I think I remember replying: I ache until then. Your Charley xxx
Chambermaid's Rule No.4
Pain Doesn't Always Hurt, Other Things Do
There was a day when I just wasn't up for it. I don't know. I was restless and becoming tired of my sideline. A client that day was brash and uncouth and I knew he wanted to dominate me. He knew this was a clause in the contract: only the Chambermaid dominates and everyone does as she says. I decided to say to him, quite clearly and unemotionally, “I need you to slap my bottom very hard, until it is purple, please.”
He didn't seem to require much coercion. He waited until I was on the bed, on all fours, my rear facing him. I, in my silk thong, was unprotected in that region aside from the stockings and suspenders I wore ‒ which obviously weren't much to aid me. I don't know what it was that day but I felt the boredom that was containing me needed to be relieved. Something inside me needed reigniting and I wondered whether this was the way. Masturbation or the use of gadgets during dry periods was tedious and the male bodies passing through my chambers were unsatisfying.
“Do you want me to start slowly?” he asked, trying to contain his euphoria at having been handed the opportunity to carry out his heart's desire.
“Just make sure I know about it when I sit down later. Just give it to me.”
I need to know that I'm still alive, I thought. I need to feel.
With the first slap, I yelped a little. He was conservative to begin with, waiting for me to ask for mercy, possibly. He did not know how high my pain threshold ran. I hummed through the strikes, umming and aahing, oohing and owing. Ooh baby, that's, ooh, that's nasty, oh that was a fierce blow for such a nice gentleman, oh dear, oh, I feel rather… hit me you fucker.
He seemed to increase the strength and rapidity of the blows and I began howling, hollering even, whelping with desperation. His hands possibly fatigued and brandishing a shine of their own, he stopped, breathless, and fell on his knees by the side of the bed.
“I got a little out of control, I'm sorry,” he said, panting, hands over his face I noticed.
With the thrashing over, the pain kicked in and I realised he had taken it a little too far. I had been numb to it up until that point, trying to convince myself that it was pleasure I was actually experiencing. The delayed reaction ‒ a perennial defence mechanism of mine ‒ worked against me for once. My fine, silken skin reacted to the ceasing of his assault and the fire was hard to ignore. I couldn't move.
“A towel, make it cold,” I whispered, weakly.
He crept into the bathroom and returned with a hand towel doused in cool tap water. He pressed it gently against my flesh and tried not to show how upset he was. He was disgusted with himself, I could tell, by the way he sniffed and shook as he pressed the cool flannelette against me. When I felt a little calmer, with less of a blaze burning against my rear, I whispered, “One last thing. I need your seed on my bottom to cool me down. Please, it'll help,” I muttered, devilishly, knowing this act would indeed traumatise him.
He pleaded with me that he should just go, but I insisted he have what he paid for. He grunted as if he were a teenager again, battling one out before anyone should stumble across the threshold of his childhood bedroom. He hardly even moaned or groaned when he spat his semen across my red-raw backside. My inner Chambermaid laughed haughtily and cackled, but I knew her purpose had become diluted by my unhappiness.
“Now get the fuck out,” I commanded, “and don't ever treat any woman like this again.”
He zipped up sharply, raced across the room, and was down the corridor before I even blinked. I fell on my front and winced as I shifted from my former position, forcing blood to flow in different directions and increasing the sensations that had been stunted up until that point. I waited a few minutes and checked the clock. It was too late to leave. I would spend the night there. I reached an arm over the side of the bed, took two tablets from my bag, swallowed them, and rolled myself into the cool sheets. I wrapped the cold towel around my rear, not caring for hygiene, and slipped into a painful, trauma-induced sleep, which I fell into as if a child again, into the chasm where nothing hurt and only peace existed. There would be sunshine and blue skies, birds and trees, and a man holding his arms around me as we lay beneath the sun. He never had a face, this man; he was simply a perfect mate who I knew loved me no matter what and whom wrapped me toward him protectively.
Chapter XXII
October 2011
It was autumn but we were experiencing an Indian summer of sorts. With the lingering warmth, my Nordic Master became irritable, unkind and thankless. Nothing seemed to please him anymore. Perhaps without the challenge of a business to save and with our relationship now seemingly on an even keel, he grew restless. I begged, pleaded and cried for mercy, asking what might improve his mood.
He pouted with that beautiful, crimson mouth of his which made my stomach quake each time it was placed on my body, and he revealed, “For some time, I have desired to watch you with another woman but I do not want to be involved. I just want to watch. Can you make this possible?”
“Certainly,” I assured him, “just give me a couple of weeks. I'll procure someone.”
“How will we do it?”
“I shall woo her, bring her here to my flat. I will give you advance notice. I shall arrange some cameras, or, you might hide behind the modesty screen while we make love.”
“I shall hide. I want to see it with my own eyes. Will you be you or the Chambermaid?” he asked, now much improved in spirit, with his hand idling between my legs, already bringing heat to my cheeks.
“It shall be exactly as you wish,” I assured him, my lips parting with intense anticipation.
“The Chambermaid. I hate to share you, even with a woman. This way, I can see how she performs on a woman. And, the subject must be beautiful.”
“Of course. No problem. It shall be done,” I said, trying not to show my mind racing with fear at how I might get a woman back to my place. His caresses were quieting my thoughts, however.
“You're amazing,” he said, and he was happy once more. He tore my robe off and lay upon me, frantically pursuing my depths with renewed passion.
“Charlotte, my lady, my love,” he moaned, delighting me with his rampant will.
“Noah,” I whined, “Noah, I love you.”
And, I really did love him. Nobody else made me feel more at home; accepted me for who I really was and even encouraged me in my sexual appetites. I had never directly given another woman pleasure and he knew this. He was possibly aroused more by the thought of me playing with what I had never explored before. I had never caressed Florence and the only reason she had ever touched me was to prepare me for Mark.
I lay in the bath that evening, after he was gone, considering how I might go about it all. I had to act quickly and get someone into my confidence before two weeks were up, for that was when he was next due to visit. I thought of all the women I worked with and none seemed suitable. All were married, unapproachable or hated me. Plus, I could not risk unmasking the Chambermaid where she carried out her work. I had to go out and about, hunting, with a certain kind of female in mind. She had to be weak, willing and pliant. She need not even be homosexual, for pleasure is always just pleasure, so long as it is administered well.
I had to seem a woman of the world, with expensive tastes and a lifestyle to aspire to. I had to be a photographer or a fashion designer, perhaps even a writer or an architect. Something like that. A femme fatale who suffered for her art, now that could be the perfect ruse. I could gain pity or admiration. Catch the attention of a student in a gallery and bring her back to the flat to show her my work. An idea hit me. What did I have most of in my apartment that could be admired and looked upon by another fan? Antique underwear! And the perfect opportunity to get naked, try things on, and accidentally slip my tongue into her mouth. We needed champagne and low-lighting, candles and a fire roaring up the chimney. We needed warmth and comfo
rt, with my overpowering expensive female scents driving her wild. I knew there was a period film being shot at Clumber House and I knew they were seeking volunteers and donations from generous locals to fund the independent production, which they felt sure would help revitalise arts in the area. Perhaps, I thought, I could volunteer time or costumes or even a few pounds, if it came to it.
There had been an advertisement in the paper. On my Blackberry, I quickly sought the article. I saw the director's picture. She was beautiful, young, and possibly inexperienced. She was working off her own wiles and I decided at that very moment, Yes, she will be perfect. I took her email address from the article and got in touch with her direct. I arranged to visit the set and tell her about my collection, or a possible donation. I decided I would go in character, appearing to be a mysterious, landed woman with a dark past, perhaps a jilted woman of substance wandering the earth alone, seeking out some purpose. I would make it up as I went along and hope that everything would fall into place, or that a miracle might transpire. A second response came from the woman, with the words, You have actually really made my day! I knew then, I had a definite chance of pulling it off.
I visited the set of this production and though I wasn't particularly versed in filmmaking, I knew this was a very modest production indeed! The handheld cameras with tape (yes tape!) were certainly like those Stephen Spielberg had most probably used in the Seventies.
I wandered aimlessly among the chaos, seeing stressed little students rushing around and with not a care for anyone else. They were running scared from the big bad boss lady. The director found me almost straight away and asked with an arrogant air, “Yes, what? You don't belong here! Who are you?”
She was rude and obnoxious and I decided she definitely had ideas above her station. She was probably rather fond of dictatorships, seeing as though it wasn't a little runner she had delegated to deal with me. She was obviously trying to exert total control. No matter, the personality does not matter, I thought. I decided she was probably crazy enough to actually fall for my tricks. I felt more confident then. I would astound her with my wit and intelligence and she would have to oblige me her time.
“I'm Lottie,” I told her, “the woman who emailed you.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” she grinned, changing tack instantly. She obviously hadn't anticipated me being well-dressed, in a grey Armani trouser suit with an ivory lace camisole beneath and striking Kurt Geiger heels with glass stilettos. I wasn't taking any risks.
“I assume you are too busy right now,” I said, but she was eyeing me up and down, assessing what she could get out of me. Seemingly, it was more than she expected. I was pristine and distracting, with Coco Mademoiselle emanating from every pore and Chanel cosmetics that could convince people I was actually a film star.
“Everyone take a break!” she yelled, with the ferocity of a sergeant major. The wave of relief was palpable among the workers.
She took me into a rather poky, crisp packet-ridden Portakabin and we sat there, uncomfortably at first.
She was an attractive girl of around twenty-seven, perhaps a year or two either side, you could sometimes never tell with creatives who perpetually dressed like students in low-slung jeans, over-washed ribbed vests and clogs that had probably seen the streets of many a European watering hole. She had pretty, light hair and aquiline features, dainty but quick. She had very striking eyes the colour of honey and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. So cute, I decided. Just what the Master ordered.
“So, what is the film about?” I asked, and she gave me a stern stare. Quickly, I told her, “I saw your article but my little dog ate it. I asked amongst my friends and they said it was a worthy project. So, tell me…”
“It's about a Georgian whorehouse,” she said, arrogantly, lighting a cigarette, offering one to me. I declined.
“Oh…”
“There's a legend in this area about such a place having existed, in a building that was torn down decades ago, so I took the idea and wrote a screenplay, and here we are now. I teach film studies at the university but this is the dream. Making my own films, I mean.”
Yeah off the back of poor young defenceless students, I decided. I also wondered whether this was fate's cruel way of reminding me of who I really was.
“I see. So, you need helpers, do you? I have a certain fondness for this kind of thing myself.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, well you see, I was married to a historian for a time, and he used to like re-enactments. He bought me a lot of antique underwear such as corsets, slips, bloomers, oh you know, things like that. Some cannot be worn and are purely for decoration, others are more robust in that they are more recent replicas. I have quite a selection. But my husband died, and sometimes, I can't bear to look at it. I thought you might get better use of it all.”
“That's amazing. God. See, that's why I do this! Hold on, right, so you've got lots, you say? Lottie, was your name?” she asked, fag in mouth, pen and paper now in hand.
“Yes, Lottie Lamb. I know, well, but that's my name.”
“Could I come and view what you have? Could you list me what kinds of things you've got?”
I gave her a rundown and we chatted some more. She asked whether I'd be willing to lend some of the stuff if it was suitable for the shoot. She was cheeky enough to ask for a donation too but I said I was quite stretched for cash what with the funeral having wiped me out. It was peculiar how she had no sympathy for my alleged husband's decease, very much so in fact. She was blinded by vision, it seemed. She was singularly ambitious about this project and would drag me, the whole crew and the set down with her if she had to. It was bizarre yet entrancing how she carried herself and I thought, This girl really hasn't encountered real pleasure yet! So disobedient and coarse. I'll teach her. I offered to lug boxes or hold microphones but she was not too keen on that idea, saying she feared I would break a nail or heel. The corsets would be quite enough.
A week later, I arranged with Noah to let himself in the flat and hide behind a superficial little black curtain behind the Chinese modesty screen, which would protect him should the girl try to use that space to change. This way, if we did engage in a session of clothes horsery, he would be protected but would still be able to peer through the slits in the wooden screen. He seemed very lively and excited on the phone but I had warned him that this girl was temperamental, rude and headstrong, and that it still might not go according to plan.
I met her at a cafe to start with, claiming it was easier that way because my flat was difficult to find. It also gave me time to tell her a few stories of my life, all lies of course, but they were just little fibs to assure her that I was a woman of the world who had seen and done things. I was wearing a red wrap-around dress that heightened my breasts and wouldn't have escaped her notice. My lipstick matched and I think I was feeling so devilish that day that she might have sensed my plan to seduce her anyways.
We got back to the apartment and I lit the fire and some candles, and poured some champagne. I would have none to keep my lucidity. I shut the curtains a little and suggested we try some of the garments on together. I warned her they were pieces that sometimes gave one the feeling of being someone else and she nodded disbelievingly but did not argue my assertion. She used the bedroom to change while I went behind the screen. I bent down and put my head between the curtains to see my lover there, tongue hanging out like a dog.
“She's cute and wholesome,” he whispered.
“Don't be fooled.”
She shouted from the bedroom, “Lottie, I can't wear any of these things. I have no breasts. It's pointless! I always have hated my tits.”
“Nonsense, darling, come and show me.”
She peered around the corner and displayed herself in the pink corset with ivory trim. She wasn't lying.
“Come here,” I said, and bade her turn around. I laced the garment tighter and tighter until she yelped with pain.
“Sorry, but th
is is what the ladies did. For fashion and all. Now turn back around.”
She could barely breathe. I asked, “Would you mind if I adjusted you?”
“I guess not,” she said. I reached into the corset to prise out her breasts so that they seemed to suddenly appear from nowhere. The skin of those swells was satiny and wondrous and I felt sure my touch much pleased her. She looked down and saw cleavage and larger mounds emerge.
“Jesus. This hurts but doesn't it look amazing!”
“I know. Pain for gain, I suppose.”
She went to the living-room mirror and admired herself. She fiddled with her own chest and nearly drew out her nipples in her haste. That thought and the thought of Noah seeing that aroused me. I shrugged off my growing warmth.
She and I discussed the types of underwear and what sorts of dresses the women of the period would wear over each kind. She mentally noted down all the information.
“Please undo me Lottie. I can't breathe, though it's nice to know what tits feel like for a change.”
I did so and she wandered back to the bedroom to change back into her own garb. She emerged a little while later, looking a little flush, and I knew without a doubt she had masturbated. I sensed Noah knew of this too! Something changed in her stare and I decided this was the moment. There was nothing else for it. I could sense my Master behind the divide, tiring of our talk about all the period pieces. He probably wanted rid of her so that he could then have me. For already getting her there, I knew he was impressed and his desire may have reached new heights that even shocked him, possibly. The look in his eye when I had momentarily gone behind the screen was intense and animalistic. That glare alone had sent a rush to my groin that not even the young girl could with her flawless beauty.
A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) Page 27
