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Chapter Nineteen
Bayswater Again
Back when she had first come to work for him –when his lack of female company had first endowed her with some small sexual interest- he had imagined taking her in ways she would be sure to find utterly humiliating. Ramming home to her his power and her lack of such; whenever and wherever he wanted and oblivious to her objections or her comfort. She was there for his convenience, and his convenience –at least in his imagination- meant exactly the opposite where she was concerned. His disgust at himself for entertaining such thoughts in her regard self-mitigated by the bestial acts she was forced to endure as he thought them.
Of course, had he possessed the necessary self-awareness, it would not have taken him so long to see it as small wonder she was interesting him more and more. The nature of his feelings in her regard wholly explainable, not just by the fact she was the only person in his life at this time, but also by the respect she extended him. Respect that went some way to convincing him he remained a man of substance.
Now though, even the position of power ceded to him by his position as her employer and his conscious fantasies in respect of her seemed to be changing. He couldn’t pinpoint when exactly, or even how, but the dynamic between them appeared to have altered in some way. Worse, her power to trigger his libido appeared to be growing stronger. In fact, when he actually took pause to consider it, he was hard pressed to recall the last occasion when the fantasy figure prompting him to wrap a hand around his overworked cock had been somebody other than his young housekeeper.
Into the bargain –as if his obsession for such a person wasn’t degrading enough- his fantasies concerning her had undergone a complete turnabout since the sight of her legs and body, covered in clothing that was not a sari, first gained his attention.
Of course, he had already been the recipient of dreams where their situations had been reversed and she had been the one in control.
These had been disturbing enough.
Now, though, it was his conscious mind; rather than the sleeping variety; which weaved scenarios and fantasies where he, rather than her, was taken in ways sure to humiliate and degrade – waking daydreams beginning to exercise an ever multiplying sway over him.
All so different to the reality holding sway for him a short time before; an image from that time forming behind his eyes as he made yet another attempt, having failed once already, to remind himself of what, and who, he had been. Conjured up in the hope he might once again return to that sorely missed state of grace.
Or at least exercise his cock to a different image…
…A light breeze wafted through the balcony doors of the Bayswater bedroom Gianni had prepared for him; cooling his body with light caresses as he gazed down at the adoring face of his wife’s closest friend; blonde hair spread across the pillows as her eyes implored him to continue with what he was doing.
“Not so fucking smug now, are we?” he snarled down at her. “Feel like teasing me now, do you, slut?”
No answer was forthcoming as her mesmerised eyes took in his still engorged cock as it waved before her eyes.
“Remember?” he snarled. “Flashing your legs and pussy at me whenever Siobhan’s back was turned? Not to mention your pussy-whipped husband. Or does he know you enjoy a good fucking from a real man? Perhaps he enjoys attending to you after you’ve had a man-sized load deposited in your greedy little cunt.”
Ineffectual moans of protest escaped her lips.
“ Is that what you do, slut?” he went on, mining the seam. “Put your tight little cunt over his mouth and let another man’s cum ooze into his mouth?”
With pleasure, he saw his abuse of both her and the unknowing husband was exciting her still more; feeling, he had to admit, a certain pride that this, so, so, superior, woman was submitting to him in ways guaranteed to make him feel like a Titan.
In control.
Superior.
Godlike.
The whole world was his playground and the bitch below him; the same “Bitch” who had thought herself such a cock-tease; had become nothing more than one of the rides.
His throbbing cock continued to pulse a few inches from her fascinated eyes and he watched as her tongue protruded in anticipation of taking the monster in her mouth. The same monster that, not moments before, had drilled her to a teeth-shattering release while delaying its own. Pounding away at her still snug twat to drill itself so deep inside her she fancied she heard her uterus beg for mercy. Drawing out his meat after he’d repeated the pummelling a few times until only the head remained inside; before ramming it back in with all his force; his own lust beyond measure as he watched her buck writhe and scream.
And boy, did she scream!
“Do you want to suck me?” he asked; sliding up her chest; legs astride her stomach as her breasts heaved and struggled to make comedown in the aftermath of the ecstasy he had just supplied.
She had stared up at him, eyes wide; unable to quite believe he was still erect after having pounded her to such an orgasm. Eyes with a new look to them. A look he had seen before after other sessions of such a nature and knew to be adoration. The smug, superior, bitch who’d thought she could treat him with the same lack of respect she reserved for her pantywaist husband screwed into an oblivion for which she would always hanker after and seek to replicate.
“Do you want it?” he demanded; waving his prick before her mouth tantalisingly; the smell of her own recently fucked cunt assailing her nostrils and, to her shock and self-disgust, inflaming her desire even more.
“Beg,” he ordered.
Her eyes closed at the command, body covered with a sheen of perspiration lending her skin a shininess that made her helpless position beneath him all the more erotic.
“Say, please,” he demanded; adding: “or I’ll take my cock away and you’ll never see it again.”
The threat was enough and her eyes opened; need and a soupcon of fear joining her adoration.
As their eyes locked he could feel her resistance begin to crumble; until, in a voice one would expect to hear in that aforementioned playground, his wife’s former bridesmaid, friend and confidante, placed a kiss on the head of his victorious cock and said the magic word before wrapping her lips around his cock and…
**The following chapter will be the last posted on BDSM Library as the complete novel in e-book format will be posted and sold on Lulu at www.lulu.com in a week or so. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story so far enough to purchase a copy and I shall be posting chapters of future work on this site**
Chapter Seventeen
Lambert Again
Back in the moment, Bernard Lambert considered the interlude and many more like it –if not the most recent disaster- and knew with certainty his world had undergone a change that might just be permanent.
It felt as if he were looking back on the exploits of a man who had become a stranger.
That lunchtime session with Carly, his wife’s closest friend –the same one for which he had recently travelled to London with the express intention of replicating; and the one that had turned out so disastrously- had not only been the catalyst for the end of his marriage, when Siobhan discovered their tryst, but had also been guaranteed to stir him to rampant erection whenever he took the time to revisit it.
Now, there was nothing.
Everything had changed – and not just his address. For reasons he felt unable to guess at, he was in the grip of a strange obsession regarding a young woman from the sub-continent who was -to put it bluntly when compared to the line of beauties he had bedded; Carly included- ugly.
So why was he continually beating himself off to her image?
As if in response to his question his hand threw back the sheet covering him to stroke the evidence of his obsession.
At first, of course, he had tried to laugh it off.
It was all too ludicrous, he told himself, and no more than one of the dangers for those in possession of a heightened writer’s imagination.
“Think about it,” he had ordered himself. “She’s the only woman –nay: person- you have day-to-day contact with.”
Hardly surprising, he thought –especially for a man used to female contact and now deprived of it; and despite her ugliness– that he would come to look upon her in a more sexual way.
Also, he was bright enough to know that, as he devolved more and more responsibility to her for the running of both the household and himself, there would be the possibility of his becoming too reliant on her.
Dependent, in fact.
Worse, he had the impression she was aware of his growing reliance and was not dismayed by it.
The more she did for him, in fact, the less he seemed able –or was prepared- to do for himself. The escalating depression and demoralisation, coupled with his isolation and lack of the female company and fair-weather friends he was so used to, had set in train a cycle of events he felt quite unable to halt – and, worse, found comforting enough to leave as they were.
But then, he would tell himself: “Why wouldn’t he?”
She was a young girl, for crying out loud!
None too bright into the bargain – her ludicrous religion evidence enough - even if she was capable in the domestic sense.
Hardly feasible to believe she could be a threat to a mature and knowledgeable man such as himself. After all, the house belonged to him and all decisions made inside it were ultimately his.
If, for the moment, he chose to give her more responsibility while he licked his wounds, so be it.
For now, though, content to let the situation ride, his hand encircled his cock and pumped; furiously; an image of himself between his servant’s legs, tongue lapping devotedly at the folds of her pussy, fetching a gasp from his lips.
The thought of himself worshipping at the shrine of an ugly Indian girl young enough to be his daughter, pressing buttons consigned to the vaults of memory for so long he’d forgotten they ever existed in the first place.
“Anya,” he breathed aloud, short-stroking and bucking frantically as he neared take-off.
“Anya, Anya…Anyaaaaaaah!”
With a final convulsion his cock sent spume after spume of ejaculate towards the ceiling as he continued to scream her name; the evidence of his orgasm and its power arcing short of its target to return to earth and splatter over his thighs. The owner of that orgasm doing nothing to remove it as he waited for the obfuscating demands of lust and desire to recede and the anti-climax of clarity and reality to kick in.
Lambert returning his head to the pillow to wait for the dejection he knew would follow at the exact moment a cough cut into his consciousness and he spasmed into a sitting position to catch sight of her.
In the doorway.
Regarding him stonily.
The look of complete disgust on his young Indian housekeeper’s face no less disturbing to him for being completed feigned.
“Anya,” he began, “I…”
Without a word she turned on her heel and left the room; taking the tray with the tea she had made for him with her and to the demoralised Lambert, the slamming of the bedroom door behind her sounded like a death knell.
There would be many times in the months to come when the failing author would wish it had been just that.
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