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Chapter Four
Master & Servant
The smooth, unblemished brown skin of her buttocks hovered above his face as she crouched over him, her own face –when he could tear his eyes away to look at it- a mixture of high excitement and cruelty at having reduced him to such a position. Then, suddenly, she began to lower herself; hands pulling apart her cheeks to expose her anus that he may better see what was about to engulf him. Already the smell was indescribable and he wanted to move, but couldn’t, as he felt her arse settle on his face and the tip of his nose inserted into her…
“I am making tea,” Anya Jalav told him for the second time; the tyrant of Bernard Lambert’s slumbers standing before him in her now customary heels and hose as he sat on the sofa hosting the most recent of the dreams in which she was involved and, now, imagery of a more conscious volition.
“Sorry?” he asked, looking up at her; a representation of her arse still filling his thoughts. A tiny germ of knowingness in her expression he hadn’t noticed before making him instantly suspicious; as if she knew what was going on and felt contempt for him. Though, given how mediocre he found her -in all but domestic matters, anyway- it was an impression he shrugged off immediately as totally implausible.
“Tea, Master,” she repeated. “I am making some. Cake too.”
The mundane nature of her statement prompted self-mockery for his worries in her regard. She was, after all, no more than a highly efficient young servant, grateful for the opportunity he had provided her to escape the deprivations of her background and live in England.
Nothing more sinister.
Any, off-the-wall, thoughts he was having in regard of her, he considered, had more to do with the recent changes in his circumstances and the way his subconscious reacted to them than the girl herself.
The opposite side of the bed he had rarely known unoccupied throughout his fourscore and more years, playing its own part, he was certain, in his risible preoccupation with the girl.
That the same reasoning power could apply to his servant -and he might not be the only one grappling with an idée fix- not a possibility that occurred to him.
“Just tea will be fine,” he assured her as he made himself assurances of his own in respect of both his dreams and the nature of them.
Adding after a few beats:
“I’ll take it in the living-room.”
Nodding politely, she had turned on her heel to leave.
“Oh, and Anya?” he began in a stern tone; asserting his position; despite the competition provided by the back of her hosed legs as they made for the door. The arrogance that had seen the collapse of his marriage –as well as an inability to accept advice which might just have kept his writing career on track- goading him to take a higher ground with his retainer in the here-and-now he found impossible to reach in his dreams.
Turning, she regarded him quizzically; horse-like features and large brown eyes made even more prominent by the black hair she had swept from her face and tied at the back:
“Yes, Master?”
Eyes rising from her legs, he hesitated as his attention was transfixed yet again.
This time it was her tight, knee-length, grey skirt; doing its best to provide decency to a provocatively protruding mound; that caught his eye. His tongue snaking from his mouth at the sight, an abortive attempt to moisten lips made dry by a sudden image of that same appendage as it gently lapped at the folds of her labia. Oral worship becoming more and more frenzied as he knelt before her and…
Screwing his eyes tight to banish the image, he feigned a yawn to disguise his excitement and hoped she had noticed nothing untoward; professing unspoken gratitude when he opened them and realised that was indeed the case; berating himself for endowing the girl with a perception and intelligence alien to both her mindset and position in life.
“Do try to remember what I told you, Anya,” he reminded her; bolstered by his own condescension; voice harsher than her crime merited.
An expression of confusion crossed her features.
His hand indicated the interior and its contents, sweeping over them by way of a rebuke, as if she were unaware of her exact location.
“As if!” she would have echoed his thoughts, had she been able to read them and been of a mind to disabuse him.
“My study?” he reminded her.
For a few seconds she feigned incomprehension, then; light apparently dawning:
“Apologies, Master. I was concerned when you cried out and forgot your instruction. It will not happen again.”
“Please see that it doesn’t,” he told her with a benign smile as she nodded and turned for the door.
The Lord of the Manor had conferred absolution - despite the fact he was having trouble facing the recipient of his forgiveness after the events of his dream. It being, he accepted, a mild, though unjust, taking to task of his young Indian servant. Though, at the same time, he also knew it was a taking to task that restored equilibrium and order to his new world. Making it, therefore: necessary.
As she closed the door behind her and her footsteps receded towards the kitchen; he rose from the sofa and stretched; reassured and grateful to be back in the here and now. Even if he had to admit the fact this was the latest of a number of similar dreams he had experienced during the past week or so –his young housekeeper taking centre-stage in each– was less reassuring.
And yet, he reminded himself, after the study was his and his alone once more -and putting aside the disturbing content of his dreams- he was, for the first time in a good while, feeling more than a sniff of much needed optimism.
At forty-eight he was still a vibrant and handsome man - an opinion actually held by people other than him. Even if they did stop some way short of endorsing his, somewhat tiresome, belief in his own superiority. Along with his air of assurance, a youthful complexion and a full head of hair camoflaged his years and went a long way to explaining his success with the opposite sex down the decades.
Though, and despite his aforementioned: “Superiority”; even he had to admit the well, in that respect, had run dry since his relocation to Cornwall.
Still, there were other compensations.
The presence of that same housekeeper, so troubling to his subconscious; along with the absence of the trifling responsibilities of domesticity and marriage –despite his ex-wife’s efficiency in such matters- but one of them. The small voice at the back of his head -warning him it was not healthy to devolve too much responsibility for one’s life, trivial or not, to a young stranger from a different country with different beliefs, customs, and background- mostly ignored.
“Just the same, though,” he told himself picturing a certain room, in a certain hotel; “perhaps a call to Gianni and a trip to London is in order.”
A prospect receiving a positive nod.
“Yes,” he told himself, head continuing to affirm his intention. “That would do the trick very nicely. Just the tonic to put this ridiculous situation into perspective.”
Chapter Five
Rajiv
Switching off the television, Rajiv eased himself from the sofa he had been slumped upon for the past five hours -toilet breaks too numerous to mention- to hitch up the bottoms of his jogging suit.
An exercise aid worn more for comfort and practicality than its eponymous purpose.
It not being too often he left the apartment these days and, when he did, physical exercise could not be said to rate high on his list of priorities.
Though still an imposing looking man as he passed his mid-sixties, the physical activity missing from his day-to-day went some way to explaining his aches, pains and physical lassitude. The three companions of his twilight teaming up to win a huge groan as he stretched underused arms towards the ceiling and moved towards the window.
The aforementioned “Five hours” having been whiled away –killing time until he Skyped his protégé halfway across the world- with a selection of dross brought to him by the wonders of satellite and a little light masturbation triggered by his twice daily contact with his protégé in England and the prospect of the latest upcoming tête-à-tête.
That he was little more than a voyeur -albeit on speaking terms with one half of the couple he pumped his meat over so regularly- bothering him not in the slightest.
Anya had already told him of the mans troubled dreams and his reaction to her in the new wardrobe he, Rajiv, had suggested, and her retelling of Bernard Lambert’s first sight of his housekeeper in more typical English clothing was something he couldn’t seem to get enough of hearing - the genesis of a new conquest always, with hindsight, the most exciting point of the process.
Explaining his insistence she repeat the episode for him.
The image of this conceited Englishman seeing his disregarded young housekeeper in skirt, nylon, and heels for the first time one he could not get enough of. Imagining his reaction to the hourglass, Junoesque, body he had yet to be privileged to see in its uncovered glory –as he, Rajiv Singh had been so privileged; albeit in the form of a computer slideshow. The power inherent in the girl’s womanhood no less diluted for her only standing an inch or so over five feet. His reaction when it was finally unveiled to him, if only the Englishman were astute enough to know it, being the seedling that would soon develop –if Rajiv and his protégé proved adept enough- into an overwhelming craving that would, as young Anya desired, see him flat on his back as she perched above him and emptied the contents of her bladder into a mouth as eager as it was disgusted.
“Tell me, Rajiv,” his protégé had asked shortly after he had received the photo slideshow of her: “were we not separated by two oceans, and I were suddenly of a mind to give a man permission to place his cock in my virgin cunt, would you like to be that man?”
“My dear, Anya,” he had laughed, playing down the disturbance at his groin caused by her use of such language for the first time, “were we not separated by two oceans, I assure you I would neither ask for nor need your ‘Permission’.”
It had been her turn to laugh then:
“Then I must make sure we do not meet until I have you… tamed,” she told him; something in her light-hearted tone had warned him she was not being quite as flippant as she would have him believe; her mentor taken by surprise, just the same, at the eager way his penis reacted to her assertion in his regard.
Replaying the conversation as he reached the window, he groaned again; aware that, despite his aches and pains; he had another erection to give witness to the fact the one he had experienced after her stated intention of having him “Tamed” was no fluke.
Though he remained, as said, a striking looking man, the stiffness in his legs and upper body provided one more reminder of the passing years to go with his closely cropped silver hair and recent desire for companionship. The same need making his daily contact with Anya Jalav of such importance to him.
Past retirement age, he was comfortable enough in a financial sense. His civil-service pension and the contents of his late partner’s will had seen to that. But no abundance of material possessions could fill the void the loss of Ilse had created. Such a meeting of minds, sexuality and compatible temperaments came along only once in a lifetime.
The gap created by her departure from his life one he hadn’t even bothered to try and fill.
Few people, he thought, would understand how any man who had treated a fellow human being so unjustly, so cruelly; so disdainfully and autocratically; could protest to having finer feelings for that person. There being nothing in their mundane lives -lived out, as they were, to the specifications of church, government, or trashy magazine- to promote the understanding that not all “love” resulted in the simulated achievement of marriage, mortgage, babies and grandchildren. A toeing of the establishment line resulting, finally, in the advent of the greatest catchall of the lot.
Death.
Gazing out from his twentieth floor apartment at the sun-baked panorama of Calcutta, stretching westward towards the Hooghley River and the Sarangabad Government Complex –the same complex where, many moons ago, he had worked as a clerical-officer- a hint of moistness around his eyes gave further evidence of the changes the years had wrought and brought a shaking of the head for such, previously inexplicable, sentiment.
From the sill he picked up what had once been his former partner’s collar; the thick and heavy band of leather he had locked around her neck to signify she was his.
The very same collar she was not allowed to remove without his permission and now took pride of place upon his windowsill as a reminder of what he had lost and so missed - so much so, in fact, he had began the blog in her memory that recounted their life together.
The same “Blog” that had been seen by his young protégé and had led her to seek his assistance.
Eyes still fixed on the panorama beyond his windows; even if the view he was seeing was of a different kind; he recalled the moment Ilse had begged for the leather he now found himself stroking with such tenderness.
Guessing, and not for the first time, at the nature of her thoughts as she waited for him to put the final piece of her submission to him in place…
Chapter Six
Ilse
Knees to the rug and hands clasped in front of her, the German businesswoman waited in silence.
Just as he had instructed.
Her soon-to-be “Owner” not wishing, she knew, to have the rear view he so loved and abused obstructed.
The indignity of the position, in her own home, before a younger man who rented an apartment from her across the city, was not lost on the forty-year-old Bavarian and only her fear of disappointing him kept her in place.
A fear, nonetheless, she both welcomed and thrived upon; the levels of submissiveness her Indian master revealed to her as surprising as they were terrifying. The masterful young man intent on owning her peeling away layer upon layer of what she had thought were hardwired personality traits; stripping them away as if she were no more than a German onion with an outer skin he found of no use to him. Her would-be master intent on paring her back until she came face-to-face at last with the real Ilse Dressler.
Her helplessness to prevent his domination of her -if the reaction of her body towards him spoke true- was something she both despised and thrived upon. The intermittent and familiar sparks of anxiety and anticipation, tingling the length of her exposed spine, becoming charges of pure electricity as they reached her shaven pussy heightening that arousal she fully expected to saturate the rug below her at any moment.
As the smell of her sex pervaded the room and her arousal ran in rivulets down the smooth hard thighs she worked the gym so hard to maintain, she heard a sigh and knew he was behind her; savouring the view he had demanded she present to him. Insisting she pull her lustrous blonde hair from either side of her face and twist them into pigtails.
“The perfect look for a nasty German frau-slave,” he had laughed when delivering the instruction, her nipples; jutting from impressive breasts; becoming, if possible, even harder at the recall.
“So,” he began, tone of voice arrogant and condescending, entertaining nothing other than complete acceptance of the terms he had set for her; “it would seem a month without my superior Indian cock in your substandard Teutonic cunt has brought a change of attitude.”
He waited for a reaction to his taunts; ready to punish the infraction if her temper got the better of her and reward her obedience if she behaved.
A win-win situation.
At least for him.
In the event, it was “Reward” that won out – had he been of a mind to extend one.
“Do you want me to repeat myself,” he asked, tone dangerous.
“N-Nein,” she said quickly; not having realised a response was required; believing her lack of reaction alone enough to win his approval.
“ ‘No’, what?” he snapped. “ ‘No’, you don’t want me to repeat myself, or ‘No’, the absence of my cock in your hungry little goody-box has made no difference to your attitude of a month ago?”
“And remember your manners when you answer,” he reminded her before she had a chance to reply.
“N-Nein… Meister,” she began, realising she had never felt so defenceless in her life. Exposure of both her hairless sex and equally smooth arse heightening an already frightening sense of vulnerability and providing evidence that, for the first time, someone else was in control of not only her body but her mind also.
“Ich… Ich…”
“Say it,” he commanded. “And look me in the eyes when you do.”
Raising her eyes slowly to gaze into his, the inflexibility and strength of will she saw staring back at her was all the confirmation she needed. If she had ever thought that what they were doing with each other was a game, the expression on his face told her –and with emphatic finality- it was not a view he shared.
“Say it now!” he demanded, eyes becoming more intense as he sensed her final capitulation. “And say it in English. I will have no German. It is far too bold a tongue for my submissive little slut.”
He waited.
“Y-Yes… Master,” she almost whispered finally; desperate and needy and wanting to come so badly. His orders having expressly forbidden her from touching herself until he arrived and gave consent. Orders she had obeyed; rather than accept the alternative and lose the promise of paradise - of which he had, so far, given her two brief, but addictive, tastes.
Then, looking into his eyes:
“I… I miss your… your superior Indian cock in my… my substandard Teutonic cunt.”
This time she was the one who waited; eyes lowered to the carpet.
Finally:
“There,” he gave praise, manner almost friendly, overlooking for once the absent: ‘Master’; “that was not so hard, was it?”
Naked and on her knees in the home she owned, Ilse Dressler expected a hand to pat her head then throw a bone for her to chase at any moment.
Instead of that, he came around to stand before her.
Arrogantly.
Hands clasped behind his back as if surveying his property.
The jeans, tee shirt and loafers he wore, making her nakedness all the more humiliating. Not lessening any when a smile transformed his stern face. Her young “Master” taking a cruel delight in his mockery of the older woman below him as she knelt in tribute to the superiority of both his gender and his race.
Finally, after what to her had seemed a long pious Sunday, his hands came around from behind his back and -even with eyes lowered- she sensed what it was he dangled from one hand.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“Ja, Meister… I mean: yes, Master. It is a collar for a dog.”
“Wrong!” he snapped.
She jumped, startled at the correction.
“Try again,” he ordered; “different gender.”
Attempting to swallow non-existent saliva, she marvelled at her supine response to such treatment as she realised what he wanted to hear.
“It,” she began, throat dry, “it’s a collar for a… for a bitch, Master.”
This time a half-smile greeted her answer by way of a reward.
“Better,” he said, taking a step forward to bring her eyes level with the bulge in his jeans and offering up the dog tag attached to the pink leather of the collar. “What does the engraving say?”
Ilse read it and knew the point of no return was only moments away.
“Say it aloud,” he ordered.
For what were only a few seconds but to her seemed an eternity; she asked herself if this was what she really wanted. If she once committed to what he had in mind she knew with certainty the power of the need she already felt for him would grow stronger and stronger. So strong that any return to the life she had now and had thought herself happy with would be impossible. Could she truly handle being a chattel to a young man of a different race almost half her age? To give up her individuality and live as the extension of another’s will? Never again to be allowed to make a decision of any importance again?
Did she truly want that?
As her eyes flickered from the German lettering he had insisted be engraved on the dog-tag, to the sight of his hard cock as it attempted to burst the restraints of his jeans; her decision was made for her:
“It says,” she began; voice unrecognisable as her own: “Property of Rajiv Singh”.
Adding; a few heartbeats later:
“Master.”
As her eyes lowered again a self-satisfied chuckle reached her from above.
“That’s right,” he agreed, withdrawing both collar and dog tag; delighted to have heard her say it out loud. “That means, if you wish to be filled once more with the cock you cannot seem to tear your eyes from, you have a decision to make.”
“But I thought…”
“Which,” he cut her off sharply; “is exactly what you will cease to do from this moment on. If you must think at all then think of how you may best serve your master. All other ‘Thinking’ will be my responsibility. Your only responsibility will be to obey.”
Before she could respond, she found herself groaning with need. A hand going to the back of her head to press her face to his groin. Allowing her both a sniff and a feel of the paradise denied were she to have second thoughts.
Then, thrusting her head away, he undid his fly to release his penis; gratified at the lust instantly transforming her features – even if he knew the fear she felt for his intent.
“A month ago,” he reminded her; “when you were simply a horny German businesswoman being fucked by the young tenant you had deigned to –with much superiority, I seem to recall- lease one of your properties; you informed me you would never suck a cock. The very thought of doing so, you assured me, repulsed you.”
Ilse felt her body tense.
The act of Fellatio one she had never quite managed to bring herself to perform.
The thought that where semen flowed so had urine before it, guaranteed to trigger her gag reflex whenever her lips came close to an eager penis.
“If you wish to wear my collar and experience my superior Indian cock as it does your hungry German gash the honour of satisfying its needs, you are going to take it from my jeans, wrap your painted Bavarian lips around the head, and suck it as if your life depended on winning its approval.”
He waited for it to sink in.
“Then,” he went on, “and only then; when you have finished your act of worship; you will grovel before me and beg most abjectly and respectfully to have my collar attached to your neck.”
As his cock danced before her eyes and his words rang in her ears, Ilse found herself in the unbreakable grip of a demonic triad she knew to be fear, revulsion, and –the most powerful of all- lust.
“I shall count to three,” he told her when she made no response. “If my meat is not surrounded by biddable German dentistry by that time, I shall leave and you will never know me again.
She looked up at him with horror.
“One…” he began.
“Master,” she implored him. “Please!”
“Two…?”
“Anything but this, Master. Anything.”
“Three!”
She continued to stare up at him, tears streaking her face now; but making no move towards him.
“Very well,” he told her, hands reaching towards his fly. “You have made your decision and I…”
The words dying in his throat as he felt his throbbing erection surrounded by the soft flesh of her mouth…
Chapter Seven
Rajiv Again
…Still in place before the window, Rajiv wondered at the strength of his current erection for an incident from his life almost forty years distant. The power of his deceased partner not diminished by either the passing of the years or the new adventure –albeit passive- he was in the process of planning with his protégé in England.
Replacing a woman such as Ilse something he described to himself as:
“An impossibility”.
When Ilse was alive he had, at least, gotten out to restaurants, cinemas, and business functions from time to time. Now, without his partner to drape on an arm and give these interludes meaning, he far preferred to stay at home in the company of Johnny Walker.
And - when his old friend wasn’t available?
Well, then there was always his long-time mistress to fall back on.
A consolation with the exotic name of: Bombay Sapphire.
To his left he could see the large balcony where he used to so love taking Ilse from behind; her pendulous breasts overhanging the balustrade, twenty-floors up, as she clung to the rail while he explored her beautiful anus; their naked forms visible to anyone with either binoculars or, for the more committed voyeur, helicopter. The breath leaving her body in a series of animalistic gasps groans and grunts as he battered at her stage door with growing power. Leaving him feeling godlike for both his ability to satisfy her cravings and to take exactly what he wanted, and exactly when he wanted it, from his frau-sklavin.
It being the same balcony upon which he had kept her tethered by the collar for hours upon end whenever she proved disobedient or recalcitrant; until allowing her the opportunity to show her remorse by begging to wrap her sensuous German lips around his eager, if disdainful, Indian meat.
With all that was now so conspicuously absent in his life; it was no surprise Anya Jalav’s request for him to mentor her had appeared as a Godsend. Providing him, as it did, with a small respite from the bottle. Along with a friend, a sense of importance and, praise be to Buddha, a purpose.
The above triad of missing elements all the more welcome for coming in one package.
A: “Package”, with an hourglass shape and superlative tits, she had kept sari-wrapped for far too long and for which his regularly exercised cock was very, very, grateful.
Even if he was at pains not to let her know it.
Yet, gratitude notwithstanding, he knew that, despite his desire for complete control in his relationships, it was where similarities between them ended. Unlike Anya -who had no time for such: “Irrelevancy”- he would always need the presence of the romantic, the spiritual and the emotional, to complete any relationship. A necessary correlative for the offsetting of those darker needs that, from time-to-time, demanded satisfaction.
For Anya, however, control meant 24/7.
Unquenchable and unrelenting.
And -as long as there was a breath in her voluptuous body- total.
Returning Ilse’s collar to its place on the sill -almost reverently- he felt a little sadness for the girl who would never know the tenderness of true affection that lent foundation to all relationships worth having.
The man known as Bernard Lambert, he considered; punching in his password and waiting for the welcome screen to appear as he reviewed the man’s situation; was not in a good place.
Even if his surroundings did remain the same.
Sooner rather than later, Rajiv Singh knew, he would find himself with no study, no Indian housekeeper, and; most importantly of all; no say in the matter.
Were he blessed with the gift of second sight and able to read Bengali, the man known as Bernard Lambert would be sure to notice the nameplate soon to be found hanging outside the dwelling he had once ruled over.
A nameplate engraved with a single word.
“Hell”.
And, in “Hell”… he would be the servant.
Chapter Eight
Lambert
A week on from the incident in his study, Bernard Lambert was still pondering the pros and cons of giving Gianni a call to arrange a visit to London; giving it serious thought as he took in the panorama stretching out before him beyond a large bay window.
The room at the back of the house he had designated as his study had some of the best views in the house and, drinking them in now, he once again had the feeling -despite his inexplicable attraction to his young servant and those dreams- he was gaining some small measure of control over his life.
A fresh burst of optimism ensuring the element of threat he found in his dreams the girl was temporarily placed aside; allowing him to see the new look parading her previously unsuspected assets as no more than a very welcome bonus of eye-candy.
On which subject, only that morning, he had been given yet further evidence of her ability to… stir him.
“Good morning, Master,” she had said, placing his breakfast tray across his lap, “I trust you slept well?”
Propped against the headboard, the inevitable erection caused by her appearance each morning threatening to unbalance his tea, toast and boiled eggs, he scanned her expression for any trace of irony and was relieved to find none; her heavy lips devoid of anything he could have taken as… contempt.
But then, how could she possibly know he had masturbated to an image of those lips as they surrounded his cock and sucked him to completion before swallowing the resulting eruption?
Even more impossibly: how could she know that, when he did finally manage some sleep, their roles were reversed and this time it was his own naked form kneeling between her legs in supplication?
“Sniff your owner’s cunt,” the dream Anya had commanded him; the strength of will implicit in her equine features far more powerful, he knew with certainty, than he could muster at this time or any other. “Sniff but do not attempt to touch,” she reminded him, totally confident he would do exactly as she asked - despite his desperation to do exactly the opposite.
“Watch my finger as it slides into the beautiful Indian box denied you,” the dream Anya had continued. “Observe the evidence of the pleasure it takes in owning you as it runs over that finger and onto my knuckles.”
She laughed:
“Yes, impossible to look away, is it not? You have become a slave to pussy. And a servant girl’s pussy at that.”
Her laughter seemed almost demented as she added:
“My so-called master is now my pussy-slave.”
Eyes riveted, exactly as she had said, he could make no argument.
“Shall I be kind and let you suck it?” she said, tauntingly, holding up her finger. “Shall I do that? It would be an incredible honour for you would it not?”
“But then,” she said when he could make no rely: “are you worthy of such a gift?”
Her finger dangled before his eyes and he could smell the secretions won from her arousal; eyes closing as he felt that delicious weakness he always experienced when he knelt before her in such a way; erection arrowing upwards toward the brown goddess who was, inexplicably, taking over his existe…
“Shall I pour, Master?” she said, hands still on the tray as she leant over him; large breasts, restrained this time by another white cotton shirt; this one however, being of the sleeveless variety; giving him, for the first time a glimpse of smooth and hairless armpits.
“No,” he snapped, more tersely than intended, annoyed she had interrupted his reverie and even more put out by his recall of the dream and, more importantly, its nature.
“Sorry,” he said, staring now at her armpits; taking advantage of gravity’s pull upon the shirt at the opening where a sleeve should have been attached to take in the smooth skin of her right pit. “I was miles away. Yes, please pour, Anya.”
With a toothy smile, she had done just that, leaning in closer as she did so to give him a whiff of the armpit his eyes constantly darted to as she was distracted by the filling of his cup.
Taking advantage of her preoccupation, he began to breathe through his nose; praying she wouldn’t notice as the fresh yet un-deodorised and earthy smell of her armpit hit his nostrils and injected fresh life into an erection hardly requiring it anyway.
“Honey or sugar today, Master?” she had asked, eyes remaining on the cup.
“Hmm… er… Honey,” he said, completely off-guard, attempting to collect himself as she served him his tea, unfolded his Daily Telegraph and, with her usual smile walked to the door and let herself out.
Back in the moment once more, Lambert could only marvel at the effect this girl was having upon him. More and more, he found himself seeking her out wherever she happened to be working in the house to snatch glimpses or, if unobserved, drink in her matronly but perfectly proportioned body. Wondering at the magnificent tits that seemed ready at any moment to burst the confines of her now habitual white shirt and the powerful but shapely young legs as they tapered down to a pair of the sexiest feet he could remember seeing. Tiny but perfectly formed toes, with immaculately clipped nails and varnish of the deepest ruby, the perfect platform for the whole lust-inducing edifice.
Even if, for him at least, appreciation stopped rather abruptly at the neck.
His curious fixation being the one, inexplicable, blot on the new wave of optimism he was currently experiencing.
In this new mood, even his writing career –the same career he was in despair over not long before- no longer seemed the lost cause it had seemed barely a few weeks ago. A measure of optimism explaining the tentative start he had made on a new crime novel he was attempting to approach from a more modern point-of-view.
As he perched himself on the arm of the sofa and savoured the view beyond the glass, his concerns regarding the effect of his housekeeper upon him receded somewhat. The south-westerly vista; along with the bright and breezy afternoon accompanying it; doing nothing to dilute either his new purpose or restored humour. It being, if anything, the kind of day guaranteed to raise even the lowest of spirits.
Even if images of his servant from the subcontinent with the incredible breasts and powerful legs still flashed before his eyes intermittently as she went about massaging his feet, sucking his dick or submitting to his all-powerful cock while he thrust into her tight rear-opening. Images of male supremacy he knew would undergo a complete reversal the moment sleep took hold and wakeful volition found itself at the mercy of the subconscious.
Shaking off the latest, unbidden, images of his unlikely lust object, he continued to take in the view outside from his position on the sofa. That autumn was his favourite season only adding to the pleasure he took in the panorama beyond the window. The dazzling, if less puissant, rays of the October sun refracting against the blue swells of the sea as the breeze swirled in and brought the salt of the briny with it. Weather, resulting from the confluence of English Channel and Atlantic Ocean, stirring autumnal leaves into a million, musical and soothing, sighs for the passing of their youth.
Heaven.
Even the Cornish fishing village he had disliked when he’d first visited as a child; nestling below the cliffs upon which stood his house; seemed, somehow, less… plebeian - despite its lack of either a decent wine-bar or bistro.
A clientele unworthy of his interest yet another negative.
With a small start of surprise, he felt obliged to admit that -now his own individual style had been stamped upon it- even the house his aunt had willed him and he had left London for was beginning to grow on him.
Not, of course, that he’d had a choice in the matter.
The death of his reclusive old aunt –and last remaining relative– had, of course, been sad. He was not a heartless man and, in his own way, had been fond of the old dear; always remembering –or at least ensuring his publisher did– to send her a copy of his latest work. The same work that –along with his marriage to Siobhan- had gone to pot over the past four years as the audience for his, somewhat antique, crime novels had either moved on to other, more realistic and gutsy, practitioners of the craft; or joined his aunt wherever she now found herself.
“Time locked and socially antediluvian” – Time-Out.
“A literary dinosaur for the new millennium” – London Review of Books.
Reviews and reviewers of the same ilk the cause of much sourness on his part.
Bastards!
A: “Sourness”; not lessened any by the subsequent neglect of both publisher and agent.
Never having been a “Clubbable” type, the friends he did have had been made through his marriage. And they, to a man and a woman, and for reasons he understood only too well, had sided with Siobhan during the divorce – the fact he had fucked so many of her Girlfriends” making it extremely likely, and perfectly understandable, their husbands or partners would not bust a gut trying to bond with him. There were no children and, with his career and home: “Down the toilet”, the house on the cliffs above the Cornish fishing village was nothing short of a godsend.
“Who knows?” he’d told himself before decamping west; “I’m not in bad shape and London doesn’t have a monopoly on attractive, willing and available, women. Anything can happen.”
After three months in his new abode he had still to meet one.
After six, he had started to question whether they existed at all and wondered if, without his knowing, Cornwall had passed legislation outlawing casual sex.
For him, anyway.
His one weekly pleasure coming on a Wednesday when he drove Anya inland to a town with a shopping mall; drinking coffee and people watching as his housekeeper busied herself buying provisions. There being no shortage of women of the kind he liked here – even if the large majority of them were pushing prams or on the arm of a husband.
Another thing he hadn’t reckoned on when first upping sticks to Cornwall had been the house itself. Loving order and hygiene as he did –a by product of his upbringing- the work required to keep the place to the standard he had insisted upon from Siobhan was not something to which he himself was prepared to commit. The hypocrisy implicit in his own idleness so obvious it skimmed under his radar completely.
Which was when: cleaning, laundry, dishes and household accounts in disarray; the idea of a housekeeper had first occurred.
Turning to Google he had been pleasantly surprised. Both in terms of personnel and cost. One of the first sites to catch his interest extolling the virtue and cheapness of domestic help from abroad.
Which was how Anya Jalav, a young, uneducated girl from Calcutta, barely in her twenties, entered the life of a divorced, middle-aged and out-of-favour, English author.
And decided to make it her very own.
Chapter Nine
Rajiv & Anya
Almost seven months on from taking up her employment in his home, Anya Jalav was at her computer in the quarters above the garage; deep into the lunchtime half of her daily: “Progress reports”, as Rajiv described them:
“When I entered his bedroom that first morning,” she began; her mentor’s most recent instigation of this umpteenth revisiting of the memory, prompting restless fingers to work her cunny through the fabric of her panties; “you would have thought from his expression that a stranger had entered bearing toast and tea.”
“Did he comment?”
“No.”
“How did you dress?” Rajiv probed, his awareness of the answer not diluting his eagerness to hear it from the thick and, to him, sensual lips he had seen in her photographs - self-taken snapshots that had revealed her incredible young body to him for the first time and flashed before him now.
Even the face she was so scathing about –as evocative of horseflesh as she had assured him it would be; was full of character; even if it was character of a cold, diamond hard, nature.
But it was the body; belying the equine icing with which nature had seen fit to top it; that grabbed the attention. Locking and shackling his eyes onto the screen as surely as if they had been glued there. A body, he knew, no loose and shapeless sari –no matter how revered its designer- could possibly serve justice.
Reaching for himself for the third time -and within an hour of receiving the slideshow- it had struck him that the mass of her naked figure seemed almost caricatured - so compact and heavy did it seem. The exaggerated hourglass shape, with copious amounts of unblemished brown flesh, was not so much… fleshy, as firm; and needed to be in order to support two massive and impossibly perfect breasts with bullet hard nipples standing proud above…
“What did you say, Anya?”
His return was greeted with a laugh, as if the location of his brief excursion had been faxed to her beforehand.
Though his expression was impossible to read, a slight breathiness in his enunciation led his protégé to believe her employer was not the only one developing… feelings for her – that she had not yet spoken a word in answer to her mentor’s request giving her another small clue.
“I dressed very simply and exactly as you had advised. In one of the outfits you had me purchase.”
The outfit in question one of a number, similar in type, she had bought from a number of charity shops in the town she visited with her employer to make the weekly shop. Lugging provisions back to the car while he sat, read newspapers and drank coffee in a Starbuck’s on the lower level of the town’s mall. A wardrobe she had picked up cheaply and paid for from the small monthly salary that was paid into her account and she hadn’t, up to then, drawn upon.
“A crisp, white shirt,” she went on, “top two buttons undone to reveal a hint of superior Indian cleavage. A black skirt to just above the knee. Black nylons. And a pair of open-toed sandals with low spiky heels.”
The recital made her marvel.
Had it really only been a month since she first discarded her saris to wear the clothes guaranteed to gain her “Master’s” attention?
Such progress!
“It was the same outfit,” she went on, picking up where she had left off; “with minor variations, I now wear everyday and find so… liberating.”
“A picture of which you promised to send me,” came the accusation, a certain quivering in the voice of her, back from orbit, mentor betraying excitement to match anticipation.
“And you say I am the impatient one,” she taunted him, before continuing: “He made no comment on it; though comment was hardly required for me to tell he had noticed. The redness upon his cheeks, when I caught his eyes lingering upon the painted nails of my feet through the nylon of my hose, was evidence enough I had gained his attention. His first sight of my legs in pantyhose and heels seemed to transfix him. Explaining also, perhaps, his terse ‘Thank you’, as I gave him his tray and made to leave. In short, his behaviour was as predictable as you had told me it would be.”
She paused in her story; knowing he would be forced to ask her to continue; savouring a small moment of power over her older mentor; enjoying also the fact her “Master” –unusually- had gone into the village for a lunchtime drink. His absence meaning she would, for once, not have to rush her “Mentor’s” insistence on a mid-day “Progress report”.
More worryingly –though she had not mentioned it to Rajiv- Lambert had spent the whole of yesterday in London. Her tentative attempts to discover his reasons for going dismissed; his agitated demeanour leaving her convinced he was going to meet a woman. Though, if his crestfallen demeanour when he returned late that evening was a guide, it seemed likely his assignation had not gone well.
The above, something of a comfort ensuring she at least slept well.
The last thing she –they- needed was her “Master” introducing a “Mistress” to the household.
“That was not all,” Rajiv came in, on cue and eager; tone accusatory - making her smile as she made him wait.
“As I reached the door,” she told him finally; “I turned back quickly and caught him staring at my legs with a strange look. He tried to turn away, of course, but by then it was too late.”
“What kind of a strange look?”
“Lustful,” she informed him with pride; a condition she could not recall inspiring too often.
If ever.
Until now.
“Of course, I said nothing; acting as if all was as usual and asking him if he would like some marmalade with his toast.”
Her mentor mulled it over, chuckling to himself, until:
“Good. Very good. And what of his reaction to you since that first time?”
“More of the same; but still more intense; though I can tell he is resentful of the attraction my body below the neck holds for him. He finds it impossible to prevent himself watching my every move. Who would have thought such a handsome and worldly man could be so easily swayed by a simple pair of legs and breasts.”
Rajiv chuckled:
“Trust me, Anya, there is nothing ‘Simple’ about your breasts. And do not leave your feet from his growing fixation upon you. His reaction to your pretty painted toes is equally as encouraging. More so, in fact.”
“He does seem… taken with them,” she agreed.
“As he should be… Now, having gained his attention for the first time, you must take the steps necessary to imprison it.”
Anya was silent – having already determined she was going to do exactly that as the fingers frotting her clit picked up pace.
“You say that since his move from London he has become increasingly isolated,” Rajiv went on, almost as if to himself. “This is also good. Something that will work very well in your favour.”
“From what I can gather,” she breathed; “apart from the ever decreasing royalties from the sale of his previous work; his writing career is all but over. I have listened through the study door as he attempts to contact his agent and rages into the telephone when he is not put through. To my knowledge his calls are never returned. He has periods of intense depression, which explains his listlessness and willingness for me to take over more and more of the responsibilities that should be his. Something all well and good on my part. Though he has seemed a little perkier recently”
“What of the ex-wife?”
“I have read some of their correspondence with each other when he leaves the house to walk. From the recriminations she cannot help but let slip, it seems he was rather free and easy with his cock and her friends.”
At her mention of the word: “Cock”, Rajiv’s attentions toward his own beneath the computer desk intensified. Something about hearing the description from lips that had yet to experience one –and, much as his Ilse before her had done the same, insisted she never would- pressed his own buttons.
“Trust me,” she went on, “she hates him with a passion. I can only imagine how grateful she is their union was childless.”
“No contact between them whatsoever?”
“Apart from some rather cold correspondence from her tying up the loose ends of their marriage, none.”
“Friends?”
“Not one has contacted him since my arrival here. If he has any then they are at pains to keep their regard anonymous.”
“What of female contact?”
“See above. And, were he to have any, I would know, believe me. The house is quite isolated and our nearest neighbours are over a mile away. Near impossible for anyone to visit him without my discovering the fact. As you know, he used to drive me to the shopping mall and supermarket some ten miles away for provisions and other weekly necessities; but now even this has stopped and he sends me by taxi. Apart from walks along the coastline and the odd stroll down to the village itself; he is at home the whole of the day; locked in his study as he attempts to write the novel he says will change the tune of his agent and publisher and:
“Put me back on the literary map”.
They had laughed together, both at her imitation of her employer and such an implausible notion - having previously familiarised themselves with the work that had seen him removed from this “Map” in the first place.
“I could have sworn the other day,” she said by way of an afterthought, “that he was trying to sniff my armpits as I served him his breakfast in bed.”
An after thought bringing more laughter from Rajiv, before; growing serious:
“Does he socialise with anyone from the village itself?”
Anya shook her head emphatically as she answered: “As I pointed out, he uses the village only when he wishes to stretch his legs. There is a path leading down to it from the cliffs; but he is rather dismissive of it… The village, I mean… Not the cliffs.”
She gave a snort of derision before finishing.
“ ‘Too rustic’ for his tastes - as he puts it in his pompous and pretentious way. Which, translated, means: the local peasantry are not at all impressed with him. Plus, he has yet to see anything to fuck – or, more to the point, anything available to fuck that would fuck him back.”
Again, Rajiv felt a fresh surge of blood to his manhood.
“Well,” he began, urging control upon himself; “it is all most promising for you, Anya. The longer you become the only female in his life – albeit in a menial capacity – the more his interest focuses upon you. Between the two of us, it will not be long before we have this superior Englishman where he belongs; begging to lick the day’s dust and sweat from the feet of his young Indian servant.”
The expulsion of breath she tried to suppress without success told him his words had breached the dam coming between his student and her latest bout of self-satisfaction.
A not unusual occurrence during their chats with each other - though his own release would come later. Experience having taught him that delay served only to take ecstasy to even higher levels.
After waiting for both her thoughts and her pulse-rate to calm, he went on to deliver his warning:
“I have no doubt that you can achieve what you wish with him,” he continued. “But –and this is terribly important– you must always keep in mind that the man you have chosen is not looking for the relationship you have mapped out for him. In fact, from what you tell me -and despite certain underlying characteristics- quite the opposite would appear nearer the truth.”
“But what I intend is not impossible?” she asked; a hint of petulance at the prospect her wishes might not be achievable betraying her youth.
“Not in the slightest, my precocious girl,” he reassured her. “You already have the knowledge that will hand you the keys to his innermost being. Your task now is learning how and when to use them once he has been made to realise he has no option but to entrust them to your keeping.”
He paused then – reflectively.
“It was much the same for me and my beautiful Ilse before she passed away; remember?”
Anya did indeed. The blog she had stumbled across during her nightly trawl of the net, and had led her to contact Rajiv in the first place, had spoke of just the kind of triumph over another human being of which she had long dreamed. For as long as she could remember, in fact. That it had been a man, triumphing over an unwilling German businesswoman from whom he rented a home, did nothing to prevent her applying the situation to her own. Fantasising herself into the male role while the unwitting Bernard Lambert took on the part of Ilse.
“Of course, it was a little easier for me with Ilse,” he had continued.
“Easier in what way?” she asked; curiosity piqued.
“Though I was loathe to use force with her, there was, with my greater male strength, always that option. There were many, many times when nothing but a severe bare bottom spanking –amongst other physical punishments- and some time in the corner would answer her disobedience. The humiliation of being forced into such childish penance as painful to her in its own way as the spanking itself. And a decision, once I had made it, she could do nothing of a physical nature to alter.”
“I take your point,” she told him, reversing the principals in order to take some enjoyment from the retelling; seeing it, however, as a not particularly challenging one and wanting to move on.
“Your tone betrays boredom, Anya,” he said, picking up on her dismissal. “But it will interest you to know that Ilse’s advanced age in comparison to my youth made her feelings of dishonour and mortification all the sharper and made my own reactions both sweeter and longer lasting.”
Her silence was revealing.
“Something, sweet Anya,” he went on, reading her mind; “you will soon experience for yourself –albeit with a slave of different gender across your lap- from the same end of that spectrum I myself occupied at the time. ”
As she listened, and in spite of her disinterest, in his point at least, Anya was again teasing her virgin cunny through the fabric of her panties.
Images of the Englishman –despite his “greater male strength”- draped over her lap as she tanned the pale skin of his backside with a hairbrush; cries for mercy filling her head after the manner of an uplifting symphony; stirring her lust to motion yet again.
“For you, though,” he went on, “it is a little different. Physical persuasion is not an option - at least for the moment. The female-male dynamic being, I must confess, somewhat more complicated.”
“How so?”
“By that I mean: in order for a woman to inflict a beating upon a male victim of choice –and the fantasy world of dungeons and shackles absent- consent is necessary for the beating to take place.
“Is that all?” she scoffed. “From your words I thought you had a more complex dynamic in mind.”
“Bear with me here, Anya; all I say is that, in the absence of consent, a woman who desires to inflict physical punishment upon a physically stronger man must go about her business in a more… devious way.”
He allowed a few beats to pass.
“Do correct me if I am in error,” he began again, sarcasm obvious; “but isn’t “Consent” the one thing guaranteed to play no part in your desires?”
“Do not tease me, Rajiv,” came her instant response. “Why ask questions to which you already know the answer. We are alike in this – as you well know.”
A chuckle greeted her accusation.
“You are right, young Anya; as always. We have much in common. Even as I sense your finger teasing you once more towards completion, my trusty right hand again caresses my engorged cock beneath my desk.”
“Filthy old beast!” she snapped, feigning shock; continuing to rub herself through the soaked panties. “And what makes you think I would behave in such a fashion?”
“Because,” he laughed; not taken in; “while you enthuse my ageing body with your willingness to listen and the vitality of your youth, I bequeath you my years of knowledge and experience in order to make your dream possible. We are partners at a distance and, as such, are perfect for each other.
“I cannot speak for you,” he went on, “but it is, for me at least, sufficient. My pleasure is taken in guiding you towards the fulfilment you seek through the enslavement of this Englishman. For my part, I wish nothing more than to allow you to experience the same heady euphoria of ownership I knew with my Ilse. Though I suspect your personal feelings towards your erstwhile “Master” share nothing of the tenderness I felt towards my sorely missed slave.”
Anya’s frottage of herself through the, by now, saturated fabric of her panties slowed as she considered the truism.
“Your suspicions would give credit to your perception had I not assured you of such many times previously,” she served gentle rebuke; drawing another chuckle from the sub-continent.
“Even taking my relatively few years on the planet into consideration, it is difficult to imagine encountering such pomposity, self-delusion, misogyny and a belief in one’s own inherent superiority, in a lone man. He is a composite of everything I loathe in a man and is the beast awaiting a collar I have dreamt of since such desires first made themselves known to me. As you are aware, Rajiv, I detested him and his easy assumption of racial, physical and intellectual superiority on sight and will do all and everything in my power to bind him to me in as abject a manner as possible.”
From Calcutta, silence greeted the end of her outpouring, then:
“Your articulation of your purpose takes away my breath, young Anya. I find it hard to believe your former poverty and lack of a formal education.”
His subtle assertion of his own superiority in terms of class and learning not lost on her.
“And your inability to concede me a brain because of such a lack deprives me of mine.”
Another chuckle greeted her rebuke and she laughed along with him - instantly forgiving the small eruption of male ego.
It was, when it came down to it, the opponent with whom she lived to do battle.
Not for the first time, she offered self-congratulation for seeking his advice after having visited his blog; telling herself, once again, that the relationship she shared with him was as normal –close inverted commas- a relationship as she was ever likely to have with a man.
Even if it was not her intention to allow it to remain that way.
“You find him handsome though?” he asked, expression intent.
“You know this already,” she told him – scenting a hint of jealousy in the question.
“Just making sure your passion burns as brightly,” he assured her.
“Really?” she asked, growing bolder. “Or is it that you see yourself in the role I intend for him? Tell me, Rajiv, now you have reached your dotage, have you finally decided to take your courage in both hands and taste life on the receiving end of the whip? Even as we speak, are you picturing yourself naked before me, my collar about your neck? Knees to the porcelain and obedient mouth wide as I fill it with my waste?”
There was silence from her hometown and she realised Rajiv had moved away from the screen.
An absence making her think; for a few indecisive moments; she had gone too far.
When all was said and done, she reminded herself, this was not some milksop English writer she was dealing with but a proud Indian male.
More pertinently: an Indian male who had once reduced a proud, arrogant and commanding, German businesswoman to abject slavery.
A man, more to the point, whose experience she not only valued but needed.
Just as she was about to apologise, his face filled the screen and he spoke:
“Ten years ago, my little Anya,” he began; tone darker than his usual when conversing with her; “I would have taken such an assertion as a challenge.”
To her relief, the face on the screen broke into a broad grin:
“However,” he went on; “we are friends. Partners in a mutual venture – even though you will be the one to reap the majority of its rewards. Also, if I am honest, and despite your tender years, I know the real thing when I converse with it. Should we have met during my pomp -and our paths taken the route of conflict rather than mutual regard- I have no doubt you would have proved a worthy opponent for me.”
His young protégé could do no more than nod agreement – not letting him know she considered herself to be far more than simply: “Worthy”.
“So, my wise mentor,” she led with some flattery of her own; “where do we go from here?”…
Chapter Ten
Fantasy Two
He must feel awful, she knew, her smile smug. The sensation of having his head buried under the duvet between her powerful young thighs as she relaxed into the soft, freshly laundered pillows, enhanced by the certainty his lips would stay at her pussy and his nose remain buried in her anus the whole night if she chose.
A decision in the affirmative more often the case than not and a position she demanded he maintain; no matter how hot, sweaty and stinking close proximity to her netheregions became.
This position in her bed something she insisted upon; the consequences for not complying ones he knew very, very, very, well. Yet one more humiliation for him and all the more precious to her for knowing how degrading he found it; his excitement at being close to her intimate parts soon fading before the reality of having to inhale the smell of her arse and pussy the whole night through. After all, she told herself: what employer would spend every night with his nose buried in his servant’s arse and his tongue in constant contact with her labia?
His inability to do this at various times leading to some equally delicious punishments – delicious for her, that is; even if she had trained him well enough to make such interludes few and far between.
“I want your mouth on my pussy and your nose up my superior Indian arse even if you fall asleep,” she had warned him. “You do not move; not even to relieve your little pee-pee. Disturb my sleep and you will experience real pain.”
In truth, she didn’t care if he slept or not – so long as his head remained in place. The perfect way, she knew, to ensure his continuing submission. It being, she reckoned, nigh on impossible for pride and self-respect to find any purchase on the smooth slopes of her buttocks and the drenched folds of her cunt.
“Long worshipful strokes,” her voice through the duvet reminded him as he laved at her pussy as per her instructions; careful to keep his nose in place as he obeyed her instructions. “That’s it. Just the way I like to drift off to sleep. But I do not hear you sniffing. Deep breaths through the nose now, you know the rule.”
Of all the indignities to which she subjected him this was her favourite –even if making him lick her armpits clean of the day’s perspiration came close. That she could actually condition him into actively seeking that which he hated was another source of entertainment and satisfaction for her. She never tired of hearing him beg for his own dishonour.
As his breath began to rasp through his nostrils in accordance with her demand, she felt herself beginning to drift off, already anticipating waking in the morning and using the toilet.
Another source of delight close to the summit of her perverse tastes.
“From now on,” she had told him, “you will be helping me when I need to piss or shit,” his horror at such a prospect one more development she relished.
“Whenever, I say: ‘Toilet’, you are to stop what you are doing and crawl after me on all fours. You will then kneel before the toilet bowl and place your upturned hands upon the seat as a cushion for your Indian master’s lovely brown arse.
“Then, after you have done this and I have taken my place upon my throne, you will place a reverential kiss upon each of my thighs before placing your head between my legs to better observe your queen’s fountain as it fills the bowl below.”
His face at her flowery depiction of this most foul of acts was a picture of abject misery.
“When it is complete,” she went on, “I will stand and you will use your tongue to clean me.”
For a moment, she thought he was about to laugh; not believing she was serious; but her expression and the words she spoke next cured him of any such delusion:
“Get used to the taste very quickly, my peon, for very soon I do not expect to have to use the bowl at all…
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