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Chapter Sixteen
The Basement
When he surprised her in the basement it had barely been three days since he had taken her to town and bought her more clothes than she had ever owned in her life. Clothes, she instantly realised, that chimed in with the look he was so taken with. The same “Look” she had watched him ogle as women dressed in similar fashion had passed his table at Starbucks. Clothes filled with the matronly and substantial rather than the bimboesque and inconsequential.
“How are you this morning, Anya?” she had heard from behind her as she loaded the washing machine with whites, breath catching in her throat at the sound of his voice.
During those “Three days” she had sensed his interest in her growing. It taking all of her willpower - along with Rajiv’s admonishments not to do anything rash in order to facilitate the coming role reversal more swiftly - to prevent herself from doing just that.
“He will come to you, Anya,” Rajiv had assured her. “He must believe himself the instigator. That way he is more easily led.”
If she had not been totally convinced when Rajiv first suggested her course, she was now.
Not once during the time she had worked for him –apart from showing her around on her first day- had he ventured down into the basement that doubled as a laundry room.
And here he was.
“You startled me, Master,” she told him, feigning more surprise than she felt. “It is not usual for you to come down here.”
“Just thought I’d see how you were getting on,” he answered – hesitantly, she thought. “You know? Now I’ve more time on my hands,” he told her; response obviously rehearsed.
“Now that your agency barely acknowledges you and your publisher acts as if you do not exist; along with your wife and friends; you mean?” she was tempted to ask, laughing inwardly.
Contenting herself instead with:
“Everything goes very smoothly, thank you, Master.”
There was an awkward pause then – for him at least – as Anya closed the machine and set the wash; his servant sensing his eyes upon her capacious rear as she bent to the controls; roaming over the grey cotton of her skirt as it hugged her contours before travelling down to her legs and…
“Is something not right, Master?” she asked, jolting him from his perusal.
“Wh-What makes you say that?” he snapped, suddenly on his guard.
“Just that it is most unusual for you to be down here,” she told him, careful not to sound as if she were uncomfortable with his presence. “You do not –if I may say- seem yourself.”
“Truth be told,” he went on, eyes flickering from her face to her legs and back again as she pretended not to notice, “I’m at a bit of a block with my writing. Not used to having time on my hands, you see?”
Anya nodded understandingly and recalled Rajiv’s advice:
“Boost his ego. Flatter his misplaced pride in his superiority. Bolster his own self-regard until he basks in your obvious recognition of his superior status and seeks you out as a means of gaining yet more approval. The more that approval is missing from the other areas of his life the more he will look to you to supply it. Before long he will start to behave in ways guaranteed to make you happy with him and soon this behaviour will become ingrained without him being aware of it – or, if he is, dressing it up as something other than the weakness it is. But at no time –no matter how servile his behaviour becomes– must you act in any other way than his obedient and respectful servant until he is too far gone in his dependence upon you to help himself.”
It was advice she had found –as indeed she found most of his advice when she made it past her own impatience- sound.
“Suppose I’m a bit bored, if the truth be told,” he had gone on, finishing with a snort of laughter meant to tell her he was none too serious.
“It must be difficult for you, Master,” she agreed, only the prize lying in wait at the endgame enabling her to control her growing contempt for his all too obvious weakness and self-pity. “But I am sure it will not be long before your work is back in demand once more. All men of great talent such as yourself must endure trying times.”
It was all she could do not to laugh at the way he nodded agreement with the nonsense she had just spoon-fed him. Just the same though, it was the nearest they had come to a conversation with each other since her arrival – and the fact he had instigated it underlined the wisdom of her mentor’s advice and was a heartening indication of the progress she had made with her intended victim in such a relatively short period of time.
“So,” he went on, still maddeningly superior but at least trying to engage with her on terms not too many light years from equality, “how have you settled in? Everything to your liking? Accommodation good?”
“It is very much to my liking, Master,” she lied, picturing that day when he moved her belongings into the big house and took his own to…
“That old computer of mine I let you have working okay?”
“Very well, thank you, Master. It enables me to stay in contact with my spiritual advisor so much more easily than the exchanging of letters.”
“Spiritual advisor?”
Anya nodded, as if that were information enough for him.
“I had no idea you were religious,” he told her.
“My beliefs are fundamental to my life,” she told him, preparing the ground for the stroke of genius Rajiv had dreamed up a while ago.
“I had no idea,” he said, a little disappointed she thought, thinking, no doubt, that any piety on her part could prove an unreceptive counterpoint to a growing lechery on his.
“It is not a mainstream religion such as Islam or Hindu,” she was quick to explain. “It is, however, many, many, centuries older than either; though, like them, it is based on the teachings of a great prophet. We do not worship a God so much as we pay tribute to the individual soul – or, as my advisor puts it ‘The godlike in others’.”
“I’m not with you,” he said – a difficult admission to make to an ill-educated Indian servant but one he felt obliged to confess nonetheless.
“I am sorry, Master,” she went on, as if caught in a sin, congratulating herself on her own aptitude for the thespian as she did so. “I should not really be speaking in such a fashion. My religion is peculiar to the region of my origins and – though we are many thousands of miles distant – its teachings and obligations are not meant to be shared with…” she hesitated; deliberately.
“Go on,” he urged, coming in exactly where she had intended, the growing belief that she was managing this handsome and older white man, her employer, setting her senses afire.
“I… I am sorry if I transgress, Master, but you are… you are…”
“Yes?”
“An outsider and…” she dropped her eyes …and a non-believer. My apologies, Master.”
Anya stared at the floor, a penitent, forced by honesty into giving offence; praying her Lord and Master would understand and show mercy.
A pose she knew the man she was intent upon owning could do no less than find arousing.
Lambert felt tempted to laugh, so – there was no other word for it – “Primitive” was her behaviour. Never of a religious bent himself, only the prospect of her “Beliefs” interfering with his lustful intent in her regard prevented him showing both disdain and ridicule.
“What is the name of this religion?” he asked, a soupcon of his scorn making itself evident in his tone, despite his diplomatic, if self-interested, intentions.
Anya allowed her eyes to rise to meet those of her employer and found herself elated to find his own eyes had taken the opportunity of her lowered head to take in the legs and feet covered in the black nylon pantyhose he had purchased for her previously.
“It is a name that can only be shared between believers, Master,” she told him, amused at the startled way his eyes leapt from their appraisal of her painted toenails beneath the nylon of her hose to find her own. “We are a very small sect and the strictness of its requirements ensures the numbers remain low – though we are no less devout. More so, perhaps.”
Lambert was intrigued, despite his disdain.
“And you are bound not to speak of it?”
“No, Master. I speak of it all the time. But only with my spiritual guide and other believers. With –I am sorry– non-believers such as you I am only allowed to speak of it in the most general terms. Names, places, and history are forbidden to be shared with any but those favoured with inclusion.”
“Then tell me about it in ‘General terms’,” Lambert insisted; insistence predicated not so much by any great interest in her beliefs themselves but by the magnificent breasts he could see heaving beneath the white cotton work shirt he had chosen for her and the legs below he found so strangely compelling.
Worth listening to some mumbo-jumbo if it kept one in their close proximity for a while longer, he thought, amused by his own cunning.
“Master,” she began, tone becoming serious, as near to being assertive with him as she ever been. “My religion is everything to me. Were it to be ridiculed I would find myself unable to remain within the place or with the person where or with whom such a thing happened.”
For a moment, Lambert just stared at her, taken aback by her sudden infusion of backbone, though by far the most surprising thing was his reaction to the prospect of her actually leaving.
He had actually felt afraid.
Just the same, shame at the fear instilled in him by the prospect of losing the flunkey, ego-massager and unlikely lust object prodded his pride into action, his face taking on a stern look.
There were, after all, appearances to be maintained.
“Are you rebuking me, Anya?” he asked, injecting some severity into his tone.
His reminder of their respective positions having the desired effect.
“No, Master,” she assured him, expression earnest. “I would not dream of doing such a thing. And besides, my religion forbids such disrespect to a person of higher standing such as yourself.”
Her contempt of him knew no bounds as her flattering –and totally fallacious- description of him had the desired effect; two patches of colour actually suffusing the cheeks of her “Master” as her words had their intended effect.
“I was only trying to explain how seriously I take it and how impossible it would be for me to remain in a position where I found my beliefs ridiculed.”
Mollified, Lambert was now –and exactly as he was intended to be- puzzled.
“How do you mean: ‘my religion forbids it?”
Chapter Seventeen
Progress
“It was amazing!” Anya told the eager face on her screen, her mentor’s hands, as usual, out of range of the webcam, a slight far away look telling her all she needed to know by way of explanation for their absence.
“He bought it then?” Rajiv pressed, eager, as indeed he always was, to hear of her progress with the intended chattel.
“Every single word,” she answered, her own face, had he been able to see it, full of pride for the way she had pulled off the deception. “Though he is unable to disguise his contempt for your non-existent religion neither can he hide his delight at the primitive philosophy we have outlined that dovetails so conveniently with his sense of natural and racial superiority.”
Rajiv was nodding, knowingly.
“It is as I explained,” he began. “This is a man to whom self-esteem is everything –whether it be deserved or not. The religious fantasy world we have created for him, where the weak serve the strong and look to them for everything, is something that appeals to such a man immensely.”
“Even when he finds himself the one doing the looking?” Anya asked.
Rajiv laughed.
“When we are finished with him, my dear, it will not matter a jot whether it appeals to him or not. We will have him at a point where your presence in his life and what he must do to preserve it is hardwired into his mindset. Your treatment of him –though he will despise himself for enduring it- will not only come to seem natural but just. Though he will hate you his desire for you and growing sense of inferiority will serve to keep him coming back for more. As the addict considers himself three-quarters of a whole man and justifies the actions of his weaker quarter that the larger fraction may thrive -this while still considering himself a worthy individual deserving respect- so will Bernard Lambert continue to seek you out for his base gratification. And each time he does so his self-esteem and sense of himself as a strong and independent man will die a little more; though, perversely, his need to believe himself still worthy of the description will ensure he continues to look to you for verification. You, young Anya Jalav, formally of Kolkata, are going to break him both mentally and physically until he is at as low an ebb as a man can be.”
“Rajiv,” she sighed, smiling, the usual sensations flooding through her at his words.
“Then,” he continued, “you will be in a position that will enable you to allow him to rise as high or as low as you choose. My guess is that his second coming will not be a particularly elevated rebirth.
As was always the case during their discussions of the ongoing situation, Anya was becoming more and more aroused. The more evidence she saw of her employer’s unlikely infatuation and growing dependence upon her sensitising her at the very core. Making her wonder if the pleasure brought about by his eventual capitulation would ensure her “Young” heart made a surrender of its own.
A possibility that fetched another smile.
What a way to go!
“Tell me,” Rajiv was asking: “does he seek you out more, now he has you dressed after the fashion he desires?”
“More and more with each passing day,” she answered. “Yesterday, when he came down to the basement, I sensed he was girding his loins to make a seduction – even though I also sensed the distaste he has for his desire for me.”
“Then you chose the perfect time to introduce our Religion,” Rajiv congratulated her.
“I thought you would be pleased,” she said, a little smug.
“Oh, I am, Anya. I cannot believe the progress you have made with this… this… poseur. He may well be a weakling –is, in fact, exactly that- but his sense of racial and educational superiority is strong. That you have burrowed under the defences of his age, race and pride in so short a time –and without him suspecting a thing- is something I begin to marvel at. His continued underestimation of you can only make his eventual fall all the harder for him –and all the sweeter for you.”
“That is all very well, Rajiv,” she reprimanded him, suddenly tetchy, tone not at all playful, mood switching, “but I am losing my patience with all this talk of what might be. What I want right now is to see him kneeling before me, to feel his servile tongue lapping at my young Indian cunt. Knowing he knows he is there because I demand it and he can do no more than act in accordance with his owner’s wishes. I want to see his cock struggle to come erect in the cage to which I have consigned it and look to me with pleading eyes to free him; all the while careful not to voice such a demand for fear of displeasing his young mistress with the ugly face.”
The head of her onscreen mentor began to shake by way of a reprimand.
“Please, do not lose patience now, my admirable Anya,” he warned sincerely, though not without amusement for her eagerness. “You have insinuated yourself inside the barbed wire surrounding his base camp - move slowly and with cleverness and you will soon take command of the compound itself.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” she hissed, still impatient. “It is all very well for you to urge caution, Rajiv. You have, after all, experienced that which I have yet to know. Convenient for you to take pleasure in the situation and massage your manhood from thousands of miles away, but I am here. The situation is before my eyes and must soon be resolved before my patience gives out.”
Despite the depraved nature of both their discussion and their intent, Rajiv’s chuckle was fatherly:
“Trust me, Anya, you are very, very, close.”
“So you keep telling me,” she replied; her tone, still tetchy, serving to remind him of the youth her articulate if culturally challenged exposition of her needs and goals could, at times, disguise.
“ Unless I am much mistaken –and you will warrant I have been accurate up to now- the next few days will bring you closer to your goal and go a long way to easing your understandable need to bring the situation to a head.”
There was silence as Anya considered this; the look of concentration and nodding head as she came around to the idea unseen by her mentor and, thus, leading him to take that silence as ominous.
“Are you still there, Anya?” he asked; tone, she thought, a little worried – needy, in fact. Her thoughts making her smile: though his involvement was only that of a voyeur with communication privileges he was equally as committed as her; the reclusive nature of his personal situation and the desires age meant he could no longer gratify for himself remained undimmed.
His dependency upon her as a sexual outlet –albeit by distance removed- a reassuring one.
Chapter Eighteen
Lambert Again
It hadn’t been Bernard Lambert’s habit to take to bed at eight in the evening and masturbate.
The past tense crucial in the construction of the above sentence.
Now, however, such an occurrence was an everyday event – and, more often than not, was repeated more than once – a routine his disastrous interlude in London had exacerbated rather than disrupt.
It was, in fact, occurring now.
Some days after his discussion with Anya concerning her religion and three weeks on from that disturbing dream in his study, the writer’s optimism concerning his new life and recently started novel had been consigned to history.
Not only had the chapters he had sent to both his agent and his one-time editor been returned dismissively but his agent had informed him she would no longer be able to represent him owing to the claims placed on her time by her: “More in demand”, clients.
If the dashing of his hopes in respect of his writing was not enough by way of despair, then his growing obsession with his young Indian housekeeper was intent upon making good the shortfall. An obsession her strange “Religion” and her “General” explanation of its functions had if anything wetted rather than dampen.
He had found himself growing bolder with her; seeking her out wherever she happened to be working in the house and engaging her in conversation; assuring himself she would see it simply as boredom on his part. After all, what else could she possibly take it for? If that short and general explanation of her religion and its insistence upon weak serving strong and unintelligent serving intelligent had confirmed his opinion of her low intelligence then it had also assured him that she knew her place in regard of him.
Though, he had to admit, the little she had permitted herself to tell him of her beliefs indicated a weird religion indeed and, no doubt, explained why it was so obscure and little followed.
“Can I ask you a question, Anya?” he began as she had served him tea, tone that of a man sure not to be refused.
“Yes, Master?”
“When we go into town for our weekly shop,” he began, “do you use the time you have to yourself to have a pedicure?”
Anya feigned mild surprise at his inquiry when her true response was elation; allowing her eyes to lower to her feet, legs bare for once, the smooth brown skin ending in delicate long toes with vermilion painted nails; before adopting an expression of puzzlement intended to draw more from him.
Successfully, as it had turned out.
“It’s just that your feet and nails are always so beautifully turned out,” he went on.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, pleasure not feigned, many steps ahead of him and prepared to respond accordingly as she placed the tray containing his mid-morning tea on the coffee table. “I realise I am not what is known as a ‘Beauty’ but I see no reason not to take care of what nature has seen fit to give me.”
“A sensible and laudable attitude, Anya,” he congratulated her with his habitual condescension. “We should all do the best that we can and be the best we can be.”
“I knew you would understand, Master,” she smiled, overbite prominent in an equine face she knew was the best it could be; growing, with Rajiv’s assurances in regard of the rest of her body and her employer’s reaction to it, less and less concerned on its behalf. “You remind me very much of my spiritual advisor,” she went on, lying as if it were second nature to her. “Like you, he is a man of great talent and understanding. A strong man who does not reserve praise where it is merited. Were you of my race and so inclined I am sure you would, like him, rise to high power within our religion.”
Lambert felt himself flush at her praise; as ludicrous as he found organised religion and the credulity of its followers –not to mention the puerility of that followed by his own servant- his vast self-esteem could no more deny taking pleasure from a compliment than his body could deny itself the sustenance of food.
“In my country,” she began, pouring tea into a cup, “it is most unusual for a man to notice a woman’s feet,” she had continued. “It makes the care I take with them all the more worthwhile.”
Now it was Lambert’s turn to feign surprise:
“What are you saying: that you look after them yourself?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, sensing something momentous was about to happen between them. Something albeit tiny, that would, nonetheless, alter the power dynamic between them.
“But this is terrible, Anya,” he began with the words he had rehearsed for exactly this situation.
“I do not follow, Master,” she said in a worried voice. “Do I do wrong?”
Lambert laughed benignly by way of allaying her fears.
“No, no. You misunderstand. I was simply trying to say that no woman or young lady should have to undertake such a task for herself.”
Anya felt her heart begin to thump, seeing the direction in which he was attempting to lead her – and only too willing to allow herself to be led there.
“I have often thought how nice it would be to have such a task performed for me,” she told him wistfully, playing his game. “Back home I was always envious when I watched my employer’s memsahib have her feet bathed and pampered before having her toenails painted.”
“Then why not have it done for you?” he asked, a tightening at his groin evidence of the excitement he was taking from their, supposedly, innocent conversation - making him grateful for the long tee-shirt he had neglected to tuck into his jeans and so conveniently hid the tightening itself.
“I am afraid it is too expensive, Master,” she said with regret, adding milk to his cup.
“Are you saying I’m not paying you enough?” he teased, manner light.
“No, Master!” she answered quickly; pretending to take him seriously. “My pay and lodgings are very generous. And besides, money and material possessions are frowned upon by my religion.”
Lambert groaned inwardly – he had feared her “Religion” was about to put in an appearance.
“I would rather send money back home to help my family than waste it on something I can quite as easily do for myself,” she lied. “I would like to be pampered in such a way as you describe but if it means I have less to send to those who need it more than I, so be it.”
It was exactly the type of response Lambert had hoped she would give – impossible to have been better, in fact – leading him, as it did, into his proposal.
“You know I used to do it for the former Mrs Lambert?” both pompous and a liar.
“I am not following, Master.”
“The former Mrs Lambert’s feet, Anya,” he told her, erection now raging beneath the tee-shirt camouflage. “I used to bathe and massage them for her. I would even paint her toenails.”
Going on then, emboldened by his own dishonesty: “Became quite expert at it, if I say so myself.”
Anya placed a hand over her mouth as if amazed by the prospect; hoping it wasn’t too hammy.
It wasn’t.
“Does that shock you, Anya?”
“I… I must say, Master, that it does a little.”
“But why? What could be more natural than a man helping his woman?”
“I am sure it is natural here, Master,” she answered, still in shocked mode. Though not too shocked. She didn’t want to scare him off, after all. “But in my country such a thing is unheard of.”
“Well, Anya,” he began, maddeningly condescending, stating the obvious: “You are not in your country now. We take a far more relaxed view of such things here and so should you.”
His voice carried just a hint of threat, she thought, and that suited her perfectly as she dropped her eyes and acted as if chastened.
“Yes, Master. You are right. I work in England now and the culture is different. If I am to stay here I must adjust as much as my personal beliefs and my religion allow.”
“Anya, Anya,” he began, tone meant to be soothing. “I’m not reprimanding you. Not in the slightest. I realise our cultures are different. What I was about to say was…”
He paused a moment, unsure even at this late stage. He had done nothing but think and, more importantly, fantasise about what he was going to suggest for weeks now. But, despite the fact he wanted it so badly he also knew he had to be careful. Though he felt sure she knew her place in his regard, he did not want her thinking he had romantic ideas about her. That would be just too ludicrous. Were it to prove the case then she would have to go – even though he truly hated the thought of losing someone who made his day-to-day run so smoothly. The prospect of finding a suitable replacement highly unlikely, he reckoned.
“I was about to say,” he picked up where he had left off, a little nervy, despite his comforting sense of superiority over her, “that: instead of paying out the hard earned cash you send back to your family to have your feet pampered, “why not let me do it for you?”
She pretended not to have heard properly; partly in order to make him sweat a little; but mainly to bring her own feelings under control.
“I’m sorry, Master,” she said eventually. “I think I misheard you.”
“It was a simple enough statement,” he told her, manner offhand, as if what he were suggesting were the most natural thing in the world for an employer to prose to his young employee. “I was asking if you’d like me to give you a pedicure and paint your nails rather than do them for yourself.”
She had remained silent, wanting him to make the running.
“Did you hear me, Anya?” he asked, a spot of colour high on his cheekbones indicating the beginnings of irritation.
“Yes, of course, Master,” she replied quickly. “Forgive me if I seem rude, but it is not an offer I expected you of all people –or anyone- to ever make me.”
Lambert waved a hand airily:
“It’s not a proposal of marriage, Anya,” he rebuked. “I will still be your employer and you will still be my housekeeper. Nothing will have changed or be about to change.”
Anya fought back a smile. Had he been given a printout of her thoughts at that moment he would have not have been so sure of his assertion in that regard.
“Master, it is a very generous offer,” she said instead. “But you are a busy man. You have more important things to do with your time than… look after your servant’s feet.”
“Nonsense,” he said with largesse, her use of the term ‘Servant’ placing any thoughts of her acting above her station to one side. Her religion may well be deluded and warped but, for his purposes anyway, it at least kept her in her place. “Things are on the quiet side for me at this time and it will give me something to do. Something to keep me occupied until they pick up. I really am very bored at the moment.”
She pretended to think it over, making him wait; though not too long at this stage.
“Then if that is the case, Master, if it is something that would help you and break the monotony of your days I am very happy to accept your offer.”
She gave him a reverent smile:
“As my spiritual guide said when I described you to him: you are truly a very special man.”
The effect of her statement upon him was as usual whenever she flattered him and she felt as if she could actually hear his backbone stiffen to hear the man it supported described in such gushing terms.
“Then it’s settled,” Lambert told her, he being the one this time who needed to disguise his inner elation. “Until things start getting busy for me I’ll take care of your feet and nails for you as I did for my ex-wife. In fact, I shall drive into town this afternoon and purchase everything I need.”
He was about to leave but turned back with one of the patronising smiles she detested so much and added:
“My treat.”
Back in the present again, Bernard Lambert was going over the situation for the umpteenth occasion; picturing himself as he had knelt before his young Indian servant and taken the cool brown flesh of her foot in his hand the first –but certainly not the last- time.
In the intervening period he had masturbated to nothing else.
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