The Inferior

By

Kurt Steiner

Prologue

Naked, back against the smooth painted plaster of the living-room wall, legs sprawled out before him on the cold parquet flooring; he looked on as she entered from the dining room carrying a chair.

Panic provoking hysteria, he watched her position it over and to either side of his feet before taking the single step required to bestride his body. Powerful legs, clad in the sheerest black hose, towering above his shivering frame as her eyes bore down into his own to intensify his terror.

Levels of empathy and warmth remarkable only for their complete absence.

Unlike him, she was fully dressed. Outfitted in a sombre, severely cut, two-piece suit in charcoal grey - crisp white shirt and matching accessories completing the ensemble. A uniform, of sorts, imparting an impression more redolent of authority than service; out of keeping with the position she held in his household yet apposite at one and the same time.

“Authority”, he thought, loss matching terror, that had once been his; certain, as he watched hands rest on hips and an insolent tongue slither across somewhat inflated lips, it would never be gifted to him again.

As she stared down upon him, brown features implacable; yet unable to quite disguise their delight at the depths to which she had reduced him; his whole body became a film of perspiration. The subconscious divining her intention and reacting accordingly. Fear -along with levels of humiliation even he as a writer would be hard-pressed to describe– adding a perverse urgency to the throbbing at his groin.

A reaction to his situation, and another source of shame, he found difficult to reconcile with the man he had once believed himself to be.

Though not restrained in any way, movement was impossible -as was intelligible speech. All he could do was watch as she seated herself and slipped her feet from the spiked black court shoes that had pecked their way across the parquet towards him a few seconds earlier. The smell of moist nylon assailing his nostrils heightening a disgrace already functioning at high altitudes.

The position, gender and race, of his tormentor an unholy trinity in the mind of the man on the receiving end of her intentions

To allow this woman… this… girl… this… flunkey, to manipulate him in such a fashion was unthinkable and had to be… had to be…

So why, that being true, he asked himself; truncating his own thoughts; did his breath catch in his throat as she slowly slid her skirt over powerful young thighs to bunch it at her hips?

Why did the expanse of shiny black pantyhose, clinging to her legs so tightly, command his attention with more urgency than a nearby oasis dominated the thoughts of a thirsty nomad?

Why, as she undid the buttons of her shirt to reveal even more of the full breasts he had only recently noticed and developed such an infatuation for, was he unable to look away?

And why, finally; when the soles of her nylon-encased feet came to rest on his own thighs; did his restricted breathing suddenly find release with a sigh that sounded, for all the world, like a swoon?

“You want this?” she asked; the English in which she had some degree of fluency unable to prevent the linguistic corruption resulting from the accent of her mother tongue. The cold implacability of her tone breaking the silence and belying her youth in a way he found utterly terrifying - even as his masculinity berated him for reacting in such a spineless way to someone so many years his junior.

With a supreme effort, he managed to nod, eyes halted on their unavoidable upward swing by a glimpse of her cleavage and remaining there. Astounded two such beauteous things could co-exist with the less than stunning visage above them.

And then, suddenly, his attention was elsewhere. Eyes lowering as the friction of her pantyhose against his manhood diverted his gaze to her feet. His tormentor’s surprisingly dainty peds sliding along his penis, sole of each turned inwards, as the column betraying him found itself trapped between the high arches of her instep.

“Look at me,” she demanded; the unfamiliar frisson of nylon against foreskin and the undeniable submissiveness inspired by the situation overwhelming him.

Her command, however, jolting him from his preoccupation just long enough for a modicum of spine to assert itself; it was one thing, after all, to debase himself in front of her in such a way - quite another, he knew, to actually look into her eyes and see his disgrace and humiliation mirrored back at…

His body jack-knifed with agony as both his thoughts and his “Resolution” vanished.

Suddenly; before his mini rebellion had any chance to morph into full-scale revolt; he was screaming. 

Silently – unable to give voice to his pain.

His very life force sucked from him as his body spasmed involuntarily and he voiced soundless anguish towards the heavens; the same foot that had seconds ago been bestowing such intense and perverse pleasure upon him stamping down on his testicles; intent, it appeared, upon mashing the cylinders defining his masculinity into the wood of the parquet flooring itself.

“I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed,” she said, eyes mocking as his agony increased and threatened to void his stomach of its contents.

Had it held any.

“Perhaps,” she suggested with much relish; “you will find it easier to obey as a eunuch.”

He could only watch with terror; eyes bugging from his head as she increased the downward pressure of her foot; soundless entreaties rising in intensity and going unheeded as she stood to gain more leverage in order to neuter him. Malevolent brown eyes finally displaying warmth as the pleasure she took in his unmanning went into overdrive prior to taking orbit as his masculinity and the testicles symbolising it, were crushed beneath her pretty young feet.

Any second now, he knew he would hear that inevitable “Squish!” sound as those same testicles burst outwards and flattened themselves to the floor; reducing him to something less than a man and something no more useful than a… than a…

Uncharted territory, pain levels soaring off the graph, that finally allowed him to give voice to his agony as he screamed and screamed and screamed and…

 

Chapter One

Anya

In the studio quarters allocated to her above the garage, Anya Jalav studied herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror; pleased with the progress she was making with her older employer in the main house.

Entering the seventh month in her new position, she knew she had some way to go still, both youth and the sheer power of unfulfilled desire making her more impatient by the hour to reach her desired destination. Even if, with the help of a new friend, expectations of success for her endeavour grew at a corresponding rate.

As the Indian girl in her early twenties took in the shapely, if prematurely matronly, contours of her firm body and its magnificent breasts -those same breasts that, amazingly, had yet to know the caresses of a lover- she cursed the somewhat equestrian features of her face. Features, with large cheekbones and prominent overbite, she had to thank for the neglect extended to the rest of her body thus far. Accepting that the face her “Friend” described as: “oozing character”, made what she had in mind for her handsome English “Master” so much more difficult.

Though not, she prayed, impossible.

For, despite her concerns at what rested atop her neck, the body below gave her little pause for thought. That, she was now assured, in no way presented a problem.

A loner by nature -and a preference confirmed by experience- her confidence in the body staring back at her from the mirror was both shared and bolstered by Rajiv, her aforementioned, new –and only- friend.

“Patience, my dear,” her Internet mentor had told her earlier that evening, via the wonder that was Skype; connecting Cornwall to Calcutta in no more time than it took to take a sip of ice cold kucchi lassi. The same “Mentor” whose idea it had been to suddenly start addressing her employer with the old-fashioned form of respect.

A form of respect -as he had assured her it would- the man employing her would find curious to begin with but soon view favourably as his all too obvious vanity and self-importance kicked in.

“I have scrutinised the photos of yourself you attached to me,” he all but leered. “Scrutinised them, very, very, closely – if you take my meaning. Trust me, my young friend, your charm may not be of a conventional nature but it is undeniably present and all the stronger for not being of the bland and uninteresting kind.

Anya felt her cheeks flush: criticism she was used to and could deal with; compliments were new territory. 

“I speak of that bastardisation of womanhood,” Rajiv was continuing; represented by the bulimic stick insects the moronic magazines of mass culture label: ‘Physically beautiful’.”

As ever, the words of her new friend had instilled welcome assurance -much needed after yet another inspection of the looking glass and her: “Equestrian” features as she had once heard them described. That same friend’s on-screen face a visual corroboration of his existence and a compliment she had yet to return with the setting up of a webcam of her own.

“Your appeal to this man,” he went on, the expression on his aged and fleshy, if still appealing, features giving witness to his seriousness; “must lie in more than just the allure of a pretty face, anyway.”

“In that,” she answered ruefully; features reflected back at her from the window behind the computer, “I hardly have a say.” Ending her complaint with a derisive snort.

“Do not despair over that which you can do nothing about,” he advised her; sounding, at times like this, as if he were a venerable Japanese sensei rather than a sixtysomething former clerical officer with the Indian Civil Service. “A discerning man will always take quality over prettiness and your face suggests nothing if not character and moral fibre.”

His words of reassurance winning only a cynical: “Humph!”

“Remember, Anya,” he went on, neglecting to mention the perverseness of that ‘Moral fibre’: “to rush the process will be to invite failure. If he once suspects the nature of your intentions you will lose him and the journey will be over, for you as well as me. The opportunity to place your brand upon the tender white buttocks of such a creature is one that comes along all too rarely.”

Though he was telling her no more than what she had told herself on numerous occasions, Anya nodded at the screen containing her mentor and his habitual jogging-suit as if she were hearing his counsel on the subject for the first time and he was actually in a position to see her do it.

A favour he had extended to her and, as he frequently reminded her, waited to be returned.

“Keep in mind,” he continued, “the nature of the prize lying in reward for the self-control I urge upon you.”

“I seldom think of much else,” she assured him.

“Yes,” he could do no more than agree. “It is a heady prospect – especially for one of your tender years. A fellow human being as your chattel. Your creature. Complete control over a man who once employed you. The same man who, at this moment, regards you as no more than a substandard form of life; placed on this earth with no greater purpose than to make his worthless existence more comfortable. A man, moreover, from whom you will have obliterated all traces of pride, masculinity and self-dependence until he looks to you for everything – even though he may hate you as he does so.”

He gave his words some thought; sensing she was doing the same.

“As well as your possession, Anya, you must also think of him as your… creation”

He paused for a few moments more, knowing he had her full attention.

“If you do as I suggest,” he began again, deadly serious, “your power over him will become total and irrevocable. He will look to you for everything and regard the smallest, most infinitesimally minute, gesture of approval from you as if it were a gift from mother Kali herself.

She remained silent, sure her, somewhat: verbose; mentor was not quite finished.

“More,” he continued, not disappointing; “though he may continue to detest you for bringing him to such a pass, he will never possess the strength to deny you anything – even though he will, at times, make pitiful attempts to try. Each unsuccessful effort leaving him worse off than before.”

At the last of his claims, an image had formed behind Anya’s eyes.

She saw her still clothed body, hands-on-hips, as she stood in the large en-suite adjoining the main bedroom; her naked employer crouched on all fours at her feet as she stepped over his legs to bestride his back - his eyes, much to her gratification and in obedience to her instructions, lost in contemplation of the terra cotta floor tiles. Her employer supporting himself with his arms to remain in position while she raised her skirt and pulled her panties to one side; the shaking of his shoulders indicating he knew what was to come.

Lost to the desire inspired by her fantasy, Anya smiled as she saw a stream of hot, warm, urine gush from her pussy to saturate his hair and neck before trickling down his face towards nostrils and mou…

“How would you feel, dear Anya,” her mentor’s words cut into her daydream, “to return here to your hometown with a handsome and obedient English servant in tow?”

Coming back to planet earth with a thud, she allowed herself a smile at his words and forgave him his intrusion into her daydream. Ill-timed or not, the welcome nature of the prospect he dangled before her ensured she forgave his intrusion and made touchdown less anti-climactic.

“Consider,” he urged, “the reaction of the sewer-stupid shits you told me made your time here in Calcutta such a torture. Imagine how their dismal and fixed little lives would be put in perspective to see the object of their taunts; elevated so far above them she is capable of commanding the obedience and devotion of such a possession.”

Considering that “Reaction” gave her much pleasure.

“Tell me honestly, Anya,” he pressed, “is the winning of such a prize not worthy of some small application of patience?”

Despite the familiar excitement his words instilled in her –not to mention flaunting her power in the faces of those: “Little shits”; who had indeed made her early years so miserable- Anya’s hackles, as they always did whenever she was criticised unjustly, rose instantly.

“My impatience, Rajiv,” she protested loudly and heatedly, correcting her fellow countryman and native of ‘Kolkata’; “shows only when I speak with you on the subject of my prospective slave.”

The raised decibel levels, filling the room as she put him right, of no concern to her; knowing that -even in the unlikely event of her employer venturing near her quarters from the main house where she served as his housekeeper- he had no knowledge whatsoever of the Bengali in which their conversation was being conducted.

“I would not dream of ruining things at the crawling stage by attempting to run,” she assured him. “Fate and good fortune have conspired to place me with the right man, at both the right place and time. If you think I will allow such a gift to slip through my fingers you are a very deluded ‘mentor’.”

It was a reprimand he accepted graciously and one she was sincere about, her earliest sexual memories having been of control. Power over another human being so strong it was unanswerable. The same thrill of dominion over an unwilling man of greater years she had been able to experience up to now only through the texts fuelling her dreams. The same “Dreams” she had now committed herself to knowing in the first-person.

“That is reassuring to hear, my sweet,” the strong male voice told her. “You are, after all, at a very delicate stage. Though do bear in mind it will serve you well to disregard your baseless concerns regarding your features. You have far, far, far, more than an appealing face in your favour – at least if the pictures you attached to me do not lie. I assure you, were I of the opposite sexual mindset in such matters, I believe I could very quickly become obsessed with the power inherent in that young body you have kept under wraps for so long.”

Despite her distrust of flattery –possibly from not having much experience of the phenomenon– Anya felt her face flush with pleasure at the compliment - even as another thought occurred to the “Sensei”:

“Tell me, Anya,” he asked, “do you ever question why you are the way you are?”

Her response was as instant as it was emphatic:

“Never.”

“Really?” he asked. “Are you not curious at least?”

“To what end? What would be achieved? Does fire burn any less brightly for our knowing how it finds its heat? These are feelings and desires I have known for as long as I can remember. Rather than question satisfaction I prefer to enjoy it. We are what we are, after all. You as much as me.”

The head on the screen could do no more than nod agreement; for though he considered her naïve in ways befitting her age, Rajiv knew also she was wise beyond those years in many others. Her articulacy -and the somewhat old-fashioned manner of speech contradicting her lack of a formal education- the result, he knew, of having been taught her second-language by a retired Professor of English language and Literature at Calcutta University, for whom she had skivvied as a very young girl.

“A good answer,” he laughed. “As Santayana insisted: for true barbarians such as us, the simple existence of our passions is reason enough for their being.”

He waited for her to respond; pleased with himself.

Giving it up when praise for his cleverness-stroke-memory remained withheld; her “Professor”, it transpired, having left the “Literature” side of things unexplored.

“But to hell with useless philosophy,” he broke his own pause. “I should like to return, if I may, to the subject of the visual. When, my dear, are you going to return my favour and set up a webcam so we can view each other as we speak? Call me old-fashioned but, when at all possible, I like to see the face of the person with whom I converse on matters so… intimate.”

Now it was her turn to laugh:

“Just my ‘Face’, Rajiv?” she teased; a certain discomfort in his on-screen reaction emboldening her further: “Or do you wish me to provide you with visual stimulation even more intimate in nature? Am I to believe the photographs I sent you of my pure young body are no longer enough for you?”

“No to the first and a resounding ‘Yes’ to both the second and the third,” he answered instantly; “Discomfort”, had she not imagined it, already on the backburner.

“As I may have mentioned before, Anya,” he reminded her; “and excepting the beasts of the field: the mind is the gateway to Nirvana. Physical pleasure becomes ecstasy only when mental stimulation is at requisite levels. As nature underpins everything natural and organic; so the cerebral underpins all things human and sexual. That said, however, it is also true that, in the same way as academic learning improves the quality of intelligence; so do pictures, in situations such as ours, take the text to higher levels.”

Had he been in reception of a signal with which to view it, he would have seen Anya was already nodding agreement - having acknowledged to herself on many occasions how limiting she found the absence of: “Learning”. 

Frustration, for both the above lack itself, and her mentor’s long windedness, making his assertion one with which she could only agree.  

“But enough of me,” he said, returning to business. “I would –again- like to hear about the welcome he extended to your new wardrobe and his response to you since. Run his initial reaction by me once again, Anya… If you would be so kind.”

Anya smiled to herself at his request, finding in it no hardship. Her “Master’s” response, after all, having been of a kind she savoured. Boding well for her future plans in his regard.

Those “Plans” involving nothing less than the complete enslavement of a handsome Englishman.

A “Handsome Englishman”, moreover; who was not only her employer but –making the scenario in prospect that much sweeter to her- almost three decades her senior.

The nature of that “Scenario” changing almost every time she closed her eyes to fantasise about it; fantasies so numerous and powerful she had actually given them numbers to be able to summon them up more readily.

Chapter Two

Fantasy-One

“You have to ask me,” she reminded him, standing in the kitchen where he had sought her out. Her raven black hair hung loose over the smooth brown skin of her shoulders and her expression as she regarded him was one she had heard described as: “Haughty”

She could tell how taken he was with the grey woollen dress and sheer nylon pantyhose as it tapered down and disappeared into black shoes with pointed toes and sharp heels.

“Please, Anya,” he began, “can I…”

“No!” she barked, enjoying the way the handsome Englishman flinched. “You should be naked and on your knees before me. Do it now!”

His haste to do as she asked would have been touching had it not been so pathetic.

“Look at you,” she sneered. “Tying yourself in knots to obey a young girl - and you so much older than she. A brown girl and your servant too, and you an Englishman; what would your friends say?”

Almost before her jeering had finished, he was kneeling at her feet on his haunches, servile and anxious; the need etched upon his features a joy to behold.

“Ask me then,” she reminded him again, as if he were little more than a half-wit rather than a mildly successful former writer some thirty years her senior.

“Please,” he begged.

“Please, what?”

“Please, Master, let me… let me masturbate for you.”

“What?” she snarled, feigning outrage; “Are you a pervert? You want to touch yourself in front of me? In your own kitchen?”

“Please, Master.”

“You are a pervert, are you not? Let me hear you say it.”

“I… I’m a pervert, Master.”

She smiled.

“I just wanted you to be clear on that point;” a hand coming around from behind her then, to dangle something before his eyes. “Do you know what these are?”

His eyes sparkled hungrily:

“They… They’re your panties, Master,” he told her, lips dry.

Without a word she took a single step towards him and draped them over his head; sure to position the gusset over his nose.

“I have worn them for the past three days so they will be nice and…ripe for you.”

Below her, she watched with amusement as his tongue darted out to taste her stale secretions.

“I expect a thank you when I give you something.”

“Thwnk you Mwster,” he obeyed through the fabric covering his mouth.

Turning to her side, she hitched up her skirt to present him with her right leg, the pressure on her calf muscles from the high heels dimpling their length on the upward rise to her sleek and powerful thighs, rippling beneath the sheer black nylon containing them.

“Here, on the kitchen floor, in your own home, you are going to hump your servant’s leg like the dog you truly are,” she told him. “Then, when you know yourself for the animal that you are, you are going to clean your manjuice from her nylons with your tongue. Understand?”

“Hmmm,” came from below her, her slave too immersed in the sensations provided by her soiled underwear to find words.

“I do not think, after this, we will have any more confusion concerning just who is in charge here.”

She reached out to pinch the lobe of his ear with her free hand.

“Up!”

Instantly, he rose from his haunches to his knees.

“Do it!” she snapped.

After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her hips and pressed his erection against the side of her pantyhose-clad leg, the rasping of the nylon against his foreskin bringing a muffled gasp from him.

“Hurry up!” she ordered him. “I have things to do.”

He did as she asked immediately; the taste and the smell of her soiled underwear continuing to assail his senses as he thrust against her leg in an unholy imitation of a rutting canine.

It couldn’t have been more than five strokes after he began humping, so strong was his excitement, that he let out a massive gasp and exploded against her; jet after jet of white semen covering her thigh; his body sagging against her hips as she looked down with contempt.

“There,” she told him, mockery unmistakable; as was the sheer fulfilment she received from such control: “not such a cruel master after all, am I?”

Stepping from his grasp, she surveyed the semen soaked nylon at her thighs and tutted before tearing her panties from his head.

“Well?” she said, after a few seconds, tone expectant: “Don’t just kneel there like an imbecile,

His stared up at her, eyes that were more than just a little beaten showing puzzlement also.

With a huge sigh of the type one makes at the shortcomings of a half-wit, she again took him by the ear and leaned down to bore into his eyes:

“Get your filthy tongue to work and clean me up, you animal.”

Chapter-Three

Lambert

For the third time that week, Bernard Lambert found himself waking to the sound of his own screams.

The fact it was still only Tuesday hardly offering itself as a reassurance.

Nor did the fact he came awake in the surroundings of his own study. The brown leather of the comfy sofa upon which he was taking his usual afternoon catnap, clammy against the skin of his bare forearms. Neither time, place, nor sofa, doing anything to lessen his concern for experiencing such dreams at all.

By way of confirmation, his hands went to his groin; relief at what he found there joined by a frantic banging which, though startling, at least hastened a full return to the land of the living.

And, more crucially: the intact.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry. “Is everything as it should be?”

There was no mistaking the deference in the heavily accented voice and old-fashioned English usage. Both, he considered, chiming nicely with the anachronistic form of address she had only recently started using when speaking to him. It being yet more evidence of the respect in which she held him and from which he took so much pleasure.

Respect and a form of address that went a long way towards restoring his self-esteem after his recent setbacks; while, at the same time, reassuring him the status quo continued to hold sway – despite the worrying nature of this new fixation he appeared to be in the grip of.

That it was a somewhat recidivist and despised status quo –dead and buried with the British Raj some three-quarters of a century ago- not preventing his self-congratulation for having revived the tradition in his own home. The achievement of such a rebirth in a new; “Politically correct” and enlightened, millennium lessening his self-approbation not a penny piece.

“Anya?” he had asked her; shortly after she had started using the honorific. “Why are you suddenly addressing me in such an old-fashioned way?”

Still in her saris at the time –and, consequently, of no interest to him- his housekeeper had surprised him with the answer that, unbeknownst to him, she and Rajiv had pre-agreed should such a question be asked. The change that would ensure the surprisingly magnetic pull of his eyes towards the powerful and shapely legs with the pronounced calf-muscles -legs she had not seen fit to reveal until then- still some weeks in the future.

That attraction one that had demeaned him as much upon first sight as it did now -and an attraction he found increasingly troubling. As if the swapping of sari covered bare legs and sandals for pantyhose and heels; combined with his reaction to the change; made her seem a different person in his eyes.

“Because you are a man of substance and it is deserved, Master,” she had answered him, delivering the untruth without a trace of the self-consciousness normally guaranteed to betray liars with a limited talent for the ways of deceit.

There being no trace, either, of the amusement she had taken from his obvious delight in such outrageous and fraudulent flattery.

Going on to flatter him still further when she saw her initial success:

“I have been here almost six months now,” she continued, “and you have proved yourself thoroughly deserving of your position in the world. Firm but fair. In my country there is no shame in acknowledging such a worthy man as ‘Master’.”

Then, as the script she had devised with her mentor demanded, her look had become troubled.

“However,” she said, expression still thoughtful; “if by addressing you in such a way I cause you embarrassment, I will use a different…”

“No, no!” he had disabused her. Swiftly. “I’m all for tradition. If that’s how you wish to address me then so be it.”

And so it was. As Rajiv had assured her it would go; so had it gone. Her “Master’s” already inflated ego -puffed up further every time she addressed him in such a way- setting him up for what would come later.

Back in the moment, though, the man himself wondered what his servant would think of her: “Worthy” Master, were she to divine, somehow, the contents of his dreams. Acknowledging thanks as he did so -to whomever atheists acknowledged such things- that mind reading was not included in her seemingly endless array of domestic talents.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry a second time; a double reassurance he was back with the living as the door flew open and she stepped inside; expression a mixture of curiosity for a room she was entering for the first time, and feigned concern for the man inside it. 

“I’m fine, thank you, Anya,” he told her, clearing his throat mid-sentence as the unlikely leading-lady of his recent dreams came towards him – clad, coincidentally, in the self same outfit he had pictured her in as went about destroying his testicles.

Adopting a critical expression intended to let his servant he wasn’t happy she had entered his “inner-sanctum” at all, Lambert pushed the imagery to one side. It was a domestic incursion –despite the mitigating circumstances- he found extremely annoying. He had, after all, explained at length, from the commencement of her employment with him, that his study was “Off-limits”.

And at all times.

He could only hope the boldness of her intrusion was not some statement of emancipation to go with the English fashions replacing the discarded saris and traditional Indian costume she had worn on first taking up employment in his home.  

An adoption of anglicised dress that had disturbed him for some reason.

A change -though her attitude towards him was no less deferential- that made her seem, somehow, less…

Submissive.

The above being a quality in a woman he had always found extremely pleasing.

“I heard you scream out, she told him,” aware of his discomfort – even if that discomfort was not acute enough to prevent him stealing glances at her hosed legs and full breasts. Nor her from noticing that -though the interest he seemed to take in her body below the neck was, if anything, growing more pronounced- her face, as per usual, remained neglected.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her, a little tetchily; irritated at her persistence and drawing himself up authoritatively; snatching an eyeful of her, somewhat: “School-teacherly”, legs as he did so - that they were ever so slightly bandy making them seem, somehow, more… powerful. These being, he recalled, the same legs and feet he had seen above him not seconds before as they went about supplying his dream the element of terror.

“I was just acting out a scene from the new book,” he lied, unable to prevent the catch in his voice her presence inspired. His growing preoccupation one he was at a loss to explain to himself; an interest in his horse-faced housekeeper stemming from the very moment she had decided to shed the costume native to her homeland and wear the more familiar designs and fabrics of his.

Not to mention the absence of a woman in his life for the first period of any real duration he could recall.

“You can continue with whatever you were doing, and allow me to get on now,” he told her, manner made terse by recent memory. Eyes, even as he dismissed her, wandering down to the full breasts he could see straining against her shirt and imagining them unfettered. 

In truth, the nature, frequency and intensity of his thoughts in her regard were becoming a real worry. No matter that sexual fantasies were as everyday and run of the mill to him as they were to any other man. After all, the odd dream concerning the same person was certainly nothing to be concerned about.

But this was different.

Not only were the dreams and unbidden images becoming more vivid; but their capacity to disturb seemed to be multiplying exponentially also.

“Dreams”, that left him mystified as to their source; as well as mortified to admit –given his horror at their content- the excitement he took from them.

Though by far his biggest concern in their regard was the identity of the girl taking centre stage as they played out. 

Being totally candid, and without wishing to sound harsh, he had told himself -and as good as she had proved herself at the menial chores for which he had hired her- she was, when it came down to it, no more than an ugly and badly educated Indian girl from a low caste background. What she was now, he had assured himself, was all she would ever be. Single or married –especially the latter- what she did for him now was what she would do for others throughout the remainder of her life.

“I am making tea, Master,” she informed him, making no impression on his preoccupation.

So why,” he told himself, if she was so easily dismissed, was the girl having such an effect upon him – her image popping into his head at any time or place? Why, at any moment, would he picture the two of them in situations revealing her in any number of positions and poses as they interacted with each other?

And why, more worryingly, were these “Interactions” becoming so… weird.

Though he had always enjoyed being top-dog, both physically and domestically, in his relationships with women it had always been more a case of vanilla-with-edge; rather than the more blatant BDSM scenes of strong masters and subservient women depicted on his computer, Scenes he knew –no matter how… appealing he found them- he would never indulge in.

So; yet to be indulged tastes running in this direction; why was it that every time she invaded his sleep it was he, Bernard Lambert, her employer and “Master”, who was designated the unenviable role of second-class citizen?

And why, if these “Scenes” were reserved for his sleep, was he picturing one now?

Chapter Four

Master & Servant

The smooth, unblemished brown skin of her buttocks hovered above his face as she crouched over him, her own face –when he could tear his eyes away to look at it- a mixture of high excitement and cruelty at having reduced him to such a position. Then, suddenly, she began to lower herself; hands pulling apart her cheeks to expose her anus that he may better see what was about to engulf him. Already the smell was indescribable and he wanted to move, but couldn’t, as he felt her arse settle on his face and the tip of his nose inserted into her…

“I am making tea,” Anya Jalav told him for the second time; the tyrant of Bernard Lambert’s slumbers standing before him in her now customary heels and hose as he sat on the sofa hosting the most recent of the dreams in which she was involved and, now, imagery of a more conscious volition.

“Sorry?” he asked, looking up at her; a representation of her arse still filling his thoughts. A tiny germ of knowingness in her expression he hadn’t noticed before making him instantly suspicious; as if she knew what was going on and felt contempt for him. Though, given how mediocre he found her -in all but domestic matters, anyway- it was an impression he shrugged off immediately as totally implausible.

“Tea, Master,” she repeated. “I am making some. Cake too.”

The mundane nature of her statement prompted self-mockery for his worries in her regard. She was, after all, no more than a highly efficient young servant, grateful for the opportunity he had provided her to escape the deprivations of her background and live in England.

Nothing more sinister.

Any, off-the-wall, thoughts he was having in regard of her, he considered, had more to do with the recent changes in his circumstances and the way his subconscious reacted to them than the girl herself.

The opposite side of the bed he had rarely known unoccupied throughout his fourscore and more years, playing its own part, he was certain, in his risible preoccupation with the girl.

That the same reasoning power could apply to his servant -and he might not be the only one grappling with an idée fix- not a possibility that occurred to him.

“Just tea will be fine,” he assured her as he made himself assurances of his own in respect of both his dreams and the nature of them.

Adding after a few beats:

“I’ll take it in the living-room.”

Nodding politely, she had turned on her heel to leave.

“Oh, and Anya?” he began in a stern tone; asserting his position; despite the competition provided by the back of her hosed legs as they made for the door. The arrogance that had seen the collapse of his marriage –as well as an inability to accept advice which might just have kept his writing career on track- goading him to take a higher ground with his retainer in the here-and-now he found impossible to reach in his dreams.

Turning, she regarded him quizzically; horse-like features and large brown eyes made even more prominent by the black hair she had swept from her face and tied at the back:

“Yes, Master?”

Eyes rising from her legs, he hesitated as his attention was transfixed yet again.

This time it was her tight, knee-length, grey skirt; doing its best to provide decency to a provocatively protruding mound; that caught his eye. His tongue snaking from his mouth at the sight, an abortive attempt to moisten lips made dry by a sudden image of that same appendage as it gently lapped at the folds of her labia. Oral worship becoming more and more frenzied as he knelt before her and…

Screwing his eyes tight to banish the image, he feigned a yawn to disguise his excitement and hoped she had noticed nothing untoward; professing unspoken gratitude when he opened them and realised that was indeed the case; berating himself for endowing the girl with a perception and intelligence alien to both her mindset and position in life.

“Do try to remember what I told you, Anya,” he reminded her; bolstered by his own condescension; voice harsher than her crime merited.

An expression of confusion crossed her features.

His hand indicated the interior and its contents, sweeping over them by way of a rebuke, as if she were unaware of her exact location.

“As if!” she would have echoed his thoughts, had she been able to read them and been of a mind to disabuse him.

“My study?” he reminded her.

For a few seconds she feigned incomprehension, then; light apparently dawning:

“Apologies, Master. I was concerned when you cried out and forgot your instruction. It will not happen again.”

“Please see that it doesn’t,” he told her with a benign smile as she nodded and turned for the door.

The Lord of the Manor had conferred absolution - despite the fact he was having trouble facing the recipient of his forgiveness after the events of his dream. It being, he accepted, a mild, though unjust, taking to task of his young Indian servant. Though, at the same time, he also knew it was a taking to task that restored equilibrium and order to his new world. Making it, therefore: necessary.

As she closed the door behind her and her footsteps receded towards the kitchen; he rose from the sofa and stretched; reassured and grateful to be back in the here and now. Even if he had to admit the fact this was the latest of a number of similar dreams he had experienced during the past week or so –his young housekeeper taking centre-stage in each– was less reassuring.

And yet, he reminded himself, after the study was his and his alone once more -and putting aside the disturbing content of his dreams- he was, for the first time in a good while, feeling more than a sniff of much needed optimism.

At forty-eight he was still a vibrant and handsome man - an opinion actually held by people other than him. Even if they did stop some way short of endorsing his, somewhat tiresome, belief in his own superiority. Along with his air of assurance, a youthful complexion and a full head of hair camoflaged his years and went a long way to explaining his success with the opposite sex down the decades.

Though, and despite his aforementioned: “Superiority”; even he had to admit the well, in that respect, had run dry since his relocation to Cornwall.

Still, there were other compensations.

The presence of that same housekeeper, so troubling to his subconscious; along with the absence of the trifling responsibilities of domesticity and marriage –despite his ex-wife’s efficiency in such matters- but one of them. The small voice at the back of his head -warning him it was not healthy to devolve too much responsibility for one’s life, trivial or not, to a young stranger from a different country with different beliefs, customs, and background- mostly ignored.

“Just the same, though,” he told himself picturing a certain room, in a certain hotel; “perhaps a call to Gianni and a trip to London is in order.”

A prospect receiving a positive nod.

“Yes,” he told himself, head continuing to affirm his intention. “That would do the trick very nicely. Just the tonic to put this ridiculous situation into perspective.”

Chapter Five

Rajiv

Switching off the television, Rajiv eased himself from the sofa he had been slumped upon for the past five hours -toilet breaks too numerous to mention- to hitch up the bottoms of his jogging suit.

An exercise aid worn more for comfort and practicality than its eponymous purpose.

It not being too often he left the apartment these days and, when he did, physical exercise could not be said to rate high on his list of priorities.

Though still an imposing looking man as he passed his mid-sixties, the physical activity missing from his day-to-day went some way to explaining his aches, pains and physical lassitude. The three companions of his twilight teaming up to win a huge groan as he stretched underused arms towards the ceiling and moved towards the window.

The aforementioned “Five hours” having been whiled away –killing time until he Skyped his protégé halfway across the world- with a selection of dross brought to him by the wonders of satellite and a little light masturbation triggered by his twice daily contact with his protégé in England and the prospect of the latest upcoming tête-à-tête.

That he was little more than a voyeur -albeit on speaking terms with one half of the couple he pumped his meat over so regularly- bothering him not in the slightest.

Anya had already told him of the mans troubled dreams and his reaction to her in the new wardrobe he, Rajiv, had suggested, and her retelling of Bernard Lambert’s first sight of his housekeeper in more typical English clothing was something he couldn’t seem to get enough of hearing - the genesis of a new conquest always, with hindsight, the most exciting point of the process. 

Explaining his insistence she repeat the episode for him.

The image of this conceited Englishman seeing his disregarded young housekeeper in skirt, nylon, and heels for the first time one he could not get enough of. Imagining his reaction to the hourglass, Junoesque, body he had yet to be privileged to see in its uncovered glory –as he, Rajiv Singh had been so privileged; albeit in the form of a computer slideshow. The power inherent in the girl’s womanhood no less diluted for her only standing an inch or so over five feet. His reaction when it was finally unveiled to him, if only the Englishman were astute enough to know it, being the seedling that would soon develop –if Rajiv and his protégé proved adept enough- into an overwhelming craving that would, as young Anya desired, see him flat on his back as she perched above him and emptied the contents of her bladder into a mouth as eager as it was disgusted.

“Tell me, Rajiv,” his protégé had asked shortly after he had received the photo slideshow of her: “were we not separated by two oceans, and I were suddenly of a mind to give a man permission to place his cock in my virgin cunt, would you like to be that man?”

“My dear, Anya,” he had laughed, playing down the disturbance at his groin caused by her use of such language for the first time, “were we not separated by two oceans, I assure you I would neither ask for nor need your ‘Permission’.”

It had been her turn to laugh then:

“Then I must make sure we do not meet until I have you… tamed,” she told him; something in her light-hearted tone had warned him she was not being quite as flippant as she would have him believe; her mentor taken by surprise, just the same, at the eager way his penis reacted to her assertion in his regard.

Replaying the conversation as he reached the window, he groaned again; aware that, despite his aches and pains; he had another erection to give witness to the fact the one he had experienced after her stated intention of having him “Tamed” was no fluke.

Though he remained, as said, a striking looking man, the stiffness in his legs and upper body provided one more reminder of the passing years to go with his closely cropped silver hair and recent desire for companionship. The same need making his daily contact with Anya Jalav of such importance to him.

Past retirement age, he was comfortable enough in a financial sense. His civil-service pension and the contents of his late partner’s will had seen to that. But no abundance of material possessions could fill the void the loss of Ilse had created. Such a meeting of minds, sexuality and compatible temperaments came along only once in a lifetime.

The gap created by her departure from his life one he hadn’t even bothered to try and fill.

Few people, he thought, would understand how any man who had treated a fellow human being so unjustly, so cruelly; so disdainfully and autocratically; could protest to having finer feelings for that person. There being nothing in their mundane lives -lived out, as they were, to the specifications of church, government, or trashy magazine- to promote the understanding that not all “love” resulted in the simulated achievement of marriage, mortgage, babies and grandchildren. A toeing of the establishment line resulting, finally, in the advent of the greatest catchall of the lot.

Death.

Gazing out from his twentieth floor apartment at the sun-baked panorama of Calcutta, stretching westward towards the Hooghley River and the Sarangabad Government Complex –the same complex where, many moons ago, he had worked as a clerical-officer- a hint of moistness around his eyes gave further evidence of the changes the years had wrought and brought a shaking of the head for such, previously inexplicable, sentiment.

From the sill he picked up what had once been his former partner’s collar; the thick and heavy band of leather he had locked around her neck to signify she was his.

The very same collar she was not allowed to remove without his permission and now took pride of place upon his windowsill as a reminder of what he had lost and so missed - so much so, in fact, he had began the blog in her memory that recounted their life together.

The same “Blog” that had been seen by his young protégé and had led her to seek his assistance.

Eyes still fixed on the panorama beyond his windows; even if the view he was seeing was of a different kind; he recalled the moment Ilse had begged for the leather he now found himself stroking with such tenderness.

Guessing, and not for the first time, at the nature of her thoughts as she waited for him to put the final piece of her submission to him in place…

Chapter Six

Ilse

Knees to the rug and hands clasped in front of her, the German businesswoman waited in silence.

Just as he had instructed.

Her soon-to-be “Owner” not wishing, she knew, to have the rear view he so loved and abused obstructed. 

The indignity of the position, in her own home, before a younger man who rented an apartment from her across the city, was not lost on the forty-year-old Bavarian and only her fear of disappointing him kept her in place.

A fear, nonetheless, she both welcomed and thrived upon; the levels of submissiveness her Indian master revealed to her as surprising as they were terrifying. The masterful young man intent on owning her peeling away layer upon layer of what she had thought were hardwired personality traits; stripping them away as if she were no more than a German onion with an outer skin he found of no use to him. Her would-be master intent on paring her back until she came face-to-face at last with the real Ilse Dressler.

Her helplessness to prevent his domination of her -if the reaction of her body towards him spoke true- was something she both despised and thrived upon. The intermittent and familiar sparks of anxiety and anticipation, tingling the length of her exposed spine, becoming charges of pure electricity as they reached her shaven pussy heightening that arousal she fully expected to saturate the rug below her at any moment.

As the smell of her sex pervaded the room and her arousal ran in rivulets down the smooth hard thighs she worked the gym so hard to maintain, she heard a sigh and knew he was behind her; savouring the view he had demanded she present to him. Insisting she pull her lustrous blonde hair from either side of her face and twist them into pigtails.

“The perfect look for a nasty German frau-slave,” he had laughed when delivering the instruction, her nipples; jutting from impressive breasts; becoming, if possible, even harder at the recall.

“So,” he began, tone of voice arrogant and condescending, entertaining nothing other than complete acceptance of the terms he had set for her; “it would seem a month without my superior Indian cock in your substandard Teutonic cunt has brought a change of attitude.”

He waited for a reaction to his taunts; ready to punish the infraction if her temper got the better of her and reward her obedience if she behaved.

A win-win situation.

At least for him.

In the event, it was “Reward” that won out – had he been of a mind to extend one.

“Do you want me to repeat myself,” he asked, tone dangerous.

“N-Nein,” she said quickly; not having realised a response was required; believing her lack of reaction alone enough to win his approval.

“ ‘No’, what?” he snapped. “ ‘No’, you don’t want me to repeat myself, or ‘No’, the absence of my cock in your hungry little goody-box has made no difference to your attitude of a month ago?”

“And remember your manners when you answer,” he reminded her before she had a chance to reply.

“N-Nein… Meister,” she began, realising she had never felt so defenceless in her life. Exposure of both her hairless sex and equally smooth arse heightening an already frightening sense of vulnerability and providing evidence that, for the first time, someone else was in control of not only her body but her mind also.

“Ich… Ich…”

“Say it,” he commanded. “And look me in the eyes when you do.”

Raising her eyes slowly to gaze into his, the inflexibility and strength of will she saw staring back at her was all the confirmation she needed. If she had ever thought that what they were doing with each other was a game, the expression on his face told her –and with emphatic finality- it was not a view he shared.

“Say it now!” he demanded, eyes becoming more intense as he sensed her final capitulation. “And say it in English. I will have no German. It is far too bold a tongue for my submissive little slut.”

He waited. 

“Y-Yes… Master,” she almost whispered finally; desperate and needy and wanting to come so badly. His orders having expressly forbidden her from touching herself until he arrived and gave consent. Orders she had obeyed; rather than accept the alternative and lose the promise of paradise - of which he had, so far, given her two brief, but addictive, tastes.

Then, looking into his eyes:

“I… I miss your… your superior Indian cock in my… my substandard Teutonic cunt.”

This time she was the one who waited; eyes lowered to the carpet.

Finally:

“There,” he gave praise, manner almost friendly, overlooking for once the absent: ‘Master’; “that was not so hard, was it?”

Naked and on her knees in the home she owned, Ilse Dressler expected a hand to pat her head then throw a bone for her to chase at any moment.

Instead of that, he came around to stand before her.

Arrogantly.

Hands clasped behind his back as if surveying his property.

The jeans, tee shirt and loafers he wore, making her nakedness all the more humiliating. Not lessening any when a smile transformed his stern face. Her young “Master” taking a cruel delight in his mockery of the older woman below him as she knelt in tribute to the superiority of both his gender and his race.

Finally, after what to her had seemed a long pious Sunday, his hands came around from behind his back and -even with eyes lowered- she sensed what it was he dangled from one hand.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“Ja, Meister… I mean: yes, Master. It is a collar for a dog.”

“Wrong!” he snapped.

She jumped, startled at the correction.

“Try again,” he ordered; “different gender.”

Attempting to swallow non-existent saliva, she marvelled at her supine response to such treatment as she realised what he wanted to hear.

“It,” she began, throat dry, “it’s a collar for a… for a bitch, Master.”

This time a half-smile greeted her answer by way of a reward.

“Better,” he said, taking a step forward to bring her eyes level with the bulge in his jeans and offering up the dog tag attached to the pink leather of the collar. “What does the engraving say?”

Ilse read it and knew the point of no return was only moments away.

“Say it aloud,” he ordered.

For what were only a few seconds but to her seemed an eternity; she asked herself if this was what she really wanted. If she once committed to what he had in mind she knew with certainty the power of the need she already felt for him would grow stronger and stronger. So strong that any return to the life she had now and had thought herself happy with would be impossible. Could she truly handle being a chattel to a young man of a different race almost half her age? To give up her individuality and live as the extension of another’s will? Never again to be allowed to make a decision of any importance again?

Did she truly want that?

As her eyes flickered from the German lettering he had insisted be engraved on the dog-tag, to the sight of his hard cock as it attempted to burst the restraints of his jeans; her decision was made for her:

“It says,” she began; voice unrecognisable as her own: “Property of Rajiv Singh”.

Adding; a few heartbeats later:

“Master.”

As her eyes lowered again a self-satisfied chuckle reached her from above.

“That’s right,” he agreed, withdrawing both collar and dog tag; delighted to have heard her say it out loud. “That means, if you wish to be filled once more with the cock you cannot seem to tear your eyes from, you have a decision to make.”

“But I thought…”

“Which,” he cut her off sharply; “is exactly what you will cease to do from this moment on. If you must think at all then think of how you may best serve your master. All other ‘Thinking’ will be my responsibility. Your only responsibility will be to obey.”

Before she could respond, she found herself groaning with need. A hand going to the back of her head to press her face to his groin. Allowing her both a sniff and a feel of the paradise denied were she to have second thoughts.

Then, thrusting her head away, he undid his fly to release his penis; gratified at the lust instantly transforming her features – even if he knew the fear she felt for his intent.

“A month ago,” he reminded her; “when you were simply a horny German businesswoman being fucked by the young tenant you had deigned to –with much superiority, I seem to recall- lease one of your properties; you informed me you would never suck a cock. The very thought of doing so, you assured me, repulsed you.”

Ilse felt her body tense.

The act of Fellatio one she had never quite managed to bring herself to perform.

The thought that where semen flowed so had urine before it, guaranteed to trigger her gag reflex whenever her lips came close to an eager penis.

“If you wish to wear my collar and experience my superior Indian cock as it does your hungry German gash the honour of satisfying its needs, you are going to take it from my jeans, wrap your painted Bavarian lips around the head, and suck it as if your life depended on winning its approval.”

He waited for it to sink in.

 

“Then,” he went on, “and only then; when you have finished your act of worship; you will grovel before me and beg most abjectly and respectfully to have my collar attached to your neck.”

As his cock danced before her eyes and his words rang in her ears, Ilse found herself in the unbreakable grip of a demonic triad she knew to be fear, revulsion, and –the most powerful of all- lust.

“I shall count to three,” he told her when she made no response. “If my meat is not surrounded by biddable German dentistry by that time, I shall leave and you will never know me again.  

She looked up at him with horror.

“One…” he began.

“Master,” she implored him. “Please!”

“Two…?”

“Anything but this, Master. Anything.”

“Three!”

She continued to stare up at him, tears streaking her face now; but making no move towards him.

“Very well,” he told her, hands reaching towards his fly. “You have made your decision and I…”

The words dying in his throat as he felt his throbbing erection surrounded by the soft flesh of her mouth…

Chapter Seven

Rajiv Again

…Still in place before the window, Rajiv wondered at the strength of his current erection for an incident from his life almost forty years distant. The power of his deceased partner not diminished by either the passing of the years or the new adventure –albeit passive- he was in the process of planning with his protégé in England.

Replacing a woman such as Ilse something he described to himself as:

“An impossibility”.

When Ilse was alive he had, at least, gotten out to restaurants, cinemas, and business functions from time to time. Now, without his partner to drape on an arm and give these interludes meaning, he far preferred to stay at home in the company of Johnny Walker.

And - when his old friend wasn’t available?

Well, then there was always his long-time mistress to fall back on.

A consolation with the exotic name of: Bombay Sapphire.

To his left he could see the large balcony where he used to so love taking Ilse from behind; her pendulous breasts overhanging the balustrade, twenty-floors up, as she clung to the rail while he explored her beautiful anus; their naked forms visible to anyone with either binoculars or, for the more committed voyeur, helicopter. The breath leaving her body in a series of animalistic gasps groans and grunts as he battered at her stage door with growing power. Leaving him feeling godlike for both his ability to satisfy her cravings and to take exactly what he wanted, and exactly when he wanted it, from his frau-sklavin.

It being the same balcony upon which he had kept her tethered by the collar for hours upon end whenever she proved disobedient or recalcitrant; until allowing her the opportunity to show her remorse by begging to wrap her sensuous German lips around his eager, if disdainful, Indian meat.

With all that was now so conspicuously absent in his life; it was no surprise Anya Jalav’s request for him to mentor her had appeared as a Godsend. Providing him, as it did, with a small respite from the bottle. Along with a friend, a sense of importance and, praise be to Buddha, a purpose.

The above triad of missing elements all the more welcome for coming in one package.

A: “Package”, with an hourglass shape and superlative tits, she had kept sari-wrapped for far too long and for which his regularly exercised cock was very, very, grateful.

Even if he was at pains not to let her know it. 

Yet, gratitude notwithstanding, he knew that, despite his desire for complete control in his relationships, it was where similarities between them ended. Unlike Anya -who had no time for such: “Irrelevancy”- he would always need the presence of the romantic, the spiritual and the emotional, to complete any relationship. A necessary correlative for the offsetting of those darker needs that, from time-to-time, demanded satisfaction.

For Anya, however, control meant 24/7.

Unquenchable and unrelenting.

And -as long as there was a breath in her voluptuous body- total.

Returning Ilse’s collar to its place on the sill -almost reverently- he felt a little sadness for the girl who would never know the tenderness of true affection that lent foundation to all relationships worth having.

The man known as Bernard Lambert, he considered; punching in his password and waiting for the welcome screen to appear as he reviewed the man’s situation; was not in a good place.

Even if his surroundings did remain the same.

Sooner rather than later, Rajiv Singh knew, he would find himself with no study, no Indian housekeeper, and; most importantly of all; no say in the matter.

Were he blessed with the gift of second sight and able to read Bengali, the man known as Bernard Lambert would be sure to notice the nameplate soon to be found hanging outside the dwelling he had once ruled over.

A nameplate engraved with a single word.

“Hell”.

And, in “Hell”… he would be the servant.

Chapter Eight

Lambert

A week on from the incident in his study, Bernard Lambert was still pondering the pros and cons of giving Gianni a call to arrange a visit to London; giving it serious thought as he took in the panorama stretching out before him beyond a large bay window.

The room at the back of the house he had designated as his study had some of the best views in the house and, drinking them in now, he once again had the feeling -despite his inexplicable attraction to his young servant and those dreams- he was gaining some small measure of control over his life.

A fresh burst of optimism ensuring the element of threat he found in his dreams the girl was temporarily placed aside; allowing him to see the new look parading her previously unsuspected assets as no more than a very welcome bonus of eye-candy.

On which subject, only that morning, he had been given yet further evidence of her ability to… stir him.

“Good morning, Master,” she had said, placing his breakfast tray across his lap, “I trust you slept well?”

Propped against the headboard, the inevitable erection caused by her appearance each morning threatening to unbalance his tea, toast and boiled eggs, he scanned her expression for any trace of irony and was relieved to find none; her heavy lips devoid of anything he could have taken as… contempt.

But then, how could she possibly know he had masturbated to an image of those lips as they surrounded his cock and sucked him to completion before swallowing the resulting eruption?

Even more impossibly: how could she know that, when he did finally manage some sleep, their roles were reversed and this time it was his own naked form kneeling between her legs in supplication?

“Sniff your owner’s cunt,” the dream Anya had commanded him; the strength of will implicit in her equine features far more powerful, he knew with certainty, than he could muster at this time or any other. “Sniff but do not attempt to touch,” she reminded him, totally confident he would do exactly as she asked - despite his desperation to do exactly the opposite.

“Watch my finger as it slides into the beautiful Indian box denied you,” the dream Anya had continued. “Observe the evidence of the pleasure it takes in owning you as it runs over that finger and onto my knuckles.”

She laughed:

“Yes, impossible to look away, is it not? You have become a slave to pussy. And a servant girl’s pussy at that.”

Her laughter seemed almost demented as she added:

“My so-called master is now my pussy-slave.”

Eyes riveted, exactly as she had said, he could make no argument.

“Shall I be kind and let you suck it?” she said, tauntingly, holding up her finger. “Shall I do that? It would be an incredible honour for you would it not?”

“But then,” she said when he could make no rely: “are you worthy of such a gift?”

Her finger dangled before his eyes and he could smell the secretions won from her arousal; eyes closing as he felt that delicious weakness he always experienced when he knelt before her in such a way; erection arrowing upwards toward the brown goddess who was, inexplicably, taking over his existe…

“Shall I pour, Master?” she said, hands still on the tray as she leant over him; large breasts, restrained this time by another white cotton shirt; this one however, being of the sleeveless variety; giving him, for the first time a glimpse of smooth and hairless armpits.

“No,” he snapped, more tersely than intended, annoyed she had interrupted his reverie and even more put out by his recall of the dream and, more importantly, its nature.

“Sorry,” he said, staring now at her armpits; taking advantage of gravity’s pull upon the shirt at the opening where a sleeve should have been attached to take in the smooth skin of her right pit. “I was miles away. Yes, please pour, Anya.”

With a toothy smile, she had done just that, leaning in closer as she did so to give him a whiff of the armpit his eyes constantly darted to as she was distracted by the filling of his cup.

Taking advantage of her preoccupation, he began to breathe through his nose; praying she wouldn’t notice as the fresh yet un-deodorised and earthy smell of her armpit hit his nostrils and injected fresh life into an erection hardly requiring it anyway.

“Honey or sugar today, Master?” she had asked, eyes remaining on the cup.

“Hmm… er… Honey,” he said, completely off-guard, attempting to collect himself as she served him his tea, unfolded his Daily Telegraph and, with her usual smile walked to the door and let herself out.

Back in the moment once more, Lambert could only marvel at the effect this girl was having upon him. More and more, he found himself seeking her out wherever she happened to be working in the house to snatch glimpses or, if unobserved, drink in her matronly but perfectly proportioned body. Wondering at the magnificent tits that seemed ready at any moment to burst the confines of her now habitual white shirt and the powerful but shapely young legs as they tapered down to a pair of the sexiest feet he could remember seeing. Tiny but perfectly formed toes, with immaculately clipped nails and varnish of the deepest ruby, the perfect platform for the whole lust-inducing edifice.

Even if, for him at least, appreciation stopped rather abruptly at the neck.

His curious fixation being the one, inexplicable, blot on the new wave of optimism he was currently experiencing.

In this new mood, even his writing career –the same career he was in despair over not long before- no longer seemed the lost cause it had seemed barely a few weeks ago. A measure of optimism explaining the tentative start he had made on a new crime novel he was attempting to approach from a more modern point-of-view.

As he perched himself on the arm of the sofa and savoured the view beyond the glass, his concerns regarding the effect of his housekeeper upon him receded somewhat. The south-westerly vista; along with the bright and breezy afternoon accompanying it; doing nothing to dilute either his new purpose or restored humour. It being, if anything, the kind of day guaranteed to raise even the lowest of spirits.

Even if images of his servant from the subcontinent with the incredible breasts and powerful legs still flashed before his eyes intermittently as she went about massaging his feet, sucking his dick or submitting to his all-powerful cock while he thrust into her tight rear-opening. Images of male supremacy he knew would undergo a complete reversal the moment sleep took hold and wakeful volition found itself at the mercy of the subconscious. 

Shaking off the latest, unbidden, images of his unlikely lust object, he continued to take in the view outside from his position on the sofa. That autumn was his favourite season only adding to the pleasure he took in the panorama beyond the window. The dazzling, if less puissant, rays of the October sun refracting against the blue swells of the sea as the breeze swirled in and brought the salt of the briny with it. Weather, resulting from the confluence of English Channel and Atlantic Ocean, stirring autumnal leaves into a million, musical and soothing, sighs for the passing of their youth.

Heaven.

Even the Cornish fishing village he had disliked when he’d first visited as a child; nestling below the cliffs upon which stood his house; seemed, somehow, less… plebeian - despite its lack of either a decent wine-bar or bistro.

A clientele unworthy of his interest yet another negative.

With a small start of surprise, he felt obliged to admit that -now his own individual style had been stamped upon it- even the house his aunt had willed him and he had left London for was beginning to grow on him.

Not, of course, that he’d had a choice in the matter.

The death of his reclusive old aunt –and last remaining relative– had, of course, been sad. He was not a heartless man and, in his own way, had been fond of the old dear; always remembering –or at least ensuring his publisher did– to send her a copy of his latest work. The same work that –along with his marriage to Siobhan- had gone to pot over the past four years as the audience for his, somewhat antique, crime novels had either moved on to other, more realistic and gutsy, practitioners of the craft; or joined his aunt wherever she now found herself.

“Time locked and socially antediluvian” – Time-Out.

“A literary dinosaur for the new millennium” – London Review of Books.   

Reviews and reviewers of the same ilk the cause of much sourness on his part.

Bastards!

A: “Sourness”; not lessened any by the subsequent neglect of both publisher and agent.

Never having been a “Clubbable” type, the friends he did have had been made through his marriage. And they, to a man and a woman, and for reasons he understood only too well, had sided with Siobhan during the divorce – the fact he had fucked so many of her Girlfriends” making it extremely likely, and perfectly understandable, their husbands or partners would not bust a gut trying to bond with him. There were no children and, with his career and home: “Down the toilet”, the house on the cliffs above the Cornish fishing village was nothing short of a godsend.

“Who knows?” he’d told himself before decamping west; “I’m not in bad shape and London doesn’t have a monopoly on attractive, willing and available, women. Anything can happen.”

After three months in his new abode he had still to meet one.

After six, he had started to question whether they existed at all and wondered if, without his knowing, Cornwall had passed legislation outlawing casual sex.

For him, anyway.

His one weekly pleasure coming on a Wednesday when he drove Anya inland to a town with a shopping mall; drinking coffee and people watching as his housekeeper busied herself buying provisions. There being no shortage of women of the kind he liked here – even if the large majority of them were pushing prams or on the arm of a husband.

Another thing he hadn’t reckoned on when first upping sticks to Cornwall had been the house itself. Loving order and hygiene as he did –a by product of his upbringing- the work required to keep the place to the standard he had insisted upon from Siobhan was not something to which he himself was prepared to commit. The hypocrisy implicit in his own idleness so obvious it skimmed under his radar completely.

Which was when: cleaning, laundry, dishes and household accounts in disarray; the idea of a housekeeper had first occurred.

Turning to Google he had been pleasantly surprised. Both in terms of personnel and cost. One of the first sites to catch his interest extolling the virtue and cheapness of domestic help from abroad.

Which was how Anya Jalav, a young, uneducated girl from Calcutta, barely in her twenties, entered the life of a divorced, middle-aged and out-of-favour, English author.

And decided to make it her very own.

Chapter Nine

Rajiv & Anya

Almost seven months on from taking up her employment in his home, Anya Jalav was at her computer in the quarters above the garage; deep into the lunchtime half of her daily: “Progress reports”, as Rajiv described them:

“When I entered his bedroom that first morning,” she began; her mentor’s most recent instigation of this umpteenth revisiting of the memory, prompting restless fingers to work her cunny through the fabric of her panties; “you would have thought from his expression that a stranger had entered bearing toast and tea.”

“Did he comment?”

“No.”

“How did you dress?” Rajiv probed, his awareness of the answer not diluting his eagerness to hear it from the thick and, to him, sensual lips he had seen in her photographs - self-taken snapshots that had revealed her incredible young body to him for the first time and flashed before him now.

Even the face she was so scathing about –as evocative of horseflesh as she had assured him it would be; was full of character; even if it was character of a cold, diamond hard, nature.

But it was the body; belying the equine icing with which nature had seen fit to top it; that grabbed the attention. Locking and shackling his eyes onto the screen as surely as if they had been glued there. A body, he knew, no loose and shapeless sari –no matter how revered its designer- could possibly serve justice.

Reaching for himself for the third time -and within an hour of receiving the slideshow- it had struck him that the mass of her naked figure seemed almost caricatured - so compact and heavy did it seem. The exaggerated hourglass shape, with copious amounts of unblemished brown flesh, was not so much… fleshy, as firm; and needed to be in order to support two massive and impossibly perfect breasts with bullet hard nipples standing proud above…

“What did you say, Anya?”

His return was greeted with a laugh, as if the location of his brief excursion had been faxed to her beforehand.

Though his expression was impossible to read, a slight breathiness in his enunciation led his protégé to believe her employer was not the only one developing… feelings for her – that she had not yet spoken a word in answer to her mentor’s request giving her another small clue.

“I dressed very simply and exactly as you had advised. In one of the outfits you had me purchase.”

The outfit in question one of a number, similar in type, she had bought from a number of charity shops in the town she visited with her employer to make the weekly shop. Lugging provisions back to the car while he sat, read newspapers and drank coffee in a Starbuck’s on the lower level of the town’s mall. A wardrobe she had picked up cheaply and paid for from the small monthly salary that was paid into her account and she hadn’t, up to then, drawn upon.

“A crisp, white shirt,” she went on, “top two buttons undone to reveal a hint of superior Indian cleavage. A black skirt to just above the knee. Black nylons. And a pair of open-toed sandals with low spiky heels.”

The recital made her marvel.

Had it really only been a month since she first discarded her saris to wear the clothes guaranteed to gain her “Master’s” attention?

Such progress!

“It was the same outfit,” she went on, picking up where she had left off; “with minor variations, I now wear everyday and find so… liberating.”

“A picture of which you promised to send me,” came the accusation, a certain quivering in the voice of her, back from orbit, mentor betraying excitement to match anticipation.

“And you say I am the impatient one,” she taunted him, before continuing: “He made no comment on it; though comment was hardly required for me to tell he had noticed. The redness upon his cheeks, when I caught his eyes lingering upon the painted nails of my feet through the nylon of my hose, was evidence enough I had gained his attention. His first sight of my legs in pantyhose and heels seemed to transfix him. Explaining also, perhaps, his terse ‘Thank you’, as I gave him his tray and made to leave. In short, his behaviour was as predictable as you had told me it would be.”

She paused in her story; knowing he would be forced to ask her to continue; savouring a small moment of power over her older mentor; enjoying also the fact her “Master” –unusually- had gone into the village for a lunchtime drink. His absence meaning she would, for once, not have to rush her “Mentor’s” insistence on a mid-day “Progress report”.

More worryingly –though she had not mentioned it to Rajiv- Lambert had spent the whole of yesterday in London. Her tentative attempts to discover his reasons for going dismissed; his agitated demeanour leaving her convinced he was going to meet a woman. Though, if his crestfallen demeanour when he returned late that evening was a guide, it seemed likely his assignation had not gone well.

The above, something of a comfort ensuring she at least slept well.

The last thing she –they- needed was her “Master” introducing a “Mistress” to the household.

“That was not all,” Rajiv came in, on cue and eager; tone accusatory - making her smile as she made him wait.

“As I reached the door,” she told him finally; “I turned back quickly and caught him staring at my legs with a strange look. He tried to turn away, of course, but by then it was too late.”

“What kind of a strange look?”

“Lustful,” she informed him with pride; a condition she could not recall inspiring too often.

If ever.

Until now.

“Of course, I said nothing; acting as if all was as usual and asking him if he would like some marmalade with his toast.”

Her mentor mulled it over, chuckling to himself, until:

“Good. Very good. And what of his reaction to you since that first time?”

“More of the same; but still more intense; though I can tell he is resentful of the attraction my body below the neck holds for him. He finds it impossible to prevent himself watching my every move. Who would have thought such a handsome and worldly man could be so easily swayed by a simple pair of legs and breasts.”

Rajiv chuckled:

“Trust me, Anya, there is nothing ‘Simple’ about your breasts. And do not leave your feet from his growing fixation upon you. His reaction to your pretty painted toes is equally as encouraging. More so, in fact.”

“He does seem… taken with them,” she agreed.

“As he should be… Now, having gained his attention for the first time, you must take the steps necessary to imprison it.”

Anya was silent – having already determined she was going to do exactly that as the fingers frotting her clit picked up pace.

“You say that since his move from London he has become increasingly isolated,” Rajiv went on, almost as if to himself. “This is also good. Something that will work very well in your favour.”

“From what I can gather,” she breathed; “apart from the ever decreasing royalties from the sale of his previous work; his writing career is all but over. I have listened through the study door as he attempts to contact his agent and rages into the telephone when he is not put through. To my knowledge his calls are never returned. He has periods of intense depression, which explains his listlessness and willingness for me to take over more and more of the responsibilities that should be his. Something all well and good on my part. Though he has seemed a little perkier recently”

“What of the ex-wife?”

“I have read some of their correspondence with each other when he leaves the house to walk. From the recriminations she cannot help but let slip, it seems he was rather free and easy with his cock and her friends.”

At her mention of the word: “Cock”, Rajiv’s attentions toward his own beneath the computer desk intensified. Something about hearing the description from lips that had yet to experience one –and, much as his Ilse before her had done the same, insisted she never would- pressed his own buttons.

“Trust me,” she went on, “she hates him with a passion. I can only imagine how grateful she is their union was childless.”

“No contact between them whatsoever?”

“Apart from some rather cold correspondence from her tying up the loose ends of their marriage, none.”

“Friends?”

“Not one has contacted him since my arrival here. If he has any then they are at pains to keep their regard anonymous.”

“What of female contact?”

“See above. And, were he to have any, I would know, believe me. The house is quite isolated and our nearest neighbours are over a mile away. Near impossible for anyone to visit him without my discovering the fact. As you know, he used to drive me to the shopping mall and supermarket some ten miles away for provisions and other weekly necessities; but now even this has stopped and he sends me by taxi. Apart from walks along the coastline and the odd stroll down to the village itself; he is at home the whole of the day; locked in his study as he attempts to write the novel he says will change the tune of his agent and publisher and:

“Put me back on the literary map”.

They had laughed together, both at her imitation of her employer and such an implausible notion - having previously familiarised themselves with the work that had seen him removed from this “Map” in the first place.

“I could have sworn the other day,” she said by way of an afterthought, “that he was trying to sniff my armpits as I served him his breakfast in bed.”

An after thought bringing more laughter from Rajiv, before; growing serious:

“Does he socialise with anyone from the village itself?”

Anya shook her head emphatically as she answered: “As I pointed out, he uses the village only when he wishes to stretch his legs. There is a path leading down to it from the cliffs; but he is rather dismissive of it… The village, I mean… Not the cliffs.”

She gave a snort of derision before finishing.

“ ‘Too rustic’ for his tastes - as he puts it in his pompous and pretentious way. Which, translated, means: the local peasantry are not at all impressed with him. Plus, he has yet to see anything to fuck – or, more to the point, anything available to fuck that would fuck him back.”

Again, Rajiv felt a fresh surge of blood to his manhood.

“Well,” he began, urging control upon himself; “it is all most promising for you, Anya. The longer you become the only female in his life – albeit in a menial capacity – the more his interest focuses upon you. Between the two of us, it will not be long before we have this superior Englishman where he belongs; begging to lick the day’s dust and sweat from the feet of his young Indian servant.”

The expulsion of breath she tried to suppress without success told him his words had breached the dam coming between his student and her latest bout of self-satisfaction.

A not unusual occurrence during their chats with each other - though his own release would come later. Experience having taught him that delay served only to take ecstasy to even higher levels.

After waiting for both her thoughts and her pulse-rate to calm, he went on to deliver his warning:   

“I have no doubt that you can achieve what you wish with him,” he continued. “But –and this is terribly important– you must always keep in mind that the man you have chosen is not looking for the relationship you have mapped out for him. In fact, from what you tell me -and despite certain underlying characteristics- quite the opposite would appear nearer the truth.”

“But what I intend is not impossible?” she asked; a hint of petulance at the prospect her wishes might not be achievable betraying her youth.

“Not in the slightest, my precocious girl,” he reassured her. “You already have the knowledge that will hand you the keys to his innermost being. Your task now is learning how and when to use them once he has been made to realise he has no option but to entrust them to your keeping.”

He paused then – reflectively.

“It was much the same for me and my beautiful Ilse before she passed away; remember?”

Anya did indeed. The blog she had stumbled across during her nightly trawl of the net, and had led her to contact Rajiv in the first place, had spoke of just the kind of triumph over another human being of which she had long dreamed. For as long as she could remember, in fact. That it had been a man, triumphing over an unwilling German businesswoman from whom he rented a home, did nothing to prevent her applying the situation to her own. Fantasising herself into the male role while the unwitting Bernard Lambert took on the part of Ilse.

“Of course, it was a little easier for me with Ilse,” he had continued.

“Easier in what way?” she asked; curiosity piqued.

“Though I was loathe to use force with her, there was, with my greater male strength, always that option. There were many, many times when nothing but a severe bare bottom spanking –amongst other physical punishments- and some time in the corner would answer her disobedience. The humiliation of being forced into such childish penance as painful to her in its own way as the spanking itself. And a decision, once I had made it, she could do nothing of a physical nature to alter.”

“I take your point,” she told him, reversing the principals in order to take some enjoyment from the retelling; seeing it, however, as a not particularly challenging one and wanting to move on.

“Your tone betrays boredom, Anya,” he said, picking up on her dismissal. “But it will interest you to know that Ilse’s advanced age in comparison to my youth made her feelings of dishonour and mortification all the sharper and made my own reactions both sweeter and longer lasting.”

Her silence was revealing.

“Something, sweet Anya,” he went on, reading her mind; “you will soon experience for yourself –albeit with a slave of different gender across your lap- from the same end of that spectrum I myself occupied at the time. ”

As she listened, and in spite of her disinterest, in his point at least, Anya was again teasing her virgin cunny through the fabric of her panties.

Images of the Englishman –despite his “greater male strength”- draped over her lap as she tanned the pale skin of his backside with a hairbrush; cries for mercy filling her head after the manner of an uplifting symphony; stirring her lust to motion yet again.  

“For you, though,” he went on, “it is a little different. Physical persuasion is not an option - at least for the moment. The female-male dynamic being, I must confess, somewhat more complicated.”

“How so?”

“By that I mean: in order for a woman to inflict a beating upon a male victim of choice –and the fantasy world of dungeons and shackles absent- consent is necessary for the beating to take place.

“Is that all?” she scoffed. “From your words I thought you had a more complex dynamic in mind.”

“Bear with me here, Anya; all I say is that, in the absence of consent, a woman who desires to inflict physical punishment upon a physically stronger man must go about her business in a more… devious way.”

He allowed a few beats to pass.

“Do correct me if I am in error,” he began again, sarcasm obvious; “but isn’t “Consent” the one thing guaranteed to play no part in your desires?”

“Do not tease me, Rajiv,” came her instant response. “Why ask questions to which you already know the answer. We are alike in this – as you well know.”

A chuckle greeted her accusation.

“You are right, young Anya; as always. We have much in common. Even as I sense your finger teasing you once more towards completion, my trusty right hand again caresses my engorged cock beneath my desk.”

“Filthy old beast!” she snapped, feigning shock; continuing to rub herself through the soaked panties. “And what makes you think I would behave in such a fashion?”

“Because,” he laughed; not taken in; “while you enthuse my ageing body with your willingness to listen and the vitality of your youth, I bequeath you my years of knowledge and experience in order to make your dream possible. We are partners at a distance and, as such, are perfect for each other.

“I cannot speak for you,” he went on, “but it is, for me at least, sufficient. My pleasure is taken in guiding you towards the fulfilment you seek through the enslavement of this Englishman. For my part, I wish nothing more than to allow you to experience the same heady euphoria of ownership I knew with my Ilse. Though I suspect your personal feelings towards your erstwhile “Master” share nothing of the tenderness I felt towards my sorely missed slave.”

Anya’s frottage of herself through the, by now, saturated fabric of her panties slowed as she considered the truism.

“Your suspicions would give credit to your perception had I not assured you of such many times previously,” she served gentle rebuke; drawing another chuckle from the sub-continent.

“Even taking my relatively few years on the planet into consideration, it is difficult to imagine encountering such pomposity, self-delusion, misogyny and a belief in one’s own inherent superiority, in a lone man. He is a composite of everything I loathe in a man and is the beast awaiting a collar I have dreamt of since such desires first made themselves known to me. As you are aware, Rajiv, I detested him and his easy assumption of racial, physical and intellectual superiority on sight and will do all and everything in my power to bind him to me in as abject a manner as possible.”

From Calcutta, silence greeted the end of her outpouring, then:

“Your articulation of your purpose takes away my breath, young Anya. I find it hard to believe your former poverty and lack of a formal education.”

His subtle assertion of his own superiority in terms of class and learning not lost on her.

“And your inability to concede me a brain because of such a lack deprives me of mine.”

Another chuckle greeted her rebuke and she laughed along with him - instantly forgiving the small eruption of male ego.

It was, when it came down to it, the opponent with whom she lived to do battle.

Not for the first time, she offered self-congratulation for seeking his advice after having visited his blog; telling herself, once again, that the relationship she shared with him was as normal –close inverted commas- a relationship as she was ever likely to have with a man.

Even if it was not her intention to allow it to remain that way.

“You find him handsome though?” he asked, expression intent.

“You know this already,” she told him – scenting a hint of jealousy in the question.

“Just making sure your passion burns as brightly,” he assured her.

“Really?” she asked, growing bolder. “Or is it that you see yourself in the role I intend for him? Tell me, Rajiv, now you have reached your dotage, have you finally decided to take your courage in both hands and taste life on the receiving end of the whip? Even as we speak, are you picturing yourself naked before me, my collar about your neck? Knees to the porcelain and obedient mouth wide as I fill it with my waste?”

There was silence from her hometown and she realised Rajiv had moved away from the screen.

An absence making her think; for a few indecisive moments; she had gone too far.

When all was said and done, she reminded herself, this was not some milksop English writer she was dealing with but a proud Indian male.

More pertinently: an Indian male who had once reduced a proud, arrogant and commanding, German businesswoman to abject slavery.

A man, more to the point, whose experience she not only valued but needed.

Just as she was about to apologise, his face filled the screen and he spoke:

“Ten years ago, my little Anya,” he began; tone darker than his usual when conversing with her; “I would have taken such an assertion as a challenge.”

To her relief, the face on the screen broke into a broad grin:

“However,” he went on; “we are friends. Partners in a mutual venture – even though you will be the one to reap the majority of its rewards. Also, if I am honest, and despite your tender years, I know the real thing when I converse with it. Should we have met during my pomp -and our paths taken the route of conflict rather than mutual regard- I have no doubt you would have proved a worthy opponent for me.”

His young protégé could do no more than nod agreement – not letting him know she considered herself to be far more than simply: “Worthy”.

“So, my wise mentor,” she led with some flattery of her own; “where do we go from here?”…

Chapter Ten

Fantasy Two

He must feel awful, she knew, her smile smug. The sensation of having his head buried under the duvet between her powerful young thighs as she relaxed into the soft, freshly laundered pillows, enhanced by the certainty his lips would stay at her pussy and his nose remain buried in her anus the whole night if she chose.

A decision in the affirmative more often the case than not and a position she demanded he maintain; no matter how hot, sweaty and stinking close proximity to her netheregions became.

This position in her bed something she insisted upon; the consequences for not complying ones he knew very, very, very, well. Yet one more humiliation for him and all the more precious to her for knowing how degrading he found it; his excitement at being close to her intimate parts soon fading before the reality of having to inhale the smell of her arse and pussy the whole night through. After all, she told herself: what employer would spend every night with his nose buried in his servant’s arse and his tongue in constant contact with her labia?

His inability to do this at various times leading to some equally delicious punishments – delicious for her, that is; even if she had trained him well enough to make such interludes few and far between.

“I want your mouth on my pussy and your nose up my superior Indian arse even if you fall asleep,” she had warned him. “You do not move; not even to relieve your little pee-pee. Disturb my sleep and you will experience real pain.”

In truth, she didn’t care if he slept or not – so long as his head remained in place. The perfect way, she knew, to ensure his continuing submission. It being, she reckoned, nigh on impossible for pride and self-respect to find any purchase on the smooth slopes of her buttocks and the drenched folds of her cunt.

“Long worshipful strokes,” her voice through the duvet reminded him as he laved at her pussy as per her instructions; careful to keep his nose in place as he obeyed her instructions. “That’s it. Just the way I like to drift off to sleep. But I do not hear you sniffing. Deep breaths through the nose now, you know the rule.”

Of all the indignities to which she subjected him this was her favourite –even if making him lick her armpits clean of the day’s perspiration came close. That she could actually condition him into actively seeking that which he hated was another source of entertainment and satisfaction for her. She never tired of hearing him beg for his own dishonour.

As his breath began to rasp through his nostrils in accordance with her demand, she felt herself beginning to drift off, already anticipating waking in the morning and using the toilet.

Another source of delight close to the summit of her perverse tastes.

“From now on,” she had told him, “you will be helping me when I need to piss or shit,” his horror at such a prospect one more development she relished.

“Whenever, I say: ‘Toilet’, you are to stop what you are doing and crawl after me on all fours. You will then kneel before the toilet bowl and place your upturned hands upon the seat as a cushion for your Indian master’s lovely brown arse.

“Then, after you have done this and I have taken my place upon my throne, you will place a reverential kiss upon each of my thighs before placing your head between my legs to better observe your queen’s fountain as it fills the bowl below.”

His face at her flowery depiction of this most foul of acts was a picture of abject misery.

“When it is complete,” she went on, “I will stand and you will use your tongue to clean me.”

For a moment, she thought he was about to laugh; not believing she was serious; but her expression and the words she spoke next cured him of any such delusion:

“Get used to the taste very quickly, my peon, for very soon I do not expect to have to use the bowl at all…

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 naïve 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.

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.

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.

Another chapter of an 85000 word novel. This will be the last chapter posted as the story in its entirety can now be found published as an ebook on Lulu

The Inferior

by

Kurt Steiner

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rajiv & Anya

“How cringingly embarrassing for him,” an amused Rajiv laughed as he listened to Anya describe the events of the past hour. “He actually cried out your name?”

“Five times, by my reckoning,” she confirmed.

His protégé’s facility for simple calculation ensuring he laughed harder.

“My timing was perfect,” she congratulated herself. “I was sure he took to his bed earlier to do something more than just “Read.  Suspicions I confirmed by a few evenings spent listening at his bedroom door.”

Rajiv was still chuckling.

“Knowing the time was right, it was not too difficult to sneak into the room unobserved with my tea tray and watch as he reached crisis – not, you understand, that there was tea in the pot anyway.”

Had Rajiv been able to see her he would have noticed how her head shook from side-to-side with wonderment.

“It was the most amazing moment of my life,” she told him breathlessly. Simply recalling the event threatening to bring her to another crisis. “My older, handsome, oh so superior, Master was masturbating. Over me! What a comedown for such a racist dog.”

Her accompanying laughter was downright evil.

In Calcutta too, Rajiv was also amused, though more by the fact a young woman with the body possessed by his protégé could be surprised at such a response from a man - knowing how frequently and with how much fervour he himself had paid her the self-same compliment.

She was still laughing when her mentor’s words took the wind from her sails:

“He will, of course, now ask you to leave.”

The charged silence greeting his assertion coming as no surprise to Rajiv.

“What are you saying?” she asked, finally, recovering enough to find her voice.

“It is simple enough, Anya,” he explained. “Though his spirits are low, his male pride remains intact. It will, in fact, be the last thing to go. The final barrier standing between you and total ownership. But, as of this moment, he remains in receipt of enough self-regard to be shamed by what you witnessed. Believe me, his next move will be to take the easy way out and ask you to leave his home and his employment.”

“No!” she protested, appalled and mortified at such an eventuality; that all her planning, hard work and dreams, could go up in smoke so easily. “You are mistaken, Rajiv. He already kneels before me twice a week to polish my shoes and suck my toes before giving me a pedicure. Today I even had him hand wash my soiled pantyhose for the first time.”

On screen, Rajiv was shaking his head.

“Do not delude yourself, Anya,” he warned. “It is not the shoes, feet and pantyhose of Anya Jalav your master attends but a fictional memsahib who is part of a game you play.”

“But…”

“There are no buts, Anya. You have made solid progress, yes, but he remains some way from the servile canine you intend him to be.”

“But he depends on me for so much,” Anya protested, anger and fear rising in unison. “He does not lift a finger for himself and seems incapable of doing so. I have made myself indispensable to him. Food, laundry, cleaning, even accounts; all these responsibilities he had ceded to me. He wants for nothing. Where would he find another to do the same?”

On the screen before her, Rajiv was again shaking his head ruefully.

“You will find domestic service agencies the world over inundated with the resumes of ‘Indispensable” servants, my dear,” he corrected her, discarding Santayana this time to bastardise George Bernard Shaw instead.

Not, he knew, that it made any appreciable difference.

The assertion would have angered her no matter who he plagiarised.

Having no understanding of what the word meant cutting no ice either.

“Calm yourself, Anya, and hear me out,” he went on, adopting his most dulcet tones in a charm offensive. “I said: he will ask you to leave. Not that you will go.”

“How can I possibly stay if he asks me to…?”

“If you contain your anger and listen to your friend without interrupting it is possible your question might be answered.”

Cornwall fell silent for a few seconds, until:

“Well?” she snapped.

Still amused, he shook his head at her demand.

“I’m listening,” she reminded him. “Or is your silence just an attempt on your part to cover what you know to be a mistake?”

“Anya, Anya!” he chided. “You are not very gracious to a friend who has only your best interests at heart. However, I shall, this once, overlook your ingratitude and…”

“Get on with it, I hope,” she finished for him; yet more evidence, if he required it, of the hot-headedness walking hand-in-hand with youth.

“Youth” itself that went on to add:

“I am very angry with you, Rajiv. You mentioned nothing of this when you advised me to walk in on him.”

Rajiv waited for the storm to break.

“Had you done so,” she railed at him, “I might have had second thoughts before I agreed to such a thing. You are the one, after all, who prattles on and on about the value of ‘Patience’”

“Anya, Anya,” he tut-tutted, “have you so little faith in your uncle Rajiv?”

“Faith is hard earned,” she reminded him.

Adding, as if by way of a threat:

“But very easily withdrawn.”

He laughed good-naturedly at her attempt to intimidate him, knowing -as he did- that this latest “Mini-crisis” would soon be resolved.

“Then I shall restore what you appear to have momentarily lost,” he told her, voice assured and even.

In Cornwall, she waited; biting into a lip with growing irritation.

“Within the next hour or so,” he began finally, “the telephone connecting you to the house will ring and he will ask you to go over.”

“Yes?” she asked. “So?”

“You will,” he went on, “find your “Master” waiting for you.”

“Obviously… Get on with it.”

Rajiv chuckled, genuinely amused by her reaction, prior to becoming serious:

“Before he has a chance to say anything, this is what I want you to tell him…”

The Inferior

By

Kurt Steiner

Prologue

Cornwall

Naked, back against the smooth painted plaster of the living-room wall, legs sprawled out before him on the chill parquet flooring; he looked on as she entered from the dining room carrying a chair.

Panic provoking hysteria, he watched her position it over and to either side of his feet before taking the single step required to bestride his body. Powerful legs, clad in the sheerest black hose, towering above his shivering frame as her eyes bore down into his own to intensify his terror.

Levels of empathy and warmth remarkable only for their complete absence.

Unlike him, she was fully dressed. Outfitted in a sombre, severely cut, two-piece suit in charcoal grey - crisp white shirt and matching accessories completing the ensemble. A uniform, of sorts, imparting an impression more redolent of authority than service; out of keeping with the position she held in his household yet apposite at one and the same time.

“Authority”, he thought, loss matching terror, that had once been his; certain, as he watched hands rest on hips and an insolent tongue slither across somewhat inflated lips, it would never be gifted to him again.

As she stared down upon him, brown features implacable; yet unable to quite disguise their delight at the depths to which she had reduced him; his whole body became a film of perspiration. The subconscious divining her intention and reacting accordingly. Fear -along with levels of humiliation even he as a writer would be hard-pressed to describe– adding a perverse urgency to the throbbing at his groin.

A reaction to his situation, and another source of shame, he found difficult to reconcile with the man he had once believed himself to be.

Though not restrained in any way, movement was impossible -as was intelligible speech. All he could do was watch as she seated herself and slipped her feet from the spiked black court shoes that had pecked their way across the parquet towards him a few seconds earlier. The smell of moist nylon assailing his nostrils heightening a disgrace already functioning at high altitudes.

The position, gender and race, of his tormentor an unholy trinity in the mind of the man on the receiving end of her intentions

To allow this woman… this… girl… this… flunkey, to manipulate him in such a fashion was unthinkable and had to be… had to be…

So what, the above being true, he asked; self castigation truncated by silent interrogation; explained the way his breath caught in his throat as she slowly slid her skirt over powerful young thighs to bunch it at her hips?

Why did the expanse of shiny black pantyhose, clinging to her legs so tightly, command his attention with more urgency than a nearby oasis dominated the thoughts of a thirsty nomad?

Why, as she undid the buttons of her shirt to reveal even more of the full breasts he had only recently noticed and developed such an infatuation for, was he unable to look away?

And why, finally; when the soles of her nylon-encased feet came to rest on his bare thighs; did his restricted breathing suddenly find release with a sigh that sounded, for the entire world, like a swoon?

“You want them?” she asked; the English in which she had an advanced degree of fluency unable to prevent the linguistic corruption resulting from the accent of her mother tongue. The cold implacability of her tone breaking the silence and belying her youth in a way he found utterly terrifying - even as his masculinity berated him for reacting in so spineless a way to someone so many years his junior.

With a supreme effort, he managed to nod, eyes halted on their unavoidable upward swing by a glimpse of her cleavage and remaining there. Astounded two such beauteous things could co-exist with the less than stunning visage above them.

And then, suddenly, his attention was elsewhere. Eyes lowering as the friction of her pantyhose against his manhood diverted his gaze to her feet. His tormentor’s surprisingly dainty peds sliding along his penis, sole of each turned inwards, as the column betraying him found itself trapped between the high arches of her instep.

“Look at me,” she demanded; the unfamiliar frisson of nylon against foreskin and the undeniable submissiveness inspired by the situation overwhelming him.

Her command, however, jolted him from his preoccupation just long enough for a modicum of spine to assert itself. It was one thing, after all, to debase himself in front of her in such a way. Quite another, he knew, to actually look into her eyes and see his disgrace and humiliation mirrored back at…

His body jack-knifed with agony as both his thoughts and his “Spine” vanished.

Suddenly; before his mini rebellion had any chance to morph into full-scale revolt; he was screaming. 

Silently – unable to give voice to his pain.

His very life force sucked from him as his body spasmed involuntarily and he voiced soundless anguish towards the heavens; the same foot that had seconds ago been bestowing such intense and perverse pleasure upon him stamping down on his testicles; intent, it appeared, upon mashing the cylinders defining his masculinity into the wood of the parquet flooring itself.

“I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed,” she said, eyes mocking as his agony increased and threatened to void his stomach of its contents.

Had it held any.

“Perhaps,” she suggested with much relish; “you will find it easier to obey as a eunuch.”

He could only watch with terror; eyes bugging from his head as she increased the downward pressure of her foot; soundless entreaties rising in intensity and going unheeded as she stood to gain more leverage in order to neuter him. Malevolent brown eyes finally displaying warmth as the pleasure she took in his unmanning went into overdrive prior to taking orbit as his masculinity and the testicles symbolising it, was crushed beneath her pretty young feet.

Any second now, he knew he would hear that inevitable “Squish!” sound as those same testicles burst outwards and flattened themselves to the floor; reducing him to something less than a man and something no more useful than a… than a…

Uncharted territory, pain levels soaring off the graph, that finally allowed him to give voice to his agony as he screamed and screamed and screamed and…

 

Chapter One

Anya

In the studio quarters allocated to her above the garage, Anya Jalav studied the five feet of her diminutive but full-bodied form in the bathroom’s full-length mirror; pleased with the progress she was making with her older employer in the main house.

Entering the seventh month in her new position, she knew she had some way to go still, both youth and the sheer power of unfulfilled desire making her more impatient by the hour to reach her desired destination. Even if, with the help of a new friend, expectations of success for her endeavour grew at a corresponding rate.

As the Indian girl only recently turned twenty took in the shapely, if prematurely matronly, contours of her firm body and its magnificent breasts -those same breasts that, amazingly, had yet to know the caresses of a lover- she cursed the somewhat equestrian features of her face. Features, with large cheekbones and prominent overbite, she had to thank for the neglect extended to the rest of her body thus far. Accepting that the face her “Friend” described as: “oozing character”, made what she had in mind for her handsome English “Master” so much more difficult.

Though not, she prayed, impossible.

For, despite her concerns at what rested atop her neck, the body below gave her little pause for thought. That, she was now assured, in no way presented a problem.

A loner by nature -and a preference confirmed by experience- her confidence in the body staring back at her from the mirror was both shared and bolstered by Rajiv, her aforementioned, new –and only- friend.

“Patience, my dear,” her Internet mentor had told her earlier that evening, via the wonder that was Skype; connecting Cornwall to Calcutta in no more time than it took to take a sip of ice cold kucchi lassi. The same “Mentor” whose idea it had been to suddenly start addressing her employer with the old-fashioned form of respect.

A form of respect -as he had assured her it would- the man employing her would find curious to begin with but soon view favourably as his all too obvious vanity and self-importance kicked in.

“I have scrutinised the photos of yourself you attached to me,” he all but leered. “Scrutinised them, very, very, closely – if you take my meaning. Trust me, my young friend, your charm may not be of a conventional nature but it is undeniably present and all the stronger for not being of the bland and uninteresting kind.

Anya felt her cheeks flush: criticism she was used to and could deal with; compliments called for a response alien to her experience. 

“I speak,” Rajiv was continuing, “of that bastardisation of womanhood represented by the bulimic stick insects the moronic magazines of mass culture label: ‘Physically beautiful’.”

As ever, the words of her new friend had instilled welcome assurance - much needed after yet another inspection of the looking glass and her: “Equestrian” features, as she had once heard them described. That same friend’s on-screen face a visual corroboration of his existence and a compliment she had yet to return with the setting up of a webcam of her own.

“Your appeal to this man,” he went on, the expression on his aged and fleshy, if still appealing, features giving witness to his seriousness; “must lie in more than just the allure of a pretty face, anyway.”

“In that,” she answered ruefully; features reflected back at her from the window behind the computer, “I hardly have a say,” ending her complaint with a derisive snort.

Rajiv was sympathetic but firm:

“Do not despair over that which you can do nothing about,” he advised her; sounding at times like this as if he were a venerable Japanese sensei rather than a sixtysomething former clerical officer with the Indian Civil Service. “A discerning man will always take quality over prettiness alone and, trust me on this, your face suggests nothing if not character and moral fibre.”

His words of reassurance on the subject winning him only a cynical:

“Hmmph!”

“Remember, Anya,” he went on, neglecting to mention the perverseness of that ‘Moral fibre’: “to rush the process will be to invite failure. If he once suspects the nature of your intentions you will lose him and the journey will be over - for you as well as me. Be assured when I tell you that the opportunity to place your brand upon the tender white buttocks of such a creature is one that comes along all too rarely –perhaps only once, if we are lucky – in a single lifetime.”

Though he was telling her no more than she had told herself on numerous occasions, Anya nodded at the screen containing her mentor and his habitual jogging-suit as if she were hearing his counsel on the subject for the first time and he was actually in a position to see her do it.

A favour he had extended to her and, as he frequently reminded her, waited with impatience to be returned.

“Keep in mind,” he continued, “the nature of the prize lying in reward for the self-control I urge upon you.”

“I seldom think of much else,” she assured him.

“Yes,” he could do no more than agree. “It is a heady prospect – especially for one of your tender years. A fellow human being as your chattel. Your creature. Complete control over an older man who once employed you. The same man who, at this moment, regards you as no more than a substandard form of life; placed on this earth with no greater purpose than to make his worthless existence more comfortable. A man, moreover, from whom you will have obliterated all traces of pride, masculinity and self-dependence until he looks to you for everything – even though he may hate you as he does so.”

He gave his words some thought; sensing she was doing the same.

“As well as your possession, Anya, you must also think of him as your… creation.”

He paused for a few moments more, knowing he had her full attention.

“If you do as I suggest,” he began again, deadly serious, “your power over him will become total and irrevocable. He will look to you for everything and regard the smallest, most infinitesimally minute gesture of approval from you as if it were a gift from mother Kali herself.

She remained silent; sure her somewhat verbose mentor was not quite finished.

“More,” he continued, not disappointing; “though he may continue to detest you for bringing him to such a pass, he will never possess the strength to deny you anything – even though he will, at times, make pitiful attempts to try. Each unsuccessful effort leaving him worse off than before.”

At the last of his claims, an image had formed behind Anya’s eyes.

She saw her still clothed body, hands-on-hips, as she stood in the large en-suite adjoining the main bedroom; her naked employer crouched on all fours at her feet as she stepped over his legs to bestride his back - his eyes, much to her gratification and in obedience to her instructions, lost in contemplation of the terra cotta floor tiles. Her employer supporting himself with his arms to remain in position while she raised her skirt and pulled her panties to one side; the shaking of his shoulders indicating he knew what was to come.

Lost to the desire inspired by her fantasy, Anya smiled as she saw a stream of hot, warm, urine gush from her pussy to saturate his hair and neck before trickling down his face towards nostrils and mou…

“How would you feel, dear Anya,” her mentor’s words cut into her daydream, “to return here to your hometown with a handsome and obedient English servant in tow?”

Coming back to planet earth with a thud, she allowed herself a smile at his words and forgave him his intrusion into her daydream. Ill-timed or not, the welcome nature of the prospect he dangled before her ensured she forgave his intrusion and made touchdown less anti-climactic.

“Consider,” he urged, “the reaction of the sewer-stupid shits you told me made your time here in Calcutta such a torture. Imagine how their dismal and fixed little lives would be put in perspective to see the object of their taunts; elevated so far above them she is capable of commanding the obedience and devotion of such a possession.”

Considering that “Reaction” gave her much pleasure.

“Tell me honestly, Anya,” he pressed, “is the winning of such a prize not worthy of some small application of patience?”

Despite the familiar excitement his words instilled in her –not to mention flaunting her power in the faces of those “Little shits” who had indeed made her early years so miserable- Anya’s hackles, as they always did whenever she was criticised unjustly, rose instantly.

“My impatience, Rajiv,” she protested loudly and heatedly, correcting her fellow countryman and native of ‘Kolkata’; “shows only when I speak with you on the subject of my prospective chattel.”

The raised decibel levels, filling the room as she put him right, of no concern to her; knowing that -even in the unlikely event of her employer venturing near her quarters from the main house where she served as his housekeeper- he had no knowledge whatsoever of the Bengali in which their conversation was being conducted.

“I would not dream of ruining things at the crawling stage by attempting to run,” she assured him. “Fate and good fortune have conspired to place me with the right man at both the right place and time. If you think I will allow such a gift to slip through my fingers you are a very deluded ‘Mentor’.”

It was a reprimand he accepted graciously and one she was sincere about, her earliest sexual memories having been of control. Power over another human being so strong it was unanswerable. The same thrill of dominion over an unwilling man of greater years she had been able to experience up to now only through her dreams and the wonder of the net that fuelled them. The same “Dreams” she had now committed herself to knowing in the first-person.

“That is reassuring to hear, my sweet,” the strong male voice told her. “You are, after all, at a very delicate stage. Though do bear in mind it will serve you well to disregard your baseless concerns regarding your features. You have far, far, far, more than an appealing face in your favour – at least if the pictures you attached to me do not lie. I assure you, were I of the opposite sexual mindset in such matters, I believe I could very quickly become obsessed with the power inherent in that young body you have kept under wraps for so long.”

Despite her distrust of flattery –possibly from not having much experience of the phenomenon– Anya felt her face flush with pleasure at the compliment - even as another thought occurred to the “Sensei”:

“Tell me, Anya,” he asked, “do you ever question why you are the way you are?”

Her response was as instant as it was emphatic:

“Never.”

“Really?” he asked. “Are you not curious at least?”

“To what end?” she answered – a little dismissively he thought. “What would be achieved? Does fire burn any less brightly for our knowing how it finds its heat? These are feelings and desires I have known for as long as I can remember. Rather than question satisfaction I prefer to enjoy it. We are what we are, after all. You as much as me.”

The head on the screen could do no more than nod agreement; for though he considered her naïve in ways befitting her age, Rajiv knew also she was wise beyond those years in many others. Her articulacy -and the somewhat old-fashioned manner of speech contradicting her lack of a formal education- the result, he knew, of having been taught her second-language by a retired Professor of English Language and Literature at Calcutta University, for whom she had skivvied as a very young girl.

“A good answer,” he laughed. “As Santayana insisted: for true barbarians such as us, the simple existence of our passions is reason enough for their being.”

He waited for her to respond; pleased with himself.

Giving it up when praise for his cleverness-stroke-memory remained withheld; her “Professor”, it transpired, having left the “Literature” side of things unexplored.

“But to hell with useless philosophy,” he broke his own pause. “I should like to return, if I may, to the subject of the visual. When, my dear, are you going to return my favour and set up a webcam so we can view each other as we speak? Call me old-fashioned but, when at all possible, I like to see the face of the person with whom I converse on matters so… intimate.”

Now it was her turn to laugh:

“Just my ‘Face’, Rajiv?” she teased; a certain discomfort in his on-screen reaction emboldening her further: “Or do you wish me to provide you with visual stimulation even more intimate in nature? Am I to believe the photographs I sent you of my pure young body are no longer enough for you?”

“No to the first and a resounding ‘Yes’ to both the second and the third,” he answered instantly; “Discomfort”, had she not imagined it, already on the backburner.

“As I may have mentioned before, Anya,” he reminded her; “and excepting the beasts of the field: the mind is the gateway to Nirvana. Physical pleasure becomes ecstasy only when mental stimulation is at requisite levels. As nature underpins everything natural and organic; so the cerebral underpins all things human and sexual. That said, however, it is also true that in the same way as academic learning improves the quality of intelligence, so do pictures, in situations such as ours, take the text to higher levels.”

Had he been in reception of a signal with which to view it, he would have seen Anya was already nodding agreement - having acknowledged to herself on many occasions how limiting she found the absence of: “Learning”. 

Frustration, for both the above lack itself, and her mentor’s long windedness, making his assertion one with which she could only agree.  

“But enough of me,” he said, returning to business. “I would –again- like to hear about the welcome your Master extended to your new wardrobe and his response to you since. Run his initial reaction by me once again, Anya… If you would be so kind.”

Anya smiled to herself at his request, finding in it no hardship. Her Master’s “Response”, after all, having been of a kind she savoured. Boding well for her future plans in his regard.

Those “Plans” involving nothing less than the complete enslavement of a handsome Englishman.

A “Handsome Englishman”, moreover; who was not only her employer but –making the scenario in prospect that much sweeter to her- almost three decades her senior.

The nature of that “Scenario” changing almost every time she closed her eyes to fantasise about it; fantasies so numerous and powerful she had actually given them numbers to be able to summon them up more readily.

Chapter Two

Anya’s First Fantasy

“You have to ask me,” she reminded him, standing in the kitchen where he had sought her out.

        Her raven black hair hung loose over the smooth brown skin of her shoulders and her expression as she regarded him was one she had heard described as: “Haughty”

She could tell how taken he was with the grey woollen dress and sheer nylon pantyhose as it tapered down and disappeared into black shoes with pointed toes and sharp heels.

“Please, Anya,” he began, “can I…”

“No!” she barked, enjoying the way the handsome Englishman flinched. “You should be naked and on your knees before me. Do it now!”

His haste to do as she asked would have been touching had it not been so pathetic.

“Look at you,” she sneered. “Tying yourself in knots to obey a young girl - and you so much older than she. A brown girl and your servant too, and you an Englishman; what would your friends say?”

Almost before her jeering had finished, he was kneeling at her feet on his haunches, servile and anxious; the need etched upon his features a joy to behold.

“Ask me then,” she reminded him again, as if he were little more than a half-wit rather than a mildly successful former writer some thirty years her senior.

“Please,” he begged.

“Please, what?”

“Please, Master, let me… let me masturbate for you.”

“What?” she snarled, feigning outrage; “Are you a pervert? You want to touch yourself in front of me? In your own kitchen?”

“Please, Master.”

“You are a pervert, are you not? Let me hear you say it.”

“I… I’m a pervert, Master.”

She smiled.

“I just wanted you to be clear on that point;” a hand coming around from behind her then, to dangle something before his eyes. “Do you know what these are?”

His eyes sparkled hungrily:

“They… They’re your panties, Master,” he told her, lips dry.

Without a word she took a single step towards him and draped them over his head; sure to position the gusset over his nose.

“I have worn them for the past three days so they will be nice and…ripe for you.”

Below her, she watched with amusement as his tongue darted out to taste her stale secretions.

“I expect a thank you when I give you something.”

“Thank you Master,” he obeyed through the fabric covering his mouth.

Turning to her side, she hitched up her skirt to present him with her right leg, the pressure on her calf muscles from the high heels dimpling their length on the upward rise to her sleek and powerful thighs, rippling beneath the sheer black nylon containing them.

“Here, on the kitchen floor, in your own home, you are going to hump your servant’s leg like the animal you truly are,” she told him. “Then, when you know yourself for the dog you most resemble, you are going to clean your manjuice from her nylons with your tongue. Understand?”

“Hmmm,” came from below her, her slave too immersed in the sensations provided by her soiled underwear to find words.

“I do not think, after this, we will have any more confusion concerning just who is in charge here.”

She reached out to pinch the lobe of his ear with her free hand.

“Up!”

Instantly, he rose from his haunches to his knees.

“Do it!” she snapped.

After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her hips and pressed his erection against the side of her pantyhose-clad leg, the rasping of the nylon against his foreskin bringing a muffled gasp from him.

“Hurry along!” she ordered him. “I have things to do.”

He did as she asked immediately; the taste and the smell of her soiled underwear continuing to assail his senses as he thrust against her leg in an unholy imitation of a rutting canine.

It couldn’t have been more than five strokes after he began humping, so strong was his excitement, that he let out a massive gasp and exploded against her; jet after jet of white semen covering her thigh; his body sagging against her hips as she looked down with contempt.

“There,” she told him, mockery unmistakable; as was the sheer fulfilment she received from such control: “not such a cruel master after all, am I?”

Stepping from his grasp, she surveyed the semen soaked nylon at her thighs and tutted before tearing her panties from his head.

“Well?” she said, after a few seconds, tone expectant: “Don’t just kneel there like an imbecile,

His stared up at her, eyes that were more than just a little beaten showing puzzlement also.

With a huge sigh of the type one makes at the shortcomings of a half-wit, she again took him by the ear and leaned down to glare into his eyes:

“Get your unworthy tongue to work and clean me up, you animal.”

Chapter-Three

The “Master”

For the third time that week, Bernard Lambert found himself waking to the sound of his own screams.

The fact it was still only Tuesday hardly offering itself as a reassurance.

Nor did the fact he came awake in the surroundings of his own study. The brown leather of the comfy sofa upon which he was taking his usual afternoon catnap, clammy against the skin of his bare forearms. Neither time, place, nor sofa, doing anything to lessen his concern for experiencing such dreams at all.

By way of confirmation, his hands went to his groin; relief at what he found there joined by a frantic banging which, though startling, at least hastened a full return to the land of the living.

And, more crucially: the intact.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry. “Is everything as it should be?”

There was no mistaking the deference in the heavily accented voice and old-fashioned English usage. Both, he considered, chiming nicely with the anachronistic form of address she had only recently started using when speaking to him. A form of address that was yet more evidence of the respect in which she held him and from which he took so much pleasure - despite the increasingly disturbing nature of his dreams in her regard.

Respect and a form of address that went a long way towards restoring his self-esteem after his recent setbacks; while, at the same time, reassuring him the status quo continued to hold sway – despite the worrying nature of the new fixation holding his subconscious in its grip.

That it was a somewhat recidivist and despised status quo –dead and buried with the British Raj some three-quarters of a century ago- not preventing his self-congratulation for having revived the tradition in his own home. The achievement of such a rebirth in a new; “Politically correct” and enlightened, millennium lessening his self-approbation not a penny piece.

“Anya?” he had asked her; shortly after she had started using the honorific. “Why are you suddenly addressing me in such an old-fashioned way?”

Still in her saris at the time –and, consequently, of no interest to him- his housekeeper had surprised him with the answer that, unbeknownst to him, she and Rajiv had pre-agreed should such a question be asked. The change that would ensure the surprisingly magnetic pull of his eyes towards the powerful and shapely legs with the pronounced calf-muscles -legs she had not seen fit to reveal until then- still some weeks in the future.

That subsequent attraction one that had demeaned him as much upon first sight as it did now. It being an attraction he found increasingly troubling. As if the swapping of sari covered bare legs and sandals for pantyhose and heels; combined with his reaction to the change; made her seem a different person in his eyes.

“Because you are a man of substance and it is deserved, Master,” she had answered him, delivering the untruth without a trace of the self-consciousness normally guaranteed to betray liars with a limited talent for the ways of deceit.

There being no trace, either, of the amusement she had taken from his obvious delight in such outrageous and fraudulent flattery.

Going on to flatter him still further when she saw her initial success:

“I have been here almost six months now,” she continued, “and you have proved yourself thoroughly deserving of your position in the world. Firm but fair. In my country there is no shame in acknowledging such a worthy man as ‘Master’.”

Then, as the script she had devised with her mentor demanded, her look had become troubled.

“However,” she said, expression still thoughtful; “if by addressing you in such a way I cause you embarrassment, I will use a different…”

“No, no!” he had disabused her. Swiftly. “I’m all for tradition. If that’s how you wish to address me then so be it.”

And so it was. As Rajiv had assured her it would go; so had it gone. Her “Master” and his already inflated ego -puffed up further every time she addressed him in such a way- being groomed for what would come later.

Back in the moment, though, the man himself wondered what his servant would think of her “Worthy” Master were she to divine, somehow, the contents of his dreams. Acknowledging thanks as he did so -to whomever atheists acknowledged such things- that mind reading was not included in her seemingly endless array of domestic talents.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry a second time; a double reassurance he was back with the living as the door flew open and she stepped inside; expression a mixture of curiosity for a room she was entering for the first time and feigned concern for the man it contained. 

“I’m fine, thank you, Anya,” he told her, clearing his throat mid-sentence as the unlikely leading-lady of his recent dreams came towards him – clad, coincidentally, in the self same outfit he had pictured her in as she had gone about destroying his testicles.

Adopting a critical expression intended to let his servant know he wasn’t happy she had entered his “inner-sanctum” at all; Lambert pushed the imagery to one side. It was a domestic incursion –despite the mitigating circumstances- he found extremely annoying. He had, after all, explained at length, from the commencement of her employment with him, that his study was “Off-limits”.

And at all times.

He could only hope the boldness of her intrusion was not some statement of emancipation to go with the English fashions replacing the discarded saris and traditional Indian costume she had worn on first taking up employment in his home.  

An adoption of anglicised dress that had disturbed him for some reason.

A change -though her attitude towards him was no less deferential- that made her seem, somehow, less… He groped for the word best able to convey his meaning and found it…

Submissive.

The above being a quality in a woman he had always found extremely pleasing.

“I heard you scream out, she told him,” aware of his discomfort – even if that discomfort was not acute enough to prevent him stealing glances at her hosed legs and full breasts. Nor her from noticing that -though the interest he seemed to take in her body below the neck was, if anything, growing more pronounced- her face, as per usual, remained neglected.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her, a little tetchily; irritated at her persistence and drawing himself up authoritatively; snatching an eyeful of her, somewhat: “School-teacherly”, legs as he did so. That they were ever so slightly bowed making them seem, somehow, more… powerful. These being, he recalled, the same legs and feet he had seen above him not seconds before as they stomped his testicles to mush and went about supplying his dream the ultimate terror.

“I was just acting out a scene from the new book,” he lied, unable to prevent the catch in his voice her presence inspired. His growing preoccupation one he was at a loss to explain to himself. An interest in his horse-faced housekeeper stemming from the very moment she had decided to shed the costume native to her homeland and wear the more familiar designs and fabrics of his own.

Not to mention the absence of a woman in his life for the first period of any real duration he could recall.

“You can continue with whatever you were doing, and allow me to get on now,” he told her, manner made terse by recent memory. Eyes, even as he dismissed her, wandering down to the full breasts he could see straining against her shirt and imagining them unfettered. 

In truth, the nature, frequency and intensity of his thoughts in her regard were becoming a real worry. No matter that sexual fantasies were as everyday and run of the mill to him as they were to any other man. After all, the odd dream concerning the same person was certainly nothing to be concerned about.

But this was different.

Not only were the dreams and unbidden images becoming more vivid; but their capacity to disturb seemed to be multiplying exponentially also.

“Dreams”, that left him mystified as to their source; as well as mortified to admit –given his horror at their content- the excitement he took from them.

Though by far his biggest concern in their regard was the identity of the girl taking centre stage as they played out. 

Being totally candid, and without wishing to sound harsh, he had told himself -and as good as she had proved herself at the menial chores for which he had hired her- she was, when it came down to it, no more than an ugly and badly educated Indian girl from a low caste background. What she was now, he had assured himself, was all she would ever be. Single or married –especially the latter- what she did for him now was what she would do for others throughout the remainder of her life.

“I am making tea, Master,” she informed him by way of corroboration, making no impression on his preoccupation.

So why,” he told himself, if she was so easily dismissed, was the girl having such an effect upon him – her image popping into his head at any time or place? Why, at any moment, would he picture the two of them in situations revealing her in any number of erotic positions and poses as they interacted with each other?

And why, more worryingly, were these “Interactions” becoming so…

There was no other word for it.

“Weird.”

Though he had always enjoyed being top-dog, both physically and domestically, in his relationships with women it had always been more a case of vanilla-with-edge; rather than the more blatant BDSM scenes of strong masters and subservient women depicted on his computer, Scenes he knew –no matter how appealing he found them- he would never indulge in.

So, that being the case; yet to be indulged tastes running in this direction; why was it that every time she invaded his sleep it was he, Bernard Lambert, her employer and “Master”, who was designated the unenviable role of second-class citizen?

And why, if these “Scenes” were reserved for his sleep, was he picturing one now?

Chapter Four

Master & Servant

The smooth, unblemished brown skin of her buttocks hovered above his face as she crouched over him, her own face –when he could tear his eyes away to look at it- a mixture of high excitement and cruelty at having reduced him to such a position. Then, suddenly, she began to lower herself; hands pulling apart her cheeks to expose her anus that he may better see what was intent upon engulfing him. Already the smell was indescribable and he wanted to move, but couldn’t, her arse settling on his face until his nose found itself inserted deep inside her and…

“I am making tea,” Anya Jalav told him for the second time; the tyrant of Bernard Lambert’s slumbers standing before him in her now customary heels and hose as he sat on the sofa hosting the most recent of the dreams in which she was involved and, now, imagery of a more conscious manifestation.

“Sorry?” he asked, looking up at her; a lingering image of her lowering arse still filling his thoughts. A tiny germ of knowingness in her expression he hadn’t noticed before making him instantly suspicious; as if she knew what was going on and felt contempt for him. Though, given how mediocre he found her -in all but domestic matters, anyway- it was an impression he shrugged off immediately as totally implausible.

“Tea, Master,” she repeated. “I am about to make some. Cake too.”

The mundane nature of her statement prompted self-mockery for his worries in her regard. She was, after all, no more than a highly efficient young servant, grateful for the opportunity he had provided her to escape the deprivations of her background and live in England.

Nothing more sinister.

Any, off-the-wall, thoughts he was having in regard of her, he considered, had more to do with the recent changes in his circumstances and the way his subconscious reacted to them than the girl herself. The opposite side of the bed he had rarely known unoccupied throughout his fourscore and more years, playing its own part, he was certain, in his risible preoccupation with such a person.

That the same reasoning power could apply to his servant -and he might not be the only one grappling with an idée fix- not a possibility that occurred to him.

“Just tea will be fine,” he assured her as he considered his still trim figure and made silent assurances of his own in respect of both his dreams and the nature of them.

Adding after a few beats:

“I’ll take it in the living-room.”

Nodding politely, she had turned on her heel to leave.

“Oh, and Anya?” he began in a stern tone; asserting his position; despite the competition provided by the back of her hosed legs as they made for the door. The arrogance that had seen the collapse of his marriage –as well as an inability to accept advice which might just have kept his writing career on track- goading him to take a higher ground with his retainer in the here-and-now he found impossible to reach in his dreams.

Turning, she regarded him quizzically; horse-like features and large brown eyes made even more prominent by the black hair she had swept from her face and tied at the back:

“Yes, Master?”

Eyes rising from her legs, he hesitated as his attention was transfixed yet again.

This time it was her tight, knee-length, grey skirt; doing its best to provide decency to a provocatively protruding mound; that caught his eye. His tongue snaking from his mouth at the sight in an abortive attempt to moisten lips made dry by a sudden image of that same appendage as it gently lapped at the folds of her labia. Oral worship becoming more and more frenzied as he knelt before her and…

Screwing his eyes tight to banish the image, he feigned a yawn to disguise his excitement and hoped she had noticed nothing untoward; professing unspoken gratitude when he opened them and realised that was indeed the case; berating himself for endowing the girl with a perception and intelligence alien to both her mindset and position in life.

“Do try to remember what I told you, Anya,” he reminded her; bolstered by his own condescension; voice harsher than her crime merited.

An expression of confusion crossed her features.

His hand indicated the interior and its contents, sweeping over them by way of a rebuke, as if she were unaware of her exact location.

“My study?” he reminded her.

For a few seconds she feigned incomprehension, then; light apparently dawning:

“Apologies, Master. I was concerned when you cried out and forgot your instruction. It will not happen again.”

“Please see that it doesn’t,” he told her with a benign smile as she nodded and turned for the door.

The Lord of the Manor had conferred absolution - despite the fact he was having trouble facing the recipient of his forgiveness after the events of his dream. It being, he accepted, a mild, though unjust, taking to task of his young Indian servant. Though seeing it at the same time as a necessary taking to task that restored equilibrium and order to his new world and was, therefore, justified.

As she closed the door behind her and her footsteps receded towards the kitchen; he rose from the sofa and stretched; reassured and grateful to be back in the here and now; even if he had to admit the fact this was the latest of a number of similar dreams he had experienced during the past week or so –his young housekeeper taking centre-stage in each– was less reassuring.

And yet, he reminded himself, after the study was his and his alone once more -and putting aside the disturbing content of his dreams- he was, for the first time in a good while, feeling more than a sniff of much needed optimism.

At forty-eight he was still a vibrant and handsome man - an opinion actually held by people other than him; even if they did stop some way short of endorsing his, somewhat tiresome, belief in his own superiority. Along with his air of assurance, a youthful complexion and a full head of hair camoflaged his years and went a long way to explaining his success with the opposite sex down the decades.

Though, and despite his aforementioned: “Superiority”; even he had to admit the well, in that respect, had run dry since his relocation to Cornwall.

Still, there were other compensations.

The presence of that same housekeeper, so troubling to his subconscious; along with the absence of the trifling responsibilities of domesticity and marriage –despite his ex-wife’s efficiency in such matters- but one of them. The small voice at the back of his head -warning him it was not healthy to devolve too much responsibility for one’s life, trivial or not, to a young stranger from a different country with different beliefs, customs, and background- mostly ignored.

“Just the same, though,” he told himself out loud, picturing a certain room, in a certain Bayswater hotel; “perhaps a call to Gianni and a trip to London is in order.”

A prospect receiving a positive nod.

“Yes,” he told himself, head continuing to affirm his intention. “That would do the trick very nicely. Just the tonic to put this ridiculous situation into perspective.”

Chapter Five

Rajiv

Switching off the television, Rajiv eased himself from the sofa he had been slumped upon for the past five hours -toilet breaks too numerous to mention- to hitch up the bottoms of his jogging suit.

An exercise aid worn more for comfort and practicality than its eponymous purpose.

It not being too often he left the apartment these days and, when he did, physical exercise could not be said to rate high on his list of priorities.

Though still an imposing looking man as he passed his mid-sixties, the physical activity missing from his day-to-day went some way to explaining his aches, pains and physical lassitude. The three companions of his twilight teaming up to win a huge groan as he stretched underused arms towards the ceiling and moved towards the window.

The aforementioned “Five hours” having been whiled away –killing time until he Skyped his protégé halfway across the world- with a selection of dross brought to him by the wonders of satellite and a little light masturbation triggered by his twice daily contact with his protégé in England and the prospect of the latest upcoming tête-à-tête.

That he was little more than a voyeur -albeit on speaking terms with one half of the couple he pumped his meat over so regularly- bothering him not in the slightest.

Anya had already told him of the mans troubled dreams and his reaction to her in the new wardrobe he, Rajiv, had suggested, and her retelling of Bernard Lambert’s first sight of his housekeeper in more typical English clothing was something he couldn’t seem to get enough of hearing - the genesis of a new conquest always, with hindsight, the most exciting point of the process. 

Explaining his insistence she repeat the episode for him.

The image of this conceited Englishman seeing his disregarded young housekeeper in skirt, nylon, and heels for the first time one he could not get enough of. Imagining his reaction to the hourglass, Junoesque, body he had yet to be privileged to see in its uncovered glory –as he, Rajiv Singh had been so privileged; albeit in the form of a computer slideshow. The power inherent in the girl’s womanhood no less diluted for her only standing an inch or so over five feet. His reaction when it was finally unveiled to him, if only the Englishman were astute enough to know it, being the seedling that would soon develop –if Rajiv and his protégé proved adept enough- into an overwhelming craving that would, as young Anya desired, see him flat on his back as she perched above him and emptied the contents of her bladder into a mouth as eager as it was disgusted.

“Tell me, Rajiv,” his protégé had asked shortly after he had received the photo slideshow of her: “were we not separated by two oceans, and I were suddenly of a mind to give a man permission to place his cock in my virgin cunt, would you like to be that man?”

“My dear, Anya,” he had laughed, playing down the disturbance at his groin caused by her use of such language for the first time, “were we not separated by two oceans, I assure you I would neither ask for nor need your ‘Permission’.”

It had been her turn to laugh then:

“Then I must make sure we do not meet until I have you… tamed,” she told him; something in her light-hearted tone warning him she was not being quite as flippant as she would have him believe; her mentor taken by surprise, just the same, at the eager way his penis reacted to her assertion in his regard.

Replaying the conversation as he reached the window, he groaned again; aware that, despite his aches and pains; he had another erection to give witness to the fact the one he had experienced after her stated intention of having him “Tamed” was no fluke.

Though he remained, as said, a striking looking man, the stiffness in his legs and upper body provided one more reminder of the passing years to go with his closely cropped silver hair and recent desire for companionship. The same need making his daily contact with Anya Jalav of such importance to him.

Past retirement age, he was comfortable enough in a financial sense. His civil-service pension and the contents of his late partner’s will had seen to that. But no abundance of material possessions could fill the void the loss of Ilse had created. Such a meeting of minds, sexuality and compatible temperaments came along only once in a lifetime.

The gap created by her departure from his life one he hadn’t even bothered to try and fill.

Few people, he thought, would understand how any man who had treated a fellow human being so unjustly, so cruelly; so disdainfully and autocratically; could protest to having finer feelings for that person. There being nothing in their mundane lives -lived out, as they were, to the specifications of church, government, or trashy magazine- to promote the understanding that not all “love” resulted in the simulated achievement of marriage, mortgage, babies and grandchildren. A toeing of the establishment line resulting, finally, in the advent of the greatest catchall of the lot.

Death.

Gazing out from his twentieth floor apartment at the sun-baked panorama of Calcutta, stretching westward towards the Hooghley River and the Sarangabad Government Complex –the same complex where, many moons ago, he had worked as a clerical-officer- a hint of moistness around his eyes gave further evidence of the changes the years had wrought and brought a shaking of the head for such, previously inexplicable, sentiment.

From the sill he picked up what had once been his former partner’s collar; the thick and heavy band of leather he had locked around her neck to signify she was his.

The very same collar she was not allowed to remove without his permission and now took pride of place upon his windowsill as a reminder of what he had lost and so missed - so much so, in fact, he had began the blog in her memory that recounted their life together.

The same “Blog” that had been seen by his young protégé and had led her to seek his assistance.

Eyes still fixed on the panorama beyond his windows; even if the view he was seeing was of a different kind; he recalled the moment Ilse had begged for the leather he now found himself stroking with such tenderness.

Guessing, and not for the first time, at the nature of her thoughts as she waited for him to put the final piece of her submission to him in place…

Chapter Six

Ilse

Knees to the rug and hands clasped in front of her, the German businesswoman waited in silence.

Just as he had instructed.

Her soon-to-be “Owner” not wishing, she knew, to have the rear view he so loved and abused obstructed. 

The indignity of the position, in her own home, before a younger man who rented an apartment from her across the city, was not lost on the forty-year-old Bavarian and only her fear of disappointing him kept her in place.

A fear, nonetheless, she both welcomed and thrived upon; the levels of submissiveness her Indian master revealed to her as surprising as they were terrifying. The masterful young man intent on owning her peeling away layer upon layer of what she had thought were hardwired personality traits; stripping them away as if she were no more than a German onion with an outer skin he found of no use to him. Her would-be master intent on paring her back until she came face-to-face at last with the real Ilse Dressler.

Her helplessness to prevent his domination of her -if the reaction of her body towards him spoke true- was something she both despised and thrived upon. The intermittent and familiar sparks of anxiety and anticipation, tingling the length of her exposed spine, becoming charges of pure electricity as they reached her shaven pussy heightening that arousal she fully expected to saturate the rug below her at any moment.

As the smell of her sex pervaded the room and her arousal ran in rivulets down the smooth hard thighs she worked the gym so hard to maintain, she heard a sigh and knew he was behind her; savouring the view he had demanded she present to him. Insisting she pull her lustrous blonde hair from either side of her face and twist them into pigtails.

“The perfect look for a nasty German frau-slave,” he had laughed when delivering the instruction, her nipples; jutting from impressive breasts; becoming, if possible, even harder at the recall.

“So,” he began, tone of voice arrogant and condescending, entertaining nothing other than complete acceptance of the terms he had set for her; “it would seem a month without my superior Indian cock in your substandard Teutonic cunt has brought a change of attitude.”

He waited for a reaction to his taunts; ready to punish the infraction if her temper got the better of her and reward her obedience if she behaved.

A win-win situation.

At least for him.

In the event, it was “Reward” that won out – had he been of a mind to extend one.

“Do you want me to repeat myself,” he asked, tone dangerous.

“N-Nein,” she said quickly; not having realised a response was required; believing her lack of reaction alone enough to win his approval.

“ ‘No’, what?” he snapped. “ ‘No’, you don’t want me to repeat myself, or ‘No’, the absence of my cock in your hungry little goody-box has made no difference to your attitude of a month ago?”

“And remember your manners when you answer,” he reminded her before she had a chance to reply.

“N-Nein… Meister,” she began, realising she had never felt so defenceless in her life. Exposure of both her hairless sex and equally smooth arse heightening an already frightening sense of vulnerability and providing evidence that, for the first time, someone else was in control of not only her body but her mind also.

“Ich… Ich…”

“Say it,” he commanded. “And look me in the eyes when you do.”

Raising her eyes slowly to gaze into his, the inflexibility and strength of will she saw staring back at her was all the confirmation she needed. If she had ever thought that what they were doing with each other was a game, the expression on his face told her –and with emphatic finality- it was not a view he shared.

“Say it now!” he demanded, eyes becoming more intense as he sensed her final capitulation. “And say it in English. I will have no German. It is far too bold a tongue for my submissive little slut.”

He waited. 

“Y-Yes… Master,” she almost whispered finally; desperate and needy and wanting to come so badly. His orders having expressly forbidden her from touching herself until he arrived and gave consent. Orders she had obeyed; rather than accept the alternative and lose the promise of paradise - of which he had, so far, given her two brief, but addictive, tastes.

Then, looking into his eyes:

“I… I miss your… your superior Indian cock in my… my substandard Teutonic cunt.”

This time she was the one who waited; eyes lowered to the carpet.

Finally:

“There,” he gave praise, manner almost friendly, overlooking for once the absent: ‘Master’; “that was not so hard, was it?”

Naked and on her knees in the home she owned, Ilse Dressler expected a hand to pat her head then throw a bone for her to chase at any moment.

Instead of that, he came around to stand before her.

Arrogantly.

Hands clasped behind his back as if surveying his property.

The jeans, tee shirt and loafers he wore, making her nakedness all the more humiliating. Not lessening any when a smile transformed his stern face. Her young “Master” taking a cruel delight in his mockery of the older woman below him as she knelt in tribute to the superiority of both his gender and his race.

Finally, after what to her had seemed a long pious Sunday, his hands came around from behind his back and -even with eyes lowered- she sensed what it was he dangled from one hand.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“Ja, Meister… I mean: yes, Master. It is a collar for a dog.”

“Wrong!” he snapped.

She jumped, startled at the correction.

“Try again,” he ordered; “different gender.”

Attempting to swallow non-existent saliva, she marvelled at her supine response to such treatment as she realised what he wanted to hear.

“It,” she began, throat dry, “it’s a collar for a… for a bitch, Master.”

This time a half-smile greeted her answer by way of a reward.

“Better,” he said, taking a step forward to bring her eyes level with the bulge in his jeans and offering up the dog tag attached to the pink leather of the collar. “What does the engraving say?”

Ilse read it and knew the point of no return was only moments away.

“Say it aloud,” he ordered.

For what were only a few seconds but to her seemed an eternity; she asked herself if this was what she really wanted. If she once committed to what he had in mind she knew with certainty the power of the need she already felt for him would grow stronger and stronger. So strong that any return to the life she had now and had thought herself happy with would be impossible. Could she truly handle being a chattel to a young man of a different race almost half her age? To give up her individuality and live as the extension of another’s will? Never again to be allowed to make a decision of any importance again?

Did she truly want that?

As her eyes flickered from the German lettering he had insisted be engraved on the dog-tag, to the sight of his hard cock as it attempted to burst the restraints of his jeans; her decision was made for her:

“It says,” she began; voice unrecognisable as her own: “Property of Rajiv Singh”.

Adding; a few heartbeats later:

“Master.”

As her eyes lowered again a self-satisfied chuckle reached her from above.

“That’s right,” he agreed, withdrawing both collar and dog tag; delighted to have heard her say it out loud. “That means, if you wish to be filled once more with the cock you cannot seem to tear your eyes from, you have a decision to make.”

“But I thought…”

“Which,” he cut her off sharply; “is exactly what you will cease to do from this moment on. If you must think at all then think of how you may best serve your master. All other ‘Thinking’ will be my responsibility. Your only responsibility will be to obey.”

Before she could respond, she found herself groaning with need. A hand going to the back of her head to press her face to his groin. Allowing her both a sniff and a feel of the paradise denied were she to have second thoughts.

Then, thrusting her head away, he undid his fly to release his penis; gratified at the lust instantly transforming her features – even if he knew the fear she felt for his intent.

“A month ago,” he reminded her; “when you were simply a horny German businesswoman being fucked by the young tenant you had deigned to –with much superiority, I recall- lease one of your properties; you informed me you would never suck a cock. The very thought of doing so, you assured me, repulsed you.”

Ilse felt her body tense.

The act of Fellatio one she had never quite managed to bring herself to perform.

The thought that where semen flowed so had urine before it, guaranteed to trigger her gag reflex whenever her lips came close to an eager penis.

“If you wish to wear my collar and experience my superior Indian cock as it does your hungry German gash the honour of satisfying its needs, you are going to take it from my jeans, wrap your painted Bavarian lips around the head, and suck it as if your life depended on winning its approval.”

He waited for it to sink in.

“Then,” he went on, “and only then; when you have finished your act of worship; you will grovel before me and beg most abjectly and respectfully to have my collar attached to your neck.”

As his cock danced before her eyes and his words rang in her ears, Ilse found herself in the unbreakable grip of a demonic triad she knew to be fear, revulsion, and –the most powerful of all- lust.

“I shall count to three,” he told her when she made no response. “If my meat is not surrounded by biddable German dentistry by that time, I shall leave and you will never know me again.  

She looked up at him with horror.

“One…” he began.

“Master,” she implored him. “Please!”

“Two…?”

“Anything but this, Master. Anything.”

“Three!”

She continued to stare up at him, tears streaking her face now; but making no move towards him.

“Very well,” he told her, hands reaching towards his fly. “You have made your decision and I…”

The words of exit dying in his throat as he felt his throbbing erection surrounded by the soft flesh of her mouth…

Chapter Seven

Rajiv Again

…Still in place before the window, Rajiv wondered at the strength of his current erection for an incident from his life almost forty years distant. The power of his deceased partner not diminished by either the passing of the years or the new adventure –albeit passive- he was in the process of planning with his protégé in England.

Replacing a woman such as Ilse something he described to himself as:

“An impossibility”.

When Ilse was alive he had, at least, gotten out to restaurants, cinemas, and business functions from time to time. Now, without his partner to drape on an arm and give these interludes meaning, he far preferred to stay at home in the company of Johnny Walker.

And - when his old friend wasn’t available?

Well, then there was always his long-time mistress to fall back on.

A consolation with the exotic name of: Bombay Sapphire.

To his left he could see the large balcony where he used to so love taking Ilse from behind; her pendulous breasts overhanging the balustrade, twenty-floors up, as she clung to the rail while he explored her beautiful anus; their naked forms visible to anyone with either binoculars or, for the more committed voyeur, helicopter. The breath leaving her body in a series of animalistic gasps groans and grunts as he battered at her stage door with growing power. Leaving him feeling godlike for both his ability to satisfy her cravings and to take exactly what he wanted, and, more crucially, exactly when he wanted it, from his frau-sklavin.

It being the same balcony upon which he had kept her tethered by the collar for hours upon end whenever she proved disobedient or recalcitrant; until allowing her the opportunity to show her remorse by begging to wrap her sensuous German lips around his eager, if disdainful, Indian meat.

Now, with all the above conspicuous in his life only through absence; it was no surprise Anya Jalav’s request for him to mentor her had appeared as a Godsend. Providing him, as it did, with a small respite from the bottle. Along with a friend, a sense of importance and, praise be to Buddha, a purpose.

The above triad of missing elements all the more welcome for coming in one package.

A: “Package”, with an hourglass shape and superlative tits, she had kept sari-wrapped for far too long and for which his regularly exercised cock was very, very, grateful.

Even if he was at pains not to let her know it. 

Yet, gratitude notwithstanding, he knew that, despite his desire for complete control in his relationships, it was where similarities between them ended. Unlike Anya -who had no time for such: “Irrelevancy”- he would always need the presence of the romantic, the spiritual and the emotional, to complete any relationship. A necessary correlative for the offsetting of those darker needs that, from time-to-time, demanded satisfaction.

For Anya, however, control meant 24/7.

Unquenchable and unrelenting.

And -as long as there was a breath in her voluptuous body- total.

Returning Ilse’s collar to its place on the sill -almost reverently- and returning to his workstation, he felt a little sadness for the girl who would never know the tenderness of true affection that lent foundation to all relationships worth having.

The man known as Bernard Lambert, he considered; punching in his password and waiting for the welcome screen to appear as he reviewed the man’s situation; was not in a good place.

Even if his surroundings did remain the same.

Sooner rather than later, Rajiv Singh knew, he would find himself with no study, no Indian housekeeper, and; most importantly of all; no say in the matter.

Were he blessed with the gift of second sight and able to read Bengali, the man known as Bernard Lambert would be sure to notice the nameplate soon to be found hanging outside the dwelling he had once ruled over.

A nameplate engraved with a single word.

“Hell”.

And, in “Hell”… he would be the servant.

Chapter Eight

Lambert

A week on from the incident in his study, Bernard Lambert was still pondering the pros and cons of giving Gianni a call to arrange a visit to London; giving it serious thought as he took in the panorama stretching out before him beyond the large bay window of his study.

The room at the back of the house he had designated as his workplace had some of the best views in the house and, drinking them in now, he once again had the feeling -despite his inexplicable attraction to his young servant and those dreams- he was gaining some small measure of control over his life.

A fresh burst of optimism ensuring the element of threat he found in his dreams of the girl was temporarily placed aside; allowing him to see the new look parading her previously unsuspected assets as no more than a very welcome bonus of eye-candy.

On which subject, only that morning, he had been given yet further evidence of her ability to… stir him…

…“Good morning, Master,” she had said, placing his breakfast tray across his lap, “I trust you slept well?”

Propped against the headboard, the inevitable erection caused by her appearance each morning threatening to unbalance his tea, toast and boiled eggs, he scanned her expression for any trace of irony and was relieved to find none; her heavy lips devoid of anything he could have taken as… contempt.

But then, how could she possibly know he had masturbated to an image of those lips as they surrounded his cock and sucked him to completion before swallowing the resulting eruption?

Even more impossibly: how could she know that, when he did finally manage some sleep, their roles were reversed and this time it was his own naked form kneeling between her legs in supplication?

“Sniff your owner’s cunt,” the dream Anya had commanded him; the strength of will implicit in her equine features far more powerful, he knew with certainty, than he could muster at this time or any other. “Sniff but do not attempt to touch,” she reminded him, totally confident he would do exactly as she asked - despite his desperation to do exactly the opposite.

“Watch my finger as it slides into the beautiful Indian box denied you,” the dream Anya had continued. “Observe the evidence of the pleasure it takes in owning you as it runs over that finger and onto my knuckles.”

His eyes locked on in a way that would have been the envy of any tractor-beam from science fiction.

The sight had made her laugh:

“Yes, my old thrall. Impossible to look away, is it not? You have become a slave to pussy. And a servant girl’s pussy at that.”

Her laughter seemed almost demented as she added:

“My so-called master is now my pussy-slave.”

Eyes riveted, exactly as she had said, he could make no argument.

“Shall I be kind and let you suck it?” she said, tauntingly, holding up her finger. “Shall I do that? It would be an incredible honour for you would it not?”

“But then,” she said when he could make no rely: “are you worthy of such a gift?”

Her finger dangled before his eyes and he could smell the secretions won from her arousal; eyes closing as he felt that delicious weakness he always experienced when he knelt before her in such a way; erection arrowing upwards toward the brown goddess who was, inexplicably, taking over his existe…

“Shall I pour, Master?” she said, hands still on the tray as she leant over him; large breasts, restrained this time by another white cotton shirt. This one however, being of the sleeveless variety and giving him, for the first time a glimpse of smooth and hairless armpits.

“No,” he snapped, more tersely than intended, annoyed she had interrupted his reverie and even more put out by his recall of the dream and, more importantly, its nature.

His servant had affected a look of contriteness.

“Sorry,” he said guiltily, knowing his outburst had been uncalled for and staring now at her underarms; taking advantage of gravity’s pull upon the shirt at the opening where a sleeve should have been attached to take in the smooth and hairless skin of her right armpit. “I was miles away. Yes, please pour, Anya.”

With a toothy smile, as if grateful to be forgiven, she had done just that; leaning in closer as she did so to give him a whiff of the armpit his eyes darted to when he was sure she was distracted by the filling of his cup.

Taking advantage of her preoccupation, he began to breathe through his nose; praying she wouldn’t notice as the fresh yet un-deodorised and earthy smell of her underarm hit his nostrils and injected fresh life into an erection hardly requiring it anyway.

“Honey or sugar today, Master?” she had asked, eyes remaining on the cup.

“Hmm… er… Honey,” he said, completely off-guard, attempting to collect himself as she served him his tea, unfolded his Daily Telegraph and, with her usual smile returned to the door and let herself out…

…Back in the moment once more, ensconced in his study, Lambert could only marvel at the effect this girl was having upon him. More and more, he found himself seeking her out wherever she happened to be working in the house to snatch glimpses or, if unobserved, drink in the five-feet or so of matronly but perfectly proportioned body. Wondering at the magnificent tits that seemed ready at any moment to burst the confines of her now habitual white shirt and the powerful but shapely young legs as they tapered down to a pair of the sexiest feet he could remember seeing. Tiny but perfectly formed toes, with immaculately clipped nails and varnish of the deepest ruby, the perfect platform for the whole lust-inducing edifice.

Even if, for him at least, appreciation stopped rather abruptly at the neck.

His curious and seemingly growing fixation on his young housekeeper being the one inexplicable blot on the new wave of optimism he was currently experiencing.

In this new mood, even his writing career –the same career he was in despair over not long before- no longer seemed the lost cause it had seemed barely a few weeks ago. A measure of optimism explaining the tentative start he had made on a new crime novel he had decided to approach from a more modern point-of-view.

As he perched himself on the arm of the sofa and savoured the view beyond the glass, his concerns regarding the effect of his housekeeper upon him receded somewhat. The south-westerly vista; along with the bright and breezy afternoon accompanying it; doing nothing to dilute either his new purpose or restored humour. It being, if anything, the kind of day guaranteed to raise even the lowest of spirits.

Even if images of his servant from the subcontinent with the incredible breasts and powerful legs still flashed before his eyes intermittently as she went about massaging his feet, sucking his dick or submitting to his all-powerful cock while he thrust into her tight rear-opening. Images of male supremacy he knew would undergo a complete reversal the moment sleep took hold and wakeful volition found itself at the mercy of the subconscious. 

Shaking off the latest, unbidden, images of his unlikely lust object, he continued to take in the view outside from his position on the sofa. That autumn was his favourite season only adding to the pleasure he took in the panorama beyond the window. The dazzling, if less puissant, rays of the October sun refracting against the blue swells of the sea as the breeze swirled in and brought the salt of the briny with it. Weather, resulting from the confluence of English Channel and Atlantic Ocean, stirring autumnal leaves into a million, musical and soothing, sighs for the passing of their youth.

Heaven.

Even the Cornish fishing village he had disliked when he’d first visited as a child; nestling below the cliffs upon which stood his house; seemed, somehow, less… plebeian - despite its lack of either a decent wine-bar or bistro – though there was a pub, at least.

Even if a clientele unworthy of his interest supplied yet another negative.

With a small start of surprise, he felt obliged to admit that -now his own individual style had been stamped upon it- even the house his aunt had willed him and he had left London for was beginning to grow on him.

Not, of course, that he’d had a choice in the matter.

The death of his mother’s reclusive older sister –and last remaining relative– had, of course, been sad. He was not a heartless man and, in his own way, had been fond of the old dear; always remembering –or at least ensuring his publisher did– to send her a copy of his latest work. The same work that –along with his marriage to Siobhan- had gone to pot over the past four years as the audience for his, somewhat “Antique”, crime novels had either moved on to other, more realistic and gutsy, practitioners of the craft; or joined his aunt wherever she now found herself.

“Time locked and socially antediluvian” – Time-Out.

“A literary dinosaur for the new millennium” – London Review of Books.   

Reviews and reviewers of the same ilk the cause of much sourness on his part.

Bastards!

A: “Sourness”; not lessened any by the subsequent neglect of both publisher and agent.

Never having been a “Clubbable” type, the friends he did have had been made through his marriage. And they, to a man and a woman, and for reasons he understood only too well, had sided with Siobhan during the divorce – the fact he had fucked so many of her Girlfriends” making it extremely likely, and perfectly understandable, their husbands or partners would not bust a gut trying to bond with him. There were no children and, with both his career and home: “Down the toilet”, the house on the cliffs above the Cornish fishing village was nothing short of a godsend.

“Who knows?” he’d told himself before decamping west; “I’m not in bad shape and London doesn’t have a monopoly on attractive, willing and available, women. Anything can happen.”

After three months in his new abode he had still to meet one.

After six, he had started to question whether they existed at all and wondered if, without his knowing, Cornwall had passed legislation outlawing not just casual sex but beddable women themselves.

For him, anyway.

His one weekly pleasure coming on a Wednesday when he drove Anya inland to a town with a shopping mall, drinking coffee and people watching as his housekeeper busied herself buying provisions - there being no shortage of women of the kind he was drawn by to be found in such places.

Even if the large majority of them were pushing prams or on the arm of a husband.

Another thing he hadn’t reckoned on when first upping sticks to Cornwall had been the house itself. Loving order and hygiene as he did –a by product of his upbringing- the work required to keep the place to the standard he had insisted upon from Siobhan was not something to which he himself was prepared to commit. The hypocrisy implicit in his own idleness so obvious it skimmed under his radar completely.

Which was when: cleaning, laundry, dishes and household accounts in disarray; the idea of a housekeeper had first occurred.

Turning to Google he had been pleasantly surprised. Both in terms of personnel and cost. One of the first sites to catch his interest extolling the virtue and cheapness of domestic help from abroad.

Which was how Anya Jalav, a young, uneducated girl from Calcutta, barely in her twenties, entered the life of a divorced, middle-aged and out-of-favour, English author.

And decided to make it her very own.

Chapter Nine

Rajiv & Anya

Almost seven months on from taking up her employment in his home, Anya Jalav was at her computer in the quarters above the garage; deep into the lunchtime half of her daily “Progress reports”, as Rajiv described them; though, and as per usual, it was old news her mentor seemed to enjoy making her relive:

“When I entered his bedroom that first morning,” she began; her mentor’s most recent instigation of this umpteenth revisiting of the memory, prompting restless fingers to work her cunny through the fabric of her panties; “you would have thought from his expression that a stranger had entered bearing toast and tea.”

“Did he comment?”

“No.”

“How did you dress?” Rajiv probed, prior awareness of the answer not diluting his eagerness to picture it coming from the thick and, to him, sensual lips he had seen in her photographs - self-taken snapshots that had revealed the incredible young body below her less than beauteous face to his gaze for the first time; the memory of which flashed before him now.

Even that face she was so scathing about –as evocative of horseflesh as she had assured him it would be; was full of character; even if it was character of a cold, diamond hard, nature.

But it was the body; despite her shortness of stature and belying the equine icing with which nature had seen fit to top it; that grabbed the attention. Locking and shackling his eyes onto the screen as surely as if they had been glued there. A body, he knew, no loose and shapeless sari –no matter how revered its designer- could possibly serve justice.

Reaching for himself for the third time -and within an hour of receiving the slideshow- it had struck him that the mass of her naked figure seemed almost caricatured - so compact and heavy did it seem. The exaggerated hourglass shape, with copious amounts of unblemished brown flesh, was not so much… fleshy… as firm; needing to be in order to support two massive and impossibly perfect breasts with bullet hard nipples that stood proud above…

“What did you say, Anya?”

His return was greeted with a laugh, as if the location of his brief excursion had been faxed to her beforehand.

Though his expression was impossible to read, a slight breathiness in his enunciation led his protégé to believe her employer was not the only one developing feelings for her.

The fact she had not yet spoken a word in answer to her mentor’s request giving her another small clue.

“I dressed very simply and exactly as you had advised,” she spoke now. “In one of the outfits you had me purchase.”

The outfit in question one of a number, similar in type, she had bought from a number of charity shops in the town she visited with her employer to make the weekly shop. Lugging provisions back to the car while he sat, read newspapers, and drank coffee in a Starbuck’s on the lower level of the town’s mall. A wardrobe she had picked up cheaply and paid for from the small monthly salary that was paid into her account and she hadn’t, up to then, drawn upon.

“A crisp, white shirt,” she went on, “top two buttons undone to reveal a hint of superior Indian cleavage. A black skirt to just above the knee. Black nylons. And a pair of matching open-toed sandals with low spiky heels.”

The recital made her marvel.

Had it really only been a month since she first discarded her saris to wear the clothes guaranteed to gain her “Master’s” attention?

Such progress!

“It was the same outfit,” she went on, picking up where she had left off; “with minor variations, I now wear everyday and find so… liberating.”

“A picture of which you promised to send me,” came the accusation, a certain quivering in the voice of her, back from orbit, mentor betraying excitement to match anticipation.

“And you say I am the impatient one,” she taunted him, before continuing:

“My lord and English master made no comment on it - though comment was hardly required for me to tell he had noticed. The redness upon his cheeks, when I caught his eyes lingering upon the painted nails of my feet through the nylon of my hose, was evidence enough I had gained his attention. His first sight of my legs in pantyhose and heels seemed to transfix him. Explaining also, perhaps, his terse: ‘Thank you’, as I gave him his tray and made to leave.”

She paused, allowing her mentor to savour the imagery before continuing:

“In short,” she went on, “his behaviour was as predictable as you had told me it would be.”

She paused again then; knowing he would be forced to ask her to continue; savouring a small moment of power over her older mentor; enjoying also the fact her “Master” –unusually- had gone into the village for a lunchtime drink. His absence meaning she would, for once, not have to rush her “Mentor’s” insistence on a mid-day “Progress report”.

More worryingly –though she had not mentioned it to Rajiv- Lambert had spent the whole of yesterday in London. Her tentative attempts to discover his reasons for going having seen themselves dismissed; though his agitated demeanour left her convinced he was going to meet a woman; even if his crestfallen demeanour when he returned late that evening seemed to indicate any such assignation had not gone well.

The above a comfort ensuring she at least slept well.

The last thing she –they- needed, after all, was her “Master” introducing a “Mistress” to the household.

“That was not all,” Rajiv came in, on cue and eager; tone accusatory - making her smile as she made him wait.

“As I reached the door,” she told him finally, an unseen and somewhat mocking smile curling her lip, “I turned back quickly and caught him staring at my legs with a strange look. He tried to turn away, of course, but by then it was too late.”

“What kind of a strange look?”

“Lustful,” she informed him without hesitation and with much pride; a condition she could not recall inspiring too often.

If ever.

Until now.

“Of course, I said nothing; acting as if all was as usual and asking him if he would like some marmalade with his toast.”

Her mentor mulled it over, chuckling to himself, until:

“Good. Very good. And what of his reaction to you since that first time?”

“More of the same; but still more intense. Though I can tell he is resentful of the attraction my body below the neck holds for him, he finds it impossible to prevent himself watching my every move. Who would have thought such a handsome and worldly man could be so easily swayed by a simple pair of legs and breasts.”

Rajiv chuckled:

“Trust me, Anya, there is nothing ‘Simple’ about your breasts. And do not leave your feet from his growing fixation upon you. His reaction to your pretty painted toes is equally as encouraging. More so, in fact.”

“He does seem…” she searched for the right word “…taken with them,” she agreed.

“As he should be… Now, having gained his attention for the first time, you must take the steps necessary to imprison it.”

Anya was silent – having already determined she was going to do exactly that as the fingers frotting her clit picked up pace.

“You say that since his move from London he has become increasingly isolated,” Rajiv went on, almost as if to himself. “This is also good. Something that will work very well in your favour.”

“From what I can gather,” she breathed; “apart from the ever decreasing royalties from the sale of his previous work; his writing career is all but over. I have listened through the study door as he attempts to contact his agent and rages into the telephone when he is not put through. To my knowledge his calls are never returned. He has periods of intense depression, which explains both his lethargy and the readiness for me to take over more and more of the responsibilities that should be his.”

“Which is something all well and good on your part,” Rajiv reminded her.

“Of course,” she agreed. “Though he has seemed a little perkier recently”

A thoughtful silence followed.

“What of the ex-wife?” Rajiv asked finally.

“I have read some of their correspondence with each other when he leaves the house to walk,” she told him. “From the recriminations she cannot help but let slip, it seems he was rather free and easy with his cock in respect of her friends.”

At her mention of the word: “Cock”, Rajiv’s attentions toward his own beneath the computer desk intensified. Something about hearing the description from lips that had yet to experience one and -much as his Ilse before her had done the same- insisted they never would- pressed his own buttons.

“Trust me,” she went on, “she hates him with a passion. I can only imagine how grateful she is their union was childless.”

“No contact between them whatsoever?”

“Apart from the cold correspondence I have just mentioned, tying up the loose ends of their marriage, none.”

“Friends?”

“Not one has contacted him since my arrival here. If he has any then they are at pains to keep their regard anonymous.”

“What of female contact?”

“See above. And, were he to have any, I would know, believe me. The house is quite isolated and our nearest neighbours are over a mile away. Near impossible for anyone to visit him without my discovering the fact. As you know, he used to drive me to the shopping mall and supermarket some ten miles away for provisions and other weekly necessities; but now even this has stopped and he sends me by taxi. Apart from walks along the coastline and the odd stroll down to the village itself; he is at home the whole of the day; locked in his study as he attempts to write the novel he says will change the tune of his agent and publisher and:

“Put me back on the literary map”.

They had laughed together, both at her imitation of her employer and such an implausible notion - having previously familiarised themselves with the work that had seen him removed from this “Map” in the first place.

“I could have sworn the other day,” she said by way of an afterthought, “that he was trying to sniff my armpits as I served him his breakfast in bed.”

An afterthought bringing more laughter from Rajiv before he grew serious:

“Does he socialise with anyone from the village itself?”

Anya shook her head emphatically as she answered: “As I pointed out, he uses the village only when he wishes to stretch his legs. There is a path leading down to it from the cliffs; but he is rather dismissive of it… The village, I mean. Not the cliffs.”

She gave a snort of derision before finishing.

“ ‘Too rustic’ for his tastes - as he puts it in his pompous and pretentious way. Which, translated, means: the local peasantry are not at all impressed with him. Plus, he has yet to see anything to fuck – or, more to the point, anything available to fuck that would fuck him back.”

Again, Rajiv felt a fresh surge of blood to his manhood.

“Well,” he began, urging control upon himself; “it is all most promising for you, Anya. The longer you become the only female in his life – albeit in a menial capacity – the more his interest focuses upon you. Between the two of us, it will not be long before we have this superior Englishman where he belongs; begging to lick the day’s dust and sweat from the feet of his young Indian servant.”

The expulsion of breath she tried to suppress without success told him his words had breached the dam coming between his student and her latest bout of self-satisfaction.

A not unusual occurrence during their chats with each other, he knew - though his own release would come later. Experience having taught him that delay served only to take ecstasy to still higher altitudes.

After waiting for both her thoughts and her pulse-rate to calm, he went on to deliver his warning:   

“I have no doubt that you can achieve what you wish with him,” he continued. “But –and this is terribly important– you must always keep in mind that the man you have chosen is not looking for the relationship you have mapped out for him. In fact, from what you tell me -and despite certain underlying characteristics- quite the opposite would appear nearer the truth.”

“But what I intend is not impossible?” she asked; a hint of petulance at the prospect her wishes might not be achievable betraying her youth.

“Not in the slightest, my precocious girl,” he reassured her. “You already have the knowledge that will hand you the keys to his innermost being. Your task now is learning how and when to use them once he has been made to realise his only option is to entrust them to your keeping.”

He paused then – fondly reflective.

“It was much the same for me and my beautiful Ilse before she passed away; remember?”

Anya did indeed. The blog she had stumbled across during her nightly trawl of the net, the same blog that had led her to contact Rajiv in the first place, had spoke of just the kind of triumph over another human being of which she had long dreamed. For as long as she could remember, in fact. That it had been a man, triumphing over an unwilling German businesswoman from whom he rented a home, did nothing to prevent her applying the situation to her own. Fantasising herself into the male role while the unwitting Bernard Lambert took on the part of Ilse.

“Of course, it was a little easier for me with Ilse,” he had continued.

“Easier in what way?” she asked; curiosity piqued.

“Though I was loathe to use force with her, there was, with my greater male strength, always that option. There were many, many times when nothing but a severe bare bottom spanking –amongst other physical punishments- and some time in the corner would answer her disobedience. The humiliation of being forced into such childish penance as painful to her in its own way as the spanking itself. And a decision, once I had made it, she could do nothing of a physical nature to alter.”

“I take your point,” she told him, reversing the principals in order to take some enjoyment from the retelling; seeing that point, however, as a not particularly challenging one and wanting to move on.

“Your tone betrays boredom, Anya,” he said, picking up on her dismissal. “But it will interest you to know that Ilse’s advanced age in comparison to my youth made her feelings of dishonour and mortification all the sharper and made my own reactions both sweeter and longer lasting.”

Her silence was revealing.

“Something, sweet Anya,” he went on, reading her mind; “you will soon experience for yourself –albeit with a slave of different gender across your lap- from the same end of that spectrum I myself occupied at the time. ”

As she listened, and in spite of her disinterest, in his point at least, Anya was again teasing her virgin cunny through the fabric of her panties. Images of the Englishman –despite his “greater male strength”- draped over her lap as she tanned the pale skin of his backside with a hairbrush; the imagined cries for mercy filling her head acting upon her after the manner of a particularly uplifting symphony and stirring her lust to motion yet again.  

“For you, though,” he went on, “it is a little different. Physical persuasion is not an option - at least for the moment. The female-male dynamic being, I must confess, somewhat more complicated.”

“How so?”

“By that I mean: in order for a woman to inflict a beating upon a male victim of choice –and the fantasy world of dungeons and shackles absent- consent is necessary for the beating to take place.

“Is that all?” she scoffed. “From your words I thought you had a more complex dynamic in mind.”

“Bear with me here, Anya; all I say is that, in the absence of consent, a woman who desires to inflict physical punishment upon a physically stronger man must go about her business in a more, shall we say, devious way.”

He allowed a few beats to pass.

“Do correct me if I am in error,” he began again, sarcasm obvious; “but isn’t “Consent” the one thing guaranteed to play no part in your desires?”

“Do not tease me, Rajiv,” came her instant response. “Why ask questions to which you already know the answer. We are alike in this – as you well know.”

A chuckle greeted her accusation.

“You are right, young Anya; as always. We have much in common. Even as I sense your finger teasing you once more towards completion, my trusty right hand again caresses my engorged cock beneath my desk.”

“Filthy old beast!” she snapped, feigning shock; continuing to rub herself through the soaked panties. “And what makes you think I would behave in such a fashion?”

“Because,” he laughed; not taken in; “while you enthuse my ageing body with your willingness to listen and the vitality of your youth, I bequeath you my years of knowledge and experience in order to make your dream possible. We are partners at a distance and, as such, are perfect for each other.

“I cannot speak for you,” he went on, “but it is, for me at least, sufficient. My pleasure is taken in guiding you towards the fulfilment you seek through the enslavement of this Englishman. For my part, I wish nothing more than to allow you to experience the same heady euphoria of ownership I knew with my Ilse.”

Now it was his turn to pause for a few moments.

“Though I suspect,” he began again, “that your personal feelings towards your erstwhile “Master” share nothing of the tenderness I felt towards my sorely missed slave.”

Anya’s frottage of herself through the, by now, saturated fabric of her panties slowed as she considered the truism.

“Your suspicions would give credit to your perception had I not assured you of such many times previously, Rajiv,” she served gentle rebuke; drawing another chuckle from the sub-continent.

“Even taking my relatively few years on the planet into consideration,” she went on, “it is difficult to imagine encountering such pomposity, self-delusion, misogyny and a belief in one’s own inherent superiority, in a lone man. He is a composite of everything I loathe and is the beast awaiting a collar I have dreamt of since such desires first made themselves known to me. As you are aware, Rajiv, I detested him and his easy assumption of racial, physical and intellectual superiority on sight and will do all and everything in my power to bind him to me in as abject a manner as is physically, mentally and legally, possible.”

From Calcutta, silence greeted the end of her outpouring, then:

“Anya, I find it hard to believe your former poverty and lack of a formal education. Your articulation of your purpose truly takes away my breath.”

His subtle assertion of his own superiority in terms of class and learning were not lost on her.

“And your inability to concede me a brain because of such a lack deprives me of mine.”

Another chuckle greeted her rebuke and she laughed along with him - instantly forgiving the small eruption of male ego.

It was, when it came down to it, the opponent with whom she lived to do battle.

Not for the first time, she offered self-congratulation for seeking his advice after having visited his blog; telling herself, once again, that the relationship she shared with him was as normal –close inverted commas- a relationship as she was ever likely to have with a man.

Even if it was not her intention to allow it to remain that way.

“You find him handsome though?” he asked, expression intent.

“You know this already,” she told him – scenting a hint of jealousy in the question.

“Just making sure your passion burns as brightly,” he assured her.

“Really?” she asked, growing bolder. “Or is it that you see yourself in the role I intend for him?”

No answer came from her hometown.

“Tell me, Rajiv, now you have reached your dotage, have you finally decided to take your courage in both hands and taste life on the receiving end of the whip? Even as we speak, are you picturing yourself naked before me, my collar about your neck? Knees to the porcelain and obedient mouth wide as I fill it with my waste?”

There was silence from her hometown and she realised Rajiv had moved away from the screen.

An absence that made her think, for a few indecisive moments, she had gone too far.

When all was said and done, she reminded herself, this was not some milksop English writer she was dealing with but a proud Indian male.

More pertinently: an Indian male who had once reduced a proud, arrogant and commanding, German businesswoman to abject slavery.

A man, more to the point, whose experience she not only valued but needed.

Just as she was about to apologise, his face filled the screen and he spoke:

“Ten years ago, my little Anya,” he began; tone darker than his usual when conversing with her, eyes blazing into the screen; “I would have taken such an assertion as a challenge.”

Eyes still blazing he fell silent, until; to her relief; the face on the screen broke into a broad grin:

“However,” he went on; “we are friends. Partners in a mutual venture – even though you will be the one to reap the majority of its rewards.”

With a start, Anya realised she had been holding her breath; having gained some small idea of the power he must have been able to call upon in his prime.

“Also,” he went on, still grinning, “and despite your tender years, I know the real thing when I converse with it. Should we have met during my pomp -and our paths taken the route of conflict rather than mutual regard- I have no doubt you would have proved a worthy opponent for me.”

His young protégé could do no more than nod agreement – not letting him know she considered herself to be far more than simply: “Worthy”.

Far, far more, in fact.

“So, my wise mentor,” she led with some flattery of her own; “where do we go from here?”

Chapter Ten

Anya’s Second Fantasy

He must feel awful, she knew, her smile smug. The sensation of having his head buried under the duvet between her powerful young thighs, as she relaxed into the soft, freshly laundered pillows, enhanced by the certainty his lips would stay at her pussy and his nose remain buried in her anus the whole night if she chose.

A decision in the affirmative more often the case than not and a position she demanded he maintain; no matter how hot, sweaty and stinking close proximity to her netheregions became.

This position in her bed something she insisted upon; the consequences for not complying ones he knew very, very, very, well. Yet one more humiliation for him and all the more precious to her for knowing how degrading he found it; his excitement at being close to her intimate parts soon fading before the reality of having to inhale the smell of her arse and pussy the whole night through.

After all, she told herself: what employer would spend every night with his nose buried in his servant’s arse and his tongue in constant contact with her labia?

But then he was hardly her employer any more now, was he?

Barely recognisable as a human being, in fact, let alone a man of any substance at all.

And certainly not a human being of any autonomous variety.

Pf course, his inability to maintain this nightly vigil at various times had led to some equally delicious punishments.

Delicious for her, that is.

Even if she had trained him well enough in the short time since his fall from grace to make such interludes few and far between.

“I want your mouth on my pussy and your nose up my superior Indian arse,” she had told him that first time; going on to warn: “By the time I am through with you your subconscious will be so well-trained that, even if you somehow manage to fall asleep, your face will not deviate from its position.”

Adding then; the look on his face inviting yer more cruelty rather than the compassion it sought to inspire:

“You will not move. Not even to relieve your tiny English pee-pee. Disturb my sleep and you will experience real pain.”

In truth, she didn’t care if he slept or not – so long as his head remained in place. He could snatch an hour or so during those growingly rare times of day when she had no use for him. It was a nightly ritual, she considered, that was the perfect way to ensure his continuing submission. It being, she reckoned, nigh on impossible for pride, superiority, and that famous British self-respect, to find any purchase on the smooth slopes of her buttocks and the drenched folds of her cunt.

“Long worshipful strokes,” her voice through the duvet reminded him as he flattened his tongue to lave at her pussy in accordance with her command - careful to keep his nose in place as he obeyed her instructions. “That’s it. Just the way I like to drift off to sleep. But I do not hear you sniffing. Deep breaths through the nose now, you know the rule.”

Of all the indignities to which she subjected him this was her favourite –even if making him lick her armpits clean of the day’s perspiration came close. That she could actually condition him into actively seeking that which he hated yet another source of entertainment and satisfaction from which she took an immense and –she could do no more than acknowledge- perverted pride.

There being in her life now no shortage of such entertainments and satisfactions.

All the above, along with making him sniff her malodorous feet through the exacerbating confines of her hose; actually making him petition her in a humble voice to be granted the privilege of debasing himself; forms of worship and obeisance she had made a part of his daily reality.

She never tired, she told herself, of hearing her former master beg for his own dishonour and, as his breath began to rasp through his nostrils in accordance with her demand, she remained utterly convinced she never would.

Luxuriating in his tongue’s ministration as she felt herself beginning to drift off, she was already anticipating waking in the morning and using the toilet.

Another source of delight close to the summit of her perverse tastes.

“From now on,” she had told him, “you will be helping me when I need to piss or shit,” his horror at such a prospect one more development she relished. Yet another building block in the formation of the perfect servant, she had told herself righteously; insistent there be no inhibitions before him on her part and he be conditioned to look upon the responsibility given him for even the most basic of his young Indian master’s physical ablutions as not just a gift but an honour.

“Whenever, I say: ‘Toilet’, you are to stop what you are doing and crawl after me on all fours. You will then kneel before the toilet bowl and place your upturned hands upon the seat as a cushion for your Indian master’s lovely brown arse.

“Then, after you have done this and I have taken my place upon my throne, you will place a reverential kiss upon each of my thighs before placing your head between my legs to better observe your queen’s fountain as it fills the bowl below.”

His face at her flowery depiction of this most foul of acts had been a picture of abject misery.

“When it is complete,” she had gone on, “I will stand and you will use your tongue to clean me.”

For a moment, she thought he was about to laugh; not believing, despite the cruelties she had inflicted upon him until then, that she was serious.

The thunder building behind her expression and the words she had spat out next cured him of any such delusion:

“Get used to the taste very quickly, my peon, for very soon I do not expect to have to use the bowl at all…

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.

The complete novel can be found at www.femdomcave.com