation is far from ideal, so a change is required."

My heart races. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Harriet stands waiting for me to respond. Perfectly happy in the silence. Happy with how uncomfortable I feel.

"...and the false floor?" I'm scared to ask but I have to know.

"For slaves to be stored when not being used," she says in a matter-of-fact manner. Like it's an everyday occurrence. Like I should have known it.

Harriet laughs, a joyous but wicked noise that penetrates me.

She quickly recovers and continues, her tone softer now, almost soothing. "Would you like me to present to you a selection of the services I provide?" She says it as if she is a hairdresser describing the hair treatments available. She takes another single pace towards me. She is so close, nearly on top of me. I feel her strength and power radiating from her.

I swallow hard, my mind racing. This is crazy. I should say no. I should professionally take the information and continue with my work. But another part of me is intrigued. Excited. This was not something I had ever imagined experiencing. "Maybe," I hear myself saying.

"There is no 'maybe', Thomas. Do you acquiesce? In the affirmative, or in the negative? Do you consent? Yes, or no?"

"Yes," the word surprises me as it comes from my lips.

Her eyes sparkle with approval. "Excellent. However, before we proceed, certain protocols must be observed, certain rules. You shall refer to me as Ms. Brown; the name Harriet is to be dispensed with," she pauses, her gaze sweeping over me. "Furthermore, it is imperative that you disrobe immediately, as I require your measurements."

I look at her. Once again, I feel stupid, my eyes show my confusion.

She clarifies, "You will strip. Right now. I will take your measurements."

"Wh-what?" Have I thought this through?

"Don't disrespect me. You heard and understood," her voice firm. "If you are measuring, One will also measure. Disrobe. I won't ask again, and henceforth it's 'What, Ms. Brown'."

I freeze, torn between panic and obedience. What have I agreed to? Slowly, hesitantly, I undo the top three buttons of my shirt, reach for the hem and pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, making me shiver. Her eyes linger on my chest, then travel downward as I unbuckle my belt and slide out of my trousers. Soon, I stand before her in nothing but my jockey shorts, feeling utterly exposed. My cock already twitching. Nothing but thin material between it and Ms. Brown. I'm comfortable with my body, but suddenly I feel very self-conscious, very inadequate.

She circles me slowly, her heels clicking against the polished floor. I hold my stomach in, hoping my hard abs pop. I raise my shoulders, showing off my firm chest. My body wants to jump around in excitement, in nervousness, I struggle to keep as still as I can.

"Good boy..." she purrs. "...but One said disrobe, remove the rest of your attire."

My hands tremble as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and push them down. Standing there, completely naked feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated. She steps closer, her fingers brushing lightly over my arm. "Relax, Thomas," she murmurs. "Nothing has happened... yet."

Without another word, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my rapidly rising pulse. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing. Scared to move, thoughts racing, scared that this is a bad joke, and that James will walk back in with Harriet laughing. A practical joke on my first day. A rough first day.

But, moments later, she returns. Blouse and leather trousers are gone. She is now dressed in a sleek black corset that accentuates her curves; her breasts pushed high, nearly toppling out. A very short, tight, black leather skirt and matching stiletto-heel ankle boots. I catch a flash of black lace knickers as she strides across to me. More exposed flesh than my mind can handle, but my eyes are drawn to her hands. She carries a leather collar and a length of rope.

"Kneel," she commands.

I drop to my knees without hesitation, the hardwood floor pressing into me. She fastens the collar around my neck, the leather cool and snug. Her fingers trail down my jawline, forcing me to look up at her.

"From now on, you are entirely mine," she announces, her voice steady and authoritative. "Do you comprehend?"​