 
### A Bridget Too Far.

By Edwin F Jones

Copyright 2014 Edwin F Jones

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

### Dedication.

For my all family; thank you for giving me the freedom to be myself, the support to get through the tough times and the love to make me see a better future.

### Chapter One.

Bridget Brown is down. Even the glare from the bulbs around her dressing room mirror cannot instil a glimmer of joy in her tonight. After the second part of her, as always, spectacular performance in Guy's Bar she faces a long drive up to Edinburgh. Or rather, Gordon does. She has no idea how Cherry had managed to talk her into this insanity, she is so manipulative, and a total Diva to boot. Cherry is such a control freak that Bridget had once heard that a few months ago Cherry had taken a little too much control and sucked a man's foreskin right off. Some of the girls blamed her aggressive streak on her parents for making her train for the Highland Games, many others blamed the booze, but mostly we blamed her Scottish blood.

"But pleeeeeaaaassse?!" Cherry had whined, much in the same way a nine year old might after bravely building up the courage to ask for a glass of wine with dinner, only to be laughed at by their parents.

"No! Absolutely and positively NO!" Gordon had shouted.

"Plea-ea-ea-ea-se! C'mon me wee Darlin'?!"

"I've said NO, leave it out Cherry, I will not do it!" Gordon felt a little flush of embarrassment as he stamped his foot, feeling angry that Cherry was bringing him down to the same childish behaviour.

But later that evening, while Bridget was getting dressed, she decided to overrule Gordon, purely out of her love of performance. It had been a while since she was last in Edinburgh and it was festival season. Cherry was ill, that was plain to see. Her lip liner was drawn on a wonky angle, and at many points, ran over the edge of the lipstick. She was just short of having a lipstick mark on her teeth to complete the transformation into her mother.

Bridget and Cherry had been the best of friends ever since the night that Cherry had kicked the shit out of Ben. Bridget reflects over her memories while gently rubbing blush into her cheeks to emphasise her distinctive high cheek bones.

It was four years ago now. Ben was Gordon's cousin. He had never been fond of him. Bridget had never met him. It had happened during one of Bridget's first ever shows, where she simply acted as a backing singer for an ageing Cher impersonator. It was the first time that she had been photographed to appear on the posters and flyers, which had been what prompted Ben to do what he did, probably spurred on by his conservative and religious mother. Ben had hurled false and damning accusations to a shocked and embarrassed Bridget during the show, for which he was promptly thrown out of the venue. Bridget was none the wiser that, as the show continued, Ben had been placing photocopied pictures showing a fully nude young Gordon on the posters outside. He had removed the head from the old photo's so that he could stick them to the posters with Bridget's head attached to Gordon's body. Cherry had gone out for a cigarette, and when she saw what it was the Ben was doing, she turned on Ben. Something that he had shouted to the stage earlier had struck a nerve with Cherry, and now she had the full entirety of her pent up rage let loose on Ben. It took three passersby to pull Cherry away from the fight, and Ben was quite badly injured. Not as badly injured as he looked, for, as they had been fighting, Cherry's sweat had taken her rather heavily applied eye shadow (ironically named "bruised red") and this had splattered all over Ben's face. After the show, Bridget had found Cherry at the bar.

"Are you Cherry?"

"Aye Darlin'. Wha'ov it?"

"I'm Bridget. It was my cousin that you beat up. I want to buy you a drink."

The connection between them was instant. They spent most of the night talking. And not just the usual drag-queen topics, but meaningful conversations about families and relationships, and after several cocktails they talked until closing time about the meaning of life. They left for their separate taxi's waiting for them outside, passing through the brighter lights of the entrance, and as they walked side by side, Bridget noticed that there was some blood splattered on Cherries woollen shrug. "Cherry, let me take it to wash, it's the least I can do..." Bridget had offered.

"This auld thing? Don'ye worry aboo' it darlin'. It's so the season before last that I shooda throon i'out. Bu' it me favourite, llama wool which I sprayed with silver glitter."

"I guess that makes you.." Bridget slurs. "...my Knight in shining llama!"

It had been from that moment on that the pair had become inseparable, eventually moving into an apartment together. The downside to this arrangement had been Cherry's manipulative nature and Bridget's inability to say 'no'. Her mind wanders over the conversation just yesterday, which had led Bridget to agreeing to do the Edinburgh show .

"I've warmed up some soup for you." Bridget had gently said before walking through the door into their living room. She plastered the biggest fake smile that she could muster. Experience had taught her that when Cherry is told "no" too many times that you enter the room cautiously and at your own peril.

Cherry was curled up on the sofa, and looked up at Bridget with mascara runs down from her much softer than usual blue eyes. She gave a little grin, which sent a tiny shiver of fear down Bridget's spine.

"Thank ye." Cherry said, sitting up. "'Av ye changed yer mind aboot daein' 'e show?"

For a split second, the pulses and throbs in Bridget's brain said 'tell her no...' Oh, how wicked! She wanted so much to snigger, but it would give the game away. But imagine the reaction! It was too good an opportunity to pass up at; Cherry's hissy fits were legendary entertainment, enjoyed, it seems, by all except Cherry.

She placed the tray with the bowl of soup and a glass of bloody mary onto Cherry's lap and took a large step back, before taking a deep breath and with just the tiniest hint of a smirk to her lips said "No."

The scream from Cherry's mouth felt as though it came from the very depths of torture, the flames burst wild within her eyes and the tray, soup and bloody mary were flung dangerously close to the window, with a sharp clang of the silver tray, and a shrill blast from the shattered glass, thick red juice reaching almost to the high ceilings, the green pea soup falling to the floor, splattering the beige but already stained carpet. "DO E' FUR ME YOU FECKING BITCH!" She screamed, her eyes emitting a laser beam that would make ordinary folk run for the hills. But not Bridget, whom was far from ordinary, the explosion of laughter tore from her stomach sending her into a doubled up posture.

Cherry started growling like a dog with every exaggerated breath, and this only served Bridget a reason to laugh harder, and so deep that she gasped for breath. It was only the fear of making herself cry that stopped her from the full force of her little joke; she did not want to go through that make-up routine again before the show.

"I'll do it!" She gasped out.

"Aye?" Cherry asked, her mood instantly lightening up like a fat girl sipping on a diet coke.

Say no again!

Now, that would be practically suicide; Cherry's mood swings had a government safety limit of just one per day.

"Yes, I'll really do it. Just so long as you clear up that mess before I get back on Tuesday." Bridget had said, pointing a wiggling finger, laced with many overbearing rings and tipped with what could be confused as bright red dragon claws, as she scanned the entirety of Cherry's face.

Her thoughts are interrupted with the suddenly boisterous opening of her dressing room door.

"Come on Bridget!" Guy yells as he bursts his way in.

"All right, I'm coming! There's nothing like building up the anticipation in this place, is there?" She snaps, grabbing the now warm glass and glugging the last of her Jizz Juice cocktail, thirsty from the stuffy heat of the atmosphere inside the windowless dressing room, which smells of the sweat of a football team mixed with the grace of Coco Chanel's number 5.

Guy just scolds at her, and as she passes him on her way out the door, she feels a sudden and stinging smack onto her right buttock. "Fuck!" she yells as she trips on her full length blue sequined dress with her awkwardly high heels. Her ankle twists as she goes down and she lets out a cry of pain.

She looks up to see Guy laughing at her. A shudder of pain leaps through her heart, she actually thought that Guy was a great boss, and a good business man. With him at this bar, Bridget could develop her act with a loose method of accounting. The bigger that her act became, the bigger the crowds, which put more and more money in the tills. She had been filling Guy's Friday night slot for the past eight weeks now. She was just about to book her appointment to get her real breasts put in and felt confident that she could pass it off as a "show expense". But she never had Guy down as such a dominant boss. He had, until now, shown her great respect for her work, and great appreciation too.

"And that's why men should never wear high heels!" Guy roars. Bridget feels her heart stop for a beat, her ears shocked at the comment that she would not expect from the owner of a Drag Queen cabaret club. "Now get out there and make them DRINK!"

Bridget says nothing, tries to stand, not realising that her heel is now firmly attached to her dress. As she stands with defiance, aiming to glare the same death beam that Cherry could, straight into the eyes of Guy, her dress tugs hard against her recently slapped bottom and the dreaded sound of ripping accompanied with a gust of refreshingly cool air against her stinging cheek. Her laser beam only just reaches Guy's eyes, just in time for him to see her fury followed rather too soon by her embarrassment and humiliation of having her bare buttock exposed.

And that is why men should never wear a g-string! Her brain tells her, in the voice of Gordon.

"Oh yes! Do the show like that!" Guy laughs, pointing to her buttock. "You can actually see my hand print!"

Ha! He's admitting to smacking me! Show them, show your loyal fans what a bastard he is! He'll soon regret it...

And with a carefully calculated turn that would make sure that she didn't see herself in the mirror, Bridget spins around and heads for the stage, where the other performers are waiting for the second half of the show to begin.

"Gentlemen, and gentlemen dressed as ladies," Lady Bra Bra says into the off stage microphone, delivering, as always, a louder cooing sound from the audience. This pause gives Bridget her opportunity to seize the microphone from Lady Bra Bra.

"I'll do it." Bridget whispers. She takes a deep breath. "Please welcome back your fabulously fruity host, and just recently sexually abused by her own fucking boss, Miss Bridget Brown!" She keeps an eye on the door to the stage, knowing that Guy will have heard that in the corridor. The crowd are roaring and Bridget has built up enough energy to zap her laser beam once again. She stares intently on the door, carefully picking the focus point that she believes will be where she will make first eye contact with Guy the very second that he walks through that door. Right on cue, the door flies open and Guy's furious eyes are greeted by a stare that would make your brains explode with fear. Bridget times the transition from stone cold hatred to falsely happy with an over-the-top fake smile, turns from the rapidly approaching Guy, and steps out onto the stage. She side steps many curtsies to her applauding audience, keen not to show her buttock until just the right time. When she is perfectly central she glances into the wings to see Guy standing calmly, yet with such ferocity in his eyes that Bridget knows that she has taken it too far. She thinks to herself that she better go out with a bang.

"I hope that you've had a nice little spanking during the interval. I myself have been spanked so hard by Guy that his hand print remains on my buttock, see?" She turns and bends over and the crowd roars with laughter. She spins back round sharply glaring at her tormenters. "I'm not joking, my boss really did do this to me." She yells, in a higher and more hysterical pitch, much to the amusement of the audience. "So you think that it's funny when a lady such as I gets assaulted do you? Shall I start auctioning off my left buttock for the highest bidder to spank?" This only serves more reason for the crowd to laugh. She sighs as she realises you're a man in a dress, no one will take you seriously.

"Well fuck the lot of you." She says, throwing the microphone onto the floor. As she storms off, nearly to her exit, and her inevitable clash with Guy, her mind pings a line that would at least keep her sense of pride, so she turns back around, plasters on her smile and walks elegantly back to the microphone. She is conscious of bending down with grace and dignity, by keeping her knees together and twisting slightly sideways as she dips down, keeping her torso vertical and her chest pumped toward to the crowd. She sweeps her arms majestically, much as a swan extends its wings, and scoops up the microphone. She thinks for a moment that she has pulled it off, but her balance is slightly off as she goes to stand, tripping backward slightly, but holding on. Her face is joyous like an exaggeratedly happy clown as her mind runs over the genius line that she will deliver. She stands with such gusto and force, like a phoenix from the ashes of humiliation, and as she does so, the remaining bottom half of her dress tears clean off and she stands upright to reveal her left testicle hanging from the side of her g-string. The audience go wild with laughter and for some reason Bridget feels the start an erection for the first time in eight years.

She runs off the stage, almost in the tears of humiliation, pushing her way passed Guy, who is laughing too hard to shout at Bridget. She runs into the dressing room, scooping up all of her belongings into her travel bag and runs out to her car. She is quick to pull away, trying to concentrate; there is a lot of traffic heading out of Soho and the streets are filled with large crowds of people, some a little too tipsy, and this makes Bridget a little nervous. Her mind is consumed with the rage of injustice which she feels towards Guy; she questions whether or not to go to the police, but her mind tells her that they will take her just as seriously as the punters in the bar did. What the hell had got into him? Bridget cannot decide if it is better or worse by the fact that Guy is straight, as if it would be okay to be sexually abused by your boss if he was genuinely sexually attracted to you, but Bridget feels that in this instance Guy has behaved with nothing more than cock-teasing and hetro-intimidation. Well, Bridget decides to play one final card, the fat lady singing card; it will deliver some justice to Bridget. Thinking deeper about it, it is a justice that she can achieve without all the hassle of dealing with the police, which in her experience always ended up being just a waste of time anyway.

She worries (as she so often does) that she is taking it too far. Perhaps she should follow Gordon's method of thinking; logical, rational and without malice. She approaches a fork in the road at Camden Town and with a elongated sigh of self deflation she moves over to the right hand lane, heading back towards home, Kentish Town, where her and Cherry live, to get changed and collect her things for her trip to Edinburgh. But as she passes the Black Cap to her left, her mind retreats to the period of her life not too long ago when Guy had persuaded her to give up her regular hostess job at the Black Cap to work for him. It had been hard going for Bridget to build enough of an act to get a job at the Cap, it is famous for its top cabaret acts, and now she had no idea of what work would come her way. Probably more of the boring corporate events, which for years had torn Bridget away from the mainstream scene, harsh work for when you are trying to build a loyal following. She has a flush of anger towards Guy. Her mind is consumed with rage and she justifies to herself that she will enact her revenge, and suddenly moves back over to the left hand lane, almost hitting a taxi, and heads toward Hampstead, accelerating to pass the amber traffic light before it turns red, leaving behind the sound of the taxi's horn ringing in her ears.

She wastes no time in getting to her destination, pulling up outside the three story town house and gets out of the car. She feels a moment of embarrassment as two passersby notice her strange outfit, her top half still in her elegant and lavish dress, and the bottom half in a pair of muddy jogging bottoms, left in her car by a young man from Essex that she had met on Hampstead Heath a few months ago. The man's wife would have questioned him as to how he had got so muddy, so he had left them in Bridget's car. To complete the image, her feet still donned her stilettos.

She paces furiously toward the red front door, her shoes clacking loudly and echoing down the quiet street, up a couple of steps, and pounds on the door with a heavy brass handle. She turns for a quick scan of the street behind her. Two passersby have stopped near to Bridget's car, one of them pretending to be looking for something in her handbag. Across the street, there are another two onlookers, not hiding the fact that they are interested in what is going on.

The door opens just a little and Gloria stands for a moment glancing out of the slight gap.

"Bridget?" She asks.

"Yes, I'm Bridget Brown. You remember; I work for your husband, Guy."

"Yes, of course I remember you; we met at his birthday party. Are you okay?" Gloria asks, opening the door a little more, but with slightly more suspicion.

"Not really." Bridget replies. "I thought that you might like to know that Guy sexually abused me tonight."

Gloria lets out a little chuckle and opens the door a little more. She gauges the onlookers on the street.

"What's so fucking funny about that?" Bridget yells. "Your husband sexually abused me!"

"Please, keep your voice down. Would you like to come inside to discuss this in private?"

"No. These people here," Bridget says as she swings round with her arm extended to highlight the expanding audience "have heard my accusation and seen that you laughed at it. I'm sure that they too would like to know why it is that you laughed?"

"Well," Gloria says with another little chuckle "you don't honestly believe that he would, do you? With you? My husband likes women, and you are a man!" she lets out another little laugh as she gauges the audiences' reaction. "Now if you don't mind, please take your paranoid hysteria away from our house before I call the police."

"Over here sweet'eart, I'll take you away for a little sexual abuse!" A man yells from the opposite pavement. "You'd like that, love!" He belly chuckles with his fat friend.

Bridget snaps her head round to face the man. "Fat man, baby dick. That's the rule, trust me, I've seen enough to know. Judging by the size of your gut, I wouldn't feel a thing if you sexually abused my bellybutton." Bridget returns her attention back to Gloria. "Deny it all you want, I came here to let you know what your husband has done. Perhaps you should ask him yourself before dismissing me. Have a wonderful evening."

Bridget storms back to her car as the fat man gives her a wolf whistle. She gets in and drives off, heading back home.

It takes her only ten minutes to reach her apartment complex, her pent up rage diminished by some speedy driving. As she pulls into the car park, she spots what looks distinctively like Guy's car. Surely not? But just to be sure, she uses her mobile to text Cherry. She waits for just a few moments for the reply.

Yes it's Guy, he wants to talk to you. What shall I tell him? Xxx

Good question. Bridget thinks it through it in her mind, the idea of a showdown is appealing to Bridget's pent up anger at Guy's wife for not taking her seriously. And maybe Guy wants to apologise. He is a good boss and Bridget really does like working at his bar. Perhaps she'll let him grovel for a bit, before making some demands. What would be her demands? How far can she push him?

As Bridget gets lost in thought she gets distracted by shouting. It's Guy that she can hear, he is on his phone just outside the door to the apartment block, walking directly towards her car. Bridget ducks down in her seat to avoid being spotted.

"... I don't know why you are making such a fuss about it." She hears Guy say. "No, it wasn't like that! ... You are being unreasonable ..." Guy's voice is silent for a while and Bridget assumes that the call has ended, before he suddenly shouts "I just fucking patted her arse! It was meant to be a bit of banter to get her feisty for the show!" He falls silent once again. Bridget grins, satisfied knowing that Guy himself admitted it to, presumably, his wife. So much for Gloria not believing Bridget!

She raises her head just enough to peek out at Guy, who is pacing furiously toward the entrance. Bridget grabs her phone and dials Cherry. The phone starts ringing at the same moment that Guy presses a button on the intercom. Please Cherry, answer the phone, not the door! She waits, two rings, three! Guy presses the button again.

"Darlin' what 'e helza go'on?" Cherry says as she answers the phone. Bridget sighs with relief.

"Don't let Guy back in!" Bridget says in a paranoid hush.

"Where are you? Why is Guy here and what the fook is going on?!"

"I'm outside, I'll tell you all about it in a mo, just get rid of Guy!"

Cherry falls silent before eventually asking "What's it worth?"

"Me doing the fucking Edinburgh show, now get rid of him!" Bridget says through clenched teeth.

"Fine." The phone goes dead.

A few moments later, she sees Guy talking into the intercom, but she can only grab a few words here and there. "...tonight....no, I need to...panties (or could maybe have been "parties"?)...urgent..." He suddenly turns on his heels and Bridget ducks down once again. She stays well hidden and keeps her breath held until she hears the start of an engine, followed swiftly by the screeching of tyres making a quick getaway, which means either Guy has driven off, or Cherry has scared of the neighbours with her bagpipe practice once again. Maybe not. If it was Cherry with her bagpipes, there would have been more cars driving off.

Bridget cautiously raises her head again, and sees that Guy's car has gone. She gets out and heads up to the apartment, where Cherry is eagerly awaiting the gossip.

"C'mon then, what have you done this time, naughty Bridget?!" She asks as soon as Bridget crosses the threshold of the door.

She tells Cherry of the spanking. She speaks of her agony at Guy's attitude, and worst of all, she blushes as she tells Cherry of the humiliation of accidently exposing her genitals live on stage, only to discover that Cherry has already heard the news; gossip travels faster than the speed of light in their social circle.

"Lady Bra Bra called me the minute it happened." Cherry explains. "She said that you had gone off on one; 'finally flipped' was what she said. The other gossip doing the rounds is that you are rather well endowed? 'Waste of a good size cock' was what Bra Bra told me!"

Bridget cannot hold back the tears; she loves to be the centre of attention, but not like this.

"Awww, c'mon me wee darlin'," Cherry says with surprisingly genuine concern, pulling Bridget in for a comforting hug. "Don't you worry about it. It'll be fine. Just give Guy chance to calm down a bit and everything will be back to normal."

"That depends on your perspective of normal." Bridget says, still sobbing into Cherry's shoulder. "But I'm not too sure that it will be alright. I'm so mad with Guy, how dare he treat me like this? I've worked so hard on the show..." She bursts back into a fresh onslaught of tears. Cherry gently rubs Bridget's back, soothing her back to being able to speak once again. "Besides, I don't think Guy will forgive me."

"He did seem pretty pissed."

"After I left the bar I drove to his house." Bridget says calmly as Cherry releases her from their embrace.

"What did you do, Bridget?" Cherry says, looking Bridget straight in the eyes with curious concern.

"I told his wife, Gloria, about what happened."

"Good on you, girlfriend!" Cherry exclaims, broadly smiling.

"But she didn't believe me, at least she pretended not to believe me. I heard Guy on the phone outside in the car park, he was arguing with her, so I guess that she did believe my story after all. There were people on the street outside his house, and I was yelling at Gloria for everyone to hear. Some of them could have been Guy's neighbours. I don't think that Guy will forgive me, even if I wanted his forgiveness, which I don't. What am I going to do, Cherry?"

Cherry thinks for a minute before saying "You're going to have a nice cup of tea. I'll make it for you. You sit yourself down and try to calm down, okay?"

"Okay."

"And then, you can go up to Edinburgh for the weekend and forget about Guy and all this shit. When you get back to London, you'll feel much better and maybe things will sort themselves out."

"Thanks, Cherry."

"Think nowt of it. And then, if Guy is still being a dickhead, I'll beat the crap out of him for you." Cherry says with full seriousness, which makes Bridget chuckle.

"Love you!" She replies, taking a moment of thought to appreciate that she has found the perfect friend in Cherry.

### Chapter Two.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Babs shouts over the music to Bridget, who is chasseing toward the bar with such grace and elegance that would make even Marylyn Monroe look lesbian. And not just an "is-she-isn't-she?" lesbian, but a full-on, short-haired, chequered-shirt-wearing, tattooed lesbian.

"Babs, Darling! Loving the new look, almost didn't recognise you!"

"You're on in half an hour, cutting it a bit fine aren't you?"

"Just in time for a little Jizz Juice before my grand return to the Edinburgh stage. And I might just have time for a drink as well!" Bridget replies, accompanied with a wink, her gigantic eyelash almost blowing the top-heavy Babs right off her barstool.

"Well, the Jizz is on me!" Babs shouts, turning toward the topless and hunky barman, raising a long, purple, satin gloved hand, before her gaze jumps back to Bridget to deliver "Or it will be later!", accompanied with such a sudden and loud snorting laugh that makes the customers around her jump. She carries her laugh as she swings her head around the bar to make sure that all eyes are on her. She swings her body back toward the bar, satisfied that she can still pull in a crowd, despite her age.

"Two Jizz Juice's please Hercules."

They two Queens exchange gossip as they sip on their drinks, before Bridget makes her way back stage for the start of the show. She has applied her final, last minute touch ups before waiting in the wings for the compare to make the introduction.

"Gentlemen, and gentlemen dressed as ladies," the compare announces into the off stage microphone. Bridget almost resents the fact that it is so dark in the wings, for the compare fails to spot her rolling her eyes at the same intro line that was used for her entrance yesterday, four hundred miles away. Same shit, different country.

"Please give a warm welcome to our Queen from England, Miss Bridget Brown!"

The beat of the music begins, Adele's "Rumour has it". The stage flashes with a multitude of colour and Bridget hears the crowd roar with approval and anticipation. The other acts in this evening cabaret, Sandra Deelightful, Audrey Carpetburn and Sissy Boobs, step out from the other side of stage, dressed in full length red sequined matching gowns, performing their choreographed walks in time for the backing vocals, as rehearsed earlier in the day. At just the right time, Bridget stretches her long, fish-net stocking wearing leg, wiggles it just a little before striding out to deliver her first "line".

The crowd start to sound a lot like a gaggle of geese, and Bridget finds the whole room bouncing around like a pool surface might ripple after Tom Daley's perfectly shaped body slices the water. If you could say just one good thing for the Scots, it is that they know how to party.

The routine ends to a rapturous applause, with whistles, and cheering. It is for these moments that Bridget exists. She feels that the energy pulsating and living is somehow recharging her youth. In a way, she feels that this is her own personal youth elixir, she'll never get old, just like Babs, who is still on the same stool that Bridget had left her on fifteen minutes ago, who Bridget now see's paying not the slightest bit of attention to the show, but rather draws attention away from Bridget by taking in the attention of two decent looking customers and Hercules the topless barman, who also appear to waste no time on Bridget's performance. Bridget marvels that Babs if seventy-three years old. The combined age of the three men that surround her probably don't add up to that. Bridget takes a moment to see that in just over forty years time that stool will be where she herself will be, as is the natural passage through life that a Drag Queen must take.

"Thank you!" Bridget shouts into the microphone. The crowd continues in their gratitude. "Oh, please stop!" She says. "You might give me a big head and my g-string is already tight enough!" A roar of good old Scots belly hoot, somewhat over the top, but welcoming to Bridget, she imagines the long hair of her blonde wig fluttering in the updraft of a crowd laughing.

"Is that because of your fat arse?" She hears a man shout, surprised to hear a southern accent, and somewhat distorting her fantasy of an adoring Scottish crowd.

"All the better to fuck with, my dear." She replies, striking a pose to suggest that she is the wolf in Granny's bed.

"Fuck a big, fat, red arse? No thanks Sugar!" Comes the hecklers reply. Bridget squints to see the man, his voice is quite booming, deep, domineering. It briefly worries Bridget, making reference to her red arse is an unusual reference to make. She thinks that he is under the balcony, hiding in the shadows, afraid to show his face, like so many of the other "brave" ones.

"Why would you suggest that my arse is red?" Bridget asks.

"Because of your spanking!" He shouts back. "You like to be spanked, don't you, you dirty whore?!" The crowd start booing and the tension builds within them. Bridget feels a sense of great pride at the loyalty that this group of people, probably many of them foreigners, who have come to her defence after just one number. Bridget fills with such energy, she's got this gig and the heckler is doomed to fail in his quest to humiliate her. She spots movement amongst the shadows, the crowd making more and more noise, a door opens and a small group of the audience leave. It quiets down and Bridget can only assume that they have taken the heckler outside.

"The show must go on!" Bridget yells. "Music!"

***

After the performance Bridget works her way slowly back toward the bar, her journey constantly interrupted by customers expressing their appreciation, many of whom pass her their telephone numbers.

She finds her way back to Babs, who is now focusing all of her attention on Hercules. Babs fails to notice that Bridget is standing right behind her, but Hercules spots her and sends a flirty little wink. Babs notices this, and turns immediately around on her barstool.

"Darling, great show! You were terrific, so much better than anything Cherry could have done."

"Thank you." Bridget replies. "It was a great crowd, well, apart from that total prick."

Babs eyes go wide as she says "I know, what a looser! What the Barbie doll was that all about?"

"I have no idea. Got what he deserved though, didn't he?!"

"Greg, the doorman, told me that the guy was outside kicking off after the punters threw him out. Typical Londoner, thinks that he's the big man, but he's no match for us Scots!"

"Londoner?" Bridget asks, part of her brain wondering if it could have been Guy. He wouldn't be so upset that he'd follow her all this way, would he? Bridget tries pushing the idea to the back of her head, it seems a little foolish, and she must remember that life is not like the movies.

"Yeah," Babs replies, interrupting Bridget's fantasy of having a psychotic stalker. "He was in here yesterday and was trying it on with me. We got chatting. He's up here for the festival."

This puts Bridget's mind at ease. Guy was very definitely in London yesterday. At the same time, her heart sinks a little, she had already started looking forward to all the drama and attention a crazed stalker could bring. Cherry had one a few years ago, and she milked it like crazy. It ended up with her getting a great slot on QVC demonstrating rape alarms, and soon after the offers of work flooded in. Cherry Flair became a highlight of every cabaret venue in London.

"Well, fuck him!" Bridget exclaims. "Let us have another drink!"

"Two Jizz Juice's?" Hercules asks, taking Bridget a little by surprise, she had forgotten that he was there.

"Yes please, my love. And get one for yourself." Babs replies with a little too much enthusiasm. Hercules wanders off down the behind the bar, grabbing the ingredients as he goes. Bridget sees Babs drool a little as she stares at his perfectly pert bottom in very tight shorts.

"Babs, get back down to Earth!" Bridget says as she does a little slap on Babs' cheek.

"Oh, I'm sorry Darling!" Babs turns once again to face Bridget. "My goodness gum drops, he is a hunk though, don't you think?"

Bridget looks down the bar towards Hercules, studying him as his biceps bulge and his torso ripples, tanned skin and just a hint of glistening sweat. He rattles the cocktail shaker above his head, causing his abs to tense up slightly tighter and Bridget to find herself agreeing with Babs.

"You don't stand a chance, Sweetie!" Babs says, bringing Bridget away from her gaze of admiration.

"And I suppose you do?" Bridget asks.

"As a matter of fact, we have been seeing each other. As it turns out, young Hercules is a fan of a bit of, as he calls it, Granny love. I'm his sugar Nanny! Twenty years old! Can you believe it? Hercules isn't his real name of course. It's Danny. I just call him Hercules because, well, just look at him!"

"You've done well, Babs. Is it serious?"

"Darling, if ever you can describe anything or anyone I do as 'serious', then kindly put this old dog down!"

Hercules returns with the cocktails. He flashes Bridget a cheeky looking grin, which causes her offense after knowing that he likes 'Grannies'. Bridget is only thirty years old, and doesn't look too bad, she can easily pass for twenty five.

"When are you going back to London?" Babs asks. Bridget thinks for a moment. Her next gig is not for over a week now. She had been turning down any Friday shows on account of her regular slot at Guys Bar.

"I might hang around in Edinburgh for a few days, maybe even a week. I'm staying with a friend of Cherry's. Do you know Zara?"

"Know her? Darling, everyone knows Zara! Watch out for her temper. She's on a great deal of hormone treatment. Don't mention her lazy eye, she'll rip you to shreds." As if Bridget would!

She imagines to herself the conversation; "Love the eye liner, Zara! Shame about your lazy eye!". She smiles to herself at the thought that perhaps Babs had once upon a time probably said something similar. "Thanks for the advice." She tells Babs. "She has a show tomorrow at CC's. Will you be going?"

"Oh yes. It's Hercules night off tomorrow and we always go over to CC's. I love it because I can parade him around making all the bitches jealous and he loves it because it's full of Old Queens for him to flirt with."

Bridget feels a flush of embarrassment for Hercules, he is still on the opposite side of the bar and is listening to every word being said. Bridget looks to him, expecting him to show his own embarrassment, but he just grins.

"Darling, don't look so shocked!" Babs says. "I love seeing them all get hot under the collar and then waltzing over to them to take him away from them! And he loves me getting possessive, it turns him on!" Again, Bridget flushes with embarrassment. "So, don't keep it to yourself, who's the guy in your life right now?"

"Actually, there is no one. I've hit a bit of a dry spell." Bridget says with a frown.

"Darling, you've been in a dry spell for too long now. Keep it up for any longer and you'll be classed as a desert. But I can see that you've got your eye on someone, so spill the beans, who is it?"

"Honestly, Babs, there is no one."

"You're problem is that you're too fussy." Babs states, infuriating Bridget. How dare she proclaim Bridget's fussiness when for some unknown reason young and hunky men just throw themselves at Babs? She has no idea what kind of low life (and mostly married) pathetic men show interest in Bridget. "You'd probably even turn down a fine specimen such as Hercules here, wouldn't you?"

Knowing that Babs is just trying to get a reaction out of her, Bridget glances over to Hercules, hoping that he will show some reaction himself. It is, of course, for Hercules' attention that Babs is saying such things. Hercules strikes a pose with his muscular arms crossed over his head, twisting his body slightly sideways, and tensing his pecks and abs. A bead of sweat collects in the centre of his torso and runs tantalisingly down the reservoir leading down to his groin. He is deliciously enticing to Bridget, like a model, like a cover picture on Men's Health, and yet she feels no longing or desire for him. She holds an admiration for his physique, but her loin speaks nothing of an attraction towards him. Thinking back to Babs question, the answer would be 'no'; she would never turn down a man such as Hercules, but she has a suspicion that she would be doing it for the same reasons that Babs was. She would do it for the status symbol of having a fine looking piece of eye candy on your arm.

"He's also got a massive dick, if that helps you in your answer?" Babs offers. Bridget is suddenly conscious that she has been taking too long in her response to Babs' question.

"I would turn him down." Bridget says.

"Give over! You'd come in your panties the very second he flashes you his super-sausage!" Bridget detects a tone of resentment coming from Babs' voice. Knowing that she'll not get Babs to give it a rest until she gets what she wants, Bridget decides to play along.

"I suppose it depends on what your definition of 'massive' is?" Bridget asks, mostly towards Hercules.

"Well, he's not flashing you his cock, if that's what you're after!" Babs exclaims, nice and loudly so that most of the other patrons can hear her. "And that proves my point; you are interested and would not turn him down, given the chance."

"It also disproves your other point though, Sweetie." Bridget replies. "If I were to sleep with him, I'd be no fussier than you are."

The evening continues into the early hours of the morning. The drinks have been flowing and as the buzz of the bar dies down, Bridget begins to feel the effects of the alcohol, making her feel sleepy. She asks Hercules to book her a cab, says her slurred goodbyes and makes her way out of the bar, where the taxi is already waiting for her.

After the short journey, Bridget steps out of the taxi outside the town house that belongs to Zara. It is like so many of the other townhouses in Edinburgh, large grey bricks, featureless, yet so grand in scale that it gives a feeling of safety, of stability. This terraced townhouse could have been like any other on this street, with one exception. The front door was the most daring shade of pink. It was so bright and sickly that it wouldn't have looked out of place in an overly camp amateur production of Mamma Mia. The sight of this door is doing nothing to help Bridget's own battle with nausea due to a few too many Jizz Juices.

Bridget enters into the dark and quiet hallway. She has trouble finding the light switch in the unfamiliar corridor, and after some fumbling around, she trips over a pair of thigh length black PVC boots. She lays on the carpeted floor for a moment, trying to assess if she has caused any damage to herself. Her knee hurts a little, but nothing too major.

She rolls onto her back and feels a sudden numbness on the side of her head. Before she realises what she has done, she feels a sudden and excruciating pain on her nose, accompanied with a buzzing in her ears. She rolls back the other way onto her side, clutching at her nose. The taste of metallic blood fills her mouth and she feels the warm and tacky sensation it spreading over her hands.

Light suddenly fills the air and Bridget looks towards the front door to see Zara and a middle aged man, both looking aghast.

"Bridget?" Zara rushes over to help her get to her feet. "What happened? Did someone attack you?"

"No, I fell over. I'm a little bit tipsy and tripped over your boots." Bridget looks behind her to see a small side table and on the floor beside it an old style telephone. She must've knocked the table when she rolled over, and consequently the telephone fell off onto her face. She sees a few splatters of blood on the cream carpet. "Oh, I'm so sorry Zara, I've got blood on your carpet."

"Don't you worry about the bloody carpet. Let me take a look at your nose. Come with me to the bathroom. Mr Gameshaw," she says, addressing her companion "go through to the lounge, pour yourself a drink. I'll be with you in two ticks."

In the upstairs bathroom, Zara carefully cleans Bridget's face for her before helping her into bed.

"Thanks, Zara." Bridget says as she sinks quickly into a sleepy state.

"No problem. Goodnight." Zara says, kissing Bridget's swollen cheek.

"Goodnight."

She falls into a deep and dreamless sleep right through to the morning, where she is awoken by the gentle rapping on the bedroom door, accompanied with Zara softly calling her name.

"Bridget? There's someone to see you downstairs." Zara calls.

"Okay, I'll be down in a minute." Bridget replies.

Who could be visiting her? She knows only a few people in Edinburgh. She checks the clock on her phone to see that it is only nine. She sees that she has a missed call from Cherry and a voice mail, but surely it is far too early for Cherry to be out of bed, especially on a Sunday?

"Zara, who is it?" She calls, but no reply comes, Zara must have gone back downstairs.

She gets up and looks at herself in the full length mirror. Her left cheek has ballooned over night, and glows with a huge yellow and purple bruise. It looks the same as that time when those thugs in Shoreditch had set upon her after a gig one night.

She wants to go downstairs as Gordon, as she would of done at home, but Zara hasn't seen her as Gordon and she worries that it would freak her out a little. Some of the other queens have strong opinions about dressing as the men that they were born as, but not Bridget. Aside from that, she wants a wig as a distraction from the bruise on her cheek. She wraps herself up with her satin dressing gown and briefly toys with the idea of putting her make up on, but Zara calls up the stairs once again. "Bridget, are you coming down?" She grabs her long fire red wig and after placing it on her head, arranges the fringe as to hide as much as she could of her swollen cheek.

She can hear voices drifting from the dining room, and listens closely for a voice that she may recognise, but she can only pick out that of Zara's.

She steps down each step carefully, her knee is sore and she guesses that she must have bashed it in the fall yesterday. Luckily, there are no steps up onto the stage at the club, she thinks to herself, before she realises that her main problem for tonight's show will be her face.

As she enters the dining room she sees two police officers sitting at the table.

"What's going on?" Bridget asks, glancing nervously between Zara and the officers.

"Miss Brown?" The male officer asks with a little smirk on his lips.

"Please, call me Bridget." She replies, her eyes squinting with hostility to the officer. She detects a slight chuckle suppressed.

"Bridget," the female officer says, "we have been asked here by your friend in London, Miss Cherry Flair. We understand that there was an incident a few nights ago with your boss?"

"That's right," Bridget replies "What about it?" She feels a flush of anger at Cherry for interfering. How dare she, it has nothing to do with her.

"Just out of curiosity, but how did you sustain that injury on your face Miss Brown, sorry, 'Bridget'?"

"I drank a little bit too much jizz juice last night and fell over on my way in last night."

"Please, Bridget, we don't need to know the details of your sexual activities." The female officer says with a look of disgust on her face.

"Its a cocktail." Zara informs the officers.

"Sorry, Miss, but would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?" PC Pratt asks.

"Fine, I need to put my tits on anyway."

Once Zara leaves the room the officers speak in a slightly hushed tone. "Your friends are concerned about you. Please remember that anything you tell us will be in the strictest of confidence. Are you sure that your injuries are from falling over last night?"

"Of course they are. Why, what do you think happened to me?"

"As your friend returned home last night, she saw someone jump out from the stairwell leading to the flat downstairs and then they ran off down the street. When she discovered you on the floor in the hallway, she gained the impression that you had been attacked."

Bridget gave a little chortle. "Not the case. I really did fall over. One of the many perils of being a man in high heels."

There is a slight hesitation before PC Pratt asks "Do you know the whereabouts of your boss, Mr Guy Lanson?"

This takes Bridget by surprise. Why would she know where Guy is? "I would imagine that he in London?" She offers.

"Perhaps. When was the last time that you saw Mr Lanson?"

"Friday night." Bridget starts to feel uneasy at the detection of an accusation in the voice of the officer.

"We understand that you made a visit to his home on that evening, was that where you last saw him?"

"No, he was probably still at his bar at that point."

"Then may I ask why you visited his home?"

"I wanted to speak with his wife."

"What did you want to talk to her about?"

"A private matter. What is all this about?"

"Mr Lanson's wife has filed a missing persons report. No one has seen him since Friday evening. The last person that could verify his last know location was your friend, Cherry, when he was trying to find you at your apartment in London."

"Well, I haven't seen him. Unless you need anything else from me, I would be grateful if I can return to bed to nurse a hangover that would put Liza Minelli to shame."

"Okay, sorry to bother you Bridget. We have just one last question. Are you absolutely sure that you have not seen Mr Lanson here in Edinburgh?"

Bridget's mind races through the events of last night with the heckler in the club. Could it have been Guy? Maybe the doorman had made a mistake and it was a different man the night before. Maybe that really was Guy? A sense of dread and fear fills Bridget's heart and clenches at her stomach.

"There was a punter at my show last night. At first I thought that it might be Guy, but later the doorman told me that the same guy had been in on the night before, so it couldn't have been Guy. He was very defiantly in London at around ten o'clock on Friday night."

"It's probably nothing to worry about, but please stay alert in the next few weeks. If you do see Mr Lanson, please don't approach him and just give us a call. Here is my direct mobile number." PC Pratt says, handing Bridget a card. The officers say their goodbyes and Zara escorts them out, while Bridget returns upstairs to her bedroom.

Bridget's mind whirls, confusion sets in as she ponders what the disappearance of Guy means. Maybe he's gone crazy, she thinks to herself. She hopes that she is not suspected of anything, it is all too easy for a drag queen to get caught up in a drama that has little to do with them. Only last year Bridget had found herself the subject of a vicious rumour which involved one of the nastiest pumps in London, and all because she gave the wrong set of directions to one of his 'girls'.

Part of her feels some concern for Guy, but when the pull of strings on her heart follow this route, she reminds herself of that humiliating night at Guys bar and what he did to her. She didn't know why, but while her concern would diminish, her pity would grow.

She shakes herself awake from her thoughts, she must get a grip and concentrate on her career. She looks once again at herself in the mirror.

As hard as Bridget tries, her concealer hides very little of her bruise. She is able to disguise the colour, but the swelling lump gives her a disfigured appearance, too much for her to feel confident to get up on stage. This moment of doubt brings a desire to speak with Cherry. She picks up her phone and is reminded that she has a voice mail. She dials and listens to the message.

"Bridget fucking Brown, what have you done?" Cherry's voice screams. "Guy's wife came over here looking for you. She was hysterical! Guy has gone missing and she thinks that it's something to do with you! I told the fat bitch to move on, Guy isn't the only cock out there. She's going to call the police. Hope you're having fun! Call me back."

So that explains it. Bridget's hindsight is now so very experienced and she has a moment of regret for going round to cause trouble at Guy's house. Never mind, she thinks to herself, there is nothing that she can do about it now. She dials Cherry's number.

"Suspected murders advice line, how can I help you?" Cherry answers in a cheery voice.

"Fuck off, Cherry, this isn't funny. I've been questioned by the police while looking like Herman fucking Munster and with the queen mother of a hangover."

"Calm down dear!" Cherry says with sarcasm. "Guy's wife is a total bloody nutter, no wonder Guy doesn't want to go home. Mind you, rumour has it that Guy is a bit mentally unstable himself. Oh, and have you seen the video of you on YouTube?"

"No," Bridget says with surprise. "What video?"

"It turns out that Guy films all the performances, and he has uploaded your hissy fit! Epic, Bridget, you were fucking epic! It's up to over ten thousand hits already!"

Bridget let's out a little gasp. "Fucking bastard! That explains last nights wanker at the show."

"What wanker?" Cherry asks.

"Some man from London who shouted something about my red arse. I thought at one point it might have been Guy."

"No way! I'm so jealous of all the drama! Did you tell the police about it?"

"No. It wasn't Guy. I was told by Babs that the same man had been in the bar on Friday night, and I know for a fact that Guy was at his bar on Friday, so it couldn't have been him. Apparently it was one of my new found fans thanks to the YouTube video."

"Oh, okay. Listen, I've got to go, I'm meeting Betty for lunch."

"Okay, I take it that you are feeling better now?"

"Yes, Darling, I found a nice young man who managed to clear my throat in an unconventional way."

"That's good. Well, I'll speak to you soon."

"Bye!"

After Bridget hangs up she looks once again to the mirror and sighs. Something in her knows that her career is now in serious jeopardy. She feels humiliated and lonely. Where is her Prince Charming sent to protect her from maniacs like Guy? She looks over to her laptop, trying to ignore the call of her mind to look for the video posted online. She returns her attention to her face, applying yet more make up to her already plastered face, but her thoughts eat away at her concentration and she knows that she needs to see the video, so starts up the laptop and searches YouTube. The clip is easy to find and Bridget is surprised to see that it now has more than twelve thousand hits. She watches her humiliation unfold before her, stirring up her emotions like a Cher song. She watches the clip again, and when it ends she reads the comments left by the viewers. 'What a "balls up"!' 'This tranny is shit, I can see his salami!' 'Chic with a Dick! Lol!'

It's enough for Bridget to decide not to perform in tonight's show. She calls Club Togo and speaks to Hercules, asking him to pass on a message that she is ill.

Five minutes later, her phone rings. It is Cherry.

"Why are you not doing the show?" She hisses down the phone.

"Because I'm a public joke and my face is the size of Jordan's tits, albeit slightly more attractive."

"So what? You've always been a public joke and your face has never looked good anyway." Bridget would assume that Cherry is being sarcastic, if only she didn't say it with such seriousness in her voice.

"Fuck you too."

"Just do the bloody show, will you? I'm the one getting it in the neck here. They are insisting that I do it, but I have a meeting arranged with bigus-dickus-seventy-eight tonight."

"I'm sorry Cherry, but I cannot do it. I've been working at my make up for nearly two hours now and I'm starting to look a little like Jacqui Stalone."

"Fine. I'll find my way up to Edinburgh and punch you in the other cheek so that you remain symmetrical, then you can do the show."

"Thanks for the offer Cherry, but I'll pass."

"You shall never forget this day Bridget Brown, I'll make sure of that." With a hiss, Cherry hangs up.

At lunchtime, Zara takes Gordon out to a nearby restaurant. With Bridget's mood so low, Gordon has left her at Zara's and wears his less than glamorous beige corduroys and a simple light blue polo shirt. The restaurant is busy, and they find themselves having to speak loudly just so that each can hear what the other is saying from across the table.

"We were worried about you." Zara explains. "We thought that maybe Guy had followed you up to Edinburgh and attacked you. Or with Guy's disappearance we were worried that you may have murdered him and hid his body."

"I'm not like Cherry in that respect. I hold the ability to suppress my murderous temptations."

"But you must admit that it appears a little suspicious, Guy's disappearance?"

"Have you ever met him?"

"He used to own a club up here. I did a few shows for him. He's a bit of a nasty character."

This shocks Gordon. He always believed that he was a good judge of character, and Guy had appeared to be a decent boss, better than many of the other low life's that he had worked for.

"You look shocked. Should you be? Considering what he did to you?"

"I don't know. He had never done anything like that before. He was throwing money at my show like there was no tomorrow. I thought he was a decent bloke."

"He's loaded, it gives him a sense of power. Many of my friends have been publicly humiliated by him, it's how he gets his kicks. You should be scared of him, he can leave peoples careers ruined."

"Ah, well, apparently I'm quite good at leaving my own career in ruins without his help."

"Don't put yourself down, I've heard great things about your show. Just be grateful that Guy has nothing more to do with you."

"I thought that he was going to help me develop my show."

"He'll help you develop it all right, but he'll also leave you ruined."

"So what happened to him up here?"

"Two of his performers went to a tribunal to complain about being bullied by him. He won the case, probably down to highly expensive lawyers. Two weeks later one of the girls committed suicide with an overdose. Then a few days later the other one jumped off a bridge. She was fished out of the sea a week later by Dutch fishermen, their fishing nets tangled ironically with her fish net stockings."

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of their meals.

"What did you think of my friend Mr Gameshaw last night?" Zara asks coyly.

"I couldn't really comment. I wasn't in a fit enough state." A moment of reflection passes as Gordon chews slowly and painfully. "I wonder what he thinks of me?"

"He actually found you rather attractive."

"Really? Despite the fact that I was covered in blood?"

"He is rather partial to that kind of thing, actually."

"How do you know him?"

"We used to be an item, my sugar daddy, only I could never bring myself to do what he wanted me to do for him. But he's actually a nice fella. Married with kids, of course. We remained friends after we split up."

"And presumably his wife doesn't mind him being friends with a transvestite?"

"She doesn't know. She lives in Monaco, and he spends very little time with her. It's a marriage of convenience." There is a moment of silence as Gordon anticipates Zara's next suggestion. "Perhaps you could meet up with him later?"

Gordon doesn't quite know what to make of this information, he wonders if he is repulsed or aroused at the fact that Mr Gameshaw found Bridget attractive while covered in blood. It has been a long time since Bridget or Gordon had had a love interest that had intrigued her / him. Perhaps Mr Gameshaw could be the one that will break the dry spell?

"Sure," Gordon replies. "Ask him to give me a call."

"I will do. You'll like him, I'm sure of it!" Zara beams.

### Chapter Three

The next day, Bridget is sat alone at a table for two in a restaurant, checking her phone. She has no messages or missed calls. She has now been waiting for fifteen minutes. One thing that Bridget Brown doesn't let men do to her is make her wait. In fact, it's probably the only thing that she will not let a man do to her. She asks the passing waitress for the bill for her cocktail, a Singapore Sling as the bar didn't have the ingredients for a Jizz Juice. A few minutes later the waitress returns. "Sorry that your friend didn't show up." She says as she places the leather wallet down on the perfectly set table.

Bridget almost chokes on the last mouthful of her drink as she looks at the bill. She would never pay that much for a drink in a bar, yet here she was forced to pay it just because she has been stood up. She picks up the bill and settles by card up at the bar. What a bastard, she thinks to herself as she punches the numbers of her PIN into the keypad. Fuck him. After spending the day in anticipation for some bedroom action, she decides that she will make her way to CC's in the hope of finding a one night stand.

***

The music is throbbing the building from the inside out. Bridget steps out of the taxi into a crowd of young party goers. She spots Babs and Hercules near to the front of the queue and gives them a dainty little wave. Babs beckons for Bridget to join them.

"Darling, I thought you were ill?" Babs shouts as Bridget approaches.

"I was earlier. I've had a bit of upset and drama today." Bridget says as she pulls her fringe away from her cheek to reveal her injury. Babs gasps.

"What happened?"

"I fell over in a drunken stupor last night."

"Hercules, be a gentleman and kiss the poor lady better."

He leans over and with all the tenderness of an ox, plants a heavy kiss on her bruise, causing her to wince a little.

"Thanks."

"Now don't go getting all excited!" Babs says, contrary to the fact that Bridget is clearly not interested in Hercules.

They enter the club and the overbearing smell of sweat and cologne hits Bridget's nostrils with all the moistness of a heavy London fog. To Bridget, it only adds to her arousals and desires. Babs and Hercules head upstairs to "do the rounds", while Bridget decides to remain in the quieter bar downstairs.

She stands alone at the bar. Despite all her pent up longing for a man's touch, she isn't feeling herself, her mind keeps stirring over how she feels about the Guy situation. She worries about her return to London, which she has decided to do on Tuesday. She'll need to find work and soon. She worries that she'll no longer feel safe in her home, Guy knows where she lives and after what Zara told her earlier she hopes that Guy will leave her alone.

"Hi!" A voice shouts into one of her ears, dispersing her thoughts.

"Hi." She replies, turning to see a tall and slim man stood behind her.

"Are you having a good night?" The man asks.

"It could be better." She says, flashing a smile at him.

"Can I make it better for you?" He asks while grabbing at his groin.

"Well well, you are very upfront, aren't you?"

"When I know I want someone, I don't beat around the bush."

"You certainly won't beat around my bush on account of my distinct lack of one."

The man gives a chuckle and a wink at Bridget. He is quite good looking, a fine and dark stubble dusts his jaw, his arms slim, yet rounded with muscles and coloured with dragon tattoos. He wears a tight fitting black vest and frayed denim jeans.

"I'm Gary." He states.

"I'm Bridget."

"Tell me, Bridget, are you looking for some fun tonight?"

"That all depends on your cock size."

"If you like them big, then I'm your man. Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'll have some jizz juice."

"Now, or later?"

"Darling, she'll have it both now and later!" Babs screeches, interrupting the conversation, returning from upstairs alone.

"Babs, this is Gary." Bridget says.

"No need for an introduction," Babs responds. "Everyone in Edinburgh knows Gary the gonads!"

"Gonads?" Bridget asks, looking between Gary and Babs for an explanation. Gary simply winks and smiles at her.

"He has bigger balls than Margret Thatcher did facing the miners strike!" Bridget pretends to notice Gary's bulging crutch for the first time.

"Let me buy us all a drink, then I'll take Bridget home with me so she can see for herself." Gary says.

"That's very presumptuous of you, what makes you think that I'll agree to that?"

"This." Gary says as he grabs the back of Bridget's head to pull her in for a passionate kiss, while using his right hand to pull Bridget's hand onto the ample bulge of his groin. Bridget's senses let go of her as she gets lost with the dancing of their tongues against one another, and she lets out a quiver of thrill by cupping his manhood, which she cannot fully fit into the palm of her hand, and a gasp escapes her when she feels it growing warmer and bigger. She shoves him back, breaking his hold over her.

"Get the drinks in." She orders.

The evening continues with the usual shenanigans and flirting, bitching and drama. Bridget and Gary decide to leave after only an hour, taking a taxi back to Gary's flat, where Bridget sits nervously on a beige leather two seated sofa, waiting for Gary to bring her a drink from the kitchen. She loves the thrill of anticipation, knowing that she'll soon be playing and teasing a man, caressing his body, letting him fulfil his animal desires and instincts upon her. She briefly fills with dread, the usual feeling of knowing that Gary will soon see that Bridget is impotent. She tries not to dwell on it too much, letting it slip to the back of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate on her lustful thoughts of Gary's apparently large cock that will soon be entering her, filling her and stretching her, yet her imagination destroys her fantasy by throwing in the image of her own penis flaccid and flapping in time to Gary's thrusting.

"Tell me Bridget, do you like piercings?" Gary asks, entering the lounge holding two tumblers of crème de menthe.

"I don't know, I guess so. I don't have any myself."

"I have."

"Really? Where?"

"My nipples, my bellybutton, my ball sack and the tip of my dick." Bridget's eyes bulge with surprise.

"I bet that was painful?"

"Very, but worth it. When I come, my spunk squirts through the piercing as well, I'd like to shower your face with my hot jizz. Why don't you have a little feel of my cock?" He says as he sits next to Bridget, placing the drinks on the coffee table and grabbing Bridget's hand and placing it on his bulge. Bridget feels that he is already growing larger, she can feel through his jeans that his length and girth is impressive, and yet still soft.

"I bet you like my big dick, don't you? Why don't you get it out?"

Bridget slowly undoes his button and flies, she licks her lips staring at the outline of his manhood pulling the material of his red boxer shorts tight against it. She playfully runs her finger up and down his shaft, using her nail to scratch over the head making it throb as if were a living organism in its own right. Gary groans and pulls the band of his underwear down over his penis, pulling out his large testicles, he releases the band under his sack. Bridget sees that the piercing in his thick, dark pink head holds a gold ring, passing though the hole that nature intended and passing back out the man made hole just behind. The ring has several little leather straps, each about an inch long, Bridget has never seen anything like it and her face obviously shows her surprise. She looks towards Gary's face and all he gives is a chuckle, followed by "Lick my monster cock." She does as she is told, her tongue wet with excitement. She starts at the base of his shaft, licking slowly upwards, until she reaches the point where his foreskin is peeled away from the head, tasting the metallic gold ring. She tickles this point with the tip of her moist tongue, making Gary take a sharp intake of breath and his cock flexes, hitting her nose. She lays her tongue flat and curled around the curve of his width and pushes in a downward motion, pulling the whole weight of his cock upward, away from his body.

"Would you like to take a drink?" Gary asks.

"Now?" Bridget asks, her paranoia questioning if what she is doing is pleasing Gary.

"Yeah, I want you to take a mouthful of your drink. Take a big slug of it and hold it in your mouth." Bridget does as she is told, looking for clues in Gary's eyes as to what he wants her to do. She holds the crème de menthe in her mouth, which starts to tingle on her tongue. Gary stands up, allowing his trousers and boxer shorts to fall to the ground.

"That's it, hold it in your mouth, and lay on your back."

Once Bridget is in position, Gary stands above her head and stoops down, making the base of his penis fall onto her lips. Bridget instinctively pouts, her lips forming a valley to rest his ever thicker shaft in. He pulls slowly away, dragging his full length over her mouth and as his piercing trails over her lips, the leather tassels attached to the ring piercing tickling the surface of Bridget's lips, causing her to pull inwards, slightly trapping them, and Gary let's out a groan of pleasure as the ring tugs softly on the head of his cock. She releases him once the tickling sensation stops, Bridget suddenly becomes aware of how numb the inside of her mouth has become holding the creme de menthe. Suddenly, Gary plunges the head of his penis into her mouth, spreading her lips wide and she keeps her lips tightly wrapped around his width, careful not to let the liquid spill out. He pushes deeper into her, yet with her mouth full of fluid she is only able to accept about an inch passed his head.

"Now swallow." He commands. She opens her throat and, sensing this motion, Gary forces deeper into her mouth, pushing nearly all of his cock in. Bridget almost chokes and he pulls out of her slowly. She hadn't been aware, but while he held his dick in her mouth he had become fully erect, hard and hot and so thick. Bridget gasps for breath, her eyes watering.

"You like that, don't you?" All Bridget can do is nod. "Do you want more?" He asks. She nods once again. "Then ask me for more."

"Give me more." Bridget says, still trying to catch her breath.

"No, I said 'ask'"

"Can I suck your dick some more?"

"Get in my bedroom now, you dirty slut. I'll give you more in there."

Before Bridget has time to sit up, Gary pins her down by her breasts with his left arm and with his right he reaches up her skirt. Bridget opens her legs, welcoming the intrusion, and he pulls her knickers to one side and uses his finger to tease the entrance of her hole. She groans, and he releases his hold on her by his left arm, then gently slaps his cock against her mouth. He pulls back, yanking Bridget by her arm into a standing position. He guides her out of the lounge and down a short corridor, into his bedroom where he pushes her onto the bed. He pulls down her skirt in a single motion, then off come her knickers. Gary either doesn't notice or just doesn't care that Bridget's own penis is floppy and lifeless. He forces her legs apart and upward, her hips rolling upwards exposing her anus, which Gary kisses and caresses with his warm and meaty tongue. Bridget moans with desire, her body shaking. He stops, suddenly pulling Bridget by her arms, rolling her into a sitting position. He forces his cock into her mouth ferociously, his thick shaft stretching Bridget's jaw apart. The tassels at the end of his cock piercing slaps against her tonsils, making her wretch. She is sure that she will inevitably vomit, and sensing this himself, Gary pulls his cock out of her mouth quickly, and as he does so the tassels scrapes against her tongue. The sensation of nausea makes her desperate not to throw up over him, so as the bile gushes up her throat, she pins her jaw firmly and suddenly shut, briefly trapping the little tassels in her teeth, but Gary is still pulling away with some considerable force, which causes the ring of the piercing to rip right through the solid helmet of his penis, accompanied with a torturous scream from Gary and an eruption of hot blood showers over Bridget's face. He pushes Bridget back flat on her back as a volcano of vomit erupts from her mouth, and as she gasps for air, the little ring with the little tassels falls back into her mouth and lodges itself firmly in her throat. She gasps for breath, panic sets in as her body violently wretches, trying to dislodge the ring from her throat, she can feel that it is not moving. She tries to beckon for Gary, but he is still wailing, clutching at his penis, which is surprisingly still hard, yet covered in thick, red blood. Bridget bangs her palms against the bed covers. Gary turns to her, tears streaming down his face and his hands, torso and legs bloodied. He clocks that Bridget is in serious trouble and rushes over to the bed, pulling her up and turning her around so that her back is against his front. He wraps his arms around her waist and with almost unbearable force yanks upwards. As he does so Bridget feel his still hard penis press between her buttocks, and it feel warm and sticky with blood. He yanks again, this time harder. Still the ring stays lodged and Bridget feels close to fainting. She looks down to the surprising sight of her own penis, which has now become erect, she realises that the intensity of the situation, the panic and this large cocked man who has his arms around her, trying to save her, essentially having her life literally in his hands is enough to cause her own arousal. As Gary does another yank, the ring fires out and Bridget takes the deepest breath of her life. Gary let's go and collapses backward onto the bed. Bridget turns around and is surprised to see two police officers standing in shock, obviously unsure of how to handle the situation, especially on account that Bridget is visibly turned on.

***

Gordon's night is restless, broken up with dreams and nightmares, lustful situations interrupted with a sudden threat, stirring him from sleep, waking breathlessly, with cold, damp sheets, moist with his sweat. In one dream, Hercules has him tied to a wall of barbed wire, he pulls his body forward, away from the hot spikes that scratch at his back. Hercules is pushing his erect penis into Gordon's mouth, pushing the back of his head close and sometimes into the barbed wire. Gordon hears the voice of Babs somewhere behind him, screaming hysterically, angry at Gordon for taking Hercules away from her. Babs voice becomes louder, Gordon is aware that she is standing behind the barbed wire wall. Suddenly Gordon gets a Sharp pain in his back as Babs pushes the wall of barbed wire into his back, making Gordon try to scream out, but Hercules penis is filling her mouth and muting the sound. A single strand of the wire is looping around his neck, and pulling tighter and tighter, before suddenly being yanked sideways, ripping through the flesh, the pain waking Gordon gasping for air, his throat still sore from earlier. He regains his breath, sitting up in the bed, now cold and damp with sweat. He takes a few gulps of water from the glass on his bedside table, and, once calmed, returns to sleep, this time more peacefully. He dreams this time of Cherry, who is trying to put together a show with over three hundred Queen's, much to Bridget's amusement. She follows Cherry around as she tries to herd the flock onto the stage, her frustration in her failings as she frantically shouts at them all. Gordon feels relaxed and refreshed as the Monday morning light rouses him from his slumber. He gets out of bed and walks over to the mirror, and finds himself pleased to see that the swelling on his cheek has reduced, making him more confident and happy enough to perform in tonight's show, his last one in Edinburgh. The incident with Gary last night has confused but invigorated him. For the first time in years, he feels alive, excited by the prospect of being able to attain erections once again. He has no idea why it happened at that particularly inappropriate moment, but his thoughts tell him not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He decides to get dressed up and go out for lunch, maybe he should give Babs a call. Just as he reaches for his phone, it starts to ring. It is Babs.

"Darling! What on earth happened last night with Gary? Tiffany said that he had to go to hospital? What did you do to him?"

"Word gets round quickly up here, doesn't it? Oh Babs, I'm so embarrassed! Is Gary okay?"

"I don't know, I've only heard the rumours. The word on the street is that you ripped his cock piercing? Jeez, Bridget, you must've been desperate for some cock, you mustn't leave it so long next time!"

"It's not funny, there was blood everywhere! Two passing policemen bashed the door down because they heard Gary's screams and thought someone was being murdered! When they saw what was going on, they just thought we were just a kinky couple."

"Typical of you southerners to come up here and destroy the best dick in Edinburgh. You won't be the most popular queen here now. Hercules says that they have dropped you from the show tonight, are you okay?" Gordon sits in silence, taken aback by just how quickly his career can nosedive. The sound of death bells that have been ringing in his mind since the incident in London suddenly appears louder.

"Sorry, darling, have you not been told?" Babs says, breaking the silence. Gordon's eyes begin welling up.

"They can't just drop me from the show because I ripped a man's cock!"

"It wasn't just that, after you missed last nights performance as well."

"Fuck them. I don't need this gig, I should be in London, I've plenty of offers there." He lies, more so for his own benefit. "Do you fancy doing lunch?"

"Love to, but cannot. I've got rehearsals for a new show."

"Never mind. I'll probably head back down to London today, there's not much point to me staying here."

"Well don't be a stranger, you must come back soon."

"I will do, take care."

"You too, darling. Bye!"

Gordon hangs up. He starts to pack his bags, knowing full well that a drag queens travelling wardrobe can take many hours to pack. Just after the first case is packed, all with various shoes, there is a knocking at the bedroom door. "Bridget?" Zara calls out.

"Come in." Gordon replies.

Zara enters with a coffee and shows surprise at the sight of Gordon packing. "Why are you packing already, I thought that you were staying until tomorrow?" She asks.

"I was," Gordon replies "but my appearance tonight has been cancelled."

"What happened?"

"Do you know Gary the Gonads?"

"Of course, everyone knows Gary, he's the most popular fuck in Edinburgh."

"Not any more, not after I maimed his magnificent cock last night. I'm probably the most hated person in Scotland right now."

"No way! What happened?"

Gordon describes the events of the night before in graphic detail (leaving out the part about achieving his own erection), which Zara listens to in silence apart from the occasional gasp.

When he finishes the tale, a look of confusion crosses Zara's face. "Why didn't you end up going on that date with Mr Gameshaw?" She asks. "He's not happy that you stood him up."

"What?!" Gordon exclaims. "He stood me up! I was waiting at the restaurant for quarter of an hour!"

"At the restaurant? Mr Gameshaw thought that you were meeting him at Frenchies bar?"

"No he definitely said Francois', which is a restaurant. I'll show you the text message." Gordon shows Zara the message, proving that he is right. "See!"

"Oh, I'm going to give him a call. He doesn't like being wrong, I shall enjoy teasing him about it! I'll leave you to continue packing, unless you fancy staying for one more night?"

"Thank you, but no. I need to get back down to London."

Gordon gives a little smile at Zara as she leaves the room and the very second that the door is closed he throws himself face down onto the bed, sobbing into the pillow. He is not quite sure of how long he remains there, his mind occupied by the worry of the future. His thoughts are interrupted by his phone ringing. He is pleased to see that it is Mr Gameshaw.

"Bridget? Hi, it's Mr Gameshaw."

"Please, call me Miss Brown." Gordon says with hostility. "Thanks to you I had an awful night."

Mr Gameshaw laughs. "I know, Zara just told me about it!"

"What is so funny? It is because of your mistake that I ended up with Gary. Why didn't you call me?"

"I thought that you were standing me up."

"Well, I wasn't. I was waiting for you for fifteen minutes, alone in a posh restaurant looking like a fool."

"I am so sorry Miss Brown, my predictive text screwed up and I didn't notice. I would very much like to make it up to you, can I take you out for dinner this evening?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Gameshaw, but I will be heading back to London tonight."

"In that case I'll just have to take you out for lunch then. Shall I pick you up this time to avoid any further mishap?"

"No, I don't want to see you. You had your chance last night and you blew it."

"I think that last night you too blew it, perhaps a little too hard?!"

"How dare you!" Mr Gameshaw just laughs at Gordon's response. "It wasn't funny!"

"Please, Miss Brown, I don't like to make mistakes, especially when someone ends up having their manhood destroyed because of that error. I could ask Gary out to make up for it, but I bet that I am not his type, so I must insist that I make it up to you."

"It is still a no. Leave me alone." Gordon says, then hangs up. He is not feeling angry towards Mr Gameshaw, but the situation over the weekend has left him confused and emotional. His mind mulls over the stupidity of it all, of how if he had stayed in London he may have been able to sort things out with Guy. His mind wanders back to the conversation from yesterday with Zara and he thinks to himself that it may have been all for the best. Maybe the powers that be were getting him away from Guy. Maybe if he had continued working for Guy he may have ended up like the girls that Zara had told him about. With this more positive state of mind, Gordon decides that he will take a shower before continuing to pack for the return journey.

He takes his time in the shower, allowing the cool water to wash over him, freshening his skin and soothing his mood. He returns to his packing, but is interrupted once again by Zara.

"Bridget, there is someone to see you downstairs."

"Okay, I'll be down in a second."

Gordon quickly applies a bit of make up, throws on Bridget's blonde bobbed wig (which always makes him feel like Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman') and wraps her silk gown around herself.

When she enters the kitchen on the lower floor, Mr Gameshaw is sat at the table with the largest bouquet of flowers that Bridget has ever seen.

"Please accept these flowers as a token of my sincerest apologies, Miss Brown." Bridget is taken aback, no man has ever bought flowers of this magnitude before. Her heart warms to Mr Gameshaw, he is starting to appear to be quite the gentleman.

"I feel so genuinely sorry for the awful predicament that I have inadvertently caused you that I have cancelled my prior engagement in order to take you out. I will not take no for an answer."

Bridget thinks to herself for a moment. "Fine, lunch. But that is all, when it is over I shall return to London. Give me twenty minutes and I shall be ready."

"Take as long as you like." Mr Gameshaw says, unaware that this is exactly the kind of comment that you avoid saying to a drag queen, particularly one of whom has not long ago taken a shower, if you wish to make it to lunch at a reasonable time. Fortunately, Mr Gameshaw is a patient man, as he has learnt to be after dating Drag Queens before.

First, Bridget selects a dress; a sexy little black number. She has been very fortunate in the shape of her hips, making tight fitting dresses a real possibility without raising any suspicions of her masculinity. She has brought only four wigs with her from London, she would usually have paired the black dress to her long, wavy, golden blonde wig, but with her limited selection she decides on her dark blonde bobbed one. She takes her time with her makeup, she wants to look perfect for Mr Gameshaw, he is obviously a man of dignity and class, and she wishes to portray herself in a suitably matched manner. She then puts on her black suede stilettos before heading back down the stairs.

"Okay, I am ready." Bridget announces with a smile as she enters the kitchen.

"Wow, you look stunning Miss Brown. I shall be proud to have such a beautiful lady upon my arm." Bridget feels herself blushing, succumbing to Mr Gameshaw's compliments and falling for his charm. He stands and takes Bridget's hand and kisses it, then loops her arm through his and guides her out of the front door.

Directly outside is an old fashioned Bentley, black and sleek. Mr Gameshaw leads Bridget up to the passenger door.

"Is this your car?" She asks.

"One of my cars, yes."

"Impressive, Mr Gameshaw."

He holds open the passenger door for her and closes it behind her before making his way around to the driver's side.

"A Bentley R type continental?" Bridget asks.

"Exactly correct Miss Brown. How do you know about cars?"

"I'm not just a pretty face, you know. My father was a classic car mechanic. I used to spend at lot of time at his garage. I would pretend to be a princess and play in the cars when my dad wasn't looking."

"And still today you pretend to be a princess."

"I am more grown up now, Mr Gameshaw. I am now a Queen." Mr Gameshaw laughs and looks directly into Bridget's eyes.

"And such a beautiful one." He says as he starts the engine.

"Where are you taking me for lunch?"

"I am taking you to the Pompadour, only the best for my Queen."

"Might I remind you, Mr Gameshaw that I am not yet your Queen."

"I didn't mean that in the sense that you are a queen that belongs to me, you are my Queen in the sense that I am your loyal and devoted subject, eagerly awaiting your command."

Bridget releases a nervous giggle. "You are such a charmer!"

"Tell me more about yourself, Miss Brown. Have you always worked the drag scene?"

"Only exclusively for about three years. Before that I was a part time waiter while appearing in a few shows as a 'chorus girl'."

"When did you get your own show?"

"About a year ago. That was when I really started making money." Bridget feels herself welling up once again with the sensation that her showbiz life was probably coming to an end, and so tries distracting Mr Gameshaw away from talking about her. "What is it that you do, Mr Gameshaw?"

"Me? Well, I work in the financial sector."

"At a bank?"

"No, it is a financial institution. Very dull, I'm afraid. I find myself at this stage in my life very rich, yet very bored."

"I understand that you are married. Do you have any children?"

"I am married, yes. Sandra and I have two children, a boy and a girl. Tom, who is twenty and Clara who is nineteen. Both of them are at university."

"You must be very proud."

Mr Gameshaw sighs and remains silent for a few moments before answering. "I am proud. Tom is studying to be an accountant and Clara a lawyer."

"You don't sound very happy about that?"

"When Tom was growing up, he loved to play with cars. He always wanted to be a car mechanic, but Sandra pushed him away from it, she felt that it was to lowly a job for her son. I was happy for him to pursue whatever career he wanted, speaking from experience, I know that money cannot buy happiness, all it does is trap people. Clara wanted to be a vet, and Sandra interfered once again."

They travel in silence for a minute, Bridget can see that she has struck a nerve within Mr Gameshaw.

"Here we are." He says, breaking the silence. "I hope that you are hungry."

The moment that the car pulls to a stop, Bridget instinctively goes to open her door. "Wait!" Mr Gameshaw exclaims. "Please, wait for me. I'm an old fashioned gentleman and I intend to treat you as a lady." He gets out of the car, walks around to the passenger door and opens it for Bridget to get out, offering his hand to help her. Bridget thanks him, taking his arm as they walk into the restaurant, which is busy, far busier than Bridget would have anticipated for a lunchtime sitting.

"This is probably the best restaurant in Edinburgh." Mr Gameshaw offers as an explanation, while they wait for the maitre d' to finish his call on the telephone.

"Good afternoon, Mr Gameshaw. How very nice to see you again. Table for two?" He says after hanging up the telephone.

"Is it too much bother? I can see that you are busy, my apologies for not booking in advance."

"Not at all, there is always space available for you. Please, follow me."

The maitre d' leads Bridget and Mr Gameshaw through the sea of diners until they reach an empty table in the corner of the room, where he pulls out a chair and indicates for Bridget to sit. This is the life, Bridget thinks to herself.

"Kelly will be your waitress, she will be with you in just a few moments."

"Thank you, Paul." Mr Gameshaw says.

After Paul has left Bridget looks to Mr Gameshaw. "I've never been anywhere this posh before, I feel a little nervous."

Mr Gameshaw laughs. "Don't worry, just relax and be yourself." Bridget smiles at him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Gameshaw."

"Good afternoon Kelly. May I introduce my guest, Miss Brown."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Brown."

"Nice to meet you too, Kelly."

"May I get you something to drink?" Kelly asks.

Mr Gameshaw holds out his hand toward Bridget. "I'll just have a diet coke, please."

"And for me, a glass of Chianti Classico." Mr Gameshaw orders.

"Certainly." Kelly says, handing them menus. "Today, the chef personally recommends the squab pigeon pot au feu, cavolo nero cabbage served with truffle macaroni."

Bridget looks at her menu with some degree of confusion. She has never been a lover of fine food, usually settling for simple, common food, but everything on the menu appears complex and exotic. "What are you going to order?" She asks Mr Gameshaw.

"I cannot decide." He replies, browsing over the menu for a few seconds of silent thought. "Everything on the menu is superb. What will you order?"

Bridget's eyes grow wide as she tries to decipher the meaning of most of the dishes on offer. "I really haven't a clue. I don't know what most of the things on this menu mean."

Mr Gameshaw laughs. "Would you like for me to order for you?"

"Yes please."

Kelly returns a few minutes later with their drinks. "Are you ready to order?" She asks.

"Yes. We would like two of the reblochon de Savoie followed by two of the poulet en vessie with the mushroom spaetzle please. Can you recommend some wine?" Mr Gameshaw asks.

"We have an excellent 2008 vintage Vouvray."

"Very well, one bottle then please."

"I shall get Edward, today's sommelier, to be right over."

After Kelly walks away Bridget asks Mr Gameshaw "Will you not be driving after lunch?"

"I think not. I shall arrange for my chauffeur to collect us. Tell me Bridget, do you know about wines?"

"Only that they get me drunk!" She says with a smile. "Only, I cannot get drunk today Mr Gameshaw, I must return to London this evening."

"Don't you worry about that, I can arrange transport for you. If you want to drink, do so."

"But I have my car here in Edinburgh. Besides, London isn't just around the corner, Mr Gameshaw."

"I know that, but I want to show you a good time. It is not a problem. I can arrange to have your car delivered to London in time for your arrival. Now, I would like for you to relax and enjoy yourself as my guest. You have my honourable word that I will look after you."

Edward arrives with the wine, opening it in front of them and pouring a small amount into Bridget's glass.

"I'll need more than that to get drunk!" Bridget says, grabbing the glass and downing the vibrant and crisp wine in a single gulp. Mr Gameshaw laughs and Bridget sends him a wink a smile. "Thank you, Edward." Mr Gameshaw says. "Judging by my companions face, the wine is perfect." Edward fills both glasses before placing the bottle in an ice bucket on a stand next to the table. Immediately afterwards, Kelly arrives, carrying the two small plates of their starters.

"I would like to make a toast." Mr Gameshaw says.

"Then you better order some bread!"

After Mr Gameshaw's chuckle stops, he picks up his glass by the stem.

"To my unfortunate fuck up, which has led us to this place and this time." They clink glasses and take a sip before starting to eat. Bridget takes a small forkful of the artistically plated food, unsure as to what it actually is. She chews slowly, allowing the flavours to dance in her mouth, stimulating each and every nerve of her taste buds, releasing a satisfied groan of pleasure.

"This food is wonderful! Mr Gameshaw, you have exquisite taste."

"I also have a very dirty mind." He says, just as Bridget feels that he has started rubbing his foot up Bridget's leg. She feels herself blushing.

"I must warn you, I could get used to this." Bridget says, stretching out her leg and returning his gesture.

"You really are quite stunning." He says to her. "I only go for ladies, such as yourself, who have an air of dignity about them, which you carry rather well." He has obviously got wrong impression, Bridget thinks to herself. "What kind of men do you like?"

"Rich ones." Bridget jokingly replies, before remembering that for the first time she is on a date with a real life rich man. "Only joking, I'm not that shallow really. I like gentlemen, such as yourself, someone who can treat me like a lady in public," Bridget lowers her voice to a whisper "and treat me like a slut in the bedroom." They both grin at one another, the sexual tension building, Bridget feels a spark of chemistry between them, something that Gordon had last felt quite a while ago, when he had been a teenager and had developed a crush on his maths teacher.

They finished eating in silence, their eyes locked onto each others. As they finished, Mr Gameshaw drops his knife onto the floor.

"Would you mind retrieving my knife from under the table?" He asks with a little wink. Bridget grins and slides down her chair, under the flaps of the table cloth. Mr Gameshaw has undone his flies and removed his penis, which is semi erect, and while not as big as Gary's, it is still a good size. Bridget spots the knife laying close to Mr Gameshaw's right foot, and as she reaches for it, she allows herself a taste of his helmet. She returns to her seat to see Mr Gameshaw staring at her with desiring eyes and a cocky smirk on his face. She smiles back at him.

"I think that you found something that you liked under the table." He says to her.

"Indeed I did, Mr Gameshaw. There was some very interesting wood down there."

They sit in silence for a while, grinning at each other, their eyes locked, before the spell is broken by Edward, the sommelier.

"Would you care for me to pour more wine, Sir?"

"Yes please, Edward. And please do not call me 'Sir'. I prefer 'Mr Gameshaw'."

"My apologies, Mr Gameshaw." He says, pouring the wine.

Like clockwork, as soon as he has returned the bottle to the ice bucket, Kelly approaches with their main courses. Mr Gameshaw thanks her, then turns to Bridget. "Have you ever eaten poulet en vessie before?"

"No, but I'm willing to try anything once."

"I must warn you; I have a very strong memory and such comments will be put to the test later this evening."

They begin to eat.

"What work do you have arranged in London?" He asks.

"None at the moment." Bridget isn't quite sure why, but she feels like she can talk to Mr Gameshaw about her problems with Guy. She describes the incident from Friday night backstage at Guy's bar.

"Guy has always been a bit of a live wire." Mr Gameshaw says after Bridget has finished explaining her situation. Bridget almost chokes on her wine.

"You know him?"

"I did know him. I was a silent partner at the club he ran up here."

"Do you still speak with him?"

"No, we fell out a long time ago. Like I said, he has always been a bit of a live wire."

"He has apparently gone missing. I had the police ask me about him, his wife is under the impression that I may have murdered him!"

"Well, she is just as much of a head case as he is."

Bridget takes the final bite of her meal, and Kelly is ready to clear the table almost as soon as she swallows.

"Thank you, Kelly. That was wonderful. Please send my gratitude to the chef." Mr Gameshaw says.

"Would you like to see the desert menu?"

"That depends on Miss Brown." He says looking toward Bridget.

"No thank you. I'm too full up for pudding."

"Would you like coffee?"

"Not for me, thank you. What about you Miss Brown?"

"No thank you."

"Just the bill please, Kelly. Oh, and would you mind calling my chauffeur, ask him to get a taxi here to pick us up. Here is his number." He passes Kelly a business card from his jacket pocket.

"Very well, Mr Gameshaw."

"Tell me, Miss Brown, when you were just a little princess playing in the Bentleys, did you ever fantasise that you had a prince on the back seat with you?"

"No, not a prince, but I'd fantasise of being there with a butler or servant. It was always someone that as a princess I should not socialise with. I was always a bit of a wild child."

"And why never a prince?"

"Because a prince is supposed to be charming, and the things that I imagined happening were far too dirty for a prince to be doing."

"But not too dirty for a princess?"

"Not for a pretend one, no."

Kelly arrives with the bill, placing it on the table.

"Your chauffeur is on his way."

"Thank you Kelly. It has been a pleasure dining here as always." Mr Gameshaw says as he opens his wallet and places several twenty pound notes into the leather folder. "Please ensure that my tip is shared around to all the staff."

"I will do so Mr Gameshaw. Thank you very much. I hope to see you again soon. You too, Miss Brown."

"Thank you, Kelly. It was a wonderful lunch."

After Kelly has walked away Mr Gameshaw asks Bridget "Would you like to join me for coffee at a rather nice nearby hotel?"

Bridget thinks for a moment. She is starting to feel trapped by Mr Gameshaw. She is now too over the limit to be able to drive herself anywhere and is now at the mercy of Mr Gameshaw's whims. She will only go back to London when he says so. She tests the water, with full intention of ending back at the hotel. "I would actually like to leave for London. I am under pressure to find some work."

"I told you, you don't need to worry about getting back to London. I will ensure that you are back in your flat by midnight. I wouldn't want you turning into a pumpkin!"

"How thoughtful of you. But it is now three in the afternoon, and London is about an eight hour drive, so I will have to leave quite soon."

"Who said anything about driving?"

"Okay, well the train isn't that much quicker..."

"But it does still leave time for coffee at the hotel."

"You are very persuasive, Mr Gameshaw."

"When I know that I want something, I never give up."

"Okay. Take me back to your hotel." Bridget says, just as Kelly returns to inform them that the chauffeur has arrived.

***

The Bentley pulls up outside the front doors of the Balmoral hotel and a pristinely dressed footman opens the door for Bridget and Mr Gameshaw. They walk into the grand lobby, decorative and exquisite and breathtaking to Bridget, yet Mr Gameshaw walks with comfort and ease, not holding the same feeling of being out of place that Bridget feels. At the reception desk, Mr Gameshaw checks into the honeymoon suite before ordering for two coffees to be sent up, and Bridget is surprised that he also asks for a whole carrot, a whole cucumber and, if they have it, a whole marrow. The receptionist doesn't bat an eyelid and Bridget wishes that she could also hold such composure after hearing the order, but her mouth grows dry and her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. What does he want them for, Bridget wonders, before realising that she already knows the answer, and can only hope that the receptionist thinks that is all down to a peculiar diet.

"I'll have them sent straight up, Mr Gameshaw."

"Thank you, Anna."

He turns to Bridget, taking her arm and looping it through his, leading her to the elevator.

"Do you eat a lot of raw vegetables?" Bridget asks with a smirk on her face.

"It is important to get your five a day. I must ensure that you remain healthy, Miss Brown."

Inside the elevator there is an awkward silence, a porter has joined them. The bell rings for the first floor and the porter gets out, leaving Bridget and Mr Gameshaw alone. The second the door is closed, he pulls her into him, his grip strong and commanding, his hold too powerful for Bridget to escape. He kisses her, ferociously, his hot and rapid tongue exploring the textures of her own tongue. The bell rings, indicating that they have reached their floor and Mr Gameshaw releases her, standing still and patiently like nothing has happened. They exit and make their way down the corridor, Bridget's arm interlocked with his.

Inside the spacious room Bridget is almost as gobsmacked as she were in the lobby, the fine decor so elegant and expensive looking. She whistles as she looks around.

"Please do not do that." Mr Gameshaw says.

"Do what?"

"Whistle. I can't stand it, it is like nails down a chalk board to me. Besides that, it is very un-lady like."

"My apologies, Mr Gameshaw."

"Just don't do it again, or I shall be forced to punish you."

A moment of silence passes as Bridget continues to look around the suite, exploring the bedroom and the bathroom. When she returns to the lounge, Mr Gameshaw has removed his jacket and tie, opening his shirt halfway down and Bridget can see that, although slightly older than the type Bridget usually goes for, he is toned in his muscles, with just the slightest quiff of hair dead centre of his chest. His body is attractive to Bridget, it is just a shame that his face is not particularly handsome. Not exactly ugly, just not handsome. Never mind, Bridget thinks to herself, you can't have everything. There is a knock at the door and a call "room service".

"Please, come in." Mr Gameshaw shouts.

### Chapter Four

In the taxi on the way back to Zara's, Bridget smiles to herself with the memory of last night. Mr Gameshaw did indeed have a very dirty mind, doing things to her that she could never imagine. She had got a thrill from giving so much pleasure to this man, who showed great gratitude by making her stay in the luxury queen size bed all morning while he waited on her, feeding her strawberries and serving her coffee in the exact way that she demanded it; strong with just a splash of milk, one and a quarter spoons of sugar and a good size dollop of whipped cream on top. He went down to the newsagents, returning with the copy of 'Hello' magazine that she wanted. He offered her champagne, she declined at first, but gave in when he assured her that he would definitely ensure her safe return to London today, despite him making the same false promise the day before.

She finds herself somewhat smitten by this man, he can turn on the charm and he is rich. It is only a pity that his mind is just a little too dirty for Bridget. The carrot and the cucumber she could handle, but a marrow is just a vegetable too far. She hadn't really felt very turned on by the unspeakable things that he was doing to her, she enjoyed it simply because he had derived so much pleasure from her suffering.

The taxi pulls up outside Zara's house, behind a police car. Bridget's heart fills with dread, she is a tiny bit drunk on the champagne breakfast and hopes that she will not need to answer any further questions about Guy.

"This is you, darlin'." The driver says in a Glaswegian accent.

"How much is that?" Bridget asks, searching for her purse in her clutch bag.

"It's on account, care of Mr Gameshaw."

"Okay, thanks."

She exits the car gingerly, she is sore and aching from the nights activities. She carefully takes the few steps up to the front door, her head is dizzy with tiredness and alcohol. She goes to find her key, but soon notices that the door is ajar, splinters of wood from the frame sticking out like unwelcoming defences where the lock should be. Bridget's stomach knots, for a moment she feels as though she may be sick. Her thoughts tell her that Zara's house has been raided by the police, not an uncommon event on a transsexuals house, but her instinct tells her that this is something darker. She swallows, but her mouth and throat are dry as she pushes the door and yells out "Hello? Zara?"

"We're in the kitchen Bridget." Zara yells in response.

The hallway looks the same as it did yesterday, undisturbed and pristine, apart from the pinkish spotted stains from Bridget's accident the other night.

She walks into the kitchen to see Zara look up at her with teary eyes. A police woman is sitting opposite.

"Oh Bridget!" She exclaims as she jumps up and runs over to her, embracing her tightly and whispering into her ear "Thank God you are okay."

Bridget pushes her away gently and asks "What is going on? Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"The house was broken into last night, your room was trashed, but only your room. I thought that you were meant to be going back down to London, but when I saw all your things were still here I was worried that something had happened to you. So I tried calling your mobile, but it was always off."

"I stayed with Mr Gameshaw last night, my mobile ran out of battery. Sorry." A moment of silence is shortly broken by the police woman.

"Miss Brown, my colleague is looking over your room now and we have a forensic team on their way to look for evidence. It would be helpful if you could look over your bedroom to see what is missing or damaged."

"But why me?" She asks with a quiver in her voice.

"We shall discuss that later, but first, please go to your room. PC Grant will help you."

"Okay." She says and leaves the kitchen. She walks up the stairs slowly, not quite sure if it is due to nerves, or shock, or even the physical strains put upon her body last night.

Inside her room, PC Grant is taking photographs of Bridget's things, which have been scattered about the room. It is in a real mess, the bags that she had packed were opened, her shoes thrown about the room. She gets the sensation that this was not a burglary, there is no sign that the perpetrator was looking for valuables, as if to prove this, she sees that her vintage Coco Chanel blue satin dress, purchased for the show at Guys for a whopping six thousand pounds, has not been stolen. It lays flat out on the bed, arranged into the shape of a body, with the material torn across the chest, with a pair of Bridget's breasts placed underneath. The front of the dress has also been torn, or maybe cut, from the bottom up in a straight line in the centre, rising up to the groin area. The satin is blemished with spots of dried white semen. It is too much for Bridget to take, she collapses to her knees sobbing. PC Grant looks nervously towards her, not quite sure of how to handle the situation. "Miss Brown?" He asks.

"Yes." Bridget manages between her sobs.

"I am PC Grant. I would like for you to take a look around the room and tell me if you think anything is missing, damaged or disturbed."

"It's all bloody disturbed!" She yells. "Everything!"

"I think we should start with the dress on the bed. Is that how it was when you last saw it?" Bridget stays silent for a moment, shocked and wondering exactly what it was in the officers brain that was telling him that anything about the scene set out on the bed was usual.

"Yes, officer," she says sarcastically. "That is exactly how I left my six thousand pound designer dress, torn to shreds and covered in fucking spunk!"

"Alright, Madam. I can see that you are upset, but there is no need for sarcasm. Take a look around and see if there is anything missing."

Bridget does as she is asked, but it is hard for her to see anything that is missing on account of the state of the room. She notices that her underwear draw has been pulled out and emptied, yet there is no sign of her knickers. She goes to where one of her previously pack suitcases lays on the floor. She checks underneath it, looking for the black sack that she was collecting her dirty washing in. It is there, under the case, and she rummages through, yet she can see that all of her panties have been taken.

"All of my underwear has gone." She says to PC Grant. "Even my dirty ones. What sicko has done this?" She breaks down in tears again, perching herself on the edge of the bed. At first, she thought that this may have been done by one of the many lovers of Gary the Gonads, upset that Bridget had ruined his beautifully large cock, but now she was starting to think it was more personal than that. The fact that it had been the dress that she had brought for the show at Guys, which she had passed off as a business expense, explaining to Guy that it was an investment, only ten of those dresses were made, each one tailored to the customer, and in a few years time would be worth a fortune. It was a lie of course, last year's fashion is never worth more than the current trends. It freaked Bridget out just thinking about it, but she felt sure that Guy was behind this. Her mind tells her not to mention her suspicions to the police. She is sure that the police suspect her of being something to do with Guy's disappearance, and she worries that the police may think that she has set this up as a distraction. When she is interviewed, she decides that she would be better off stating that she suspected it to be connected with the Gary the Gonads situation.

After the police conclude their investigations, they leave Zara and Bridget alone. Zara makes a pot of coffee and they sit at the table in a subdued shock.

"I'm so sorry, Zara." Bridget offers.

"No need to be sorry, you didn't do anything wrong." Zara replies with a comforting smile. "The scumbag who did this is responsible. I know some people are mad at you for what you did to Gary's dick, but it was an accident and I think doing something like this is a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." Bridget replies, unwilling to discuss her suspicions that it was in fact Guy who did it. "Mind you, it was a lovely cock, wasn't it?" A moment of silence passes as both of them daydream about Gary's penis.

"Indeed it was" Zara says with a sigh. "But don't let it bother you, it'll heal in time. So, when are you going back down to London?"

"I suppose I should head off soon. Mr Gameshaw was going to arrange my transport, but I think I'd prefer to drive myself."

"Don't even think about it. You are in no state to be driving. If Mr Gameshaw has promised to arrange it, then he'll do it. Trust me, he is a man of his word. I'll give him a call."

"Thank you anyway, but I'll call him myself. I promised that I would when I got back here anyway. In fact, I'll do it now, my phone should be charged enough."

She makes her way upstairs into her room, which is still messed up. She picks up her phone and dials Mr Gameshaw. He answers quickly.

"Bridget, I was just about to call you. Is everything okay?"

"No, Mr Gameshaw. Nothing is okay. Last night, while I was with you, Zara's house was broken in to and I think that it was Guy and he wrecked my dress and..." As she has been speaking, she has been looking around the room, and suddenly is overcome with emotion, so much so that she cannot hold back her tears anymore. She is unable to make sense through her sobbing.

"Poor Bridget!" Mr Gameshaw exclaims. "Please calm down. Take a few deep breaths."

She does so, and the sound of Mr Gameshaw's commanding and purr-like voice soothes Bridget's tears. "That's a good girl. Now, tell me what has happened."

Bridget tells Mr Gameshaw of how she arrived back at Zara's to discover the mess, and the reasons why she believes that it was Guy who did it.

"Bridget, I'll send my car over to pick you up. How long do you need to pack your things?"

"About an hour, maybe. But I can't just leave, poor Zara's front door has been destroyed, I cannot leave her to sort it out alone, it wouldn't be fair."

"Don't worry about that. I will make a few calls and her door will be replaced later on today. And I'll send a friend of mine over in the car to stay with Zara tonight so that she doesn't feel unsafe."

"Thank you Mr Gameshaw."

"And leave your car keys with Zara."

"Okay."

"But I'm not sure that I want to stay at my home in London now. Guy knows where I live and I wouldn't feel safe."

"Don't worry yourself over it." Mr Gameshaw says to Bridget over the phone. "You can stay at my house in Kensington, he won't know where to find you. You'll be safe."

"I wouldn't of thought that he would know where to find me at Zara's, but he still did."

"Perhaps he followed you. Or maybe your housemate gave him Zara's address?"

"No, Cherry would never do that. I've spoken to her, she hasn't seen him, nor has anyone. He is still classed as missing."

"I think we can safely assume that he is in Edinburgh. Why do you not want the police to know your suspicions about him breaking in and trashing your room?"

"Because I know how the police think. As Guy is missing, they may believe that I am something to do with that. By accusing him of trashing my room, they may think that I myself did it in order to prove that I am the victim."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It'll sound even more ridiculous to say 'My old boss has stalked me four hundred miles north just to tear a dress, have a wank over it and steal my knickers.' Especially given that he is a straight, married man. It doesn't sound very believable, does it?"

"I suppose not."

"I just need to stay hidden until he is found. He cannot stay missing forever, he has his bar to run in London. When he resurfaces, then I shall tell the police."

"Well, if that is what you want to do. Like I said, try not to worry, I will protect you." Bridget's heart melts as she is suddenly overwhelmed by this man. She has never had anyone vow to protect her, and he has arrived in her life exactly at the point where she feels that she needs protecting more than ever.

"I'll be there to pick you up in an hour." He says, interrupting Bridget's thoughts. "Go and finish your packing."

"Okay. See you in an hour."

She looks around the room at the things that she has left in a pile in the corner of the room, waiting to be thrown away. She wants to throw all of it away, she is repulsed by the thought of what it was that Guy had done to her dress and part of her worries that he may have done other things to the rest of her clothes, things that she may only discover while picking them up, making her fearful of every item that has been thrown around the room.

She decides to distract herself with the thoughts of Mr Gameshaw as she packs the remaining few cardigans and shoes. She is amazed that life can throw such shit at her in such a short space of time, and make it all better by introducing what appears to be her dream man. Well, almost her dream man, for him to be perfect he would need to be a little bit younger and definitely not married. But still, she is grateful that she doesn't feel alone anymore.

She zips up her fourth and final case. She collects the pile of clothes destined for the rubbish into a black sack before checking the room over for the final time. Satisfied that she has everything, she carries her bag of shoes down the stairs and places it by the front door. She walks down the corridor and into the kitchen, where Zara is reading her insurance documents.

"Good news, I can claim for your dress, providing that you have the receipt?"

"I handed the receipt to Guy, I passed it off as a show expense."

"Oh, what a shitter. If you have any other clothes receipts, we could put them in with the claim?"

"Probably best if we don't. Knowing my luck, I'll end up getting arrested for insurance fraud. Besides, I have no work lined up, and probably won't have for quite a while, so I've no pressing need for new clothes. I just want to get back to London and forget about this whole saga."

"I don't blame you. Have you spoken to Cherry?"

"Not yet. I will call her on the train back down to London."

"You're getting the train? But what about your car?"

"Mr Gameshaw is arranging to get it down to London."

"Really? So things must be already a little bit serious between you two?"

Bridget grins to herself. It has been many years since she last felt as though things were serious between her and a man. "I hope so, he's really nice."

"Yes, he is. A true gentleman, he treats people kindly. Is he paying for your train ticket?"

"Yes, he insisted that I have a champagne breakfast this morning, and as a result, I cannot drive. I've never been treated so well by a man before."

The doorbell rings, shortly followed by Mr Gameshaw's voice "Taxi for Miss Brown!". He enters the kitchen. "I hope that you don't mind, I let myself in. Whoever broke in did a great job of the door." He goes over to Bridget, takes her hand and kisses her on the knuckles. He does the same with Zara as she says "Bridget tells me that you are sending her back down to London on the train?" Bridget detects a hint of sarcasm in Zara's voice. Perhaps she still has some feelings for Mr Gameshaw? Mr Gameshaw chuckles.

"Not the train, no. We'll be travelling down in the helicopter."

Bridget almost chokes. "Helicopter? We? Are you coming with me?"

"But of course, my dear! I wouldn't even think of putting you on a train, and I need to be in Milan first thing tomorrow, so I was going to fly down to London tonight anyway."

Zara's mood lifts. "I did think that it was out of character for you to send Bridget on the train. You should make sure that you take care of her, she's a real sweetheart and she's had a bit of a hard time of late."

"My dear Zara," Mr Gameshaw says. "If you wish to give advice on how a man treats a lady, then perhaps you should have remained a man."

"I am just asking for you to go easy on her." Zara says, staring at Mr Gameshaw. "Give her some space. You wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage of a damsel in distress, would you?"

"Thank you, Zara." Bridget says. "I am more than capable of handling a man trying to take advantage of me. Besides, Mr Gameshaw is not like that."

"I wouldn't bet on that, Miss Brown." Mr Gameshaw says with a wink. "Thank you so much Zara for introducing us. Now we must head off. Are you ready?" He says looking toward Bridget.

"My bags are still upstairs."

"Allow me." He says, leaving the room. After they hear him walk up the stairs, Zara turns to Bridget and speaks in a whisper.

"Please go careful, Bridget. He is a nice man, but if he wants you to do something that you do not feel comfortable doing, don't feel like you have to. I have seen enough of his girls go crazy trying to be someone that they are not."

"Thanks Zara, I will. And thanks for letting me stay, you have been so kind to me."

"Take care, okay."

"Okay, you too."

They hug and Bridget walks into the hallway, where three of her cases now sit, with Mr Gameshaw struggling down the stairs with the last one.

"You don't travel light, do you?"

"No, Mr Gameshaw. My tits alone weigh close to a ton!"

They load the bags into Mr Gameshaw's Bentley, with Zara standing in the doorway. They say a final goodbye before getting in the car and driving off.

They sit in silence for a while, Bridget's mind occupied by the fear of returning to London. How would it be possible for her to keep a low profile in the place where she is so well known? She imagines having to stay at Mr Gameshaw's place, never being able to leave, a prisoner, or (as her mind ripples with a little thought of sexual pleasure) a sex slave. What will she tell everyone? How could she explain to cherry that she would have to leave their apartment, at least until they knew the whereabouts of Guy?

"Do you have a passport, Miss Brown?" Mr Gameshaw asks.

"Shit! It's at home, in London."

"That's okay, you don't need it for today's flight as we are not leaving the country. Presumably you do have your driver's license?"

"It's in my purse."

"Good, you can use that today. I would like for you to come to Milan with me tomorrow. Are you okay with that?"

"Milan? No thanks," She says nonchalantly. "I hear that it's particularly unfashionable to be in Milan." She looks to Mr Gameshaw as his face expresses a little bit of shock at Bridget's apparent ignorance. "I'm just pulling your leg, I would love to, Mr Gameshaw!"

"You shall be pulling more than just my leg, Miss Brown."

"Are you always like this, Mr Gameshaw?"

"Like what, exactly?"

"Like a sexual predator always on the prowl."

He thinks for a moment before answering. "No, actually. I used to be, when I was younger, before I met Sandra. It was always your type that I went for." He pauses, lost in his own thoughts and memories. He chuckles a little laugh, which Bridget senses is nervousness, slightly surprising her. "I met Sandra and she had an air of masculinity about her. When we started dating, I took her to a drag club, hoping that she too might like the scene..."

"But she didn't?"

"No. Alas, my dream of a threesome with her and a queen was destroyed. Never mind."

"But did she know that you were turned on by transsexuals?"

"No. And she still doesn't."

"Maybe you should tell her, there's no point hiding yourself from your own wife."

"Bridget, I have a complicated relationship with my wife. It is probably best if we do not discuss it."

Bridget feels some deflation from the conversation. She frustrates over her own thoughts of romanticism, that honesty in a relationship is paramount, and it amazes her that Mr Gameshaw could have been married for such a long time holding such a secret.

"But surely she has suspicions? Has she never caught you out?" She asks.

"Please, Bridget. I do not wish to discuss my wife. In fact, I think it would be best if we never speak about my marriage." He replies, with a deathly silence following. Bridget looks to him, he is lost in concentration, his brow wrinkled with lines beyond his years, with what, for just a moment, Bridget feels to be the weight of the world pushing him into a dark and unexplored void. He shakes his head lightly before he is aware of Bridget staring at him, at which point he turns to her. "And what about you, Miss Brown? Have you had many significant others to share your life with?"

She sighs. "No. The love life of a drag queen is never a simple one. The men I meet are only interested in one thing, and after about a million one night stands, and a million days wasted waiting for the phone to ring, I have given up on finding love. There are many men out there who want to sleep with a drag queen, but very few who want to take one home to meet their mothers." She smiles to herself, thinking about how, for the last few years, even those one night stands have become boring, stale and predictable. She returns her thoughts back to reality, only to notice that they have pulled up at a security checkpoint. Mr Gameshaw simply flashes a gentle wave to the guard, who promptly smiles and waves back at them before the huge iron bar gates swing gently open with a satisfied swing and Mr Gameshaw accelerates on.

"Where are we?" Bridget asks.

"This is where I stay when I am in Edinburgh. I meet a lot of clients here." Mr Gameshaw replies.

The car continues along a sweeping gravel drive, lost and alone in a valley, apparently in the middle of nowhere. The grass banked hills gently slope away from them, and as they follow the road on a slight right bend, a grand mansion house comes into view. It is an old house, sandstone bricks and pretty arched windows. It has high towers with pointed roofs. Bridget whistles with appreciation and awe.

"Please Bridget. I have asked you not to whistle."

"Sorry, Mr Gameshaw. But, wow! You stay here? This is your house?"

"Sadly, no. It belongs to the company I work for. Like I said, we meet with a lot of important clients here." As more of the house comes into view, Bridget sees that the drive is approaching the entrance of the house, which has a huge fountain in front spraying glistening beads of water high into the air, and slightly further away, a helicopter, which Mr Gameshaw drives directly up to. There are three well dressed men waiting for them. When the car comes to a standstill, the silence suddenly stunning Bridget's ears after the long drive over loudly crunching gravel, one of the well dress men opens Bridget's door for her. She steps out, surprised to find that she has not noticed until this point that there is a red carpet laid out for her. She expresses her thanks to the man, who simply nods gently to acknowledge Bridget's gratitude. She sees that one of the other well dress men has done the same for Mr Gameshaw, and as he exits he passes the car keys to him. Bridget now recognises the man as that of the chauffeur that picked them up from the restaurant yesterday.

"Do you have your driving license, Bridget?" Mr Gameshaw asks. She retrieves the purse from her handbag, removes her license and passes it to him. "I need to take this into the house to do the formalities. Why don't you get yourself settled in the chopper, and I'll be back shortly."

Bridget now sees that the other well dressed man is, in fact, wearing a pilot's uniform. He indicates to Bridget to enter the helicopter by the door that is already open and waiting for them. She is helped into the helicopter by him, which she is grateful for as she is wearing extremely high heels and the step up to the helicopter is very narrow.

Once she is inside, the pilot straps a heavy and strong belt over Bridget's shoulders before he attempts to help Bridget to put on a headset, but Bridget has a flash of fear that he will notice that she is wearing a wig, so she takes the headset herself and places it gently on herself. The earpieces are large and cushioned, so large in fact that they push gently against the bruise on her cheek, which, until now, Bridget had forgotten about. A moment later, Mr Gameshaw comes out from the house and gets himself settled in the seat beside Bridget.

The pilot gets into the helicopter and the engines whirl into life with such gust that it momentarily takes Bridget's breath away. The roar and repetitive thumps of the air outside from the blades feel to Bridget powerful and robust, the sensation causing some worry within her. Sensing this, Mr Gameshaw's voice speaks heavily into her ears. "Don't worry. It's perfectly safe, I have flown in this same helicopter for many years now, and Toby is one of Britain's finest pilots."

Toby's voice is then heard by Bridget. "Thank you, Mr Gameshaw. You are most kind. The flight today should be easy going, the weather is clear all the way to London and we should be arriving around seven this evening."

***

The flight back to London passes without the slightest bit of trouble. Bridget spends most of the journey simply glancing at the rolling hills and patchwork fields of England. With each little village that passes beneath them, Bridget mind fantasises about the future and cannot help but wonder if she is destined to live a life of exile in such a remote and alluringly beautiful place, somewhere where Guy would never look for her. Sod trying to find size ten stilettos in the local shoe shop, she thinks to herself.

***

At London City Airport, another chauffeur is waiting for them. He escorts them out to a black Rolls Royce, opens the door for Bridget and Mr Gameshaw, and loads all five of Bridget's suitcases into the boot. Despite all the grandeur and excitement of the helicopter ride, Bridget has once again become lost in her own thoughts and worries of further impending doom. What would be the best way to sort out this mess? She wonders about what she'll do when Guy resurfaces. Kill him, her instinct tells her. But she knows that she is not the type. She gets a kick out of pissing people off, but to actually cause harm to another being is not her style. Perhaps she should get Cherry to kill him? No, maybe not. While Bridget has no doubts that, under the right circumstances, Cherry would be both willing and capable of committing murder, deep down Bridget knows that she doesn't want Guy dead, she actually wants to know that he is okay, and only then will she want to destroy his life. But what should she do in the meanwhile? She cannot go without performing; it is her life, her passion. Bridget Brown doesn't really exist without an audience. For the foreseeable future, that audience would be only one man, Mr Gameshaw, but Bridget is sure that he will be no different from the other men who all too soon become bored by their new toy.

"Don't worry about anything, Miss Brown, I will look after you." Mr Gameshaw says, noticing that she is quietly wandering through her own thoughts..

"Why? I mean, why do you feel that you need to protect me? We have only just met, you do not know me at all."

"Because Miss Brown," he says turning his head towards her "you are a damsel in distress and I am a gentleman."

"A gentleman wouldn't have done those perverted things that you did last night!" She says with a smile.

"That is true." A moment of silence passes before Mr Gameshaw asks "What belongings do you need from your apartment?"

"I guess that I just need some clothes."

"Perhaps then it'll be better if we just buy you some new clothes tomorrow in Milan."

"Mr Gameshaw, I thank you for the compliment in that you believe I am both classy and rich enough to shop in Milan, but I assure you that I am neither."

"You are classy, Miss Brown. I am only attracted to classy ladies, so you must be. I am rich enough to shop in Milan and I would love nothing more than to see my companion dressed in only the latest Milanese fashion, especially as we have a dinner reservation with some very important business associates tomorrow evening."

"What? Are you serious? I can't meet with your associates! What will they think? You are a married man, Mr Gameshaw."

"Thank you for reminding me, Miss Brown, and I shall kindly request that we never talk about my marriage."

"Do your associates not know that you are married?"

"Of course they know, one of them was my best man at the wedding twenty two years ago!"

"Twenty two years? That is such a long time!"

"It may appear to be so, but it passes so quickly when you have children."

Bridget's mind yells out a warning to her, and sends a ripple of guilt through her heart. She falls silent enough for Mr Gameshaw to see that she is upset by their conversation.

"What is it Bridget?" Mr Gameshaw asks, sensing the awkwardness originating from her.

"Nothing. I'm fine." She replies, turning her head towards him and pasting on her smile with a little bit too much false enthusiasm.

"You are not fine. Something is bothering you. What is it?"

"Well, I feel a little like a home wrecker right now. It doesn't feel right getting involved with a married man with children."

"I told you, my children are adults now."

"Yes, but you never stop being a parent. At least, that is what I have always been told."

"That is also true, but there is no reason why my duties as a father will be disrupted with our affair."

The word 'affair' is like a brick smacking against the side of Bridget's head. She had slept with married men on many occasions, but sex was sex, human instinct, primal and not tameable. She had never been involved in an 'affair', married men had a tendency to, literally, 'come' and go.

"Please, Bridget. I enjoy your company a great deal. It is hard for you to understand, but I have lived a double life for as long as I can remember. I have to do a little juggling, but I am Mr Gameshaw the family man who has devoted over twenty years to doing what is best for my family while also being the Mr Gameshaw who likes to work hard and party hard. I realised many years ago that my desire for both lifestyles would not be compatible, so I have planned my life to enable me to be both people without hurting others. I suppose that you can relate to that, leading two different lifestyles yourself?"

"I suppose so. The difference with me is that I have never involved my life too deeply with anyone. I can maintain my two lives without having to lie to anyone."

"Yes, but there is, and always will be, people that only know you as Bridget Brown and those that only know you as Gordon." Bridget thinks over this comment, Mr Gameshaw is quite right. She suddenly realises that he just referred to her as Gordon.

"How do you know my real name?" She asks.

"It's on your driving license. I had to put your real name on the passenger charter for the flight." There is a pause before Mr Gameshaw starts laughing. "What did you think, Miss Brown? That I am some kind of stalker?"

"No!" she yells at him. "I just realised that you have only met Bridget."

"Well, I actually met Gordon last night. You are only Miss Bridget Brown all the time that you are in clothes." He throws a cheeky little wink at her, which starts her off giggling. She does a gentle sigh to herself as she thinks that this 'affair' is probably going to work out well.

***

Back at Bridget's apartment block, she nervously approaches the front door of the building. She feels sure that Guy would still be in Edinburgh, if he was stalking her then he would never have been able to follow her in the helicopter. The only way that he could be in London was if he had left Edinburgh last night after the attack on her room at Zara's. Bridget feels confident that she is safe going up to her apartment.

Mr Gameshaw has given her a key to his apartment, and he has given her his cab account details so that she can collect her things and any supplies that she may need.

She walks up the stairs hoping that Cherry is at home. She wants to explain to her what has happened, but more than that, she wants a hug. Cherry has been her closest friend for more than four years now. After all that they have been through together, from their early days of working the shows together, trying to earn enough to pay not only for their expensive wardrobes of elaborate dresses, shoes, accessories, make up and wigs, but also rent for the overpriced flats that they had had to live in, not to mention the party lifestyle that they led, essential for building up a reputation and a loyal fan base. They had been together in their struggle until they had enough followers to fill some of the larger venues, and as such could demand a higher fee. It really didn't feel that long ago to Bridget that they had started to make the better money and move into their much nicer and more spacious apartment here in Camden. Bridget feels herself welling up again at the memories of her own struggle, and she cannot snap herself out of the thoughts of how quickly it all disappeared from her. She keeps telling herself that it will all be okay, but in her heart she feels lost and apprehensive about the future.

She opens the door to her apartment and shouts in. "Hello? Cherry? I'm back!" There is no response and Bridget senses that the flat is empty. She sighs and makes her way into her bedroom. She packs her things quickly; she won't need many of the show outfits, so she concentrates on the essentials. She doesn't dawdle; she does not like the feeling of being alone in the apartment. She throws many of her things into her bags, not worrying about folding anything. Just as she zips up the last bag she hears a key entered into the lock on the front door. Bridget stops breathing, waiting to hear if it is Cherry, fearful that it may not be. She briefly curses Guy for turning her into this paranoid mess.

She hears the door close and she approaches her bedroom door slowly, trying not to make any noise. She lets a shaking breath in and back out, the quiver in the flow of air enough to make her even more nervous. She goes to peer through into the hallway, just as her bedroom door flies open, giving a good, hard smack straight into Bridget's face. She screams in pain, but her own cries are drowned out by the scream of shock from Cherry. Bridget opens the door to hear Cherry shout "Bridget! The bitch is back in town!"

"My nose!" Bridget exclaims, clutching her hand over her face.

"Is it okay?"

"No, it's been fucking squashed again! Is it bleeding?" Bridget asks, removing her hand for cherry to see.

"No, it's fine. Stop being such a girl about it, you're a grown woman now." Cherry grabs hold of Bridget and pulls her into a tight embrace. "I've missed you so much." Bridget starts weeping into Cherry's nylon wig. "Bridget?" Cherry asks. "What's wrong, why are you crying?"

"Have you spoken to Zara today?"

"No, why?"

Bridget tells Cherry of the night with Mr Gameshaw and of returning to Zara's the next morning. She describes how she had found her room, the details of the defamation of her dress, and her suspicions that it had been Guy who had done it. She told Cherry of Mr Gameshaw's offer of sanctuary and protection. When she had finished telling the story of what had happened to her in just twenty four hours, she wiped her teary eyes with a handkerchief.

"Fucking hell, Bridget! You must go to the police."

"No, I won't. I've had enough of dealing with the police in my life, they are completely useless. I worry that they will think that I staged the break in for me to implement Guy."

"But that is crazy!"

"I just want to stay hidden until Guy reappears, then I can happily make my accusation without fear. If I implement him with him not around to answer any questions then nothing can be achieved."

"Well, I think that you are being stupid, but I guess that it wouldn't be the first time, would it? What about this Mr Gameshaw? Can you trust him? You have only known him for a couple of days."

"Yes, but he is a good friend of Zara's. We can both trust her, and she did already warn me of his darker side, so at least I won't be surprised by anything. Better the devil you know."

"I want to know his address. You shouldn't stay with a stranger where no one who cares about you doesn't know where you are. It's not safe."

"Don't be so paranoid! He is not dangerous, he's helping me out. I don't want to give out his address, it's not that I don't trust you, but I really don't want Guy finding out. Besides, we're only staying in London for tonight; tomorrow he is taking me to Milan." She didn't want to alarm Cherry, but her real concern was if she wrote the address down then Guy breaks in to the apartment and finds it. "I've got to go Cherry, my cab is waiting."

"Okay, but go careful. Keep your phone with you and if this Mr Gameshaw causes you any trouble, call me and I can sort him out." Bridget believes without hesitation that Cherry speaks the truth; she does not take any shit from anyone and knows how to take care of herself.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. As soon as Guy returns I can move back in and start getting on with a normal life again. Keep your eyes and ears pealed; at the first whiff of Guy please give me a call. I'll speak to you soon."

Back in the cab, on the way to Kensington, Bridget's phone rings. The number is withheld. Bridget answers.

"Hello?"

There is silence.

"Hello?" She tries again. More silence, and just as Bridget is about to hang up thinking that there is a problem with the line she hears a car passing in the background on the other end of the line.

"Who is this?"

A gruff voice responds "Guess."

"Postman fucking pat?"

The line stays silent. Bridget has guessed in her mind that it is Guy, and her brain screams at her to see if she can get some information from him. "I can already tell that you are a bit of a prick, which doesn't really narrow it down. Can I have a clue?"

"How about that my dick is massive."

"The one between your legs, or the one on your head?"

The line stays silent.

Bridget takes a deep, sigh like breath before casually saying. "Well, it's been very nice to talk to you, Guy. Let's do lunch sometime. Tomorrow maybe? I hear that there is a terrific new restaurant at the bottom of the Thames, just under Tower Bridge. All you have to do to get there is jump, preferably with plenty of stones in your pockets. I'll meet you there."

The line remains almost silent, but she can hear that Guy's breathing has become heavier and more rapid. The sound unnerves Bridget.

"Seriously, Guy, this is not at all funny. Where are you? What is going on?"

Bridget lets a few moments pass, waiting for the response. She tries hard to hold back the tears, but she is filling rapidly with fear. She delivers her next line with a distinctive tremor in her voice.

"Guy, please. It's enough now. Please stop. Please?"

"Oh yeah, baby!" He growls. "Beg me some more! Tell me to stop!..."

"Fuck you, Guy. I'm hanging up now..."

"No, don't go, bitch! I'm about to come..."

Bridget gasps a little with the realisation that Guy is masturbating. She quickly presses the end calls button and sits silently confused while the taxi continues on the journey back to Mr Gameshaw's house.

### Chapter Five

"I don't want anyone else knowing that you are in London." Mr Gameshaw says to Bridget as they sit at a grand and elaborate polished walnut dining table in Mr Gameshaw's plush home in Kensington. He has ordered a Chinese food delivery for their dinner. The dining room is antique Edwardian in style, with pale green walls and gold lined detail. There is a large bay window which looks out onto a small and immaculate garden, bursting with every colour imaginable. The setting sun is casting a glow of orange on the wall opposite and is giving the garden a tone that reminds Bridget of an old sepia photograph. She sighs, partly with the reluctant truth that Mr Gameshaw is correct in his determinations, and partly with the satisfaction of the beauty of her surroundings. "Call Cherry and tell her that she must keep quiet." He instructs her. "We'll be leaving late tomorrow morning anyway, but we should remain on the safe side."

Bridget remains silent. She cannot shake the thoughts of the call from Guy. She is massively confused by it. Why would he be masturbating over the phone to her? In fact, the more that she thinks about it, the more convinced she is that she has come to the wrong conclusion that it was Guy. Her telephone number is hardly a secret; besides most people that she has worked with over the last few years taking her number, she has also passed it to x number of men. Hell, probably half the population of London would have her number.

"Bridget, please stop worrying. I want to see you relaxed and happy. I'm taking you to Milan tomorrow!"

She smiles at him. "I know. It's just that the phone call has unnerved me. I'm not sure why me? Why now?"

"What, because you got a dirty phone call off Guy?"

"Not just that, but all the problems that I've had lately. And I'm not convinced that it was Guy on the phone."

"I'll buy you a new phone tomorrow with a new number."

"Thanks for the offer, Mr Gameshaw, but I need the number that I've already got. All my work contacts have that number."

"Forget about work for a while. Take a break, go on holiday or something."

"That's easy for you to say. Do you have any idea what it is like to have hardly any money? Even more so since I've just lost my main source of income. I need work, Mr Gameshaw!"

"No, you do not. You have me now. How many times do I need to tell you that I will look after you?"

"Will you though? Will I not just be another one of your playthings, in favour all the while that it suits you, but when you get bored I'll be tossed out of your life without a second thought? What will I do then?" Bridget realises that she has began shouting. "You don't know what life is like for me! You don't even know me! What happens when your wife finds out about me?..."

"Enough!" Mr Gameshaw shouts, banging his hand on the table with such force that the vase of flowers in the middle of it jumps an inch into the air. Bridget gasps with shock at this sudden outburst from Mr Gameshaw. "You must remember Bridget that you too do not know me! How dare you judge me to be like that? Did you not listen to your friend, Zara? I'm not like that. Did I leave her on the scrapheap when we decided to end our love affair? No. When I say that I will look after you, then that is exactly what I will do. Unless you'd prefer me not to help? Unless you'd prefer to go home to Cherry and wait to see if Guy will find you?"

Bridget remains silent for a while as she calms herself from Mr Gameshaw's outburst, feeling ashamed of herself for her own behaviour.

"Of course I don't want Guy to find me." Bridget eventually responds. "I'm sorry, Mr Gameshaw, I don't mean to be ungrateful. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I'm scared and confused by it all. I'm not sure of anything anymore."

"Let us not hear another thing about it then." Mr Gameshaw says with a smile. "And I am letting your last mention of my wife slip on account of your emotional state. However, mention her one more time and I shall not be so tolerant."

"Sorry." Bridget says, hanging her head a little in shame. Mr Gameshaw is, of course, right. She vows to herself that she shall not have known what to do with her life right now if it wasn't for him. Hell, Guy would have probably caught up with her by now, she almost certainly would have been in her room at Zara's when he broke in if she hadn't of been staying in the hotel room with Mr Gameshaw. Who knows what would have happened if she had been there. She shudders a little with the thought of it, remembering the image of her torn and defecated dress lying on the bed.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the front door bell.

"That'll be the dinner. While I get that, you can call Cherry." Mr Gameshaw says, leaving the room.

Bridget takes her phone out of her bag and dials Cherry. There is no answer, and Bridget leaves a voice mail for her, asking her not to tell anyone that she is back in London and that she will try calling again later.

As she hangs up, a Chinese lady enters the dining room pushing a small serving trolley. She is wearing a full Chinese gown, red with gold, her black hair assembled into a bun on the top of her head with a stick holding it in place. She places the trolley next to the dining table before bowing to Bridget.

"Hello." Bridget says. The Chinese lady says nothing. "I'm Bridget." She offers. Still nothing, apart from a slight respectful bow. Mr Gameshaw comes back into the room, shortly followed by a crack team of Chinese ladies, pushing four more trolleys.

"Mr Gameshaw, I think you may have mistaken my meaning when I said that I wanted a Chinese takeaway. I didn't mean for you to take away the people from China!"

***

After dinner, the lovely Chinese ladies took all the trolleys away laden with the washing up, leaving a neatly pristine dining room that looked every bit as perfect as before they had brought the food in. For the main course, a Chinese chef in a pristinely white uniform had entered the dining room and Bridget was surprised to learn that one of the trolleys was, in fact, a pair gas burning hobs. The chef cooked for them a vast array of dishes, flicking woks of exotic foods in a flash of fire and sudden wafts of the most amazing aroma's that Bridget had ever smelt.

A short silence had descended on the room once the staff had left Bridget and Mr Gameshaw alone, each of their eyes locked to each others, a small grin appears on Mr Gameshaw's face before he breaks the silence with a stern seriousness in his voice.

"Now then, we will be leaving at eleven tomorrow morning. We'll be in Milan until Friday, so pack accordingly."

"Certainly, Sir!" Bridget exclaimed, causing Mr Gameshaw to look at her suddenly.

"Sir? I don't like people calling me Sir..."

"Sorry."

"...except in the bedroom. Which brings me on to my next instruction for you. Upstairs, you will find the bedroom. I have put your luggage in our room. There is an en-suit bathroom complete with a Jacuzzi. I would like to see you in there, wearing nothing but your bra, panties and tights, in ten minutes. I need to use the office briefly, but I will join you shortly. Is this understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir!"

"Then get upstairs, you filthy whore!"

Bridget trots out of the dining room into the spacious hallway which has red marbled flooring and staircase with solid oak banister. The walls are lined with paintings, classical in style, with overbearing gold frames. At the centre of the staircase there is a plush red carpet, running all the way up to the balcony walkway with several doors to choose from. Bridget tries to open the first one that she arrives at, which is directly at the top of the stairs, but it is locked. She walks further along to the next door to her left, which she finds is unlocked. It is a small room with a single four-poster bed. She closes the door once again. She walks back passed the locked room onto the next door, which opens into a large and magnificent bedroom, with a huge four-poster bed which sits on a raised platform. The furniture is antique. The walls are royal blue with little gold crests on. Bridget, impressed with the grandeur of style, whistles to herself, and shortly after she does so, she feels a stinging and sharp slap on her backside.

"I've told you not to whistle. I have warned you that you would be punished for it if you did it again." Bridget turns around to see that Mr Gameshaw has followed her into the room. He pushes her to the floor as he grapples with the waistband on his trousers. "And now you will be punished!" He removes his stiffening cock out and starts slapping her face with it, smearing her lipstick. "Tell me that you've been a naughty girl." He growls down to her.

"I've been a naughty g..." Mr Gameshaw thrusts his cock into Bridget's mouth.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What did you say?" He says to her, removing his penis from her mouth.

"I said, I've been a naughty girl."

"Go and stand in the corner of the room." Mr Gameshaw instructs. Bridget gets up and does as she is told, leaning her back into the corner and smiling at Mr Gameshaw. "You think that this is funny?" He asks seriously. "Turn around, face the wall." She complies with her master, excited, thrilled by the sexual tension that fills the air. "Stay there, I'll be back later." She feels that he is walking slowly towards her. She begins to turn her head to take a look at him. "I said face the walls, you dirty slut!" He yells at her. She instinctively obeys. He is now directly behind her, his hot breath teasing her neck. He whispers into her ear "If you move at all, by even one centimetre, I'll know about it. And if you move..." she feels a little sharp nip on her ear lobe as he squeezes the soft flesh between his teeth. "I'll give you such a punishment that you will not be able to walk for a week. Is this understood?"

"Perfectly, Mr Gameshaw." She replies, feeling yet more gentle pain as he spanks her bottom, making her wince a bit.

"In the bedroom, I prefer to be called 'Sir'."

"Sorry, Sir." Bridget says with a hint of a grin on her face.

"Don't....move...." Mr Gameshaw says, as Bridget feels his warm and moist breath move away from her and senses that he is leaving the room. She hears the click of the bedroom door closing, keys clinking together, then the cold metal clunk of the lock. The room is left in silence, Bridget's heart beat, thumping in her ears, is the only sound that she is now aware of. She wonders how long it'll be before Mr Gameshaw returns. She wonders if she should take the opportunity to look around while he is gone. She has not spent much time examining the beauty of the room, and is intrigued by her sudden propulsion into this man's life and home. She waits longer, listening intently for the jingle of keys, anticipating Mr Gameshaw's return. A few minutes pass, or maybe just a few seconds? Bridget cannot be sure how long she has been standing in the corner, but her heart is now quietly pulsating at its usual rate. She allows herself to rotate her head, looking, at first, towards the door that Mr Gameshaw locked, slightly fearful that he would return without warning to catch Bridget in the disobedient act. She continues looking around the room, seeing that there is another door. It must be the door to the bathroom, she thinks to herself. She allows herself to scan the rest of the room, stunned by the beauty of the decor, so old worldly, her fantasy of being a princess filling her more now than ever. She allows her body to rotate, so that she is now no longer facing the wall. There is a wardrobe just a few steps away from her, and her curiosity gets the better of her. If Mr Gameshaw returns now, she would have time to return to the corner of the room without him noticing that she had moved at all. She tentatively takes the two steps needed to be able to open one of the doors of the wardrobe, which swings open with a little high pitched creak, making Bridget's heart leap with worry that Mr Gameshaw might hear.

Inside, there is nothing more that suits hanging, each one wrapped in cellophane. She gently closes the door, trying (and failing) not to make it squeak. She gingerly opens the other door. This half of the wardrobe is also filled with suits in cellophane. This is not satisfying Bridget's curiosity at all. She closes the wardrobe door, and glances further around the room. She wants to see the en-suit bathroom, but the door is about twenty feet from her. Her eyes dance backward and forward between the main door and the bathroom door, all the while listening intently for any indication that Mr Gameshaw is about to return. She waits a few moments before suddenly dashing, as light footed as she can manage, for the bathroom door. She flings the door open to see a stunning cream coloured bathroom, which glows with soft lighting. Dead centre, raised on a little podium, there is a Jacuzzi. To her right, there are two modern style sinks with a mirror that spans the full width of the room. Bridget catches in her reflection the sight of her smeared lipstick, and instinctively rubs it off with the tip of her thumb, which she then washes in one of the sinks. Near the wall opposite, she sees a large frosted glass screen, and she walks over to it, allowing herself to pause briefly near to the door to the bedroom to listen out once again for Mr Gameshaw's return. Satisfied that he is not yet coming back, she continues on toward the glass screen, poking only her head around, she sees that it is a walk in shower, with jet spray nozzles on the walls and two huge shower heads hanging from the ceiling that look to Bridget like giant metallic sunflowers. She looks further round the room, noticing that there is another door on the wall opposite the bedroom. She walks gently over to it, her heart has started beating faster once again, and her breath has become shorter and sharper. Her hand pauses briefly on the cold brass handle. She realises that this must lead to the room at the top of the staircase, which she had discovered locked earlier. She presses the handle down and hears a click as the latch releases, pushing the door slightly open as a blast of cold and acidic air filling her nostrils, forcing her to turn her head away from it.

The room is dark. Pitch black, in fact. Her hand fumbles around the corner, searching for a switch, and is surprised to feel that the texture of the wall is brick. Bridget can feel her hand quiver. She really shouldn't be doing this, she thinks to herself. But with the fear that she feels, she is confidently justifying her sense of guilt, remembering Cherry's words of caution from earlier in the day. Her hand feels what appears to be pipes of some sort. She moves her hand higher, patting against the wall. Nothing. She considers stepping just inside the room, but as her mind contemplates, she hears the creak of a floorboard emanating from the hall. She quickly shuts the door, cursing the loud clack as the latch snaps back into the recess.

She dashes back through the bathroom towards the bedroom, hearing a key entering the hole on the door between the bedroom and the hallway. She shuts the bathroom door quickly; panic setting in that she will not make it back to the corner of the bedroom in time. As she pushes her feet deep into the thick carpet to make the last sprint back, the sound of tearing material fills the room and there is a tugging sensation at her waist. She spins as she falls, her dress tearing away, caught in the latch of the bathroom door. She looks up to see the bedroom door open; Mr Gameshaw is standing there in doctor's overalls. "You are indeed," He says in a gruff tone. "A very naughty girl indeed, aren't you, Miss Brown."

"I was just having a little look around, Mr Gameshaw." Bridget says, aware that her voice is quivering and weak. He strides over to her, his face flush red with anger, his eyes intently staring at her with both a passionate longing and a burning hatred. He strikes her against her cheek. Not a full whack, but sort of gentle. Enough to send a sting rippling through Bridget's skull, but not enough to actually hurt. "I have told you to call me Sir in the bedroom!" He yells.

"Sorry , Sir."

"Now get back in the naughty girl corner. I will find you something more appropriate to wear." She does as she is told, all the while her head is screaming at her to get out of the house. But she has been intrigued. She is curious about the dark room, she wishes to see what is inside. She is fearful of Mr Gameshaw, but the fear is contradictory to her desire to be with him, although she is not too sure that she has any desire to be with him exactly, more of a desire for the safety he is providing, as well as the exuberant lifestyle. It feels so long ago now that Bridget had the same sensation of security; she has felt mostly insecure for the entirety of her adult life.

The sound of Mr Gameshaw opening a cupboard with a key returns her attention back to the reality of the bedroom.

"I believe that you are sick, Miss Brown." He says. "I want to perform some experiments on you, to find out why you are such a dirty little whore." He is now standing directly behind her. Her heart is beating so fast that she feels that it may burst out of her chest and start humping Mr Gameshaw's leg like a horny dog. In the silence, her breath is shallow and shaking, while Mr Gameshaw is breathing deeply and defiantly, controlled and calm. She feels the back of his meaty fingers from both his hands slide down inside the neck of her dress behind her. With a sudden rush, he tears the dress off of her, ripping it down the spine. She gasps with both fear and excitement. She sees a flash of blackness envelop her eyes as he ties a blindfold over her head. "Hold out your arms." He tells her, and she obeys. He places her left arm through the sleeve of a heavy material, and Bridget gets a waft of leather and the sound of metallic buckles fills the silence. He passes her right arm through the other sleeve. "Now turn around, clockwise." As she does so, her right arm is being held taunt by the sleeve, her body wrapping itself into a cuddle from it. When she feels that she is facing Mr Gameshaw, he grabs her shoulder with one of his hands, stopping her from spinning any further. "Stand still." She feels her left arm being pulled around her, folding over her right. She hears him fumbling with the buckles, and her arms are suddenly pulled so tight that she is unable to move them. She realises that he is tying her into a straight jacket. Being bound like this, defenceless, at the mercy of his whims, is titillating to Bridget. It sends little shivers all over her body, each of her nerve endings have become alert and anticipatory.

"Miss Brown, in order to deduce what it is that makes you so filthy, I shall need to give you an anal probe." Mr Gameshaw says with all the seriousness of a real Doctor. He pulls her by her arm, swinging her around him. He helps her to find the little step upwards onto the platform on which the bed sits. She feels the edge of the bed at her thighs, before Mr Gameshaw pushes her forward by her shoulder, while at the same time kicking away at her feet, causing her to topple, face first, onto the plush duvet. She feels her legs being spread wide apart, shortly followed by the sensation of cool and slimy lubricant dribbling between the cheeks of her bottom.

"Tell me if this hurts, Miss Brown." Mr Gameshaw says, as he spanks his thick and hot hand at the top of her exposed legs, letting out a satisfied grunt as he does so. The sharp pain causes Bridget to wince.

"Yes, Sir. That did hurt." She replies to him.

"Good. Now tell me...," He says, as Bridget feels something cold and rigid teasing the entrance to her anus. "Does this hurt?" She feels the object enter her, slowly and gently, but she can now feel that the object has somewhat sharp edges, which slices her on the inside, sending hot, searing pain through her body. She lets out a little scream, and tries to struggle away from it, but the straight jacket forbids her to move easily and Mr Gameshaw has one of his hands on the small of her back, pinning her firmly to the bed. Mr Gameshaw lets out another satisfying grunt.

"Yes, Sir. That hurts a lot." She tells him.

He holds the object inside her as she feels him leaning over her, whispering in her ear "Good." His breath tickles her. "I told you that I'd punish you. Tell me that you want more."

Bridget doesn't want more. The pain that she feels is starting to subside as her body gets used to the discomfort of the object inside her. She remains silent for a while, Mr Gameshaw rises back up away from her.

"Miss Brown? I said, tell me that you want some more." Mr Gameshaw says with domination, leaving a moment of silence, waiting for Bridget's reply. When none comes, his voice becomes softer, more persuasive and pleading. "Please Bridget, this is getting me so hot, you are such a sexy little thing and it's turning me on to see you in pain."

Hearing the satisfaction that Mr Gameshaw is deriving from doing these things to her is making her question her own tolerance of this pain. Mind over matter, she tells herself. She can handle it, she must be brave for the sake of this man's pleasures, this man who has vowed to protect her, ironically, from harm.

"Okay then. I want some more." She says with a quiver.

"Beg me." He replies, his voice booming back into dominance. "Tell me how much you want it."

With more conviction in her voice she says "Please, Sir, give me more, I want it, give it to me hard!"

He rams the object deeper into her, sending more pain shooting through her like a bolt of electricity and fire, burning, enveloping her whole body. She is screaming into the thick plush of the duvet with the pain, and she hears Mr Gameshaw saying in his Doctor like fashion "Good girl. It'll only hurt for a bit longer. Good girl." She realises that he has removed his hand from the object, which is now fully inserted into her. The pain gradually subsides. "Now then, I need to put it a little deeper into you. Hold still."

She fills with dread, feeling his fingers stretching her hole, before a different cold and metallic object is placed at her entrance, this one rounded and gently vibrating. He teases it gently into her, the vibrations rattling through her body, and she feels it make contact with the first object. As the first object begins to vibrate, the small cuts that it has made inside her are burning. She screams again, her tears are soaking the blindfold. Mr Gameshaw gives a sudden thrust into her, and her scream, despite being muffled as it passes through the duvet, is so loud that she worries that people will think that she is being murdered. The vibrating object is pulled out of her, and she feels Mr Gameshaw suddenly jump on the bed, muffling her scream by thrusting his solid cock into her mouth, causing her to gag. "Fuck, yeah!" He shouts. "Suck my dick, filthy bitch! Choke on it!" Within seconds, the warm flood of semen floods her mouth, as he releases his load with a series of satisfied groans. He holds his penis in her, catching his own breath, before saying "Baby, you are the best. That was really hot. Hold still and I'll clean you up."

He gets off the bed and is back behind her. He spreads the hole of her anus with his fingers and Bridget feels the object being removed from her, surprisingly with very little pain, but it leaves her body throbbing and aching. Her tears have soaked the blindfold, which Mr Gameshaw, removes from her, staring into her eyes he asks "Did you enjoy that?"

"Hmmm...." She replies, but as she sees the twinkle begin to leave his eyes, she has a twinge of guilt. "Yes, Sir, I did." She reluctantly lies. The smile spreads across Mr Gameshaw's face.

"Good girl!" He says. "I've tried that before with others, but none of them have been strong enough to take it." He starts to undo the leather buckles of the straight jacket, which Bridget now sees is stained with splatters of blood. "Next time that we try it, we'll do it properly, yes?" A look of confusion passes Bridget's face. Next time? Her heart fills with dread at the thought of doing that again. She herself derived no pleasure directly from the sensations bestowed upon her. And what does Mr Gameshaw mean by 'properly'? He looks her in the eyes. "You do want to do it again, don't you? You did say that you enjoyed it? Unless you're lying to me, which I would hate for you to do after all my generosity?" Bridget's heart twists inside her chest. If she wasn't in such a position as to need Mr Gameshaw's help, she'd kick this perverted old man right in the nuts and run out. She keeps control of her anger.

"Sorry, Mr Gameshaw, but I'm confused by what you mean by doing it 'properly'?"

"By that, I meant we'll draw up some kind of contract, about what I will do, won't do etcetera. What you'll eat, how long you'll sleep. Decide on a safe word. All that kind of stuff that most people want nowadays, after everyone read that awful book."

"Mr Gameshaw, my life is not a novel. I am a real person in the real world. People in the real world don't do that kind of stuff."

"Actually, you'll probably find that most people want to try it. A friend of mine made a fortune from it." Mr Gameshaw says, as he helps Bridget into a standing position and starts to unbuckle the straight jacket.

"How so?"

"He was a male escort." He releases the last of the buckles, causing Bridget's arms to flop lifelessly down with a sudden rush of blood flowing all the way to her fingertips. "He had the idea of advertising his services as 'Grey Fantasy Escort.'" Mr Gameshaw continues, as he removes Bridget's arms from the sleeves of the jacket. "He had a ton of middle aged women come to him. He had cleverly got them to sign their 'contracts' before the appointment to save some time, and when they arrived he instantly bound them in chains, gave them one decent lash of the whip across their backs, knowing full well that the women would give the safe word, and suddenly decide that it wasn't really for them. They would rush away, usually within ten minutes, yet they each still paid for a full hour. And he didn't even have to get his cock out once. At the height of the frenzy, he was seeing three or four women an hour."

Mr Gameshaw had used a damp flannel to wipe away the sticky fluids from Bridget's body, and she starts to stretch out and rub her tingling arms.

"In full seriousness though," He says, in a stern and businesslike voice. "I would like us to have our own contracts. I love the thought of controlling you, every part of you. I want you to be my plaything, and I don't want to force you into anything that you're not happy doing."

"If there's anything that I'm not happy doing, I shall just tell you. There's no need to make it so formal." Bridget says, seeing a disappointment appearing on Mr. Gameshaw's face, and as a result, she feels a twinge of guilt inside her heart as she realises that doing the contracts is more for his sexual satisfaction than it is for safety reasons. "But, if you want me to sign a contract, then I will oblige if it'll make you happy?"

"Yes, Miss Brown, it'll make me very happy." He says with a dirty and perverse smile, causing a sudden and slight moment of repulsion to ripple its way through Bridget's mind.

Mr Gameshaw folds back the duvet on the bed, and leads Bridget by the arm, gently pushing her to sit on the edge of the bed. "Now then, my princess, you look tired." He says, pushing her down by the shoulder and with his other arm, pulling her legs up onto the bed, twisting her body into a laying position. "Get some sleep, we have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow." He pulls the duvet over Bridget.

"But what about you? Aren't you coming to bed?" She asks.

"In a while, but first I have a small job to do." He says, walking towards the bedroom door.

"Okay, but don't be too long. I don't like being left on my own."

"I'll be as quick as I can. Goodnight." He says, switching off the main bedroom light, leaving only the small bedside lamp lighting the room with gentle softness.

"Goodnight, Sir." Bridget says as Mr Gameshaw closes the bedroom door. She rolls onto her side, switches off the little lamp and almost instantly falls into a deep sleep.

***

Early the next morning, just as the first beams of daybreak swathes the sky with light, creating a navy blue which gently passes through the soft mesh of the net curtains hanging in the bedroom window, the slight acidic scent of blood and lubricant still lingering in the air, Bridget is awoken by the sound of Mr Gameshaw's mobile phone ringing. He answers, his voice croaks with morning grunge. "Yes?...Really?...Okay, but I have a companion travelling with me...okay...no problem...see you at nine. Bye." He turns, pushing Bridget by her arm, shaking her fully awake. "Bridget?...Briiiiidgggettttt..."

"Hmmm?"

"I've got to go. The office just called, the client that we were meant to be meeting this evening is actually in London now. I have to travel to Milan with him on his private jet. We need to discuss business, so you'll have to travel alone on the scheduled flight."

"Okay."

"The cab will pick you up for the airport at eleven."

"How will I meet you in Milan? I don't know anywhere in Milan, I've never been there."

"Don't worry, I'll have a driver pick you up. He'll be waiting for you with a sign with your name on."

"Okay."

Mr Gameshaw gets up out of bed and begins getting himself ready. Bridget remains in bed, pretending to sleep, but she is now excited by the prospect of arriving in Milan to see a driver waiting with her name on a sign. She's seen it in the movies, and is looking forward to the moment. She has also realised that after Mr Gameshaw leaves, she can explore the house fully without fear of him discovering her snooping around. She can see what is in the dark room. This thought knots her stomach. She doesn't know why, but she feels fearful of that room, its sinister fragrance has been gripping her subconscious memory since last night.

The light from the window is growing rapidly, and Bridget can hear in the silence of the room the sound of the morning traffic in the streets of London. Her heart tugs at the memories of last night. She feels guilt about her thoughts of kicking Mr Gameshaw in the balls, about thinking of him as a dirty old man. He has been kind to Bridget, and the least that she can do is satisfy his sexual urges.

Mr Gameshaw has used the bathroom and is now sitting on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes. "Bridget?"

"Yes?"

"I'll leave you some money on the table downstairs. Make sure that you have a decent breakfast, you'll be needing plenty of energy." He says with a cheeky smirk on his face.

"Okay, thanks."

"I've also left a copy of my proposal for our contract on the table. Take the time to read over it and if there is anything that you do not like, we'll negotiate the terms later in Milan. If you are happy with everything on it, and I hope that you will be, then all I need you to do is sign it and bring it with you. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Very good. I'll see you in later in Milan. Bye."

"Bye." She says, waiting pointlessly for a kiss. She doesn't know why, it feels instinctive that he would kiss her goodbye, but now that she thinks about it, he has not yet kissed her with any form of tenderness. The only time he has kissed her was in the moment of passion in the lift at the hotel in Edinburgh. Strangely, she herself has not felt any desire to kiss him.

The bedroom door shuts gently and Bridget waits for the sound of the front door to close before jumping out of bed. She feels sore from the night before, and as such, walks around gently. She can feel her insides still aching, the cuts from whatever it was that Mr Gameshaw put into her still burning slightly.

Straight away, she heads for the bathroom. She will leave exploring the dark room until she has looked around the rest of the house, just in case Mr Gameshaw suddenly returns without notice. She sits on the toilet to urinate, glancing around, from the sinks to the door of the dark room, from the hot tub back to the door of the dark room, it calls at her curiosity, beckoning to her.

She finishes using the toilet and is surprised to hear it flush automatically as she rises and steps away from it. She allows herself to whistle with admiration now that Mr Gameshaw is not around to tell her off.

She goes to the Jacuzzi in the centre of the room. They never did get round to taking a soak last night, and she thinks that she may take a bath now to sooth her aching body. She toys with the digital control panel, wondering how to get it to work, but decides against it when she is presented with a complicated array of options. She glances at the door to the dark room.

She goes over to the twin sinks, casually opening the cupboard below them. There is only the usual things that people would keep under their bathroom sinks; cleaning fluids, soaps and cloths. She turns her head, looking once again to the foreboding dark room door.

She submits to her curiosity. She goes walks quietly and nervously towards the door, her heart beating with every step, her legs shaking. She pushes slowly and gently down on the handle, she hears the latch disengage, but the door does not move. She pushes harder, but she knows already that the door has been locked. Damn! She decides to try the other door from the hallway, gingerly creeping out of the bedroom, cautiously creeping along the corridor in case Mr Gameshaw is still somewhere inside the house. Arriving at the door, she tries the handle, confirming her suspicions that the door is indeed still locked. She returns to the bathroom, carrying her curiosity with her.

She turns her attention back to the shower. There is a small electronic panel on the wall besides the entrance, and with only a few clicks, she has managed to get the water spraying out of all the jets at a very comfortable sixteen degrees. Perfect, she thinks to herself, to cool her burning body down and relieve some of her aches.

She takes her time, letting the powerful streams of water to push into her sore muscles, massaging them back to life. Her mind is strangely empty of the worry that has been plaguing her for the last few days, she is full of gratitude towards Mr Gameshaw; he might be a bit of an old pervert, she thinks to herself, but she could quite easy endure his perversions just so long as he can also look after and protect her. She may be out of the public eye, she may not be fulfilling her desires of show business, she may no longer be the centre of attention, but in Mr Gameshaw she had found, for the first time in her life, a man of power and money.

She steps out and away from the jets of water and switches off the shower, dries herself off, and then returns to the bedroom, where she dresses in jeans and a light green blouse with little pink flowers on. She goes out into the hallway.

The morning sun is beaming through the small window above the large front door, casting a brilliant beam of light, picking a few speckles of dust in the air. The house is silent and still. Bridget goes to the door at the top of the stairs and tries the handle. As she suspected, it is locked. Her curiosity will have to wait.

She walks down the stairs, deciding to explore the house, nosing around in the draws and cupboards in the entrance hall, hoping to find some keys that she may try in the lock. The house is mostly empty of any signs of habitation, there are no photo's in frames, no bills or letters lingering around. She goes through the door opposite the front door into the kitchen. Once again, the signs of permanent habitation are not there; there is nothing much in the fridge and cupboards of the large and modern kitchen.

She passes through an adjoining door into the dining room. She searches through the draws of a small display cabinet, but most of them are empty, with one that contains furniture polish and other cleaning things, and another which holds some stationary, notebooks and pens. It feels to Bridget that this is not a home at all; it is a show house, an empty shell that gives the illusion of being a home, but is in reality, just a house.

She picks up the crisp banknotes that Mr Gameshaw has left on the table for her. Slowly and deliberately, she counts through the pile of twenty pound notes. Three hundred pounds. Not bad, she thinks to herself, for one nights work. She has a sudden sickness run over her mind, taunting her for the Freudian slip of her brain which is telling her that what she endured last night was 'work'. Is that what Mr Gameshaw thinks of her? As a hooker?

There is also a white, sealed envelope with the word 'Bridget' written on it in neat handwriting. This must be 'the contract'. Funny, she thinks, that he should be into this kind of stuff; there was no 'contract' binding for last night's activities, yet there had been no problem; if Bridget felt as though she really couldn't endure the physical forces that Mr Gameshaw was inflicting on her, then she would have told him to stop, and she is sure that he would have done. What was all this 'safe word' nonsense? It was more than likely to Bridget, that this contract was about him exercising power over her, she knew that some people got just as much of a kick out of wielding the power over someone else as much as the derived pleasure from the actual physical sensation of an orgasm. She would play along, for his sake.

She opens the envelope, taking out nine or ten pages of ridiculously small printed sheets of paper. She reads over the first line of the first page;

This is a binding contract between Mr Gameshaw and Miss Brown valid from the date of signing to the date calculated by the terms as stated in clause 4, paragraph 2.1.

Bridget has never been one for reading the small print, even on the things that really matter. She is not prepared to read every little detail within it. It is just a kinky little thing for Mr Gameshaw, a game of power and control. She scans over a few of the clauses, reading just a few of the lines.

Clause 2; Ownership of Bodies.

Miss Brown hereby accepts that she is forfeiting ownership of all parts of her body, and transferring said ownership to Mr Gameshaw. Mr Gameshaw will not permit the sharing of Miss Brown's body.

What? This is stupid, Bridget thinks to herself. Yeah, okay, so she no longer owns her body, whatever that means. She knows that this is not the kind of contract that would be valid in any sane court in the country, and as such, completely pointless to her. The whole point of this contract is for Mr Gameshaw to feel satisfied that he is in control of Bridget, for his own personal pleasure, but for Bridget, it is just a waste of time.

She doesn't read over anything else, skipping instead over to the last page where the dotted line is awaiting her signature. There is a pen on the table, which she uses to sign, then places the contract back into the envelope. She'll play Mr Gameshaw's game for now, she needs him. Almost instantly, she feels guilty with the thought that she is using him for her own personal gain, she is starting to see herself in a different light; she's never used anyone before, preferring to show herself to be a kind person, with her own independence. Then again, she is certain that Mr Gameshaw is himself using her. There is nothing personal in their relationship, no real spark of personal connection; they are a thousand worlds apart, with nothing between them in common. They have been bound together by a simple and cruel twist of fate, locked together by Bridget's desire of wealth and security, and Mr Gameshaw's desire of kinky sex with a man who dresses as a woman.

Her thoughts dissolve with the sound of a key entering the front door. Her stomach knots, she doesn't feel that she belongs here, that she is out of place. She thinks that it must be someone other than Mr Gameshaw, it is now seven o'clock, and surely he would be at the airport preparing for his departure by now?

She listens intently to the heavy front door open and close, she hears the gentle tap of walking feet in the hall. She looks towards the door leading out into the hall, the footsteps have stopped just outside, the door swings open and a smartly dressed lady steps in, completely not expecting there to be a drag queen sat there without make up on her face, and actually starting to need a shave. The lady jumps a little after looking up in surprise. "Sorry, er, miss?" She carefully enquires. Bridget just nods a little, not sure of how to react to this stranger in this strange house. "I didn't know Mr Gameshaw was taking a guest last night, my apologies for disturbing you."

"Don't worry about it," Bridget says, mentally kicking herself for not giving herself a decent appearance before leaving the bedroom. "I'm Bridget."

"Nice to meet you, Bridget." The woman has a gently northern accent, with soothing and reassuring tones. She gives a smile that is strangely friendly, yet Bridget feels an aura of pity transmitted from the woman's eyes. "I'm Mrs Hope, the housekeeper. Would you like me to make you some tea or coffee?"

"Thanks, I'll have a coffee, if it's no trouble?"

"None at all. I'll be back in a jiffy, my love." She steps back out from the door way and gently closes the door. Bridget looks down at the money that sits in three little piles of one hundred pounds. She must look such a fright, and with all this money, she hopes that Mrs Hope doesn't believe her to be a prostitute.

She decides that she'd prefer to get herself properly ready before her and Mrs Hope meet again, so, grabbing the piles of money into a single bundle in her hand, she quickly leaves the room and goes upstairs to the bedroom. She throws the money onto the bedside table before using the bathroom to shave. Returning to the bedroom, she sits at the antique dressing table to apply her makeup, moving quickly this time with well practiced fast strokes of the various pencils, brushes and applicators. She knows that she can complete a simple transformation of her face (including a shave) in around thirty minutes. As she is applying her lipliner, there is a knock at the bedroom door. "Are you in there, Miss Bridget?"

"Yes, Mrs Hope."

"Would you like your coffee in the bedroom?" She asks.

"No, thank you Mrs Hope, I'll be back downstairs in a few minutes."

She finishes the transformation and looks over her work in the mirror. Not too bad for a rushed job. She likes the way she can make herself look almost genuinely female in such a short space of time, wondering why it is that when she puts the makeup on for a performance it takes so much longer, yet the result is designed to tell the audience that they are seeing a man in a dress.

She goes back down the stairs and into the dining room, where a stainless steel coffee pot sits on a small tray alongside a matching sugar dish and milk jug. A bone china cup and saucer has been placed on the table at the setting that Bridget had been sat at earlier. Mrs Hope is busy polishing the display platters that sit on stands behind the glass door of the cabinet.

"Sorry, Miss, would you like me to leave you?" She asks.

"No, Mrs Hope, please do what you need to do, and please, call me Bridget."

"Okay Bridget. You can call me Irene, if you wish."

"Would you like to join me for coffee, Irene?" Bridget asks. She is still curious about the dark room, and maybe the housekeeper will be able to tell her some more about it.

"That's very kind of you." She pauses for a moment. "Why not."

"Do you not often sit with Mr Gameshaw to take a break?"

"Not often, no. He's so very rarely here. I'm used to being in the house on my own, most of the time." She says, setting another cup and saucer from the cabinet onto the table. She pours the coffee for both her and Bridget as she continues to talk. "Except on Fridays, when Jerry comes over. He's the gardener."

"How long have you worked here?"

"About six years now. It suits me to a tee, you see? I used to work for another family in a grand mansion house out in Oxford. A huge house, with lots more staff. It was hard work, and the family that I worked for weren't particularly nice. Then I applied to work here for Mr Gameshaw. I'm on my own here, it's more peaceful, and I like it that way. Mr Gameshaw's a good boss, pays me well and treats me kind."

"Do you not find it hard having to clean all the rooms in the house on your own? It is quite a big house, is it not?" Bridget enquires as casually as possible.

"Oh dear, no!" Irene exclaims. "This is not that big a house! I sometimes have to work at Mr Gameshaw's other house in Monte Carlo, you know, when the other staff there take their holidays and things. That's a big house! I don't suppose that you have seen it though, have you, my dear?"

Bridget does not much like the tone of Irene's voice. Perhaps Irene knows that Mr Gameshaw likes to take transvestite lovers, and she would also be aware of Mr Gameshaw's wife. As the housekeeper, Bridget correctly assumes that Irene knows more about the life of Mr Gameshaw than his own wife does.

"No, I haven't been to his Monte Carlo home." Bridget says, trying not to sound bitter about it, and feeling a little bit stupid for her own jealousy of his wife and their home. "But still," she continues, focussing on her plan to get some answers about the dark room. "It must take you quite a while to clean every room in this house?"

"Actually, it doesn't take that long. The lounge is usually what takes the longest. The ornaments are really nice, but I know how much they are worth, so I'm always very careful when I clean them. Mr Gameshaw likes to collect them, but whenever he buys a new one he forgets that it'll add another twenty minutes a week for me to clean it!" Bridget realises that she has not yet seen the lounge. She will look for it straight after she finishes her coffee. But for now, she feels no closer in getting any clear answer about the dark room from Irene. Her frustration is making her mind tell her to shout at Irene; 'What the fuck is in the room at the top of the stairs?!', but she knows that she must tackle the subject with a bit more cunning.

"How many rooms are there in this house?" She asks.

"Well, let us see..." Irene replies, her eyes looking toward the ceiling as her mind memorises the rooms and she counts them on her fingers. "There's the kitchen, the pantry, the utility room, the dining room, the lounge, the hall and two toilets downstairs. Upstairs there's the study, two guest bedrooms, the master bedroom, the guest bathroom and the en-suit. Then of course there is the attic, with another two bedrooms and a bathroom."

"Is the study the room at the top of the stairs?" Bridget asks.

"No, the study is further along the walkway." Irene says, her forehead wrinkles with a look that Bridget senses is confusion. "You haven't been a friend of Mr Gameshaw's for very long, have you?"

"No, I only met him this weekend, up in Edinburgh."

A moment of silence engulfs the room as Bridget's mind wanders over what she can ask Irene next. She has already mentioned the room at the top of the stairs, and she doesn't want Irene to get too suspicious about Bridget's prying. Her mind is blank, with the exception of her brain telling her over and over 'think!', but it is no use; she cannot think of a question that may result in Irene telling her what is in that room that stirs Bridget's heart so much with fear and curiosity.

"Well, my dear, I must get back to work." Irene says, placing her empty coffee cup on the little silver tray.

"Yes, of course. I suppose that I must get myself ready. I'm flying out to Milan this afternoon to meet Mr Gameshaw."

"Ooooo, very nice, dear!" Irene says with a smile on her face. "Have you finished your coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

Irene takes Bridget's empty cup and saucer and stacks it onto the other on the tray. She picks the whole thing up and carries it through the door through to the kitchen.

Bridget sits at the table, allowing a moment of her confusing thoughts to pass through her. She doesn't understand why she is so intrigued by the dark room. It was the smell. It reminded her of something, but she cannot quite put her finger on it. It invoked a memory from her childhood, from a time when Gordon had been on a school trip. The memory is vague, it is just that of Gordon dressed in dark grey shorts, in the memory he is looking down at them. But that is it, no more. The entire memory caught visually as a snapshot of that moment. Bridget doesn't know where it was. She thinks that he was about five or six years old. But the smell was there. It is the odour that Bridget remembers most, but with nothing visual to place it to, it is impossible for her to draw any conclusions about what the smell was.

She shakes her head out of her confused memories when she hears the small clock on the mantle strike nine. She wonders to herself how long she has been sat at the table in silent thought. Time appears to have passed so quickly this morning, and she has failed in her mission of discovering more about Mr Gameshaw.

She realises that she must transform herself back into Gordon for the journey to Milan. Bridget doesn't have a passport; Gordon does. She makes her way back up to the bedroom, fishes through her suitcase to pull out Gordon's favourite denim jeans and a light lilac shirt.

He sits at the dresser, carefully removing his makeup, ensuring that there is no trace to be seen. He gets dressed and sits at the dresser again to comb his own short, blonde hair, and uses a little of Bridget's hairspray to set the style in place. He swings around on the chair to put on his black pumps with blue laces, before standing and checking himself over in the full length mirror in the corner of the room. He has been told on many occasions that he is an attractive man. Indeed, people have often complemented him on his facial structure; high cheek bones and softly rounded face, feminine for a man, but he supposed that feminine beauty held more appreciation in this world than that of masculinity.

Satisfied with his appearance, he zips his case back up and carries it through to the hallway and down the stairs, placing it ready by the front door. He looks up at the clock. He has ten minutes until the car will arrive, so decides to have a little look at the lounge for the first time. He assumes it to be the room opposite the dining room, and his deductions are proved when he opens the door to see Irene sat on a floral antique sofa, using a cloth to polish one of the many ornaments that sit proudly on display all over the room. On the table in front of the sofa is full with other ornaments that Irene has moved from one of the cabinets in the room, and they wait patiently waiting to be polished.

Gordon smiles at Irene. "Sorry, just having a look around. What a beautiful lounge!"

"Don't worry, my dear! Come in, take a look!" She says.

"I'm just waiting for the car to pick me up, it should be here any minute."

"Are you looking forward to it?" Irene asks, as she finishes her polishing of one ornament, places it on the coffee table next to the sofa, before very delicately picking up another from the collection.

"Yes, I've never been to Milan before!"

"No, neither have I."

Gordon wanders around the room, his footsteps softly sinking with every step into a plush white carpet. As with the rest of the house, the furniture here is antique and darkly wooden, with old fashioned patterned upholstery. There is a huge bay window which looks through the small front garden and through a gap in the bush he can see the cars passing on the street. He stands at the window, lost in wonder of the beauty of the garden; there are a few small flowering bushes in a pristinely kept lawn.

A face appears in the hole in the bush. Quickly, like a flash of lightning, it is gone, but Gordon gasps. It was Guy, he is sure of it. For the fraction of a second that the face appeared, it locked eyes directly with Gordon.

"What is it?" Irene asks, alerted to the sound of Gordon's gasp.

"There was a man there, on the street. He was looking in at me."

"Oh, don't worry about it, dear!" Irene offers cheerily. "We get it all the time. A tourist probably, they want to see all the rich people's houses here in London."

Gordon almost tells Irene that he thinks that it was Guy, but he doesn't want to explain the whole story to the housekeeper. He thinks for a moment and curses at himself at what he perceives to be his own paranoia playing tricks with his mind. It couldn't have been Guy. No one knows where Bridget is staying. Even Cherry doesn't have the address. It would've been impossible for Guy to follow them from Edinburgh. There is no way that Guy could know where Bridget is. Relax, Gordon tells himself. It wasn't him.

The front door bell rings, making Gordon jump. Irene places the ornament on the table before rising up from the chair, walking towards the entrance hall. Gordon doesn't much like to feel waited on by this charming lady, and he instinctively wishes to say 'Don't worry, I'll get it.', but after spotting the face in the bushes he is feeling too nervous. "It's probably the car come to pick me up for the airport." He says with a smile, allowing Irene to answer the call of the bell as he waits anxiously by the door in the lounge, listening out for any sign of trouble.

"I'm here to pick up Miss Brown." Gordon hears a man say.

"That's me!" Gordon says, stepping out from the lounge with a smile, looking for the look of confusion that he is expecting to pass the chauffeurs' face. The look doesn't come, and Gordon gets the impression that this situation, which should be confusing to the driver, is actually quite a normal occurrence.

"Do you have any luggage?" He asks.

"Just this one." Gordon says, picking up the suitcase.

"Please, allow me." The chauffeur says, taking the bag from him and almost dropping it immediately with the vast weight that it carries. One common misconception that most people make, Gordon thinks to himself, is that a drag queen is physically weak.

He turns his head round to face Irene. "Thanks for the coffee. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Okay, my dear. It was a pleasure to meet you too, er, Bridget?"

"Please, call me Gordon."

### Chapter Six

The chauffeur escorts Gordon up to the check in desk, before asking if there is anything else that he can do for him.

"No, thank you, Kurt." He replies with a friendly smile.

Gordon had enjoyed the car journey to the airport, Kurt had been particularly friendly and talkative. He had explained that he was a chauffeur for the company that Mr Gameshaw worked for. He was permanently based in London where a great deal of business is conducted. Inside the car was a brand new mobile phone for Bridget, and when she switched it on there was a text message from Mr Gameshaw.

Welcome to your new phone! Switch off your old one. No more crank calls from that loser. Pass your new number to only those that you trust. See you in Milan! x

After a little prying, Gordon had not found much out about Mr Gameshaw. Kurt had only picked him up a few times, so didn't have much knowledge on him. It had started to bother Gordon, the thought of travelling to a foreign country alone, to meet a man that he had only known for a few days. Despite all the evidence that he was who he said he was, he couldn't help shake the feeling of distrust that had been building inside him since they had met a few nights ago at Zara's. Gordon had been dismissing his concerns all too easily lately, probably due to his confused and vulnerable mind not fully analysing his situation with the usual attention that he prided himself on. He usually held a good judge of character, but in this instance, he feels as though the judge has taken himself off for a good, long lunch. He is still angry at himself for allowing himself to trust Guy, but for all his thoughts and memories, he sees nothing that would tell him not to trust Guy. He hopes that it is this alone that has caused the distrust of Mr Gameshaw, his irrational mind pinning his self guilt of his recent error onto a seemingly innocent man.

He has arrived at the check in counter and hands over his ticket and passport. "Thank you," the attendant says, her eyes glancing down at the passport. "Mr Brown. Are you travelling alone?"

"Yes." He replies as she continues to scan the paperwork and type things into the computer terminal. She runs through all the usual security questions and sends Gordon's luggage on its way down the network of conveyer belts.

"I hope you have a pleasant journey." The attendant says, handing over to Gordon his passport and boarding pass. The smile that the attendant gives is like that of a Barbie doll, plastically insincere and well practiced, much to the envy of Bridget, locked away into the dark recesses of Gordon's mind.

"Thank you." Gordon says, taking the documents and turning towards the departure lounge. He walks casually; he has plenty of time before he needs to board. His stomach sends a twinge of rumbling and he realises that he has not yet eaten. There is a coffee shop where he orders a cappuccino and a croissant while browsing through a complementary newspaper. He looks around at the people, mostly businessmen with briefcases talking seriously on their mobile phones. Gordon feels underdressed. If only he could travel as Bridget he could carry her confidence, but as Gordon, he feels like a speck of dust, lost and indefinable. He eats his croissant and sips at his coffee thoughtfully wondering what Milan is like, dreaming of the romance that Italy is famed for.

He has finished his breakfast and walks slowly towards the security checkpoint. The reason that he walks slowly is now encouraged by a pain that he feels in his body. Perhaps the coffee and croissant has not yet reached his empty stomach, and perhaps he is more nervous about flying alone. He'll feel better when he is seated on the aeroplane, he thinks to himself. He joins the long queue of people waiting to pass through the security gates, looking around to see what kind of people surround him, wondering if any of them will be on the same flight as him. His eyes momentary join up to that of a smartly dressed lady, and he gives a thin smile, to which the woman responds with a respectful nod.

He has reached the front of the queue, it is his turn next and he sees that others are removing their shoes and belts, placing them in the plastic trays to pass through the x-ray machine. He does the same as the others, while an officer asks him about liquids in his luggage. He has placed his belt and shoes in the tray, and waits his turn to be called through the security scanner archway, the pain in him growing and he realises that he has started to sweat. He hopes that it isn't too far to the departure gate, because he is actually starting to feel more and more unwell.

The officer on the other side of the gate beckons for him to pass through, and he doesn't know why he feels so nervous about it, and his nerves are not subdued in any way with the sudden 'bleep' and flashing red light that activates as he steps through.

He is ushered to one side by one of the officers, while another waves a handheld scanner over his body. Quickly, and to the utter surprise to Gordon, there is a bleep from the scanner passing behind him, and without notice and seemingly from nowhere, ten armed guards aim rifles at him and his ears are ringing with one of them shouting "Get down on the ground!". Darkness engulfs his eyes, the sound of ringing echoing in his mind, and without his own will, Gordon obeys the command without being the slightest bit conscious of hitting the ground.

***

"He's coming round..." is all that Gordon hears at first. He is becoming aware of pain, and aching and throbbing pain, pulsing through his spine. He flickers his eyes open, the sudden light is hard to focus on and he is aware of two black shapes near to him. 'The nurse is on his way...' is the only other thing that he hears before slipping back into sleep.

***

Gordon is awoken, this time more suddenly. The pain in his back is stronger now, the sounds of coughing and clanking and hushed voices. He opens his eyes with just a squint, the two black figures at the foot of the bed are still there, and Gordon has no sense of just how long he has been sleeping. His mouth feels dry. His eyes begin to focus on the figures, just as he becomes aware of a nurse next to him. He turns his head to see the nurse's mouth is moving. He tries to focus his ears to the sound of the nurse and focus his eyes to stop the blinding white haze around the nurse to stop swimming around.

"...will heal quickly." He hears. "Would you like some water?" The nurse asks. Gordon nods his head a little and tries to sit up a bit, only to find that he is handcuffed to the side of the hospital bed. The nurse pushes him back down gently, telling him just to relax. He picks up a controller next to the bed and presses a button, folding the bed into a more upright position. Gordon can now focus on the figures at the end of the bed, who are dressed in full black military uniforms. The nurse passes a plastic cup with a straw over to Gordon, who instinctively goes to take it with his hand, forgetting that he is restrained. The nurse holds the cup within range for Gordon to take the straw in his mouth and he sucks large gulps of the cool and refreshing water. When he is finished, the nurse places the cup on the bedside table.

"Now then," the nurse asks. "Did you understand what I just told you?"

"No, sorry." Gordon says to him.

The nurse sighs. He looks quite young to Gordon. He is stocky and has broad shoulders, but his face is baby like, fresh and rosy cheeks and a cute little button nose. "I said that we have removed an item from your body while you were unconscious. The item has been passed to the police for analysis. The item caused some damage on the way out, but the wounds should heal quickly. Very fortunately, we also discovered that the damage caused by the item had also caused sepsis in your blood, but thankfully we caught it early enough. Sepsis can cause a great deal of problems if left undetected, this time you have been lucky. You'll need to follow a course of antibiotics."

Gordon is confused. "What item was in my body?" he asks the nurse.

"That is something that you must discuss with the police." He replies.

"The police? Why? What was it?" Gordon cannot even begin to imagine what it was that was inside him. Perhaps he swallowed a screw or something that may have been in the croissant, but he is sure that he would have noticed it. But why would that involve the police?

"I cannot say, sorry." The nurse says. "How are you feeling?" He asks with concern.

"I've a pain, more of an ache, actually, in my lower back."

"It's okay, nothing to worry about. It's normal after such a procedure. The Doctor will be along in a moment to check you over."

The nurse leaves, leaving Gordon alone with the two armed guards.

"Why am I handcuffed to the bed?" He asks.

"You have been detained under the Terrorism Act."

Gordon's mind is spinning. Why? What the hell was inside him that they could possibly perceive him to be a terrorist? It's not that he doesn't believe them, he had been feeling pains in his body all morning. This thought remind him that he has no idea what the time is. He looks around, there is a clock on the wall; half passed four. He realises that he has completely missed his flight and Mr Gameshaw will be waiting for Bridget without the slightest idea of what is going on.

"Can I please call my friend? He was expecting me in Milan."

"No." The reply from the officers is harsh.

"But I must let my friend know what has happened to me, he'll be worried."

"You will be allowed one phone call when we have processed you at the station."

Gordon sighs himself relaxed. There is no point in fighting it, the freedom in this country was eradicated a long time ago, he thinks to himself. Asking the police to help you nowadays is a bit like asking a hungry grizzly bear not to bite you.

The curtain to the cubicle is pulled back and a doctor steps through with a warm smile. "Ah, Mr Brown, I'm pleased to see you awake. How are you feeling?" He asks, pulling a little torch light out and shining it into Gordon's eyes.

"I've an ache in my lower back, but otherwise okay. I'm a bit confused as to what is going on."

"You were at London City Airport. Do you remember?" He asks.

"Yes. And I remember being in security, I remember an alarm sounding, and then nothing."

"You fainted. I am forbidden from discussing the security details with you, but I can tell you that you had, inside your rectum, something lodged, which we were ordered to remove."

"What was it?"

"I cannot say, it has been passed to the police for analysis. Do you feel fully awake and alert?"

"I suppose so, yes." Gordon replies.

"In that case, I am able to discharge you into the custody of the police."

One of the officers at the end of the bed removes the handcuff from the bed frame and attaches it to his own wrist, as the other officer is reading Gordon his rights. They escort him out of the hospital wearing only a hospital gown, and help him into an awaiting police car.

***

"Let us go over this again," the police officer sitting opposite Gordon says. They are in an interview room, cold and cynical grey walls designed to perfectly complement the officers' demeanour. Several hours of bureaucracy have passed, with Gordon being moved here there and everywhere. "You are telling me that your friend, whom you know only as 'Mr Gameshaw', forcibly inserted a computer into your anus?"

"Yes, officer," Gordon says, blushing for what feels like the hundredth time today. "I did not know what it was at the time. It was only when you told me that you had removed a chip that you believe to be from a raspberry pi computer from my backside that I was made aware of this."

"And you maintain that this was done in the name of sexual pleasure?" The officer says, finding it hard not to wince with disgust and confusion.

"Yes, that is true. Why am I still detained?" Gordon asks.

"Because under the Terrorism Act we have the power to keep you detained, based upon the evidence found inside your body and a tip off from a member of the public."

"What?" Gordon says with surprise. "Why would someone point the finger at me? I had no idea that the chip was inside me, and if I didn't, then how could someone else know?" Gordon asks, trying, and failing, not to sound angry.

"That is exactly the reason why we suspect you to be lying to us."

"I'm not bloody lying to you!" Gordon shouts, unable to contain his frustration.

"Sir, I will ask you not to raise your voice at me. Not unless you wish to also be arrested for confrontation of a police officer?"

Rage flushes through Gordon's mind. Fury, blinding, white hot fury. He manages to suppress it before asking "Where is my solicitor?"

"A solicitor will be here shortly. Now, what, exactly were you doing attempting to pass airport security with a computer chip inside your rectum?"

"Like I told you before, I had no idea that it was there."

"You didn't feel it?" He asks with sarcastic surprise.

"No, I did not."

"That is something that I find too hard to believe. What information was stored on the chip?"

"I've no idea. If only you'd let me speak to Mr Gameshaw, then maybe I could tell you."

"Okay, I can see that we are getting nowhere here." The officer says with a sigh. "Perhaps you need more time to think, before telling us the truth. I'll take you back to your cell."

"No, please..." Gordon start welling up, he wants to talk to someone, Cherry or his mother, even Mr Gameshaw, despite the fact that he is so mad with him right now, although he is sure that none of this was planned. It is just an unfortunate situation, an accidental incident, beyond the control of anyone, although perhaps if Mr Gameshaw hadn't of pushed the little raspberry pi computer into him in the first place, none of this would have happened.

As the officer stands to escort Gordon back to a cell, another officer enters. "We have completed our analysis of the hardware found inside your person, Mr Brown. You'll be pleased to know that we found nothing illegal. You are free to go, just be a little more careful in your future sexual explorations." Gordon does not like the tone of the officers voice, he is smirking somewhat, almost giggling with the words 'sexual explorations', but his dislike passes quickly on account of the fact that he is to be released.

"Really?" Gordon says with instant relaxation passing through him.

"Yes, really." The officer replies.

He is escorted out to a reception desk, where he signs a few forms before being given his clothes and suitcase. He is allowed to get dressed in a small room, before being escorted to the door by a female officer.

Once outside, he switches on his mobile phone, and sees that he has several missed calls, voicemails, and text messages from Mr Gameshaw. He works his way through them all, each one growing in intensity, Mr Gameshaw's voice reverberating inside Gordon's skull, not helping with his anger towards him. 'Why did you change your mind?' Is the first message received, but it soon passes to 'You ungrateful little bitch, how dare you stand me up after all that I have done for you. You owe me, I want the money back that I gave you, you fucking slut!'

Gordon methodically deletes all the messages, barely listening or reading them, knowing full well that Mr Gameshaw will be feeling rather stupid, and hopefully, quite guilty, once he knows exactly what has happened.

After Gordon has taken a few deep breaths, he dials Mr Gameshaw. The answer is almost instant.

"Bridget, where the fuck are you?" He yells.

"I'm still in London." Gordon replies coolly.

"So you're not coming to Milan? That's a pity. Why change your mind? I thought that we had a good time together?" His voice has gone from angry to persuasive.

"Actually, Mr Gameshaw, I had every intention of joining you. I was stopped at the airport security."

"What? Why?" He asks.

"It turns out that a piece of a raspberry pi computer was inside me, setting off the alarms and getting me arrested, in a wonderfully dramatic fashion, by the terrorist police." He says, with a frank and factual voice. The laughter from the other end of the phone is roaring through the earpiece. After what feels like too long a time for the statement to still be funny, Mr Gameshaw calms himself.

"I'm so sorry." He offers, still chuckling to himself. "Did they conduct a full cavity search?"

"I don't know. I passed out. When I woke up, I was in hospital, handcuffed to the bed and I was told that they had removed the computer chip while I was unconscious."

"How hilarious! I love the thought of you being handcuffed to the bed, it's getting me horny just thinking about it!"

"You bastard!" Gordon finds himself shouting. "It was not bloody funny! They probably thought I was about to blow a plane up or something!"

Mr Gameshaw starts laughing again, before composing himself enough to say "Shall we try and see if we can get you over here so that I can make it up to you? Did they say anything about getting you on a flight?"

"No. And I didn't want to ask. I've never been so embarrassed!"

"Well, don't worry yourself. It'll be too late for a flight out tonight, but I'll see what I can do. Where are you?"

"Outside Woolwich police station."

"Wait there, I'll send a car to pick you up." As the line goes dead, Gordon hears Mr Gameshaw chortling.

While he is waiting he calls Cherry.

"Hello?" She asks, Gordon realising that he was supposed to be keeping the number secret. 'Only those that you trust...' had been Mr Gameshaw's instructions, and Gordon felt certain that he could trust Cherry.

"Cherry? It's me, Bridget."

"O,M,G! Bridget you sly old dog! What sort of mess have you got yourself into now? Or was it Gordon's doing this time, it is his picture we're seeing on the tele!"

"What? On the tele?". Gordon asks with confusion. What was it about his life right now? The more that he tried to shy away from the public eye, the more he appeared to be dominating it. He wants to kick himself thinking about all the years that he had been trying to get some media attention to help him on Bridget's quest for stardom, and all it really took was a desire to be away from it.

"Oh, aye, me darlin'! You's all over the news! 'Security threat closes London City Airport!' is the headline, and you's the one in the picture! I must say, you look hot as a man!"

Gordon's voice is quivering; he is holding back the tears. "Cherry, it was awful!"

"I bet it was! What was the worst bit? Being arrested or the removal of the computer chip?"

"Seriously, they reported that? Bastards!"

"You's more kinky than I had you down for, me wee lass! Best bit of gossip on the scene for an age. The girls and I are going for a drink tonight to celebrate your new found fame as a terrorist!"

"I don't know how the chip got stuck in me. I didn't know it was there."

"That's what we were all wondering. You must be pretty loose to fit an entire computer in there in the first place?! It's no wonder you're single, it must be like throwing a sausage down a hallway!"

"Shut up, Cherry! Seriously, I'm so upset right now...I..." is all that Gordon can manage before breaking down in tears.

"Ohhhh, sorry, me darlin'. I don'ae mean to upset you's. I'm just playing around..."

"I know." Gordon says between sobs. "I'm just tired. I was supposed to be in Milan right now with Mr Gameshaw, but instead I'm stuck in London."

"Milan, darlin'? Ohhh, very nice. But how's you gonna get there noo?"

"Mr Gameshaw is going to arrange it. It is his bloody fault, after all."

"And we're all dying to know, is there any news on Guy?" Cherry asks with a pitch of slander bubbling under her concern.

"No. I assume that no one has heard from him in London?"

"Nope. Not a sausage. Although, his bar has been boarded up, so I guess he was in a bit of financial trouble."

"Well, it doesn't bother me. I'll be in Milan soon and he won't find me there."

"Good girl!" Cherry exclaims with gusto. "You sound like you've cheered up already!"

"Yeah, thanks Cherry."

"Think nowt o'it. Just one more thing I need to run by you..."

"What is it?"

"What exactly," Cherry asks tentatively "Did you think your friend meant when he said he wanted to give you a 'hard drive'?!" before she breaks down in hysterics and cuts off the line.

Gordon smiles to himself. He supposes that it was always his aim in life to entertain. He just wished that he was telling the jokes instead of being the joke. His phone starts to ring; it is Mr Gameshaw.

"Good evening, my damsel in even more distress." He says cheerily as Gordon answers the phone. "Good news, you will be on the first flight out tomorrow morning. I've booked you into the Crowne Plaza hotel for tonight so that you can get plenty of rest. The car will take you to the airport at five a.m. for your flight at seven thirty.

"Thank you, Mr Gameshaw."

"That is the least I can do after the situation that I have put you in. Are you still at the police station?"

"Yes, the car hasn't arrived yet." Just as he says this, a black rolls Royce drives around the corner and Gordon sees that the driver is Kyle. "Actually, I think that's the car now."

"Good. No, go to the hotel, have a relaxing bath and order room service. Don't worry, everything will be put on the account. And call me later before you go to sleep."

"Okay, Mr Gameshaw. Thank you! Bye!"

"Bye!"

Gordon hangs up and waves over to Kyle, who is looking around for him. Gordon waits for Kyle to climb the few steps and pick up his luggage. "Good evening, Miss Brown. What happened to you?"

"Don't even ask, Kyle. If you want to know, then you had better watch the news tonight."

***

Gordon does exactly as Mr Gameshaw had instructed. Inside the hotel room, there is a large bath, and despite the evening being warm, he decides to take a long soak in the soothing heat of soapy water while watching an old episode of 'Absolutely Fabulous' on the small television in the bathroom. His body is still sore, he can feel the occasional slice searing pain inside him as his body warms in the water, but his mind is easing, relaxing, emptying itself of the horrors of the days events. There is no point worrying about it now, what was done, was done.

The episode has finished and he uses the remote control to flick through the channels. He has deliberately avoided the news for obvious reasons, but something about his relaxed state tells him to take a look. He stops flicking on the remote when the television is turned to BBC news.

He sighs with relief to see that there are other events going on, that his story is not the only thing being talked about, or perhaps the hype has died down somewhat. You know what they say, he thinks to himself; today's news is tomorrow's chip paper. He watches as the presenters discuss the latest parliamentary scandal with some guests, of whom Gordon has no idea who they are or what they do. The discussion ends, and the presenter hand over to the weather report. Gordon cares very little, he'll be in Milan until the weekend, and he smiles to himself at this thought.

Then the news loops over to the bulletins. The top headline is about the scandal. Some MP is accused of taking a bribe from another MP to vote for something or other. The next item is about 'rising tensions in the middle east', followed by a report about the recovering economy. Gordon is just beginning to think that his own little drama may have been forgotten about already, maybe it's only being covered on BBC London, when his heart sinks with the reporters voice coldly stating 'Hundreds of air passengers delayed as a terror threat closes London City Airport for two hours'.

He watches with vague interest as the top stories are reported in further detail, all the while desperately anxious for his own story to be covered. He hopes that they will not be allowed to report too many details; after all, he was totally innocent. He tries to distract his mind away from thinking about it by picking up and glancing over the room service menu to try to decide what he wants to order for dinner. His eyes are scanning the words, but he is not able to read them, his mind too full with worry. He puts the menu back down onto the little ledge of the bathtub, sighs, and sinks lower into the aromatic foam, trying to relax, trying, without success, to empty his mind.

Finally, the news reporter announces the full report on the incident at the airport. Gordon looks at the screen to see the reporter sitting at the news desk with a picture of the entrance of the airport in the background. 'London City Airport was closed for two hours earlier today after a security threat was discovered. A thirty year old man was arrested after it was discovered that he was carrying suspicious electronic equipment inside his body. Mark Lonagon has this report.'

The screen jumps to a reporter stood outside the airport entrance. 'I'm here at London City Airport which earlier today was closed for two hours by the authorities after a man attempted to board an aircraft carrying a suspicious piece of computer equipment inside his body. The man, a thirty year old British citizen,...' The screen changes to show the mug shot of Gordon that the police took at the police station. '...was later released after the item was discovered to be an innocent piece of a raspberry pi computer which the man claims was accidently left inside him after a sexual game. Brian Hallow, the commissioner of the British Transport Police, had this to say.'

A chubby, red faced man in police uniform is sitting behind a conference desk. 'The incident today at London City Airport was a testimony to the exemplary work carried out by our highly trained task force dedicated to routing out terrorism. In this instance, it was unfortunate for the suspect that he was innocent of any malicious intent, and as such, was released without charge once my officers were satisfied that the computer chip removed from his rectal cavity was not in any way designed to carry out a terrorist attack. We make a warning to any person thinking of committing a terrorist attack from our airports that we are always ready to detect and respond to any threat.'

Back outside the airport, the reporter is back on the screen. 'The airport was closed for two hours while officers carried out a full scale search of the airport grounds, where nothing of interest was discovered. Meanwhile, the aeroplanes were grounded and also searched, causing delays to hundreds of passengers. I spoke to one of the passengers earlier on today.'

The report switches to a well dressed man inside the terminal building with the reporter standing beside him. 'Did you see what happened?' The reporter asks, swinging the microphone in the direction of the passenger.

'Yes, I did. I was standing in the queue for the security checkpoint, only about five or six people behind the man who was arrested. He was looking nervous, and sort of dodgy. I heard the alarm bleep as he passed through the scanner and I think I knew then that something was up; you could just tell that he was up to no good and I was seriously scared that a bomb was about to explode or something! Then there was all this shouting and I could see loads of armed police surrounding the man. That was when we all started to run for the exit from the airport.'

The screen switches back to the reporter outside the airport, but just before it does so, for such a short fraction of a moment, the kind of moment where if Gordon had blinked he would have missed it, he sees a man step into the shot behind the passenger. It was Guy, Gordon feels sure this time, his stomach knotting with the fear of knowing that Guy was at the airport at the same time as him. The reporter continues speaking, his word barely registering in Gordon's mind, which has become numb with confusion. 'The knock-on effects of these delays have now been cleared and it's business as usual, with most departures leaving on time, but the advice from the airlines is please do check the status of your flight before leaving home. This is Mark Lonagon, reporting from London City Airport.'

Gordon grabs the remote, searching for a rewind button, hoping that the hotel televisions have the ability to rewind live television, but he knew the very second that he grabs the remote that it does not. It was Guy! He is sure this time, and if only he could see the report once again, he would know for certain that he wasn't being paranoid. His heart sinks at his follow up thoughts. Could it really be a coincidence that Guy was at the airport at the same time? No, Gordon is confident that, in fact, Guy is following him, stalking him. He has no idea of how Guy could possibly have followed him. His memory triggers a flashback of the face that he saw earlier today in between the bushes of Mr Gameshaw's garden. How would it even be possible for Guy to know that he was there? Maybe it was just actual coincidence. Maybe Guy already knew that the house belonged to Mr Gameshaw, they did used to be business partners, after all? In fact, the more that Gordon thinks about it, the more he realises that Guy has probably been there many times before. Maybe it wasn't Bridget that Guy was stalking, maybe it was Mr Gameshaw that he was really after. Maybe Guy had no idea that Bridget was even staying with Mr Gameshaw, that he must have been surprised in looking through the lounge window, expecting to see Mr Gameshaw, but instead seeing his other enemy. The thought makes Gordon relax a bit, it might not be him that Guy is out to destroy in the first place. He may have followed Gordon to the airport in the hope of finding Mr Gameshaw. Actually, this would make sense, Gordon thinks to himself, as Mr Gameshaw had left so suddenly in the very early hours of the morning, destined for an unplanned flight out of London, perhaps ruining Guy's plans, whatever they may have been.

Gordon looks up to the television to see that they are replaying the same weather report from earlier. He knows that it is only a matter of time before they replay his story once again, so he decides that he will get out of the bath and watch the replay in the bedroom, which has a bigger television.

The bath has heated his body quite considerably, and after using the complementary hotel towel to dry himself, he takes it through to the bedroom, lays it flat out on the bed before lying on top of it completely naked, letting the cool breeze from the open bedroom window to pass over him, gently soothing his aches away, sending him unwillingly into an exhausted slumber.

***

The sound of buzzing is rousing Gordon. It is bothering him. As he tunes the focus of his ears towards the buzzing, he realises that it is accompanied by a little tune. It stops, and Gordon instantly falls back to sleep, grateful for the returning peace.

Seconds later, the buzzing is back again. This time, however, there is also the sound of the hotel telephone ringing. Gordon looks, bleary eyed, at his mobile phone. Mr Gameshaw is calling. Shit, I was meant to call him, Gordon thinks to himself. He suddenly sits up on the bed, still naked and on the damp towel. It is daylight, the room is bright. He picks up his phone and answers the call.

"For fuck sake, Bridget, where the hell are you?" Mr Gameshaw yells.

"Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. I'm at the hotel."

"Well you better get a wriggle on, the driver has been waiting for you in the hotel lobby for over an hour! Your flight is in an hour and a half, so hurry up!"

"Shit! Okay, I'm rushing! Bye!" He hangs up the phone and rushes into the bathroom to throw on the same clothes that he stripped off the night before. He brushes his teeth while packing the few things that he had removed from his suitcase. Ten minutes later, he dashes out of the room with his luggage, takes the lift down to the lobby where he sees Kyle at the reception desk.

"Good morning, Miss Brown." He says with a smile, much to the confusion of the hotel receptionist.

"Morning, Kyle. Sorry I'm late, I overslept."

"Don't worry about it, Miss. I have already checked you out, do you have your key card?"

He hands the key card over to Kyle, who it turn hands it over to the receptionist. "Thank you." The receptionist says. "I hope that you had a pleasant stay?" She asks, with a smile on her lips that Gordon cannot tell if she is just being friendly, or if she is secretly laughing at Gordon after seeing the news last night. He tells himself that he doesn't really care, there will be dozens of people secretly laughing at him right now, and he will not allow any of them to bring him down. The sudden memory of the news report is accompanied by the pain of not seeing it again, leaving Gordon in two minds as to whether or not it really was Guy at the airport and making him mentally kick himself over the stupidity of not obtaining the proof of Guy stalking him, which he so desperately needs in order to satisfy his own mind.

"It was lovely," Gordon says in reply to the receptionist, shaking his mind back into the present. "Thank you."

Kyle takes Gordon's suitcase and they walk briskly out to the car, which is parked right outside the front doors. Kyle opens the door for Gordon before going behind the car to put the suitcase into the boot. Gordon sees him trot around to the driver's side, he throws open the door and jumps in quickly, starting the engine almost instantly.

"Please hold onto your hat, Miss Brown. I am instructed to get you to the airport as quickly as possible." Kyle says, as he floors the accelerator and the car lurches into a rapid forward thrust that pins Gordon momentarily into his seat.

***

An hour later, Gordon is seated on the aeroplane, waiting for its departure. He has passed through security with more apprehension than the day before, he was breathing more rapidly, his heart beating so hard and so fast that he thought that he may have a heart attack at any moment. Sweat had seeped from every pore, soaking his t-shirt, which is now sticking to his skin, much to his annoyance. Today, however, he passed through the security checkpoint without being accused of planning to blow up an aeroplane, which was a vast improvement on the day before, making him feel more relaxed. He did notice a great deal of sniggering and sly attempts of pointing from the officers and other passengers as he passed through, but this didn't surprise Gordon in the slightest. He told himself not to worry, soon he would be in Italy, and where no one knew him or knew what had happened.

He had, obviously, been keeping his eyes alert, scanning the crowds, looking for Guy. He was expecting to see him there. He was hoping to see him there; he had already decided that if he did spot him, he would make the effort to alert a police officer, there were plenty of them around. In fact, there were rather a lot more of them around than the previous day. Alas, it was not meant to be; Gordon did not spot Guy at all as he rushed through the airport to the departure gate.

Gordon had been one of the last passengers to board the aircraft. Several of the other passengers had obviously recognised him, only instead of the sly pointing and sniggering that he had experienced inside the terminal, many of the passengers looked at him from the comfort of their seats with grave concern plastered over their faces. In fact, two separate couples and a man travelling by himself had decided that they were feeling 'unwell' and left the aircraft in quite a hurry, causing the departure to be delayed as their luggage stored in the hold had to be located and removed.

Gordon had tried to levitate his mind above the worry of what other people may think of him; he was prepared to accept his social standing as that of an outcast for his choice of lifestyle, this was something that his mind had dealt with while he was still a teenager, but he was not prepared to accept that people might see him as a threat to their lives. He was doing well not blurting out in tears, although he was not able to stop the one or two individual tears leaking from his eyes.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen." The voice of the captain announced over the intercom. "I am happy to announce that we are now ready for departure and we would like to apologise for the delay due to a few passengers feeling unwell. In a few minutes we will be taxiing to the runway for our departure to Milan Linate. In the meanwhile, please play close attention to the cabin crew as they demonstrate the safety features of this aircraft."

The stewards and stewardesses begin the demonstration as the aeroplane rolls back, and Gordon sits back into his seat with a gentle sigh, pleased to be finally on his way.

### Chapter Seven

As promised, there is a man holding up a sign for 'Signorina Brown' as Gordon walks through the arrival gate at Milan Linate Airport. Upon spotting the sign, Gordon looks to the man holding it, and he is pleasantly surprised to see that it is Mr Gameshaw himself, who smiles and waves to him. He walks over to him, pulling his wheeled suitcase behind him.

"Signorina Brown, benvenuta in Italia!" Mr Gameshaw says with an exaggerated Italian accent.

"Sorry, Mr Gameshaw," Gordon says. "I don't know any Italian. What does that mean?"

"It means 'welcome to Italy'. How was the flight?"

"Very good, thank you. I didn't know that you spoke Italian?"

Mr Gameshaw chuckles. "I don't. I know how to say 'welcome to Italy' and 'do you speak English?' That, I find is all you need to know, most of the people I meet here speak English. Did you have any problems today?"

"Other than oversleeping, no." Gordon replies. "Although it is still early in the day...!"

They walk together out of the terminal and into a car park, Mr Gameshaw leads them to a parked red Ferrari.

"An F-forty?" Gordon asks, releasing a forgetful whistle of astonishment. Mr Gameshaw stares at him with his fury for the whistle showing with his frown. "Oo, sorry Mr Gameshaw. Bad habit, I know. But, wow! An F-forty! These things are epic! Twin turbo V eight engine with four hundred and seventy horsepower, really makes a purr!" Mr Gameshaw opens the passenger door for Gordon to get in, before he loads the suitcase into the boot of the car. He walks around the car and gets in behind the steering wheel.

"These things sit so low to the ground." Mr Gameshaw says.

"That's because they were initially designed for racing, then later adapted for road use. Is it yours?"

"Yes. I use it only here in Italy. There is something special about driving an Italian car on Italian roads, a sort of authenticity which just feels right to me."

Gordon goes to open the window, but see's no handle.

"How do I open the window?" He asks.

"Oh, you have to slide it across." Mr Gameshaw says.

"Are you kidding me? Lexon sliding windows?"

"Not kidding, no. You really have to slide the window to open it. It's a design thing."

"You don't realise what that means? Only the first fifty of these cars made had sliding windows! You must have paid a fortune for it?!"

"Yes, I suppose I did pay quite a bit for it. I didn't know that it was that special; I just bought it because I liked it and I never really gave any thought as to why it was more expensive than the others."

"We must get a picture of me inside, for my Dad; he'll be unbelievably jealous! He was always dreaming of driving one of these."

"Okay, but not right now," Mr Gameshaw says, starting the engine and giving it a thunderous roar, erupting Gordon's senses with its power. "Right now we need to get you back to the apartment. We'll drop off your case and you can get changed. Then, we have the whole day for me to show you Milan, followed by dinner tonight with one of my clients. Did you bring the contract that I asked you to sign?"

"Yes." Gordon replies, pulling it out of his small shoulder bag and passing it over to Mr Gameshaw.

"Do you have anything that you wish to change with it?" He asks, pulling it out of the envelope and checking the signature.

"Nope. It's fine."

"Good." Mr Gameshaw says, placing the contract back into the envelope and throwing it into the pocket in the door.

The car suddenly accelerates with such ferocity that Gordon gasps, thrilled and excited, both fearful and impressed by the power that the engine can deliver, his heart pounding inside his chest, his breath held. It takes his body just a few seconds to adjust to the g-force, and after his heart stops thumping quite so hard he manages to speak once again.

"Who's the client that we're meeting tonight?" Gordon asks.

"Tom Issotti. He's been a client of my company for many years now, and a personal friend of mine. We'll be spending quite a bit of time with him this week. I told you already that he was the best man at my wedding?"

"That's right, you did tell me. And he knows about you and I?"

"Yes. It probably won't be any surprise to you that you are not the first of my lovers, and Tom has met almost every one of them."

"Have all your lovers been transvestites?"

"Not all, no. But mostly." Mr Gameshaw says, for a moment he stays quiet, leaving only the now much gentler hum of the engine to fill the silence. "Not that I've had many lovers, I'm not a playboy."

"How many is 'not many lovers'?" Gordon asks.

"Well, let's see. First there was Gemma, then Tracy and Carol, I was seeing them both at the same time, then there was Phyllis, who I was always asking to change her name. There's something about that name, don't you think? Phyllis, it sounds to me like a disease! I don't understand why, when you fella's decide on becoming a transvestite or transsexual, why do so many of them choose such odd names?"

"I don't think my name is odd." Gordon says with an offended frown. Mr Gameshaw chuckles.

"Not your name, no! 'Bridget Brown' is a nice normal name. Has a nice ring to it, like a sort of 'plain Jane'."

"Did you just call me a 'plain Jane'?" Gordon yells, taking even more offence than the comment about choosing odd names. He stares at Mr Gameshaw, and the look on his face tells Gordon that he is not happy with Gordon's response of offense.

"No, Bridget, I did not call you a 'plain Jane'. You are taking what I said out of context. I meant simply that your name is a simple and common one."

"Simple?!" Gordon yells, now feeling as ferocious as the engine of the car. "COMMON?!" He adds. "Mr Gameshaw, I am not happy to be called simple and common. I would stop talking right now if I were you." Mr Gameshaw's cheeks have blushed red, caused by the offence that he has delivered, or so Gordon believes. The reality of his blushing is soon better apparent to Gordon when he hears Mr Gameshaw inhale a steady and deep breath.

"Gordon," he says with calm control, momentarily stunning Gordon with his use of his male name, something which Mr Gameshaw has not yet done. "I am not wishing to have an argument with you, and I will ask you to bear in mind that I am giving you everything that you need to escape from the dangers in your life that I have nothing to do with. I do this out of the goodness of my heart, and I do not deserve to be shouted at. Not ever. If you raise your voice to me one more time, then I shall see to it that you are ruined; I will not stop until you become just another sad and pathetic drag queen with no friends or money. I will see to it that you end up living on the streets, giving blowjobs to dirty old men for five pounds at a time, because that is where you would be right now if it wasn't for me. Do I make myself clear?"

Gordon has begun to cry softly, not wishing to alert Mr Gameshaw of his weakness. He stays quite, while Mr Gameshaw waits for a response. When no reply comes, Mr Gameshaw says with a tremor of fury in his voice "Gordon, I asked you if I have made myself clear?"

"Yes, Mr Gameshaw," Gordon replies, his voice quivering as he fails to hide the upset that Mr Gameshaw has caused.

"Good." Is all that Mr Gameshaw says. The atmosphere inside the car is now very tense, the humid Italian heat not helping to calm it in any way. What a bastard, Gordon thinks to himself. This is all just a game of control to Mr Gameshaw, an abuse of his power over him, and for the first time Gordon feels shame for what he allowed Mr Gameshaw to do to him two nights ago. He had endured the pain for the sake of Mr Gameshaw's pleasure, hoping that it would be a way of expressing his gratitude for the safety and security that he was providing to Bridget, but now he is regretting it.

They drive, mostly in silence, into the city; huge buildings loom high above the wide tree lined avenues, small groups of people are gathered outside coffee bars, talking, dramatically waving their hands about making them look angered with passion, the busy roads have cars dashing about, many of them bleeping their horns. Mr Gameshaw turns into a quieter looking street lined with large and expensive apartment buildings, each one ornately decorated in their own individual styles, window boxes and balcony's filled with brightly coloured flowers and lush green plants. The car slows to a stop besides a wide gate. Mr Gameshaw presses a button on a little remote control, and a little yellow light starts flashing on one of the gateposts and before too long, the gate starts rolling to one side, freeing the route down into a small underground car park.

After parking, they get out of the Ferrari and Mr Gameshaw collects the suitcase from the boot and he carries it as they walk together over to an elevator. They do not have to wait, the lift is already on their floor and they step into the large, walnut panelled elevator cabin, the edging beautifully decorated in lavish gold detail. Mr Gameshaw presses the button for the top floor and Gordon watches the little dial on the old fashioned floor-counter above the elevator doors as it swings slowly passed the numbers as the lift rises.

The lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open into what could easily be confused with an expensive hotel corridor, lined with side tables with fresh cut flowers in vases, the walls lined with painted artwork in renaissance style. They walk a short way down the corridor, passed two other doors, before Mr Gameshaw places Gordon's case on the floor and uses a key to open the door.

The inside of the apartment is vast; the ceiling is far above their heads, the room they are in bright, light and cooled with air conditioning. It is an open plan design, Gordon see's an area with two large corner sofa's facing each other, each of them with a little antique side table at each end holding on them large bulbous table lamps. In another segment of the room, there is a dining table in a darkened wood varnish which could easily seat twelve people, yet hardly appears to take up any space at all. In the corner of the room closest to the dining table there is a kitchen area, with modern style bright cabinets, white with black marbled worktops.

In the corner of the room there is a cast iron spiral staircase leading up to a mezzanine walkway, which follows the room around in an L shape, and Gordon counts five doors, presumably leading off to the bedrooms. Gordon is astonished with the detail applied to the walkway railings, intricate and delicate looking black cast iron, moulded into the shape of a climbing plant, twisting its way around the solid bars.

"Welcome to my Milanese home." Mr Gameshaw says, walking towards the spiral staircase. "If you want to get changed and ready, I'll like to take you out for a little shopping trip. I'm sure that you're aware of the reputation that Milan has for fashion?"

"Of course I'm aware of it!" Gordon says, following Mr Gameshaw. "Dolce and Gabbana, Valentino and Prada, all from Milan I believe?"

"I didn't know that, fashion is not really my area of expertise. Almost every element of my life requires that I wear a suit, which I tend to buy from a very reputable tailor on Saville Row in London."

Mr Gameshaw struggles up the stairs, the spiral shape causing him to struggle with Gordon's case. At the top of the stairs, they enter the first door that they come across, which leads into a spacious, modern style bedroom.

"I'm quite surprised with your style, Mr Gameshaw." Gordon says.

"Why's that?"

"Well, in London your home was classic in its style, antique. But here it's quite modern."

"That's because Sandra and I take it in turns to decorate. I prefer the modern style, and she prefers antique. We used to try decorating together, but with such different styles, it just resulted in constant arguing. Which style do you prefer; modern or antique?"

Gordon wants to answer that he actually prefers antique, but without wanting to upset Mr Gameshaw's ego, he gives the answer that he believes will make Mr Gameshaw happiest. "I like modern, myself." He is not wrong in his assumption; he can see that it satisfies Mr Gameshaw, adding to his characteristic of smugness. Gordon can imagine that Mr Gameshaw is the kind of person that would like to keep a tally of how many people prefer his sense of decoration over that of his wife's, it's a pity, Gordon thinks sarcastically to himself, that Mr Gameshaw won't be able to tell his wife that he has found another person that agrees with his taste more than hers.

"I'll wait downstairs for you to be ready. Take your time, I've a few calls to make anyway." Mr Gameshaw instructs, as he walks out of the room.

***

An hour and a half later, Bridget is walking with Mr Gameshaw down a small street lined with expensive boutiques. The striking image of the grand buildings with giant stone archways and balcony's filled with plants and brightly coloured flowers have made Bridget forget about the earlier argument in the car. She is in awe of the city, much more peaceful and relaxing than London, yet bigger in style. Mr Gameshaw has already spent a small fortune on Bridget, she has two new cocktail dresses, one new pair of shoes (although, the only reason that Bridget decided to buy them is because they have been the only pair that she has seen of women's shoes in her size, she doesn't much like the style of them, but she lives in the hope that they may grow onto her), three new hats and a new handbag. Adding up all the price tags, Bridget is surprised to realise that they have spent more on these clothes than Bridget did on her last car.

After the shopping trip, Mr Gameshaw takes Bridget for a sightseeing tour. He takes her to the huge cathedral in Duomo, which is obviously designed to both petrify and astonish its onlookers with its scale; its intricate spires push high into the air with all the sense of the purpose of being in connection with heaven.

Nearby to the cathedral is the galleria, where Mr Gameshaw spends quite a bit more money on Bridget in the expensive boutiques; Cartier and Prada are here, their shops so small in size for a names so big to Bridget; but she soon realises that these boutiques are here to say 'Only a few people can afford to shop here. If you have to ask the price, then it's too expensive for the likes of you.' He then takes her to see 'the bull'; a mosaic on the floor in the centre of the galleria, where people are crowded around, each one of them taking it in turns to spin around on the balls of the bull. 'It's a tradition," Mr Gameshaw explains. "They say that if you turn on the balls of the bull, then you will once again return to Milan in the future."

They stop for a coffee in a small bar just outside of the galleria, Bridget takes the opportunity to take a closer look at the people of Milan; she is surprised as to what is considered 'fashionable' here, each person is apparently setting their own trend and style, everyone is unique. She sips gently on her coffee, too bitter and strong for her tastes.

"Tom!" Mr Gameshaw suddenly expresses, and Bridget looks up to see a tall, broad shouldered man. His face is gentle, his tanned skin soft and smooth, his jaw line defined and strong, his beaming white smile and dimpled cheeks attracting Bridget's attention. "I'd like you to meet Bridget."

Bridget offers her hand, and Tom's grips it with both strength and tenderness as he leans in for a kiss on each of her cheeks, defiantly saying "Ciao Bella! It's a pleasure to meet you, I've heard so much about you." Bridget is surprised to hear the optimistic accent of an American, his syllables exaggerated, his tone strong and arrogant.

"Oh, you're American?" She asks, looking to both of the men for an explanation. She had, until now, always imagined Tom to be Italian.

"Italian-American, actually," Tom says, smiling at her with a broad grin, his cheeks slightly cute with dimples. "My father is half German, half Italian, my mother is American. I grew up in New York, and I obviously spent most of my childhood in Little Italy." He winks at her, his head cocking slightly to one side, sending a flush of attraction rippling through Bridget's cheeks, blushing them slightly, and making her flutter her eyelids at him unwillingly.

"Will you join us for a coffee?" Mr Gameshaw asks.

"Thank you, but no. I'm meeting Gail, picking her up in ten minutes."

"Gail is Tom's ex-wife." Mr Gameshaw explains, causing Bridget's heart to shrink a little at the thought of this handsome man being married before. She finds him so very attractive, and the way that he has introduced himself to her initially gave her the hope that he too may be interested in transvestites, having known that Bridget herself was one. Never mind, Bridget thinks to herself, there are plenty of married men who like a bit of she-male action behind closed doors, such as Mr Gameshaw. Tom might just be another one of those.

"Sorry, gotta' run." Tom says, interrupting Bridget's daydream. "I'll catch you both for dinner tonight. Nice to meet you, Bridget."

"Nice to meet you too, Tom." Bridget says, as he leans in for another peck on each of her cheeks.

After he walks off, Bridget turns her attention back to Mr Gameshaw.

"Did you say 'ex-wife'?" She asks with curiosity.

"That's right, I did. Gail and Tom very recently divorced, but they were the best of friends before they even got married in the first place. They still live together and go out together, but they just cannot cope being married to each other."

"That's a bit odd, isn't it?" Bridget asks.

"Odd? Coming from you, a man who likes to dress as a woman?" Mr Gameshaw whispers, careful not to let the people on the next table hear him. His comment stabs at Bridget's heart. Being called 'odd' is nothing new to Bridget, but hearing it from the man who apparently enjoys sex with transvestites is harshly hypocritical. Bridget lets the comment pass; she is not wanting to upset Mr Gameshaw like she did earlier in the car; she has learnt that Mr Gameshaw is insensitive about how he speaks to her and she fears that he may cause more upset if she reacts with anger at his statement. Her silence is ignored as Mr Gameshaw continues. "But yes, I agree with you, it is a bit odd. The problem is that they have different interests in the bedroom department."

This instantly lifts Bridget's spirit. Maybe Tom is interested in her type after all, she thinks to herself, and her heart starts beating faster at the prospect of being seduced by him.

"What sort of 'different interests' are you referring to, Mr Gameshaw?" Bridget asks.

"I cannot say," he replies with a tone of anger to his voice. "It is none of your business, Bridget, and you'd be better off keeping your mouth shut that I've even told you as much as I have already. Tom is a very private man."

"Okay," Bridget says dejectedly. "Don't worry, my lips are sealed shut."

They finish their coffees in silence, Bridget's mind racing over speculative thoughts of what might be the problem in Tom's marriage. He didn't come across as gay, but then most gay men in the closet are very good at hiding their true desires. Maybe he is into unusually kinky stuff, like Mr Gameshaw. Or maybe it was his ex-wife who had different ideas about their bedroom activities?

Mr Gameshaw interrupts her thoughts. "Let us now go back to the apartment." He says with a sly smile on his face. "This heat is making me incredibly horny," he leans in to whisper in Bridget's ear. "And I would very much like to fuck your brains out."

***

Bridget lays in bed, a thin sheet covering her body, the coolness of the air conditioning is making her shiver a bit, and she looks over to Mr Gameshaw, who fell into a deep sleep almost instantly after he ejaculated. The apartment is dark and quiet, and Bridget feels alone and confused, her mind plays over the evening's meal at the restaurant.

They had met Tom there, who was already seated at a round table laid with exquisite cutlery and sparkling crystal glassware, the tablecloth glowing bright white. It was the most pompous place that Bridget had ever been in, and, for all its regal splendour, also probably the noisiest, with booming voices of the other diners, all trying to speak louder than their companions, waving their arms about with not the slightest bit of delicate grace. The atmosphere was more like that of a bar, Bridget had thought to herself, contradicting the decor.

Tom was wearing a white suit with a pristine fit, defining his broad shoulders, and when he removed his dinner jacket, Bridget could see though the shape of his shirt pulled tightly against his chest that he was a very fit man indeed, with rounded pecks that bulged out like a pair of breasts, only firmer, and flexing with each movement of his overly gesticulating arms.

She had been unable to take her eyes off of this man's beautiful body, like a sculpture, a living Michelangelo's David, only, Bridget thought to herself, with hopefully a larger penis. She had no doubt in her mind, she had developed a crush on this man with such force that she wanted to jump into his arms, and fantasized of him carrying her out into the golden glow of a beautiful Italian sunset. It had been such a long time since she had felt this way, probably not since her teenage years whereby she had developed an embarrassing crush on her school P.E. teacher, one that she had been unable to hide her attraction to the point where the other students began to notice, and she had been mocked accordingly.

The meal itself had been a boring affair, the conversation mostly driven by Mr Gameshaw talking of 'market mergers' and 'bottom line profits', Tom listening intently to the advice being given to him, while at the same time flicking his eyes to Bridget, occasionally with a little wink, his hypnotising azure eyes touching her, feeling her, connecting with her on a spiritual plane of existence, telling her that they were the only two people in the world, that they were meant to be together.

He had been incredibly flirtatious, which had been the major driving force of Bridget's feelings. Never before had she felt as though a man held his full attention on her and her alone. It was as if he too was aware of their connection, he too was feeling deep in his soul the bond that they shared.

Mr Gameshaw had appeared oblivious to it. Either that, Bridget thought, or he just didn't care. After they had got back to the apartment he had taken her straight back into the bedroom, where he had played with her, toying with the hole of her arse, inserting a variety of increasingly bizarre items into her, some with sharp edges, cutting her from inside and tearing open the old wounds from the night of the raspberry pi computer. It had been painful, more painful than Bridget could bear, and asking Mr Gameshaw to stop at one point made him work at her harder and with more ferocity, telling her that if she really wanted him to stop then she would have to use the safe word as stated in the contract between them. She now felt the twang of regret for not reading the contract properly, Mr Gameshaw appeared obtuse in his refusal to stop, and Bridget had realised with some degree of horror that he thought that she was enjoying the pain, and that in itself was enough of a spur for him to make her beg to stop, making her cry, each scream of pain from her mouth was an orgasm to him, building him up for his second climax of the day, his penis harder than any that Bridget had felt before, he had come inside her mouth, muffling her screams, drowning her throat with his hot fluid.

As she laid there in the bed she had cried softly to herself. She was still in a lot of pain, her body shivering on the outside but burning on the inside. She was unable to sleep, not just because of the uncomfortable way that her body was feeling, but also because of the loud snoring emanating from her torturer. Her head was filled with thoughts of Tom. It was him that she wanted, not Mr Gameshaw. She had gone along with Mr Gameshaw and his pain control games for the sake of escape from the terrible reality that she had found herself in, but now she couldn't clear her mind of her desire to be rescued by Tom. She feels so sure that this is her destiny, that he will be her saviour, the knight in shining armour that she has been waiting for.

She is also wondering a great deal about the contract. What exactly was in it? She wants to read it, properly this time; at the very least she needs to know the 'safe word' that would apparently make Mr Gameshaw stop if things get too hard. She would have used it tonight, she is sure. In the morning, she will ask to see the contract again.

There is a sudden burst of noise from Mr Gameshaw's phone, making Bridget jump out of her thoughts. Mr Gameshaw wakes almost instantly, grabbing the phone off of the bedside table. Bridget lays still, pretending to sleep as he answers, speaking with a hushed tone. "Yes?....Okay,.....no, it's fine, half an hour. Speak to you later." He places the phone back onto the table.

"Bridget?" He says gently, rocking her slightly by her shoulder.

"Hmmm?" She mumbles, pretending to rouse from her sleep.

"I've got to go. Another meeting with a client."

"What, in the middle of the night?" She asks, now becoming slightly suspicious of just what kind of business which he is involved in. Her suspicions are not lowered any by the delay in his answer, which he gives as he gets out of bed and begins dressing.

"Yes, a Japanese client, who is due to return to Tokyo in just a few hours, but I must meet with him before he departs. Don't worry about it, go back to sleep, I'll meet you back here later."

He goes off into the bathroom and Bridget pretends to sleep again, but her head is filled with strange ideas about Mr Gameshaw and his business. Certainly at the dinner with Tom he seemed genuinely talking of legitimate business practices, at least in Bridget's mind they appeared genuine. Maybe it's just her recently intensified paranoia which is causing her such distrust? She hopes this to be the case, or else all she can imagine is that he is involved in some dodgy dealings, organised crime, maybe even the Mafia? Don't be so dramatic, she tells herself. Mr Gameshaw is nothing more than a dirty old pervert who has let power go to his head. He wouldn't be the first man that Bridget had thought similar; most of the married men that she had seen in the past had some over inflated ego and sense of power over Bridget. She supposed that it was easy for them to see her as weak; the only sense of threat that a man in a dress can instil in egotistical men is that of sexual desire, and in most cases this simply adds to their egotistical nature.

She hears the toilet flush in the bathroom. She listens as Mr Gameshaw brushes his teeth, and becomes curious about the call that he took so suddenly and in the middle of the night. Does she dare take a look at the call log on Mr Gameshaw's phone? Her heart starts beating faster, she knows that if she is to do it then she must do it quickly, before Mr Gameshaw returns to the bedroom. She rolls over to his side of the bed, but the phone is gone, presumably already inside one of the pockets of Mr Gameshaw's suit. She rolls back over to her side of the bed with a sense of guilt at her mistrust.

She lays there a while longer, her mind wondering what she should do about her situation. She feels helpless, and it is a new sensation for her. She has always been so independent, and she had controlled her life well until the night of the incident with Guy. Why did she lose so much control at that particular point? Why did she not just let it wash over her, dismiss Guy's actions as those of just another man who believes that he has some power over her?

Bridget's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of commotion from the bathroom, a sharp clatter of glass falling against the tiles floor, snapping Bridget instinctively into an alert sitting position. "Mr Gameshaw?" She shouts. She waits only a few seconds before she jumps out of bed, feeling sure that she will receive no reply. She darts over to the bathroom door, which is just a few feet away, and opens the door to see Mr Gameshaw on the bathroom floor, conscious, but in a great deal of pain, clutching at his chest, struggling to breath. There is the strong and overpowering smell of cologne, and Bridget can see the bits of a broken glass bottle on the tiled floor, accompanied with a selection of the other toiletries that were sitting on the now empty shelf above the sink.

"Mr Gameshaw? What is it? What's wrong?" She asks, carefully treading over to him, trying to avoid the pieces of glass.

"Pills...." He manages to say.

"Where?" Bridget asks.

"Car..."

She dashes back into the bedroom, throwing on a silken dressing grown and her sandals. She runs out of the bedroom quickly, and tries to run down the spiral stairs, but she struggles slightly and begins to fall. She catches herself on the banister, before making the conscious effort to take the stairs carefully; her head is dizzy with her lack of sleep and the sudden drama.

She runs over to the front door, grabs the set of keys that Mr Gameshaw had placed on a little key hook besides the door, and runs out of the apartment, along the short corridor to the lift. Luckily, the lift is already on the floor, and she waits only seconds for the door to open. Bridget is surprised to see a man already inside the lift, but doesn't spend any time wondering about it, her mind is too concerned for Mr Gameshaw. If her mind had been any clearer, she may well have had the foresight to realise that Mr Gameshaw's apartment is on the top floor, so this man was not on his way down from any floor above them. She also should have had her suspicions raised by the fact that the lift was already on her floor, waiting for her, much as the man in the lift was also waiting for her, without her knowledge.

She presses the button for the basement car park and the doors slide shut. As soon as the door is closed, Bridget feels a moist cloth and strange smell be pressed onto her face, causing a sensation of momentary fear. Her legs go weak and as she blacks out she has a strange feeling, almost benign, of puzzlement; 'why,' she thinks to herself in a calm manner, 'do things like this keep happening to me?'

### Chapter Eight

She is aware of her arms stretched, pulling her upwards, or is it gravity pulling her down? She is unsure. Voices, whispers, giggling. Blinking her eyes she see's stars floating in a void of darkness. No, there is some light, she realises as she distinguishes shadows fluttering about her. Amber light from above. She is cold, her body shivering, her arms ache under the strain, and she is relieved to feel the ground beneath her feet, although she struggles to apply any weight into her legs for support. There is a blinding flash, sending the stars in her eyes into a frenzy of activity. "Happy, Guy?" She hears the voice of one of her captors say. "Indeed." The voice of the other assailant is gruff and dark, and belongs, with no doubt in Bridget's mind, to Guy. Her heart lurches into sudden fear and panic as her body releases a wave of adrenalin, fuelling her into a much more conscious state. Her sudden awareness of the danger that she is in subsides quickly, and as the two men see that she is becoming more conscious they decide to run off, their footsteps echoing along the quiet and empty street.

Bridget looks down at herself and the first thing that surprises her is the sight of her own penis, fully ridged, pointing off to a slight angle. An erection! Not just the stirrings of an erection that she has felt a few times recently, but a full erection, a pleasantly throbbing sensation pulsating into her body, a longing for a man's touch fill her head, confusing her, given the circumstances. A slight and cool breeze passes over her exposed torso, and the horror hits her that she is on a public street with her body fully exposed, her silk gown opened at the front. She finally manages to apply the weight of her body onto her legs, relieving her arms of the burden, making them shake with fatigue, but she cannot pull them away from above her head. She can feel that her wrists are bound by tape to a post.

She begins to panic as she spots a person walking around the corner, heading down the street towards her. She pulls at the restraints, but without any luck, she is firmly attached, and all of her struggling causes a burning sensation where the tape is bound to her skin.

The man walking down the street looks up at her, shaking his head with disgust and mutters something in Italian.

"Please," Bridget asks, "Can you help me?"

The man just stares at her for a moment before pulling out his phone and makes a call. He speaks for a while into the phone, Bridget not understanding a single word of what it is that he is saying. When he has finished the conversation, he hangs up, and goes to tie Bridget's gown around her waist, covering her exposure. "Grazie." Bridget says, remembering how to say 'thank you' in Italian.

"Prego." The man replies, before speaking in simple but understandable English. "It is not good for you to behave like this in Italy. We do not like you English men getting drunk and doing the things like this."

"Excuse me?" Bridget exclaims. "I was accosted and tied to this lamppost against my will! How dare you suggest that I am drunk! I need to speak to the police."

"It's no problem, I have telephoned the police, they are on their way. Tell your friends that did this that the 'Stag parties' that you English enjoy are more welcome in Prague, but please don't ever do it here in Italy again." The man walks away, ignoring Bridget's plea's for him to help her down from the lamppost. The man's attitude not to believe Bridget has infuriated her, making her shout abuse down the street to him.

A few moments later, a police car rounds the corner and pulls up beside Bridget. An officer gets out and begins speaking in Italian as he starts tearing away the tape from Bridget's wrists.

"Please, do you speak English?" She asks him as he carries on with freeing her.

"Yes. Are you English?" He replies.

"Yes. I'm here on holiday."

"I thought so. It is not the first time that something like this has happened, and it is always the English. You drink too much on your 'Stag parties' and end up making yourself look like idiots."

"I'm not on a stag party!" Bridget protests. "I was tied here against my will by a man that has been stalking me."

The officer stays quiet as he finishes tearing enough of the tape for Bridget's arms to fall away from the post, sending a tingle of pins and needles through to her fingers as the blood returns to a normal flow.

"If you would like to get in the car, we will discuss this at the police station." The officer says, pulling Bridget by the elbow.

"No, wait a minute. Am I under arrest?"

"No, Signore. But I will need to document this incident at the station. I will need you to answer some questions about your friends that did this to you. I will need to speak to them too."

"They were not my friends, I just told you!" Bridget screams with frustration.

"Okay, Signore. Then I will need to talk to your stalker, if that is the story that you wish to continue with."

"It's not a bloody story, it's the truth!" Bridget shouts even louder.

"Okay, Signore. Then we will sort this out at the station. Please get into the car."

Dejectedly, Bridget does as she is told. As the car drives off, her mind suddenly remembers about Mr Gameshaw, and the need for his pills. She panics with worry, and tries to explain to the officer the seriousness of Mr Gameshaw's predicament.

"Please, I must return to my companion," she pleads to the officer, who is refusing to respond to her. "Could you not, at the very least, call for an ambulance for him? I am seriously worried."

"I am sorry, Signore, but I must take you to the station first. We will deal with your friend later."

"But his life may be in danger!"

"I understand your worry, but I must follow procedure, Signore." Bridget falls silent after a huff of frustrated breath.

They drive in silence for just a few short minutes before pulling into the police station car park, where one of the officers escorts Bridget into a reception room, where she answers the few questions that the reception officer asks about who she is and her address and how long she has been in Italy. There is a pause between each question as the officer types the replies into a computer.

"Thank you, Signore, please take a seat and the interviewing officer will be with you shortly."

Bridget tries without success to convince this officer of Mr Gameshaw and his need for help, but the response is as obtuse as that of the officer that drove her here. She follows the instruction to sit.

The waiting room is grey and the seats hard and plastic, reminding Bridget of the chairs that Gordon had sat on in school. Bridget tries waiting patiently, but is overwhelmed by her worry for Mr Gameshaw. She knows that there is nothing that she can do about it and her frustration is becoming a physical sensation, knotting her stomach and making her head swim with anger. She is tapping her foot frantically and huffing deep sighs.

An officer comes through a heavy grey door. "Signore Brown?" He says as he approaches her. Bridget nods her head. "Please, follow me."

She follows the officer back through the same door and down a short corridor, where the officer opens a door and beckons for Bridget to enter. She sits at the small table and awaits for the officer to take his place opposite her.

"I have a friend in need of urgent help." She says calmly. "I was on my way to collect the pills that he needs when I was abducted. Please, could you send some help to him?"

"What is wrong with him?" The officer asks.

"I do not know. I haven't known him very long, but I think that it was a problem with his heart."

"Okay, Signore, we will send an ambulance. Where is your friend?"

"At his apartment. I don't know what the address is."

"Do you have a telephone number for him?"

"No, I left my phone inside the apartment."

"In that case, I cannot see how we can help right now. Let us conduct a short interview and then I will get one of the officers to drive you around until you find your friend's apartment."

"Okay, thank you."

"Can you please tell me why you were tied to a lamppost and exposing yourself?"

"I was abducted inside the lift at my friend's apartment. The man put something over my face and I fainted. When I came round, I was already tied to the post."

"Can you describe the man that abducted you?"

"I know who it was. Not the man in the lift, but the man who had it arranged for me to be taken. His name is Guy Lanson. He was my boss in London. We had a problem and fell out. Since then, he has been stalking me."

"And how do you know that he was behind your abduction?"

"Because I heard one of the men who tied me to the post refer to the other one as 'Guy'."

"They spoke in English?"

"Yes."

The officer is silent as he writes the details on a notepad. He pauses for a moment in thought before asking "Is it not common in English to use the word 'guy' to refer to any man?"

"Well, yes, I suppose it is. But I'm sure that he used it in the context of it being a name."

"And how do you know that it was the same 'Guy' as your ex-boss?"

"Because it must be! I do not know anyone else by that name and I'm sure that I was the intended target. The only person that I know who would do such a thing is my ex-boss."

"Did you not see your assailant?"

"No, they were wearing balaclavas coving their faces. But I did hear Guy's voice. It was him, I'm sure of it. I'd like to speak to the police in London, they have been looking for guy since he went missing last week, they need to know that he is here in Italy."

"If he travelled from England then the police there should already know that anyway. I will try to speak to someone in England to verify your story. Which station was dealing with your case?"

"The only actual contact that I have had specifically about Guy was in Edinburgh, but I believe that it was the police in London that were looking for him."

"Okay, I will try to speak with someone. Please wait here."

The officer leaves Bridget alone in the room. She feels so very vulnerable now, even being here in the police station is not helping her anxiety. She has no idea how long that Guy will continue on his apparent quest to destroy Bridget, nor does she know how far he will go. She shivers at the thought. Her doubts about Mr Gameshaw being the intended target have now diminished; she is certain that it is herself whom Guy is after. She feels so lonely, sitting at the dull desk in the stark interview room, wishing that she had never retaliated against Guy in the first place, angry with her inability to control her composure. She had always been the same, her knee jerking reaction when faced with injustice had always boiled over into further problems, but this was far worse than any situation which she had been in previously. Alone with her thoughts, she thinks back over her life, wondering with confusion as to how she had failed to act upon this flaw of her personality which has always caused her problems. She makes a promise to herself that she will try better to control herself, to keep calm and subdue her momentary rages into the deep recesses of her mind, away from any danger of an uncontrolled explosion. Her thoughts remind her of her teenage years, as Bridget had started to release herself from Gordon's control, fighting her way into reality. She had been lucky to have such understanding parents, neither of them had been shocked when they had returned home unexpectedly early from a weekend away, walking though the front door to see the bright red face of Bridget with the look of horror in her eyes, seated at the kitchen table in a sleek and sexy new golden dress which she had bought for herself with the money she had saved from Gordon's paper round. Their reaction had been simply to smile and carry on with unloading the car as if nothing unusual had happened, but later, after Bridget had been packed back away into the depths of Gordon's wardrobe, they had sat him down to 'have a little chat'. They had been perfectly composed, asking about Bridget, about who she was and where she had come from, perfectly reasonable questions for a mother and a father to ask after seeing their little boy in full drag, but Gordon, through all of his embarrassment, had been unable to withhold Bridget's fury, reacting unreasonably, shouting at them with accusations of bad parenting, of being unloved and a lack of understanding and support. None of this had been true, Gordon's reaction had been about how he had been feeling, not at how his parents had behaved. After several hours alone in his bedroom, he had made the brave decision to allow Bridget to be introduced to her parents for the first time. It had been the most nerve wrecking experience of her life, her heart had pounded so hard within her chest as she took each stair delicately, but after it was over, as she helped her mother to wash up after dinner, she allowed herself to apologise for her earlier reaction and burst into tears of relief as her mother had held her tight in her arms, telling her that they would support Bridget with all the love and devotion in the world.

Her thoughts are diminished as the officer comes back through the door briskly.

"We have contacted the police in Edinburgh, and they would like to speak with you." He walks over to the small table, lifts the handset off of an old looking office phone and presses a button.

"One moment, please." He says, before passing the handset over to Bridget.

"Hello?" She asks.

"Mr Brown?"

"Yes." She replies.

"I understand that you are connected with the case concerning Guy Lanson?"

"That's right, I used to work for him."

"We have it in the report here that a 'Bridget Brown' used to work for him, but not a Gordon?"

"I am also known as Bridget Brown. When the officers spoke to me about Guy's disappearance I was dressed as Bridget."

"Oh, okay. Well, I have it here that we have been trying to contact you, er, Bridget, for several days now. Mr Lanson was found alive and well attempting to leave the UK on a flight from London City Airport just two days ago."

"I knew it!" Bridget exclaims with some excitement. "I think that he was following me."

"Oh, you too were at the airport? I have it in the report that he was questioned by the police at seven thirty in the morning. What time were you there?"

"My flight was scheduled for twelve forty-five, I guess that I arrived about ten thirty."

"Okay, well, according to the report, he was released by then. The Italian officer says that you believe Mr Lanson to be stalking you?"

"Yes. I was kidnapped early this morning here in Milan, and I believe that it was Guy that did it."

"Okay, why do you think that it was him?"

"Firstly, because I cannot think of anyone else who would do this to me, and secondly, I heard him speaking, it was definitely his voice, I'm sure of it."

"Okay, I will put this into a report, if you don't mind?"

"Please, do what you need to."

The line goes silent apart from the sound of clicking as the officer types her report.

"Sorry, Bridget, you did say that your other name is Gordon?"

"That's right."

The officer goes quiet, and once again the sound of clicking fills the earpiece of the telephone.

"And you say that you were at the airport at about ten thirty?"

"Yes, that's right."

After a few more taps on the keyboard, there is a moment of silence followed by the slight sound of sniggering from the officer.

"Ohhhh, you're that Gordon Brown?!" She hears the officer say with some degree of amusement. "I heard about your incident at the airport on the news. I have the report here, but it says nothing about your suspicions of stalking by Mr Lanson. Did you not see him at the airport?"

"Not at the time, but later, when I saw the news report I think that I saw him."

"According to the report, you were actually scheduled to be on the same flight. We also have a statement here from Mr Lanson that he suspects you to stalking him?" Bridget's stomach sinks with a heavy nausea which makes her brain scramble for the connection of what it all meant. "You are certain that it was him that abducted you last night?" There is a pause, Bridget's mind blank and numb, ringing with empty thoughts and confusion. "Miss Brown?"

"Yes, er, sorry," Bridget offers, shaking her head slightly with the bemusement of the accusation from Guy. "Yes, it was him. I am not stalking him, not in the slightest! I have been trying to avoid him since I left my job last Friday."

"Okay, please don't get upset, Sir. It's quite common for this confusion to happen in cases like these. There is very little that we can do for you now unless there is any concrete evidence to point the finger at the guilty party. My advice at this point is for you to lay low for a while, perhaps stay with a friend, but preferably someone unknown to Mr Lanson."

"Okay."

"If you see or hear from Mr Lanson again, please contact us as soon as possible. It might be a good idea to get a rape alarm so if you are attacked again, then you may have some way of getting help."

Bridget swallows a heavy gulp of dry saliva. The advice is not helping her to calm herself; in fact, it is making her feel far less secure than she did before speaking to the police.

"In the meanwhile," The officer continues. "I will issue a report. When Mr Lanson returns to the UK he will be questioned. We will endeavour to contact you as soon as we know any more."

"Okay, thanks."

"No problem. Please take care, Bridget." The officer says with a surprisingly comfortable tone. Bridget hangs up the receiver.

"Now then," the Italian officer says. "I will drive you personally to your friend's apartment so that we can offer our assistance. Unless, of course, you wish to file a full report about your kidnap?"

"No, thank you. I will let the police in the UK deal with it. I'm more worried about my friend right now."

"Okay, andiamo alore, let's go."

***

It didn't take long for the officer to find the apartment. Bridget mentioned that Mr Gameshaw was a particularly wealthy man and the officer had a good guess as to where the apartment must be. Without any keys, Bridget has no option but to press the buzzer on the panel at the gates to the building. She waits patiently for a reply, her heart beating fast. "Si?" She finally hears, the voice of Mr Gameshaw providing her with such overwhelming gratitude that she suddenly blurts out a cry of relief.

"Mr Gameshaw, it's me. Are you okay?"

"Bridget! What the fuck happened to you?"

"I'll tell you in a minute, but are you okay? Did you get your pills?"

"Yes, I'm fine." There is a buzz as the latch on the gate is released. "Come into the lobby, I'll meet you there."

Bridget turns to the officer waiting by the police car.

"Thank you, he sounds fine."

"That's no problem, Sir. If you have any other problem while you are here in Milan, please call me personally." He says, passing a small business card over to Bridget.

"Okay, thanks. Bye."

"Ciao."

Bridget swings open the gate and makes her way up the few steps and into the entrance lobby, where Mr Gameshaw is just getting out of the lift. He spots her and see's that she is wearing nothing but the silk gown and beckons for her to promptly get into the lift, looking around nervously as he does so.

"Quickly, Bridget!" He says, causing Bridget to trot a little. Once inside the chamber, the doors slide close and Bridget sees herself in the mirror for the first time since her abduction. She has had overbearing makeup smeared over face, making her look like a Barbie doll that a child has been making up. It is a tragic clown-like look that Bridget is sure would never catch on as a trend. She is horrified that she has been out in public looking like this, and begins to cry a little.

"Shhh," Mr Gameshaw whispers.

"Mr Gameshaw, I look awful!" Bridget exclaims.

"Shhh, Bridget. We'll talk about it inside, but please take control of yourself for now. The neighbours in these parts love to gossip, especially if there is a scandal in the building."

Bridget looks to Mr Gameshaw with hurt and shocked eyes. Here she was, in a state of upset, confusion and worry, and all the while Mr Gameshaw is worried about what the neighbours might think.

The short journey is completed in silence and without interruption, the walnut doors of the lift swinging open on the top floor. Mr Gameshaw pulls Bridget gently by the elbow down the corridor and through into the apartment.

She sits down, shaking, onto a dining chair at the table as Mr Gameshaw pours her a coffee.

"Now then, what happened?" He asks, passing the cup to her.

"I ran out to get your pills, but there was a man in the lift already. I was so worried about you that I didn't think of it being strange. But he put a cloth over my face, presumably a cloth laced with chloroform. I blacked out, and when I came round, I was taped to a lamppost, my body exposed for all the world to see. I've never felt so humiliated!" She starts sobbing without control, her words a muffled collecting of moans.

"Guy must of followed you here. I assume, of course, that it was Guy who did this?"

"Yep, it was him." Bridget manages to say between sobs. "It wasn't him in the lift, but when I woke up he was there. I couldn't see his face, but I heard his voice. It was definitely him."

"Have you spoke to the police?"

"Yes. The Italian police took me down to the station, and I spoke to an officer in Edinburgh. It turns out that Guy was already planning to come to Milan anyway, he was questioned by the police when he tried to board a flight to Milan a few hours before my flight. I don't know how he could have known of our plans, I only told Cherry of where we were going and she knew not to say anything to anyone."

"Maybe your friend, Cherry, is not really a friend at all?"

Bridget feels a twinge of hatred toward Mr Gameshaw. She hates her friend to be accused, Cherry is loyal in her friendship, and while Bridget knows how much she likes to gossip, she is sure that she wouldn't tell anyone of Bridget's plans on account of the danger that it would present to her.

"No, Cherry wouldn't say anything, I'm sure."

"Then how would it be possible for Guy to know your plans?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter now, does it? He knows where I am, I don't feel safe being here, Mr Gameshaw."

"Okay. I agree, it's not safe for you here anymore." Mr Gameshaw falls silent as he ponders his thoughts. "I've got an idea. How about you go and get dressed, then we'll go out for breakfast?" He smiles at her as she looks up into his eyes from her own watery ones. He is really quite sweet, she thinks to herself, quite unexpectedly.

"Sounds good." She replies, her stomach rumbling in its own apparent agreement.

"Excellent. I have an idea, but first I must make a quick phone call while you get ready. Don't worry, Miss Brown, it'll all work out right in the end."

"I hope so, Mr Gameshaw." She replies, getting up from the chair. She walks over to climb the staircase and enters the bedroom. She see's that the room has been cleaned since she left it early this morning. The clothes that she had been wearing at dinner the night before had been taken from the small chair and she found them hung up in the wardrobe. She walks into the en-suit bathroom and looks at herself for a few moments in the mirror. Her crying has not done anything to improve the look of her face, running mascara in streaks over her cheeks, her eyes bloodshot. She looks on for a few moments, lost in thoughts of pain, her life gone, any sense of normality disappeared. She feels that she is living her life in some crazed universe where nothing makes sense, perhaps she is in a dream waiting to be awoken. She shakes her head away from the dark thoughts, and grabbing her toiletries bag from the side of the sink, she begins to cleanse her face rigorously with a cleansing wipe, pressing the fabric hard into the flesh of her face, hurting herself slightly as she does so. She suddenly notices that she is now feeling angry.

With the makeup stripped away, her face bare and pale with blotches of tender pink skin where she has been rubbing too hard, she begins to apply her foundation, rubbing gently this time, careful not to increase the sensation of burning that is engulfing her face. After the foundation, she selects a pale blue eye shadow, painting it softly onto her eyelids, enjoying the sensation of the soft applicator pad tickling her slightly. She is delicate in her application of eyeliner, soothing her mind with gentle strokes of the pencil. She is calming, her rage and disappointment disappearing with every layer of detail which she so carefully adds to her mask of art.

By the time she is satisfied with her look, she returns to the bedroom, selecting some casual jeans and a light lavender blouse. She hears Mr Gameshaw speaking into his phone from downstairs, but his subdued voice is ringing with such an echo in the expanse of the open plan apartment that Bridget is unable to understand what it is that he is saying. She dresses herself and finally completes her transformation by placing her favourite blonde bobbed wig securely on her head. One final look in the full length mirror confirms to herself that she is once again ready to tackle the world.

As she leaves the bedroom, she sees Mr Gameshaw waiting patiently at the dining table, no longer speaking on the phone. He looks up at her with a sleezy looking smile, suddenly repulsing Bridget, who instinctively passes one of her overly compensated smiles.

"You look lovely, Miss Brown." He shouts up to her. She walks with confidence and elegance down the spiral stairs.

"Thank you, Mr Gameshaw. Shall we go for breakfast?"

"Indeed, my fair lady." He replies, standing and offering his arm for Bridget to take hold of. They leave the apartment and enter the elevator.

"So, tell me, Mr Gameshaw," Bridget asks, as the lift descends toward the underground car park. "What is your idea?"

"I will discuss it over breakfast, but rest assured, I think it may be just the right solution for both our problems."

"Oh, what problems do you have, Mr Gameshaw?"

He replies with a chuckle. "My problems are my own, Miss Brown. I do not often discuss them with others. In this case, I shall, but not until later."

The lift slows to a halt with a little ding and the doors slide open. They walk together over to the Ferrari, where Mr Gameshaw opens the passenger door for Bridget before taking his own place behind the wheel.

They race off up the ramp, Bridget's stomach lurching slightly as they fly over the crest of the incline. The car stops and Mr Gameshaw presses the little button on the remote for the gates to swing open. The sight of this is like a trigger to Bridget's mind, she suddenly wonders how it would be possible for someone to enter the building in the first place. After all, she supposes that the people who live in the apartments are rich, the security must be very tight.

"I wonder how he got into the building?" She asks out loud.

"Who?" Mr Gameshaw asks.

"The man who kidnapped me, of course!" Bridget replies.

"Oh, yes. Of course!" Mr Gameshaw says, before the silence returns to the inside of the car as it accelerates out of the gates. They drive in silence down the quiet street until they reach a busy junction of the main road. The day is bright, the sun blazing with such ferocity that it burns Bridget's skin through the glass of the windscreen despite the air flowing from her open window.

"I am taking you to Wongs for breakfast." Mr Gameshaw says.

"Wongs? That doesn't sound very Italian?" Bridget replies.

"No, it's Chinese, Mr Wong runs it; it's a small bistro close to the park. A lot of the coffee shops here are run by the Chinese these days. Wongs is great, though; best coffee in the city and he serves a passable English breakfast, something that is surprisingly hard to find here in Milan."

"We come all the way to Italy and you're going to have an English breakfast? Mr Gameshaw, I expected you to have more adventurous tastes than that."

"For most things I am. But breakfast here in Italy is a bit of a disappointment. The only thing that the Italians tend to eat for breakfast is brioches, which are too sweet for me."

They turn off of the main road onto a large and quiet avenue, the only other traffic being an old looking tram passing on the rails in the division between the lanes. Mr Gameshaw turns the car once more into a small street and finally back into another underground car park, the air suddenly blasts cool and damp through Bridget's open window.

Mr Gameshaw pulls into a parking bay and switches off the engine. Bridget waits for him to exit the car, before he walks around to the passenger side and opens the door for her.

They walk up a small staircase and through a door into a small shopping arcade, which is exquisitely decorative with polished marbled flooring and a glass domed ceiling looming high above them. They walk together, Mr Gameshaw once again offering his arm for Bridget to hold onto, out into a small park area, pristinely neat with flower beds and giant fir trees rising high into the sky, casting welcoming shadows over the few people scattered about the green. In the centre of the park there is building that looks a bit like a bandstand, with bistro tables on the decking, mostly filled with over exuberant Italians excited talking and gesticulating. Bridget admires the energy of the Italian people; they are determined to be listened to, battling each other with the demand to be listened to by their companions, speaking with passion and conviction expressed with their hands.

Mr Gameshaw leads Bridget up a few steps onto the wooden deck, where a young looking Chinese man greets them in English. "Mr Gameshaw!" He exclaims with energy and a soft Chinese accent. "Very nice to see you! You like table for two?"

"Yes please, Ying. Is your father well?" Mr Gameshaw replies as they follow Ying over to one of the few empty tables.

"Yes, thank you, Mr Gameshaw. He is in the kitchen today."

"Excellent! I would like to speak with him later, if he gets a moment, but I can see that you are very busy here today."

"Yes, very busy, but I think he will be able to find some time to speak to you later. Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yes please, we'll have two cappuccinos please."

"No problem." Ying says, as he bows slightly before walking quickly off in the direction of the small stone building to the side of the bandstand.

Bridget picks up a menu card and looks over what there is to offer. Her stomach is rumbling quite hard now and she is actually in agreement with Mr Gameshaw that a full English is the best call.

"What will you have, Miss Brown?"

"I'll have the full English I think." Mr Gameshaw laughs.

"And what about experiencing the local culture, which you expressed your disappointment in me for?"

"I am starving, Mr Gameshaw, don't judge me!"

Ying returns with the coffees, and Mr Gameshaw places the order for the two breakfasts.

"Okay Mr Gameshaw," Bridget asks once they are left alone. "Tell me what your idea is."

"Okay. For many years now I have thought of setting up a more permanent alternative life. I've been looking for the right person to do this with, and I think that person may be you, Miss Brown." Bridget's heart skips a beat. While she is thankful that Mr Gameshaw is in her life right now, the idea of having a more permanent relationship with him is not something that she has really thought about. In the past, she has often fantasised about one of her married lovers leaving his wife in order to be with Bridget, but so far it has never happened. Mr Gameshaw is not exactly the kind of man that she expected to make such a proposition. But maybe she has got the context wrong in Mr Gameshaw's last statement.

"You mean, leave your wife?" She asks.

"Not at first." Mr Gameshaw replies, after a moment of thought. "If we do end up getting a divorce, and that is a big 'if', then it will take a significant amount of time to agree a settlement. It would be better if for the time being we forget about Sandra and just concentrate on us."

"But where will that leave your wife? It wouldn't be fair on her, I don't want to cause any upset..."

"Let's not talk about her."

"But she is..."

"Enough!" Mr Gameshaw snaps in his interruption. "Now, listen to me. We need a decent amount cash for my plan to work, but all of my assets are tied up and easily traceable, and I'm sure that you do not have much money of your own?"

"You know that I have very little..."

"Indeed, but there is something you could do. A friend of mine can give you five thousand pounds in cash tonight, but only if you do a little something first."

"What is it that you want me to do?" Bridget asks.

"This friend of mine, whom I owe a little favour to after an unlucky game of chess, he gets a kick out of humiliating people, sexually, and I get a kick out of watching."

"And I bet that your wife would get a kick from watching you?"

"I've told you not to mention my wife!" He hisses through clenched jaws.

"Wife, wife, wife, wife!" Bridget says quickly. "You still have one, and if you want to forget her existence, then divorce her."

"It's not that simple, Bridget. I'm an influential person; my climb to the top has been as much about my marriage, my kids and even my fucking pets as it has been about profit margins. I need some time before I can hide a few assets to soften the blow of a divorce, only then could I retire before starting a comfortable life together. But in the meantime, I'd like for you to be safe, you need to escape this weirdo, and five thousand pounds could give you enough for your flights and to set up an apartment in New York."

"New York?" She asks, shocked with the prospect of being so far from home.

"Yes, New York. It's perfect. You can find work out there, if you want, just not with the same name. Become Miss Twinkleteeth or something."

"You don't understand Mr Gameshaw, I have been Bridget Brown since I first put on my Mothers little blue dress with the flower stitched lacing."

"Then you may face a danger that I cannot protect you from. Please Bridget. Do it for us. I can join you in New York in month or so. And I can ask Tom to help you settle into the city; he'll look after you until I arrive."

This uplifts Bridget's heart in an instant. A whole month in New York with Tom and, even more importantly, without Mr Gameshaw!

"We'll have a penthouse overlooking Central Park," Mr Gameshaw continues. "And no one will know who we really are, we can just be ourselves."

"You forget, Mr Gameshaw, some of us have been ourselves for many years now and not hidden away."

"Very true, Miss Brown. Then show me your compassionate side and give a silly old man the chance to put things right and be myself for the first time in my life."

"What is it that you want me to do? For the money?" Bridget asks.

"Oh yes. This friend of mine. He wants to meet you, but he does not want you to see him, so you will be blindfolded for the duration of his visit."

"Another man with a wife and kids?"

"No, actually. Very recently divorced, no kids. In fact, you might be surprised to know that his ex-wife is actually a transsexual. From what I understand, you would be his dream date, hence me suggesting this little arrangement."

"And what has happened with your rule of not sharing me?"

"Well, I'll turn a blind eye this once, because the thing that'll turn me on the most is knowing that my friend will find you so irresistible that he will be amazingly jealous that he cannot have you for himself, because you are mine."

"Like I'm some sort of trophy?"

"Exactly!"

"And what do you mean when you say he likes to humiliate people?"

"He likes to degrade them, tie them up and spank them, make them look and feel helpless and at his mercy, that sort of thing. You do like that, don't you?"

Bridget agrees with a reluctant nod. She knows that she needs to keep Mr Gameshaw believing that she is happy with the sex between them in order to maintain her own security.

"Don't feel as though you are being pushed into anything which you are uncomfortable doing. We can draw up an agreement before tonight with all the things that you will and will not do."

"Tonight?" Bridget asks with surprise.

"Yes, Bridget, tonight. You are in serious danger here, Guy knows where you are. We must move quickly."

Bridget sighs thoughtfully. How did it come to this? She had not really been feeling like a prostitute by being with Mr Gameshaw, until now she had never been paid directly for sex, it was more about the perks, the travelling and the shopping. Mr Gameshaw was a great provider for Bridget's ideal lifestyle. But now that he was asking her this, she felt as though she was a hooker and Mr Gameshaw her pimp. It was all Guy's fucking fault! All of it, the collapse of her career, the loss of her freedom and the constant fear of Guy taking things too far. She had to get away, and she doubted that Guy would follow her to New York.

"Fine. I'll do it." She replies, just as Ying approaches their table carrying two plates of an Italian version of an English breakfast, prepared by a Chinese chef.

"Excellent." Mr Gameshaw says with a smirking smile. "Just think, Miss Brown; our future together could be a very happy one indeed."

Bridget smiles in response, and she almost worries that Mr Gameshaw will see that it is a fake expression of happiness, but she doesn't mind too much; soon she'll be in New York without him, and then she will start to enjoy herself once again.

***

The room is dimly lit as they enter cautiously, Mr Gameshaw first, followed by a nervous and sceptical Bridget. Her mind has been worrying and festering on the thought of it all day, wondering if it is the right thing to do, contemplating the danger of it. If this man is willing to pay five thousand pounds for sex, then she cannot help but wonder just what it is that the man intends to do with her, with or without any contract. Her heart is beating fast, and she instinctively grabs Mr Gameshaw's arm for reassurance as he swings the door shut and locks it securely.

There is a large cage in the centre of the room, like a jail cell, with a single bed inside. Bridget looks around the room to see a selection of whips and chains hanging neatly on one of the walls. On the adjacent wall, there is a substantial selection of Polaroid photographs, hundreds of different figures in various positions of humiliation. Bridget squints to make out some detail, and see's one of the figures laying on the floor, wearing only suspenders, face down with their head turned in the direction of the camera, gagged and blindfolded, arms cuffed behind their back, and one of the legs of the apparent captor, dressed in military desert camouflage trousers and wearing heavy workman boots, pressing the sole of the boot into the face of the bound and helpless prisoner. It makes Bridget shiver in a way that confuses her; she feels fear for this man who likes to do such things, but she also feels a surprising ripple of thrill, a titillation in her groin which stirs unexpectedly. She turns her head away from the wall of pictures and continues to survey the room. In the corner, there is a comfortable looking chair and placed in front of it, a tripod with a small video camera.

"He's going to film us?" She asks.

"No, not him. I'm going to film it. Don't worry, I'll keep the recording safe, it's for me and me alone."

Mr Gameshaw has led Bridget the small gate of the cage, which has a set of keys hanging from the lock. He finds the gate unlocked, swinging it open freely and indicates for Bridget to enter, to which she obliges. He swings the gate shut behind her, twisting the key, bolting the lock with a heavy clank, removing the keys and placing them on a hook on the wall just inches out of reach, leaving Bridget trapped alone inside. She watches as Mr Gameshaw walks over to a small cabinet, where he opens the top draw and pulls out a blindfold, some steel handcuffs and a gag made from a strip of leather and a ball. "Turn your back towards the bars." He instructs as he walks toward the cage. Bridget does as she is told, pressing her back into the cool metal and enjoying the sensation of relief from the heat of her body. "Put your hands behind your back and pass them through the bars." She does so, feeling the cold clasp of the cuffs snap shut around her wrists. Mr Gameshaw passes the blindfold through the bars and struggles a little to tie it around Bridget's head with the bars of the cage causing obstruction. As he leans in, he allows the bulge of his erecting penis push into the Bridget's palms. He pulls the ties of the blindfold tight, squeezing Bridget's skull, causing her to shake her head and let out a whimper of objection. "Don't struggle, Bridget." She feels the leather of the gag pass over her lips before the solid plastic of the ball is there at the entrance of her mouth. "Be a good girl, open up." Mr Gameshaw orders. She does so, accepting the plastic ball to fill her mouth.

Bound helplessly, her heart is beating very fast now. She listens intently, hearing the few steps of Mr Gameshaw as he walks back in the direction of the door. She hears the click of the lock and a slight squeak as the door opens.

"She's ready." Mr Gameshaw says, and Bridget hears another set of footsteps enter the room. Nothing else is said, the rooms silence only emphasises the thuds in Bridget's ears of her heart. There is the sound of the jangle of keys, followed by a clank of the lock on the gate to the cage.

The footsteps on the other man pace slowly and deliberately toward her, until she feels the man's presence directly in front of her, a soft and warm breath from him passes over her face. She gets the impression that the man is tall and powerful, the sensation exuberated by her own feeling of her puny weakness presented before him, making her feel so very small and defenceless. He stands before her for a long time, which accelerates Bridget's heartbeat, building her tension, adding to her nervousness.

She flinches with the man's touch on her chin. He strokes slowly and gently down with the tip of his finger, barely touching her at all, but the sensation of electricity and heat ripples Bridget's body into a flush of sudden ecstasy. His hand reaches the top of her blouse, where his other hand takes its place on the opposite half of the collar, the back of his fingers, thick, hot and masculine, throbbing into the skin of Bridget's chest, he has hold of the fabric and he pulls her forward until her wrists are pulled taunt against the bars of the cage.

The man's breath is on her neck, and then his lips, moist, soft and radiating with the heat of desire, kissing her skin slowly and gently, teasing Bridget into her own hedonistic longing for the man to take her suddenly and passionately, like an animal, free from restraint and with a mind of nothing but pure sex. She groans slightly with her need, to which the man reacts by suddenly pushing her forcefully back against the bars of the cage, before ripping her blouse open, popping the buttons away, sending them scattering around the room with a shower of little ping sounds. He presses his body against hers, his warmth engulfing her, squashing her into the bars as he nuzzles softly on her neck. Bridget feels like his lips are passing energy into her, electricity dances on her skin. She groans with desire again.

The man suddenly grabs at her throat with a single hand, making Bridget whimper with the choking sensation. His hands are indeed powerful, he holds her far too tightly for Bridget to even struggle against his force, while his other hand has grabbed hold of her buttock, squeezing the cheek and pulling her weight into him. Bridget can feel through the material of her skirt that the man is heavily aroused; his penis is ridged, large, thick and forcefully pushing into the top of Bridget's thigh. She struggles for breath, unsure if it is the force of his hand upon her neck or this man's ability to thrill and excite that is taking her breath away. She is starting to feel dizzy, both with the lack of oxygen and with her desire for the man to fuck her, hard. She wants his cock inside her, she wants to taste it and to feel the raw power of him. She spreads her legs further apart, allowing the man to work his hand into the crevice of her bottom, his meaty finger has found her hole and is teasing her entrance. She feels that she is close to collapse, she begins to panic that he will not let go of her throat. What if he wants to kill her? She hadn't felt in danger, but with the man continuing to hold her neck and Bridget defenceless, she tries struggling, which causes the man's cock to throb harder and he groans a little gruff growl before he releases his hold of her neck. Bridget tries to gasp for breath, but the ball of the gag which is filling her mouth is blocking her. In a fraction of a second, the man has released the gag, and Bridget is now free to breathe deeply and suddenly. She is feeling weak now, her legs are shaking, and the man helps Bridget gently down until she is sitting on the ground. Suddenly, she is aware of her bra and plastic tits being removed from her body, leaving her torso bare. The man has returned to kissing her neck, only this time he is not so gentle, more forceful, with an occasional nip on her skin. He is working his lips lower, and he is now also using his tongue to tease her sensations back into desire and longing. His mouth has found her nipple, he sucks gently and nips again, her nipples have become erect and exceptionally sensitive. The thrill of sensation of his wet tongue dancing and flicking are making Bridget groan with longing once again, to which the man stops. Bridget feels him pull away from her. She hears the slow release of the man's zipper, and the gentle thud of his trousers hitting the floor. She feels the man step over her, she feels the heat of his groin inches in front of her face. The man's hands grab the back of Bridget's head, pushing it forward, and she has the touch of silk on her face, being pulled taunt by the man's impressively hard cock, which Bridget wraps her lips around the girth, feeling his thickness. She works her way along to his tip, biting down gently and teasingly, making the man groan. He releases himself from the constraints of his underwear, and now Bridget can taste his salty skin as she licks his length, up and down, wetting him, making him harder. Her mouth continues upwards, passing the rounded bulge of his helmet, her tongue dancing over the flesh of his body; his skin is sweaty, she imagines his muscles rounded and defined as her lips press into the groves between the ripples of his torso. Her tongue continues upward before she feel his skin fall away into the crevice of his navel, where the acid taste of metal touches her lips from a small bar passing through a piercing.

The man pushes Bridget's head back, hard against the bars of the cage and forcefully enters his cock back into her mouth with one last thrust before she feels the man's arms, radiating with heat and dense with rounded muscle, slip under her arm pits and lift her, at first to standing, where he kisses her on the mouth, tenderly, passionately, stealing from her the breath of exertion before lifting her further, her feet no longer touching the ground, she lifts her own legs up and open, swing them around his body, gripping him and feeling the wanting press of his cock throb against her entrance. Slowly, he lowers her, allowing his full length to enter her, stretching her wide, filling her eyes with tears. He works her up and down, slowly at first, each thrust sends her into a quiver of both pain and longing, her own penis, she feels, is hard, rubbing against the man's torso, which is now dribbling with his sweat. Faster and faster, his body moves, closer, pushing her into the cold and solid bar of the cage, she is trapped here, this man has hold of her body and her soul. Yes, her very spirit is touched in some way, as though her glow is growing, pulsating rhythmically with the beat of her own heart, her body is an orchestra, and this man is the conductor controlling the flow of energy, she can keep it no longer, she fights against it, hoping to prolong the inevitable, but cannot, and she explodes with the release of her orgasm, erupting with a scream, feeling every muscle in her body dance and then relax, sinking her deeper onto the man's penis, accepting him into her as though he himself was part of her. His mouth has gripped hold of her earlobe, holding it in his teeth and biting down gently as he makes his final thrust into her, growling a long grunt into her ear with masculine satisfaction, she feels her hole stretching with each throb as he releases himself into her.

"That will do quite nicely." She hears Mr Gameshaw say, repulsing Bridget, as the pair of naked bodies hold each other, panting and sweating, merging into one another.

### Chapter Nine

The autumn is beginning already. Central Park is glowing in the golden tone in the promise of the change of the seasons, and Bridget breathes deeply, excited to be in a new city and the prospect of a new life, but her mind still plays upon the night with the mystery man. It is consuming her, it was her first proper orgasm in over five years and her memory of it still stirs her penis into a semi-erect state. It was the man's hands, his strength, power and dominance which gave Bridget a sense of safety and protection. His sensuous touch had electrified every nerve in her body, mixing the combination of danger and eroticism into a perfect balance. She knows that whoever the man was, he is the man that Bridget wants. She is sure that the feelings were mutual, the man actually ended up paying her ten thousand pounds instead of five thousand, surely a sign that he felt satisfied. But for Bridget, it has become something other than the money, she'd happily do it again for nothing. In fact, she vows to herself that if she is ever in a position to pay the man back, then she will do so. He has provided for her freedom, he has saved her from danger. She wishes so much to know who the man was.

"Bridget! Welcome to New York!" She hears Tom shout as he approaches her. He grabs her hand and kisses her on the cheek. "How's it going?"

"It's going great!" Bridget says, matching Tom's own level of enthusiasm. "The hotel that I'm staying in is lovely and I'm surprised by just how beautiful the city is."

"Have you been looking for an apartment yet?"

"Not yet. Mr Gameshaw suggested that I wait for you to arrive first, he said that you'd help me?"

"Of course I'll help! Sorry that I couldn't be here sooner for you, but I still had some business to deal with in Italy. You hungry?"

"A bit. I'm all a bit topsy-turvy at the moment, still struggling with the jetlag, my body doesn't know when to sleep or eat."

"I know a great little deli if you want to grab a sandwich or something?"

"Sounds good, lead the way." She says, rising from the bench and taking Tom's offered arm.

They pace slowly together along the path through the park. Birds are chirping and the sounds of the city are getting lost among the trees. Bridget smiles at her own sudden feeling of contentment.

"You look happy?" Tom asks.

"I am. I don't know how much Mr Gameshaw has told you about my life recently, but it's been a tad shit. But I'm starting to feel better about it now.

"You've got the look of love in your eyes. Have you fallen for Mr Gameshaw?" Tom asks, surprising Bridget with his sudden interest in their relationship. Bridget thinks for a moment before answering. She is in an awkward position; Tom is Mr Gameshaw's friend, so she really feels as though she should answer 'yes', just to keep the situation at ease. However, she has her suspicions that her mystery man may well be Tom himself, he certainly fits the description; he is tall, his hands large and powerful. Mr Gameshaw had said that the man was very recently divorced, which describes Tom's position. Plus, Bridget suspects, he also has the kind of money that could pay ten thousand pounds to her. With this sudden wealth of her own that Bridget has acquired, she no longer feels as committed and dependant with Mr Gameshaw.

"Sorry, shouldn't have asked..." Tom says, making Bridget aware that she is taking her time with her answer. She decides to be honest with Tom.

"No, I'm not falling in love with Mr Gameshaw."

"I thought not. He's not exactly a hot stud muffin like myself, is he?!" Tom asks with a cheeky smirk and a wink, stopping to pose like an Adonis. Bridget smiles, Tom's egotism is both entertaining and attractive to her.

"No, he's no oil painting. But I don't want to feel ungrateful towards him, he has helped me out tremendously in the last couple of weeks. But I don't love him, nor do I think that I ever will."

"So who is it that you have fallen in love with?" Tom says, looking deep into Bridget's eyes, with what she perceives to be a hopeful longing. It is this moment that Bridget feels more certain than ever before that her mystery man is Tom. They have an unspoken connection between them, she feels it and see's it in his eyes.

"I'm not sure that I have fallen in love with anyone just yet, I really don't know this man very well, I think that I'd like to get to know him better first. You won't say anything to Mr Gameshaw, will you?"

"Not a word, I promise."

"Thanks."

They pass through a large cast iron gate and out onto a busy avenue.

"The deli is just across the street. They do a great coffee as well. In my experience, caffeine is the best solution to jetlag."

They wait at a pedestrian crossing for a few moments before the WALK sign goes green. They cross over towards the row of shops opposite, Tom opens the door for Bridget to enter the deli, which is small with just a few round tables and only a handful of customers, most of whom sit alone playing with their phone.

"Welcome, take-away or dine in?" A waitress asks with a mechanical robustness.

"Dine in, please." Tom replies.

"Okay, pick a table, and I'll be over to take your order shortly." The waitress says, passing a couple of menus to them. Tom picks a table in the front window, looking out to the avenue, exactly the same table that Bridget would have chosen if she had made the decision herself.

They sit and Bridget looks at the menu, and quickly selects the New Yorker Club Sub, realising suddenly just how hungry she is. The waitress comes over to the table and takes the order. Bridget is keen to find out more about Tom, deciding to ignore Mr Gameshaw's warning of Tom being a deeply private man.

"So, Tom," She asks. "Mr Gameshaw tells me that you have recently divorced but you still live with your ex-wife?"

"That's right. Gail is my best friend, our divorce was mutually beneficial, there are no hard feelings between us. We have a much closer relationship now than what we did when we were married."

"That's nice to hear. What's she like?" Bridget asks casually, trying to pry further, seeking the answers to her own mystery. Bridget remembers that Mr Gameshaw had said that the mystery man's ex-wife was a transsexual, perhaps Tom may indulge the fact openly with Bridget.

"She's great. She makes me laugh like no one else on Earth. We met at college and instantly hit it off. You know, when you just feel a connection with someone? Like you know, deep in your heart, that this person is going to be important in your life. That's how I felt when Gail and I met."

"She sounds lovely, will I get to meet her?"

"Sure! We'll have dinner or something. I'd love to have you over, I'm a master in the kitchen, I even bake my own bread."

"Oh, a bit of a master-baker are you?" Bridget says with a smile, making Tom chuckle.

"Indeed. I'll call Gail now, see if she is free tonight, if you'd like?"

"Sure!" Bridget exclaims, suddenly annoying herself with an American accent.

Tom pulls his phone out from his jacket pocket and dials. "Ciao!...Yes, I did...Anyway, Bridget is here, I'm with her now grabbing a bite to eat, but we were wondering what your plans are for tonight?..." The waitress arrives with the coffee, placing the overbearingly large cups in front of each of them. "Oh, okay. What about tomorrow?" Tom looks up to Bridget. She nods her head to let Tom know that she is available tomorrow as well. "Great! I'm doing dinner then, say eight-ish?...Perfecto! Ciao for now!" Tom cuts off the line before placing the phone back into his pocket. "Tomorrow it is. Is there anything that you don't eat?" Tom asks.

"Pussy!" Comes Bridget's instantaneously crude reply, and she hates herself for it, but Tom is laughing. "Seriously though, no, I eat anything."

"Great! I'll cook you up a treat then. Tonight, instead, we'll eat out, it'll be my treat."

The waitress arrives with their sandwiches. Bridget takes a bite and chews on it thoughtfully, all the while she is unable to take her eyes away from Tom. He is looking out of the window, his blue eyes reflecting a grey city, the muscles in his jaw are thick and masculine as he chews. Bridget senses that he has something troubling his mind, and in her own she is painting a picture of this man's torment at his desire and longing for Bridget, his own passionate memories of their secret encounter. He must have felt the connection of their bodies and their hearts in the same way that Bridget did, but to take their relationship further will require them both to betray Mr Gameshaw. It is a troubling thought in Bridget's own mind too; she has a sense of guilt stemming from her feelings of such an easy betrayal.

Tom suddenly turns his attention back to Bridget with the gust of happy revelation. "Massimo! My friend, he has an apartment in Little Italy which I'm sure he said is empty. I'll call him after lunch. It's close to my place too, just a few streets down in fact. It's a great area, probably the friendliest part of New York."

"Great! Thanks!" Bridget exclaims, happy in her own thoughts of living so close to Tom.

They finish eating and the waitress reappears to clear their plates.

"So now," Tom says. "How about I take you on a little tour of the city?"

"Sounds great!" Bridget replies.

"I think that you'll like it here, Bridget. I hope so, anyway. There's something for everyone in The Big Apple."

***

The water is refreshing, pinpricks of cool pummelling her skin, washing away the sticky grime picked up on her skin from the heavy air of the city. She smiles to herself as the water flushes over her face, her mind filled with the memories of the day out with Tom. He took her to many of the sights; the statue of liberty and the bright lights of Broadway. Instead of taking her to some fancy restaurant, as Mr Gameshaw would have, they simply grabbed some hotdogs from a street vendor and ate them as they walked around, before taking some cocktails at a bar with a drag cabaret act. It reminded her of London a great deal, she felt at home here, and exhilarated at the prospect of a new life, a second chance. Tom was not exactly a gentleman, his manners far less refined than those of Mr Gameshaw, but he was comical and full of charisma, flirtatious and attentive. Bridget was falling for him, she was more sure than ever that destiny was pointing her in his direction.

She chuckles to herself at the memory of his reaction to the attention from many of the gay men in the bar; Tom was by far the hottest guy in there and he had played up to the chat up lines and advancements with flirtation, leading the men on; he had been accused more than once of being a cocktease, and it was apparent to Bridget that he had loved every little bit of attention which he received. When he had had enough of teasing the men, he simply wound his arm around Bridget's waist, claiming to the men that Bridget was his girlfriend. Being pulled into his strong arms, being held protectively, Bridget had felt alive and full of joy, even if it was not true that she was his girlfriend, she had gone along with the fantasy with genuine pleasure. One day, she said to herself, it could be true.

She fantasises about Tom, thinking about the possibility of him being the mystery man who electrified her body. She shivers with ecstatic thought; if it is Tom then they could be having sex like that every night; hot, passionate, intense. And after, when both of them are satisfied, they would lay in bed, Tom would pull Bridget into his broad chest, Bridget's hand would rest gently on the muscles of his rounded shoulders feeling the heat of his body and the softness of his skin. Please, she thinks to herself, please let it be him.

***

She awakes to the sound of her phone ringing. She answers with the full gruffness of her morning voice.

"Is Bridget there?" Tom asks.

"It is Bridget!" She replies, trying to higher her pitch.

"Oh, sorry! I've just woke you, haven't I?"

"Yep. What time is it?"

"It's eleven. Good morning, princess! Your carriage awaits!"

"What?"

"I'm in the lobby. We have a viewing at my friend's apartment, the one that I told you about yesterday."

"But I need to get ready!"

"Sure, okay, no problem. Take as long as you need."

"Every man who says that to me always regrets it. I'll be as quick as I can."

She ends the call and gets out of bed, quickly rummaging through the draws and wardrobes, gathering her outfit for the day. After yesterdays heat, she decides on a light duck-shell coloured summer dress, one of the ones that Mr Gameshaw brought for her in Milan. She selects her larger breasts for the day, although she suspects that she doesn't need them; she is sure that she has Tom's attention already, but it wouldn't hurt to try for a little bit more.

She goes to the bathroom and begins her application of makeup, making a little more attention to detail. She tries a new shade of eye shadow that she brought yesterday, 'rousing red'.

Back in the bedroom, she selects a different wig for today, blonde, long and straight, but it has become somewhat tangled, and it takes her some time working away at it with her hairbrush to get the knots out, before she ties it back into an innocent looking simple pony tail. Opening the wardrobe, she browses over her selection of shoes displayed neatly on the shoe rack. She huffs a little. Shoes have always been a problem for her. She prefers stilettos, but if the heel is too high it makes her so tall that she towers self-consciously above most other people. She looks at the selection carefully, but ends up deciding on a pair of flat, white pumps with a little blue ribbon.

Yes, she thinks to herself as she gazes into the full length mirror, this is my look for the day. She picks up her handbag and heads down to the lobby, where Tom is waiting patiently, browsing over a newspaper and sipping on a cup of coffee. He looks up away from the paper towards Bridget as she approaches, beaming a big grin of pristinely white, neat teeth, accompanied with his trademark cheeky wink.

"That didn't take you long at all, I heard a rumour that you were never ready in under an hour! I ordered a coffee expecting to wait longer." Bridget checks the clock behind the reception desk; eleven fifteen! She had got ready in just fifteen minutes in her hurry to see Tom. This, she thinks to herself, is a surely a sign of love. "Did you want a coffee?" Tom asks, folding the newspaper and placing it on the small side table next to him.

"No thanks. I had one here yesterday, it wasn't very good. Perhaps I'll grab one later. So what time do we need to be at the apartment?" She asks, sitting herself on the comfortable chair next to Tom.

"No time in particular. I have the keys already, we can go whenever you like. However, I have a meeting scheduled at three this afternoon, and from there I'll be going straight home to prepare for dinner tonight."

"Okay. I wanted to have a walk around this afternoon, maybe do some shopping, try to familiarise myself with the city."

"Please be careful, Bridget. New York may feel like a safe place, but, just like every other city, it can be dangerous." Tom says with concern, his brow wrinkling with what Bridget perceives to be worry. She finds this concern to be sweet, the look of concern in his eyes is penetrating her soul, pausing her heartbeat for just a second. They hold their gaze for what feels like an eternity, her breathing stops, the space around her warps into non-existence. Yes, she knows it now, it is love, the kind that lasts forever, unbreakable and sincere.

Tom's phone begins to ring, breaking their gaze. "Hello?" He says, holding the phone up to his ear and returning his gaze back into Bridget's eyes. "Okay then, five minutes. Thanks, Jeff." He hangs up. "My driver is bringing the car round, so I suppose we should get going." He says, downing the last sip of his coffee. They stand together before walking out of the cool calm of the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel, arm in arm, into the stagnant and oppressive air outside. They wait just a few seconds before a black stretched limo pulls up by the hotel entrance.

"A limo?" Bridget asks with surprise as Tom opens the door for her to enter. "Just for us to go to an apartment viewing? A tad extravagant, don't you think?" Bridget instantly feels regret for saying this when she sees the look of hurt on Tom's face, making him look like a scaled puppy. "I mean, it's great! I love extravagance!" She says, hoping to make up for it. She isn't lying, she really does love extravagance, she just isn't used to it for the normal tasks in life. Tom enters the car behind her and shuts the door.

"I guessed that you liked extravagance and this limo is the most extravagant car that I own, so I thought 'why not?'."

"Wow, it's so big!" Bridget says, amazed at the space inside.

"Oh, so you like them big, do you?" Tom says with another of his cheeky winks and flirtatious smile, jabbing his elbow into Bridget's side.

"The bigger, the better, I always say." Bridget replies. The car pulls away and she looks out of the window at the large quantity of people on the streets and the shop windows that they pass. New York! She never imagined in all her life that she would one day be living here. It had never been an idea that had occurred to her, she had loved London and at no time had ever wanted to leave, except, of course, for a few little trips for work or visiting her family. But London was her home, she had always felt it, and now she faced the confusion of feeling at home here in New York, and a sudden sensation of betrayal of her homeland. She felt guilt for feeling at home here, and she could easily dismiss any desire to return to London. Perhaps the situation with Guy had been an important step in her life, pushing her beyond her boundaries. She had always had a sense that she was destined for something big, something defining, and this, she felt could very well be it. Destiny and fate had a way of delivering her onto the path of happiness, even in the times when she didn't feel it to be the case. Everything happens for a reason, she thinks to herself.

The car pulls away from the avenue and onto a quieter, yet still busy, street, slowing to a stop in front of a tall grey bricked apartment building.

"Here we are, Bridget." Tom says, opening the car door himself and climbing out, allowing Bridget a moment to admire Tom's firm and rounded buttocks before he turns around, offering his hand to help Bridget out of the limo. "Like I said, this is a great area. The apartment's on the tenth floor, away from the noise of the street."

They enter the building and take the elevator up to the floor, out onto a short hallway with only a few doors leading into different apartments. Tom uses the keys to open one of the doors, revealing a modestly sized apartment with high ceilings and grand Edwardian style window with a view of the tall red brick building on the opposite side of the street. The furniture is modern and stylish, a blend of beige and cream making the room feel soft and comfortable. Bridget smiles, this is a much nicer apartment than the one her and Cherry had in London. She worries that it may be out of her price range.

"I can get you a good deal on the rent, if you're interested in renting here." Tom says, as if reading Bridget's mind.

"How much is the rent?"

"Eight hundred dollars a week. It's not bad for around here."

"How far is it from the nightlife? I really want to get back into working and it would be nice to live nearby."

"I think it's only a short cab ride, probably no more than two or three miles, I'd say."

"In that case, it's perfect. I'll take it."

"Don't you want to see more of it first?"

"No," She replies. "I want to see more of the city. An apartment is just somewhere to sleep. In London, I was out almost every night, and I want to be the same here."

"Great!" Tom exclaims. "I'll call Massimo to tell him."

While Tom is on the phone, Bridget goes over to the window and looks down onto the street far below them. She has never liked heights too much and the view is making her dizzy, but she supposes that any apartment in New York is going to be high. There is a constant stream of people scurrying about, they look like little ants from this height. This is the characteristic of New York that has surprised Bridget the most, just how busy it appears to be. A few nights ago, when failing to fall asleep due to her jetlag, she decided to take herself out for a walk at three in the morning, and while there were evidently less people about, it was still busy with traffic.

Tom finishes the call. "You'll have to wait for the electric to be connected, but it should only take a couple of days, but Massimo says you can move in when you are ready."

"Great, thanks Tom. You've been so kind."

"No problem. You can make it up to me later." He says, blowing her a kiss.

***

Later that evening, Bridget is sat at Toms glass topped dining table happily sipping on a cool and refreshing glass of white wine. Tom is in the kitchen, busying himself with preparing the dinner, singing 'Volare' in a loud voice as he does so.

They had spent the day together until the time of his meeting and he had been singing all day, in fact. He seemed joyous in his manner, like he was walking on sunshine, playful with Bridget like a bouncing puppy. He too appeared to be falling in love with someone, he had that twinkle in his eye, that spring in his step that told Bridget that he was building in his happiness, a seed had been planted and it was starting to sprout.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone, Bridget. I won't be long, I promise." He shouts before starting another verse of the song.

"Don't worry about it." She replies. "I'm quite happy sitting here. Are you sure I can't help?" She has no idea why she is suddenly offering her assistance. She has never been very good with preparing food, her own mother was a terrible cook and her father could just about string together a boil-in-the-bag meal, but that was as far as her family's culinary skill went.

"No, no, thanks for the offer, but I'm making a lasagne, my mother's recipe, and it's a pledge of my family to keep her recipe secret. Gail shouldn't be too much longer now."

Gail had been held up at the office, Tom had explained when Bridget had arrived. Bridget was keen to meet her, she wants to guess at the feasibility of Gail being a transsexual in the hope of increasing her suspicions about her mystery man being Tom. She has convinced herself that with just one more sign she will make her move on Tom. If she believes that Gail is a transsexual, that would be enough for Bridget to confidently believe Tom to be her man.

Tom walks back through the archway leading to the kitchen. He is bringing back the bottle of wine, just in time, Bridget thinks, as she had just finished her last mouthful of the first glass.

"This wine, a gavi di gavi, was made on the vineyard that my grandparents owned before they sold it to move over here to the States. Even though they sold it long before I was born, the taste of it still reminds me of home, despite the fact that I've always considered America to be my home, I grew up here, only visiting Italy during the summer holidays."

"It's very tasty." Bridget says as Tom refills her glass. "Do you still have family in Italy?"

"Yep, two great-aunts on my father's side. It was them who we used to stay with while there, in the south."

There is the sound of a key entering the lock of the front door, which then swings open revealing whom Bridget correctly assumes to be Gail. She is tall and broad, Bridget's heart leaps into a frenzy.

"Ciao Bello!" Tom yells.

"Hi Tom." She replies with a husky Bronx accent. "What a nightmare! Sorry I'm late." She hangs her handbag up before walking over to the table. "You must be Bridget? Very pleased to meet you!" She says as Bridget rises from her seat and kisses Gail on both cheeks. Bridget tries to feel for the texture of stubble on her cheeks, but Gail's skin is smooth. Possibly laser hair removal, Bridget thinks to herself. They sit together at the table and Tom pours Gail a glass of wine.

"So Tom tells me that you're enjoying New York?" Gail asks.

"Very much, Tom's been showing me all the sites, it's a beautiful city."

"Trust me, you wouldn't be saying that if you grew up here. I was bought up in the Bronx, I doubt it Tom took you there, did he?"

"Sorry, Honey," Tom says. "I left our bullet proof vests in the other car!"

"How dare you!" Gail yells at Tom before turning to Bridget. "It ain't all that bad you know!"

"Not that bad?!" Tom exclaims with a smirk on his lips. "Are you kidding me? Last time we went to visit her parents we got held up at gunpoint!"

"Yeah, by your Mafia friends!"

"Mama Mia! For the last time I am not friends with the Mafia!" Tom says, over gesticulating with his arms, almost knocking over the bottle of wine. To Bridget, it was odd seeing the pair behaving in this way, playing around with each other in the same way any other married couple would. It appeared strange that they have separated, yet still living together under the same roof, still sharing the stories of their lives together. It was clear that they got on very well indeed, and Bridget's mind is pondering the reason for their separation, but she decides that it wouldn't make for very good dinner conversation and keeps her curiosity to herself for now.

Tom disappears off into the kitchen, leaving Bridget alone to talk with Gail, but their conversation is difficult; it becomes apparent in the short while that they are left alone that they have very little in common, except maybe a penis, and that is another subject that Bridget decides not to rouse. Thankfully, the moments of awkward silence are not unbearable, Tom is once again singing, this time another song in Italian which Bridget doesn't know. It is not too long before Tom returns to the dining table with a large platter of bruschetta.

"A little appetiser." He says, placing the plate, piled high with the thick slices in the centre of the table. They begin eating as the focus of conversation moves on to Bridget and her opinions of London.

"It's my home, so perhaps I am a bit biased, but I love London."

"I've only been there once." Gail says.

"Oh, what did you think of it?" Bridget asks.

"I didn't like it! I couldn't find my way around. I had been invited to a party in a posh part of the city, Knottsbridge, or something like that..."

"You mean 'Knightsbridge'?"

"Sure, that's it! Knightsbridge! Anyway, I grab a taxi to take me, I give the driver the name of the street and he doesn't know where it is. It's the same problem in all of Europe, why do you give streets a name? It's easier here in the States, our streets have numbers, it's easier to find the correct street here. So this cab driver takes me to the area where he thinks the street is, driving around, looking at all the signs, but not knowing where he is going at all, and neither did I. We were driving for about an hour, all the while the fare is increasing. It cost me a fortune in the end."

Bridget has been taking notice of the number of slices of bruschetta that Gail is consuming, amazed at her appetite. She has devoured twice the amount that Bridget has, if Gail is a woman, she's a greedy one, Bridget thinks to herself.

"Well, I love London." Tom pipes in. "There's an exciting atmosphere, a sense of purpose to the city. It's like the city is, in itself, alive. I always wished that I could spend more time in London. I am a bit of a fan of the London cabaret clubs, I love the kind of shows that you do, Bridget, with all the drag queens. I get this sense that the drag scene is more enshrined in the British, almost as if it were part of your heritage, a tradition, stemming from the times of Shakespeare whereby the men would play the role of a woman."

"I think you give too much credit." Bridget says. "But thank you for trying to give a sense of dignity to my profession. Of course, I myself am more than just a drag queen, I dress in women's clothes for reasons beyond just show business."

"Have you ever purposefully deceived a man into believing that you were a real woman?" Gail asks.

"Actually, just the once, and it was for the sake of a joke towards a friend of a friend, a navy officer who was on shore leave. He took it all in good humour when he found out. But otherwise, no. It's a principle of mine not to deceive, however the appearance. When I am performing on the stage, I am the Bridget Brown that people expect me to be; crude, quick-witted and a clown, and no one is stupid enough to believe that I am anything other than a man in drag. In my day to day life, I am the Bridget Brown that I truly am. It is not for the purpose of deception that I continue to wear a dress, I wear one because that is who I am, and I feel that it would be more deceptive to wear men's clothes because that would be what I'm not."

"Well, I could tell straight away that you are a man." Gail says with a bitchy smirk that Bridget does not like. "But some of your kind do try to deceive men, don't you agree?" This is becoming personal, Bridget thinks; 'Your kind...'? Perhaps Gail has a degree of bitterness towards pre-op transsexuals or transvestites, the sort of attitude that comes from achieving something for yourself and holding superiority complex towards those who do not, much like the behaviour of a reformed smoker or a religious convert. If Gail is a fully fledged transsexual, she may feel that anyone else who hasn't had 'the chop' is just another 'wannabe', Bridget suspects.

"Maybe some do deceive, and maybe some go to great lengths to implement that deception. Personally, I don't have any problems with people knowing that I am really a man, I am, in a roundabout way, very proud to be a man, particularly in the age that we live. We have the freedom to express ourselves, to explore what our hearts and minds are telling us. Life is a personal journey, we either confidently follow our destiny with courage, or we shrink into paranoid isolation. Sometimes, we pretend to be the person that our loved ones want us to be, or to attract the attention of someone we fancy, but these masks never stay on; it is inevitable that the facade will slip and, with time, all of us are seen for who we really are anyway." Bridget's mind is reeling with thoughts of turning the conversation back to Gail; she looks for signs of strong opinion from her, for it is only ever those who are effected by a particular topic that hold such strong views, and indeed, the look on Gail's face is passionate with the look of her own opinion.

"I don't have a problem with those that do hide their true persona," Gail says. "We all have our secrets in life, and if the will is strong enough, it is possible to hold onto the secret until you are six feet under."

"Are you speaking from personal experience?" Bridget asks, taking pleasure in the expression of shock on Gail's face, who thinks for a moment before answering.

"I suppose I am actually. Yes, I have my own secrets that I will never give up."

"Really?" Tom asks. "Even secrets from me?"

"No." Gail responds. "As you know, I revealed all of my secrets to you on the day that you proposed to me. I have been honest with you from that day on, but you are a special case. I do believe that your husband or wife should be allowed to know you fully before you commit to a lifetime together, or else you may end up making a mistake that you'll regret."

The bruschetta is finished, and Tom returns the empty plate to the kitchen.

"How long were you two married?" Bridget asks.

"Six weeks." Gail reveals, surprising Bridget. Gail, presumably not unaccustomed to seeing this look of surprise on the faces of those that she reveals this fact to, is quick to offer further explanation. "We thought, at the time of getting married, that it was the right thing to do. We'd been best friends for years, most of the people that knew us assumed that we were dating long before we ever did. It was as though our friends and families could see our destiny together, and so it felt like a natural step to be taking. It wasn't. We both felt afterwards that we had lost our friendship, and we had the kind of friendship that should last a lifetime. We grew apart so rapidly under the pressures of marriage, and thankfully decided to do something about it."

"Tom says that you are happier now?" Bridget asks.

"Sure. Were best buddies again. No problems, no commitments. We are heading in different directions, each of us has a dream for the future, and having your best friend at your side makes all the difference. I wouldn't change our relationship for anything else ever again."

"But what about dating other people? Doesn't that bother you?"

"Not at all. I won't go into too much detail, but once you know for certain that you are not the one for your husband, or vice versa, it becomes surprisingly easy to accept. We both knew that we were not right for each other. We haven't yet started seeing anyone else, but when we do, we will accept and find pleasure knowing that we have found love."

Tom returns from the kitchen carrying the lasagne and signing 'That's Amore' at the top of his voice. "Ladies, may I present the world's best lasagne." He says, placing the tray in the centre of the table.

"Tom, really? The best lasagne? I think that will be heavily contested by your mother."

"Okay, the world's second best lasagne!" He corrects. From the aroma filling the room, Bridget does not believe that it'll be anything other than the best lasagne that she has ever tasted. Tom sits himself between Gail and Bridget, before placing a portion on each of the plates while Gail refills the wine glasses. "Buon appitito!" Tom exclaims, raising his glass.

Bridget takes a mouthful, despite it being a bit too hot, and she is impressed with Tom's skill, the flavours delightful and the texture sensual. She looks to Gail who is also taking her first bite, allowing the flavours to dance on her tongue, her face lighting up in pleasurable exuberance. Bridget cannot help but wonder about the odd arrangement between the two ex-lovers. It is curious, more so on behalf of Gail rather than Tom, as to why they couldn't make the marriage work. How could Gail be so at easy with being separated from Tom? He was a hunk; handsome and charming, wealthy and friendly. His smile makes Bridget go weak at the knees, and she has seen the other women that come into contact with him, they mostly swoon and flutter their eyelids at him. Also, it turns out, he is an excellent cook. Could he really be the perfect man? And if so, how can Gail stand not being his significant other?

The meal continues with idle chit chat, and Bridget begins to feel light headed from the wine. Her opinion of Gail is unsure; she is quite masculine in her movement and slightly aggressive in her manner. Bridget cannot be completely certain, but she decides that there was a reasonable possibility that Gail is a transsexual. She would make a move on Tom.

The meal has finished and Gail clears the table, leaving Bridget and Tom alone to chat.

"I think that you are quite brave, you know." Tom says to her. "Moving to New York is a big step, is it not?"

Bridget thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I guess so. But it's exciting, the prospect of a new life, a new job, a new lover." One of Tom's eyebrows rises.

"Oh, yes. Your new lover..."

"He's not my lover yet, just someone whom I like." Bridget says, blushing and fluttering her eyelids at Tom.

"I bet he's a nice fella?"

"Yeah," Bridget says with a sigh. "And pretty handsome too."

"Do you think that he likes you?

"I think so." There is a moment of silence, Tom and Bridget's eyes are locked, her mind is dizzy with too much wine and desire.

Gail returns from the kitchen, breaking the spell of their connection. Bridget stifles a yawn, her jetlag is hitting her once again.

"I really should get back to the hotel. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Gail." Bridget says, standing and kissing her on both cheeks.

"Great to meet you too, Bridget." She replies with a smile.

"I'll walk you back, if you like?" Tom asks Bridget as she picks up her handbag.

"Thanks, Tom, that'll be very kind."

"No problem, I'd like to make sure that you get back safely." He says, standing up and offering his arm to her. They pace slowly out of the apartment and through the building, out into the cool and crisp evening air.

"Gail seems nice. It's a shame you two aren't still together." Bridget says, hoping to get a little bit more information from Tom before fully committing herself to making a move on him.

"Yeah, you're not the first to say that. I know that people find it odd, my parents don't understand it at all, but we are happy living as we are, despite how strange it may appear."

They walk in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Even this late in the evening the noise of the city is disturbing the peace with the distant hoot of car horns and sirens, ruining for Bridget her romantic moment of fantasy. She is dreaming of her life with Tom, a handsome and wealth man, charismatic and charming. She wonders what his parents are like, how his family will be with Bridget as his new partner.

They have arrived at the hotel.

"Would you like a coffee?" Tom asks.

"Yeah, I'd like that." Bridget says, smiling contentedly at him.

They enter the small bar adjacent to the hotel lobby and take a seat in a booth in the corner of the room. Tom orders the coffee's up at the bar before returning to take his place seated next to Bridget.

"You are really pretty, Bridget." Tom says, looking into her eyes. "I think that whoever your new lover is, he's a lucky man."

"Thanks, Tom." Bridget says, blushing. The barman has arrived at the booth and places two espresso cups on the table. "I hope that I do, in fact, have a new lover. I'm falling for him, big time, and I don't want my heart broken."

"I bet you've got him in the bag. What did you say his name was?"

"Tom."

"Yes?"

"No," Bridget says with a sly smile. "You don't understand what I'm saying. His name...," she slides a bit closer to Tom, their thighs touch as Bridget turns her head to look at him, their mouths being pulled together like magnets. "...is Tom." She leans in for a kiss.

"Wo, there, Bridget!" Tom says, scooting away and now scowling into her eyes. "I'm not... I mean, I'm sorry, you're not my type."

Bridget's eyes fall away from Tom as she blushes deep red with embarrassment. "Oh my god!" She says. "No, I'm sorry. I've obviously misread the situation. I'm so confused at the moment. I'm so sorry..." She begin to cry a little, sobbing with the thoughts of being wrong. Is she wrong? She felt sure, not one hundred percent, granted, but Tom must be her mystery man.

"Don't worry about it." Tom says, sipping his coffee quickly, obviously suddenly uncomfortable. "Listen, I better get back. It's late and I've got a busy day tomorrow, and I'm meeting a friend at the gym quite early." He gulps down the last of his coffee, staring at the bottom of the empty cup with a frown on his brow, before he looks up at Bridget with a little awkward smile. "Don't worry about. Goodnight, Bridget."

"Goodnight, Tom. Thanks for dinner."

"Call you tomorrow." Tom says as he briskly walks away.

### Chapter Ten

The confusion and humiliation of the previous evening hits Bridget's thoughts the very second that she begins to wake. How can her mystery man not be Tom? It must be him, she thinks to herself, drawing into the same thoughts that had filled her head as she tried to fall asleep the night before. If it was him, maybe he wants to keep it quiet? If Gail is transsexual, as Bridget suspects, then surely Tom would have no qualms about being with Bridget? She cannot help feeling that perhaps he only likes post-op transsexuals, perhaps she should give more thought of having a sex change? No. She has never actually wanted to remove her penis, it is part of her, no matter how useless and pointless. Although, it was perfectly capable of delivering the shuddering vibration of orgasm that she felt on the night of the secret sex. Come to think of it, her mystery man had been happy to play with her penis, so that cannot be the reason why Tom did not return the kiss last night, returning Bridget to the conclusion that her man was Tom, but he was unwilling to accept Bridget in a romantic connection. Perhaps it would be possible to lure him into a purely sexual relationship, but only if she can be sure that it was indeed Tom whom she was seeking.

Bridget's mind recalls the night inside the cage, the force of the man's power and dominance, his ability to move Bridget's body into a higher state of ecstasy. Could she draw on any other clues to help her identify the man as being Tom? Her own senses had been inhibited, her sight lost in the blindfold, and the man had made very little sound, apart from at the moment of his climax, where he had bitten softly on her earlobe, growling both gently and deeply with satisfaction. The sound plays out in her memory, the thought of the moment is starting to arouse her once again before her heart lurches into the heartbreak that it may have been the only time that she would be with this man.

She tries to empty her mind in order to focus on the facts that she does know for certain; the man was strong and muscular, she cannot describe his scent, but she is sure that she would recognise it if ever she detects it again. The man had a large penis, but this fact alone would not help her to identify him without seeing Tom's penis for herself, and even then, she could only imagine what it looked like based upon how it felt. She recollects the taste of him as she licked along his length, the salty taste of sweat on his skin, the ripple of muscle as she licked his torso up to his navel with the surprising taste of metal when her tongue had found the small bar in his bellybutton piercing. The piercing! Of course, another identifying feature, it will be easier to discover if Tom had his navel pierced than what it would be to discover the size of his cock.

Bridget rises up out of bed, suddenly anxious to start the day and revived into a new line of thinking which can help her to acquire the evidence that she needs. She begins to dress herself as her mind wonders how it could be that she may see Tom's torso without him noticing. He did say that he would be going to the gym this morning. If only she knew what gym it was, perhaps she could go there in disguise. Tom had never seen her dressed as Gordon, and as long as she keeps her distance she might get away with following him. Surely Tom would take a shower at the gym; it could be her opportunity to see his body.

She removes the dress which she had just put on and searches through the draws for Gordon's clothes. She only had the one outfit for Gordon, the one which she travelled over to the United States in. She dresses into his denim jeans and pulls the plain t-shirt over his head, which is still smells a little of the odours of the journey. It doesn't matter. Gordon only has one job to do, follow Tom to the gym and attempt to see if his navel is pierced.

He goes into the bathroom, using a comb and water from the tap to tidy his hair. He wishes that he had his hair gel with him, but Bridget had decided to leave it in London, subconsciously deciding that Gordon should also be left in London. Never mind, he thinks to himself, he would like to look a little bit scruffy anyway, it will help with the disguise.

He finishes dressing by putting on his white trainers and looks at himself in the mirror, seeing the reflection of a person whom he didn't realise was still alive. It strikes him quite suddenly, it is not as though he doesn't recognise the reflection, it looks just like Gordon, but he didn't realise how long it had been since he had intentionally allowed Gordon to be released. It appeared to be happening less and less since Bridget had decided to run, she was becoming quite controlling, but the both characters could agree on one thing; Bridget was in a better position to recover their lives. Perhaps Gordon would make a more predominant return if Bridget becomes satisfied that she is no longer in danger. Only time will tell, he thinks to himself.

He picks up Bridget's handbag and pulls from it the hotel room key card and some money before walking over to the bedside table to collect his mobile phone, placing the items into his pockets. He checks himself out in the mirror once again, sighing with nervousness. Is this the right thing to do? His heart is beating quite fast and his breathing is becoming shallow and rapid, making him panic into believing that his body is not receiving the correct quantity of oxygen. Relax, he tells himself. Okay, he was about to start stalking someone, something that had been happening to Bridget and causing her some considerable stress lately. In fact, her own stalker had been ruining her life in such a complete way, her anger boiling into confusion and turmoil, and Gordon really does question his own sanity with his plan to start stalking Tom. No, he thinks to himself, he was not going as far as stalking really. Actually, he intends only to discover the truth, and once he has his answer Bridget will be satisfied. He won't be stalking Tom in the same way as what Guy had been stalking Bridget. Guy's intention, Bridget assumes, is to cause her misery, whereas she herself does not intend any harm to Tom in any way, she only wants the evidence of her suspicions before she continues on her path of her seduction of Tom.

He hesitates no longer and walks out of the hotel room, surprising himself with the force at which he closes the door behind him. He walks briskly down the corridor to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time down the five floors to the lobby. He doesn't even look around at the people scattered around the lobby as his march continues out through the front door and down the street towards Tom and Gail's apartment block. It takes him just ten minutes to reach the coffee shop opposite the building, and he takes a coffee to a small table in the window. From here, he has a view of the entrance to the apartment block, he will see if or when Tom leaves the building, and he sips slowly on the cappuccino as he tries to steady his heartbeat and relax his breathing.

He is sat there for just five minutes before he spots Tom walking out from the front door, carrying a small gym bag, and his heart lurches at the realisation that Tom is headed for the coffee shop himself. Shit! Gordon looks around in a panic, unsure what he should do to hide. He is not sure if Tom will recognise him, and he does not want to find out either, especially since he is dressed in quite a scruffy fashion. He spots an abandoned newspaper on the next table, grabs it and uses it to block the view of his face, pretending to read. He holds his breath as Tom enters the coffee shop and peeps out to see him ordering at the counter, he sighs a small breath of relief when he sees the barista grab a paper cup for Tom's coffee to take away. After just a short while, Tom is heading back out of the coffee shop and Gordon puts the paper down and takes some deep breaths before gulping the last of his coffee down and walking out of the shop himself, passing an unnoticed word of thanks to a member of the staff busy clearing a table.

Tom had headed to the right as he left the shop, and Gordon looks along the street just a short distance to the intersection, trying to spot the back of Tom's head from the small crowds walking along the pavement. He starts walking, cautiously at first, but then more rapidly when he is sure that Tom has already turned the corner. He arrives at the intersection and glances from left to right, desperate to see which way Tom had walked. There! Tom is about a hundred metres away, and Gordon follows him, with the aim of maintaining his distance, but in reality he finds it hard to keep up, Tom is very obviously in a hurry and there are quite a few people walking along the street, blocking both Gordon's view and his path.

Suddenly, Tom is gone and Gordon stops, causing the man behind him to bump into him. "Hey, mister, keep it moving!" The man yells. Gordon takes a side step into the doorway of a department store out of the stream of pedestrians.

He spots a buff looking man leaving the department store. "Excuse me?" He asks. "Do you know if there is a gym near here?"

"Sure!" The man says with a thick New York accent. "There's one just a few doors down on the right."

"Thanks."

He continues back along the path, and shortly arrives at the entrance to "Eroll's Fitness Centre". He starts to think about what he is planning to do now, realising that if he wanted to use the gym then he really should have brought a gym bag with him. He has no intention of using the gym at all, he has no muscle in the slightest, he has often been described as a 'skinny little runt' and does not do exercise of any level, and nor does he intend to. How then would he get into the gym? He thinks about returning to the department store to buy some gym clothes, but then he remembers that he picked up only a ten dollar note, and after paying for his coffee, has not enough to buy even a pair of shorts, let alone the entire outfit. He could go back to the hotel, get some more money, buy the clothes and then return to the gym, but he worries that by the time he does all that then he may miss the opportunity to see Tom in the shower. He is about to give up on his quest when he spots a poster on the outside of the gym. "Come in for a free tour of our facilities!" the poster says. Perfect! He walks into the reception.

"Hi there!" The overly enthusiastic blonde lady sitting behind the reception desk says as he approaches. "What can I do for you today, Sir?"

"Hello. I've just moved to New York and I'm looking to join a gym."

"Oh my god! I love your accent! Are you English?"

"Yes. I see that you offer tours of your facilities and I was wondering if I could take a look around?"

"Sure! No problem! Where in England are you from?"

"London."

"Oh my god! I love London!"

"Have you been there?" Gordon asks.

"No, but I've seen it on the TV." Gordon winces slightly at the irritating whine of the woman's accent.

"Good. So, about that tour..."

"Sure! I'll get Ollie to show you around." She picks up her telephone and dials. "Ollie? Hi, Vanessa here. I've got a man here who wants a tour...Okie-dokie, thanks!" She replaces the receiver. "He'll be down in just a minute." She says to Gordon. "So, what brings you to New York?" She asks.

"It's a long story." He replies, hoping that Ollie will not take too long to arrive.

"And do you like it here?"

"Yes, it's lovely."

"How long have you been here?" She asks. Gordon wishes that she would stop with the questions, he just wants to get into the gym and get his task over and done with.

"Just a few days." He replies, trying to appear abrupt enough for the receptionist to stop asking questions without giving the appearance of behaving rudely.

"Oh my god! Do you like it here?" She asks for the second time. Obviously a bit of an airhead, Gordon thinks to himself.

"Yes." He replies. "As I said before, it's lovely."

"Oh my god! I already asked that, didn't I?"

Gordon stares at her, as he replies "Yes. You did already ask that."

"I'm such a bimbo!" She says, laughing by herself. Thankfully, Ollie arrives.

"Hi there!" He says, offering his hand to Gordon. "I'm Ollie, the deputy assistant manager of the individual development department here at Erolls. Vanessa tells me that you'd like a tour of our facilities?"

"Yes, thank you. I've just moved to New York and I'm looking to improve my fitness." Gordon lies.

"Well, you've come to the right place. You English?"

"Yes, I'm from London."

"Great!" Ollie says. "I've been to London, it's just great!"

"Yes." Gordon replies. "Now, about this tour..."

"Sure! No problem. I'll take you up in the 'lift', as you Brits like to call it! Follow me, my good fellow!" Ollie says, trying to impersonate an English accent.

Gordon does as he is told while Ollie begins to ramble on with what is obviously a pre-determined speech about the gym. The elevator ascends to the fifth floor.

Gordon is wondering if there could be a way to sneak off away from his tour guide. He is sure that the men's shower room will not feature too predominantly on the tour, and even if it does, Gordon will need to be there at the exact same time that Tom takes his shower.

"Did you use a gym in London?" Ollie asks, looking up and down over Gordon's body, as if noticing for the first time that he did not have the build of someone who has any sort of fitness regime.

"No, actually. I've never used a gym before in my life." Gordon replies as the lift arrives on the second floor. "But I thought that I would start now, what with moving to a new place. I don't suppose that there is a toilet nearby that I could use, is there?"

"Sure, there's one just over there." Ollie says as he begins leading Gordon towards it. "I'll wait for you out here."

Gordon enter the toilet and wonders what he should do now. He was hoping that there would be more than one entrance, but no such luck. He enters one of the cubicles and takes his mobile phone out from his pocket. He has an idea, one which has come to him in an instant. He googles the telephone number for the gym and dials. He recognises the voice of Vanessa, the same receptionist whom he has already spoke to, so decides to mask his voice with his best attempt at an American accent.

"Hi! Is Ollie there?" Gordon asks.

"I'm sorry, he's a bit busy at the moment. Can I help?"

"No, I really need to speak to Ollie, this is his Doctor and I have some urgent news for him. It's important that I speak to him personally."

"Oh, okay." Vanessa replies, taking the bait. "I'll see if I can get hold of him. One moment please." Hold music begins to play in the earpiece of the phone and a few moments later Vanessa's voice is heard over the intercom. "Ollie Hathwaite, urgent telephone call for you. Ollie Hathwaite," she repeats, speaking slower this time. "...urgent telephone call for you."

Gordon hangs up the phone and exits the toilets. "Wasn't that announcement for you?" Gordon asks seeing that Ollie is still standing outside the door, obviously confused as to whether or not to leave his tour guest alone.

"Yeah. Listen, sorry, do you mind if you wait here for a moment, I just need to take this call..."

"No problem," Gordon says, trying not to smirk. "Take your time."

"Thanks, buddy." Ollie says, whacking Gordon on the arm before rushing off down the corridor.

Perfect! The plan worked. Once Ollie is out of sight, Gordon briskly walks off in the opposite direction down the corridor, looking though the windows into the various exercise rooms, trying to spot Tom. As he passes the third window, he jumps back out of view when he spots Tom using a treadmill in the room beyond.

Okay, he thinks, what to do now? He is shaking a little with the nervousness of knowing that what he is doing is wrong. If Tom finds out, he'll not be too happy and Bridget may lose her only ally in New York, unless, of course, her suspicions are confirmed and Tom is her mystery man. She'll certainly lose the friendship of Mr Gameshaw, either way.

Don't think about it. Get what you need and get out as fast as you can. You can worry about things like that later.

He continues walking down the corridor, past the door into the gym room itself, and he enters the next door along, marked 'Shower Rooms', which leads into a short corridor with separate doors for both the male and females.

Cautiously, Gordon pushes open the door to the male shower room and peeks around the corner. There are three frosted glass individual shower cubicles lining the wall of the small room, and another door that must lead directly into the gym that Tom was using. On the opposite wall there is a small bank of bright blue lockers situated next to a small wooden bench unit. Gordon can see that the room is empty of people, and so steps inside, helping the door to close quietly behind him.

This is easier than I thought!

He looks around, hoping to see a place for him to hide in undetected. He inspects each of the cubicles, looking for a way in which he may peek into the adjoining cabin; it would be nice, after all, if he could see Tom's entire body in all his naked splendour. There is a small gap behind each of the cubicles divisions, but it is too narrow and too close to the wall for Gordon to be able to peek through. He now regrets not picking up Bridget's entire handbag, her little compact mirror would fit perfectly in the gap and allow him to see around the corner.

There is also quite a large gap under the frosted glass divisions between the cubicles, but unless he sticks his entire head through, he would not be able to see anything. Even if he could, the angle was wrong; it would be difficult to see Tom's navel looking directly up from floor level.

Gordon jumps at the sound of the entrance door opening and quickly locks himself shut inside the cabin. The man has entered from the corridor, so Gordon is confident that it is not Tom. Gordon lowers himself, bending awkwardly inside the cubicle in order to look out from the small gap under the door. Suddenly, he realises that this is how he would be able to see Tom's body. The man who has just entered the shower room is undressing at the small wooden bench, and although he has his back to the room, there is a large mirror behind it, allowing Gordon to see the man's body from the front and without the man even noticing that Gordon was there.

With a smile from lady luck, Tom enters right at that moment, his clothes sticking tight against his body with the patches of sweat. "Hi Tom." The other man says.

"Glen, hi! How's it going?" Tom asks as he opens one of the locker cabinets.

"Yeah, great thanks. You?"

"Same, no probs, life is good."

"Did you see that story in the news about Mary?"

"Yeah, I know!" Tom replies. "Who'd a thought she was into that kinda stuff. I suppose it takes all-sorts, eh?" Tom is pulling a towel out of the locker, Gordon's heart is pumping so ferociously that he begins to worry that the two men will hear it. He realises that he is holding his breath, and tries to breath as gently as he can.

"Yep. So how's the business?" The man asks.

"Great, thanks." Tom says, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. Wow, Gordon thinks to himself, as he receives a full view for the first time of Tom's torso, his beautiful chest with just a small patch of dark curls in the middle, his skin tanned and flawless apart from just a couple of moles on his shoulder, he has the ripples of a well defined six pack, but alas, no navel piercing. Gordon's heart sinks just as his mouth begins to fill with the saliva of desire.

Maybe he just removes the piercing when he goes to the gym.

Gordon is aware that he is now clutching at straws. Tom is not his man, aside from the lack of a piercing, he remembers that his mystery man had a bit more hair on his chest. His thoughts are disturbed by the sudden sound of his mobile phone ringing, which both of the men so obviously notice, they have a look of shock with the awareness that they are not alone in the shower room. Gordon, still folded into a cramped position, struggles to pull the phone out of his pocket, and as he finally frees it from the tangle of the pocket lining, a tube of Bridget's lipstick, which Gordon had forgotten was in there, falls out and rolls out under the door, slowly and purposefully hitting Tom's foot. Gordon silences his phone, but he knows that it is too late, his presence has been alerted. He tries to struggle back to his feet in a panic, bashing his elbows against the glass divisions and causing quite a disturbance.

Outside of the cubicle, Tom has picked up the lipstick and seen what it is.

"Excuse me?" He says. "I think that the ladies shower room is next door."

Shit shit SHIT!

How could he get out of this?

Gordon tries to speak with an American accent and a bit of masculine husk. "That lipstick is my wife's. I'm a man."

"Oh, okay." Tom replies. "What exactly are you doing in there, I cannot hear the shower running."

"No, I'm, err, well I, err,..."

"Were you spying on us?" Tom asks.

"No!" Gordon says, accidently dropping the voice he had been projecting and suddenly sounding a little bit girlish.

The door from the corridor opens, and Gordon hears the voice of his tour guide, Ollie. "Hi guys, don't suppose you've seen a new guy around here, have you? I was taking him on a tour and he disappeared."

"I think that he may be in this cubicle here, Ollie." Tom says. "Don't you want to come out and introduce yourself?" Tom asks aggressively.

Okay, don't panic. Tom still doesn't know that I'm Bridget. He might not recognise me as Gordon. Keep calm.

"Okay, give me a minute." Gordon says, maintaining his American accent.

"No, that's not the guy," Ollie says upon hearing Gordon's voice. "The guy was from London."

"London?" Tom asks. "What a coincidence, I've recently had an acquaintance of mine move hear from London." The room remains deathly silent for what feels like an eternity. Gordon feels as a rabbit in the headlights, his brain is unable to think of a single idea as to how he may get out of this situation.

"So, Mister," Tom's friend says. "You coming out, or what?"

Gordon slides the lock open and steps out of the cubicle.

"Bridget?" Tom asks, his aggression obvious, his eyes holding the hurt of betrayal.

"Bridget?" His friend asks, before collapsing with hoots of laughter at the sight of Gordon.

"I think that it's time for you to leave." Ollie says, opening the door and beckoning for Gordon to follow.

"Wait," Tom says, "You almost forgot your lipstick."

***

"What were you doing in there?" Mr Gameshaw yells down the phone at her, not helping her to stop crying, as she sits at the end of the bed after returning to the hotel. The humiliation was unbearable, she had been very definitely caught trying to spy on Tom, there was no way that she could defend her actions, she knew at the time that what she was doing was wrong, and what possible reason could there be for her to be there, in that gym, at the same time as Tom, hiding in the cubicle?

"I'm sorry, Mr Gameshaw," She says between sobs. "I don't know what came over me..."

"Oh, I know what came over you. You're not the first person to develop an infatuation with Tom, that I am able to understand. But how could you do this to me, Bridget? I thought I had made it clear about you belonging to me."

"I just needed to know..."

"Needed to know what, exactly? If he had a nicer body than mine? If he had a bigger cock than mine? You are nothing but a shameful, dirty pervert who has caused me a great deal of humiliation, even after I have helped you out of your mess with your ex-boss. So come on then, please, do tell me; what was it that you needed to know so badly that you felt the need to start stalking my best friend?"

"I wasn't stalking him!" Bridget protests.

"You followed him to the gym and hid in the showers to perv over him!" Mr Gameshaw roars. "How is that not stalking?"

"I just needed to know something."

"Okay, tell me. What was it that you needed to know?"

"I needed to know if he was the man that you got me to sleep with!"

Mr Gameshaw begins to laugh. "Tom? You thought the man was Tom?! Tom is straight! Why would you think that he was would be interested in you?"

"Well, you said that the man's ex-wife was transsexual. I got the impression that Gail might have really been a man..."

"I suppose that can be forgiven. She is quite man-ish, I suppose. But that is quite common among lesbians."

"What? Gail's a lesbian?" Bridget says with shock.

"Of course she's a lesbian! Why did you think that they had split?"

"I didn't know..."

"No, Bridget, you didn't. And you don't know who the man was, nor will ever find out. I knew it while he was fucking you, I could see it in your body, you were enjoying it, weren't you? Well, you can put the thoughts of that night out of your mind. You will never know who it was. I'm too angry to carry on this conversation with you right now and it's getting quite late here. Tom wants you to know that the apartment has had the electricity connected already and you can move in when you are ready. I'll be coming to New York at the weekend, it'll be good if you can sort it out by then. And please give Tom some space; he's angry with you right now, but he's a forgiving man, just give it time."

"Okay. Sorry, Mr Gameshaw. I hope that you can forgive me?"

"We'll see. You can make it up to me at the weekend."

Mr Gameshaw promptly disconnects the line and Bridget breaks down in tears, throwing herself face down on the bed, soaking the pillow with her tears. She cannot understand why she did it, it's as though, since that night in the cage, her mind has become obsessed by the man that she doesn't even know. She is sure that Mr Gameshaw will abide by his promise for Bridget to never know who the man was, and that knowledge is torturing her heart. The man must have been a complete stranger to her; she must accept defeat in her quest.

She cries for half an hour, emptying her mind as best that she can, thinking only of the anger that Tom must be feeling for her. She is partially angry herself at Tom for not being her mystery man, her fantasy destroyed, her hope lost into an unsolved mystery which she feels will consume her sanity. For the rest of her life, she feels, she will always wonder who the man was who could play her body like an instrument.

### Chapter Eleven

Over the next few days Bridget tried to focus on her new life in New York. She had moved into the apartment with sparse furnishings, she felt it hard to feel excited by the materialism of new things, selecting things for necessity rather than desire. She had brought a pair of two seat sofa's and a small wooden coffee table from the department store, selecting a modern design in order to satisfy Mr Gameshaw for when he arrived, but she herself held no real passion for the furniture. She had also purchased a king size bed with a leather padded headboard and a pair of wardrobes with a matching chest of draws and two bedside cabinets.

She had been surprised by her own lack of enthusiasm when the delivery men had arrived with all the furniture, finding herself irritated by the inconvenience of having to wait inside the apartment all afternoon; she had become accustomed to taking long walks around the city, usually spending most of her time in Central Park, where she had found it easier to leave her thoughts behind. She was beginning to feel lonely, she wished so often to be able to call Cherry, but she had accepted that Cherry would be unable to refrain from gossiping about Bridget's location, and she feared for her new home to be discovered by Guy. She had actually spent more time than ever before on the phone to her parents, finding that she did actually miss them quite considerably, despite the fact that she hardly ever spent time with them in London. If ever she moves back, she had been telling herself, she would make the effort to build on her relationship with them. She had not told them anything about Guy stalking her as not to make them worry, telling them instead that a great work opportunity had arisen in New York and that was the main reason as to why she had left London so suddenly.

Her feeling of isolation was not in any way diminished by the thought of Mr Gameshaw's arrival. She was fully aware that she had no future with him; she wasn't even sure as to why she couldn't have been honest with him over the phone and told him that she had no desire to continue with their "relationship". She supposed that it would be better to have him around for a while instead of being completely alone. She also still felt a sense of obligation towards him, and this duty hindered her strength to fight for herself in her new life; it would be better for the time being to keep him as an ally.

She had been out one evening to check out the drag scene in New York, with the thought of meeting some new people and perhaps finding some work, but she could see that her competition was huge; the show's that the American 'girls' put on was nothing short of spectacular, and the Queen's themselves so quick witted and perfectly confident on the stage. On her way home in the taxi cab that night, Bridget had began to cry; it would be hard to get her foot in the door here and the people that she had tried to strike up a conversation with in the clubs had not received her with terrific excitement. She had realised that she was simply not in the mood to socialise and she had felt vulnerable and unconfident amongst a completely new crowd of strangers.

When Mr Gameshaw arrived early on Saturday morning, Bridget had been at the airport to meet him, making sure that she was looking her best and pretending to be happy. Her deception was received without question, and Mr Gameshaw was behaving politely towards her, but the barrier between them could be felt in the tension of the heavy autumn air.

***

"I need to return to Italy early next week to finish off some business. You'll be okay, won't you, Bridget?" Mr Gameshaw asks as they sip on their morning coffee's in a small bistro on the same street as their new apartment the day after Mr Gameshaw's arrival.

"I'll be fine, Mr Gameshaw." Bridget replies, her head filling with thoughts of the excitement at the prospect of herself being able to return to her new way of solitude. "When will you be back?"

"I don't know. Perhaps next weekend, but I did promise Sandra that I'll be going home to Monte Carlo; it's my son's birthday and she was planning a family meal together to celebrate."

"Oh, I see, back to the wife?" Bridget says, her voice raising with an anger that takes even herself by surprise and drawing some attention from a young couple on the table next to them.

"Would you mind keeping your voice down?" Mr Gameshaw says with a whisper through his clenched teeth.

"What? You don't want anyone here to know that you are a married man having an affair with someone like me?" Bridget says, happy to be drawing even more attention from other customers.

"Bridget, I will not accept this behaviour."

"What are you going to do about it? Punish me? You like it when I beg for mercy, don't you?" Bridget's voice becomes sarcastic. "Please, Mr Gameshaw, I'm sorry, I'll be a good girl..."

"Enough!" Mr Gameshaw yells, slamming his fist down on the table, making several of the customers in the coffee shop jump. "I'm going for a walk. See you at home later." He gets up, leaving his coffee half finished, and walks briskly out the door.

Bridget relaxes as a sense of relief floods over her. She is finding it hard to maintain her false enthusiasm for Mr Gameshaw. She has spent many hours over the last twenty-four wishing to be left alone, hoping that Mr Gameshaw would give her some space. She has been wishing to search through his luggage, hoping that he may have the recording of the night of the secret sex. If she can see it, she will have a better idea as to what her mystery man actually looks like, at least then she would recognise him if ever she meets him again; the last thing that she wishes is to repeat the errors that she made with Tom. She feels a twinge in her heart for Tom; he didn't deserve what she did to him, he had been nothing but kind to Bridget since she had arrived in New York, and she was now kicking herself over her ridiculous behaviour which caused so much embarrassment to both herself and Tom.

She gulps down the last of her coffee, the heat of the fluid burns her in her throat slightly, but she wishes to get back to the apartment as soon as possible, before Mr Gameshaw returns. She grabs her handbag from the empty seat next to her and exits the shop by the front door, smiling to herself for the first time in several days. She is beginning to feel empowered once again; she has a purpose, and a method of finding her man.

It takes just a minute to reach the front door of the apartment block, and once inside she takes the elevator up to her floor and into her new home. She enters the bedroom, where Mr Gameshaw's large suitcase sits as he left it last night; flung open on the floor with some of his casual clothes still unpacked.

She searches amongst the clothes, but fails to find anything of interest. She remembers that he had bought another bag with him, which he had unpacked as soon as he had arrived while Bridget had made them each a cup of tea in the small kitchenette. She opens the draws of his bedside cabinet; the top one contains his underwear, which she rummages around in, finding only a few tubes of flavoured lubricant and a box of condoms. In the next draw down, there are some sex toys, the ones that he had used on her the night before, while she had been blindfolded and gagged, wishing for him to come quickly so that her endurance would not be tested to her breaking point. But there are no disks or memory chips, nothing that could hold the footage that she was seeking.

She goes over to the wardrobe. Inside, hanging neatly on the rail, there is one of Mr Gameshaw's suits in a specially designed carry case. She unzips the front of the bag and feels around, checking the each of the pockets, until she feels something small and solid in one on the inside. She pulls out a small plastic case, and upon opening it, discovers it to contain a memory card. Keeping hold of her treasure, she zips the suit back into its case carefully and neatly before shutting the wardrobe door. She returns to the lounge, where her laptop is sat on the small wooden coffee table, and she boots it up. It seems to take an age for it to start, all the while Bridget looks nervously upon the front door, hoping that she will have enough time away from Mr Gameshaw to see what the card contains. Finally, the computer has started and she inserts the chip into the little slot on the side.

A window on the screen opens, displaying several folders, most of which appear to be business related. Bridget sees a folder named 'exotic' and opens it. It contains around ten video files, and Bridget starts to open them one by one. The video's are pornographic. Bridget flicks through the clips, watching in shock at what can only be described as torture, bodies covered in blood and painful screams accompanied with lustful grunts. While she herself had allowed Mr Gameshaw to exhort his way of pleasure at the expense of Bridget's own body, the people in these movies were in a far worse position than anything that Mr Gameshaw had put her through. It was extreme, and Bridget's shock was hindered by a surprise with her arousal; while she herself could never endure the level of pain being inflicted on the 'victims' of the videos, it was erotic to see the pleasure of the males in control with such dominance. There is some movement from behind the camera filming the action, and Bridget realises that, while the video's appeared to be horrific in their nature, the blood covering the bodies is in fact fake, thrown over the conjoined bodies by the camera operator.

Bridget switches to another clip and see's the cage that she had been locked in on that night. This is it! She is just about to fast forward when she hears a key enter the lock of the front door. Quickly, she folds the computer screen down and stands quickly, taking just a couple of steps towards the kitchenette before Mr Gameshaw swings the door open and steps inside, his face much calmer looking than the last time that Bridget had seen it.

"I'm sorry, Mr Gameshaw." Bridget says with a sympathetic smile. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't upset me, Bridget." Mr Gameshaw coldly says, closing the door behind him. "You pissed me off and you embarrassed me, but you didn't upset me. I know that you are having a hard time, but all that I ask for from you is some respect. I deserve that, don't I?"

"Of course you do." She replies with a smile. "And you have my complete respect; I will not answer back to you any more, I promise."

"Good. Now then, why don't we take a walk together?"

"Okay then, let me just grab my bag."

***

The day had passed slowly, Bridget's mind wracked with the knowledge that she would be able to see her mystery man for the first time if only Mr Gameshaw would leave her alone for a while. They had walked mostly in silence, with Mr Gameshaw trying to begin conversations and Bridget trying to end them. This cat and mouse game of words had continued throughout their day; it became obvious to Bridget that she had been unknowingly attempting to push him away since her discovery of the video, but with little success.

They were now back at the apartment, preparing themselves for a night out; Mr Gameshaw had promised to take her to some fancy restaurant and then on to a cabaret club.

"I want you to wear this tonight." Mr Gameshaw says, selecting Bridget's full length navy blue dress.

"But I wanted to wear the red dress, the one that you brought for me in Milan." She replied. It wasn't true, she had actually wanted to wear that exact same blue dress, but she had been disagreeing with him all day, hoping that he would get mad enough to disappear for ten minutes.

"Tough." Mr Gameshaw replied. "I will decide what you wear. The red one makes you look like a slut."

"Thanks." She replies sarcastically.

"I'm going to take a shower now." He says, walking into the en-suite bathroom, leaving the door open behind him. Bridget looks to her computer. She knows that she wouldn't have time to watch the video, but she could make a copy onto her own hard drive, at least then if Mr Gameshaw discovers that she has hold of the memory card, she could still have a copy for herself. She is keen to return the card to his suit pocket before he notices it gone.

The angle of view from the shower would allow Mr Gameshaw to see her at her laptop, so she decides that, once he is actually in the shower, she will have to move quickly. It shouldn't take too long to start the copy process, then she could get dressed while the computer completes the task.

She looks to Mr Gameshaw, who is now undressing and placing his dirty clothes on the toilet seat.

"Why don't you join me?" He asks, standing naked in the bathroom doorway, his gut sagging lower than usual, his furry body hair grey and matted.

"Because if I do," Bridget says slowly, trying to think of a good enough reason not to join him before finishing her sentence. "Then, err, I'll need to do my make up again, and I don't think that I have enough foundation." She lies.

"Oh. Okay." He replies, dejectedly turning his back and stepping into the cubicle. The sound of the water flow from the shower head begins and the glass walls begin to frost with the steam.

Now!

She moves quickly, opening up the folded laptop and entering her password to log in. She winces slightly at the start up sound that the computer makes, and then turns around to look toward the shower. Mr Gameshaw has not noticed the sound, or if he has, he isn't interested.

Bridget navigates back to the folder marked 'exotic' and clicks 'copy'. A small window opens to inform her that it will take about four minutes.

She leaves it running while she rushes back into the bedroom and puts on the dress selected by Mr Gameshaw, before returning to the computer.

Two minutes left. She notices that she had left the little plastic case that contained the memory card on the coffee table next to the computer, and she is grateful that Mr Gameshaw has not spotted it for himself. Thankfully, they have spent very little time inside the apartment today. She picks up the case and flicks it open, ready to return the chip as soon as the copy process is complete. She looks to the screen. One minute remaining.

She looks to the shower to see that Mr Gameshaw has finished using the soap and is now rinsing himself off.

Come on!

Thirty seconds, each and every little second on the counter takes an eternity to move. Twenty... Ten...

The sound of the water stops, and then the copy is complete. Bridget removes the card from the little slot and places it back inside the case before folding the screen of the laptop down. She stands back upright, carrying the little chip in its plastic case in her hand and wishing that she had a pocket in her dress to hide it in. She returns to the bedroom, and Mr Gameshaw is still in the cubicle, but with the door wide open, he is rigorously towelling himself off, causing his rounded belly to wobble much to Bridget's disgust. Bridget goes over to her own bedside cabinet, opening the bottom draw and she removes a heavy pair of sapphire and diamond earrings, and she places the chip amongst the remaining jewellery, hoping that Mr Gameshaw will not notice the chip missing from his pocket before she has chance to return it.

Mr Gameshaw returns to the bedroom.

"I thought about these ear rings, what do you think?" Bridget asks him.

"Lovely. What about your shoes?" He asks.

"I don't know, I hadn't thought about it. What are you going to wear?" She asks.

"I shall have to wear my suit, I'm afraid that it is that kind of restaurant."

Shit! Now she will have to get the card back in his pocket sooner rather than later. Bridget walks over to the wardrobe, opens the door and looks down to the shoe rack, quickly selecting some polished black high heels shoes before she pulls out the case containing Mr Gameshaw's suit off of the rail, carrying it over to the bed and laying it flat. She is sure that he will brush his teeth before dressing, like he usually does, and although she will be in full view of Mr Gameshaw as he does so, she may well have the opportunity to slip the chip back into the pocket without him noticing, but she knows that she will have to be quick.

As predicted, Mr Gameshaw returns to the bathroom and begins to brush his teeth, while Bridget returns to her bedside cabinet, removes the chip while pretending to select a necklace. She keeps it hidden from sight in her hand while walking back over to the case which she has laid on the bed. She unzips and removes the plastic covering, appearing to ready the suit for Mr Gameshaw as he watches her. She also watches him, out of the corner of her eye, and as soon as she sees him bend down to spit the foamy suds of toothpaste out down the sink, she takes her chance and slips the memory card back into the inside pocket, before allowing herself a deep breath of relief. She has succeeded; Mr Gameshaw would be none the wiser.

It takes Mr Gameshaw just a few minutes to dress, while Bridget completes the finishing touches of her own outfit. They work in silence, neither of them speaking a single word, the atmosphere thick with awkwardness.

When both of them are ready, they leave the apartment and take the lift down to the lobby, out through the sliding front doors where Mr Gameshaw hails a passing taxi cab. Inside the cab, the radio is playing a track by Gloria Gaynor.

"She was a great singer, don't you think?" Mr Gameshaw asks with a friendly smile, breaking the silent spell.

"I suppose." Is the only answer Bridget offers.

"I guess that you must have performed to some of her songs in your career?"

Bridget snorts at the word 'career'. What career? Her life was royally screwed, she no longer had a career, and she had been feeling quite uncomfortable in her thoughts of trying to build it up again. But she reasons that it isn't Mr Gameshaw's fault that her career is lost.

"Yeah, I guess I have performed quite a few of her songs. She's a bit of a gay icon, all the little poof's love it, and you have to give the audience what they want, don't you?" She replies. "But I prefer the more modern stuff; Lady Gaga, Adele, Jessie J, that kind of stuff. I think that as an artist, you have to move with the times, or else you get stuck in the boringly safe pit of nostalgia."

"An artist, Bridget?" Mr Gameshaw chortles. "Really? You consider what you do as art, do you? How comical!" He begins laughing, much to the annoyance of Bridget. How dare he demand respect from her when he himself holds no respect towards her? Yes, she was an artist. The aim of her career was to entertain, to give people something amazing to look at, even if that meant spending so many nights making a new outfit from scratch. It was a sort of fashion to Bridget, and for someone to work in the field of drag, not only do they need to be able to perform, but they also need the creativity and imagination to design new trends and styles.

When Mr Gameshaw stops laughing, the cab returns to its awkward silence for the remaining five minutes of the journey. Finally, they have arrived at the restaurant and Mr Gameshaw hands over some dollars to the driver before getting out of the cab. Bridget, who was becoming more accustomed to the polite manners that Mr Gameshaw had displayed when they had first met, decides to rebel against him, and lets herself out of the cab before he has time to walk around to the other side and open the door for her.

They enter the restaurant walking side by side, and the Maitre-de shows them to their table. The restaurant is the usual pompous establishment that Mr Gameshaw selects; posh, elegant and overpriced. Bridget is beginning to feel that, although at first she had enjoyed living the high-life, she would now feel more comfortable eating a hotdog, walking along the street, like her and Tom had done just a few days ago. She sighs with the memory as she is handed a menu of pretentious words that she cannot even be bothered to try to understand.

"Just pick for me, please Mr Gameshaw." She says, folding the menu and placing it on the table. Mr Gamehaw browses over the menu for a few minutes.

"How about the terrine of guinea-fowl with singazare jus?" Mr Gameshaw asks.

"No thanks, I don't really like guinea-fowl." Bridget replies.

"Okay then, would you like the spojour d'eel au tartar?"

"The what?" She replies.

"It's eel, you know, like a fish?"

"No thanks, I never liked eels."

Mr Gameshaw returns his attention to the menu, frowning with what is apparent annoyance.

"Why ask me to pick something for you if you are going to reject every suggestion that I make?" Bridget remains silent. "Okay then, Bridget, I bet that you would like the pomourdourare of venison in madeira reduction?"

"Venison? No thanks."

Mr Gameshaw lets out a little growl of frustration before folding his own menu and looking directly and aggressively into Bridget's eyes.

"Sometimes I find you too petulant, like you do just do it for the attention."

"What the hell does that mean?" Bridget screams in a loud voice, knowing full well how pissed off Mr Gameshaw gets when she draws attention to them together in places like this. An embarrassing silence collapses onto the other patrons, yet none draw their gaze toward Bridget & Mr Gameshaw's table, much to the disappointment of Bridget. "Petulant?" Bridget continues to hiss loudly. "Why use works like that when you know full well I have no idea what they mean. Fine, you want me to feel stupid, I'll show you stupid!"

Bridget swings herself over to face the next table. The man in the suit is looking over an advertising leaflet with more enthusiasm than it deserves. "Good evening, Sir. My name is Bridget Brown and I am so stupid because I don't know what petulant means." The man has no idea how to react, his gaze darting between Bridget, Mr Gameshaw and the his female companion, with only Bridget returning the eye contact, accompanied with her perfectly placed smile.

"Oh," he stumbles with his words. "Petulant means..."

"I don't want to fucking know!" Bridget screams. She turns her attention to the man's companion, who is pretending to have not noticed anything going on. "Good evening, Madam. My name is Bridget Brown and I am so stupid because I don't know what petulant means." The woman shows no reaction at all, not turning her head away from the direction of the door. Bridget gets up and turns to the table behind them, where a family are celebrating a birthday. "Good evening all. My name is Bridget Brown and I am so stupid because I don't know what petulant means." She immediately turns her attention to the table next to the family, where a chubby, red faced man sits, mouth slightly ajar. "Good evening, Sir. My name is Bridget Brown and I am so stupid because I don't know what petulant means."

One by one, she approaches each of the tables in the restaurant, declaring the same sentence. When she has told every table "My name is Bridget Brown and I am so stupid because I don't know what petulant means." She returns to her own table, grabs her handbag and yells at Mr Gameshaw "There, now everyone knows just how fucking stupid Bridget Brown is. Thank your lucky stars that I didn't also tell them all that I'm really a man!" Her words echo around the silent restaurant with a sound of gasps. She turns toward the door, walking briskly, the footsteps of her heels echoing around in the silence. Just as she is about to walk out the door, two police officers enter and everyone in the restaurant hears one of them saying to the Maitre-de "We had a report of a petulant customer?

***

The taxi pulls up at the kerb and Bridget goes to pay the fare before realising that she had bought out no money of her own.

"Sorry," She tells the driver. "I'll just run up and grab my purse."

"Be quick," The driver responds. "The meters gonna' keep running."

She had intended to be quick anyway, she wishes to see the video of her secret encounter before Mr Gameshaw follows her back to the apartment and she has no idea how long he will remain alone at the restaurant after his embarrassment, but she feels that it wouldn't be too long.

She moves fast, dashing through the lobby and into the elevator, cursing the casual pace that the cabin takes taking her up to her floor. She stumbles a little with the awkwardness of attempting to walk briskly in her heels along the corridor to her front door.

Inside, she picks up the small pile of bank notes from inside her bedside cabinet. She grabs her laptop and a small jacket before dashing out of the front door. She returns back down to the lobby, looking out for Mr Gameshaw, expecting him to arrive back at the apartment at any moment. Her heart is beating quite fast now from her exertions and nervousness, she is keen to be away from Mr Gameshaw and does not wish to face his wrath. She makes it back to the taxi cab, jumps in the back seat before asking the driver to take her to Central Park.

"You got it." The cab driver responds, pulling out into the stream of traffic. Bridget glances out of the rear window in time to see another taxi pull up in the now vacant space, and inside she see's Mr Gameshaw and another figure in the seat beside him before her view is blocked a the row of parked cars. She hopes that he didn't spot her. She sighs with relief, closes her eyes and attempts to calm her rapidly beating heart, telling herself over and over that everything would be alright, that she had got away from Mr Gameshaw and that she would end their relationship.

It takes just a short while to arrive at the gates of the park, and Bridget hands over the fare to the driver. "Keep the change." She tells him, before stepping out into the fresh and damp air blowing from the park. She breaths deeply, absorbing the aroma's, enjoying the calming effect.

She makes her way into the park, along the path snaking through a small patch of trees. She sees a smaller and more secluded path leading to a sheltered bench. Thankfully, now that the sun has set, the park is much quieter, only a few people pass her as she walks along to the seat. She sits and opens the computer on her lap before starting it up and promptly opens the folder copied from Mr Gameshaw's memory card.

She clicks to play the video. The camera is fixed on the cage, Bridget sees herself, tied, helpless, blindfolded and gagged. "She's ready." She hears Mr Gameshaw's voice say. There is a click from the door, out of the view of the camera, before the back of a topless man walks into view, walking towards the cage. The man's back is muscular and strangely familiar to Bridget, she frowns to herself, confused at the sense that she knows this man, she has met him before.

He unlocks the gate and enters the cage, standing before Bridget for a long while. She remembers the moment well, the tension, her own anticipation, a thrill of unknown excitement making her shiver slightly. His arm rises, dim light dances off the rounded muscles of his shoulders and biceps, his finger begins to stroke gently over Bridget's cheek.

The camera begins to move, rising up from the tripod on which it was set, and it is carried toward the cage, passing through the door, closing in on the back of the mystery man's head as he pulls Bridget's body closer to him before nuzzling at her neck, she watches as her own body appears to sink into this man, her heart skips at the memory of her longing.

She watches as the man pushes her forcefully back against the bars of the cage, his hand grabbing at her throat, holding her, she looks at the vulnerability of herself as she tries to struggle with futility against his powerful dominance, the camera zooms into her face as her skin begins to lose the colour of oxygenated blood, turning a blue like grey. In her mind, she was held there for a long time; she remembers her worry at the time that he would grip at her neck until her death, but in the video she can see that it wasn't as long as it appeared to be at the time.

The man has let go and helped Bridget to the ground, she watches, like some strange, out of body experience, as he removes her bra and breasts, he bends over, his head buried in the side of her neck. Moving lower, his head is now at Bridget's chest, she remembers as her played with her nipples, not seen in the video because of the angle of the camera, she can see only the back of the man's head. He stands upright and pushes her head towards his groin, and the camera rotates around them, focusing in on Bridget's mouth as she begins licking at his cock. The camera rises slowly over the man's torso, passed the little metal bar of his navel piercing, over the ripples of muscles, sweat dribbling from his pores and running along the groves of his fine definition, his rounded pecks, soft with the look of gentle, fair hair. The view continues upward, over the thickness of the man's neck, his defined jaw line, his plush lips, curled upward in the satisfied grin of a man receiving a blow job. It is now that Bridget is starting to understand why it was that she had the sense that she knew this man. It couldn't be him... could it? The man's nose, slightly flat and wide, his eyes, closed, become the focus point of the camera before slowly zooming out to reveal the entirety of his beautiful face, making Bridget gasp with confusion as she slams the computer shut on her lap. There could be no denying it; her mystery man was Guy.

***

"Cherry?" Bridget asks into the payphone handset, her breath shaking.

"Fook me, Bridget!" Cherry exclaims. "Where are you?"

"I'm in New York."

"New York?"

"It's a long story..." Bridget says, unable to comprehend, even for herself, as to how she has ended up in New York.

"Are you safe?" Cherry asks, her voice expression her genuine concern.

"I..," Bridget pauses, unsure as to the answer. "I think so. I don't know."

"Why? Has Guy found you?"

"No. I'm not sure that Guy is the problem, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Cherry asks.

"Have you heard from Guy at all?" Bridget asks. She is not sure what answer she wishes to hear, it had only been five minutes ago that Guy had been her sworn enemy, a danger to her life, and now she felt as though she needed him more than ever.

"No. But there is a juicy bit of gossip going around..."

"To do with Guy? What is it?"

"Well, you know his wife, Gloria? It turns out that she is a tranny! Can you believe it?!" Bridget's mind wanders over this news; she should have come to this conclusion herself, she did already know that her mystery man's recently divorced from wife was transsexual because Mr Gameshaw had told her.

"But I always thought that she was a real woman, she certainly never gave any indication as to otherwise..."

"I know!" Cherry exclaims. "Even more shocking is the fact that she is a pre-op! She still has her little wing wang! I always thought that Guy was one hundred percent straight, but I guess he stuck it up her shitter!" Bridget winces at Cherry's crudeness, she had already started to become accustomed to more polite conversation since she had been away from the drag scene.

"Cherry, if you hear from guy at all, please let me know. I really need to talk to him."

"Okay. How can I reach you?"

"I'll text you my new mobile number later. I'm out at the moment and I've left it at my new apartment..."

"Your new apartment? Aren't you coming back?" Cherry asks, her voice quivering slightly with sadness.

"I don't know."

"Why? What's happened? Why do you need to talk to Guy?"

"I can't really explain right now; I don't have any more change for the phone box and, trust me, it's a really long story."

"Okay. Well, you take care now, d'ya hear?"

"Don't worry, I will do. I'll text you later." The line goes dead and Bridget hangs up. She jumps at the sound of a dark and gruff voice coming from behind her.

"Hello, Bridget."

She feels the same moist cloth pass over her face that she had felt in Milan before she starts to black out. Here we go again, she thinks before losing consciousness.

### Chapter Twelve

This time, she is more comfortable as she wakes. Once again, her arms are tied behind her, but there is something solid between her hands and her back. Her ankles are also tied, one to each of the front legs of a chair, she realises, as she blinks away the blindingly bright light. She is gagged, but she still tries to scream, her voice muffled and subdued carries a little distance in the empty room. She is alone. There is just one door into the small room, and the only other feature is the chair that she is tied to. The lighting is dim.

The door slowly swings open, creaking as it does so, sinisterly echoing around the empty room, starting Bridget's heart into a pulsing throb, racing her into dizziness, her breathing rapid and shallow. She tries to scream as the masked man enters the room and stands there, staring at her. Bridget's head is swirling with thoughts of confusion. Is this Guy, or another one of his accomplices? The man walks slowly toward her, and she see's in his hand that he holds a whip. She screams louder into the gag. She looks down at herself, realising that she has, once again and quite unexpectedly, gained an erection, which is poking the material of her dress up into a tent. In fact, she is screaming, and feeling rather aroused. She wishes the man in the mask to be Guy, she thinks that it is, he has the same shape body.

The man paces around her, slowly, each heavy step that he makes echo's around the room. He is now standing directly behind her, and a sudden crack of the whip to one side of Bridget makes her jump. He begins pacing again, walking round to face her. He leans in, bringing his face close to Bridget's. His arm rises, the tip of his finger touches the skin of her cheek softly, sparking a tingle that runs down Bridget's spine, making her shake.

Please, just rip my clothes off and touch my body!

His finger runs down, passing over her chin, over the centre of her chest, under her dress, and down below the join of her bra. Using just the one finger he pulls her forward, as far forward as her restraints will let her go, pushing his groin toward her face, she see's that he is also aroused, the thickness of his penis throbbing into his tight fitting denim jeans, pushing into the side of Bridget's face. He cracks the whip again, making her jump, and pushes her back as he himself steps back, cracking the whip again which flicks on the floor between Bridget's legs, making her look at him, wide eyed with fear, as he grunts and rubs his cock.

This is so fucking hot!

He steps forward again, using one of his thick hands to hold her at the neck, squeezing, allowing the panic to set into her body and mind, she struggles against it, but he is too strong. His other hand has gone inside her open dress, one of his fingers slides her panties to one side, and he rubs the line behind her sack, down, further, until she feels the heat of his flesh pushing at the entrance to her, forcing himself into her, fast and hard, in and out, over and over, all the while he still holds onto her throats as she gasps for air and writhes her body against him. Her own penis is solid, she wants for him to touch her there, right now, she feels ready to explode. As if reading her mind, he rips off his mask, revealing his face, as he looks deep into her eyes with lustful intent before ducking his head down and taking her penis into his mouth, sending her instantly into the spasm of orgasm, each pulse of her ejaculation electrifying her body. He releases his grip on her throat, making her attempt to gasp, but she still has the gag on.

Please! I need to breath!

The hand that was holding her neck finds its way around to the back of her head, fumbling for the latch, which he finds just as Bridget's eyesight fades into darkness, and as the gag falls to the floor, she both gasps for air at the same time as groaning with ecstasy.

Before she can catch her breath, Guy has stood upright, releasing his own penis from the restraints of his clothing, forcing his way into her mouth, his hand clutching the back of her wig as he forces his way deeper into her, pushing against her throat, making her wretch, before he himself releases his hot load, his cock throbbing into her mouth.

He pulls out of her and leans down to whisper in her ear.

"Now the real fun begins." He says with a growl, cracking the whip once again. "You do remember the safe word, don't you?"

Safe word?

Bridget's mind races, memories of her night in the cage, but she does not recollect any mention of a safe word.

"From the look on your face, Bridget, I guess that you don't. It's 'antidisestablishmentarianism'. Shall we continue?" He says, grinning and giving another crack of the whip.

"What? I.. Guy, I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about." Bridget manages to say, unsure by the situation which she is in.

"It was in the contract."

"But I never had a contract from you. Not unless you are talking about the contract for the show, and I don't remember anything being in there about any safe word?"

"No, not the show contract. The other contract, the one that I asked Mr Gameshaw to get you to sign. You did sign it, didn't you? I have got a copy, and it's got your signature on it."

"What? I don't understand...," Bridget's mind is still spinning. She thinks back to London, Mr Gameshaw's house. She hadn't read the contract that he had given her. "But, that was a contract between me and Mr Gameshaw."

"You didn't read it, did you?" Guy asks, a look of concern filling his face.

"No, I didn't. I thought it was just some power trip for Mr Gameshaw and I couldn't have cared less about what it said, no contract like that would be valid in a court."

"It wasn't a legal contract, Bridget! Oh shit, what have we done to you? I thought that you had agreed to all this?" Guy says, panic setting in his voice.

"I don't understand! What was in the bloody contract?"

"It was about the rules of our game, Bridget. The rules of our sex game! I thought you had been playing a bit too hard by involving the police, but I went along with it because I thought that was how you liked to play."

"Sex game!" Bridget yells. "I've been playing your sex game!"

"I'm so sorry, Bridget, please. It wasn't meant to be like this, I thought you had understood, I thought that you had enjoyed it..." Guy's face drops with sorrow, filling Bridget's heart with pity.

"I did enjoy it." Bridget replies. "Well, I enjoyed the actual sex part, anyway. The rest of your game has destroyed my life, but the sex is... well, in fact, the best that I've ever had. But why didn't you talk to me about it?"

"It takes away the fun. I liked to see the fear in your eyes; it was what turned me on about you, Bridget. You always had the same look in your eyes before you performed in the show, I could resist it no longer. The night that I spanked you, you got so angry and I was mad that I might have fucked things up between us."

"So you followed me up to Edinburgh?"

"Yep. I was mad with lust for you. I went crazy. When I bumped into my old friend, Frank, or Mr Gameshaw as you call him, he had an idea for us to play the game with you, for old time's sake."

"You've done this before?"

"Once, a few years ago. It ended badly, Frank likes to push people too far. I like to play games with people, but he likes to hurt them. At first, when I agreed to play the game with you, I was angry with you, but then, later, after that night in the cage in Milan, all I could think of was saving you. I was upset that you were still playing the game, I wanted you to say the safe word so that we could stop the game and get away from Frank Gameshaw. I had no idea that you didn't know anything about it."

"But, Guy, you've fucked up my life! I've had to deal with the embarrassment and humiliation of that video which you posted on youtube!"

Guy laughs a little. "Oh, come on Bridget, that was funny! Besides, public humiliation turns you on, doesn't it?"

Public humiliation? The suggestion has confused her. She thinks back over the last few weeks, thinking over all the humiliation which she had suffered. Her eyes grow wide with the realisation of what it is that has been happening.

"Did you and Mr Gameshaw engineer all of my humiliation?"

Guy laughs again. "Not all of it, no. But most of it. When I watched the video back of your last show at the bar, I saw you start to get an erection when you realised that one of your balls was hanging out. I got the impression that is what you were into?"

Bridget's mind reels over what it is that Guy is saying. She has to admit that he has a point; until that humiliating event, she had not achieved even a wink of an erection in over seven years, maybe Guy has a point. "Well, I suppose you might be right." She thinks over the other humiliations, reminding herself of the incident at the airport, which fills her with fury.

"Do you mean to tell me that the humiliation that I suffered as I tried to pass through the airport, being stopped as a terrorist and all that bother, was because of you?"

"Actually, it was half me and half just coincidence. You see, it was purely accidental that you had that bit of computer stuck in you, none us knew. I went to the airport earlier that day to beat you to Milan, not realising that you had involved the police. When I tried to pass through the security, I was stopped and taken in for questioning. I was later released and transferred onto the same flight as you, and when I saw you behind me in the queue to pass through security, I told the security man that you had been behaving quite strangely, hoping that it would slow you down and that you wouldn't discover me. It was just coincidence that they took my suggestion so seriously after you set the alarms ringing with the computer still inside you!"

Bridget thinks to the incident, thinking of what the doctor had told her in the hospital. "You may not know this," She says. "But I think that you saved my life. You see, because of that stupid computer chip, I had developed some blood poisoning, but because it was discovered so early, it was easy to treat. If you hadn't of tipped of the security people, then the poisoning may have even killed me."

She thinks of how lucky she was, in such a roundabout way, Guy had bought her that luck and had unintentionally saved her, but she is still struggling against the other problems which he has caused her.

"But that doesn't mean that I forgive you; I have no career left, thanks to the embarrassment you caused me."

"Don't worry about that, Bridget. I have a proposition for you; I think that you are better than just another one of those drag queens, you are more powerful, smart and brave than the others. I want you to be the head of entertainment when I reopen the bar in London."

"You're reopening the bar?" Bridget asks, her heart skipping with excitement.

"Yes, after the expansion and refurbishment. It's going to be the largest cabaret venue in London, and I want you to make sure that we put on a good show."

"What's the pay?" Bridget asks, regretting her cold tone the second she says it.

"Whatever you want it to be. You'll also get a big bonus if you sleep with the boss." Guy says, winking at her with a cute smile.

Bridget remains silent, she holds some anger towards Guy; he has made her life a misery over the last few weeks. But he has done it thinking that she was also playing their dirty little game. She had to admit, she had been turned on by it all, achieving orgasmic pleasure beyond what she thought possible.

"Come on, Bridget. What do you say? Will you end this game and start a new life with me?"

Her heart twists, pulling her into a longing desire, her need for Guy's touch on her skin, the offer of moving up in her career.

"Please, Bridget, end the game." Guy says, his eyes welling up as he stares deeply into Bridget.

She takes a deep breath. "Antidisestablishmentarianism." She says with a smile.

Guy grins wide before leaning in and kissing her gently on the lips.

"I love you, Bridget Brown."

THE END

### Thank You For Reading!

I hope that you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please remember to leave a rating at your favourite retailer.
