Serving Sreelatha

Serving Sreelatha

(Part-Two)

Book One In The Story So Far Series

By

Kurt Steiner

“You don’t look well,” my PA, Fiona Briggs, told me the next afternoon, entering my office unannounced to make the observation after having taken note of my performance throughout the preceding morning.

Her observation being one I found hard to disagree with; even if I knew my sickness owed more to the quality of my mental well being than the physical.

In truth, the day until then had been difficult, the events of the previous twenty-four-hours continuing to play themselves out in my mind; reaching for the phone at times throughout the morning to call Vera and have it out with her, only to pull my hand away at the last second as if its plastic casing were molten hot.

Times too numerous to count with any accuracy.

Even going so far as to punch in the number at one point before slamming the receiver back on its cradle and asking myself if I really wanted to hold such a conversation over the phone.

Or, more relevantly, in my workplace.

The negative answer to such a question not preventing me from dwelling on these worrying new developments and asking myself any number of questions.

Questions I continued to ask throughout the morning and on through lunch until mid afternoon.

“How had things come to such a pass between us in so short a space of time?”

“Did she really mean the things she had said?”

“Had I really lowered my head to the floor and apologised for pretending to be a man before kissing her feet and begging forgiveness?”

And at no time, so strong was the programming I now know myself to have been under, did I once connect the Indian bitch, and her equally hateful housekeeper with the strange tasting tea, to my predicament.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Tim?” she asked for the fourth or fifth time; the matronly fifty-something who had been with the company since Sunil and I started it looking truly concerned by my listlessness; having noticed my unprecedented preoccupation and lack of attention and had taking it for illness.

The same older woman who –matronly or not- still managed to look sexy and youthful and, consequently, received a lot of male attention for having achieved the feat.

A fan base including both Sunil and myself in its membership – though today I was far too preoccupied to give her my usual once over whenever I thought she wasn’t looking.

In my present mood, even her still shapely legs, in their habitual nylons and high-heeled courts, could do nothing to shake my fixation on the problem awaiting me at home.

The same problem that had come from nowhere and appeared to be developing with a swiftness matching its unexpected arrival.

“Actually, Fiona,” I lied, “I’m not feeling too great. Might be an idea if I call it a day early for once.”

Her expression told me she concurred:

“I’m sure it’s nothing a bit of TLC from Vera won’t cure. Get her to make you a nice hot toddy and tuck you up in bed.”

With a smile of gratitude for her consideration, I assured her that was exactly what I would do and left for home.

To find Vera waiting for me.

Expecting me, in fact.

“Good,” she crashed straight in: “I called the office to order you home but was told you’d left. We –make that I- need to speak.”

Order?” I mumbled to myself, immediately on the back foot, despite having girded my loins during the short drive home to nip her new assertiveness in the bud and return our relationship to its footing prior to the day before.

“I’ve been speaking to Sreelatha about how we see the company developing from here.”

“You’ve been spea…?” I began; unable to quite finish my question, so taken aback was I at what had prompted it.

“Sreelatha feels –and I agree with her- that you don’t have the necessary expertise to take the company forward,” Vera informed me, for all the world a senior exec breaking the news she was letting an employee go.

My temper snapped.

“What the fuck do you mean? Sreelatha feels? This is my company. I started it and I own the majority shareholding. Sree-fucking-latha is a junior partner – and she won’t even be that when I buy her out. And as for you, I…”

“She has no intention of selling her shares,” Vera cut me off, unimpressed by my display of temper.

I shrugged, angry still but unconcerned.

“Whatever,” I told her. “It’s still my company, my show, and my call as to what direction we go in.”

Vera was shaking her head before I’d even finished.

“It’s only your company if you’re the majority shareholder and –correct me if I’m wrong here- but, with my shares and Sreelatha’s together, we own fifty-one percent.”

For the first time I heard alarm bells ringing.

“For God’s sakes, Vera,” I began, confidence dented, having forgotten the shares I’d given her and not having believed for one split second she would ever turn my gift to her against me. “Surely you wouldn’t…?”

“I already have,” she told me. “As of this moment you are no longer in charge. Both the company and you are going to have a new boss.”

I looked at her as if she were mad; fully expecting her to laugh and tell me she was joking.

Then, when no laughter was forthcoming:

“That’s it, Vera,” I told her, drawing myself up to my full height and towering over her. “This has gone far enough. I’m your husband. We have children and history together. But if you want this marriage to last you had better decide where your loyalties lay.”

If I’d expected a response it certainly wasn’t the one I got.

She was unfazed.

And supremely and irritatingly confident.

“This marriage will last for exactly as long as I want it to last. And from now on I’ll be the one who makes the decisions.”

I could only look on with open mouth as she laid it out for me, my loving wife of twenty-five years a stranger to me.

“All of them,” she finished.

“And you…?”

My anger and outrage were so great I could barely form words.

“And you really…?”

“Yes? Do go on.”

“And you really think I’m going to be happy with that and just go along with it?”

“Not at all,” she disabused me. “You’ll hate it, I should think.”

Smiling a nasty little smile then; before:

“But that just makes it all the more sweeter for me.”

“Vera, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Hardly. In fact I’ve never felt more in command of both myself and you – as you’ll discover when you return.”

“What do you mean: ‘Return’? Return from where?”

“Sreelatha wants to speak to you. You’re to go to her immediately.”

“ ‘Sreelatha’ can go fuck herself,” I snarled. “If this is the way you want things, fine. I’ll pack my things and…”

“Bad boy!”…

“What have you done to my wife, you ugly Indian bitch?” I snarled, bursting into the front room to find her taking coffee, dressed once again in sari and sandals.

“How dare you speak to Ms Sreelatha in such a way,” came a thick Indian accent from behind me, the housekeeper having followed me in.

“Stay calm, Abhaya,” her young mistress urged. “Timothy is understandably angry. It is our responsibility to make sure he understands how things are going to be and how he must behave from now on.”

By now my anger was at molten levels, the low caste bitch was speaking to me of me as if I were a third-former – and a pretty slow one at that.

For one thing, I had no idea how Vera had persuaded me to come here when my intention had been to pack a few things and leave for a hotel –hoping a few days apart would show her the error of her ways and return things to normal.

For another, the Indian bitch had called me “Timothy”. Something guaranteed to make my hackles rise.

I was “Tim”.

Always had been and always would be.

“I’ll ask you again,” I began, voice dangerously low. “What the fuck have you done to Vera?”

“Really Timothy,” she tutted, “Just because I am so many years your junior it does not mean I will permit you to use such language in my presence. It is lucky for you Abhaya and myself see your potential or there would be repercussions you really would not like.”

I listened to the bitch’s words with disbelief.

“Potential?”

“Now,” she said, with that thick accent I detested so much, “come here and kneel at my side.”

For a moment I thought I’d misheard, rooted to the spot in a condition similar to shock.

Which was when a hand in my back propelled me forward.

“Do as Ms Sreelatha says,” ordered the housekeeper.

“Are you both insane?” I accused, all I could do not to haul back and lay the Indian shrew and her sari out.

“If you think I’m going to…”

The words leaving Sreelatha’s lips cut me off instantly.

At the time, of course, given the conditioning they’d subjected me to up to then, I was incapable of acting on any thought that did not involve obeying the Indian girl before me in some way – knowledge of my conditioning that was erased whenever I left her presence and made each subsequent submission to her as fresh and humiliating as the first.

Now though, being so far gone in my enslavement and having received permission to recall the fine detail of my fall from grace, I remember everything.

“Yes, That is much better,” she told me as Abhaya looked on. “Kneel right there. That’s a good boy.”

Despite my hatred of the girl for the situation in which I found myself, with both her and my wife, her praise induced in me a thrill of pleasure as I lowered myself to her side.

“Look at my foot as I speak,” came the command, my eyes immediately fixing on the red nails protruding from the sandal at the end of one crossed leg as she swayed it back and forth.

“Such a good boy,” I heard from above me. “Take a good sniff now. You know you want to.”

I was already inhaling the salty, slightly vinegary, aroma of her foot when she said:

“See Abhaya? Did I not tell you he would be a good boy?”

“He will be better, I promise,” I heard the housekeeper’s voice from above. “At the moment he is no more than a disobedient dog, and an old one at that; even if he is a very attractive example of the breed. Though he is, as you thought he might be, very receptive to our treatment of him. ”

“Do not worry, good Abhaya,” I heard Sreelatha laugh, “I may be only a very young girl from a poor background but, between us, we will soon teach this old dog many new tricks.”

Their shaming laughter at my expense triggered something in me and whatever had been holding me in place until then seemed to relax its grip, allowing me to look up.

“Bad dog!” snapped the housekeeper; any thoughts I may have had regarding rebellion barely making it out of the womb before finding themselves smothered.

“Keep your eyes on Ms Sreelatha’s feet as she ordered and continue to sniff.”

Unbelievably, my eyes returned to the still swinging foot of “Ms Sreelatha”, again inhaling deeply through the nose as instructed.

“Move closer,” the Indian girl ordered.

I moved closer.

“Good boy,” I heard her voice from above. “You see how much better you feel when you do as I tell you?”

I nodded, amazed at how nice it felt to receive praise from her, no matter how demeaning.

“Now, now,” she chided me. “It is bad mannered to simply nod when a superior speaks to you.”

“Superior?” my thoughts screamed.

“You must address me as ‘Ms Sreelatha from now on’,” she told me.

“No matter who is present.”

For the life of me I could not understand how the levels of shame I felt for the predicament I found myself in could prevent me from rising up and taking the ugly Indian bitch by the throat.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

I raised my head to find her eyes boring into mine.

“How will you address me from this moment on – no matter who is present?”

Eyes still riveted on the bare flesh of her foot, the voice that answered was unrecognisable as my own.

“M-Ms… Sreelatha,” I croaked, words and surrender exiting my mouth, despite my struggle to prevent such an eventuality.

“What a good boy you are,” she applauded me. “You see, Abhaya? He can be taught new tricks.”

The laughter I again heard shared above me did nothing to lessen my shame.

A shame heightened, in fact, when the hand of the housekeeper ran itself through my hair to find my neck and begin stroking it.

An action familiar to me.

It being, I noted, the same way my youngest daughter had stroked the puppy she had pestered me into buying her.

The same puppy that had proved so unmanageable I had, despite my daughter’s tears, been left with no choice but to find it a new owner.

Now I was the one being stroked as if I were no more than a household pet.

And by a visitor from the subcontinent I considered my inferior in every way.

My shame at this new development heightened still further when I realised I was actually leaning into the housekeeper’s caresses, as if she were for all the world my owner and I her loyal canine.

A response bringing more laughter from my tormentors.

Suddenly, the younger of the two Indian bitches was all business:

“Now, there is also the small matter of how you will treat your wife from now on.”

I waited, still leaning into that stroking hand.

“I want you to listen very carefully…”

Following installments of the story can now be found on www.femdomcave.com