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!

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.

draped with the dust of years. A couple of drying racks

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

the immensity of what my Master has given me. But it occurs to me that these dilapidated rooms, for all their dust and cobwebs, would make wonderfully atmospheric dining rooms for dinner parties. I move on to the

my Master. Expectation? What is

the chill damp, which has greeted me from the previous chambers, warm air washes over me. The room is warm and glowingly lit, with dozens of fat candles, their light reflecting from polished brass sconces and holders. A fire burns in a

glance back at my Master. His eyes are gleaming. Then I step into the room, taking in more of

a meat store. Long stone slabs of shelves, some with boxes and containers, line one wall. 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

huge bed, a four-poster. Only just fitting under the highest point 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

able to fully explore this wonderful room, my Master is behind me, holding me

From behind his fingers slide into the front of my blouse, and pull, hard. Buttons fly in all directions and 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

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

marches me to the middle of the room, centred between two of the ceiling rings.

“Stay like that.” he orders, before going to one of the stone shelves and taking

metal cuffs. Holding my eyes as he does so, my Master clips one end to a ceiling ring. The other is snapped onto my left wrist. The cuff is padded with a soft suede and it won’t dig in, but never would I escape these. The