She had trained as a legal secretary, but had proved unable to endure the tedium. Now she translated his hurried, staccato offer into legalese: Between

Penelope Smith (‘the Service Provider’) of the first part and Michael James Hope (‘the Client’) of the second part, it is hereby agreed as follows:

When he dashed in again that night, he said, ‘Still here then?’

She showed him what she had written, expecting a laugh, or a snigger, or at least some sign of humour. Instead he nodded, took out a pen and signed.

When he gave her the pen, she signed as well.

All went according to plan. She thought of him as an over-sexed robot, but was able to tolerate the arrangement mostly because he was out of the house for at least twelve hours a day, working the phones and the email from tax-exempt Gibraltar, and thinking up more stupid ideas for making money out of still more stupid people. At night, she stayed in her room watching DVDs and Sky TV. When he wanted her, he called her on the house intercom. When he was finished, she went back to her own bed.

She came to understand the reference to drugs in the contract. He used some kind of speed while he was at work, and in the evenings when he wanted to slow down he used some kind of muscle relaxant. And, of course, like all good geeks, he loved marijuana. On Friday nights, he would take something stronger: a morphine-based tranquilizer which made him almost catatonic. His penis was the only organ still functioning. He would lie on his back with a deeply smug look on his face and tell her what he wanted in a hoarse whisper.

Even the bondage and flagellation were not as humiliating as she’d expected. That was because she was a tad partial to both, so long as they were done right. She’d once had a boyfriend who was adept at making a girl horny. He had whispered in her ear, whilst working her clitoris, about how he was going to tie her up to a tree and rape her; make her meet him in a dark alley wearing only a raincoat and have her against a rough brick wall; put her on all fours and whip her while he plunged deep inside her. In the event, he had done none of these things, perhaps because the stories and the finger work made her come in less than five minutes—but the seeds had been sown.

So when the Robot decided it was time to enforce that part of the contract, she wasn’t too fearful. She was surprised he had the good taste to purchase thick velvet bonds with which he tied her hands and feet to the bed—she had been afraid thin nylon string would leave telltale marks. With all responsibility for everything taken from her shoulders, she found she could relax while he plunged away. Not for very long, though, the process raised such a stalk on him, he was finished in minutes.

The flagellation was the same, only more so. It seemed to her she had hardly roused herself to get on all fours and receive a half dozen tentative slaps with the whip—not more than harsh caresses really—when he expired in a heap and called for his dope. It was, of course, the state of dominance he craved. He was a control freak but not a violent man at all.

She did not know any other prostitutes, so could not compare experiences. She admitted that in terms of the retail of flesh, her situation was more Harrods than Tesco, but speaking only for herself, she had never had an easier job. Most of the time he was able to stimulate her enough for intercourse. When she was dry and not in the mood, she applied KY Jelly immediately after the fifteen-minute warning. He never lasted a full hour no matter what the variations.

She really didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Surely women had been doing this one way or another for the hundred thousand years humans had been on earth? She could imagine herself in a previous incarnation as a cavewoman giving head in return for boiled mammoth knuckle. It was money for old rope—and best of all, she didn’t have to cook or clean the house. He always ate takeaway from the box, and a Spanish maid, whom Penny supervised in an indulgent way, came three times a week. In return, the maid accorded her the full respect due to a rich man’s pampered mistress.

The months passed, she spent not a penny of her salary and enjoyed passing time on the beach during the day reading romantic historical novels to which she was addicted. Quite a few men showed an interest in her when she lay in her bikini on a towel—she was under thirty, pretty with a voluptuous body and owned that magic something which said ‘good in bed’—but she brushed them off, not only to keep faith with the contract, but because most of the time she was sexually exhausted. He may have been a sprinter more than a long distance runner, but the Robot was perpetually aroused by having a non-nagging sex slave at his command, and—looking at it from a slightly deeper point of view—obviously had no idea what to do with his fellow human beings other than to fuck them, whether virtually in Gib or literally in Sotto Grande. Only one thing intrigued her. He had made group sex a specific requirement, but so far there had been no sign of it. She was soon to realize why.

‘We’re going to Bangkok,’ he snapped.

‘When?’

‘Day after tomorrow. Got two first-class ticks from Rabat via Dubai—better than bloody London. We’ll get whatever’s going from here to Rabat.

Ferry, then a limo, prob’ly. Start tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘See, I don’t have the energy for threesomes while I’m working. This is vac time. Don’t worry, I only go for pretty ones. Might want a few holiday pix though.’