Voluntary Surrender of Rights Ch. 02

Veronica first had an email exchange with another therapist before going shopping. Greg had sent her both manuscripts of his new books. Another therapist had sent a message and the main exchange was arranging a time for them to meet. The only real time available was the next afternoon and that was arranged.

She was quick because she knew what she wanted and found Greg's house without difficulty, by ten am she stopped in front of his gate that opened on a remote control with Greg pushing the button. She had a feeling her little Ford hatchback was going to drag the property values down as Tesla, BMW, Mercedes, and SAAB were the most popular vehicle brands in the driveways and along the sidewalks. Greg's Mercedes G Wagon was at the low end of the spectrum.

The house itself was beautiful. Set back from the road, slightly smaller than the others in the street it had a front garden where the others fronted on the street. A driveway ran along the side with a small narrow garden away from the house that was mostly lawn although there were shrubs against the fence beyond which the town basically stopped. Greg was setting a flower bed out, the old flowers pulled up and tossed into a wheel barrow. He was obviously feeling good, he smiled and kissed her cheek as he helped her out of her car.

Dressed in a khaki kilt with the same color socks, old leather boots, and a white shirt he made Veronica's vagina spasm instantly. He rested his hands lightly on her hips as he kissed her making her inhale to stop herself jumping him. Veronica herself felt wonderful, her ex had left so fast that he left most of his stupid guy stuff behind. Greg was an incredible guy to get, she was getting an outline of how to go forward in their relationship.

"What are you planting?" She asked after they greeted.

"Flowers, poppies, not the opium type. I would love some of those to give the girl scouts trying to sell me cookies an education." He replied sadly.

"Greg... that sort of thing is illegal here."

Veronica remembered her rule about him being Slave in private belatedly. They were both going to need to get used to that. She wasn't going to push that yet though.

"I know that, maybe Jasmine? There is a reason why the Persians used it as the symbol of truth. A strong Jasmine tea poultice on an open wound is something very close to the truth serums and stuff the CIA use. The bonus is that you can still use the person afterwards."

Veronica stared at him. He was serious about that. How he would know that didn't seem a good idea to find out now. She asked to see the rest of the garden first though. The back garden was bigger and she had not really expected anything. It was still a surprise though. Had she thought about it she might have envisioned a commando obstacle course an English country garden, what she found was that there were children's toys all over the back garden on a lawn, a sand pit, some swings, a see saw, and a jungle gym.

"A playground?"

"The strippers, lets refer to them as that, have children. The day care centers in town are judgmental and do not keep the kind of hours they do. So I let them park their children here while they work, as a favor. They club together for child minders and that's it. There are three rooms in the house given over to the children."

Veronica had to admire the man. He saw the need and helped without question.

"Don't the neighbors complain?"

"No. Most of them are customers of the young ladies, and a few are the young ladies."

Veronica had another educational moment at that revelation. She was quiet as Greg dumped the old flowers in a composting bin and put his garden tools away in a shed at the back of the garden. The house itself was beautiful. Three rooms at the back were entirely devoted to children with sleeping mats in one, little tables and chairs with crayons and paper in another with a television to watch cartoons, the third was a little library. The kitchen was common between Greg and the children, it was spotless and beautifully equipped. The pantry was full, and fresh fruit and vegetables were set out and available. There was no study, being given over to children. But there was a lounge the artwork on the walls was obviously not Greg, being prints and the kind of material you would find in hotel suites. She noted the bookshelves filled with books, the coffee table actually bare, the antique furniture built to survive wars. There were two bathroom, one the children used and another much with a shower and a bath.

"The ladies are moving their day care soon, next week I think. The Madam there is retiring from the club and opening her home. It's closer to the club, and has a bigger garden, it's a bigger house too." Greg said as they stood in the hall with a closet and a staircase going up.

There was another staircase going into the cellar hidden in what had looked like a cupboard under the stairs. Down there was the laundry, the central heating and airconditioning, three store rooms with all sorts of things inside, an old safe inside a very securely locked room that also accommodated the security system and a nasty arsenal. The arsenal did not surprise Veronica, what was in it did. She saw a real machine gun, a grenade launcher and some rocket propelled grenades. That Greg had bought it all locally and legally was only a mild shock.

Upstairs was devoted to bedrooms. Two were furnished as bedrooms. One was an office, one was a studio and kitchenette. She looked at the master bedroom, a huge queen size bed on an antique frame with incredibly solid head and footboards. Spanish looking with brass studs and fixtures she could easily imagine tying Greg down and having her way with him. The ensuite bathroom was fantastic, a shower with five sprays and a small Jacuzzi hot tub with lovely cream coffee tiles. The second furnished bedroom was a double bed, without its own bathroom but a huge closet. The walls were papered in pale green with the dark teak floor giving a fantastic visual effect, the bath room for the other rooms upstairs was function, not more could be said, aside from that it was also beautifully tiled.

"There is an attic, a large one actually, it has allowance for another bathroom, kitchen and two rooms. At the moment it has remains in."

Visions of skeletons and police questions came to Veronica's mind.

"What remains?"

"Mostly of a children's playroom. From about eighty years ago. The rest is remains of old furniture, collections of things like butterflies."

That relieved Veronica.

"Get rid of it." She said.

"Can't do that alone, the windows don't open and access is up this very narrow ladder." Greg pointed to the ceiling.

It was narrow and looked like it would fall apart easily if you put too much weight on it. She decided to leave that for now. Instead she had a look at the studio, north facing windows, as opposed to the South facing windows of the bedrooms. Additionally the floor was a massive contrast to the rest of the house. Where the teak floorboards were beautifully polished and clean the floor in that room was paint spattered in a variety of colors that made an M&M box look drab. She could see where Greg usually stood to paint, his paints were everywhere in the room as were the cleaning materials. It was a strangely gorgeous counterpoint to the rest of the house that was spotless. She wandered around the room, this was the one room with his personality stamped all over it. The four pieces in progress stood on easels in the middle of messed paint. Each was shaping up to be beautiful, as opposed to other modern artists he painted in extreme detail. Weirdly there was an oven thermometer beside one piece, the type you stuck into a roast and that told you how your roast was cooked.

"What is this for? Don't say roasts."

"I often paint layers then scratch through the layers to get depth and various colors very close together like the grass on the race course on that one. That is a perfect tool to do it for that piece."

"There isn't a tool for that?"

"Yes, you're holding it."

"It's a thermometer." Veronica felt there was some aspect missing in Greg's understanding.

"Yes, it's a multipurpose tool."

"You couldn't buy a scratcher or something?"

"Yes I did, that thermometer... Ronnie, life is full of improvisation. It's seldom about what something was designed for, it's about what you can do with it, how you can turn something of limited use into something vital. This house has bullet proof windows, an air conditioning system that could filter air against a poison gas attack, the doors are blast resistant; it was designed to withstand a terrorist or law enforcement attack. The intended use was to debrief agents, interrogate enemy agents, and either protect or dispose of witnesses. Yet it got used as a day care center for prostitute's children."

Veronica understood his point, he did not waste time looking for something if he could make something else do the same job. She also noticed his slip and smiled.

"We're going to need to work on the Mistress and Slave thing." She said.

"Yes we are... Mistress. Would you like coffee or a drink?" He said quietly.

"Coffee please. Bring it to the office... Slave."

Veronica had a look at the desk and computer while Greg made coffee. He had tried to work out his income, the numbers staggered Veronica as he took income over the last year and averaged it in a huge calculation on a spreadsheet that was open on his computer. He dealt in eight different currencies, across four continents, and from a variety of sources paying into even more bank accounts. What was clear was that his American income was more per week than she earned per quarter. Glancing at his desk she saw a pad with complimentary notes and a huge exclamation at the bottom of the page: FUCK! REMEMBER THE FUCKING BOOKS AND ART!

Smiling she checked his email. There was a folder called Rubbish and another called Trash. She looked at the rubbish, every email was from his step sister and unread. Another folder called Family had messages from family, most had been read. There was a folder regarding his books, invitations to go on speaking and book signing tours, requests from bidding writers to use his characters and settings, requests to turn his books into movies or television series. Each had been answered, politely. He declined the signing tours, he politely allowed other writers to use his work, and he had reservations about turning his books into films. He pointed out that a lot of what he would put into a film who be stomach churning visually, that few actors might consider a role such as his leads to be good for a career, and he refused to tailor his stories to suit an actor or studio.

She carried on reading when he brought the coffee in and waited, standing beside the desk. She realized that he was waiting for permission to sit. Quietly happy that he was trying when she was still finding her feet she asked him to sit beside her. He had joined the site where the BDSM questionnaire was but she did not go and check if he had filled it in. It was a good place to start though.

"I have decided that we will both engage in counseling. There is a therapist who deals in BDSM relationships. We are going to see her tomorrow afternoon. I want to take my research about you to her for feedback."

"Its public record. I have a version of my army record here too. It's the real record, just sanitized... uhm mostly to protect the guilty."

"Innocent, names are changed or redacted to protect to protect the innocent." Veronica said.

"No, what do they need protection from? The guilty, now they need protection from the innocent mostly. From other guilty parties too, very often. The guilty are way more useful to armies and governments that innocent and blameless people who only pay minor amounts of tax. In some very real ways the guilty protect the innocent because the innocent people just have no idea of what really happens."

"Where is your record.... Oh and this, surely you have an accountant who could give you a simple picture."

"I have two, but one is in England and the other is in Singapore. Neither work on Saturday night or Sundays." Greg said getting his record out of a desk drawer.

"Get hold of them tomorrow then. Go and make us some lunch."

Veronica read the file which turned out to be two, the file from Kenya was sketchy and a sub section of his British Army file. She scanned and sent it to the therapist while she read a compilation of what had happened with his involvement. There was a picture of the aid with her tits pinned to her desk. The image was strangely beautiful, Veronica took in the shattered expression first. The woman knew her life was over, this was just the start. The two bicycle spokes were exactly evenly high off the table, makeshift handles of duct tape and window caulking had allowed Greg to put enough power into the thrusts to do that. There was blood, a lot of it, she had tried to move, her breasts had started tearing from the effort. She was in pure agony what nobody had mentioned was that her hands had been pinned to the desk with spike files too. Every line in her body was taught in the pain. She was staring at the camera no fury in her eyes, just a broken person pleading with the photographer to get her out of this, her nipples taught, willing to give her body to not have the tortures to come inflicted on it. She was breathing quicker in wonder at the picture when the therapist called her.

"This file is your slave's combat record....Jeez. That woman is giving me ideas!" she said.

"I didn't know you were in your office. That's nothing. You should see what has been done to him by his own fucking family!"

"I work from home, you have a seriously damaged puppy there."

"He has a Cambridge doctorate. Nobody may read his thesis about interrogation. Do you read novels? Try reading his."

"What did he write?"

Veronica told her and the therapist took note. She had heard of him and even got one of his novels because it had been part of a deal on the internet with a whole lot of other books she wanted on Kindle. They hung up. And Veronica looked at crime scene pictures of the landmine blast when he was twelve. The statement said that he saw it happen. She looked at the devastation, the bodies scattered around, and read how he had needed to lift landmines and booby traps to get to the wounded and injured. Even a fully equipped platoon would have failed to rescue one person.

She was thinking when Greg called her. Any arousal at being here, Greg looking awesome in his kilt, was gone. What she was thinking was why on earth he wanted to have her. She had nothing in terms of experience, money, or even looks to give him. Feeling incredibly minor and frightened she went to have lunch with Greg.

"Why me?" Veronica asked as Greg served lamb chops with mashed potatoes, peas, and baby carrots topped with a lovely thick and creamy gravy.

"You always make me feel like I'm home... Strange because I never felt at home before. The first day we met I was knackered. I had just run away, wanting to die from the pains, the assholes trying to snap me out of depression, the doctor throwing opiates at me... you walked into the bar as I was considering hiking the Catskills without a backpack. You asked what I was drinking and chatted. And I felt at peace. When you left I felt rested, and that there was somebody worth living for. You scare the shit out of me Ronnie, you scare me because I know you're as tough as I am, you just never needed to be. You scare me because I need you. You scare me because you know how to love and I do not; I'm frightened that I cannot give you what you would need and put me away."

Veronica watched emotions reach his eyes for the first time as he spoke. He really was scared, he was lonely; he was also in love with her. All these emotions flashed through his eyes. He did need her, that flickered through his eyes, he needed her far more than he wished to admit. Despite the money, the social ability and skills, despite the raw intelligence; he had stayed on the fringe of society, partly out of his very private nature, partly out of his distrust of people; until she got him to start changing. He knew he needed to change too be happy, he just had no idea how.

"What if I don't want you to be my slave? What if I just need a good husband?"

"That's fine, then make me that. We can have arguments about taking the trash out or which TV program to watch, we can argue about schools for kids, we can have a fight because I left the toilet seat up if you like. We can indulge in corridor sex too if you wish."

"What is corridor sex?" she asked puzzled.

"You stand at one end and I at the other, we scream fuck you at each other and slam doors."

Veronica laughed at that. It broke the tension and showed the man who thought so far ahead and found a joke in the midst of it all. She had her lunch with him, complimenting his cooking because it was good. He confessed that he had a chef at the town's best restaurant cook it and had it delivered with final instructions.

She took Greg upstairs and made love with him through the afternoon and into the evening. To her unashamed delight she found out that the stories about what scots wore under their kilts were true. He proved to be incredibly fit and had wonderful rhythm. He could vary his strength thrust as she needed for best pleasure. And he could hold himself in only cumming when she had had enough. She lay on the bed beside him feeling more thoroughly fucked than ever before and smiled at him, letting him snooze, she decided that she really wanted to own him as he slept. Analyzing this she realized that giving gifts of love was just one aspect, she needed to own him and he needed to be owned. She considered him more clearly with her sexual needs met too, he was not a badly damaged personality despite everything he had been through, just one who knew what he needed without knowing how to get it.

Before going home, with hookers bringing their children to daycare, she took the overnight bag and shopping out of her car. The first was a chastity cage, she merely showed it to him, and had Greg try it on; not liking it she decided to order another off the internet. Next she told him to throw his old underwear out and replaced with panties. She gave him her bracelet to wear. She gave him three of her camisoles and told him to wear those every day under his shirt. Then she took out the bottle that had served as a funnel and told him to put it on the mantelpiece. Last she took out new nighties for him to sleep in.

They went to the therapist on Monday afternoon in his car. Veronica reviewed what she had achieved through the day. She had bought the dormant company, given notice at her apartment. She had finally got a breakthrough with the nice couple on the verge of divorce, by drawing it out of the husband that he wanted his wife to give him corporal punishment when he screwed up rather than a lot of shouting and rejection. Veronica could now focus on the wife to get her to discipline her husband, something that was quite easy given the wife's reaction.

She had been in a long telephone chat with the therapist who had blown her nose loudly after Veronica told her about Greg's confession on the boat and their first date. The sheer romance and honesty pulled at her heartstrings. The chat over lunch, the humiliation of her ex, had the therapist eager to meet them.

"Who is this therapist Mistress? If I may ask." Greg broke into her thoughts.

"Dr. Angelica Delaglio." Veronica replied noting that Mistress was coming to Greg much more easily.

He was wearing her bracelet and she could see her camisole under his shirt. Obviously he was taking her seriously. She would take him seriously too then.

"She also operates as Professor Margot De Maroonette, she used to anyway, she was a dominatrix in Leeds when I was at Cambridge. She was also a lecturer in psychology at Leeds University. Her field was training psychology. I attended her course when I was in the army."