Bought By The Billionaire

My Master leads me through the long hallway, to the back of the house, past the kitchens, and to the rear staircase.

Once of a day, this staircase would have been for the use of servants only, so that their lords and masters did not have to pass them on the main, and much more glamorous, front staircase. Dark and dingy, it leads up to storerooms, utility areas and the rear servants’ access to the upper hallway. Also, I now realise, it must lead down too.

An oak door blocks the way, the timber ancient, and looking capable of holding off the Hordes of Genghis Khan.

My Master winks at me with an air of mystery, then produces a large skeleton key. “This is our private area.” The lock sticks and then grinds open. “I must get some oil on this.” he mutters.

The door swings back, and cool damp air wafts out. Cellars?

Of course, cellars. A house like this would have had butteries, cold storage rooms, the butler’s pantry, laundry areas. And they would all be in the basement areas, where the gentry would never go.

We descend a flight of uneven stone steps, dimly lit by a single bulb, to a long, arched hallway. Stone flagged and chilly, also badly lit, it leads perhaps fifty yards before ending in what looks like a small chapel. Looking up, the barrel-vaulted ceilings are quite beautiful. Several large wooden doors lead off the corridor to right and left. A glimmer of what my Master intends begins to dawn on me.

His mouth twitching at the corners, he waves me forward. “Want to explore?”

Do I! Yes indeedy!

first door to my left creaks open, and specks of rust fall off corroded hinges. It seems to be an old laundry. Stone troughs, with hand pumps, sit side by side with an enormous washing machine straight out of the 1950s. A smell of oil

complicated machinery weaves through cobwebs draped with the dust of years. A

comments “All of this downstairs area needs refurbishing. We’ll get in the builders and decorators when you have decided what you would like to

the immensity of what my Master has given me. But it occurs to me

in my Master. Expectation? What is

sconces and holders. A fire burns in a huge hearth at the far end of the room, its flames casting shadows, that dance and play over stone walls cleaned and polished to a gleaming finish. Thick rugs scattered over the stone flag floor absorb the

are gleaming. Then I step into the room, taking in more of the

Huge metal rings embedded in the vaulting suggest that whole carcasses might have one hung there, ready to butcher. Then I see the huge embedded meat hooks alongside them, confirming my thoughts. Now, knowing my Master’s……. inclinations…. I know there is

of the arched stone ceilings, it must have been brought into the room in pieces. It looks old. Solid timber, perhaps oak, posts, dark with age, spiral up from the floor to cross-bars which support

room, my Master is behind me, holding me close by the

delicate silk fabric rips apart as he pulls the remains of the garment down from my shoulders and off. My skirt is harder for him, but my Master is a strong man. Seizing the waistband, he tears it apart

wonder how much of my wardrobe will remain by the end of our honeymoon. When I have protested his treatment of my clothes in the past, my Master has simply commented that it is one of the privileges of wealth. What do I think he

stockings, he marches me to the middle of the room, centred between two of the ceiling rings. “Arms up.” he instructs, not smiling

like that.” he orders, before going to one of

left wrist. The cuff is padded with a soft suede and it won’t dig in, but never would I escape these. The snug way they fit