Tag Archives: Max Mosley

Whipping boy

That was predictable. Just after Flavio rang off, Max calls. It sounds hollow, like there’s a bit of an echo.

“Max, I hope you’re not calling from your dungeon again?” I ask. He knows I hate it when he does that. Every man is entitled to his own funny stuff, I always say, just as long as they don’t bother me with it. I find the thought of Max phoning me wearing only a leather harness and a whip in his hands slightly disconcerting, to say the least.

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