 |
|||
|
|
Chapter Eleven
Lambert
Over eight thousand miles away from where Rajiv Singh sat at his computer pondering his future, the unknowing object of those musings was sat outside a pub in the fishing village he usually steered clear of, sipping a pint. His nearness to the sea and the sound of waves gently lapping against the harbour walls making no headway with the despondency they were usually so successful in banishing.
Or at least diluting.
Bernard Lambert’s current mood, however, was made of sterner stuff. For, though he put it differently to himself –ego based denial a powerful mitigator- his decision to get out of the house owed more to a need to escape the proximity of his young housekeeper than any need for a warm lager in a tatty public house.
Mind-numbingly banal conversation of the regulars a given.
“Regulars”, who looked and sounded as if the nearest they ever came to an original thought was the supply of an erroneous answer on Quiz-Nights.
His presence outside a pub he didn’t like, with a beer he didn’t want, in a fishing village he couldn’t stand, owed to reasons he was loathe to admit – even if he sensed a time was coming when he would have to bite the bullet and do just that.
Much to his dismay -and rather than easing off- his fascination with the young Indian girl was growing.
Dangerously so.
Not two days ago, as a matter of personal record, he had done something that, under normal circumstances, would have made his skin crawl.
A mere recollection of his transgression doing exactly that right now.
The large swallow of unwanted and warm beer, triggered by a memory of the deed itself, spoke volumes for the shame he felt at having committed such an act.
The previous Wednesday, to be precise. Acting rather than writing, for once. In order to feign sickness and forego driving Anya to the mall inland for the weekly shop.
Insisting on getting her a cab and telling her to make an afternoon of it while he rested at home.
That “Rest” involving the use of his spare key to let himself into her quarters above the garage while telling himself he made the intrusion only to: “Familiarise myself with the living habits of my servant”.
Justifying his actions further by telling himself she was someone who lived in his home and it was his right to know something of her private life.
A flawed self-justification a small section of his conscience recognised as a crock of the very worst grade shit – even if it wasn’t of sufficient strength to make itself heard.
Upon letting himself into the “Quarters” themselves, it came as no great revelation to find they were immaculate. Surprise at what he saw absent – despite a sneaky suspicion the diligence, efficiency and love of hygiene she displayed in his home might lead to a slacking off and slovenliness in her own.
The order and cleanliness greeting his eyes as he slipped up the stairs at the side of the garage to let himself in making him wary - careful to touch very little and to leave whatever he did make contact with in exactly the same place and condition in which he’d found it.
Taking in the sofa bed, television and computer; along with the tiny but well equipped kitchen with breakfast bar; he actually congratulated himself on his thoughtfulness for having provided her such a pleasant living accommodation.
Having told himself beforehand that his reason for entering her quarters was simply a means of finding out something more of the way she lived, it was something of a wake-up call to find the subconscious reason for his intrusion awaiting him in the compact bathroom.
For some reason, being in her bathroom induced a strange sensation in him. One he hadn’t experienced before and something of a puzzle to him; as if his insides had suddenly swooned; actually having to sit on her lowered toilet seat as he waited for equilibrium to return. The knowledge he was resting on the same spot upon which she perched herself to go about her business doing nothing to help him in that sense.
“This,” he thought to himself, taking in the small but immaculately kept en-suite, “is where she performs her most intimate bodily functions.”
Placing, as always, that equine face to one side; he had pictured that powerful body as it released a stream of golden piss into the bowl and imagined those strong shapely legs, spread wide and calf muscles tensing, as what had once been nourishment was squeezed past her anus to “Plop” into the water below.
Which was when the laundry basket took his eye.
Almost involuntary of himself, and while a part of him looked on; unable to quite believe he could stoop so low; another, less squeamish, less… moral part of him was already delving into her dirty washing.
His search becoming feverish until, finally he retrieved a pair of black panties and held them up in front of him. Hesitating only a few moments before he brought them up to his nose and inhaled.
Deeply.
The pungent and musky odour of his housekeeper’s young pussy buckling his knees.
“This” was her smell, he told himself: “virgin, uncorrupted… intoxicating.”
Her: “Master”; only stopping his exploration of his servant’s most intimate private scents to turn the panties inside out and lave his tongue over the soiled gusset. Tasting her secretions second-hand and continuing to do so as he fished out what he had always thought was seven inches of erect cock and now seemed like ten. Stroking himself like a madman while her name resounded in his head as if it were a mantra; until, finally, his whole body spasmed and jet upon jet upon jet of his essence scatter-gunned across the bathroom to land on the opposite wall as his knees buckled beneath him and he sank to the tiles.
After a minute or so, when both his heart rate and his thoughts had lowered to manageable levels, he could only look at the evidence of his arousal as it slithered down the ceramic tiles and acknowledge it was the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced in his forty-eight years.
A quick glance at his wristwatch gave him pause and he set to cleaning up the evidence of both his intrusion and -now his need had been temporarily gratified- disgrace from walls and floor. It being only an effort of will; coupled with the fear of her returning early and catching him in the act; preventing a repetition of the process.
An even greater effort required to stop himself stealing the underwear itself.
Now, sitting outside a pub he didn’t like in a fishing village he liked even less, the full disgrace of his actions dampened his spirit.
Swallowing back his unwanted pint as the memory sickened him to his soul.
“What in fuck’s name am I becoming,” he said aloud, forgetting where he was and quickly looking up to see if he had been heard; grateful the tables around him were empty.
Though he did win a second look from the sixty-something barmaid; dressed too young and sporting a big perm above unnaturally symmetrical teeth; smiling in his direction as she collected the dead-men of previous punters. Artificial dentistry and the waft of Ammonia from recently transfixed hair doing nothing to prevent the old trout being one of the more appealing examples of the village’s: “Attractive and available”, women.
It was the same remorse for his action –masturbating as he licked soiled panties, that is; not swearing in front of an old trout- that had led to his phone-call to Gianni and yesterday’s trip to London. That he could have a sexual need of such intensity for someone of his housekeeper’s type baffling enough; but, for it to go beyond that, was nothing less than… nothing less than…
Memory failing him -and his thesaurus on the shelf in his study where he had last left it- he gave up and seriously considered asking Anya Jalav to leave his employ.
It was, he knew, becoming too much. Bad enough to have the life he knew –a life with a dutiful wife; willing and available women; and mini-celebrity- wrenched from him. But; to start over again; only to find himself obsessing over an ugly domestic help young enough to be his…
Not bothering to finish the obvious and equally depressing thought he rose from his seat and headed off in the direction of the path that would lead him back to the house.
“Thanks for calling,” the be-dentured matriarch of the salmon family cried after him; sarcasm made all the more obvious for the authentic Cornish in which it was delivered as she snatched up his empty mug.
By the time he reached the path and began his upward climb, he had convinced himself there was no other option but to let the girl go.
By the time he was halfway up and had stopped for a breather; images of her legs and feet –along with those incredible breasts and the scent of young pussy that had triggered the most momentous orgasm of his life until then- were giving him second thoughts.
By the time he had reached the top, staring down at the tiny village and harbour below while his breathing returned to normal, he had done a complete volte-face and changed his mind; telling himself the problems were his and not hers and berating himself for acting like a pre-pubescent:
“Grow up, Lambert, for fuck’s sakes!”
A self-motivational pep talk, which had the desired effect of perking him up as the house rose into view. There were, after all, many positive aspects of his life he had to be thankful for and went some way towards jolting him from his depression. Positive aspects, left to run their course, which might even have been capable of going the whole hog and banishing his woes completely.
Had, that is, his thoughts not returned to yesterday and his attempt to escape his mushrooming obsession with his housekeeper.
Travelling to London to rekindle memories of the man he had once been via the replication of an interlude from his past.
Chapter Twelve
Bayswater
A gust of wind through the open balcony windows billowed out the curtains as a naked Bernard Lambert lay on the bed in the very same Bayswater hotel room he had once used for his lunchtime trysts.
A scene of many sexual conquests –and one in particular- providing a timely reminder of his former prowess in such matters he was sure would put his current mindset in regard of his servant in perspective.
At least that was his intent.
The young woman at the foot of the bed, kneading the soles of his feet as per his requirements, was around the same age as Anya.
Which was where any similarity ended.
In contrast to his housekeeper, the skin of the girl’s naked form was pale and natural; a refreshing change from the peroxide hair and Essex-girl-wannabee spray tan he found so deeply unattractive.
Sheep-like implied.
One of the reasons Gianni, his long time guide in these matters, had introduced her to him in the first place.
The obvious and tasteless playing as little part in the Concierge’s predilections as they did in his.
With her short blonde hair and pale skin, the girl gave off a sense of the Nordic reminding him of Siobhan. At least until she opened her mouth. The estuary English emerging from it something he had always found… grating. Going on to give thanks for the certainty that, on the few occasions during the next hour when she actually opened that mouth, it would not be to speak.
“You have a good body for an old-… older man,” she said, correcting herself in mid-sentence as he withdrew his earlier appreciation of ‘Certainty’.
“Nice cock too,” she told him, moving sinuously up over his legs to bring herself closer; lowering her pert breasts to either side of his dick and pushing them together to trap it there.
“Are tit-wanks your thing?” she asked with a smirk.
Prone on the mattress, Lambert wished she’d shut the fuck up. Bad enough to have to listen to that grating low-grade accent without having her run through her repertoire of what she considered: dirty talk.
“What in shit’s name was Gianni thinking?” he asked himself. Was this what he thought he wanted nowadays? Had it ever been what he wanted?
“I’ve some Viagra in my Louis Vuitton,” she told him, barely bothering to disguise her contempt as his still flaccid prick plopped out from between what were, he admitted, and despite his disinterest, impressive tits.
“I don’t need Viagra, thanks,” he told her; neglecting to say that if he did he’d probably need a truckload if his blood flow were to make it past both voice and patter.
“Could have fooled me,” she said, a thought occurring to her: “Tell you what, just so it’s not a total wipe-out, why don’t you suck my toes for a while then I’ll let you eat me? Sound good?”
He looked at her as if she’d just crawled up the toilet duct.
“You, want me? To eat you?” he asked; impressed, at least, by her pluck.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she told him, totally unfazed. “I can always spot a pussy boy.”
“You can?” he asked, a hint of his former temper kicking in, voice dangerously low; though she was either too dumb or too feisty to notice or be bothered.
“Stands out like a sore thumb,” she nodded. “Bet you’d like to drink my piss too. Pussy boys always like a bit of urine in my experience.”
“You reckon do you?”
“Tell you what, do a nice job on the old fanny and I might give you a taster – but only “Might”, mind.”
In spite of himself and the bromide effect of her voice, there was a small twitch downstairs.
“There we go!” she squealed. “Am I good. Or am I good? A pussy boy and a piss freak, all in one package. Bet you lick arses as well.”
“Not yours sweetheart,” he thought instantly; the fact he didn’t say it out loud, before tearing verbal strips off her and proceeding to fuck her overused cunt numb, firm evidence he was undergoing a sea change.
Out of character behaviour bringing the male-menopause instantly to mind.
Even as that same mind dismissed it.
Bernard Lambert knew exactly where his problem lay.
And, if there was one thing he could be certain of, it was the knowledge that problem wasn’t in the room with him.
“Sorry,” he told her, “but it’s not going to happen.”
She shrugged her shoulders and slid away from him.
No look of regret, or hurt, or recrimination.
No nothing.
He might just as well have told her he wasn’t in the mood for a hand of whist.
She could care less.
By the time he’d pulled a sheet over himself and sat up she was already half dressed; placing her nylons in the “Louis Vuitton” for speed of exit and slipping into her Jimmy Choo’s.
“I’d say it’s been fun but…”
“You’re an honest girl. Right?”
She smiled and he smiled back; suddenly seeing her as human; a person in her own right rather than a necessary convenience he could use for his own…
The “Convenience” and its accent cutting into his thoughts:
“It makes no difference, you know?”
He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t like it to get nasty.”
“No problem,” he told her, reaching for his wallet to take out some notes and pass them to her.
“A deal’s a deal,” he agreed.
Accepting the notes she made as if to count them.
“It’s all there,” he assured her. “I promise.”
She stared at him for a few moments, considering it; then:
“Yeah. Course it is,” she conceded. “Gianni said you’re a good customer.”
Then, with an air-kiss and a twirl, she was gone, leaving her punter to reflect on the past twenty minutes and what it signified for him.
The fact he had been attempting to picture somebody else the whole time he had been with the call girl was sobering. Knowing it had only been a grating Estuary English accent and some, by the numbers, slut talk preventing that picture from supplying the erection he needed if he was to do what he had paid for and fuck her.
A resigned smile greeting the realisation.
He had never considered himself close with a buck, but at least then he would have got something more for his money than a desultory foot-rub.
Flopping backwards on the bed he groaned.
The whole idea had been a fucking –or; dependent upon one’s point-of-view: fuckfree- disaster.
A complete waste of his time and cash that –if the way he felt now was any guide- had left him more despondent than when he left Cornwall to come here. A confirmation he was so fixated on his servant he couldn’t manage an erection without first summoning up her image, not the result he had in mind.
A non-event placing him in even more of a quandary over what he should do about it.
As he lay flat on the king-size-double and listened to the traffic from the street below, he considered the whole piss-puerile situation with his housekeeper; allowing the breeze from the open window to cool his fevered brow until the inevitable happened.
His despondency not lessening any when an image of a naked Anya imprinted itself on his retina; beginning with her pretty feet and up past those powerful hosed legs, continuing on over insolent hands-on-hips to zoom in on her commanding breasts and….
Lo and behold…
Lift off!
Chapter Thirteen
Anya
It had only been seven months but, to her, it seemed a lifetime ago; memories of Calcutta that were now simply that – memories. Her intention of creating those of a fonder and more recent variety –at least in the near future- non-existent.
Taking up the position in England, of course, had been a massive step for a young Indian girl of minimal education and deprived background.
But then, what was there to keep her in Calcutta she gave a fig about?
The cramped room she rented above a sweatshop?
The family she neither had nor wanted?
The friends she had yet to make and couldn’t locate interest enough to try?
All the above making it a decision she made without fear; for Anya Jalav was –along with the gift of a native, if twisted, intelligence- made of sterner stuff.
“A virgin forged in steel,” Rajiv had declaimed, confirming her own thoughts in regard of herself.
Pitiless, in fact.
A force of warped nature.
Determined no mere animal of a man, whatever his position, would ever storm the citadel of her womanhood.
Quite the contrary, in fact.
If there were any storming to be done then she would be the one sitting atop the weaponry of siege - and woe betide the unfortunate castle upon whom she set her sights.
Of course, there had been no problem with a visa as she already held a British Passport – the selling point that got her onto the agency’s books in the first place. As a point of fact, she had been born in Bradford. Daughter of an arranged marriage the male half of which -and the father she had never known- had suffered a massive coronary not two months after her birth. Knowing barely a soul and with little English, her mother had been left with no choice but to return to the home of Anya’s widowed grandfather in India and the grinding poverty she had travelled to England to escape.
What had finally clinched Anya’s acceptance had been the photographs of the home overlooking the Cornish coastline she would be expected to take care of for her new employer. Her imagination triggered further by the fact that home would contain only one occupant other than herself -a middle-aged English crime writer by the name of “Bernard Lambert”. Isolated home by the sea and lone male occupant combining to seal the deal for her.
Imagination that had run riot when she researched her prospective employer and saw, despite his years, how handsome he remained - almost a composite, in fact, of the men she pictured in her fantasies. Near enough, anyway, to convince her fate was working its magic and have her packing her meagre belongings to wing her way to a new life on the English Riviera. Sea, writer, and an isolated house atop the cliffs suiting her reclusive temperament -and, later, her purpose- perfectly.
Understandably, her first few weeks had been spent learning the foibles of her new employer: likes, dislikes, habits and routines, et al. An employer –see above- to whom she was instantly attracted; despite there being no sign, or likely to be, of any similar regard coming her way; quickly realising the initial route to his attentions was through respect, attention to detail, and obedience.
From the old computer he’d supplied her with and access to the net she had already discovered the salient facts of his background -career in reverse, private life a mess, something of a womaniser- and quickly assessed him as a man who would respond positively to anything that heightened his own self-image.
On her very first night above the garage – alone in a strange country and despite all the new experiences she was coming to terms with - she had manipulated herself to orgasm.
Several times.
By the time exhaustion and Morpheus had forced her own submission, the man she had travelled to England to serve had –amongst other humiliations- eaten from a dog-bowl, been urinated upon and, finally, been branded like a pig with the evidence of her mark he would carry until the end of his life.
Never, she mused, before the god of sleep took her, had she reacted to a man in such a powerful way. So powerful, that; upon waking the following morning; before beginning her first full day of work; she repeated the whole euphoric process; her new employer, she told herself, filling all the criteria of her post-pubescent fantasies –and a few of the earlier variety too.
Undeniably handsome.
Pretentious.
Racist.
Egotistic and vain.
And, more importantly she sensed: weak.
Very, very, very, very, weak.
The above obsession with her new “Master” one she would duplicate every evening when she was alone from then on.
Sometimes, even, during the day itself.
The fact he was as transparent to his new employee as water and she had seen through his pomposity and superiority immediately, made her burgeoning intentions in his regard easier. The two character flaws bolstering her in the intention that he see her as no more than the perfect, attentive and obedient, housekeeper.
Something she sensed he would find very appealing and, more relevantly, unthreatening.
It was a feat she achieved with remarkable dexterity and a feat he allowed her to go about achieving with minimal interference; entrusting more responsibility –as trivial and menial as it was- to her each day.
Within a week, she had the house spotlessly clean and looking immaculate.
Within two, she was familiar with every detail of his routine and anticipating his demands before he made them; providing a sense of care and security he couldn’t fail to find welcoming.
In short, she ensured he wanted for nothing; his most minute, most trivial, need anticipated and served – sometimes before he realised he had a need at all.
The process of dependency had begun and her unknowing and increasingly purposeless “Master” was responding to it in a way that boded well for the future she had in mind for them both.
But it was on the anniversary of her fifth month in his employ, during their weekly trip to a shopping mall in a nearby town, that a seemingly small discovery would lead to the coming change in their roles and her wardrobe.
Normally on their outings –the one time she would leave the house apart from walks into the village and along the coastline- he would drive her to the mall and allow her a couple of hours for the weekly shop while he sat outside a Starbucks drinking coffee and reading the day’s papers.
For her, after she had lugged the shopping back to the car –alone– it would be a tour of the high street shops and anything else she had the time and the fancy to do.
On this particular day, however, she found herself distracted from her usual routine and found herself observing his.
Exiting a shop on the upper level of the mall, she happened to look down to the shops below and realised she was directly above Starbucks.
There, back towards her, sipping a cappuccino was the familiar wavy brown hair, streaked with grey, of her employer, newspapers strewn on the table before him. Newspapers, she realised, that were being completely ignored as he people watched.
Deciding to truncate the tour of the shops that was fast becoming a bore to her, she made the decision to observe her handsome employer from above; secure in the knowledge he could not see her without twisting in his seat and gazing directly upwards.
A seemingly small decision that would change both their lives.
The first thing to take her notice was the way his head swivelled to follow the passing women.
Not just any women, you understand?
And, to his young housekeeper’s disbelief, not the obvious, ten-to-the-dozen, fake blonde variety she had convinced herself would be his type.
These passed his table without eliciting a flicker of interest.
No. His interest was reserved for examples of womanhood occupying a category well removed from supermodel, model, or even just plain attractive. Examples, she realised -after it had happened too many times to be coincidental- possessing at least one common denominator.
An insight into his mental make-up that twisted her horse features into a malevolent smile as she continued to watch.
Each of the passing women who gained his appraisal, she observed, had figures that could, most accurately, be described as matronly.
No stick insects these.
But the ones guaranteed to rivet his attention were those with powerful legs. Short or long, young or old, bulky or just plain muscular, it made no difference; so long as they were of a certain shape and clad in heels and hose he was drawn to them. Legs and figures, in fact, normally to be found on the more authoritative nurse, governess or any female in the more prosaic positions of power. Any woman, in fact, with the kind of legs she had seen on someone with whom she was extremely familiar.
Her.
Chapter Fourteen
Rajiv & Anya
Later that same evening, after the events at the mall, she had Skyped Rajiv; thinking he would play down her discovery and, instead, found herself delighted to hear him confirm her suspicions.
“It would appear,” he told her, the smile filling her computer screen leaving no doubts in respect of the encouragement he took from her news; “that you have stumbled upon his heel.” His pleasure, she noticed, undiminished by the almost empty bottle of Johnny Walker she could see at his side and the fact it was deep into the small hours Calcutta time.
“Pleasure”, matched by her puzzlement.
“His what?” she had asked.
“His Achilles Heel, Anya,” her mentor explained. “A demi-god. Son of Thetis. Held by the heel as he was dipped in the waters of the Styx to make him invuln…
He stopped in mid-word, giving it up. For all her attributes and individuality, the girl shared much common ground with her youthful contemporaries. A narrowing of personal references but one example of mutual ignorance.
Impatience being another.
“What I mean to say,” he tried again, “is that you have found his weakness.”
Her reprimand was instant:
“Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” she carped, having yet until then to have even heard the word: “Metaphor”.
Still less understanding the literary allusion accompanying it.
“As I have explained to you before, Anya, when you are fortunate enough to have a man’s desires signposted to you, and assuming a reasonable level of intelligence –or at least a low and basic animal cunning– it will not be long before you also find yourself gifted with the key to the cage you would fashion for him. All that remains after you have supervised its construction is to lead him to his captivity and engage the lock.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“In relation to the keeping of a woman, my dear girl, it is. My belief –and you will allow I have some small experience of that which I speak– is that a woman can never be entirely tamed. There will always be that spark of rebellion deep inside that must keep a master upon his guard - unless, of course, he is prepared to have his situation reversed - or, worse, ended.”
Anya smiled to herself at the truism.
“With a man,” he continued, “it is different. Men are simpler and less complex - as well as being all the more predictable for the absence of the hormonal. When a man is broken, he is broken for life. Never –rare exceptions acknowledged- will he raise hand or head again. His owner takes possession of his deeds and keeps them until either the slave is sold or dead.”
Again he paused.
“With a woman, however, and no matter how harsh and intensive her training; she remains forever on leasehold. Believe me, to underestimate that fact is to invite problems that are fully deserved.”
“I trust what you say,” Anya told him truthfully, “though I am not totally convinced. But, even if I were, how would this help me break the man of my choice?”
The laughter at the end of the connection was indulgent without being mocking:
“You already know the answer to that, my dear.”
“I do?”
“The management of men is hardwired into the mindset of females from the womb onwards. As well you know. To break the spirit of the chosen creature is to simply take what comes naturally to your gender. Put simply, it is a matter of taking a few steps further forward than the more vanilla of your sisters – as many, to be precise, as the situation requires and you desire. What you witnessed at the mall gives you knowledge; which, in the right hands, equates to power.”
The silence greeting his assertion told him he had his protégé’s attention.
“If the man of choice attempts to kiss your lips?” he continued in the high-rise-negative fashion so popular with youth the world over. “Show him your cheek. The next time he heads for the cheek? Offer him your hand.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Shun him. Then, when he returns and attempts to kiss the hand he insulted? Show him your pretty foot – or in your case,” he laughed, “a muscular calf.”
In Cornwall, his laughter was matched.
“From such a lowly position,” the sub-continent continued, “it is a brief journey to the anus, the armpit, or any other orifice and appendage upon which you wish him to lavish attention. He must be familiarised with each and every one of your most intimate smells and feel honoured to be on worshipful terms with them – even if he may, at certain times, find them… disgusting.”
“Yes!” she breathed into the phone, unable to help herself; her mentor’s take on the subject in complete accordance with her own.
“Animals such as these,” he finished, “can only truly be said to be broken when it is a physical pain for them to be denied access to their owner.”
Silence again reigned as she took it all in, until:
“You are making me wet,” she rebuked, light-hearted but truthful. “And not for the first time.”
“It is a talent,” he agreed; laughing along with her; the two of them partners in a crime at the planning stage.
“This is all very encouraging,” she said, “but I still have a long way to go.”
His reply, given his usual downbeat approach, surprised her:
“Perhaps not so far as you think,” he said encouragingly. “What you saw at the mall was more than just a simple discovery of his tastes giving you a chance to finally gain his attention.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Anya, the physical aspects to which a man is drawn in a woman and, more tellingly, the design of those aspects, reveal his sexual nature in a way that can sometimes be clear to all but the man in possession of them himself.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying, my dear, that; given his fixation for certain legs and feet, and the undeniable fact the design of the legs and feet he finds most attractive match yours –which; though undeniably shapely and erotic in their individual way; are not what most men would consider to be catwalk material- I am willing to wager that your employer, ignorant or unwilling to recognise the fact as he may be, is a latent masochist.”
“You make no sense,” she said; his assertion puzzling her; no matter how pleased she was to hear it. “How is it possible for a man not to know himself?”
“For men of my age,” he told her, remaining patient, “and, I would guess, your employer’s, the notion of manhood and what constitutes the condition was extremely rigid during our formative years. Even today, when men are encouraged to make contact with their…” a tone of contempt transformed his voice: “…‘Feminine’ side, certain manly aspects are both encouraged and, more to the point, expected. Hardly surprising that a man with a need to submit to a woman would suppress that urge rather than face the contempt of father, friends and colleagues. Far easier to submit to the social stereotype and become the man’s man society expects than risk ridicule and be true to one’s own inclinations. Sexual behaviour, once this stereotyping is in place, is known as ‘Sublimation.
“One has only to study the characters in his bland novels to realise he sees women as a threat. The main reason they are always fragile, helpless, and in need of a strong man to both rescue, care for them, and give their lives meaning. The longer his true needs are suppressed and sublimated the easier it is for him to convince himself those needs were out of character in the first place. The good news for us is that, when they return, they do so with their power multiplied a hundredfold.
“When he does finally submit, his early conditioning will ensure any pleasure his masochism derives from your command and control of him is mitigated by his hatred of you –along with a deep and lasting shame for having submitted at all. Making every day a fresh triumph for you as he concedes yet more ground - hating you and despising himself even as he feels compelled to do your bidding.”
“The sooner I know such a day,” she assured him, “the better I will like it.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is, Anya, a very happy anomaly –for you at least. One that supplies a longevity of sensation ensuring your ownership of him remains always to your taste.”
Savouring his words; Anya Jalav knew the taste of “Ownership” was one she could scarcely wait to experience; optimism for actually doing so buoyed by the knowledge it was an experience her mentor seemed thoroughly determined she should have.
“Now,” he began after allowing her a second or two to absorb his words, “blessed with this new knowledge of his tastes, I believe it is time we became a little more creative with both him, our strategy, and your wardrobe.”
“I am all ears, O wise mentor,” Anya assured him.
“Tell me, my dear,” he had asked; as if in afterthought; “are you religious, by any chance?”
“Not in the slightest,” she told him. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought that strikes me…Give me some time to think it through and I shall explain in more detail tomorrow lunchtime. In the meantime however, make sure you return to your sari’s.”
Anya started; nonplussed:
“But why would I do that when he is…”
“Humour me in this, my dear,” he came in, “and I promise you will not be disappointed.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lambert
“Is there something wrong, Master?” she asked, placing the breakfast tray on his lap and unfolding his newspaper for him.
“Wh-What makes you say that?” he answered with a question of his own, uncomfortable at having been read so swiftly – and effortlessly.
“You seem… well… surprised,” Anya replied; understanding now why Rajiv had pressed her to return to the costume of her homeland.
“No, no,” he assured her, indicating her sari. “I suppose I’ve just gotten used to you wearing more… Western fashions.”
“Oh, I see,” she smiled, unfolding his napkin and pouring his tea; waiting for him, as she knew he would, to go on.
A clearing cough indicated he was about to do just that.
“I suppose the sari’s are more comfortable,” he offered finally.
There was a palpable air of disappointment to him, she thought with no small satisfaction, as he realised he was to be denied the sight of her in the type of clothing he enjoyed so much was to be denied him – at least for the day.
“It is true, Master,” she agreed; hesitating purposefully, “and yet…”
“Yes?” he prompted when it seemed she had finished.
“If you will excuse me sounding so bold,” she went on, “European fashion just feels so much more… so much more… womanly.”
“And you enjoy that?”
She nodded – shyly. As if the mere mention of such a prospect made her seem wanton; playing in to his perception of himself as both wiser older employer and superior man.
“If you enjoy it so much why stop?” he asked. “You are in England, after all. There’s nothing to stop you from dressing exactly as you wish.”
So far the conversation was going exactly as Rajiv had said it would go – a case of setting a pervert to catch a pervert, she thought to herself; while just managing to stifle a smile before returning to naďve subcontinent servant mode.
“You do not think I look…” she allowed her voice to trail off.
“Go on,” he urged – impatiently she thought.
“Well… silly,” she said, averting her eyes and waiting.
Confirmation of what Rajiv had told her would follow came swiftly.
“Of course you don’t,” he assured her. “Western clothing suits you very well. In fact, I was wondering why you would even consider returning to your old clothes.”
“Actually, Master,” she began. “I only intended to do so for today – if that is acceptable to you. I do not have many Western clothes and I need to wear something while they are being cleaned.”
“Of course that’s acceptable, Anya,” he assured her, a thought occurring to him then: “In fact…”
“Yes, Master?” she prompted.
He seemed to think about it some more before reaching a decision.
“In fact, Anya, as you have been wearing the clothes to work in the house, I think it’s high time I gave you a clothing allowance. That way you would have enough outfits – let’s call them “Uniforms” – to wear while you’re on duty and you could save your own clothes for private use.”
Anya widened her eyes at her employer’s largesse, as if such magnanimity were beyond her wildest hopes.
“Would you really do that, Master?”
He was already nodding, her reaction playing in to his perception of himself as some latter day Viceroy beautifully.
“We’ll set you up with an account at the department store in town and you can buy some work outfits along the same lines as you’ve been wearing recently.”
“I do not know what to say, Master,” she said, still in thespian mode.
“Shoes too,” he went on, warming to his theme, growing excitement all too obvious to her. We’ll go onto town after breakfast.”
Anya allowed a huge smile to transform her toothy features: “Master, you are too generous.”
“Nonsense,” he said, flowering under the cultivation of what he saw as her growing idolisation of him; knowing it wouldn’t be long before he gained more intimate access to the parts he was intent upon clothing – and upon his terms. “I expect you to be ready to leave for town the moment I’ve finished breakfast and showered.”
“Yes, Master,” she agreed deferentially, already heading for the door. Turning back when she reached it: “Thank you, Master.”
When the door closed on her magnanimous employer, his searching hands were not reaching for their morning repast.
|
|
|