making a millionaire (with EuphoricDysphoria)

It was the first time Pavel had flown back from Kiev without having made a new movie with a woman.

He was surprised at himself. He was becoming obsessed. Why, even now, despite the long journey he didn't intend to go home and sleep it off, as he usually did.

He wanted to go to the office, and see Portia.

He had made a resolution. A stock option he'd been awarded five years ago, as part of the financing deal for his startup – stupid British private equity managers, probably thought he'd never reach those targets in, what was the English phrase, a month of Sundays? - A stock option was about to bear fruit. A cool million. And a little more. What need did he have of it? Whereas Portia...


In the cab from Heathrow he looked out of the window at passing cars, seeking out the pretty women. Desire had always been a strange flame in him, something he'd deliberately stopped himself associating with particular women. It would be too dangerous. He'd recognised that from early age, when he'd almost killed a girl without really meaning to.

So he'd paid for what he wanted, to women who had too much to lose to complain if he went farther than they had expected or agreed to.

And the dotcom business – toonzit.com – meant he could pay well. A few Ukrainian programmers, a handful of front-office staff in London – he paid them lavishly and still made plenty of profit for his private equity posh boys and himself.

Blah, blah the weather, that was all the cabbie kept wanting to talk about. Still a few miles to Hoxton. Pavel put the buds of his iPod in his ears. He was listening to Portia's music. His shuffle was an exact copy of what was in hers. He wanted to get inside her head.

Why?

She was good-looking, yes. Striking. He'd thought that the first time they'd met, less than two months ago, when the pr firm had made the presentation to him.

The next week he'd put her on the payroll and got his usual source to find out everything about her.

And there was plenty to learn. About her debts; her druggie boyfriend; the little improvements to reality on her cv.

All in good time. All in good time.

There were only half a dozen or so of them in the Hoxton loft, open-plan, to share ideas: the two designers, the marketing man, the accountant, the pa, and Pavel – and Portia, in the desk opposite his.

As soon as she'd begun sitting there – was it only six weeks ago – he'd known he had to have her.

And soon he would.


There were pleasantries, business to take care of. He barely glanced at Portia for a while, catching up on emails, Kaz the pa's list of important messages, updates from Kiev, a call to Tom the marketing man over in Amsterdam to spread the word.

So it was late in the afternoon before he allowed himself a moment to stop by her desk. He liked the scent of her: he stood behind her for a moment, while she finished a phone call, then she became conscious of him standing there, and pushed a stray hair away from her face as she ended her call. He said: 'Kaz has got me a table at the Red Dog for 7. There's some stuff we couold go through over a barbecue. Nothing you can't cancel, I hope?'

And he smiled: and walked away before she could answer, so that if she wanted to demur it would be difficult, and anyway at that moment his mobile rang, 'Dmitri, yeh? Still in the office, free till 7...'

A moan of protestation arose from beneath the duvet as Portia flipped on her hair-dryer. She scowled in its general direction.

"So what fucking time did you get in last night?" She snapped at her boyfriend, Ricardo.

He cracked one eye open at her, an eye that was visibly bloodshot, the pupils still far too dilated.

"I made some good money last night."

"Yeah? Got your half of the rent?"

"There was this game... I couldn't pass it up and-"

"And now you're broke." She cut in. Ricardo did security work at a nightclub. Portia suspected him of dealing there but he always vehemently denied it and she didn't have the time or energy for another blazing row. Aside from her and cocaine his third love was poker and there was always an underground game going on, usually for stakes he really couldn't afford.

He flung the covers back and stalked to the en-suite, where he urinated noisily. Portia carefully straightened her hair, snapping the ceramic plates together as though she was imagining Ricardo's cock was in between them. He marched wordlessly to the kitchen and came back a short while later with two steaming mugs of tea. He placed one next to her and took a swig from the other before dumping it on the nightstand. His hot lips and tongue suddenly connected with Portia's spine, at the back of her neck. He trailed a line of fire to behind her ear, even though she was determined to stay mad at him.

"I won the game." He murmured. "I'm over a grand up." He smiled as the tension went out of her. "I'm taking you out for dinner tonight." His hands cupped her breasts through the bra and she arched slightly before she caught herself.

"Stop it Rick! I have to get to work." Portia shook him off, swept her hair up into a loose knot and turned her attention to her make-up. Ricardo retrieved his jeans from the night before and peeled notes from a sizeable wad, pushing some into her bra cups and the gusset of her thong while Portia tried valiantly to apply eye-liner without looking like a clown.

"Buy yourself something scandalous."

Ricardo flopped back into the bed and lounged against the pillows, stroking himself lazily while his girlfriend yanked cash from her undies and dressed hastily in a fitted black suit and grey top. Her favourite towering power shoes completed the look and elevated her to about average height.

But how often do you actually win?

Portia swallowed down the retort and kissed Rick swiftly on the lips before planting another brief kiss on his cockhead. She crossed the room and grabbed her handbag.

"Giovanni's at half six?"

"Italian food? Are you trying to make obese?" Portia looked horrified, despite the fact she loved Italian food and wine.

"Fine, Sushi then... or Thai?"

"If you're flush, Teppanyaki." She announced. "Matsuri's."

"Restaurant whore." He teased. Portia raised an eyebrow playfully and swept from the room.


A friend had first told her about the vacancy at toonzit and so Portia had had a headstart on the other applicants. She had done her research, pitched her slightly enhanced CV just right and the rest had been history. It was walking distance from the apartment she shared with Rick and the PR was on a level she hadn't worked in before, a definite step up and nearly £10K on the salary she'd earned at her last post, in a more junior position than she'd claimed. The dress code at toonzit was something else again and Portia had had to max her plastic in order to look like she'd already been earning a comparable salary for some time.

She smoked a cigarette as she battled her way through busy London streets. Gone were the days when Portia ate breakfast. Her iPod blared The Black Keys, Hell of a Season, a track that suited her increasingly ambivalent feelings about Ricardo.

When she reached toonzit's HQ, she breezed straight into the building and up to the loft. Pavel was at his desk, chatting to Kaz in muted tones. She would have liked to have beaten him to the office today but never mind. Portia swept through the open plan area to her own desk, which was just shy of a premium spot beside one of the windows. She fired up her computer and started going through her emails, keeping her head down and ensuring she had her ass covered on everything current.

Sometime after lunch, Portia finished eviscerating a courier with a politeness that was honeyed steel and resisted the urge to thump the receiver into its cradle. It was then that she became aware of a presence behind her, in the extra sensory way our senses keep tabs on our immediate vicinity even when we're consciously distracted. A hand brushed a hair from her face and Portia became aware of the rich scent of his costly cologne. It overpowered her own Armani Code, the mixture of scents mingling quite pleasantly. Pavel had the healthy lustre that only the very rich possessed, a product of an excellent diet, a home gym, frequent exotic travel and the best healthcare money could buy. On a different type of man it would seem vain and metrosexual but Pavel just embodied social Darwinism.

'Kaz has got me a table at the Red Dog for 7. There's some stuff we couold go through over a barbecue. Nothing you can't cancel, I hope?'

Portia had only half turned around and by the time she managed a full 180 in her swivel chair, Pavel had walked off and left her open-mouthed. She agonised for a moment or two and then fired off a text to Ricardo, cancelling their evening together.

I'm sorry hon but he is the boss and we can go out together any night. I'll make it up to you when I get home. We could use some shopping if you have the time today, since you're minted. Love you xx

His reply came back a few minutes later.

No worries, I've been offered some work tonight anyway. Charm the boss and we'll talk tomorrow.

Portia pouted at her phone. Ricardo wasn't given to romantic text messages but it still smarted sometimes to get such offhanded replies from him. If he was working security somewhere she'd be asleep when he got in. Portia dropped her phone into her handbag and turned back to her monitor.

The housekeeper should have been gone at this time but she often lingered till later. Pavel found her desultorily watching television in the living room. He liked her ease about the place: Hanni was his aunt's oldest friend, a woman born for intellectual work not cleaning and caring, who needed the money, and the respite from her mad husband.

'Time for a schnapps,' he said, kissing her on the forehead. 'I need your advice. I want to impress a young woman...'

Of course he didn't need her advice. It was his way. You stink of power, maybe wash some of that off for the night. He laughed. Standing at the window, with the 27th floor view across the City, he saw what he had, and all he didn't have. He noticed his hand tapping against the window. The music Portia liked, he had it running through his head. They wanna get my, they wanna get my...gold on the ceiling...

He liked the idea that he stank of power, actually. Gold on the ceiling. Especially tonight.

<>

Of course he'd dressed down - shirt and jeans, what the fuck if they were Armani – and arrived late so she'd be waiting, a little apprehensive at the cubicle table he'd asked for, looking a little nervous with a tonic or some such, maybe having checked over her pr work, what should she have done, was he going to give her a ticking-off? She seemed surprised at the eye-candy by his side, well they hadn't met out of hours before so she wouldn't necessarily realize he took a shadow with him everywhere. Inga went off to her own nearby table. 'Security,' he said to Portia, snapping his fingers for the waiter but it was the maitre d' who came over, 'A bottle of...'

'Abrau Dorso,' smiled the Italian.

Portia looked stunning. No, it wasn't just the schnapps, although he'd allowed himself two, because he'd only needed to stroll here tonight. Maybe a little anxiety was good for her: she had something of a high flush. Or maybe it was the light.

Or his desire.

They chatted about how the latest marketing was going – second-rate celebrity arseholes happening to mention the software on Twitter, not his thing but Tom and Portia had cooked it up and 'going viral' was a phrase on all their tongues. When the wine came he insisted on pouring it himself while mock-apologised to her for it. 'The Soviets used to call it champagne. Now there's going to be an IPO, and I'm in for a percentage. I've been to the winery, it's near the Black Sea.'

There were mussels to begin. Pavel liked the mess, sucking wine sauce from the shell, wiping a little that dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

It was in the space before the main course that he leant forward. The music was loud – was it his imagination or was it one of her numbers? The Dead Weather? I'd like to grab you by the hair...

No, no, he was imagining the resemblance, something altogether blander was playing. His green eyes fixed on hers. 'Confession to make, Portia. Work chat's over. The rest of the evening I'm going to talk inappropriate. Don't worry - Talk is all. Personal. Private. You don't like: we forget it all tomorrow, work is still the same. You like: we remember, things change. OK? OK?'

Portia had flown through the door with hardly a hello for her boyfriend. Ricardo was sat in front of the TV watching football, fucking Euro 2012. A glance through to the kitchen told Portia he'd bought no groceries and it didn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that he'd barely moved since she left for work. Sure, he worked late but that wasn't any excuse for not chipping in with the housework. She wasn't his fucking mother. Ricardo's Portuguese mother doted on him. She had treated him like a baby till the day he moved in with Portia and he often expected her to pick up where Senhora Ferreira had left off. Portia had managed to get him using the laundry basket by refusing to wash anything left on the floor but training him to actually use the washing machine was proving arduous.

"I thought you were going out with the boss?" He called through to the bedroom.

"I am." Portia snapped, heading for the shower. "How about you do something around this fucking place before you go out?"

"It's fine."

"Bullshit! Your mother would have a stroke!"

Portia shut the bathroom door on his sulky reply and pinned up her hair. She carefully washed from the neck down to keep her hair from curling and hastily towelled off. She went through her wardrobe with a critical eye, flinging a few possibles across the bed. Portia hadn't been to the Red Dog before but if Pavel ate there it was probably a gastropub with more pretensions than most restaurants. It was a warm June evening but her light, summer dresses all seemed too casual. A cocktail dress would be way too formal but at the same time, she didn't want to wear anything to tarty. Damn the man for giving her zero warning! After a few minutes deliberation, Portia played it safe and plumped for her least revealing little black dress. She was petite enough that it fell almost to her knees, making it quite demure looking. To keep Pavel from thinking her some kind of frigid frump, Portia dressed it up with some killer heels. A slick of blood red gloss on her full lips and smoking her eye make-up a little completed the look.

It was warm enough that Portia just wore her black suit jacket over the top as she walked. The Red Dog wasn't far away but the heels made it arduous so Portia took the tube a couple of stops. She was a little early, so she got a glass of red wine in a bar across the street, paying no attention to the raised eyebrows at her drinking alone. Portia pulled her notebook out of her bag, fired it up and went through her recent workload, wondering what exactly Pavel would want to discuss. At ten to seven she gave up, shut it down, drained her glass and crossed the street, smoking a cigarette to calm her nerves before she went inside.

It was the kind of place she would expect a man like Pavel to eat at. A hideously obsequious waiter ushered her to a prime table in the window and asked her what she'd like to drink. Portia replied that she'd prefer to wait for Pavel to arrive but moments later he returned with some iced water and an aperitif in an exquisite little crystal glass, insisting it was on the house for such a beautiful lady. The spirit was not one she'd tried before or could name but it tasted wonderful and since she'd just drunk wine on an empty stomach, it went to her head as she sipped it.

Portia was just beginning to feel self conscious about sitting alone when her boss strolled in on the arm of a statuesque blonde. The woman regarded her with icy blue eyes before stepping away from Pavel and sitting at another table, out of earshot. Portia was so shocked that she was sat open mouthed for the second time that day.

'Security,' He explained, taking a seat opposite her. Pavel ordered some sparkling wine and poured it for her, talking about some winery by the black sea. He then ordered mussels for them both, which she found a bit presumptuous. Portia liked mussels and thoroughly enjoyed them but that was beside the point. It was a tricky dish to eat in front of her boss too and at one point he even wiped the corner of her mouth, an act she found oddly invasive. Portia kept waiting for him to get around to discussing the reason for this rendezvous but he was very circumspect about work matters, even unconcerned.

'Confession to make, Portia. Work chat's over. The rest of the evening I'm going to talk inappropriate. Don't worry - Talk is all. Personal. Private. You don't like: we forget it all tomorrow, work is still the same. You like: we remember, things change. OK? OK?'

She was completely blindsided by his confession. Did he know she had a boyfriend? Was he hitting on her? Why would he hit on her, shit where he ate? A man like Pavel could have virtually any woman for the asking. Portia tried not to get ahead of herself. This could just be one of those cosy corporate things, welcome to the family etc. He might be appraising her in a purely professional sense. This meal wasn't extravagant for him, it was just dinner.

Portia realised she'd been silent too long. She sipped her wine and cautioned herself not to get tipsy... though she was going the right way about it and mussels were a very light starter.

"Ok." She replied, smiling. "I'd like to know you better as well." She added, "Since I'm planning to stay with the company in the long term."

'Ok. I'd like to know you better as well. Since I'm planning to stay with the company in the long term.'

'Good. Good.'

She leant forward, as if ready for his explanation. All in good time, all in good time.

He smiled. Their kebabs came, a choice of fish and meat and vegetable, with a little salad. He drank water for now, he felt a little light-headed

Between mouthfuls he told her about (he found his eyes drawn to her right shoulder, half-exposed by her black dress but he kept talking about) where had come from – Anapa, he said, near the winery, even in winter it was wonderfully warm...

Where was born varied actually. He'd discovered from an early age how well he could remember who knew which version of Pavel. There were so many to keep up with, in the days when he had been ducking and diving.

Now it hardly mattered, it was part of a small mythology about him – born in Ukraine, in Russia, degree in engineering or fine art, married twice or three times? Ah, that's Pavel.

'We will visit in 2014, Winter Olympics in my country, near Anapa,' he explained. He'd had enough of the food. Time for some more bubbly. He took a deep draught. 'I have stake in building contracts, you understand. But is enough of me.' Time to touch her: just briefly, a friendly gesture only, on the back of her hand. 'Tell me of you, Portia. I know some things about you. You have ambition. Maybe you wish to write fine things. Tell me ambitions, Portia. Maybe I help come true, who knows?'

He leant back expansively, licking a little food from his lips, savouring her. The way she looked up a little shyly, yet determined not to look shy, at him. He smiled, the floor was hers.

Ambitions... Portia had to have a think about what they even were. Until recently her ambitions had been for a good job paying a decent salary that was close to where she lived. Check. Now though? Portia had long since discarded the unrealistic dreams of her youth and nothing had readily replaced them. She envied people who knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives. What work would she do if she didn't actually have to pay the bills?

She ate some of a delicious king prawn kebab and stalled for time, washing the mouthful down with some bubbly.

"Well, I'd love to have my own company, work for myself. I'd go into events management rather than PR. I'd also like to try and write a novel, I do enjoy reading. Most of all I'd like to be comfortable financially, to have options rather than pressures and stresses."

She noted that at no time had her boyfriend factored in her idle musings. Ricardo was just not life partner material. She probably shouldn't mention to her boss though that she enjoyed a line or two of cocaine and liked being with a bad boy.

"Do you still have ambitions Pavel, or have you achieved everything you want to?"

'Do you still have ambitions Pavel, or have you achieved everything you want to?'

She'd told him what he wanted to hear, perhaps. Sometimes he felt that ever since he'd begun to be successful, that was how everyone was with him. It was as if he saw everything through a screen, in a world everything anyone did had to be translated from some language he didn't quite understand.

Only naked, with a naked woman, a whip in his hand perhaps, did he recognise himself.

'I'm still hungry. Not for food.' He smiled broadly. 'I like to be a bad man. Maybe with you.'

She started to reply: he put a forefinger on her lips, then, with a look in his eyes, licked his finger clean.

'Listen. Here is a story I could make come true. There is a rich man from Russia or somewhere. Middle-aged. Successful, little dissatisfied. He has stock options, maybe a million pounds, coming to fruit, to...be paid. He is lonely sometimes, has bad bad dreams of lovely woman.'

He could have explained it better than this, he worried that he was over-playing being himself. But it'd been a part he acted for so long now, he didn't know how else to be. He took a drink, then leant closer:

'He says to lovely woman: I make you a millionaire. But you must do things for me. Ten thousand pounds: I tell you task, you do it, you get reward. You write about it as if in a novel. He likes: another ten thousand pounds. Fifty tasks. She makes a million. But who knows what terrible things he might ask. What he might make her become. Hey, Portia - you like this story? Who wants to be a millionaire?'

Portia was completely dumbfounded. After what felt like forever she forced herself to swallow her food and washed it down with a slug of wine, stalling while her mind reeled. She didn't know how he had the nerve to proposition her so blatantly. Of course a man like Pavel could afford the best whores and Portia told herself she shouldn't be so shocked that he was clearly in the habit of exchanging cash for sex. Sure, she had caught him checking her out in the office after he'd sunk a celebratory glass of something or other but all the guys checked her out. He wasn't an unattractive man, he could have his pick of gold-digging women. Portia didn't view herself as a ravishing beauty, it was clearly the thrill of being able to bribe a girl out of her knickers that attracted him.

And layered on top of the proposition was a thinly veiled threat; who knows what terrible things he might ask. What he might make her become? He wasn't going to risk an embarrassing employment tribunal for regular sex.

And you've got a fucking boyfriend! Portia reminded herself. You've already sat there open mouthed way too long. Finally a flush of indignation rose on her cheeks.

"I like working for you Pavel, so I am going to do you the great favour of forgetting what you just said to me. I live with my boyfriend and I am not for hire." Portia rose from her chair abruptly, snatching up her handbag and jacket. When Pavel would have spoken she got there first. "Thank you for dinner Mr Leskiv. I will see you in the office tomorrow."

Portia walked out, giving no indication to other diners that anything was amiss. Outside the restaurant she leaned against the wall, now shaking with rage and fear. What if she had just lost her job? Filthy fucking ruskie bastard... how dare he? Portia lit a cigarette and made herself start walking in case he followed her out. She made a snap decision and headed back to the bar she had sat in before, ordering herself a liqueur coffee. She pulled out her mobile and considered calling Ricardo, her finger hovered over the little icon of his face but Portia reconsidered.

"Let him call you, luv." A well meaning old boy at the bar told her.

Hard on the heels of her earlier indignation, like a faceful of cold water came a single coherent thought.



One. Million. Pounds.



Tax free no less.

Ten thousand per dirty little 'task.'

Ten grand was a huge enough amount of money to Portia. Ten grand for a fuck and an essay.

If he paid. Motherfucker couldn't exactly draw her up a contract.

Stop it! She told herself, grinning crazily at her cup.

Oh good grief... what the fuck have I just done? Now I'll have no million quid and no bloody job either. Would it have killed me to simper a little?

Fuck.

Pavel had finished the bottle of Abrau Dorso in a few unexpectedly swift gulps, and was waiting for a brandy, by the time Inga's friend came back and was murmuring to Inga. He waved Inga over. 'She's in the bar. Across the street. Want us to...?'

There was a range of things he could imagine Inga doing for him, with the errant Portia.

'That's OK.'

She would be smoking. Maybe listening to that music of hers. The Dead Weather was thrumming in his head. I'm walking away now, one step forward, back two...I like to grab you by the hair and hang you up from the heavens

He smiled. He hadn't yet decided what to do. He was surprised to find he wasn't angry. Business sometimes made him angry, but not pleasure. Not this. She had sat opposite him, stinking a little of her perfume and cigarettes, and had been brave enough to turn him down to his face.

Maybe he would call Tensio, who'd find him a woman to whip.

Or maybe...

When the brandy came, he snapped his fingers for the bill. He wouldn't look in at the bar to see if she was drowning her sorrows or feeling riotous pleasure at refusing him. That wasn't his way. He would slip out of the back and – do whatever he fancied.


It was just before midnight, sated on viewings of a video he'd made himself, in a warehouse in Kiev, with a sweet young woman who'd needed money for heroin, before he sent Portia an email, with a link to the Dead Weather song on Spotify.

'You like this song? I like to grab you by the hair and sell you off to the devil...I never know what mood to be. I have become very fond of it.

The offer remains open until Monday at 9 a.m.

I'm glad you didn't accept straight away. What kind of a woman would do that?

Pavel'

Ricardo was still out when she got home. Portia kicked off her heels and fell onto the bed, breathing in his scent from the sheets. Again she wanted to reach out to him, to text or something but again she did not. It would seem needy, clingy... all the things he could never stand about her. She wriggled out of her dress and flung it over a chair, followed by the rest of her attire until she lay nude above the covers. It was another close, muggy night and so Portia lay on top of the light duvet, mulling over Pavel's ridiculous proposition until she drifted off to sleep.

In the morning she woke to find Ricardo beside her, dead to the world. She pulled on jeans and a sweater and snuck out to her local corner shop. Portia picked up a newspaper, fresh bread and some of the Polish meats and cheeses she could never pronounce but had come to love the spicy taste of. Over a coffee in the apartment she began to wonder whether she had dreamed last night's encounter with her boss. Portia resolved to give it no more thought. She had turned him down and if he didn't want to be on the receiving end of a harassment lawsuit that should be the end of the matter.

After her shower she booted up her notebook and found Pavel's email.

It seemed odd that a man such as he should have a similar taste in music but Portia gave his comment no more thought than that. Probably he was trying to demonstrate that he wasn't the old duffer she had imagined him to be. It smacked of a guy who was trying too hard though, like a politician trying to use trendy 'yoof' slang.

'The offer remains open until Monday at 9 a.m.

I'm glad you didn't accept straight away. What kind of a woman would do that?

Pavel'

Cheeky bastard.

Portia resolved to put the whole thing out of her mind... so naturally she spent the next couple of days thinking about nothing else. Of course she wasn't going to accept, that would be tantamount to prostitution and she could instantly forget any notion of meritocracy within the workplace. Pavel would just have to get his sordid little kicks elsewhere.

She didn't tell Ricardo. He would either have laughed in her face or relieved Pavel of his kneecaps, depending on how seriously he took her. Telling Ricardo would legitimise the whole incident, make it real. Portia didn't want to make an huge issue out of one faux pas.

On Sunday night she barely slept. The 9am deadline was approaching fast. It was one thing to feel she had principles but another entirely to actually turn down a million quid. After much agonising, Portia sent an email at 7am before she left for the office, to give Pavel time to respond. It was a test of his seriousness really, to see whether he'd finally admit that this was some kind of practical joke.

What assurance would I have that you would be forthcoming with the agreed payments after I had worked on your little pet project?

It was circumspect but this was an internal work email, so Portia couldn't be sure who else might have access to it. The last thing she wanted was for some IT geek to make it common knowledge that Pavel had offered her cash for sex.

Half an hour early, Portia sat down at her desk with a coffee and booted up her notebook before connecting it to the company's wireless intranet. She took a few swigs of the scalding brew before she mustered the courage to open her emails.

subject line: who wants to be a millionare?

My dear Portia

There can of course be no assurances. If you check your bank account at this very moment, you will find there is an additional sum of ten thousand pounds in it. I give this to you unconditionally.

You will find the bottom drawer of your desk is now locked. The key is in the Ladies toilet, taped to the underside of the middle sink.

If you care to unlock the drawer, you will find inside it a clitoral vibrator, the kind known as a butterfly.

If you wear that on your clitoris every day, 24/7, for a week, until precisely 9am next Monday, another ten thousand pounds will arrive in your bank account.

Of course – I have the remote control. At any moment in the next 168 hours I may operate it, at one of five speeds.

You do not even need to wear it, but naturally you must convincingly simulate wearing it, if you want your reward.

The electricity repair man in your apartment has installed small cameras so that I may watch and listen to you. If you do not wish to follow the path I propose, I will pay for him to remove them.

Each week there will be another task. Some will be more stringent than others. After successfully completing fifty-two, for ten thousand pounds each, a further sum of 480 thousand pounds will appear in your bank account, and if you wish, you may decide then never to see me again.

I hope however that by then you will have become my lover and devoted slave. But this is not a condition of my offer. You may loathe and despise me. I am used to such feelings on the part of other people.

Feel free to go to the police at any time. I understand what I am risking with you, even in putting this in writing.

Pavel.

Portia fidgeted in her seat ambivalently. Almost, one might say, like a girl with a clit vibe in her knickers. Of course the first thing she did was log into her online banking facility, which confirmed that Pavel had put £10k into her current account. She re-read his email for the hundredth time.

If you wear that on your clitoris every day, 24/7, for a week, until precisely 9am next Monday, another ten thousand pounds will arrive in your bank account.

The electricity repair man in your apartment has installed small cameras so that I may watch and listen to you. If you do not wish to follow the path I propose, I will pay for him to remove them.

Each week there will be another task. Some will be more stringent than others. After successfully completing fifty-two, for ten thousand pounds each, a further sum of 480 thousand pounds will appear in your bank account, and if you wish, you may decide then never to see me again.

I hope however that by then you will have become my lover and devoted slave. But this is not a condition of my offer. You may loathe and despise me. I am used to such feelings on the part of other people.

Feel free to go to the police at any time. I understand what I am risking with you, even in putting this in writing.


She couldn't believe he had already put cameras in her apartment, the man was very fucking sure of himself. Portia had no doubt that if she made any attempt to contact the authorities Pavel would do whatever it took to safeguard his freedom and 'good' name.

A million pounds in just one year, it was ridiculous.

Portia could foresee one particular issue however, and she replied to his email with a query. Pavel seemed confident that nobody was going to intercept anything, so Portia grew bolder.

If I do wear it all week my boyfriend is bound to notice. He's also going to want me to remove it when we have sex.

The thought of Pavel sat in front of a monitor jerking off to her and her boyfriend made Portia nauseous. But the assurance of a million pounds, coupled with the ten thousand she already now had, proved an effective anti-emetic.

She hit send and then went to the ladies, tersely fielding an attempt made at conversation by a co-worker. She sat in a stall until she was sure the ladies was empty and then stepped out to retrieve the key. Then there was the small matter of getting the thing out of the drawer without anybody noticing. Portia furtively stuffed it into her handbag. Then, putting a hand to her stomach as though unwell, she went straight back to the ladies. It was a complicated process attaching the damn thing and twice concerned colleagues asked through the door if she was ok.

"I'm fine really, reheated a take-away last night that was past it's best."

Once she had the thing on, Portia checked carefully that no evidence could be seen of it through her clothes. She walked gingerly back to her desk, worried that she might dislodge it or something. It was a high end gadget though and allowed her natural movement, once she was confident enough to move naturally.

At last she emerged from the Ladies, looking a little flushed.

He affected to be busy.

He had slipped on a linen jacket with capacious pockets. He'd initially thought to be surreptitious but then, on reflection – why? Only she knew what he was doing with his hand in his pocket.

It had five speeds. Just idly, watching her across the room, busy at her desk on something at her computer, he tweaked the dial once, twice, three times.

She looked up, looked up, looked up again.

He liked the feeling, just seeing the look in her eyes.

As for her email, he tapped out a reply:

Portia, my dear cunt

Just to remind you of our arrangement: 'If you wear that on your clitoris every day, 24/7, for a week, until precisely 9am next Monday, another ten thousand pounds will arrive in your bank account.'

How you explain yourself to your boyfriend is none of my concern.

If you infringe the rule of '24/7', you can, at 9 am next Monday, ask me, in solicitous tones, for my forgiveness. I am only likely to offer this if you propose some form of physical punishment that I might inflict on your naked body in my private garage. I am a sadist, I should love to offer you my forgiveness at the rate of say, a stroke of a multi-tailed whip for each minute of infringement.

In the meantime, enjoy your toy.

Pavel

And he sent.

And he was busy all morning, and over lunch, but he didn't forget, every now and again, within and out of sight of her, to touch the controls of the remote, only one turn of the dial, only to remind her he was there, and in control.

Tom would be back from Amsterdam. He had scheduled a meeting for the three of them – he, Tom and Portia – at three.

Uncharacteristically, Pavel was in the meeting room early, admiring the view across the park from the window. There would be a presentation from Tom about the Dutch launch; then a presentation from Portia with a calendar of events. She would talk to a Powerpoint.

He would begin with the dial moving up from 0 to 1. Then from 0 to 2. 1 to 2.

Then, when it was her turn to speak, there would be different waves. He would experiment, to watch the effect on her, to see if she could maintain her composure, and if not, how she would handle what the little machine was doing to her...